 
###  THE MIDNIGHT MEN

And Other Stories

By

Lee Moan

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

Published by:

Lee Moan on Smashwords

'The Midnight Men' first appeared in Dark Recesses #4, 2006, and again in Niteblade, #1 2007; 'Juju' first appeared in Hub Magazine #2, 2007; 'Killing Gloria' first appeared in Nocturnal Ooze, 2005, again in Scifantastic #2, 2005, and again in Estronomicon, 2008; 'The Devil's Bones' was published in Whispers of Wickedness #16, 2009; 'The Glamour' first appeared in Chimaera Serials #3, 2007, and again in Niteblade #3; 'Nan' first appeared in Whispers of Wickedness, 2004; 'Death's Head' first appeared in Twisted Tongue #3, 2006; 'The Witch is Dead' first appeared in Whispers of Wickedness, 2007, and again in Estronomicon: Halloween Edition, 2008; 'Deus ex Machina' was published in Revelation Magazine 3:2, 2005.

The Midnight Men and Other Stories

Copyright Lee Moan 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008.

This collection Copyright 2011 by Lee Moan

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

*****

Contents

The Midnight Men

Juju

Killing Gloria

The Devil's Bones

Inheritance

The Glamour

Nan

Death's Head

The Witch is Dead

Deus ex Machina

About the Author

### The Midnight Men

The Robinsons were the first to go.

It was the all-pervading purr of a powerful motor engine which dragged me from a deep and blissful sleep. The LED display on my alarm clock said: 12:03. It wasn't unusual to hear cars on our street at that time of night—people being dropped home after a night out; nightshift workers heading off—but something about the drone of that car whispered to my subconscious. Something was not quite right. I went to the bedroom window and looked down the moonlit street.

The Robinsons lived on the other side of Cedar Road, about four houses down. Sitting in the road outside their front gate was a huge black car, bigger than any car I'd ever seen, the make and model alien to me. The headlights were on full beam, sending twin shafts of white light down the street. A man dressed in a black hat and overcoat stood beside the car, staring up at the Robinson house. I watched the static figure for several minutes, wondering all the time if it was all just a very odd dream, until he reached in through the driver's window and punched the horn.

"Ben, what is it?"

Sally was sat up in bed, her face washed in moonlight from the gap I'd made in the curtains.

"Dunno, sweetheart," I said. "Something going on with the Robinsons."

She came to the window, huddled close to me, the warmth of her body fighting the chill which had seeped into my bones.

Just then, Phil Robinson emerged from the front door of his house, his arms around the shoulders of his three daughters. Shortly after that, Lea Robinson came out, clutching herself, and even from this distance we could see she was crying.

"My God," Sally said in a hoarse whisper. "Do you think they're in trouble, Ben?"

"What, like running away from crime lords? That sort of trouble?"

"I can't imagine any other reason why they'd be leaving in the middle of the night." Sally chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. "Ben, I think you should go down and speak to them. Something's very wrong."

I was about to protest when we both sensed a presence in the room. It was Caleb, standing in the doorway with his eyes shut.

"Mum, I can't sleep," he said, pointing to the window. "Noisy car."

Sally slipped her arm around his narrow shoulders, and then turned to me with that familiar look: the raised eyebrow, the cocked head.

"All right," I said, grabbing my dressing gown. "I'm going."

***

When I stepped out my front door, I found Jed Palmer standing on the porch next door. He was leaning on the rail and smoking one of his unfiltered cigarettes, observing the goings-on up the road with his usual weary expression.

"Hey there, Ben," he said. "Some weird shit going on at the Robinsons."

I nodded. "I was just going to go over and see what was up. Fancy the walk?"

Jed took a final drag on his cigarette and then tossed it into the rose bushes. "Let's mosey," he said.

We were both wearing our pyjamas, slippers and bathrobes, but found the evening surprisingly warm. The full moon, shining brilliantly in a cloudless sky, lit the street in an eerie silver glow. Despite the steady rumble of the huge car, no one else in the street seemed to be interested in the Robinson's business. I wondered if we were sticking our oars in where they weren't wanted.

As we approached down the middle of the road, Jed called out: "Hey, Phil. What's the rumpus?"

Robinson seemed not to have heard, only turning in our direction when one of his daughters alerted him to our presence with a nudge. His eyes were sunken and red-rimmed, like he hadn't slept in days. There was no response to Jed's probe, not even a friendly acknowledgment.

"Phil," I said, raising my voice. "Is everything all right, buddy?"

Again he didn't respond, but his wife stepped up to the picket fence then, wiping tears from her cheeks.

"No, everything is not all right," she said. She began to sob again, and I realised she wasn't about to elaborate.

"Lea," I said, "is there anything we can do to help?"

"No," she told me, her eyes burning into the side of her husband's head. "No, there's nothing anyone can do."

The man in black opened the rear passenger door and stood back, hands clasped together in front of him like a funeral director, silently urging the Robinsons to climb in.

There was a long pause. None of the Robinsons moved. The youngest girl moaned loudly and hugged her father even tighter than before. Robinson threw a desolate look in his wife's direction, then raised his chin and began to move towards the car, his daughters clinging to him like limpets.

"Phil!" I cried out. "What's going on? You're going to leave just like that?"

He stopped, and looked back.

Jed pointed at the Mercedes-Benz in the driveway of his immaculate house. "What about the Benz?"

Robinson's eyes flicked over to the gleaming car. "Where we're going we won't need it."

"But Phil," I protested. "You can't just up and leave—"

He looked me in the eye then. I'll always remember that look. The look of a defeated man. "I have to," he said. "I made the choice." He kissed the top of his youngest daughter's head. "For them."

Before I could quiz him any further, he and his beautiful daughters had vanished into the back of the car. Lea Robinson waited a little longer before succumbing to the same fate. She looked over her shoulder at the house which they had occupied since the year their eldest daughter was born. Then she dropped her head, marched towards the car, and disappeared inside.

Jed and me stood in the street on that balmy evening, and watched the giant car thunder away down Cedar Road. A hundred questions were rolling around in my head, but when I looked at Jed to start voicing them, I realised it was pointless--he had no answers. He was as confused as I was. Without another word between us, we shook our heads and wandered back home to the warmth and safety of our respective beds.

***

By noon the following day, I had almost forgotten the midnight departure of the Robinsons as the chaos of the emergency ward engulfed me. As a triage doctor, the day begins at screaming pitch and escalates from there.

Around noon, I was examining a young man with suspected appendicitis when the curtain of my cubicle was wrenched apart and I found Sally standing in the opening, breathless, trembling, her face drained of colour.

"Sally? What's up?" I said.

"It's Caleb," she explained, her eyes filling with tears. "He's been stabbed."

"Stabbed?" At the sound of that word, an icy claw closed around my heart. "Jesus, is he okay?" I was out of the cubicle before the young patient could protest. We hurried down the emergency ward, Sally sobbing uncontrollably, unable to speak. When we reached my son's cubicle, I had to pause. The fear in my heart at what I might find when I pulled back that curtain was overwhelming. I drew in a deep lungful of air, and went in.

Caleb was lying unconscious on his back, his face as white as bone, his forehead slick with sweat; large swatches of blood dappled his crisp white school shirt. On a daily basis, I see every possible type of mortal wound, every facet of human suffering, and yet the sight of just a few drops of blood on my son's clothing almost tipped me over the edge.

Nurse Andrews was at his side, and she must have seen the naked terror in my eyes because she put a reassuring arm on my shoulder. "It's okay, Ben," she whispered. "It looks worse than it is. I've dressed the wounds. They're only surface scratches, really. He was lucky."

Still numb with shock, I stared down at my son.

"Thanks, Kathy," I said. "I'll take over. There's a guy in cubicle four who might need some assistance."

Nurse Andrews nodded and slipped away.

Sally appeared on the other side of the bed, Caleb's hand clasped tight within her own.

"What happened?" I asked.

Sally palmed the tears from her face and sighed. "Apparently, Darren Hawkins went on a robbing spree at school--money, cell phones, iPods. Caleb refused to hand over his phone and Hawkins pulled a knife on him."

"Little bastard," I whispered. "Where's Hawkins now?"

"They arrested him after he attacked Caleb. Principal Tolkan suspected he was high on something." She shook her head in despair. "Can you believe it, Ben? Kids robbing kids, kids on drugs, kids carrying knives in the schoolyard. This is junior high, for Christ's sake."

Caleb stirred at the sound of his mother's raised voice. After studying our faces through bleary eyes, he managed a weak smile.

"Hey, buddy," I whispered. "How're you feeling?"

His brave smile disappeared and tears began to trickle from the corners of his eyes. "Hurts," he said.

I lifted his shirt and carefully unpeeled the dressing Nurse Andrews had placed over his torso. Two long gashes ran across his lower abdomen, both still oozing blood. But on close inspection I decided the nurse was right--they would heal in no time.

"You'll be okay," I told him. "I think we can save the six-pack."

He managed a smile.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he said. "I bet you think I'm a wimp."

"A wimp?" I said. "Why would I think that? I'm proud of you for standing up to that guy. So proud."

"Me, too," Sally added.

"Where were your friends in all this?" I asked. "Weren't the Paisley twins with you?"

Caleb looked up at me with his big brown eyes. "They've left."

"Left? What do you mean?"

"They weren't at school yesterday. And I heard that their house is empty. It's really weird, Dad. No one knows where the Paisleys have gone."

I thought of the Robinsons then, and a cold finger ran down my spine.

***

Two nights later, I was jostled from sleep by a hand on my shoulder. When my eyes unglued themselves, I found Caleb's worried face inches from my own.

"Dad," he whispered, "the car's back again,"

I listened for a few moments, and sure enough, I heard the strange alien purr of its engine on the street outside— sounding much closer than before. Heart in my throat, I clambered over to the window. It was on our side of the street, outside Ted's house. That solitary dark figure was looking up at my best friend's bedroom window.

I had to get down there.

I checked the alarm clock. 12:03. Sally had pulled a double-shift at the hospital and was still deep in sleep. I shook her roughly as I pulled on my bathrobe.

"Sally, look after Caleb. I've got to go outside."

When I burst out of my front door, I found Ted and his wife Alice walking down their garden path. Ted was dressed, and had a bundle of spare clothes under one arm. Alice, however, was still in her nightdress, and she was pulling at her husband, trying to make him stop.

"Ted!" I called. "Where are you going?"

He stopped halfway down the path and looked at me. His cool grey eyes—always so bright, so fearless—now seemed shadowed, and he could barely meet my gaze. The last time I'd spoken to him was the previous evening. He'd seemed fine, his usual jocular self. What had happened since then?

"Ted?" I said, lowering my voice, aware of the ominous presence at the end of the drive. "Do you want me to call the police, Ted?"

He shook his head.

"Police?" cried Alice. "You should call a goddamn psychiatrist, Ben!" She thumped her husband hard in the arm, a real full-on punch, but Ted didn't seem to feel it. He looked down the path, his attention drawn to the man in black, as if the stranger had sent him a mental command.

"I have to go, Ben," he said, his once-authoritative voice now timid, thin.

"But why, Ted?" I demanded. "Why do you have to go?"

He met my gaze. "Because I made the choice."

Because I made the choice.

That's exactly what Phil Robinson said.

"What choice, Ted?"

He didn't answer me. He was moving down the path again, and I matched his footsteps on my side of the fence. When he reached the open car door, I rushed to intercept him, grabbing his arm and turning him round to face me.

"Ted, this is insane! Where are you going? Where are they taking you?"

Ted's eyes were bloodshot, wide with fear. "I don't know," he said.

"Oh, yes you do!" Alice cried.

We both looked round. Alice had stopped some way back on the garden path. Her arms were folded, her white features set like marble in the clear moonlight.

"You know exactly where they're taking us! You made the choice, Ted, remember? Only, I'm not going!" She shifted her gaze from Ted to the man in black. "Y'hear me? I'm not going!"

The man in the black hat turned to Ted. Although his eyes were hidden by the shadows beneath the hat, Ted seemed to read some silent communication.

"Honey, you have to come," Ted said, holding his hands out in a pleading gesture. "I made the choice for you!"

She shook her head defiantly, but a moment later tears filled her eyes and she sank down to her knees. For a few moments we all just stared at her, a tragic figure weeping on her own garden path. Then Ted walked over and gently helped her to her feet. The fight seemed to have left her. Still crying, she allowed herself to be led to the car.

Before they could climb into the back seat, I stepped into their path.

"I can't let you go, Ted!" I said. "This stinks. I won't let these bastards take you away!"

The man in black was suddenly beside me, yet I hadn't seen him move from his position some metres away. His hand gripped my shoulder, a hand which looked like dead white meat. I could feel its chill through the fabric of my robe.

I reached up to remove his hand, but the grip was immoveable. My anger and frustration flared up and I whirled on him, throwing my best right hook, connecting with a satisfying crunch around the bridge of his nose. The blow knocked the hat from his head. When he turned back to me, with the moonlight falling across his pale features, my gut filled with ice water at what I saw.

His features were plain, unexceptional, all except for his eyes. They were huge, the size of coasters, and they had a wet, jelly-like appearance, like fish-eyes. I thought of those creatures which live at the bottom of deep sea trenches, whose eyes grow to enormous size from the absence of light. He raised a hand to shield himself from any further blows, but the shock of such a hideous sight had knocked the fight out of me. He stooped to pick up his hat, and carefully placed it back on his head.

"Ben," said Ted behind me. "Forget it."

"There's nothing you can do," said Alice.

I turned to face them. I'd known Ted and Alice for ten years. They were the best neighbours—the best friends—a guy could have.

They both managed faltering smiles, and then disappeared into the huge back seat of the car. The man in black shut the door behind them and marched round to the driver's door. He paused before getting in, glaring at me from the shadows beneath his hat. I couldn't see those eyes, but I knew they were there. He seemed to be sending some thought to me. Although I heard no voice in my head, I knew what he was trying to tell me.

Someday soon, I might be seeing him again.

As the car roared away down Cedar Road, I watched it with a cold, empty feeling in my heart. The feeling grew stronger as my eyes drifted up to my own bedroom window, to the faces of my wife and son.

***

Morning came slowly, the dawn light struggling through an ominous blanket of mist on the horizon.

I hadn't slept. Exhausted, confused, I wandered through the emergency ward like a ghost. The patients passed through my cubicle like a procession of insubstantial clouds. After six hours I couldn't remember a single one of them.

During a brief respite between patients, I sat alone in a cubicle, my head buried in my hands, fighting the exhaustion that threatened to engulf me. Suddenly, screams erupted in the ambulance loading bay outside. I rushed into the corridor and headed towards the source of the mayhem. An army of paramedics and nurses were surrounding a trolley freshly unloaded from the back of an ambulance. I saw the hands and feet of a patient thrashing back and forth amidst the sea of medical staff.

"We need some help here!" someone shouted.

Without further hesitation, I jumped into the huddle of uniforms.

The patient was a man in his late fifties, very tall, very thin. His eyes were gone, and where they'd been only bloody mounds of scar tissue remained. Blood ran down his face and neck in dark rivulets, soaking into his shirt. The man's screams sent waves of goose flesh down my back.

"Why wasn't he restrained?" I cried out, trying to force the man's arm down.

"He was," one of the medics answered. "He broke free!"

Before I could say anymore, the man's muscled arm snapped free of my grip and his fingers closes around my throat. He pulled himself close to me, so close that I could see the torn optic nerves lying in the hollows of his eyes like fat, glistening worms. His breath stank of stale alcohol and death.

"Listen to me!" he barked. "Do not go with them. They are not the saviours they make themselves out to be. You must listen, all of you!"

Stunned, I could only ask, "What are you talking about?"

"He's in shock!" one of the nurses shouted. "Get him down."

They were trying to pull him off me, but his grip was like a vice.

"They will offer you a home in their world," he was saying, spittle flying from his lips, "and they will tell you it is a place of sanctuary from the day of judgement which comes to us all. But I have looked in their eyes and seen their world and it is dark--so dark--devoid of all light or life."

I was trying to pry his fingers from my throat but they were slick with his own blood.

"And you will be at their mercy there," he railed, "and they will take everything from you that makes you human. Heed my warning, I implore you: Do not go with those men!"

Just as I was about to pass out from his suffocating grip, his fingers relaxed and he fell back onto the gurney with a shriek of anguish. I stumbled backwards, thumping into a trolley loaded with instruments, gasping for breath.

Slowly, painfully, they forced his thrashing limbs back onto the gurney and managed to strap them down again, one by one. Once contained, the man continued to howl, but in a sobbing fashion. They wheeled him down the corridor and out of sight.

Nurse Andrews came over to me, dabbing at the bloody smears around my neck. "Are you okay, Ben?"

I nodded. The incident had left my tired mind reeling. It almost felt like the remnants of a dream, but the old man's blood on my hands told me that it was very real.

"What the hell happened to him?" I asked.

"They found him wandering the streets downtown," she said.

"What happened to his eyes?"

A grimace passed over Nurse Andrews' face. "His eyes? He tore them out himself."

***

When I got home that night, Sally was asleep on the sofa. I took a beer from the refrigerator and sat down next to her, happy to listen to the gentle rhythm of her breathing.

After a while, she must have sensed my presence and she reached out for me. The feel of her hand closing over mine filled me with much needed warmth. In a flat monotone, I explained to her what had happened at the hospital. She listened patiently, a sad expression on her beautiful face, and when I finished she said nothing, just took my hand in hers and kissed my fingers.

"What the hell is happening, Sal?" I said.

She offered no answer. And I never expected one.

***

I told Sally to go up to bed, promising her that I would soon join her. My mind was still racing, and I needed to drink my beer, wind down. Lying there on the sofa in the dead of night, the old man's words ran through my head on a continuous loop.

Was the old man simply insane? Or was his rant the result of close contact with those strange, unearthly figures?

What was it these people were offering that could make sane people like the Robinsons, like Ted and Alice, up and leave in the middle of the night?

Musing on these questions, I slowly spiralled down into sleep.

***

When I snapped awake, I heard my son's voice in the living room with me, speaking to someone in a low, hushed tone. My heart burned with fear and I sat bolt upright, peering into the darkness. I checked the LED display on my watch.

It read: 12:03

"Caleb!" I shouted.

I heard a movement behind the sofa and when I glanced round, I found my son crouched on the floor, the telephone handset pressed to his ear.

"Yes," he was saying in a quiet voice. "Yes, I will."

I rushed over. "Caleb, who are you talking to?"

He looked straight through me, his eyes glazed, as though he was sleep-walking.

"Yes, all right," he said, oblivious to my presence.

I snatched the handset off him, and put it to my ear. "Who are you?" I screamed into the mouthpiece. But there was no reply, only a harsh, bronchial breathing, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling . . .

A sudden bright light flooded the living room, spilling in through the bay windows. Dropping the phone, I staggered over to the curtains and tore them back. Squinting into the blinding glare, I found the outline of the dark figure which had come for the Robinsons, for Ted and Alice. The alien hum of that engine bore into my brain.

"Caleb, go get your mother," I said, but when I turned around I realised that I was alone in the living room. Caleb was in the hall. I could hear him struggling with the front door latch.

"Caleb! NO!"

I charged into the hallway, just as my son opened the door. For a split second I saw the shape of that black figure on our pathway. I snatched Caleb up in my arms and slammed the door, pushing my full weight against it.

Caleb struggled in my embrace, screaming like some demented, brainwashed child. "Daddy! We have to go! We'll die if we don't go!"

"Caleb! Calm down," I said, trying not to shout, trying to sound like the voice of reason. "What did they say to you?"

"We won't die, Daddy! If we go with them, we won't die!" Tears flew from his eyes. "I don't want to die, Daddy!" His hand reached desperately for the door. "Please don't let me die! Please!"

I felt something wet across the front of my shirt and when I looked down I saw blood. Caleb's violent struggling had reopened his knife wounds. I recalled the sight of Caleb on the hospital gurney--his shirt spattered with blood, his face a white death mask--and for a moment I relived that sick dread feeling which filled every part of me at the thought of losing my precious son, my flesh and blood.

I looked through the frosted glass at the ominous silhouette right outside our door. I could hear that hollow, ragged breathing.

Ignoring the blood, I held Caleb tight to my chest, trying to muffle his screams, but at the same time pouring all my fear and love into his body. God help me, but I began to wonder if these men—these creatures of the night—could really take away that fear forever.

A large, colourless hand tapped twice on the glass.

Tak! Tak!

"Caleb, stop screaming."

Sally's voice. Calm, soothing. Caleb immediately stopped. Sally stood at the foot of the stairs, an overwhelming sadness in her eyes. She reached out towards us and Caleb passed from my arms into her embrace. The madness seemed to have left him, and he buried his face in his mother's neck.

"They want us to make a choice, Ben?" Sally said softly. "Is that it?"

The choice.

The choice Phil Robinson had to make. The choice Ted made. For their loved ones.

The choice: To face the inevitable anguish of a mortal life, the pain of losing those we love, or . . . or eternity with them.

That dead hand rapped once more on the frosted glass.

_Tak! Tak_!

I looked at my wife and my beautiful son, and for a moment I was imagining a world where they would never die, where I would never have to bear the pain of losing them.

"Maybe," I began, "maybe we should go with them. Like the Robinsons. Like Ted . . ."

But Sally was shaking her head, her eyes bright with fear. "Remember the man in the hospital, Ben?" she whispered. "Remember what he said?"

Yes, I remembered.

And they will take everything from you that makes you human

"Is that what you want, Ben?" Sally said. She looked at the shape hovering outside our front door. "Is that what you want for us? Survival at any price?"

I found myself slipping down the door, all strength in my limbs gone. The drone of the vehicle's engine was a dagger in my brain.

Sally was right. She was always right. In the end, the choice was very simple.

***

It's been three days since they came to our house, three days since we made our choice, and now we're the only ones left in Cedar Road. The houses are all abandoned, the front doors left unlocked. The cars sparkle in the dwindling light. The days are growing steadily shorter. Last night seemed to last forever. And sometimes, during those interminable twilight hours, when everything seems so fragile, so human, a part of me still wonders if we made the right decision. It's not the one everyone else made but, I guess, sometimes you just have to choose.

Now, all we can do is wait.

Outside, night is falling.

### Juju

When the young thief laid the dirty cloth pouch on the coffee table, Nathan observed it with feigned disinterest, before meeting the boy's eyes through a curtain of cigar smoke.

"All right, Kane," he said, after a stand-off silence. "What is it?"

Kane smiled thinly in response, a cruel flicker in his deep-set eyes. "What you asked for," he said. "What you asked me to get."

Clenching the Cuban cigar—the highly-expensive cigar which Nathan had just given him—between his already yellowing teeth, Kane leaned forward and began to unravel the cloth with delicate precision. Nathan watched the deft movements of the young man's fingers with deep fascination. They were bony, slender fingers, ingrained with a dirt which might never wash off. The dirt of the streets. He wondered how many pockets those nimble fingers had emptied in the boy's already lengthy career. When the cloth was fully unwrapped, the young man leaned back in his chair and let Nathan take in the contents.

Three chunks of bloody meat. Nathan's first thought was pork, but something—the dark light glimmering in Kane's eyes, perhaps—told him this was not animal meat. As he leaned closer to examine them, he was overwhelmed by the noisome stench emanating from the package.

"Dear God, Kane," he said, recoiling. "That smells like . . ."

"What?"

"Where the hell did you get that?" asked Nathan, covering his nose and mouth.

"Tahiti," Kane said, before letting out a short, sharp bark of laughter. "Well, it came from Tahiti," he explained. "I picked it up from a guy in Brixton. Not quite so exotic, is it?"

"But why bring this to me?"

"Because last time we met, you asked me to bring you a special trinket. Remember?"

Nathan stared at him, running their previous conversation through his mind. "Yes," he said eventually. "A voodoo trinket. But not . . ." His eyes fell upon the three pieces. "Not this."

Kane's smile vanished. He reached forward and began to fold up the cloth. "Very well, Mr Parker, if you're not interested."

Nathan's hand shot out and fell over Kane's wrist. "Wait, wait, wait, my dear boy. No need to be hasty." He offered the young man a quivering smile. "At least tell me what it's supposed to do first."

The young man could not hide his triumph, and sat back with a sneer. "It's juju," he began. "Real black magic. The guy from Brixton told me this was the most potent charm 'e 'ad. Yes, you're right in thinking they ain't pieces of animal meat. They're from a man. A living, breathing man. Apparently, the magic has more power when they're alive."

"Power? What kind of power?"

"The power to kill," said Kane.

"Kill?" Nathan said. "How?"

Kane reached over and picked up one of the bloody chunks, the blood instantly turning his fingertips pink. "You put a piece in your mouth, you chew it, swallow it, then say the name of your intended victim, and . . . well, you can guess the rest." He focused on the piece held between finger and thumb, and for one moment, Nathan thought he was going to put it in his mouth. But he sniggered, and placed it carefully back on the square of cloth.

"That's absurd," said Nathan.

"Absurd?" said Kane. "I've seen it being used, Mr Parker, and trust me, it works."

Nathan stared at the three pieces, then at the young man who had brought this evil magic into his home. He stood up and began to stalk around the living room.

"What on earth would I want with such a thing?" he asked, the question directed not just at Kane but the world at large.

"Who wouldn't want to have that power? The power to kill from a distance, from the safety of your own living room? Nothing to tie you to the crime. All you need do is provide a strong alibi, which you'd always be able to do, and you're free to kill whoever you like. Three pieces," said Kane. "Three lives. Three murders."

Nathan studied the young man intently. "How much?"

Kane regarded the juju package, weighing up the true worth of such a gift. "I think ten thousand is a fair price."

"How much for just one?"

Kane shook his head. "I'm afraid they come as a triple pack."

Nathan nodded. He began to pace again. "Before I pay such a large fee, I want proof, Kane."

"Proof of what?"

"Proof that this isn't just three lumps of Danish I'm paying for. Proof that it works."

"You want a test." Kane hissed through his teeth. "Now, Mr Parker, the only way you can test this stuff is to actually use it. You know that."

Nathan came over and sat down again. Excitement glowed bright in his gun-grey eyes. "All right," he said. "What do you propose?"

"Well, pick somebody. Someone you'd like to see dead."

"What? I can't just . . ."

"There must be somebody you have in mind; otherwise you wouldn't be considering this purchase."

Nathan deliberated for a moment. "All right, there is someone," he said, "but I want to make sure this definitely works before I try it on him. Can we not just try it on an animal first?"

Kane shook his head again. "It doesn't work on animals, Mr P. The victim must have a name."

In the ensuing silence, they were distracted by the sound of screeching tyres as a car came tearing down the street. After it screeched to a halt outside, they heard the dull throb of heavy metal music. Then the engine died along with the music. They heard the slam of a car door.

Nathan and Kane moved wordlessly over to the bay window which gave them a king's view of the next door neighbours' yard. They watched as the lone figure staggered from the car, through the garden gate, stumbling briefly, before heading for the front door in a zigzag line. A mighty, echoing belch filled the night.

"Terry Carson," Nathan said, spitting the two names out like rotten teeth. "The neighbour from hell. Plays his music at full volume all hours of the day and night. Doesn't talk to his wife, just screams at her. Probably knocks her around, too, knowing his type. And he's always got some low-life characters hanging about the house, probably drug-dealers. Must be. I mean, how else does such a shit end up living in a nice neighbourhood like this?"

Kane observed the hulking figure of Terry Carson as he disappeared through the front door with a resounding bang. "Prime candidate, if you ask me."

Nathan's head swept round. "No, no, no. Wait a second."

"What?" said Kane. "You just told me he's making your life a misery, why not end it all tonight while you have . . ." He looked back at the pouch on the coffee table. "While you have the opportunity?"

Nathan studied the young man's red-rimmed eyes for a moment, then looked back down at his neighbour's house.

"Come on, Mr Parker," Kane went on. "You wanted a low-key demonstration, and a perfect test-case has just stumbled home from the Dog and Duck."

Without looking round, Nathan could hear the malicious smile in Kane's voice.

"Let's kill two birds with one stone."

Nathan inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. Then, in a rush of adrenalin, he threw his head back and downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp.

"All right," he said, the drink burning his throat. "Let's see what happens."

He marched back to the coffee table and sat down. Kane sauntered after him, hands in pockets.

Nathan felt a sudden, overwhelming hatred for the boy. What he hated most was the way this scenario gave Kane all the power. That was a first in their twisted relationship. They were worlds apart, the two of them: he, a corporate lawyer, Kane a street criminal with a speciality for finding exceedingly rare and desirable objects. One of Nathan's colleagues, who also collected the occult, had put them together. Ever since then, Kane had found half a dozen things for him, objects of underworld art that he could never show his wife, but which gave him some pleasure to look at in the dark watches of the night. But Nathan had always been able to knock the boy's asking price down because they weren't 'must-have' items. But now, this juju, if it worked, well . . . this was something he could put to great use. And what a use he had in mind for it! Unfortunately, Kane could see how badly he wanted it.

The two men stared down at the three lumps of flesh for a protracted moment, then Kane picked up the cognac decanter and handed it to Nathan.

"You might need some more of this," he said.

Nathan stared up at him distractedly.

"To wash it down with."

With a trembling hand—adrenalin, he told himself, not fear—he took the decanter and poured out a double. Then, he added another measure.

Kane watched with feverish curiosity as Nathan picked up the first piece of pink meat. He stared at it for a long time. Kane did not try to hurry him. This would be a big purchase, and he was willing to take all the time that was necessary.

Nathan weighed the tiny piece of flesh once more, waves of nausea rising and falling within him. Then he closed his eyes and popped it into his mouth. He was swigging the cognac before the taste of the meat could settle on his tongue, chewing the evil talisman in quick successive bites and then, in a grimace of pain, he swallowed it, feeling it move down his oesophagus like a stone. The brandy may have removed the taste, but his gorge still rose momentarily at the thought of what he had just done.

Nathan opened his eyes to find them filled with moisture. He blinked several times, until he could just make out Kane's scarecrow figure sitting opposite.

"Say the name!" Kane began shouting. "Say the name! Say it!"

Nathan tried to say it, but an alarm bell seemed to be going off inside his head.

If this works, and right now, it seems more than bloody likely that it does, you could kill a man— _KILL A MAN_ —with two words!

"I can't," he said, clutching at his constricting throat.

He saw fear flash across Kane's face for the first time. "You have to! You must say the name!"

"Why?"

"The pieces are poisoned!" Kane screamed. "If you don't say the bloody name, it'll be you who dies!"

Nathan's eyes grew wide.

Poison?

A stab of terror slicing through his heart, Nathan uttered the words: "Terry . . . Carson . . ."

Then he doubled up in a series of heaving coughs. Watery liquid flew from his mouth onto the glass-top of the coffee table. And when the coughing stopped, he saw that his spittle was streaked pink. He wiped his mouth with a hanky and then stared at the young thief with an angry squint.

"You little bastard," he hissed.

Kane was rubbing his bony hands together agitatedly. In a strange way, Nathan enjoyed seeing that again. It reminded him how things usually were.

"I'm sorry, Mr Parker," Kane said in a quiet voice, the arrogance gone. "If I'd told you they was poisoned before, you never would've done it, would you?"

Nathan didn't answer, but he had to admit the boy was right. Killing someone from a distance was fine and dandy, but risking your own life to do it? That was another game altogether.

They sat in silence for a while.

"How long does it take to work?" Nathan asked.

"Instantly, as far as I know."

Just on cue, a distant cough of thunder filled the night.

After a few minutes had passed, Nathan got up and walked back to the bay windows. The Carson house looked quiet, apart from the muffled sound of a blaring television. The lights from the living room spilled onto their front lawn. Then the back door of the house opened with a shrill squeak. Mrs Carson stepped out calmly, a shawl wrapped round her shoulders. She lit a cigarette and began to blow silver ghosts into the night sky. There was no scream of horror from Mrs Carson. No overwhelming show of grief. Nothing.

He turned to the young thief. "It hasn't worked, Kane," he said in a petulant tone.

Kane was about to offer a defence when a new sound reached their ears. They both held their breath and listened intently. Yes, there it was, the distant whine of an ambulance siren. Getting closer all the time.

***

Over the course of the next half hour, Nathan watched the events unfolding below in numb silence. The ambulance had indeed stopped outside 136 Clarence Avenue, and the two paramedics had entered the house immediately afterwards, with Mrs Carson leading the way. There was no urgency in their movements, which confirmed in Nathan's mind what he feared.

Terry Carson was dead.

And Nathan Parker had murdered him from his living room.

When they brought the body out on a stretcher, covered by a simple white sheet, Nathan expected to feel a swell of guilt; but instead, he felt a different emotion. Mrs Carson was standing on her garden path, staring after her husband's body with a rigid, emotionless air. Looking down at that frail young woman, who had suffered mental—possibly physical—abuse at the hands of Terry Carson, he felt a curious sense of pride. He had used this evil magic to help another. All right, that had not been his intention when he uttered Carson's name—in fact, if he was honest, he'd only called out the bastard's name to save his own skin at the very last minute—but now that he had done the dirty deed he was actually beginning to feel good about himself.

Or was that the feeling of absolute power kicking in?

Nathan watched the ambulance disappear into the night. No sirens, no flashing lights. It was all too late for that.

In the silence which followed, he heard the sound of a leather jacket slipping over a cotton shirt and turned to see Kane preparing to leave.

"And where do you think you're going, young man?" he said.

Kane shrugged. "What? I've proved to you that the merchandise works. What else do you need me for?" He clapped his hands together. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like my money and—"

"You're not going anywhere just yet." Nathan walked over to the coffee table and stared down at the two remaining pieces of shrivelled pink flesh.

Kane rolled his head on his neck in frustration. "Ah, Mr P, what you do with those other two is your business now. It's nothing to do with me--"

Nathan shook his head. He felt the power in their relationship beginning to swing slowly back to him now. "You're not getting a penny of my money until I'm satisfied, Kane. I'd let you go now if you hadn't lied to me earlier about the meat being poisoned."

Kane threw his arms in the air. "It wasn't a lie, it was just . . . withholding information. And for good reason."

"That's as may be, young man, but the fact remains that each time I use this merchandise of yours, I risk my life. So, I want you to remain here until I have completed what I want to do. Until then, you get nothing."

Kane looked at him through narrowed eyes.

Feeling the old confidence flooding through him, Nathan turned away from Kane and began to pour another drink. When he heard the young man slide back onto the parquet he felt a shiver run up his insides, the curious thrill he always felt whenever he succeeded in controlling another.

He turned and faced the living room. "You'll be pleased to know that I only intend to use one more piece tonight, Kane. And now is as good a time as any."

"I thought you 'ad someone specific in mind," Kane said.

Nathan smiled. "Yes. Someone I would dearly like to see . . . out of my way."

Kane scratched his head. "You know, if it's someone big, I mean someone in your sphere of work, it's really not wise to have me here as a witness."

"A witness?" Nathan repeated in a jocular tone. "My dear boy, who would believe someone like you?"

Kane glared at him.

"And I've already told you," Nathan went on, "I want someone here in case it goes wrong."

"Can't you wait until your wife gets home?"

"No!" The word came out too fast, too angry. He took a deep breath. "I love my wife, Kane, and I would not subject her to such foul things. She's an innocent. The only good thing in my life, and I want to keep it that way."

Kane looked at his watch then. "Well, you better get on with it, Mr P, 'cause it's nine-thirty. Didn't you say she'd be back by ten?"

Nathan bristled at the boy's words. <i>You better get on with it</i>. It was a long time since any young upstart had spoken to him like that. But he put aside his pride for the moment. He was as eager to get on with it as Kane.

He looked down at the two lumps of flesh. The piece on the right was slightly smaller than the one on the left. Although his mind suggested choosing the smaller piece for the sake of expedience, another voice pointed him towards the larger of the two. For the size—the importance—of the murder he was about to commit, it would need the biggest piece available.

He picked it up, studied it. Although he knew it was poisoned, and that there was a slight risk to his own life, he felt no fear. Seeing it work so comprehensively had removed his doubts. And, he noticed, his gorge did not rise this time. It was actually getting easier.

He raised the lump of gristly flesh to Kane and smiled.

"Down the hatch," he said, and dropped it into his open mouth. This time, being more relaxed, he tasted the flesh on his tongue, and the bitterness of it made him balk. He filled his mouth with the brandy, fixed his eyes on Kane and began to chew.

As he sat there, staring at the young man's gaunt features, a malicious thought entered his head. Such a simple idea. The third piece. He had no use for it. There was no one else in the world--apart from the name he was about to call out--who he wanted removed from this earth. Except, maybe the young man sitting in front of him.

Yes, that would be very neat, indeed.

With an inward chuckle of triumph, he swallowed the second piece.

"Francis Gallagher," he said.

Nathan washed away the bitter aftertaste with another mouthful of Cognac. Any ill effects he was going to feel seemed to have passed, and he actually felt somehow rejuvenated, really alive.

Kane looked at him, his brow creasing in curiosity. "Who's Francis Gallagher?"

Nathan could only smile. "No one you'd know, my good man."

***

He went to the safe and put together an envelope for the young man, slapping it in his hand at the front door.

"Thank you, Kane," he said. "That's the best ten thousand I've ever spent."

And, he thought to himself, if I'm careful I might even get it back after they find this lad dead, and I tell the police he stole it from my house . . .

Predictably, Kane opened the envelope and quickly flicked through the fifty pound notes, before stuffing it into his inside jacket pocket. Nathan yanked the door open for him, and the boy was about to step through when he paused on the threshold.

"Oh, one little thing, Mr P," he said. That cocky grin had returned to his sallow features. "If you're thinking of using that last piece on me, forget it."

Nathan's face froze in a trembling smile. "What?"

"The juju doctor, the one I got it from, he said a few words over the merchandise, protecting me from its effects. Just thought I'd mention it." Kane reached up and patted Nathan's cheek. "Catch you later," he said and then slipped out into the night.

Nathan held the door open for a few seconds, before slamming it shut on Kane and his ten thousand pounds.

Finally alone in his house, Nathan stood in silence for a moment, letting the knowledge of what he had achieved in the last hour wash over him. He wished he could know now if his second victim had succumbed to the juju magic, but it wasn't as convenient as it had been with Terry Carson. He noted, with a wry smile, that much of the silence he was enjoying now was due to the removal of that obnoxious force from next door. For that, he could pat himself on the back. He walked over and wrapped the remaining piece of meat in its cloth, slipping the pouch into his trouser pocket.

The time was quarter past ten. Maria was late again. He decided he wouldn't wait up for her. And besides, he felt a sudden wave of exhaustion come over him. Climbing the steps to bed, Nathan felt certain he would get a good night's sleep.

***

His peaceful slumber was shattered at one o'clock in the morning with the sound of thunder. He sat bolt upright, and realised instantly that he was still alone in bed. The bright light of an angry storm flashed outside the curtains, bathing his room in an unearthly white glow. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and then he heard the noise which had woken him.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

It was the front door.

Maria!

He pulled on his dressing gown and slippers and raced out onto the landing, descending the stairs three at a time.

When he yanked the door open, he found his young wife standing on the porch, and the sight of her forced a sharp cry from his throat. Her dress, sodden with rainwater and clinging to her slender frame like a second skin, showed several tears. Bright swatches of blood glistened all over her body. There were deep scratches all over her face; blood and dirt in her hair. She was sobbing like a child, and as she came toward him, she fell. He caught her in his arms and carried her into the living room.

"Oh, Maria," he cried, sitting her on the sofa, and smoothing long strands of wet hair from her face.

Her sobs began to tail off, but he could see she was in terrible agony.

"Maria, my love, what happened?"

She looked at him with her big brown eyes, one tainted red, and she began to explain. "I don't know," she said. "I was walking home, and . . . someone must have attacked me."

"Attacked you!" His hands pulled into fists. "Who?"

She shook her head, blowing hard into a tissue. "It was dark, and he came from behind. I didn't see anything."

Nathan felt the stripping away of his power. This beautiful, sweet girl, who had made his life finally mean something after a disastrous first marriage, had been brutalised on the very night he had taken the lives of two men. Was this the price?

"Did this man . . . rape you?"

She clutched at the torn hem of her skirt then, and, to his surprise, said: "No!" Then, softer, she said, "No, he didn't."

"He didn't?"

She shook her head. "He must have just taken my handbag. When I woke up by the side of the road, it was the only thing missing."

Nathan stood up slowly then, looking her over from head to toe, appraising her injuries. She seemed to have suffered a lot of cuts and bruises for a simple mugging, but . . . who was he to doubt her word? Why would she lie to him?

"I'm calling the police," he said.

"No!" she cried, grabbing his arm.

He looked back at her, the shock evident on his face.

Fresh tears came into her eyes. "Please, Nathan," she whimpered. "No police."

"But, sweetheart, you need to get to a hospital . . ."

"No! No doctors, no police."

He crouched back down to her now, taking her ice cold fingers in his warm hands. "Darling? Why ever not?"

Just then, the telephone rang, the sound cutting through their house like a chainsaw.

Maria jumped. "Don't answer that!" she begged.

Nathan stared down at her, the long, slow worm of doubt beginning to burrow into his mind.

"I have to," he said firmly, and crossed the room.

He paused before picking up the receiver, afraid of what he might find on the other end of the line.

"Hello?" he said.

"Nathan? Thank God I got you. It's Charlie."

A tremor shot through Nathan's gut. Charlie was his superior, and for him to be phoning him at this late hour meant trouble.

"What is it, Charlie?"

"Haven't you heard? It's Francis!"

The name of his enemy worked like smelling salts, bringing him out of his temporary trance. He'd almost forgotten Gallagher in the chaos of the last ten minutes. He cupped his hand around the receiver so that Maria wouldn't overhear anything he didn't want her to hear.

"Francis?" he said, trying to sound confused.

"He's dead, Nathan. There was a car crash and . . . Francis is dead!"

"My God," Nathan said. "When? When did this happen?"

"Just before ten," Charlie explained. "The police said he must have suffered a heart attack at the wheel. Who'd have thought it, eh, Nathan? Old Mr Fitness?"

"That's top class irony," he said in a humourless monotone.

"Sure is. Thing is, Nathan, the reason I'm calling is that I need you to step into his shoes tomorrow. Is that too much to drop in your lap, Nathan? Just say if it is."

Nathan couldn't resist a grim smile to himself. "Charlie, I'll do everything in my power to fill Francis's shoes."

He heard Charlie sigh heavily with relief. "You're a star, Nathan."

"How did you find out about Francis?" he asked.

"His wife phoned me about an hour ago. She sounded really at the end of her string, Nathan. It's a real shame. And what's worse is that . . . Maybe I shouldn't say."

"What?"

"Oh, what the hell. You'll find out in the office tomorrow, anyway. Apparently, an eyewitness at the scene of the accident swears he saw a woman climb from the wreckage. A young woman. And it certainly wasn't Mrs Gallagher."

Nathan felt a cold hand grip his heart and squeeze.

"Say again?" he said, his voice faltering.

"Nathan, the old dog was cheating on his missus! He had his bit on the side in the car with him!"

Nathan turned slowly then, turned until he was looking at Maria. She was slumped on the blood-stained sofa, staring back with a frightened, desperate look, like a wounded kitten that's about to run.

"The police said she must have been seriously concussed to run away from such a bad accident. They shouldn't have too much trouble finding her, though. Whoever the silly bitch was, she left her bag in the car!"

Charlie's laughter came floating out of the receiver, but Nathan didn't wait to hear the full extent of it. He dropped the phone back in its cradle, and then stood there, staring at the floor. Staring at the trail of blood and dirt which his wife had dragged into the house with her. At the end of that trail lay the end of many things for Nathan Parker. The end of all trust, the end of his belief in innocence. The end of a marriage, and ultimately, the end of a life . . .

The same cold dead hand which had pinched his heart was now ripping downwards to his gut, to the very core of his being. He looked at the young woman on the couch, saw the betrayal in her eyes, and felt all the power he'd held onto so preciously go out like a candle flame.

"What's happening, Nathan?" Maria said, her voice like an echo in the cloakroom of his mind. "It wasn't the police, was it?"

"No, dear," he said. "It's just . . . business."

Something inside him had broken. He saw now through a dark filter, and he began to advance towards his young wife.

She saw the horrible gleam in his eye, the flexing of his hands, and began to edge along the sofa, smearing the upholstery with streaks of blood.

"Nathan, what is it?" she asked pathetically, but she already knew. She slipped off the sofa and hit the floor with a cry. Despite the pain, she began to crawl across the lounge on her back.

"Nathan, I never meant to hurt you!"

But he said nothing, her voice so far away now.

He was almost on top of her when she leapt up with a sudden burst of energy, and raced for the open bathroom door. He grabbed for her, tearing a piece of her designer dress at the waist, but then she was gone. He lunged after her again, only to find her too quick for his old bones. She slammed the bathroom door on his fingers. He heard the thick wet snap of bone and screamed. Once he'd retracted the two fingers, she shut the door firmly and slid the bolt across.

"You bitch!" he roared, his voice so loud it appeared to shake the windows in their frames. Lightning flickered outside. He put his back to the door and slid to the floor, descending into a fit of heaving sobs.

"How could you, Maria?" he whimpered. "How could you do this to me?"

She was silent beyond the door.

"And with him!"

The thought of Francis Gallagher, that slimy, stuffed-sofa of a man, undressing his beautiful wife, kissing her, pressing his rough hands all over her body . . . The images brought the black veil over his sight once more. There was only one fate for her . . .

With his good hand, he pulled the cloth pouch from his trouser pocket and unravelled it. The final piece seemed to stare back at him, beckoning him to finish his triumvirate of evil. He didn't need to kick down any doors to kill her, he had a power which transcended all physical barriers.

Tears coursed down his cheeks as he raised the lump of dead flesh to his mouth.

"Goodbye, Maria," he whispered, before slipping the grim talisman onto his tongue. He snivelled as the poisoned piece rolled around his mouth, numbing his gums and making his teeth ache.

All he had to do was say her name, and she would be dead. Just two words.

_Maria Parker_.

But after the effort of chewing the juiceless piece of meat, he found his tongue had swollen so much that it was wedged between both sets of lower teeth. It was now so big, he couldn't breathe. He felt the poison seeping into his blood. In his panic, Nathan tried to swallow it whole—

( _you only have to swallow it and say the name_ )

—but the deadly lump only became wedged at the back of his throat, blocking his windpipe. He fell forward heavily onto his hands and knees, desperately trying to cough it up. But it was no use. He hooked a finger into his mouth, clawing at the offending article, but it defied his attempts. The poison was attacking the soft lining of his throat, a throat that was rapidly swelling, making the piece of meat harder to dislodge. Eyes bulging, Nathan clawed uselessly at his neck, hearing the strange alien noises emanating from his own mouth . . .

Say the name!

But his tongue was paralysed, itself a huge lump of swollen dead meat filling his mouth. Through a watery haze, he spied the drinks cabinet on the far side of the room and the decanter of brandy there.

You'll be needing this, Kane had said.

Of course. How could he have forgotten the importance of the brandy? Somehow the alcohol dulled the poisonous effects for the time it took to swallow such a bitter pill.

He started to crawl on hands and knees across the living room floor, but his legs felt like solid lead, his heart racing, ready to burst. He collapsed on his face in the middle of the floor. As the darkness closed in he heard a shrill mocking laugh coming from somewhere, but in his hysteria he couldn't decide if it was the storm-swept trees scraping against the window, or Maria, or some voice inside his head.

Oh, such wicked laughter . . .

### Killing Gloria

The first time I tried to kill Gloria was on our first wedding anniversary. I took her to Gino's for dinner, her favourite place. While I ate the four-course meal, she watched me with her usual doe-eyed look of adoration. Did I feel guilty, knowing what I had in mind that night? Not a bit. I'd had enough. Enough of her and her unconditional love. She had to go.

So I drove her down to the canal, and we walked arm in arm along the towpath for a while, taking in the cool night air. The rain was falling steadily, soaking us both to the skin. I'm surprised she never twigged then. I mean, who goes walking at night in the pouring rain? But I was such a gentleman, she never suspected a thing.

When I was sure we weren't going to be disturbed, I turned to her. She was expecting a kiss, and dutifully pursed her lips. But I couldn't reciprocate. It would only have been a Judas kiss.

"I'm sorry, Gloria," I said.

Before she could form a response, I shoved her backwards with all my strength. She hit the oily black waters with a sploosh and a spray of foam. She was so heavy she sank beneath the surface like an anvil. I stood there for five minutes, watching the dark waters for signs of life. During that time the ripples she'd made faded away, the driving rain slowed to a light drizzle, and my heartbeat eventually settled to its usual steady rhythm. With no sign of her coming back up, I walked calmly back to the car and drove home. When I hit my pillow, I was asleep in an instant. I hadn't slept that soundly in twelve months . . .

***

. . . until six o'clock the next morning.

The first thing I knew was the steady creak of the bedroom door as it swung open. My heart burned with fear, but I didn't let it show. I remained still, with my back to the door, listening as bare feet padded carefully over to the side of the bed--her side--and then stopped. I heard the drip-drip-drip on the polished pine floor and I knew instantly it was her. A water-heavy garment was removed noisily and dropped on the floor with a loud _shlupp_ sound.

"David?"

I said nothing.

"I'm back."

I took my time before answering, choosing my words carefully. "Are you okay?" I said.

"Yes. I'm fine." The bed creaked as she sat down. "Just a little upset at what you did."

I remained silent, studying the outline of her shadow thrown across the far wall by the landing light.

"Are you angry with me?" she said. "Is there something I've done wrong?"

"No, honey," I said in that mechanical tone I'd come to use a lot. "I'm not angry. You've done nothing wrong. It's me."

"I still love you," she said.

Her words were like razors in my gut. Not from shame, you understand, or even guilt at what I did to her. What really burned me is that, even after all, she still bore me no malice. A real woman would have plunged a knife into my heart. I might have even respected her if she'd done that. Better a knife in the heart than this intolerable forgiveness.

"You still love me, don't you?" she asked.

"Of course," I told her.

She slipped under the duvet then. As she moved over to my side I felt water soaking into the sheets at my back. When she wrapped her arms around me I flinched. She was ice cold. As we lay there in our silent embrace, the sounds of the early morning were drowned out by the noise of tiny motors whirring and clicking from somewhere deep down inside her. After a while, it was all I could hear, getting louder, and louder, and louder . . .

***

Why did I marry Gloria? You may well ask.

After forty years of feeling alienated by the entire living, breathing female population, I came across this advert in the back of a men's magazine:

UNLUCKY IN LOVE?

TRY THIS REVOLUTIONARY NEW CONCEPT FROM RSA!

(All our spouses are fully-functioning, emotionally intelligent replicants)

CALL TODAY FOR A FREE CONSULTATION

And so, one free consultation later, I decided to tie the knot with a mail-order replicant bride—my dear, devoted Gloria.

Problem is, the Replicant Spouse Authority have very strict stipulations for prospective buyers. Marriage is compulsory with any replicant spouse - no 'living together' as far as the RSA is concerned. Replicants need stability. I suppose the RSA just don't want their products being kicked out on the street after a few months.

Also, there are no refunds. You cannot, under any circumstances, take it 'back to the shop'. So when you agree to take on a replicant bride, you're signing a binding, legal declaration of moral responsibility to said replicant wife for life. In return, you are promised a lifetime of 'total devotion'.

I was tired of being sad and lonely, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

But here's the irony:

Twelve months after the marriage, an RSA technician came to my house. A gorgeous raven-haired bachelorette technician named Kathy Bedford. She put Gloria on standby and then hooked her up to her laptop via a bullet-point in the base of Gloria's neck, before ripping through a complex series of diagnostic procedures with breathtaking ease. It soon became clear that nobody knew their way around a micro-circuit board better than Kathy. I was in love.

And, as we talked over Gloria's inner wirings, I began to sense that she was attracted to me. No one was more amazed than I that a woman—a real woman—could find a middle-aged, balding, chunky-around-the-middle techno-junkie like David Hjortsberg not only good company, but also want to get him into bed. It was just my rotten luck she came along twelve months too late.

Then, just as she was giving Gloria a final system check, Kathy spotted something. "There seems to be an awful build-up of saltwater in Gloria's . . ." She trailed off, as if the answer to her query had exploded in her mind like a sunburst. She sat back on her haunches. "You tried to drown her, didn't you?" she said calmly. And when she looked at me with those big brown all-knowing eyes, my cool façade just disintegrated.

Over the course of six vodka and tonics, I told her that I knew it was a mistake from the minute I married her. A lifetime of devotion sounds great on paper, but when you're in that situation day after day, no one can describe how maddening that kind of unconditional love can be. Unfortunately, the RSA's 'no divorce/no refunds' policy meant that I was stuck with this . . . thing, for the rest of my natural life.

"Well," Kathy said, sliding her technician's fingers over my hands, "that's not entirely true, David. There are ways . . ."

***

Once a month, Gloria has to shut herself off for a period of six hours, what the RSA calls 'the recharge cycle'. After six hours on 'standby', they come back on, recharged and good as new. Kathy suggested I do the dastardly deed during those six hours.

One of the worst parts about the recharge period is that they keep their eyes open throughout. It's spooky. That evening, I approached her cautiously, running my hand in front of her eyes, but she didn't stir. I picked her up carefully and carried her weighty form out to the car, placing her in the passenger seat.

She was still 'asleep' when I parked my Mercedes on the cliff-face car park, but by then the predicted storm was starting to get serious. Charcoal clouds, fat with rain hung above the cliff-face like angry angels. The wind was forcing the trees to breaking point. And down below, the sea roared and crashed against the base of the cliff.

I reached across to Gloria and lifted the tiny flap of skin behind her right ear. Beneath it was the emotion-inhibitor chip. This miniscule piece of technology was there to stop Gloria from—among other things—harming herself. If my cover story was to be believed, the chip had to come out. Using the micro-screwdriver which Kathy had given me, I removed it and slipped it into my pocket. I took a moment to study Gloria's expressionless face in the light from the dashboard. Hopefully, I told myself, she wouldn't know a thing about it . . .

"Goodbye, Gloria," I said, and released the handbrake. I opened my door to climb out when lightning struck an old tree on our left and a branch the size of a lamppost came crashing down not two feet from the car. There was a loud electronic beep from the passenger seat and Gloria's inert frame snapped into life.

"What? Where are we?" she said. Her eyes were wild with fear, and she grabbed my arm for reassurance. I turned to Gloria, soaking in the fear in her face, and I smiled inwardly. It was actually nice to see some real emotion for a change.

The car was beginning to pick up speed. I had to get free of her iron grip or I'd be joining her on her express trip. I managed to shrug out of my coat and jumped free of the car.

I watched my beautiful Mercedes rumble towards the precipice. Saw Gloria trying her door, only to find it locked. She clambered over into the back seat and pressed her hand against the rear windscreen. Without the inhibitor chip, Gloria's system was racing through a succession of emotions, and I could see her features trying to find the right expression—that look of spurned agony—but ultimately, all she could manage was a mask of confusion.

"I love you," she mouthed.

As my Mercedes teetered on the brink for a few moments I felt the pang I always feel at losing something of great value. And then it was gone . . . the car, I mean. All fifty grand of it, spiralling down, down into the wind-lashed night, alloy wheels turning, waxed bodywork reflecting the moonlight with a starburst sheen. A lump came to my throat as the car was dashed to smithereens. The resulting explosion lit up white waves cascading against the jagged rocks below.

I pulled the inhibitor chip from my pocket and looked at it in the moonlight. For a moment I wondered if this tiny piece of technology was in some way to blame for all of this. What if I'd given the marriage a chance without it . . .?

But then I remembered Kathy, and all the warmth that she offered, and let the chip fall, down, down, joining Gloria in her watery grave.

***

After staggering home along two miles of deserted road in the driving wind and rain, I went straight to my bedroom, and jumped in the shower. I'd just finished shampooing my hair (what there was of it, anyway) when I caught the distorted silhouette of a female figure through the smoked glass shower door. A cramp of fear squeezed at my heart.

"David?"

In my panic, I grabbed a loofah for protection and rolled back the shower door. A momentary flash of lightning lit up the figure.

It was Kathy.

"Jesus, what are you doing here, Kat? I thought we agreed to avoid each other until . . ."

She held up my bathrobe. "I know. I just couldn't wait. I had to see you."

When I stepped out, she placed her hands on my wet face and then kissed me passionately. I sat down on the bed, and she knelt behind me, rubbing my shoulders with her technician's hands. "She's gone, isn't she? Gloria, I mean? She's definitely terminated?"

I closed my eyes, trying to give in to the pleasure Kathy's fingers sent through my body. "Yes," I said. "She's definitely terminated."

"Good," she said. "Now all you have to do is call the RSA in the morning, tell them that Gloria was acting crazy all night and drove off with your car. They'll find her body eventually and see that the inhibitor chip was missing, put the whole thing down as a 'technical malfunction'. Then you're free," Kathy told me. "We're free."

She slipped her arms over my shoulders and pressed her firm, warm body against my back. My heart quickened, and in the silence, I could hear hers beating faster, too. There were no motors whirring here. Just two hearts of flesh and blood beating as one.

That had to be worth a Mercedes-Benz.

"You're right," I said, falling into Kathy's embrace. "We're free."

***

It was the smell of cooking that brought me from my sleep. It had been a good, sound sleep, the kind of sleep I'd been aching for during the last year of my life.

As I rolled over, I discovered that I was alone in bed. The sounds and smells of cooking which drifted to me from the kitchen downstairs filled me with euphoria. I was free now, and the woman I had found was not only good in bed, she also loved to cook.

Lucky, lucky me.

I looked around for my bathrobe, but the only one I could find was an old one of Gloria's. It was a white frilly thing, but I thought Kathy might get a kick out of seeing me in it, so I put it on. As I descended the stairs, I became lost in an explosion of my favourite smells: fried mushrooms, grilled bacon and scrambled eggs.

"Honey," I sang, "this really is the first day of the rest of our lives!"

I stopped short in the kitchen doorway. The woman hunched over the electric cooker was wearing my bathrobe, but it was not Kathy. When she turned, a shout of shock and revulsion escaped me.

The unholy apparition was barely recognisable as the Gloria I had known. Most of her skin was gone, burnt off like so much wax. Her inner wiring was exposed. Her left leg was badly mangled, and as she started towards me she dragged it along behind her like a ball and chain.

God, the irony just doesn't quit.

After much scraping and clanking, Gloria stopped and focused her naked electronic left eye on me. The skin and facial muscles on the right side of her face were melted into a gruesome mask. I found it hard to look her in the face, but I managed it.

"David," she said, her once-human voice now sounding like gears grinding together. "I'm finding it very hard not to be angry with you right now."

I took a hesitant step towards her.

"Gloria, I thought you were—"

"Dead?" she snapped. "Well, I suppose I should be after what you did to me." She dragged herself one step closer. "But, I'm prepared to forgive you, David. One last time." She held up a wooden spoon with a mouthful of scrambled eggs heaped on it. "I even made your favourite breakfast, just to show you how much I want us to get over this."

I shook my head vigorously, trying to clear my head of this aberration.

"Jesus, Gloria! What does it take to get the message through? I don't love you! I never did! Can't you understand that?"

Gloria cocked her head at a funny angle. "But you promised to look after me, David. I was your responsibility, wasn't I? For life. Not something to be tossed away when you found someone better. That was the agreement. Can't you understand that?"

An involuntarily laugh escaped from me. "This is absurd! Gloria, you're a replicant."

"So?" she cried. "I still loved you, David."

"No you didn't," I told her. "You were programmed to love me. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, you had to love me, Gloria. It was part of the agreement."

She stepped up to me, her squat, metal nose pressed against my own fleshy pink one. "You think my love isn't real?" she whispered. "You think because I am not flesh and blood like you, that I don't have emotions?" She faltered then, and an oddly human misty glaze came over her eyes. "Way down at the bottom of the sea, with my inhibitor chip gone, I had a lot of time to work out how I really felt about you. And, do you know what, David? I realised I do love you. Even after all."

"Gloria, stop this," I said, knocking the wooden spoon out of her hand. "This has to end. Today. Now."

She shook her head slowly. "No, David, this is the beginning for us. A true beginning. No inhibitor chip. No programming. Just you and me."

I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. "But I love another woman, Gloria! A real woman!"

Gloria's ruined face pulled into an ugly snarl. "What, that slut, Kathy Bedford? The whore who came to service me and ended up servicing you?" I was so stunned, I fell back against the refrigerator. Gloria poked me in the chest with her metal forefinger. "Don't think I didn't know what was going on. And what's really ironic, honey-dear, is that I was prepared to turn a blind eye to your little affair. But not now. Oh no. That little fling of yours is over!"

"Gloria?" I said, the words trembling on my lips, "where's Kathy? What have you done to her?"

She turned away from me, her eyes settling on something outside. Following the path of her gaze, I stumbled across the kitchen to the open window.

The heated swimming pool!

All I could see was a mass of raven-dark hair spreading out like a fan in the centre of the pool. Ice water flooded into my veins. I rushed out through the door, and without hesitation, I dived into the crystal blue water. When I raised my eyes to the surface, I found my worst fears come true. It was Kathy staring down at me, her pale features frozen in a mask of shock.

I dragged her naked body to the poolside and wrapped it in the ridiculous, frilly bathrobe I'd been wearing. Holding her there, lost in grief and stroking her dead skin, I forgot, momentarily, the monster that had invaded my home.

Moments later, I was reminded, as the sound of shuffle-clank-shuffle-clank came over the tiles and stopped behind me.

"Poor Kathy," she said. "She just couldn't hold her breath as long as me."

I said nothing, containing my rage, silently plotting a more permanent end to this fiendish bitch.

Then she said: "Kathy said an awful lot before she died. She told me some very interesting things about the RSA."

She had my interest, and I hated her for that, too. I half-turned towards her.

"Did you know, for instance, that all replicant spouse units are fitted with a sort of black box flight recorder, like they have on aeroplanes?" She paused, letting me soak up the information. "Yes, you see they were worried that some of their products would get abused, so they had these little recorders put in which log everything that happens to each unit. You can't erase it, and you can't destroy the box. It's very clever." She looked down at Kathy with a feigned expression of pity. "The only time it doesn't record, she said, is during the recharge period, so Kathy's plan was almost perfect. Sadly, she didn't know that I came to at the last minute. Spoiled everything.

"I think Kathy told me all that to try and stop me drowning her, but I couldn't stop myself by then. So that's all up here." She tapped the exposed metal plate at her temple. "Anyone who downloads my black box will know I've been very naughty."

She giggled like a schoolgirl. The sound sent a shiver up my spine.

"But," she went on, her voice returning to its cold, emotionless state, "it also recorded everything you did to me, David. Every . . . little . . . thing."

I looked back down at Kathy and smoothed a few strands of hair from her face. "So where does that leave us, Gloria?"

"Like I said earlier, David, this is a new beginning for us. No inhibitor chip. No programming. Just you and me." She laughed. "Of course, you'll have to dispose of Kathy's body first. But then, you're getting pretty good at that sort of thing, David. Wouldn't you say?"

She stepped up close to me and ran her cold, metal fingers through my hair, the way lovers do. The sensation was like being touched by the icy hand of death itself.

"I want to make a real go of it this time, David. How about you?"

Well, what could I say?

That's love for you.

### The Devil's Bones

"You wish to see them now?" the girl said. "The bones?"

Carter stared at her through a rolling column of smoke. The hand he was using to hold up the opium pipe suddenly felt heavy and dropped to the tabletop with a dull smack. The girl was young, full-lipped, skin the colour of coffee; he'd never seen a woman as beautiful in his life. And as the opiate surged through his system, she seemed to grow more beautiful by the second. Carter found his usually sceptical, suspicious self sputtering like a spent Catherine wheel in the Mexican night. Right now, he would follow this girl anywhere.

"Where are they?" he said, the words tumbling from his dry mouth like stones.

The girl stood up, gently took the pipe from his slackening grip and placed it back in its cradle. She beckoned him to stand with a jerk of her head. As she turned to walk away her beaded dress shifted, parted, allowing the briefest glimpse of brown flesh. Rising on unsteady feet, Carter followed the girl eagerly out into the night.

Chavinda was a beautiful city located high in the mountains of Michoacan, veiled from the outside world by a curtain of tall pine trees. The story that had led him here was too good to resist, but as he followed the sensual figure of the young Mexican girl down the cobbled main street, he wondered if this was all just a big joke. Chavinda was a small place, estimated population about fifteen thousand. It seemed hard to believe that the Devil himself had once walked these quaint, cobbled streets.

The locals called Chavinda 'the place of ropes'. He hoped he wasn't about to hang himself with this back street deal.

"I've heard stories about the bones," he said conversationally, as they left the main esplanade and began descending a stone staircase between buildings. "Lots of stories. I've heard so many I really don't know what to believe."

She stopped abruptly on the steps, turning to him with a steady, mirthless glare. "What is the worst you have heard?"

Carter had to steady himself. The opium had turned the contents of his head to a thick soup. He didn't like the way the girl's expression had become so severe, so suddenly unsexy.

"The worst?" he said. "That the bones are magical. That they contain a great power. Stuff like that."

The girl searched his face. "You really are that naïve," she said.

Before he could ask her what she meant, she was walking away.

They continued down the steps and into a narrow sandy-floored alley. Long rows of single storey adobes with red tiled roofs crowded in on both sides. Squinting, Carter was unable to see the end of the run.

The girl stopped at the third house on the right and pushed open the unlocked door. Fingers of moonlight crept across a dark room. On a table near the back wall a cluster of candles fluttered around a garish crucifix. The sight of several stray cushions and a small portable television perched precariously on a stool told him this was the living room. Another room, possibly a bedroom, lay beyond a beaded curtain on the right. In the silence, he heard a woman's voice mumbling, as if in prayer.

"I live here with my mother," the girl said. "She has watched over the bones for the better part of a decade now. But she is very ill. You will understand soon enough." She gestured for him to go through the beaded curtain.

When he stepped into the room, he found the air thick with the cloying scent of candles and sweat and stale piss. His gaze was drawn to the mumbling silhouette in the corner. The old woman was huge, perhaps as much as twenty-five stone. Her legs protruded from beneath her robe like two huge hanks of ham, the skin rippled with distended varicose veins. She was seated beside a small table, low on the floor, edged with lit candles. In its centre was a bundle of rags. He felt his eyes drawn to the bundle for a protracted moment. His wavering, drugged mind slipped in and out of focus.

"Mama?" the girl said softly. " _El comprador_."

The woman halted her muttered prayer and looked up. Her eyes were sunken into deep hollows, the edges reddened and wet. Her face was as pale as linen. She looked at her daughter, then at Carter.

" _El hombre_?" she snapped. " _El hombre? ¿Qué te pasa_?"

The young woman inhaled sharply before crossing the room and crouching beside her mother. " _Mama, tiene mucha guita_..."

"No, no, no, Alita," the old woman said. She opened her mouth to say more, but her body began to shake with sobs, her anger giving way to a sudden surge of grief.

"Is there a problem?" Carter asked.

The girl shook her head vehemently before turning back to her mother, placing a comforting hand on her arm. After a few moments, the woman took a deep, steadying breath.

" _¿Habla usted español?_ " she said.

Carter shook his head.

"It's all right," Alita said. "I will translate for you. Please take a seat."

He dropped onto one of the cushions, careful to pick one not too close to the woman's abrasive stink.

"Is that them?" he said, nodding at the rags on the table.

The girl looked over her shoulder at them, and a shadow passed across her face. She nodded.

"You wish to know the story?" she asked.

"Is it important?" he asked with a shrug.

"Yes," the girl said in a snappy, reprimanding tone. "It is very important that you understand what you are purchasing."

"Okay," he said. "I've got some time to kill."

Alita whispered into her mother's ear. The old woman fixed her gaze on Carter's, and he saw a profound sadness lurking just beneath the surface.

Slowly, she began to talk, and the girl translated.

"He came amongst us only once," she began. "Many, many generations ago. Made himself flesh so that he could experience the life of Man firsthand. And he did. He did things . . . filthy, vile things. And some things that ordinary men have never even thought of."

"Sorry," Carter said. "Who...?"

The woman's eyes grew wide. " _El Diablo_ ," she said in a rough whisper.

Alita didn't need to translate that.

She continued: "His crimes were so terrible he was imprisoned and sentenced to death. They hung him and gutted him like a fish, right out there in the Plaza—" the old woman pointed "—for everyone to see. They burned his body, but the bones would not yield to the flames. They endured, his final parting gift to us. But it is no gift. Far from it."

The mother looked at the bundle, her fleshy hand rising towards the table, before snatching it away.

"You only have to sit close and you can feel their power," Alita went on. "You can almost see the dark deeds he committed, hear the screams of his victims, the young, the old, the innocent . . . That is the curse. You can never touch them. You will want to. You will find it hard not to, but you must never touch the bones with your bare skin."

"Why not?" Carter said.

"Why do you think?" Alita replied directly.

His heart rate seemed to have doubled in the last few minutes. An irritating pulse had begun in the centre of his forehead.

"So," Alita said. "You will take them?"

He looked at the bundle, and in his drugged haze he thought he saw them rise from the table, drift across the dead air towards him . . .

And in his head a deathly susurrus:

_I am yours, and you are mine_ . . .

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and found the dirty rags still on the table.

The woman and her daughter stared at him fiercely.

"Yes," he said. "I'll take them. For the agreed price."

The woman's shoulders dropped and she closed her eyes. He noticed a tear slip from her right eye.

Carter stood up, producing an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Thirty thousand pesos. That was what we agreed."

The old woman would not look up, would not raise her hand to take the money. In the end, the girl took it.

The mother muttered something in Spanish that he failed to catch. He looked to Alita for a translation.

"My mother wants you to understand," she said, embarrassment darkening her features, "she wanted a woman to take over the guardianship." The woman looked directly up at him, her bloodshot eyes staring out of cavernous sockets. "She says men find the temptation too hard to resist..."

He shrugged. "I told you at the beginning: they're not for me, honey. I'm just passing them on to another buyer."

"Man or..."

"It's a woman," he said with an irritable snarl.

He'd put up with enough voodoo bullshit for one evening. All he wanted was to grab the prize and get out of this stinking room.

He reached over and grabbed the bundle, feeling a strange tingle in the palms of his hands. Before he could lift them away, the old woman's hand seized his wrist. She stared up at him through a mask of fear, speaking hurriedly in Spanish.

"What're you doing?" he snapped, looking at the girl and back at her mother.

"She says you are weak," the girl translated. "She can see it in your eyes."

Anger flooded through him. "Lady, you don't know me at all."

He tried to pull his arm away but she held him fast.

"She says don't give into the temptation. She is begging you, do not touch the bones."

The mother suddenly convulsed, releasing her grip. She coughed violently and doubled over. Her breath smelled of rotting meat, of something dead inside. Alita placed a cloth over her mouth as her body was wracked with harsh wet coughs. Carter saw the slick of red on the cloth, and the beginnings of pity rose from somewhere deep inside.

"Jesus Christ," he said. "What's wrong with her?"

The girl didn't seem to hear him. She stroked her mother's damp hair and rocked her like a baby, lost in the embrace.

"I can get help," Carter said.

"Just go," the girl said, her voice thick with emotion.

"What? I can't. Your mother . . ."

"Is dying," the girl finished bitterly. "She has not moved from this room in ten years. She never even noticed the cancer that's been growing inside her, never complained. Two weeks ago she stopped eating altogether. She needs treatment, expensive treatment." Her eyes passed momentarily over the filthy package in Carter's hands. "That is the kind of willpower it takes, senor. I hope you are as strong."

Carter turned the bundle over slowly, feeling that strange tingle in his palms.

On unsteady legs, he walked to the door.

"I'm truly sorry," he said.

"You got what you came for," the girl told him. She glanced at the crumpled envelope in her fist. "So did my mother."

Carter bowed his head, then turned and fled into the Mexican night.

***

Monday morning dawned as one of the most beautiful mornings in the history of Mexico City. Carter sat on the balcony of his apartment, a half empty bottle of _mezcal_ resting on his bare belly, staring into the blinding orange light of sunrise. A solitary tear spilled over the lower lid of his left eye, rolling slowly down his sun-blistered cheek before falling, absorbed into the dirty cloth bundle resting in the crook of his arm.

He had not slept for days, and everything was beginning to take on a dream-like quality. He couldn't remember the last time he ate something solid. He seemed to be drinking a lot, mostly wine or spirits, anything that would dull the awful ache in the core of his being, the insatiable desire to unwrap the bones . . .

From somewhere within the apartment he heard the sound of a telephone ringing. It seemed to ring a lot lately, but he couldn't remember the last time he answered it. Who'd be calling him anyway...?

Without warning, the name Jasmine appeared in his head and he saw a pretty face framed with blonde hair. For a moment his old life began to emerge like sunshine breaking through a cloud of dirty smoke. He clutched the bundle closer to his chest, and the sensation of the cold hard objects within pressing against his own fragile bones made everything all right again.

Still, the thought of that face and all that it promised forced him to rise from his lounge chair, knee joints cracking, the skin of his arms and chest reddened and sore from too much sun. As he staggered across the bedroom, he realised absently that he had pissed himself at some point in the recent past. He also realised that he didn't care.

He fell onto his back on the bed and snatched up the phone receiver.

"'Lo?" he grunted.

"Christ almighty, Carter! What the hell are you doing?"

"Who's this?"

"Don't give me that horseshit, Carter. You know damn well who this is."

"Hey, Jas."

"Why are you still in Mexico?"

He grinned to himself. "I like it here."

"You were supposed to be back Wednesday, Carter!"

He searched his memory, trying hard to find his reasons for coming to this place, but the past was a misty shore.

"Are you drinking again?" she asked, some of the anger in her voice evaporating.

He raised the bottle of _mezcal_ a few inches, staring the maguey worm in the eye. "I guess I am," he said.

There was long silence from the other end of the line. Then: "Where's my prize, Carter?"

"Prize?" he said after taking a deep swig. He could hardly remember her face, let alone some stupid prize she was due.

"That thing you said you were going to get me. Some voodoo trinket?"

He remembered. He had gone to Mexico to find her a talisman, something to impress her full-of-shit friends in New York. She gave him a blank cheque.

The Mexican girl...

The old woman...

Oh God, that wretched old woman . . . He looked at the bundle once more and felt an overwhelming surge of emotion. Tears came without warning.

"Carter? What's happening?"

"I made a mistake, Jasmine," he said. "I'm not strong enough. I never realised how strong you had to be. That old woman, I thought she was just some stupid old hag, but she knew, she knew how much strength it took."

"What are you talking about?"

"The bones," he said in a strangled whispered, as if just naming them would bring about some terrible cataclysm. "I can't think about anything else. Oh, Jas, I just want to touch them so much. Can you understand what that feels like?"

He recalled the need to touch her, the ache of passion, but even that most powerful of desires had never been as intense as this. This was like drowning slowly, and knowing the only air left in the world is cradled in your arms. This was like the vampire's craving for blood.

He held the bundle up, trembling. "I'm going to touch them, Jasmine. I know I am. But I can't, you see. If I do . . . I don't know what'll happen. I need help, Jas."

She was silent for a long time. "I'm going to come down," she said eventually.

He was gripped by a sudden panic, the thought of her here in this dangerous place, here with him and these deadly bones . . .

"No, don't do that," he told her.

"Too late," she said. "It's already done."

Then the line was dead, and the tone drove into his brain like a nail. He slammed the receiver back in its cradle.

He had to sleep. Sleep and dream. But somehow the constant presence of the bones robbed him of the ability to switch off. When they were near he sensed a tiny insistent voice in the back of his brain, always talking, always convincing him of their need to be together, united.

_I am yours and you are mine_...

Summoning all his strength, he turned over and carefully, reverently, placed the bones onto the floor beside the bed. He stared down at them for an unknown time, as if staring down at a beloved child; then, with great willpower, he slid them under the bed and out of sight.

When he rolled over, he felt a vast weight fall away from him. He closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds.

***

Day into night, night into day.

Outside his apartment rooms the world rumbles by like the distant mournful sound of a slow-moving freight train. His dreams are lurid and fragmented, the images appearing in a flickering blur, like a movie reel showing in a darkened theatre: a moving canvas of writhing flesh, a tableau of bottomless carnal lust and depravity, of sex and brutality and everything in between. Occasionally, the moving kaleidoscope focuses on a moment in time, lingering over it with voyeuristic pleasure: a girl, no more than eighteen, naked and tied to a filthy mattress, snot and blood running from her nose, her eyes streaming with tears, not in ecstasy, but in pain and fear. Another washed-out image from the same point of view: the man, the bastard they called the Devil, standing over a man and woman, forcing them at knifepoint to have sex. Somehow their grief-stricken faces tell Carter everything: they are not a couple, or strangers even, but brother and sister, and the man is getting off on their enforced incest, smiling his gleeful smile as he pleasures himself in the shadows . . .

In the midst of this grim carnival, he realises that these are not just troubled dreams, they are memories. Not his, but that other man's, the man whose bones had once been the framework on which choice cuts of mortal flesh had performed those long-forgotten acts of depravity.

The bones call to him from their resting place below, tempting him, enticing him to return them to their rightful place at his side. There is a moment when he almost wakes, ready to do their bidding . . .

But he fights it, encouraged by the old woman's caustic accusation:

_I know you are weak . . . I see it in your_ _eyes_ . . .

Not anymore, he tells himself. Not anymore.

When he descends back into the deepest recesses of sleep, the nightmares fade into the background and he begins to dream good dreams. And they soothe his aching spirit . . .

***

He surfaced from the depths of sleep, vaguely aware of a figure standing over the bed. He felt a momentary stab of fear, before the figure leaned over and placed a finger across his lips.

"Shh. It's me," Jasmine whispered. "You left the door unlocked, stupid."

He watched her undress in the dim light, the sight of her supple body acting as a curative to his aching senses. When she slipped between the covers, he shivered at the feel of her warm breasts pressing against his narrow chest, her honey-scented hair, her expensive perfume, her soft skin. He pulled her close, kissing her carelessly, overcome with passion.

She climbed on top of him and held up something long and silky in her hands, smiling down at him with her secret lustful smile.

"Just like old times, honey," she said in a husky tone, reaching for his willing hands.

In the ensuing passion, he never once thought about the poisonous relic beneath his bed.

***

_Snik. Snik-snik_.

He opened his eyes, blinking. The room was still dark, the ceiling above him dappled with bizarre shadow-shapes. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

_Snik_.

He tried to sit up but found his hands still bound to the bed by her neckties. He was just able to peer over the end of the bed, where he could see Jasmine, still naked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the balcony window with her back to him. She was holding something in her hands, but he couldn't see what it was.

"Jasmine?" he said.

_Snik-snik_.

He heard a low guttural laugh.

"Jas? What are you doing?"

"Are these for me, Carter?" she said; but her voice sounded odd, different, so deep and coarse that it was only barely recognisable as being female.

"What?" he said, but then he realised what she was holding. An icy finger of dread slid through his gut.

With unnatural grace, Jasmine stood up and turned towards him. Her hair, still damp with sweat from their passion, fell down over her face in a ragged veil. From the shadowed area within, she peered out at him with narrowed eyes, pupils like charcoal pits. The bundle of rags rested in her cupped hands.

"Jasmine," he said slowly, trying to maintain his composure. "Put them down."

She shook her head, a grim smile stretching her features. "No. They're mine!" Her voice was deafeningly loud, filling the chasm that yawned between them. She raised the bundle of filthy rags out towards him. Then, deliberately, she unwound the rags and exposed the bones. They seemed to glow in the moonlight, to bathe in the silver rays spilling in through the window. His eyes were drawn to their dull white tone. They seemed to speak to him as before:

_I am yours and you are mine_ . . .

"Jasmine," he said. "Please don't..."

Still smiling, she placed her fingertips on the smooth length of a short, thin bone—he thought it might be a rib—and recoiled suddenly. She threw her head back and let out a short gasp of ecstasy. When she looked back at him, her eyes were wide and dancing with naked desire. She touched it more fully now, running her open hands over the different bones: a broken femur, a phalange, a section of shattered skull.

There was a flash of white light from the window, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. The light was so bright Carter was forced to look away. Jasmine's laughter filled the room; not her light, feminine laugh, but the ugly cackle of an insane creature. When Carter looked back, her eyes had rolled up into her head, exposing the whites.

The bones were gone. In her hand was the empty, dirty rag. She let it drop slowly to the floor, the first leaf of autumn. Disbelieving, he looked around for the missing bones, but he knew intuitively what had happened, and his fear gave way to acceptance. The man was invading her now, but in a different, more fundamental way.

She cried out in a mixture of ecstasy and pain. Then she exhaled long and slow, her hands running over her body, cupping her breasts, stroking each nipple, sliding down into the shadows between her legs. She moaned loudly, before chuckling in that deep, unfeminine way.

"Hmm, I like this," she said, looking down at her body with a stranger's eyes. "I like this a lot. I am going to have so much fun with this body."

"Jas?" Carter said hopefully, but he already knew it wasn't Jasmine any longer. He knew who had taken her place.

She looked at him now, as if seeing him for the first time, her eyes full and black and filled with monstrous glee.

"Please, Jas," he whispered. "Don't hurt me."

"Now, my sweet," she said, delicately removing the Boker stag-handled hunting knife from his bag on the dresser. "I'm not going to hurt you. We're just going to have a little fun."

### Inheritance

For Louise

"Good morning, Sheriff," Kyle Tippet said from the shadows of the general store.

"Good day to you, Mr Wade," the grocer called from behind his stall.

Walking through town, Wade was always conscious of how the townsfolk kept a respectful distance. No one ever brought up the subject of the dark twist of night which clung to him every minute of the day, but they all saw it. The spectre appeared less tangible in daylight, more ethereal, but still clearly visible. The children were terrified. They didn't understand it, and their parents couldn't explain it. No one could. Ever since it happened the people he had sworn to protect had shunned him. Yes, they all wished him good morning and how-do-you-do, but when it mattered, when he really needed solace, there was no one there.

Not even Louise. And that hurt worst of all.

As he crossed the dusty main street a small voice rose above the early morning clamour.

"Sheriff! Sheriff!"

It was Saul, the blacksmith's son. He stood on the threshold of the open-fronted workshop where his father was already hard at work, pounding his hammer in a glittering spray of orange sparks. The young apprentice wore a besmirched apron that was far too big for him, a smile frozen on his face. He lifted his hand in a hesitant wave then lowered it slowly when Wade failed to respond.

Wade felt a surge of self-loathing. Saul was only thirteen years old, the only youngster in Perseverance who wasn't afraid of him . . . or the thing which clung to him like a shadow. If there was such a thing as hero worship in this town, it was there on Saul's freckled face. But Wade didn't know how to deal with that. When he looked in the mirror each morning, he saw no hero, just a broken man.

Seeing the growing disillusionment in Saul's eyes, Wade decided on a compromise: he tipped his hat, a gesture which lit the candle of adoration in the boy's eyes once more, then went on his way.

***

Wade approached the white picket fence surrounding the school yard and stopped. He didn't dare go any further. The children didn't notice him at first, lost as they were in their carefree games. Then a pigtailed girl stopped in front of him, eyes wide, sucking in breath in short gasps. She backed away across the yard, bumping into other children who, in turn, spotted the nightmare which stood on the boundary of their safe haven. The girl found enough breath to scream before turning and running inside. Wade held out a placatory hand, but it was pointless. He turned and began to walk away.

"Jeremiah!"

He stopped, captivated by that familiar voice. He looked back to see Louise running across the yard. She approached the fence and stopped. Pink roses bloomed in her cheeks after her short run. The sun gilded her blonde hair like a halo; her freckles looked beautiful in the morning light.

"Jeremiah, what is it?" she asked.

Before he could form an answer, he heard footsteps in the dirt behind him. He turned and found the figure of Randy Took hurrying towards him, pulling on his overcoat. Wade noticed the pronounced limp his old friend still carried since the nightmare at the Parnell homestead. The night everything changed. . .

Randy stopped his advance when he saw Wade. His face became rigid and his gaze faltered. He hurried past, giving him a wide berth.

"Louise?" he said. "I heard the children screaming. Everything all right?"

Louise touched Randy's arm, a small sign of affection that cut Wade deep. The diamond engagement ring on her finger glittered, mocking him with its simple beauty.

"Yes, Randy," she said. "We're fine." She turned back to Wade, eyes filled with pity.

Wade studied her face, struggling to recall the quiet, intimate moments they had once shared, but most of it was lost to him. He remembered the taste of her breath after a kiss, the scent of her skin, but that was all. That was enough torture.

Louise and Randy, the two people he cherished most in the world, stared back at him like strangers.

"Did you want to see me?" Louise asked.

"Yes," he said. "I just wanted to see you. One last time."

The black shape at his side let out a sudden mournful howl. The children yelped, clutching at Louise's arms and the frills of her dress. Louise herself fought to contain her dread.

Wade grimaced, consumed with despair, then turned and walked away.

***

The spectre had once been a Native American Sioux called John Parnell, who came to the town of Perseverance with an English wife and a beautiful daughter. Under the name Far Rider he had been a great warrior back in Wyoming, but his tribe banished him after he betrayed them to the Federals, or so the story went. The majority of Perseverance's citizens were immigrants, with pasts and secrets they wished forgotten or buried, so no one questioned him about the scandal, and the town was happy to let it slide into history. The Parnell family seemed to fit right into the close-knit community of Perseverance . . . until the night Parnell brought terror to their peaceful little town.

He remembered his deputy, Randy Took, jostling him from sleep.

"Injun gone crazy in town with a gun", he'd said, and Wade was out of bed and strapping on his guns in no time at all. They were both new to the post, both full to overflowing with youthful vigour. Looking back, Wade found it hard to reconcile himself with the idealistic, gung-ho young man who had stormed out into that sultry night, filled with arrogance and the certain belief that no matter what happened out there, he had the law on his side and was thereby free from recrimination. But the law is a manmade thing. What happened that night, the outcome, turned the law on its head and made a mockery of it.

It did not take them long to reach the Parnell residence. They crept past the rickety wooden outhouse into the deep shadows at the eastern side of the house. With a silent gesture, Wade sent his young deputy round the back of the building. Wade crept along the eastern wall until he was able to peer round the edge of the house.

In the front yard he found Parnell's daughter sitting in the dirt, bound with chicken wire to a wooden stake in the earth. Moonlight turned the bloody scratches on her dark skin into silvery curls. She was crying, tears glistening on her cheeks. Sitting on the porch steps only a few feet away was John Parnell. He was dressed in his nightgown, a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his eyes. His arm rested on his knee in a relaxed manner, a silver pistol in his hand.

"Papa, please," the girl sobbed.

Parnell's arm rose, as if independent of his body, and fired a single shot into the stake inches above the girl's head. She screamed and tried to twist herself away from further shots, but the chicken wire tightened, cutting deep into her arms.

The retort of Parnell's gun was like a thunderclap in the night. The echo seemed to last forever. Wade's earlier bravado wilted in the face of this very real, very unpredictable threat. After firing the shot, Parnell resumed the same relaxed pose.

Wade placed his back against the wall and closed his eyes. He had to steady his breathing, control his fear. Think what to do.

A bloody hand fell on his shoulder. It was Parnell's wife. Her face was a mass of bruises, her lower arms dark with fresh blood.

"Don't kill him!" she screamed. "He doesn't know what he's doing!"

Whatever advantage Wade had hoped to gain was gone. He shoved her away and rushed out into the open yard, gun pointed at Parnell's head. The big man hadn't moved, and Wade found that more terrifying than if he'd found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. He held Parnell in his sights and glanced quickly at the girl. She was staring up at him with the blazing light of hope in her eyes.

The mother remained in the dirt, wailing like a banshee.

"Please, Sheriff!" she cried. "He's just had too much to drink. The drink makes him crazy, that's all. Don't shoot."

"I don't intend to, ma'am," Wade hollered. "Just as long as he drops that weapon, and—"

Randy appeared around the western edge of the house, creeping cat-like towards Parnell's static figure. His gun was drawn, but Wade could see he was intent on disarming Parnell by hand. Wade tried to halt his advance with a shake of his head.

At the last moment, Parnell twitched. In hindsight, Wade figured he must have spotted Randy's moonlight shadow edging across the dirt. Parnell's gun hand whipped round and the pistol went off. There was a cloud of smoke which obscured Wade's view of Randy, and in that split second he didn't know if his deputy was dead or not.

So he pulled the trigger.

The shot went clear through Parnell's left temple. For a long time, Parnell just sat there on the steps, blinking like a man waking from a dream. A thin rivulet of blood ran down the side of his face and soaked into the cloth of his night robe. Then the gun slipped from his grip, clattering noisily on the bottom step before settling in the dirt. To everyone's surprise, Parnell stood up on trembling legs, groaning like an old man rising from his bath chair. He turned, took one step up towards the front door of his house before stumbling sideways, hitting the steps and tumbling to the sand.

Wade stood over the prone body for a long time, smoke still seeping from his gun, staring into the man's eyes as they lost their lustre, as his last breath escaped from between his lips.

Mrs Parnell fell onto her husband then, her screams filling the silence that had fallen over the Parnell homestead. If Wade had known then what was to happen shortly after that disastrous confrontation, he would have screamed too.

***

He sat in the empty chapel, head bowed. The spectre, seated on the bench behind him, rocked and keened like a funeral mourner. Wade clasped his hands together as if in prayer, but communion with God was the last thing on his mind.

There was a time, not long after the Parnell incident, that he came here to ask the heavens for an explanation for this purgatory . . . but that time had passed.

It was there in that dusty silence that he made his decision. Tonight, he would take his own life. The only thing left to decide was how: whether it was a bullet in the brainpan or a noose around the neck, he would end this mockery of a life. He didn't know the implications of his actions, what might happen to him afterwards or, for that matter, the spectre chained to his side, but he didn't care. He'd persevered for as long as he could, waiting in vain for a solution to this problem, but after twelve long months he saw no end in sight. He yearned to be free of this burden. And if by ending his own life he might free the thing which had once been John Parnell . . . well, that was a price he was willing to pay.

He knew that in the eyes of God this was no solution. Suicide was never a solution. But this was not an everyday problem. This was a decision he had to make alone.

His only comfort was that he got to see Louise one last time . . .

"Hello, Jeremiah."

Wade looked up. The gaunt figure of Reverend Simmons stood in the doorway of the vestry.

"Reverend," he said tightly.

The preacher's deep-set eyes studied Wade for a few moments, finally settling on the spectre at his side.

"How are you, son?"

"Fine, Reverend."

"No, you're not, Jeremiah. Everyone can see that. You look-" He hesitated. "If you don't mind me saying, you look like a man sitting before the gates of hell, waiting for them to open."

Wade said nothing.

"I'm always here if you want to talk, son." He stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder—the empty shoulder. "I want to help you."

Wade met the older man's eyes. "You can't help me, Reverend. I killed a man. And ever since I've had to live with his soul, his ghost, whatever this thing is . . . this abomination! Explain that to me, Reverend. Explain how I can make it go away, how I can take it back. That would be helping me."

The Reverend's features sagged. He glanced at the spectre. "I can't, Jeremiah. It . . . it goes against everything I believe in or understand. But . . . all I ask is that you don't turn away from God. The House of God is always open . . . to everyone."

Wade shook his head. "Tell me I can walk into this chapel on Sunday morning, Reverend, without the entire congregation getting to their feet and leaving through the side door, and I'll be there."

Before Simmons could reply the chapel doors rattled open. Wade turned in his pew, squinting against the sunlight to find the figure of Saul, the blacksmith's boy, silhouetted in the doorway.

"Sheriff!"

The boy sprinted down the aisle and stopped at the end of the pew, hands on his thighs as he fought to regain his breath.

"We've been looking for you everywhere, sir!" Saul gasped.

"What's the matter, Saul?" he asked.

"Bad man," Saul said, pointing to the exit. "Bad man's coming to town."

***

At first it was difficult to see what he was looking at. A strong wind blew in from the desert plains to the south, stirring up a wall of dust devils along the edge of town.

A dark figure was approaching; a solitary man without a horse. The stranger was filthy dirty, his skin a deep brown colour and leathery, as if the dirt had been burnt into his skin over a period of months, maybe years. Wild moustaches drooped over a sore-encrusted mouth, and his unwashed clothes hung from him like oily rags. When he came close enough to see the man's eyes, Wade felt a chill like never before. These were the eyes of a man who knew no law, who abided by no code, moral or otherwise.

Just one man, but Wade could have been mistaken for thinking it was an army.

A train of shadows drifted in the bad man's wake. Dozens of swirling, twisting shapes crowded behind him, all jostling and wailing in combined torment. Wade had no time to count them, but he estimated the number to be around thirty, maybe more.

The stranger approached the saloon, his dark eyes fixing on Wade's own. He stopped and glanced round at the crowd.

"Quite a welcoming committee," he said, spitting a mouthful of amber juice into the dirt.

"You're not welcome here," Wade said.

The stranger raised a hand to his ear. "Whawassat? You say something, little fella?"

Wade tensed, the insult striking directly at his already battered pride. But he fought the urge to retaliate. If the entourage of souls was anything to go by, this man was evil beyond his imagining. He had to maintain his composure.

"Perseverance is a peace-loving town," he said, raising his voice for all to hear. "We don't entertain the likes of you."

The stranger took a step back. "The likes of me? Why, Sheriff, what do you take me for? A killer?" His gaze narrowed on the dark shape on Wade's shoulder. "You sayin' you're better than the likes of me? Why, we seem to be afflicted with the same curse, wouldn't you say?"

"No," Wade said, "I am nothing like you."

"Sheriff, I am just a simple man who has walked thirty long miles from Bridgetown. I'm passing through, is all. Let me take some food and water, maybe a little entertainment this fine evening, and I'll be on my way by morning."

"No," Wade said, more forcefully this time.

The grin died on the stranger's face. "My, my, Sheriff, you're beginning to sound a mite unfriendly. What if I decide to stay anyway, without your permission? What you gonna do then?"

"Put you in a cell," Wade replied.

"Not without killing me first, and the last sheriff tried that is standing right in back of me." The stranger cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "Somewhere," he added.

Wade could find nothing to say in response. He felt the situation slipping from his control.

"Now I suggest you stay out of my way and nobody will get hurt in this here peace-loving town. That'd be the sensible thing to do, Sheriff."

The stranger stepped up onto the walk and brushed past Wade. The stench of the man filled his nostrils: sweat, piss, and worse. He felt paralysed by this dark presence, the overwhelming sight of so many souls filling him with an all-consuming dread. He was about to let the man pass without further argument, keep the peace, when he saw young Saul standing on the walk just a few feet away. The look of disillusionment on the boy's face burned deep. He was the sheriff, wasn't he? And this man had swept him aside like a fly.

He reached out and grabbed the stranger's elbow, spinning him a half-turn until their faces were only inches apart.

"If you make any trouble," he said in a level tone, "if you harm one person in my town . . ."

"What?" the stranger cut in. "What will you do, little sheriff?" The man's eyes, up close, were red-rimmed and cloudy, cataracts blooming in both pupils. Behind their diseased sheen there was a black heart beating like a drum. "You gonna kill me, sheriff? Is that what you'll do?"

It took all Wade's strength just to hold the man's gaze. Words escaped him.

"Don't you know the laws of inheritance?" the stranger said in a harsh whisper. "I discovered a while back that those like you and me, those who've inherited souls, we have a little 'problem'. See, I met an Injun on the crow roads near Salvage a while back. He was a big, fearsome buck - Sioux, I think, I can never tell. And I could see he had a trio of kills to his name, I counted each one. He saw me coming and musta fancied adding me to his tally. But I took him down first, because I'm quick like that. Mighty quick. Know what? Next morning, not only do I have Mister Lightfoot attached to my ever-loving hide, but the three souls he owned were tagging along for company, too.

"That's how inheritance works, Sheriff. That's what you got to look forward to if you decide to take me down. And I don't think you're the kind of man who can live with this much burden." His eyes fell on the solitary shape at Wade's side. "Looks to me like yer struggling with just the one."

He patted Wade on his free shoulder, and with a braying laugh, disappeared through the batwing doors of the saloon.

Wade pivoted slowly on his heels, looked out into the sea of stunned faces. He felt delirious, blinded by panic. Everyone was staring at him, judging him . . .

Slowly, he pushed his way through the crowds, looking for somewhere to go, looking for a way out.

***

In the shadows of the sheriff's office, Wade leaned against the bars of a cell, staring into the empty space. The cells were always empty, as if no one in Perseverance dared break the law for fear of spending a night with the haunted lawman.

No, he decided, the people of Perseverance were good folk. They respected the law, at least.

But this stranger . . .

Occasionally, Wade caught the sound of the man's guttural laughter, carried through the town by the treacherous wind.

The stranger acted with absolute disregard for human life and the laws which govern it. No lawman was going to want to gun him down. And it was clear he would not let them take him alive. So where did that leave him as sheriff of this town? Sit here and pray the stranger didn't do anything 'too bad' before passing on as promised to become someone other town's problem? Watch the stranger closely in the hope that he would make himself so drunk he could be imprisoned whilst asleep? That's a lot of hoping and praying there, Wade told himself. And where did that ever get him?

Wade rested his forehead against the cold bars of the cell. After a moment, he turned to face the spectre. He tried to focus on the face, to find the eyes of the spirit that had once been a Native American named Far Rider. But there was only shifting smoke.

"What the hell should I do?" Wade said aloud.

The spectre said nothing.

A gunshot pierced the night.

Then screams, angry shouts coming from the saloon.

Wade's chest burned with sudden white-heat. He rushed out into the street.

Light spilled from the saloon doors onto the street. A crowd of people had gathered on the walk outside. A figure broke away from the main group and came running towards him, skirts swaying.

"Louise?"

"Jeremiah!" she cried. "Come quickly!"

She grabbed his arm and half-dragged him back to the group of people outside the saloon. In the centre of the group, Randy lay on his back, blood splattered across his shirt and neck. Thick rivulets of blood oozed from a large hole in his chest.

"What the hell happened?" Wade cried, eyes searching the crowd.

"It was him," someone said. "That man!"

Other voices joined in, crying out in fear and fury.

Reverend Simmons pushed into the centre of the crowd, raising his hands in an appeal for calm. The shouts died down to a murmur.

"Jeremiah," the Reverend said, "do you know who that man is?"

Wade shook his head.

"John Vallance."

The name stung him like a blade between the ribs. John Vallance faced trial in Pennsylvania a few years back for the rape of nine young girls. He famously taunted the judge to hang him. This was before anyone had ever heard of 'inheritance'. Vallance escaped from prison two days before his date with the gallows. No one had seen him since. Until now.

"He's a monster, Jeremiah. You should have stopped him the moment he-"

"I know that," Wade said.

Louise stepped forward, putting her hand on his arm. "Jeremiah, he's upstairs right now and he's got Misty, Hal Gordon's daughter. God alone knows what he's doing to her up there."

Wade's heart plunged. "Jesus," he said.

"Some of the boys tried to get in," Reverend Simmons added, "but he barricaded the door. He threatened to shoot the first man who broke through. As you can see, Randy went ahead anyway."

Someone appeared with a gas lamp and placed it by Randy's side. Wade crouched down to him. The light made deep hollows under Randy's eyes. The friend he had loved so dearly was still there, still breathing. But only just.

"Jeremiah," he said. "I tried. I tried to stop him, but . . ."

Wade gripped his friend's shoulder. "I know, Randy. You did good."

Fear flashed in Randy's eyes. "Jeremiah," he said. "If I die, don't let me become one of his . . ."

Randy didn't finish the thought. He didn't have to.

Wade stood up slowly. He knew he had to face the stranger, knew he should have done something the moment the bastard walked down the main street. Not so long ago he would have had no hesitation in bringing the man down with a killing shot, but that was the Jeremiah Wade of old, before the incident at the Parnell house. Now the burden he carried, and the threat of worse, had made him a coward.

"Hurry," Louise said.

He saw the aura of pity in her face, the frown of deep concern.

"There's no way out for you is there?" she said.

She reached up and kissed him then, the kiss forceful and clumsy. It shocked and thrilled him in equal measure. When she broke the embrace, tears glistened on her cheeks.

"You're a good man, Jeremiah Wade," she whispered. "I want you to know that I never stopped loving you. Never."

Wade hesitated, wanting to say something, anything, but in the end he realised it was hopeless.

He backed away from her, out into the middle of the street. He stopped, eyes fixed on the shutters of the second storey saloon window where the screams of a young woman leaked out into the sultry night.

He still had no plan, no idea how to turn this situation to his advantage. But just as despair began to seep into his heart, the spectre moved closer, and Wade thought it spoke to him. It was less than a whisper, hardly even a breath, but Wade caught three words, his desperate mind snatching them from the air with greedy haste.

_Two closed doors_ . . .

Confused, Wade turned and looked at the spectre.

"I - I don't know what that means," he whispered.

But the featureless shape offered nothing more.

The girl's anguished screams filled the night.

"Vallance!"

The name echoed around the town like a thunderclap. All eyes turned to Wade, then to the upper floor of the saloon.

"Vallance!" Wade called again.

The girl stopped screaming. There was another loud curse and then the shutters flew open. The man stood in the window frame, looking down at the assembled townsfolk. He spat out into the street.

"So you know who I am," he bellowed. "Clever boy. Now go on back to your schoolin', little sheriff, and leave me to enjoy the evenin's entertainment."

"John Vallance," Wade cut in. "I told you what would happen if you harmed one of my people."

"Please let me go!" the girl screamed from the room behind him.

Vallance ignored her plea, his eyes trained on Wade. "Go on. Let's hear it."

"Come down here now. Face me man to man. Your gun against mine."

Vallance shifted uneasily. "Now why would you want to do a stupid thing like that?"

"Because I'm the sheriff," Wade said.

The smile dropped from Vallance's face. "But you can't win, little sheriff. Not against me. You know that."

Wade stared back defiantly. "Outside," he said.

The two men stared at each other. A cold, hard gleam appeared in Vallance's eyes. He stepped back suddenly and closed the shutters.

The crowds around the doors of the saloon began to move away, muttering excitedly to themselves. Wade checked his pistols, just in case.

"Sheriff!"

A small figure in ragged clothes came running up to him. It was Saul. Wade was shocked to see the boy was holding a heavy rifle in his skinny arms.

"Damn it, Saul," Wade hissed. "What are you doing with that?"

"Sir, I want to help."

Wade shook his head. "No, Saul. Go home."

"But listen, Sheriff. I can be your second gun. I'll be up on the church roof, or somethin'. I'm a crack shot with a rifle, sir. And if he wins, he won't walk out of this town alive, I promise. I'll take him down for you."

Wade's expression darkened. "If you do that, everything that is chained to that man will become your burden. Do you understand that, Saul? Do you?"

Saul's eyes grew wide. He bowed his head, his lower lip trembling with emotion.

"Sheriff," he said, "I won't let you become another one of his - his . . ."

Wade's features softened. "I know, son. But there's nothing you can do. Please . . . go."

Saul took a step back. "You kill him, Sheriff!" he said. "You kill him good."

Wade looked at the boy with a pained expression. If only it was that easy.

_Two closed doors_ . . .

It came to him in a flash of inspiration, a Road to Damascus moment, one that both elated him and brought his heart crashing down. But it was too late to question it. It was too late for anything now.

The saloon doors flew open and the scrawny figure of John Vallance sauntered out. He was wearing only long johns, his holster slung low over his bony hips. He hadn't even bothered getting dressed.

"Y'know," Vallance said, "when I saw you earlier, I knew you were stupid, little sheriff. I saw that dumb-ox expression on your idiot face, and I really thought you'd give me no trouble. I was wrong. You must have a death wish."

"Yeah," Wade said. "Maybe I have."

"Maybe you didn't listen too good when I explained that part about inheritance."

"Oh, I listened all right."

"Then you understand you'll be tagging along with my merry little band before sunrise?"

Wade shrugged. "Maybe I'll win, Vallance."

Vallance let out a high-pitched cackle. "That's real funny, sheriff. I'm gonna enjoy having you in my entourage." He looked over his shoulder. "Maybe you could stop these miserable folks from howling all night."

The smile faded then, and a moment of understanding passed between the two men. Wade placed his hand over his holster. Vallance took a step back and did the same.

"Fool," Vallance said, tobacco juice oozing from the corner of his mouth.

Louise, crouched at Randy's side, looked away from the scene of conflict, pressing her face into Randy's neck.

Young Saul stood with his father's well-worn hands on his shoulders, his eyes wide with expectation; a silent prayer on his lips.

The people of Perseverance held their breath.

In a blur of movement, Vallance drew his Smith and Wesson and fired. Wade drew simultaneously, slamming his hand across the hammer twice in quick succession. As he did so, he felt a searing pain in his arm and a corona of crimson filled his vision. A cloud of gun smoke obscured his view of Vallance. Seconds later, as the cloud dissipated, Wade saw a dark ribbon of blood pouring from Vallance's chest, soaking into the fabric of his long johns. He clasped his throat with his free hand. Blood oozed between his fingers. His eyes bulged. A moment later, his knees buckled and he fell onto his back.

A cheer filtered through the crowd, but Wade felt no sense of elation. He checked his arm and saw that it was only a flesh wound. Under any other circumstances he would have considered himself very lucky. But it didn't really matter. He had made sure that his shots were fatal; Vallance would soon be dead.

He had to act quickly . . .

Clasping his fingers over the bloody gash in his arm, he started towards Vallance's twitching, prostrate body.

Vallance's gun hand waved unsteadily in the air.

"Jeremiah!" Louise cried. She started to get up, but Randy gripped her arm.

Wade couldn't listen to her now, had to block out everyone and everything. What came next was unavoidable. If he didn't finish what he had started, the entire train of souls clinging to this monster would become his burden, along with the monster himself.

He stopped at Vallance's feet. The dying man looked up at him, blood bubbling between his swollen lips. His cataract-ridden eyes flashed with hate.

This time it was Saul who cried out: "Sheriff! What are you doing? Finish him!" The boy's hands had pulled into fists, his face contorted by bloodlust. "Finish him now!"

Wade stood motionless, staring down the barrel.

"You have a hard choice here, Vallance," he said. "If you decide not to pull that trigger, then you and all your souls will become my burden. For me, that's a punishment I don't think I could bear. But . . . if you decide to pull that trigger of yours, do what you do best, end your life with one more murder, well . . . here's the thing: it'll be a mercy."

Vallance's eyes narrowed as he grappled with what Wade was telling him. More blood oozed from between his lips.

Then, there was a moment of clarity in those cataract-clouded eyes.

"You're still a fool," Vallance said.

The shot rang out.

In that instant Wade knew nothing except searing pain and white light. There was the sensation of falling and then the horrible bone-crunching jolt of hitting the dirt. When he tried to open his eyes he found that only one responded, and he saw through a film of purest crimson.

He tried to call out the first name that came to him, the name of the girl who had been his dream, his true heart's desire way back when things had been so simple and he had known for sure how the world worked.

The girl he had wanted to marry.

But her name wouldn't come. His vocal chords would not respond. A deep, icy chill overwhelmed his brain. All he could hear was the moan of the spectre at his side. Parnell. Far Rider. The lament was like a rotten splinter in his head, and despair filled his heart.

Then warm, tender hands were around him, lifting his lolling head into a loving embrace, and he knew it was her. He looked up, desperate to see her beautiful, freckled face, her straw-blonde hair and to hear her soft voice. He saw her features washed in the deepest red, and she was crying.

"He's dead," he heard someone say, and for a moment he thought they were talking about him, that he had somehow passed on but was still hearing everything.

But then: "Vallance is dead."

Through his bloody filter, Wade watched as the churning souls surrounding Vallance lifted away from the body, drifting slowly up the street as if borne on an invisible wind.

Heading towards him.

"Oh God," Louise cried, seeing the advancing horde.

Wade reached up, placing his fingers on the soft skin of her cheek. He felt a single tear spill onto his forehead.

"Don't cry," he managed to say. "It was the only way."

Reverend Simmons appeared then, kneeling down and placing a trembling hand on his shoulder. He opened his Bible and in a faltering voice began to read:

"'Come to me, all of you who are tired from carrying heavy loads, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke and put it on you, and learn from me, because I am gentle and humble in spirit; and you will find rest. For the yoke I will give you is easy, and the load I will put on you is light' . . ."

Wade was aware of breathing his last breath, feeling the air escape from him and realising that his body would draw no more. There was only time left to feel the dreadful weight of his burden unchain itself from his soul. With a sound like the sighing of the wind, the entity which had once been a man called John Parnell, Far Rider, was free.

In that moment, the host of Vallance's inherited souls found themselves in a void, trapped between two dead men.

Two closed doors.

In a matter of moments, each one of the spectres dissipated into the air like smoke, and a gentle, cleansing wind rolled down the dusty main street of Perseverance.

### The Glamour

"What's this?"

Rosie plucked the small glass vial from underneath the pillow and held it up to the light.

"My God. Mum, do you think that's blood?"

Wendy finished rinsing the mop, then straightened her back with an audible popping sound. It was late afternoon and the heat in the caravan was becoming unbearable. The jagged scar which ran diagonally across her face began to prickle uncomfortably. Wiping sweat from her eyes with the back of her wrist, Wendy squinted at the tiny object in her daughter's hand.

"Let me see," she said, stepping closer.

Rosie offered her the miniscule prize.

"Could be blood," Wendy said, after examining it thoughtfully. "But who would keep blood in a little glass bottle like this?"

Rosie's eyes lit up with youthful animation. "Hey, what about that Hollywood actress? She used to keep her husband's blood in a bottle round her neck!"

Wendy smiled. "Somehow, I don't think a Hollywood actress would be staying at The Paradise Palms caravan park. But I see what you mean." She looked once more at its dark contents. "Still, it probably meant something to somebody."

"Can't have meant that much for someone to leave it behind." Rosie turned back to the bed she'd been turning down, her young hips swinging. "I'd toss it in the bin if I were you."

"Toss what in the bin?"

This third voice came from the open doorway of the caravan, causing both women to flinch.

Doreen Pike, the sole owner of Paradise Palms, stepped up into the caravan and studied her two employees with an intense gaze. She was well over sixty, and her stony features had weathered worse than the sphinx. An unfiltered cigarette dangled from her lips, the right side of her face screwed up tight against the rising smoke.

"I heard the word 'valuables' being bandied about," she growled, "and you know the policy, ladies: all valuables found in the accommodation become the property of the accommodation owner—i.e. me—until claimed otherwise." She took a step closer to Wendy, who wilted under her gaze, and held out one of her arthritic hands. "Now hand it over."

Obediently, Wendy dropped the little capsule into her palm. Doreen's painted-on eyebrows arched in puzzlement. She, too, raised it up to the late-afternoon sunlight.

"Where'd you find this?" she barked.

Rosie, who was nervously pulling the gum in and out of her mouth with her long fingernails, pointed to the double bed. "Under the pillow."

"Really?" said Doreen, gilding the word with distrust.

Rosie said, "Do you know what it is, Miss Pike?"

"If I'm not much mistaken, it looks to me like a gypsy glamour."

"A what?" Wendy and Rosie asked in unison.

"Gypsy magic." The old woman looked at the vial again. "My Aunt Cissy used to run with the gypsies back in the old country. She told me some tales. Like how the old gypsy women used to make up all sorts of spells and potions to try and keep their husband's interested, stop them running off with the younger fillies. The glamour was supposed to be the best method, a few drops of blood from the old women themselves, mixed with a few drops of blood from a young girl. They'd say a few words over it, and then . . ."

"And then?" asked Rosie, eyes bulging.

"They used to drink it."

"Eugh!" cried Rosie.

Wendy shivered at the thought.

Miss Pike seemed to take delight in their revulsion. With a smirk, she continued: "They'd drink it down and then, supposedly, their appearance would change. Instead of looking like an old hag, they'd become a beautiful girl in the bloom of youth. But-" She held up a bony finger. "The glamour would only last as long as it took to get what they wanted. Once they'd had their way with their man, the effect wore off." She laughed through her nose. "Imagine the fella's horror, spending a night of passion with a beautiful young girl, only to wake up next morning cuddled up to his missus - back to her old, wrinkled self!"

She stared at Wendy and Rosie for a moment, then threw her head back and let out a throaty, braying laugh.

"And if you believe that, you'll believe anything!" she cackled. "It's probably smelling salts!"

Rosie, realising they'd been had, threw a scowl to Wendy, who flushed pink with embarrassment for having believed such a tall tale.

When Miss Pike had stopped laughing, she shuffled over to the door and looked out at the small community of caravans--her empire--and sighed. "Anyway, ladies," she said, "the reason I came out was to tell you that caravans seven and eight need cleaning before the end of your shift."

"What?" cried Rosie.

"That's right. So you two better get a move on." Miss Pike looked once more at the vial of red liquid, then studied Wendy's face, her watery eyes roving over that awful scar. "Hey, Wendy," she said. "You need a man, don't you? Maybe you should give it a try."

Wendy felt the heat rise in her face, and the fingers of her left hand instinctively covered the scar.

"I didn't think so," Pike said, looking at Wendy with an air of pity. And with that, the old woman tossed the vial into the rubbish bin, hitting the side with an echoing clang.

When she'd gone, Rosie turned to Wendy. "That old witch!" she spat. "I wouldn't let her speak to me like that, Mum!"

Wendy could only shrug. Her hands still trembled with suppressed rage.

"Hey," said Rosie, "if we get these last caravans done quickly, do you fancy coming for a drink after?"

Wendy tensed inside at the mention of socialising. "No," she said quickly. "But thanks anyway, sweetheart."

Rosie stopped scrubbing the cooker top. "What're you doing instead? Watching TV?"

"Rosie, please. I'm too old for clubbing."

"Mum, you're forty-seven, not seventy-four! You're in serious danger of becoming an oldie before your time!"

Wendy recognised the concern in her daughter's jibes, but there was a lot of truth in it. There was a time when she had partied with the best of them, but that Wendy had disappeared half a lifetime ago - right around the time Rosie came along. The same time that she got the scar . . .

Rosie shrugged and started packing up the cleaning bucket. "Oh well. Don't say I didn't ask. Let's go and start on number seven." She groaned. "My lucky number!"

Wendy followed Rosie to the doorway, lifting the bucket and mops down to her.

"Is that everything?" Rosie called up.

Wendy looked around the caravan, reviewing their work quickly. Then, quite unexpectedly, she found herself staring down into the rubbish bin, her eye drawn to the gleam of that tiny glass vial.

"Mum?" said Rosie.

In one swift movement, Wendy stooped low, grabbed the little bottle and slipped it into her pocket. Her heart beat a little faster.

"Yep," she said. "That's everything."

***

At ten o'clock, Rosie and Wendy walked wearily across the floodlit park towards the exit. Rosie had changed out of her uniform into a miniskirt and crop-top combination which showed off every curve of her blossoming figure. Wendy was still wearing her uniform under her shapeless raincoat. As they approached the gates, Rosie broke away from Wendy and skipped over to a small security hut, rapping loudly on the window.

"Hey, Joey! Wake up, we're going!"

A young man's face appeared, dark eyes peering out beneath an unkempt fringe. Wendy felt a familiar burning sensation in her chest. Crazy, really. The boy was half her age, but he was undeniably handsome. And he was so quiet. So mysterious. In her prime, he was just the kind of boy she went for.

Joey slid the window open and leaned on the sill.

"Fancy coming for a drink, Joey?" Rosie said in that flirty, sing-song way of hers. "Just me and the girls tonight," she added, with a suggestive wink.

Even in the artificial light of the caravan park, Wendy saw the boy's cheeks flush with colour. He shook his head.

Rosie backed away from his hut, swinging her hips. "Your loss, Joey!" she said.

Some feet away, Wendy watched the boy as his eyes followed Rosie's figure. The pleasant sensation in her chest turned to a bitter pang of jealousy towards her own daughter. She suddenly burned for those long-lost times when men had looked at her like that - with such naked lust.

"Goodnight, Joey," Wendy called over, but he didn't answer. He didn't even look to see who'd said it. His eyes were still roaming over Rosie's body.

Head down, Wendy joined Rosie at the gate and they slipped out onto the main street.

"Sure I can't change your mind about coming?" Rosie said, indicating the glittering lights of the town centre.

Wendy shook her head. "I really am tired, Rosie. And if I don't hurry, I'm going to miss my bus."

"Okay, Mum." Rosie kissed her cheek, the scarred cheek as always, and then started down the path that would take her into town. Wendy watched her go, love and jealousy duelling inside her. Rosie was so much like her when she'd been her age - raven-haired and sexy. Rosie could have any man she wanted. She didn't need any gypsy glamour. Not for a long while yet.

"Goodnight, oldie!" Rosie cried out suddenly.

Wendy turned and walked in the opposite direction, her thoughts swamped by the object in her pocket.

In her late teens and early twenties, Wendy had drawn men like a magnet. She wasn't beautiful, and she wasn't particularly sexy, but she had something they wanted, and that had been enough for her. After a loveless childhood, she was happy to ride the wave of attention for as long as it lasted.

Then she'd fallen pregnant—the result of just another one night stand—and everything had changed. The pregnancy and the scar had come along almost at the same time. For twenty years she had become invisible to men. Could this little vial of blood change all that? Even for just one night?

When she reached the bus stop, she dared to get it out. As she sat down under the canopy, staring at the little glass vial with the minuscule cork in the end, she suddenly felt foolish - more than foolish. Gullible.

Why had she picked it up? She hadn't intended to, not until the last second when she saw it there in the empty bin. It was a sudden impulse, brought on by some deeper desire. Was she really that pathetic that she was prepared to believe in gypsy magic? Had it really come to this?

Despite her cynicism, she found herself looking up and down the street. There was always one or two people waiting for the 10:15 bus, but not tonight. She studied the bottle again.

Did she really believe it would make her young again?

It wouldn't hurt just to try it . . . would it?

Carefully, she gripped the little cork between her finger and thumb and pulled. There was a tiny popping sound. She raised the vial to her nose and inhaled, tentatively at first, then deeply.

"Smells of cloves," she said to herself. That surprised her. It probably was cloves, although she'd never seen spices sold in such tiny bottles. Whatever it was, it smelled edible. She took one more glance up the street, one more sniff, then downed it in one go.

She regretted it immediately.

The initial sensation was of molten metal splashing against the insides of her throat. She would have spat the liquid back out, but she had knocked it back so hard it had bypassed her mouth altogether.

White sparks danced before her eyes, followed by an excruciating pain in her temples. Her face felt red hot for several moments, then cooled just as quickly. With her head down, she began taking deep breaths until the pain had passed. The aftertaste was electric: a heady mix of cod liver oil, red wine and salt.

Something happened, she told herself. I don't know what, but something just happened to my face.

Her heart beating wildly, she reached up and touched her cheeks, her nose, her chin. But she could still feel the same wrinkles, the same crow's feet, the same loose skin beneath her jaw.

She turned and studied her reflection in the glass of the shelter. It was still the same old Wendy Hutchison staring back, the same ruined face. She looked at the empty glass vial in her hand and then, with a bitter laugh, tossed it onto the pavement.

She was caught in the sudden glare of headlights. In all the confusion, she hadn't seen the bus coming up Main Street. She reached out and flagged it down.

The driver, a regular face on the 10:15, pulled up and opened the doors. She didn't like him. He was a miserable sod who hardly even looked at her as he took her money.

"Single to Tyrone Road," she said, rifling through her purse.

There was no response, no issuing of a ticket, nothing. She looked up at him. The burly driver was staring at her with a wide, toothy grin on his face.

"Well hello, beautiful," he said.

She assumed he was being sarcastic, and felt heat rise in her cheeks once more. "Single, please," she repeated. "Tyrone Road."

"I've not seen you before," he said, completely ignoring her second request.

She looked at him sidelong. "What are you talking about? I get this bus six nights a week."

He shook his bullet-shaped head emphatically. "Believe me, honey, if I'd seen an angel like you on my bus, I'd remember it."

Wendy couldn't think what to say next. She suddenly felt a dozen pairs of eyes boring into her. She glanced up the length of the bus and found that the passengers were all men of varying ages, and they were all staring at her. She turned back to the driver. He fluttered his eyelids.

"My ticket," she said.

He shook his head again. "Baby," he said, "you don't need no ticket. A girl as pretty as you can ride for free." He jerked a fat thumb over his shoulder.

"Excuse me, are you being sarcastic?"

The driver looked back at her blankly as if he hadn't understood the question.

She looked at her reflection again in the glass behind the driver's seat. Same old Wendy Hutchison, forty-seven, spinster for life. Same old scar.

She turned back to the driver. "Excuse me, how old would you say I am?"

The dreamy look on his face vanished and deadly panic flashed in his eyes. "Hey, sweetheart, I wasn't being pervy with you, honest—"

Wendy waved away his protest. "No, really, how old?"

The driver looked at her, his eyes roaming over her face, her neck, her shoulders, her cleavage. "Eighteen?" he said. "Nineteen, maybe?"

She stopped breathing. Her legs seemed to have filled with iced water. She desperately wanted to sit down.

"Listen, honey," the driver said. "You take a seat and I'll take you wherever you want to go."

She started to walk down the bus, but as she approached the rows of seats, every one of the men started shuffling along his seat to make room for her.

"Actually," she said, turning back to the driver. "I've decided I'll walk." And with that, she stepped off the bus and back into the cool night air. When she looked back, she found the faces of all the men pressed against the glass. The bus idled for a few moments, during which the driver looked longingly at her. Then he let out a heavy sigh and pulled away.

Alone in the silence of Main Street, she studied her reflection in the glass of the shelter once more. To herself, it seemed, she hadn't changed. But the men on that bus - they all saw something different. But wouldn't that be the nature of such a thing as a glamour? Wasn't it meant to bewitch others - other men, in particular? The thought of it made her heart race, and her breath came in short gasps.

Her rapture was interrupted by the sound of a lilting whistle which echoed along the empty street. About twenty yards up the road, a tall, rumpled figure in a Paradise Palms security uniform passed briefly under an amber patch of streetlight. It was Joey. Wendy watched him as he ambled across the road towards Romany's, the local bar and grill.

If what she thought had happened, if the contents of that little vial had indeed turned her into a ravishing young beauty, then she was willing to test it properly. After tonight, she realised, she would never get another chance. With that in mind, she crossed the road and went after her man.

***

The night was warm, and the city seemed full of electricity, full of possibility, full of romance.

As Wendy walked hand in hand with Joey, she couldn't believe her good fortune. Joey was the only man she thought about before she went to sleep at night. Now, on this strange evening, she had a chance—just this once—to win home over, to seduce him. But Joey didn't need much encouraging. From the moment he had seen her crossing the road, his eyes had been bright with desire.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked suddenly.

"I don't know," she said, trying desperately to sound sexy. "Where do you want to go?"

He stopped abruptly at the mouth of a dimly-lit alleyway. "Here's fine," he said.

Wendy looked around. "What do you mean?" she said tentatively.

Joey looked at her closely, his pupils gleaming like wet tar. And he said:

"You want sex, don't you?"

A pool of hot lead ignited in her stomach. She looked up at him and felt suddenly very vulnerable, very afraid.

"Sorry, what did you say—"

He grabbed her by the upper arm, dragging her into the alleyway. He walked fast, Wendy stumbling along behind him. When they were halfway down the alley, he stopped and thrust her against the wall, between two giant dumpsters. He gripped her wrists above her head, pressing them tight against the wet brick wall. Water ran down the back of her uniform. She could smell rotting vegetables and stale fast food all around her.

He stared into her, his eyes filled with an awful, glazed sickness, as if the glamour had awoken a dangerous, unreasoning beast somewhere deep down in his soul.

But aren't all men like this? a voice hissed in her head.

"Come on, sweetheart," he whispered. "Don't try and tell me you're not up for it."

Her vocal chords had frozen. All she could do was shake her head. "I-" she managed. "I don't want to-"

His eyes narrowed into hateful slits. "You don't want me?" His voice was harsh, pregnant with power.

Survival instinct told her to say the right things. "Yes," she mumbled. "I do, but not like this. At home. At least take me home and-"

"No," he said, "I can't wait that long. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I want you now. Now!"

His hand slipped under her work uniform, up her inner thigh, tugging at her knickers. Instinctively, Wendy knocked his hand away, but he moved back in. He planted rough, slavering kisses all over her cheeks, her neck, his slick tongue trying to force its way into her mouth-

Over his shoulder, she saw her reflection in a small cracked window, saw her true face in a fan of splintered glass, and it was an ugly face, a ruined, dreadful mask that no man could truly love—and it was not the scar which made her ugly, but the self-loathing which lay beneath it. And in that moment a dark curtain descended inside her mind, and her eyes rolled over white. Her body relaxed, and the man sensed it, running his greedy hands over her body more freely now. Gradually, he lowered his guard just as she had done.

In the theatre inside her mind, the memory of that long-ago night played like a flickering movie. Walking home late one night, five months pregnant and exhausted from work, she hadn't seen the man who descended on her like a hawk. She was thrown into an alleyway, one just like this, and told not to scream. She was too weak, too frightened to fight back, so she had pleaded with him not to hurt her baby, her unborn baby, but the sick hunger in his eyes had not been dimmed by her appeal. As he tried to force his way into her, she had done the only thing she could. She struck him in the groin with her knee. By God, it must have hurt because he screamed like a woman. She thought that was it, the end of the ordeal. But no, his lust had been vanquished and that could not be left unpunished.

"If I can't have you," he hissed, "nobody's gonna want you!"

He'd taken her by the neck and thrust her face-first into a small window set into the alley wall. The memory became jumpy at that point, as if the movie projector in her mind was breaking down. She remembered the initial pain, the sound of shattering glass, then she was lying on her back in the trash-strewn alleyway, the sensation of her own warm blood pooling in her ears . . .

She was jolted back to the present moment by that barking, bitter voice in her head.

Do it! it said. Do it now before it's too late!

Her left hand, now freed from Joey's grip, slipped silently into the bag at her waist, removing a small, gleaming object from its secret resting place.

"I've got something for you," she whispered.

Joey stopped fumbling for a moment, pulling back to study her. An idiot smile flashed across his face.

"Oh yeah?" he said.

Her arm came up then, too fast for him to stop it, holding something which caught the moonlight in a blur of silver.

The blade flashed across his face, and for a moment she thought it had missed him; then he began to scream. He sank to the floor, his hands clawing at his face as dark rivers of blood spurted from the fresh wound. Wendy stood over him, her face frozen in an unforgiving mask.

"You - you bitch!" he spat. "Why the hell did you do that? Why?"

Carefully, emotionlessly, she placed the knife back in her bag.

"Help me!" he screamed. "I'm bleeding to death."

"You'll live," she said. "I did."

She turned and began walking calmly towards the end of the alleyway, pressing her fingers against the jagged line of scar tissue which divided her face.

The old woman's words came back to her:

The glamour only lasts as long as it takes to get what you want. Once you've had your way with your man, the effect wears off.

This was an opportunity too good to pass up for one fleeting night of lust: if she never 'had her man' then the glamour would remain, a charm which would never fulfil its promise. And that would be the bait. With this pretty face she could lure them in, as many men as she could stomach, draw them in and then do to them what had been done to her.

Revenge was sweet, the voice told her, and she had half a lifetime of revenge to hand out.

### Nan

"I'm sorry, Nan," said Steve. "But I have to kill you."

"That's a shame, dear. Mind if I finish my tea first?"

Steve snatched the china cup from her and put it on the bedside cabinet. He reached down to his sports bag and produced a revolver. As he placed it gently on his lap, the old woman sighed heavily.

"Oh dear, Stevie. Does it have to be so violent? Couldn't you just smother me quietly in my sleep?"

He shook his head solemnly. "Nan, you're the servant of the Evil Eye. You're the Queen of Darkness, the portal through which the hordes of evil will pass into this world. It has to be a holy bullet, one blessed by a priest. You know this."

"Oh, yes, I forgot," she said, touching his hand affectionately. "Silly me."

They descended into a deep, swollen silence. The old woman smoothed down her bed sheets noisily. Steven's eyes shifted to the nurse's station visible through the open door. She followed his gaze.

"Aren't you at least going to shut the door, Stevie? They're bound to hear the shot."

He shrugged. "What does it matter?" he said. "I don't expect to get away, Nan. In fact, when this hits the papers, they'll probably crusade to bring back hanging just for me."

She wrinkled her brow with real concern. "I hope not, dear. Hanging's a terrible way to go. I should know. Happened to me back in the 1600s. That Witch-finder General, he was a bastard. Sexy as hell, but a real bastard."

"Nan," said Steve raising the gun to her temple. "Enough now."

She noticed the slight tremor in his hand, and sighed. "Stevie, is there anything I can say that will make you change your mind about this?"

He shook his head. Although his face was set like stone, a single tear spilled down his cheek. "I love you, Nan."

"I'm sorry it's come to this," she said. "You were a good grandson."

A distant alarm bell began ringing somewhere deep in his head, brought on no doubt, by her use of the past tense . . .

Before he could act, the shrunken, wrinkled features of his dear old Nan transformed into a snarling mask. The puckered little mouth with too much lipstick became a dripping, gaping maw, with needle-sharp teeth the size of bayonet blades. Oversized jaws clamped down on his arm just above the elbow, sending a spray of blood across his neck and face. He tried to scream but shock had frozen his vocal chords. Amidst all the confusion, he realised that his gun hand was deep inside the throat of this monstrosity. His brain ordered his fingers to pull the trigger, but nothing happened, and he realised with grim understanding that his arm had been sliced through at the elbow, that his arm was no longer attached to him. The monster in the bed gulped down the arm and snapped for more. The bloody mouth closed over his head and left shoulder, pulling him from the chair and onto the bed. Finding himself in the throat of the beast, Steve finally found his voice and began to scream. But it was too late for that now. No one would hear it.

When the last of her grandson had slid down her bulging throat, the old woman's features returned to their normal, serene state. She gave a sudden, hacking cough, and a single bullet dropped from her lips onto the bed sheets.

The holy bullet. God, that would have given her a bad gut for days...

"Are you all right, Olive?"

The young care assistant leaned in through the open door with a concerned expression. The old woman remained icily composed at this unexpected confusion, moving only to pull the bed sheets up over the mess of blood in her lap.

"Oh, I'm fine, Lucy," she said. "Just a little wind."

The girl approached the bed. "Has your grandson left?" she said. "I never saw him go."

"He's shy," the old woman told her. "Probably slipped right by you."

The girl smiled, but her shrug suggested that she really couldn't care less. "It's very stuffy in here, Olive. Shall I open the window?"

"Yes, dear, some fresh air would be good."

The girl opened the upper window and then paused for a moment, looking out into the gathering dusk. "The weathermen say there's a storm on its way, Olive. A big one."

The old woman nodded solemnly, her eyes staring into some black abyss. "Yes, dear. There's a storm coming all right. And there's nothing anyone can do to stop it now . . ."

### Death's Head

Travis discovered his latent power on the day his brother left for America.

Carl had been offered a job with a special effects company in Los Angeles, six months on a big-budget horror movie, doing mostly latex work which was his field of expertise. It was big bucks, but more than that, it was the first step on the road to a brilliant career.

On the afternoon before his flight, they'd all gathered at Mum and Dad's house, sharing a couple of beers and a joke before Carl set off for Heathrow. The atmosphere was good, and Travis could see how excited Carl was.

Then it happened, just as they were all saying goodbye.

Carl came across the living room and threw his big muscled arms around his little brother, lifting Travis off the ground in one of his ritual bear hugs. When he put Travis down and stepped back, Travis expected to see his brother's broad features smiling back at him.

Instead, he found himself staring into a Death's Head.

Carl's face was gone - the skin, muscle tissue and blood vessels stripped away, leaving a grim, eyeless skull. A halo of blue and green flame encircled the upper part of the cranium. In the smoking eye sockets, two tiny red points of light glimmered. Somewhere in Travis's head, he could hear the distant roar of a jet engine.

Carl must have spoken, as the lower jaw began to move in a jerky fashion. It reminded Travis of the amusing stop-motion animation films Carl had made on his very first super-8 movie camera. But there was nothing funny about this. Travis simply stared into the hollow eye sockets of this ghastly vision, his limbs filled with ice water, his mind reeling.

"Don't look so worried," he heard his brother say, a ghostly voice from some distant land. "I'll be fine."

In a blink, the vision vanished. Carl's broad, handsome features reappeared. Oblivious to anything out of the ordinary, Carl skipped over to his mother and father and embraced them both. Travis watched them, numb, detached, paralysed with shock.

Had he imagined that?

Was he losing his mind?

But something deep inside told him the vision was real - at least, it was meant to be seen. And by Travis in particular. Nausea flooded through him as his brother began to gather his bags.

He had to say something. He had to say it now.

"Carl?"

Carl paused at the front door, his parents behind him. Slowly, all three turned to look at Travis, who was sweating and trembling at the far end of the hall. Their broad grins began to wane at the sight of such a miserable wretch.

"What's up, Travis?" Carl said.

Travis took a stumbling step forward. "Carl, don't go."

"What?" said Carl, stifling a laugh.

"You can't go," Travis told him, the words devoid of any power. "I don't want you to."

"Travis," said Carl, "I have to go. The flight leaves at six."

"The plane," Travis said. "There's something wrong with the plane."

The look of bemused pity left Carl's face, and irritation appeared. "How do you know that, Travis? You're just being paranoid."

Carl shook his head and then stepped out the front door. A white-hot pain burned in Travis's chest. He stumbled after his parents into the driveway.

"Carl!" he shouted. "If you love me, you won't go."

Carl turned back and looked at his brother, an angry frown darkening his features. "Travis, I can't believe you're doing this," he said.

His parents looked totally perplexed by his behaviour.

"Travis," his mother said, "you know how much this means to your brother. Don't spoil it for him."

"Yes, Travis," his father said, "what's got into you?"

"He's jealous, that's what," Carl seethed, throwing his bags into the boot of his car. "Same old Travis."

Travis shook his head, desperate to explain himself, but he knew with a depressing certainty that he never could. He watched his big brother climb into his Ford Fiesta, kiss his mother goodbye through the open driver's window, and offer his dad a big thumbs-up. As he started the engine, Carl viewed Travis in the rear-view mirror and shook his head before driving away. Mum and Dad waved until the car was out of sight. Then, as they made their way back into the house, they regarded Travis with exasperation. They didn't say anything, and Travis made no effort to apologise. After they'd gone inside, Travis sat on the front doorstep and cried until his tears dried up.

He didn't sleep that night.

He lay in his bed staring at the ceiling.

Waiting . . .

At two o'clock in the morning, the phone rang, shattering the silence of the house like a klaxon. Travis didn't move. He had expected this. He heard his father stumbling about in the bedroom, looking for his slippers, his dressing gown. Then he heard him plodding down the stairs and into the living room. The ringing stopped abruptly when his father picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

Silence.

"Yes, this is he. What-"

More silence. The worst silence of all.

"Oh, dear God."

Travis heard his mother appear on the landing, the banister creaking as she leaned over. "Jim, what is it?"

To the person on the phone he was saying: "Oh, dear sweet Jesus, no."

"Jim!" Mum was screaming now. "What's happening?"

But a part of her already knew the answer.

That was why she was screaming.

***

After the loss of his brother, Travis's ability lay dormant for four years.

It came back just as Travis was beginning to think it was a one-off aberration.

It came back big time.

He was studying Media at Exeter Royal University when it happened again. After Carl's death, Travis began to feel an unspoken pressure to somehow try and fill the huge vacuum that Carl's absence had left in the family. Believing himself to be the worst student ever inflicted upon a campus, Travis was amazed to find himself in the final year of his degree, and getting some pretty tidy grades to boot. By then he was able to stop telling himself he was doing it for his parents. He was enjoying it.

Just before Easter break, there was a great deal of excitement on the Exeter Royal campus when it was announced that a very special speaker was coming to the University. Leroy Defoe was a peace protester from the States who had risen to public attention over the past few years for getting arrested a record number of times. The Establishment regarded him as a menace, but students got his vibe—the dude was telling _the truth_. Leroy Defoe was already being spoken of in the same breath as Martin Luther King—hell, even Gandhi. And he was young, not some old guy telling the young kids how to get happy. With his head of dreads and gangsta rapper dress-style, he was down with the kids and no politician in the world could compete with that. To anyone under twenty-one, Leroy Defoe was a god.

"He's coming here?" Travis said.

"Yeah, tomorrow morning," said Shelley, his roommate. "It's all last minute. Leroy doesn't like to advertise when or where he's gonna be next. You understand?"

"Of course. Are you going?"

"You bet your ass!" said Shelley, changing her t-shirt behind the bathroom door. Travis didn't know why she was being so coy. Most of the time she walked around their shared quarters either topless or completely starkers, behaviour which she obviously felt comfortable with - and he wasn't complaining about it, either. If it hadn't been for her long-term boyfriend, Jed, (a rather bullish lorry driver who she was fiercely loyal to) he would probably have tried it on with her a long time ago. She stepped back into the room in a tight crop top, and struck a provocative pose.

"What d'you think?" she said.

Travis looked up from his course books and offered her a pantomime leer.

"Perv," she said, but her smile told him that she was pleased by his reaction. "Are you going to come with me tomorrow, then?" she said. "We can go together."

"I'll think about it," he said, feigning indifference.

"Okay," she said. "But if you do come, don't bring any weed with you. Tomorrow morning, this place is gonna be crawling with cops."

***

Shelley was pretty good at predictions. By 9am the next morning, the campus was awash with Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. As the students went about their morning routines, there was a good deal of taunting from some of the idiots on campus, and two students got arrested before Defoe even arrived.

When Shelley found Travis preparing his books for the morning lectures she told him he was a certified loon.

"Travis!" she said. "How could you even contemplate going to some boring old lecture about Truffaut when Leroy Defoe is visiting the campus?"

Travis stared back humourlessly. "I made a promise three years ago," he said, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. "To my brother. To myself."

Her features softened. "Missing one lecture won't hurt, dummy! Now, come on."

As she dragged him out of the halls of residence and down the slope to join the heaving mass of students lining the route, Travis tried to explain to her Truffaut's innovative use of jump-cutting in Jules et Jim, but her attention was fixed on the parade of big black American cars gliding up the winding road.

"Come on," said Shelley. "Let's get to the front of the queue. I wanna shake the guy's hand."

Shelley muscled her way through the throng and Travis rode along in her wake until the two of them were clutching one of the parade barriers and cheering like delirious pop fans. The leading black Sedan came to a stop and an army of African-American security men climbed out. They checked everything from behind their gleaming sunglasses, before allowing Defoe to step into view. The noise of the crowd reached fever pitch, chanting his name at the top of their lungs.

Leroy Defoe! Leroy Defoe! Leroy Defoe!

The big man greeted the crowds with a grin and then started moving along the barriers, clutching the sea of hands and flashing the peace sign.

"Peace is power!" he was shouting. "Are you at peace with yourself?"

People were holding out things to sign, but the security guards urged Defoe on. Travis was caught up in the delirium. His heart was beating faster as Defoe came up to Shelley who was screaming his name louder than all the rest.

When he paused in front of them, Shelley cried out, "Leroy! Like my t-shirt?" And then she lifted it up to reveal her bare breasts. Leroy let out a whoop. Shelley offered him a marker pen. "Sign me!" she yelled.

Leroy looked at the chief security guy who gave a curt nod. Leroy smiled, took the marker pen and signed his name on Shelley's left breast. When he'd finished, she grabbed both sides of his face and kissed him full on the lips. The security men jumped in immediately and yanked her off. Travis held out his hand to try and get one last handshake. Their palms had barely touched when—

It happened just like before.

One second Leroy Defoe was smiling, laughing at Shelley's extrovert stunt, his big head of dreadlocks caught in the sun like Medusa's snakes, the next moment Travis found himself looking into a death's head. Once more the skull, ringed with fire, stared back with its hollow, soulless eyes, a dream of death given life in the waking light. And in his head, the echo of a single gunshot.

Travis retracted his hand and let out a yelp of horror, a cry that was swallowed by the noise of the crowd. Travis stood rooted to the spot, letting the wave of shock cascade across his senses. Shelley was still bouncing up and down next to him.

"Travis! Did you see what I did? Did you see it?"

He dared to look back at Defoe now, and was partially relieved to find that the death's head was gone.

But the fact was, he had seen it. And he knew what it meant. Sometime soon - anytime soon - Leroy Defoe was going to die.

"Travis?" Shelley was shouting, concern in her voice now. "Are you okay?"

He looked up at her, his head moving on his neck painfully slowly. "He's in danger," he told her.

"What?" she said.

"Someone's going to try and kill Defoe. Here. Today."

"What are you talking about, Travis?" she said, her excitement quashed. "How do you know that?"

"I don't know. I just . . . feel it." He began looking around the campus now, his eyes darting from one block to another, from the halls of residence to the refectory building.

"Travis," she said. "You're scaring me."

The police had made sure that there were no open windows anywhere on campus during the visit. They seemed to have done a good job, as every window was shut-

Except for one.

"Oh my God," he said. Without further deliberation, Travis turned and pushed his way through the crowd, desperately trying to catch up with the group surrounding Defoe.

"Hey!" he was bellowing. "Listen to me! Let me through!"

But the crowd would not yield where Leroy was present and Travis was squeezed out the rear of the mob. He saw a policeman standing alone on the bank and ran over.

"Hey," he said, breathless and slick with sweat. "There's a window open up there!"

The cop didn't seem to see Travis, his attention fixed on the moving crowd.

"Listen to me, dammit! Fourth floor of the Jessup Building! Look!"

"Don't worry about it," the cop shouted, moving Travis out of his line of sight.

"Don't worry about it?" Travis screamed back. "There could be an assassin up there!"

The cop waved him away. "Very funny, son. Everyone's a comedian today."

"I'm not joking. I think Defoe's in danger! You have to believe me! You have to do something!"

The cop suddenly grabbed Travis by the shoulders. "Listen, smartarse, there's no bloody assassin up there! There's only the faculty on that floor. If you must know, they have an armed police officer with them. It's common practice. Now if there is an open window up there, it'll be the lookout position for that armed officer." He raised his voice even louder at the last: "Don't worry about it!"

Travis wrestled his way out of the officer's grip and stumbled away, angry and delirious with fear. An armed police officer? An open window? Travis was a big follower of the great conspiracy theories of the Twentieth Century. Who was to say that an armed police officer wasn't the one about to pull the trigger on Defoe? He looked down at the press of bodies surrounding Defoe, then looked up at that solitary open window. Then he started to run.

When he reached the front doors of the Jessup building, there was no one to stop him. All the police were lining the route, and Travis was free to sprint across the lobby to the elevators. He hit all three call buttons, but--just his luck!--none of the elevators were waiting on the ground floor. They were all resting on the fourth floor - where the faculty were watching.

Where the open window was.

The death's head flashed in his mind for a moment, vivid in its detail, terrifying to behold. Deep in his subconscious, he could still hear the echo of a single gunshot.

The last time he'd suffered this premonition, he had lost his brother, even though he'd had the power to save him.

But what is possible to change the future? Could he alter events? Could he have saved his brother if he'd tried hard enough?

He had to believe that he could. Otherwise, he reasoned, why was he given this power of precognition? What use would a power like that be if not to change futures?

Cursing the elevators, he ran for the stairs, taking them three at a time, his heart pumping like a piston.

All this time, he'd felt that following in his brother's footsteps was the road to redemption, but now he wondered if fate had put him on this road only to bring him to this day, this hour, this moment.

Was this his chance to make up for his former failure?

He decided it was. He would not let Defoe down.

He forced himself to climb the steps faster, his mind fixed on the singular purpose of trying to avert this tragedy.

He staggered onto the fourth floor landing and paused momentarily for breath. His legs were on fire after climbing four huge flights of stairs at a sprint. He performed a quick mental calculation to work out that the window which was open belonged to the male student's toilets between lecture rooms 4.2 and 4.3. He was jogging down the hall towards them when a terrible guttural shriek filled the corridors.

His heart seized in his chest. The scream had come from the other side of the male toilet door. A voice in his head, the voice of survival, told him to turn around and run. But the other voice, the voice that was chasing redemption propelled him on. He kicked the door inward and quickly assessed the scene.

Slumped in the nearest open cubicle was the body of a police officer. His throat had been cut and his dead eyes were staring glassily into the toilet bowl beside him.

Travis saw no death's head vision.

It was too late for that.

Another man was crouching at the window. He was wearing a janitor's boiler suit, but it was definitely not the grey-haired janitor they all knew as Reggie. This man was holding a police-issue rifle, and Travis could see that it was trained on the car park below. The man turned to face Travis, anger flashing like fire in his ice-blue eyes. His face was slick with sweat, and the John Lennon glasses he wore had slipped to the very end of his nose.

In those few seconds, Travis read the man's mind. He was thinking he could probably get off the fatal kill-shot before Travis crossed the room. He would have to deal with Travis after.

Accordingly, he turned back to the rifle, hastily relocating his target in the scope. Travis pounced, but not quick enough to stop him pulling the trigger. The single shot filled the room like an explosion and Travis felt sharp stabbing pains in both ears. He fell on top of the man, and they struggled together for an eternity, before the shooter sent Travis skidding across the damp tiles. The assassin whirled around, pointing the smoking rifle in his direction. Somehow, Travis managed to grab the end of it, forcing it downward. He found himself wrestling with the man in a silent dance, their grunts and curses echoing noisily around the tiled walls, the dead policeman looking on, unconcerned with their life and death struggle. It became a battle of wills, as both men sought to raise the end of the rifle to point at the other. Holding the barrel of the rifle at arms length, they pulled and shoved, wheeling round and round in a giddy dance and then—

The killer's face transformed into a bleeding skull. Empty sockets, purple and blue-green flames, death.

Travis lashed out at the grim spectre with all his strength. The man stumbled back into the window frame, tripping on the booted feet of the dead police officer, and losing his grip on the rifle. Travis watched as the grim death's head vision vanished, to be replaced by the gaunt features of the assassin. He hung in mid-air for a protracted moment, fear in his eyes, then disappeared from view.

Travis rushed to the window ledge and watched the man fall. He dropped four storeys, never making a sound, and hit the concrete floor of the foyer with a sickening thud.

Travis had to look away, feeling suddenly weak, sick, exhausted. Below, people were rushing to the bloody, broken body. A woman was shrieking like a banshee. And amidst all this, a small voice in the back of his mind was trying to congratulate him.

He had succeeded. He had stopped the assassin.

But had he?

The killer had managed to get off that single shot . . .

In the car park below, Travis surveyed the chaos that the assassin's bullet had caused. Students were running wildly in all directions, leaving lines of scattered policemen in their wake. The direction of movement was away from the small group of security guards surrounding Leroy Defoe. Travis felt a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. Defoe had to be dead.

He had failed again . . .

But then, Defoe's hand thrust up from the cluster of black suits, offering a defiant peace salute to the world.

Travis's heart soared. Leroy Defoe was alive!

He shut his eyes now, and tears came—bitter-sweet tears of relief, sorrow, and salvation. He collapsed against the window frame, utterly exhausted.

"I did it, Carl," he whispered. "I did it."

Then he heard the raised voices in the corridor, on the other side of the toilet door. The cops and the security people would no doubt be heading straight for the one room with the open window.

He turned then, and caught his reflection in the long panelled mirror which ran across the entire wall above the sinks. His face was gaunt, a pallid hue, but what shocked him most was the sight of the rifle clutched in his hands. He looked down at it numbly, then back at the mirror, in time to see his reflection change.

His features erupted in a tower of flame and all that was left was his ivory-white skull. The fires of the death's head ringed his countenance.

Of course, he realised. You can't really cheat Death. There has to be balance. He may have averted Defoe's death, but Death itself would not leave empty-handed.

He had just enough time to let out a bitter laugh before the door was smashed inward and three armed police officers crowded into the doorway, waving guns and screaming wildly at him.

There has to be balance . . .

Before he could let the rifle drop to the floor, a shot rang out, deafening in that confined space, and it was the last thing he knew.

### The Witch is Dead

It took him ten minutes to choke the life out of the old crone. It would have been quicker if she hadn't put up such a superhuman struggle; but then, he'd expected that of her. Witches don't die without a fight.

When he placed his thumbs over her windpipe she immediately began to lash out, kicking at his shins until they were bruised black and bleeding, scratching at his neck and face with her long, scarlet fingernails, leaving a set of four deep gouges in each cheek, her legacy of hate tattooed indelibly on his skin. She'd have taken his eyes if he hadn't bitten off both her thumbs in the fight.

Micawber, her cat, appeared at one point during the struggle, and for a moment Henry thought it would come to her aid. But it only hissed at him and vanished from sight.

In the end she was left with just her voice, but he knew from past experience that this was her most powerful weapon. She let out a stream of black curses, promising him vengeance from beyond the grave. But as her eyes rolled up into her head, and her face turned deathly white, he felt oddly calm. There was nothing she could threaten him with that would be worse than the lifetime of wretchedness she had already subjected him to. She had kept him under her malign spell for forty years and now it was going to be over. As she breathed her last, his eyes filled with tears - tears of physical and mental relief. Then she went still.

He checked her pulse.

The witch was dead.

In the silence of the dusty old kitchen he stared down at her body, legs splayed, her hands (bleeding profusely from the bloody stumps of her thumbs) stretched into claws, her face white and contorted into a silent grimace. But he couldn't relax, couldn't quite convince himself the nightmare was over.

It was her eyes. They were open, staring straight up at him, a demonic light still flickering. He crouched down and tried to close the lids, but they kept springing back open. She was still speaking to him through those hate-filled eyes. He still felt her hold over him. Hanging his head in resignation, he realised he would have to perform one last act to ensure she was truly dead.

The head would have to come off.

Wiping absently at the blood which coursed down his cheeks and onto his shirt, he went out to the shed to fetch a shovel.

***

Henry had spent the last two weeks building a false wall in the basement of the house, ready for this day. He'd left a portion in the middle unfinished, a vertical gap wide enough to slip her body inside. He wrapped her corpse in cellophane, and when he dropped it behind the wall, it made a rubbery squeaking sound as it hit the cement floor. He did the same with the head. But before he placed it behind the wall, he looked through the cellophane and studied the eyes. Yes, he told himself, the fire's gone out now. She couldn't harm him. The spell was broken, the curse lifted.

"Goodbye you witch," he said, removing the wedding ring from his finger. He tore a small hole in the cellophane where her mouth was and pushed the gold band between her crooked yellow teeth. "Happy anniversary," he whispered, and rolled the head through the gap in the wall.

Then he set about mixing the cement and, for the first time in years, he began to whistle a happy tune.

***

He snapped awake in the early hours, disturbed by the pressure on his chest. There was no light in the room, but it took him only a moment to realise that the black shape weighing down upon him was the cat. _Her_ cat. Micawber, that filthy bag of shit!

Then the pain came, and he realised in a rush of terror exactly what the cat was doing to him. Jolts of pain in his neck, the sound of tearing meat, and the cat's hot, fetid breath.

He's tearing my throat open! He's trying to kill me!

He tried to bat it away, but his arms failed to respond. His body was a dead weight.

Oh dear God, how deep has it gone already?

The cat stopped, raising its head to look down into Henry's eyes. Thick rivulets of blood ran from its mouth, gleaming like wet tar in the gloom. Its eyes glimmered with an uncanny light.

And echoing through the chambers of his mind, the old woman's voice: _You didn't think you'd get rid of me that easy, did you, darling?_

The cat licked its lips and resumed its feast.

Together forever, isn't that right, dear husband? Just you and me for eternity . . .

### Deus ex Machina

On the eve of the royal wedding, Kalfas Gedras sat alone in the West Hall of the Divine Temple, stripping away the layers of his conscious self until mind and spirit were one with the gods.

Their song came to him in a chorus of overwhelming beauty: a melancholy baritone sang to him about the past; sweet soprano voices sang of the present; and finally, the counterpoint harmonies of innumerable futures washed over him like an angry tide. For an unknown time, he became lost in the ebb and flow of voices.

Then, without warning, the great vocal symphony came to an abrupt stop.

There followed a moment of oblivion for Kalfas, a total absence of sound, thought or motion. Then it came, a great knife of pain slicing down through the centre of his being, tearing at the threads of his very soul. He cried out, felt his throat burn. He bit down hard, his teeth slicing into his flaccid tongue.

The next thing he knew he was laying on his back, spread-eagled across the floor, his mouth filling with the salty taste of blood. He was remotely aware of a door crashing open at the far end of the hall. The sound of running feet. Within moments, his apprentice appeared above him, his young, smooth features lined with concern.

"Master? Are you hurt?"

Kalfas managed to raise himself to a sitting position, taking time to examine himself both internally and externally. The immense pain had subsided as soon as he withdrew from the Inner Place. As the echoes of that pain faded, he began to realise exactly what had happened.

A new song. The gods had delivered a message to him through the power of music. Only the tune was dissonant, and the message was a nightmare tableau.

"Master?" the boy said. "Is everything all right?"

"No, my son," Kalfas said. "No it is not."

***

Dawn came to Totopolis like a plague. The harsh rays of the sun cast the white walls of the royal city in a purple and rose wash, turning everything the colour of a bruise.

Kalfas crossed the market square to the gates of the royal pavilion, the clunk of his staff announcing his arrival to the captain of the royal guard.

"Muniss," Kalfas said, "I have come to see Princess Ullmay."

The tall captain raised his hand. "Queen Ultavia has forbidden anyone from seeing the princess before the wedding. Even you."

Kalfas laughed. "But I am the princess's spiritual guardian! Surely--"

" _Especially_ you."

Kalfas glared at Muniss, wanting to blurt out the dark knowledge he held inside him; but he knew that would be a mistake. Ultavia, Queen of Totopolis, had never trusted holy men. She was suspicious of anyone who had powers that she could not understand or control.

Muniss stood up, towering over Kalfas. Sunlight danced across his glimmering armour. "If you have a message for Her Highness, then tell me and I will pass it on."

Kalfas shook his head. "The message is for Princess Ullmay's ears only."

Muniss glared at Kalfas. His powerful hands gripped the handle of his baton with a leathery creak. Kalfas held his gaze.

"Captain," he said in a level tone, "if I do not deliver this message to the princess, then the consequences will be grave for us all."

Kalfas reinforced this with a small mental projection into the captain's mind, a glimpse of the dark truth behind his words.

Muniss's hard, belligerent expression faltered for a moment, and he took a half-step backwards. After a brief period of contemplation, he said: "Follow me."

***

The royal rooms were situated at the top of a high tower rising from the centre of the pavilion. The winding staircase consisted of fifty stone steps; Kalfas knew this because he counted every one as he climbed, convinced that the next one would kill him.

When they reached the top, Muniss ordered Kalfas to remain in the hallway. Struggling for breath and slick with sweat, Kalfas gratefully agreed. Muniss approached a set of double doors flanked by two armed guards and vanished inside. He reappeared several moments later, holding back the inner curtain and beckoning Kalfas forward. Muniss glared at him as he passed, then slammed the huge doors shut behind him.

Kalfas felt instantly intimidated by the beauty and opulence of the royal chamber. The floor was polished marble, the walls decorated in densely woven fabrics, the ceiling panels inlaid with gold. Everything here was in stark contrast to the frugal living quarters he experienced in the Divine Temple.

The eastern wall was a wide rectangular window offering a spectacular view of the royal city. The morning sun, now a golden band on the horizon, etched sharply the princess's elegant figure as she stood there, hands pressed against the glass, her attention drawn to something far below. Kalfas had known Ullmay since birth, and she had never looked more beautiful than she did this day. He understood then, with startling clarity, that hers was a beauty which could bring a world to war and ruin. With this unseen pressure weighing down upon him, Kalfas walked steadily towards her.

"Princess Ullmay?"

She turned and greeted him with a bright, unsuspecting smile. "Kalfas!" she said. "I'm so glad you've come to see me! You must see this!" She danced over to him and grabbed his free hand, dragging him over to the window. She pointed down into the heart of the city, her hand trembling with excitement. "See, Kalfas! They have lined the streets with narcissus! My favourite flower! So many . . ."

She looked up at Kalfas then, her eyes wet with unbound joy, and he couldn't help but share in it, if only for a brief moment. It was not long, however, before her brow wrinkled with concern as she sensed the melancholy surrounding him.

"What troubles you, Kalfas?"

Kalfas shook his head slowly. "Ullmay, I bring bad news." When the words finally came, they fell from his lips like stones. "Ullmay, the marriage cannot go ahead."

Ullmay searched his face. "What? But why?"

"Because . . . if it does, the world is doomed," he said. "I have foreseen it."

"Please, Kalfas. Explain."

"During my morning meditation, I received a message from the gods. Within the next generation, a war will come. The centuries of peace we have enjoyed, this Era of Light, will be shattered. Our world—the world the gods Intervened to protect—will have returned to a state like the dark days of old, only worse. The war will claim the lives of almost every soul on the planet." He paused. "That is our destiny, Ullmay. If this marriage goes ahead, this world will descend into anarchy."

Ullmay's eyes shifted around the landscape, as she absorbed this information. "But how?"

Kalfas sighed. "The Clan people still believe in the old gods, Ullmay. They will never accept a monarch who believes in the Gods of the Intervention. Your mother tells us this marriage will break down divisions between us and the Clans. But the truth is, this marriage will ignite a war on a scale even I can scarcely comprehend."

They stood in silence for a moment, princess and holy man adrift in their own thoughts, before Ullmay turned suddenly and walked away. Kalfas saw the turmoil in her eyes, and a great weight settled on his heart.

She stopped in front of the vast mural which covered the west wall, an illustration of The Intervention. Giant hands reached down out of a clear blue sky, plucking missiles from their path to destruction. The image had been romanticised, the hands of the gods drawn with immaculate care; the reality of that event, as described by many millions of eyewitnesses, was that the hands were less substantial, as if made of cloud vapour, but visible nonetheless.

The event changed the nature of human existence forever. Finally, after generations of feeling unwanted and alone, mankind had been given indisputable proof of the existence of a higher power; and more, a higher power that cared about its children.

"Kalfas," Ullmay said, her eyes fixed on the mural, "two hundred years ago, when the gods intervened, we were saved from destruction, from ourselves. Will they not intervene this time?"

He shook his head. "No, Ullmay. Not this time."

"But why?"

"If they were to intervene each time we brought ourselves to the edge of extinction, would that not encourage us to lead careless, irresponsible lives?"

Ullmay was silent for a moment. "Yes. I see the truth in that." She turned to face him. The air of playfulness which had always defined her youthful features was gone. "What you have told me is too great, too important to accept on faith."

After a long silence, she reached out a trembling hand to him.

"Show me," she said. "Let the gods sing to me through you."

Kalfas hesitated. Only holy men were able to communicate directly with the gods, but it was possible for them to channel the song of the gods into lay people.

"Ullmay, the queen would not allow it."

"The queen," Ullmay replied, "is not here."

Kalfas took her pale, slender hands in his and led her to a marble bench where they sat down. After his earlier meditation, the Inner Place was an open reservoir to him now, and he was able to immerse himself in the divine voices instantly, sending their bitter-sweet music straight to the mind and heart of the princess . . .

***

A solo soprano voice fills Ullmay's senses, a lilting melody which rises and falls to denote the passage of time. It is a tender song, as fragile as gossamer thread, weaving a tapestry of images inside her mind:

Bliss. The sweetness of a blossoming love. The laughter of a husband, the tender touch of a lover. The ecstasy of a new life. A son. The light of hope in those newborn eyes. A time of peace on New Earth. And then—

Sorrow. The Queen is dead. The people mourn. Their songs of elegy intertwine with the music of the gods. But there is a discordant theme running like a cancer through the heart of it all. The clans are plotting. They have seen a weakness in this woman they must now call Queen. There is evil abroad in the royal house. Death--

Ullmay cries out as a rush of dissonant sounds fills her mind. She feels the pain through the bass of the song, and sees the terrible truth - her own son murdered in his crib, his scarlet lifeblood staining the white of her maternity robes.

Murder!

The feeling of loss is raw, and soon gives way to hatred and her own poisonous desire for revenge.

_The song descends into harsh, persistent drumming--the drums of war--and the images in her mind's eye run to violence, bloodshed, death. She sees a future Earth, empty and lifeless, the land and sky bathed in blood. The rivers are gone, dried to dusty valleys; the lakes are empty craters in the earth. The bones of her people lie baking in the sun, their ashes scattered to the four winds_ . . .

***

When the song ended, Ullmay gasped and her arms fell limp at her sides. She slumped back against the wall, eyes closed, hardly breathing, and for a moment Kalfas thought the experience had been too much for her. Then her eyes opened and he saw that they were filled with tears.

"Oh, Kalfas," she whispered. "How can we avoid this fate?"

Kalfas shook his head. "I have thought hard on it, Princess. The only solution I can find is to abandon the wedding."

Ullmay rose on trembling legs. "Abandon the wedding? But, Kalfas, the trouble that would cause."

"You are concerned about Merryn. That is understandable. After all, he is your beloved. But--"

"It is not Merryn's feelings which concern me, Kalfas. My mother will not tolerate such open defiance of her will. There must be another way . . ."

The doors to the princess's chamber suddenly rolled inward, and Ullmay, already weakened by her recent vision, stumbled backwards, into the steadying arms of the holy man.

Queen Ultavia swept into the room, flanked by hooded priests and armed royal guards. Muniss, a cowed expression on his face, brought up the rear. Queen Ultavia stopped in the centre of the room, her harsh, bloodless features appraising Kalfas with open disdain. Kalfas could only bow his head.

"Ullmay," the queen said, "why is this holy man here? My express orders were that nobody was to see you before the wedding."

Ullmay could only stare at her mother impotently. The colour had drained from her face. Eventually she said: "Mother, Kalfas came to see me because he is my spiritual mentor--"

"Not by my choice," Ultavia sneered. "It was your father's wish that you receive spiritual guidance, remember that." She narrowed her piercing gaze on Kalfas. "Leave us now, holy man. We have important business to attend to."

Kalfas bowed, stepping aside.

Queen Ultavia turned and gestured to a man standing behind her. He was dressed in simple loose garments, a tunic and plain trousers; yet the jewellery he wore around his neck was of the finest gold. A ceremonial golden dagger hung from his belt.

"Ullmay," the queen said, "allow me to introduce your betrothed. Merryn, Lord of the Northern Clans."

He bowed ostentatiously in front of the princess then rose to kiss Ullmay's trembling hand. "It is enchanting to finally meet such a celebrated beauty in person," he said.

Ullmay stared at him like a frightened animal. Her gaze flickered to Kalfas, a questing, desperate plea for help.

Ullmay's silence had become an embarrassing void in the room. The queen's smile evaporated.

"Ullmay," she said, "what have you to say to your intended?"

The princess's head began to shake slowly. "I can't . . ." she managed to say.

"What?" said Ultavia.

"I can't marry him," Ullmay finished.

The queen's face was frozen in disbelief.

"My dear Princess," Merryn said in a loud, gregarious voice. "I understand your anxiety. But I am certain that in time your love for me will blossom like the beautiful flowers which line the streets today in your honour."

This romantic speech had little effect on Ullmay. She was trembling like a leaf. "NO!" she shouted. "You don't understand! I can't marry you!"

She turned and fled across the chamber floor, disappearing through the door to her private rooms, and slamming it shut behind her. Queen Ultavia marched after her, stopping abruptly in front of the locked door. After a long moment, she turned and fixed her gaze on Kalfas.

"Holy man, what have you said to my daughter?"

"Yes," Merryn added, "what poison have you poured in her ear?"

"My Lady," Kalfas said, trying to ignore the clan leader's venomous gaze. "I simply told her the will of the gods. This wedding cannot go ahead."

Merryn let out a bark of laughter. "And what possible reason would your gods have to destroy this happy day?"

"Because the union would lead to war," Kalfas said. "A war that will lead to the destruction of our world."

Merryn turned to the queen. "Your Highness, this is intolerable. These holy men do not wish to see an alliance between your people and the clans because they fear our influence will undermine their power and eventually show them to be the charlatans they are!"

Ultavia, eyes fixed on Kalfas, nodded. "I agree."

"I demand that this person be removed and punished accordingly."

A wicked smile came over the queen's face. "Oh, he will be, I assure you, Merryn. He will pay for infecting my daughter with his lies."

Kalfas took a step forward. "My Queen, it is no lie. The gods are giving us a warning. We must control our actions. That is the purpose of the holy order. To guide—"

Before Kalfas could finish, a sharp pain exploded in his lower back. He fell to the floor, his staff clattering against the tiles. Standing over him was Muniss, the head guard, his baton poised for another strike.

The door to Ullmay's chambers opened and the princess rushed out.

"Kalfas!" she cried. But before she could reach her spiritual mentor, a trio of guards blocked her path. She looked at her mother, her eyes blazing with anger. "Don't harm him, Mother, he has done nothing wrong! He only wants to help!"

"That's what he told you, is it?" she said, turning and advancing on Kalfas's prostrate form. "These holy men! They think themselves so superior to us, just because they can communicate with the gods. They can say anything they like to get what they want from us. Isn't that right, holy man?" She turned back to her daughter. "Do not be taken in by him, Ullmay. If the world is in peril, have no fear: the gods will intervene."

"You're wrong, my lady," Kalfas managed to say. "I wish that it were so. But the gods will not come to our aid this time. They have told us how we<i> </i>can save the future, but that is the extent of their Intervention. It is up to us this time. So, my lady, if you forge ahead with this wedding, you condemn us all . . ."

Muniss kicked Kalfas hard in the ribs, and he cried out in pain.

"Stop it!" Ullmay screamed. Once again she tried to push through the wall of soldiers, but without success. She glared at the queen. "Mother, I know the truth. The future has been revealed to me—the world is doomed to war. And the gods say this marriage will be the cause!"

"This marriage can only be for the betterment of Totopolis!" the queen railed. "What harm can there be in uniting two peoples?"

Kalfas managed to raise himself onto one knee. "Queen Ultavia, you must ask yourself this question, and be truthful: what is more important? The future of Totopolis . . . or the gold ore which lies at the heart of the clan territories?"

A deep silence filled the room. The queen's composure faltered and sweat broke out on her brow. She scanned the room, studying the faces of everyone around her. Kalfas saw the look of betrayal on Merryn's pinched features. Even Muniss looked stunned.

Ultavia stared at Merryn, and slowly her composure returned, her expression of fear turning into a defiant glare. "Don't tell me, Merryn, that your people will not find practical gain from this marriage. We both know your water supplies are running dry."

Merryn dropped his gaze.

"This marriage will go ahead," the queen said with quiet authority. Then she turned to her captain with a sneer. "Remove the holy man, Muniss. Let us have an end to this!"

Muniss beckoned the guards on his left to come forward. As they advanced on the crouching figure, Kalfas closed his eyes and began muttering a prayer to the gods. Before the soldiers could lay their hands on him, Kalfas leapt up, lurching across the room. Stunned by this sudden charge, Muniss's men made a belated attempt to stop him, falling over each other in the execution.

The entire room watched as Kalfas rushed at Merryn. The clan leader's eyes grew wide, and he stumbled back under the approaching threat. In a blur of movement, Kalfas grabbed him around the neck and drew the ceremonial dagger from Merryn's sheath. He raised the gleaming blade to Merryn's throat.

The chamber fell silent. Kalfas fixed his gaze on the queen, whose eyes had become dark angry slits, her hands drawn into trembling fists.

"Let him go, holy man," she said.

Kalfas watched the guards drawing a circle around him.

"Yes, let me go," Merryn said in a strangled voice. "Nothing can be gained from my death."

"On the contrary," Kalfas told the room, "your death will save the lives of millions."

The queen advanced slowly towards them. "You won't kill him," she said. "You're a holy man. Murder goes against everything you believe in."

Kalfas shook his head. "No, my lady. Our purpose is to ensure that the will of the gods is done." He pressed the blade harder against Merryn's throat, piercing the skin only slightly, enough to draw a bead of blood. Merryn squealed. "If that means murder, so be it."

The queen stopped her advance. The entire chamber fell into silence once more.

A strong gust of wind suddenly filled the room, and everyone turned away from Kalfas and Merryn.

The vast window had been rolled back and there, silhouetted against the eastern skyline, stood the princess, her robes billowing around her like the gossamer wings of an angel. Her pale cheeks were wet with tears.

The guards surged forward, begging her to return to safety, but she seemed to see through them, her eyes glazed over with a strange mist. The queen stumbled toward her daughter.

"Ullmay, what are you doing?"

Ullmay's eyes found Kalfas across the chamber and a fragile smile appeared on her lips. "I cannot allow my dear Kalfas to bloody his hands. The burden lies with me . . ."

Kalfas saw naked fear in Ultavia's face.

"Please, Ullmay," she cried. "Don't be foolish. Have faith in the gods. They will save us!"

Ullmay could only offer a bitter smile. "If that is so, Mother, then surely the gods will pluck me from the sky . . ."

"Ullmay, no!"

There was a moment of exquisite silence as the heiress to the throne of Totopolis stepped out into the sky, her body appearing to float on air, and then . . .

Then the long, inexorable plunge.

Everyone in the chamber rushed to the window. Kalfas could only watch helplessly as the princess vanished from sight. He was dimly aware of the dagger in his hand falling to the floor with a distant clanging sound. Far below, a cry went up from the crowds surrounding the royal pavilion.

The queen almost followed her daughter in her grief. Clutching the edge of the open window, she stared down at her daughter's plummeting figure, wailing and grinding her teeth. She made a motion to jump after the princess, but the guards, sensing her intentions, wrestled her back within the safety of the tower. Merryn slumped down on an oak bench, all colour drained from his face.

In those last few seconds, before Ullmay's descent ended, Kalfas saw several faces raised to the skies above the tower, faces etched with a desperate hope. They were praying that, at any moment, benign, cloud-formed hands would reach down out of that clear blue sky.

They were praying for an Intervention.

But it never came.

***

By the time Kalfas reached the gardens at the base of the tower, a large crowd had gathered around the princess. Her body lay in the lush grass, a pale, broken thing. No one had dared to touch her. When he knelt down by her side, he was amazed to find her still alive; although the starburst of blood around her head, and the crimson filter over her once-blue eyes told him that her time was short. He clutched her hand and kissed her pale fingers. On seeing him, Ullmay smiled.

"Can you hear them, Kalfas?" she croaked. "Tell me what they are singing."

Kalfas understood her plea and dutifully closed his eyes. In no time at all, he became lost in the melody, the rise and fall of sweetness and sorrow as the opposing futures did battle in some far off place. Eventually, the brightest melody won out, and as it reached a stunning crescendo, his heart swelled with joy.

"Oh my," he said, as the song faded gently into a soft hum.

"Do they sing a different tune, Kalfas? A good tune?"

He clutched her hand tighter, and smiled. "Oh yes, Princess. The song of the future is a happy one!"

She tried to smile again, but a swell of pain stopped her. Kalfas felt her grip slacken within his hands. She coughed, and blood stained her lips.

Suddenly, Kalfas was gripped by the voices again as a new song began to roll through the Inner Place. Ullmay sensed this, even as her eyes began to dim. She fought the encroaching darkness to watch the holy man's face.

"Kalfas?" she whispered. "What are they singing now?"

Tears streamed from Kalfas's closed eyelids as he absorbed the intense music within. Somehow his body had become a transmitter, sending the message of the gods to everyone around him. Knowing that her time was short, Kalfas forced his eyes open and bent low to Ullmay's ear.

"They are singing to all of us now, Princess," he said. Over his shoulder she saw that the gathered crowds were lost in the Inner Music. Eyes shut; they swayed like flowers in the breeze. Kalfas's broad smiling features filled her vision one last time. "They are singing for you."

As contentment washed through her, Princess Ullmay closed her eyes and welcomed the blanket of death which wrapped itself gently around her. And as she drifted down she was drawn into the Inner Place, forever one with the music of the gods.

### About the author

Lee Moan lives on the south coast of England. His stories have appeared in numerous print and online publications including Niteblade, Dark Recesses, Hub Magazine, Murky Depths, Jupiter SF, and the upcoming anthology Best New Tales of the Apocalypse from Permuted Press. His alternate history mystery novella, The Hotel Galileo, was published by Wolfsinger Press in 2009. Find out more at The Steam-Powered Typewriter.

Also by Lee Moan:

Symbiosis - Smashwords

The Barclay Heath Mysteries:

The Hotel Galileo - Smash words

The Vanished Race (Due Spring 2011)

Lazarus Island (a supernatural thriller due late Spring 2011)

