 
Grimoire 1: Sheep's Clothing

By Nathan K.O. and Clint Looney

# Prologue

Two men skulked on a high, moonlit crag, plotting murder. A wagon trail wound through the boulder-strewn valley below them, and wind scraped through jagged slopes of scree. The first man, tall and wiry, bent his wide-brimmed hat against the wind, striking a match to light his pipe. The orange flare glinted off his spectacles and lit his face in profile. Grey strands flecked his brown hair, and telltale lines of hardship etched his features. A long scar skipped from his cheek to his eyebrow like a sword wound, sealing his left eyelid shut.

The second traveler spoke in a weighty rumble. "Careful, Jerry. A good sniper can see a hot cherry for miles." Crouched down, Jeremiah's companion looked more boulder than human. A thick neck and massive shoulders topped his barrel chest. Pock marks ravaged his features—mementos of a childhood struggle with plague. He wore a permanent scowl and kept his trench-knife moving from hand to hand.

Jeremiah puffed on his pipe. "Relax," he told Ichabod, and flicked the match spinning into darkness. "We'll see the caravan long before they see us. For now, there's not a soul around to notice."

"Unless they sent advance scouts in on foot."

"Reckon they would?"

"Hell yes, I do. Call me a pessimist."

"With a damn anxiety complex," Jeremiah said.

"Shut up." Ichabod gripped Jeremiah's arm and sat motionless, listening. "I hear carriage wheels."

"Told you they'd come." Jeremiah sighed and clamped the pipe between his teeth. He retrieved a long rifle and brought his good eye to the scope, tracing his sights up the mountain path. "Yep," he said. "I see a lone four-horse carriage, moving in quick. I don't see anyone else with 'em."

"Then they brought a light guard complement," said Ichabod. "Good."

Jeremiah set the rifle down, frowning. "I got my doubts about your action plan."

Ichabod grinned. "Don't you trust me?"

"Should I?"

"No. Gimme your pipe."

Jeremiah took one more puff, then held the stem out to his friend. "You don't smoke."

"Of course not." Ichabod waggled a stick of rough dynamite at Jeremiah. "Tobacco'll kill you." Down below, the carriage approached their position. Ichabod cracked his neck, pressed the fuse into the embers, and stared at the hissing explosive. "Seven," he muttered. "Six."

"Ichabod?" Jeremiah said. The dull thunder of horse hooves pounded up the valley trail. "If you'd toss the damn stick, I'd feel better."

"Shut up. Four." Ichabod flicked his wrist, and the dynamite sailed out over the slope. "Let's move."

Jeremiah rose, patting his holstered guns. One at his hip, one at the small of his back beneath his coat. "Ready," he said, and slung the rifle's strap over his shoulder.

"Me too." Ichabod stood, shotgun in hand. A massive revolver, the big man's weapon of last resort, hung at his side.

One.

The dynamite went off, and the valley below them erupted. The first blast set off four more explosives Ichabod planted beforehand. The rocks underfoot trembled, and a towering dust cloud choked the wagon path. Carriage horses screamed in mad panic. Dust-blind and deafened, they ran the cart off the road and went tumbling in a mass of flying manes and broken legs. The cart's wheels burst into splinters as the carriage rolled end over end. Animal screams ripped the night.

"Let's go." Ichabod hopped down the seven-foot cliff and landed on the boulder-strewn hillside, descending into the dust shroud. Jeremiah took the long way down, picking his footing with care. Wooden splinters and torn earth marked the coach's path. Ichabod moved through the haze like a tomcat, silent despite his bulk. A man lay injured, flung against a boulder by the crash. A tangle of woven tattoos covered his pale skin, and long, blonde hair hung wild about his face. He tugged at the broken wheel-spoke rammed through his thigh, chanting to drive back the pain.

"Kipu on vihollinen...valistunut sielu. Kipu on vihollinen—" The blonde man spoke in deep, broken gasps. He looked up as Ichabod approached and raised a coach gun in shaking hands, but Ichabod got the first shot off. The bullet shredded the blonde man's lungs, and he slumped dead.

Ichabod swept forward, scanning for new targets. A slug clipped the side of the big man's ballistic vest, spinning him around. He hit the ground and rolled, ducking in behind a boulder. Bullets chipped away at the gray stone.

"Coward!" A deep voice bellowed. "Show yourself!"

"Uh-huh." Ichabod picked up a rock at his feet and felt the heft. "Granate!" he yelled, lobbing the stone toward the gunshots. His enemies panicked, diving from cover to escape the supposed explosive. Ichabod rose and squeezed the trigger. His shots cut one man down cold, and hamstrung another as he fled.

A third foe came in screaming, mouth dribbling white froth. Ichabod's first shot missed, and the second blasted flesh from the attacker's ribs. The crazed man charged on, brandishing an iron-shod cudgel. Ichabod's shotgun ran dry, and he back-pedaled, fumbling for his big revolver.

"Heads up!" Jeremiah shouted from the cliff's foot. His rifle thundered, sending echoes through the frantic valley. Two shots caught the screaming man from the side and sent him stumbling. The third made a wet mess of his skull.

"Fucking berserks." Ichabod said. "I almost shit my pants."

Jeremiah worked the rifle's lever, then blasted the hamstrung man where he lay. "You see any others?" he asked.

"I counted one more, then lost sight of 'im."

Both men took cover to reload. Jeremiah scanned the dust-choked ravine for survivors and shrugged. "I don't see any—Gah!" The wiry man winced, clapping a hand to his scarred eye as the world took a deep breath and whispered. The rocks around them hissed foreign words too soft to make out.

"The fuck?" Ichabod backed up to a boulder, head on a swivel. "Jerry, what are we dealing with? Tell me where to shoot!"

"Toward the cliff, trying to flank us!" Jeremiah spun and fired upward into the crags. Ichabod followed his gaze. A bare-chested skirmisher, tattooed from waist to hairline, barreled through the rough terrain with pistol in hand. He dove and leapt, exchanging shots with the pair until his gun clicked, then cast the weapon aside. The skirmisher swept his hands over his skin as he sprinted, tracing the runic curves of his tattoos. He chanted, chanted, chanted a deep-bass malediction, and his right arm changed shape. The shoulder joint ripped and reformed, bones lengthening to grotesque proportions. He loped on, lopsided, as his fingers grew chitinous claws. The man's skin boiled thick with tumors, clustered black pustules bursting through his skin and sprouting hair.

Jeremiah aimed, slow and steady. He winged their attacker, and the skirmisher charged on, heedless. His chanting rose into screams, then a mangled animal howl, as his vocal cords mutated. He continued tracing the runes inked on his skin, and his new claws dug gouges in his flesh. The tattoos writhed and crawled at his touch.

Ichabod bellowed and fired. Slugs peppered the charging beast-man as he closed the gap, lashing out with claws and human knuckles. Jeremiah dropped his spent rifle, drew a revolver with lightning speed, and caught a backhand to the throat. His shoulder joint took the brunt of the next razor-clawed swipe, and the force pitched him head over heels.

The beast knocked away Ichabod's shotgun, and the pockmarked man swore, dancing backward from death's reach. His back hit a boulder, and he rolled—too late. The skirmisher's human hand gripped Ichabod by the throat, hoisting him aloft. Ichabod's knife came up as the clawed hand came down, and the impact sunk the blade deep, wrenching and shattering warped metacarpals. The skirmisher screamed, eyes dilated to full bore. He slammed Ichabod against the boulder, skull-first. Jeremiah's revolver pounded the beast's back, six swift shots center-mass, grinding up muscles and kidneys. No time to reload—he pulled out his backup pistol and aimed.

Ichabod got his revolver out, managed two wild shots and lost the weapon in the struggle. His vision went dim as the slamming continued. Weaponless, he rammed fingers into the beast's eyes. Another five bullets hammered the monster's back, and Ichabod felt the impact on his vest as they over-penetrated. Up close and personal, the pock-scars on Ichabod's face burned like plague—he felt the skirmisher's disease. The life-ending claws pulled back for another blow. Ichabod rooted one foot on the boulder and swung the other up in a brutal arc. His shin slammed the attacker's groin, and the tattooed man grunted, spine jerking up straight as he dropped Ichabod. Jeremiah stepped up, pressed his pistol to the beast's skull and fired once. Smoke drifted through the broken-glass silence.

Jeremiah holstered his weapon. "You alright?"

Ichabod struggled up to his knees, fumbling in his pockets. "Do I look all right, Jerry? He bled all over me."

"You got impressive resistance, Ichabod. Worry about the concussion, not catching plague."

"Shut up anc cover me," said the big man. He took a handkerchief from a sealed pouch and wet the cloth with liquor from his flask. He cleaned his face and hands, discarded the smirched cloth and wiped off again with a fresh spare.

Jeremiah watched with a frown. "All clean?"

"Clean and content—I just checked a box off my bucket list. Always wanted to ki..." Ichabod wheezed and rubbed at his throat. "Kick a plague fiend in the nutsack."

"Forever classy." Jeremiah helped Ichabod to his feet, and the two men limped over to the battered carriage.

"Look." Ichabod rapped the car's metal siding with his knuckles. "Light armor. Pretty much small-arms proof."

"Lucky we rolled her down a hill," said Jeremiah. "Give me a hand."

The gunmen prised the vehicle's door open. Jeremiah clicked on an electric torch to light the interior, and the beam fell on a robed man. He lay in a crumpled heap, one leg twisted a hundred eighty degrees. Jagged ends of bone stuck from his forearm. Like the guards, his skin crawled with moving tattoos. He sat with eyes closed. Blood flecked his lips, and he chanted an accented mantra. "I will not feel pain, lest I awaken the beast, enemy of the enlightened soul. I will not feel pain..."

"Long time coming," said Jeremiah. "We chased you for...how many months?"

"Two." Ichabod said. The tattooed man kept chanting, oblivious, and Ichabod scowled. "Okay, asshole." He reached down, gripped an exposed end of arm-bone, and twisted. The robed man screamed as he came lucid, and his eyes fixed on them with blind, all-seeing clarity.

"Better," Jeremiah said. "You know we'll get what we came for. Give us the book now, or after we hurt you a while. Your call to make."

The cultist grinned. "The tainted mind shall not corrupt us. The hollow will shall not overcome us." As he spoke, black blood bubbled from his tattoos, dripping down his skin. The man's lips curved into a euphoric smile. "In the beginning, God spoke the Word, and the Word became Script. You will taste the mortal sting of His black—"

A final blast silenced the cultist's rant, and Ichabod slid his gun back into the holster. "What a jagoff."

"Don't touch his skin," Jeremiah said. "The words can crawl into your mind." They pulled the corpse from the coach with exaggerated care and set to work, prying apart the car's interior board by board until they found the hiding spot. Inside rested a plain leather tome, cracked with age.

"Authenticity check," Ichabod said. He closed his eyes and looked away as he held the book open for Jeremiah. The wiry man flipped some pages, pondering. Lifting a hand to his bad eye, he forced the lids open and held them as he skimmed illustrations inked in blood.

"Yup," Jeremiah said. "We got the genuine article." He dropped his hand, and his scarred eye pressed closed once more.

"'Bout time," Ichabod said. "Let's go home."

"Yeah. Remember, we best watch our asses at border customs. The further we keep the book from prying eyes, the fewer folks die."

Ichabod grinned. He snapped the big tome shut, binding the cover up with a length of thin rope. "C'mon, now. A little knowledge never hurt anyone."

"Quite the contrary—you could wreck a whole town with just this book and one evening alone."

Ichabod clucked his tongue. "I feel like there's a masturbation joke in there somewhere."

"Forever classy," Jeremiah said. "Enough talk, let's get the book back to Grimm."

# 1

"Blood runs thicker than grief's tears, and thicker than the bile of past quarrels." Sheepdog Priar stood in the barren cemetery with his flock. At his signal, four strong men lowered the dead boy to rest. The casket's timbers left splinters in their palms, and the box reeked of high-noon rot. The preacher cleared his throat. "Step forward," Priar said. "Give young Matthew your comforts."

Villagers passed in single file. Each dropped a fistful of dirt on Matthew's casket. Some spoke in hushed tones or bowed their heads. They knew the boy in the box. In life he drank too much, like his brother. In death, he stank. Two vineyard workers had found him at dawn, torn open and drained. The villagers averted their eyes from the casket. Any of their children could die the same death.

Renee Cheval lingered by the casket when her turn came. Sixteen years of age, she grew up with Matthew. More than once, he made her laugh until she cried. They played amid the vines as children, until puberty and family drama estranged them. "You didn't deserve to go," she said. "I'll miss you...Sorry, Matty." She threw an extra scoop of dirt in the grave and resumed her place. Renee never saw the body. She pictured his skin ripped back like parcel paper and shuddered, chewing at a cut in her cheek.

The villagers stood for the eulogy. Most pretended sorrow. Matthew's death meant one less of the most dangerous species—an unattached young man. His mother died years before, and no one knew who fathered him. Only his brother Rand remained, and Rand left the funeral early. Renee expected him at the tavern come evening.

Sheepdog Priar cleared his throat. "We release young Matthew, now lost to us. We accept memories, joyful and painful. In truth, we lost Matthew years ago. He strayed from our congregation, saying blood runs thicker than communion wine. In tending his brother, Matthew abandoned the church. Abandoned his true family, we who sheltered him and bathed his brow. In the pain of his youth, he gave us joys and troubles. Now his pain ends. Let us walk and remember. Pax aeternum."

"Pax aeternum," murmured the gathering. The priest bowed his head, leading the procession once around the grave, then back to the church house. Two choir girls sang Matthew's dirge, and the crowd joined in. Their voices wove a threadbare tapestry as they passed through the doors. Renee knew the rough church benches, the rough church customs. She chanted, stood silent, knelt, stood, knelt again, as the preacher demanded.

Tall, hard-eyed and bearded, Priar took the floor. An old revolver hung from his belt, heavy as the world—a Sheepdog's gun. The Church gifted him the weapon on his ordination as a symbol of service. Renee's eyes clung to the pistol's grip. Two notches adorned the dark wood.

"The Lord acts a father to us," Priar said. "Like any man, He will raise His hand to teach His children hard lessons. Better a moment of pain than an eternity. When we err, may He guide us back by force. We take each day for granted, we fail our brothers and wrong one another for want of correction. Young Matthew paid in blood for my lenience upon him. I spared the rod."

Renee fought memories of her dead friend. The old church pressed in around her, stifling hot, and she held her arms across her roiling stomach. Bile stung the back of her throat.

"Don't mouth-breathe." Renee's mother pinched her neck. Renee twisted free and made her lungs inhale.

"Get off me, Mama, I—"

"Shh!"

"No simple beast killed Matthew," Priar went on. "An awful force slew him, cold and raw as the bones of the earth: iniquity. My flock, I hear the very Voice of God. He comes to me in my weak moments, urging strength. He takes the worst from among us—just as he took young Matthew. Just as he strikes some ill and spares others. The plague comes among us by the Lord's will, and to save ourselves, we must become as His strong sword arm. Ephemera 3:16—'Those who feared not Our Father went from Him, forsaking His ways, building in the image of beasts. And the Lord did call them 'stranger.'" The last word sent shivers through the crowd. Sheepdog Priar closed his eyes, his voice rising to thunder. "May the Lord grant us strength to do justice by one another. May he give us...the will to give of our own."

The preacher's hands went to the altar's sculpture of the Sacrifice. The Dragon, one foot tall and worked in iron, held a man impaled upon his teeth. One fang skewered the Martyr's frail chest, the other punctured his forehead. A violation of mind and heart. The monster's horns twisted like curls of sharpened smoke, sin in raw form. Fury drew Priar's lips back in a snarl. "No man lives a flawless life. Still, some err beyond the rest. Look not to your neighbors—the worst among you know yourselves." He reached his arms toward the congregation. "Seek my aid before God calls your name. As we all sin, so do we suffer." Lower than ever, rolling and terrible, his voice carried. "And such heavy sins hang upon your souls."

The crowd sat silent, daring no movement. "Fear not," said the preacher. "For the Lord sent to us a messenger, who comes bearing His Gift." Sheepdog Priar licked his lips. "Now, ushers—if you please." Two dowdy old women carried out a tray with bread and wine. The congregation shuffled to the altar single file, heads bowed. Priar leaned to hear their whispered confessions, and gave them communion. Some stood. He made others kneel for the Gift.

Renee trembled as she reached the queue's front. Sheepdog Priar's eyes punctured hers, and he pointed at the floor. Her pulse thundered as she arranged the hem of her dress. The floorboards' grit bit her kneecaps.

"Look at me, child." Priar's voice echoed down a long tunnel of fear and fury. Renee met his eyes. "My body, broken for you on the Dragon's teeth. Eat, and know Me."

The bread, day-old and dry, scraped down Renee's throat, and Priar put a chalice in her fingers. She raised the wine to her lips. The smell made her sick.

"My blood, spilled for your errors. Drink, and know yourself."

Renee took a sip. The liquid fought and burned the whole way down, and she gagged.

"The whole cup," Priar said. A fierce light played in his eyes. Renee tipped the vessel back, blood pounding in her ears. Flames roared, and Renee felt internal heat building, like furnace ashes heavy in her belly. Her hands clenched in convulsive fists, and she looked down to watch the flesh slough off them in flakes of blackened ash. Her tendons seared and came apart, flames spreading up the girl's arms to immolate her. Renee fell back, shrieking and flailing, as the vision ended. The girl sobbed on hands and knees. Spilled wine pooled and soaked into her skirts, and her mouth burned.

"Stupid child!" The Sheepdog grasped Renee's hair, yanked her head back and slapped her. "Another cup!" Moments later, he brandished the refilled goblet at her, voice dropping to a deadly thrum. "Finish."

"I can't. The wine hurts!"

"The Dragon put his claws in you, child." Priar made the sign of the Fang, finger jabbing Renee's forehead and sternum. "You will purify yourself. Now."

Priar never hit Renee before. She saw zealous fury in him, a fire set to consume and destroy. The man pushed her head back and tipped the cup. Renee took a breath and closed her eyes as the draught went down like a red-hot poker. Throbbing filled her head. A heart of embers beat in Renee's throat, fighting her attempts to swallow. She swilled the last wine drops and stumbled, shaking, back to the pew. She shivered on the bench as her mother took communion.

"Renee? Renee!" Papa's hands grasped her shoulders. Rocking in her seat, the girl tried to swallow the taste away. Her chest tightened, and black haze closed around her vision. The torn-skin flap inside Renee's cheek tickled her tongue, nagging her back to reality. She gnawed the rough spot, and blood ran thicker.

# 2

"Crazy old bastard," Renee said. She sat after service, leaning on the church house wall. Her auburn hair hung limp with sweat. She tipped her head back, and a cool breeze brushed her throat. Renee considered the vision of Priar flayed—she never saw revelations before. Does God speak to people in daydreams? she thought. Does the Dragon? The girl held her shaking hands before her eyes. The wine burnt her, like a beast out of scripture.

"I don't feel evil," she whispered. "How can I know for sure?" She shut her eyes and leaned against the parched planks.

"Hey, butterfingers. How you holding up?" Renee's father crouched down beside her, hands on his knees.

Renee snorted. "I just forgot how to drink at a funeral. I feel great."

"Word to the wise, darling girl. Air goes down the lung-tube. Wine goes down the stomach-tube." Papa grunted and sat beside her. "I know you and Matthew grew close."

"Nine years ago." Renee folded her hands together. No matter how she laced them, she couldn't find a good spot for the thumbs. She gave up trying.

Papa raised an eyebrow. "Come on. I thought he gave you your first kiss."

"Dad!" She punched his arm. "At like age seven! Doesn't count."

Papa chuckled, and went solemn again. "Still sucks," he said.

"Yeah...still sucks."

"One consolation, then I'll shut my trap: Time mellows out pain with the passing. Trust an old man."

Renee fought a wall of tears, dammed up and shining in her eyes. She smiled at her father. "You look all right for eight hundred and two."

"Even better, for thirty-seven." He sized her up. "You gonna recover all right?"

Renee nodded. "I'll unravel all my thoughts and get them straight. Don't worry your pretty grey head. Hug?"

Papa flicked his salt-and-pepper locks. "Grey? Suppose I don't want to hug you now."

"Too fuckin' bad."

"Watch your mouth." Renee's father squeezed her tight, his arms a strong circle of comfort. The man released her, and prodded her ribs. "Enough soul-searching. Go do the shopping before evening crowd hits the inn. I expect the Geezers will want..." Papa kept talking.

"Uh-huh." Renee watched the town's main dirt road. Another wagon sat loaded with sick farmers, ready to cart them to the city. Some well-bred doctor would cure them, or fail and burn the bodies. Renee shivered. Many wagons left Lavigne, and so far nobody came back.

Gray-robed Kingsmen hitched a horse to the wagon and set out. Renee watched them go, hoping not to see her friend on the cart. Jessica first showed signs last week, and got shut in the sick house. Only the worst-infected went to the capital. Kingsmen locked up the rest for treatment and monitoring. If the outbreak worsened, the gray monks might call a full quarantine. Renee craned her neck as the cart passed. No sign of her friend, but her eyes caught another oddity—two travelers, unfamiliar men, plodded up the street on horseback.

Papa rapped Renee's head. "Renee! You screening me out, mademoiselle?"

"Sorry, Papa. Look!" She pointed. "New faces. Where do you think they came from?"

"Who cares? They come bearing money. Now go. Do. The. Shopping." He gave his words rhythm with pokes at her forehead.

"Quit. Quit-quit-quit!" Renee swatted his hand and got up, brushing grass from her ruined dress. She frowned at the wine stains, then turned her gaze back to the newcomers. "They look like cosmopolitan gents," she said. They didn't. Both wore leather gloves and long black coats. A tall middle-aged man rode up front. Renee caught the glint of spectacles beneath his hat's brim, and a well-worn gun hung at his hip. The second man rode behind him, looming big and hard-faced in the saddle. Their look said they meant deadly business. Renee wiped sweat off her forehead. Her nausea had faded, leaving her dizzy, and when she closed her eyes she still saw Priar's flaying.

Papa said, "When you finish shopping, get the room ready. They'll need a place to sleep."

"Why would they stay in town, with everyone coming down sick? Hell, we got Kingsmen watching to see who drops next. Unpleasant company."

"Who knows? Perhaps travelers yearn for your mum's charming banter."

Renee chuckled. "If I wanted a baby changed or a shotgun mended, I'd go to Mama. If I wanted indulgent small talk, I'd go elsewhere."

"Renny."

"Yes, Papa?"

"If the travelers ignore you, ignore them right back. If they ask you a question, mind your manners, answer and leave."

"Yes, Papa."

"And take a nap. You look like Death chewed your ass."

The two men hitched their horses and traipsed up the path. Renee stopped to curtsy as they passed, and the bigger man laughed until he snorted.

"Ichabod." The scar-eyed man nudged his companion. "Pretend you got manners, you goat. My apologies, miss."

"N-no problem." Renee stared. The pock-faced man stood as tall as her father and double-broad, with no farmer fat. He doffed his hat and grinned as they walked by. Renee saw the foot-long knife at his belt, and his monster revolver. She knew the caliber at a glance, and her heart rate doubled as she turned and walked away. The first patrons to leave the after-church mingle scattered past her, giving the newcomers a cautious berth like ripples around a river stone.

"Zoom!" Children fleeing boredom ricocheted down the path. They sang plague songs, giggling and huffing as they ran.

Sick starts with a bite,

A kiss, a lick, a tickling itch.

Blood in your eyes, your mouth, your nose,

Blood from your fingernails and toes.

Fangs in your mouth, hair on your back,

Blood in the pot when you piss.

Church-sluggish parents clambered after them, shouting hopeless commands to wait. Renee's toddler sister skidded up to her, barefoot. The tot wore her best Sunday skirt tied off rumpled at the knees. She grabbed Renee's hands and swung them, squeaking happy squeaks.

"Ow!" said Renee. "Nammy, get off me! Let go, Dragon-child!"

"Nope! Nope!" The little girl held tight, hopping sideways. She fought to dance Big Sis around. "Nump, newp, nopp!"

"Rawr!" Renee bared her teeth and pounced at Nammy.

"Bwah!" the toddler shrieked and giggled down the path.

"Wait for Mama!" Renee yelled.

"I'll get her!" Renee's little brother Collin shouted as he dashed past.

"Booh-waaah!" Nammy's war-cry faded down the road.

"Naomi Cheval! Come back...Ugh." Renee checked her coin-pocket and set off for the shop. Her family owned the town's inn, a converted farmhouse with rooms added as an afterthought. They prospered once, when travelers came often. No one in Lavigne prospered anymore, and the town sank into gradual decay. The buildings sagged, dried up and twisted. Friends and neighbors now slept in the inn's common room. Few of them could pay, and Mama seldom asked. She said you took what life gave you, helped whom you could, and "bitched very little." Renee wondered why no one helped Mama back, and how cooking for aging drunks made the world a better place.

The wine storehouse where the Kingsmen kept infectees loomed as Renee walked past. She tried not to look. "At least we have our health, mm?" Her throat went dry. "Knock on wood." Her knuckles hovered over the storehouse door, and she drew them back. The Kingsmen flanking the entrance turned hooded heads toward her. Renee saw the glint of gas masks under their cowls, and hurried away. She went around the corner of the building, to the back where a crack gave a look inside. Crouching two yards back, she tossed a stone to plunk against the timbers. "Jess!" She waited, chewing her lip.

"What?" Jessica sounded awful.

"It's Renee, Jess. How you feeling?" Silence. Renee craned her neck for a better look. She dared not scoot closer. "Jessica?"

"Shh, I heard you. I..." The girl inside made hollow gulping sounds. "I don't feel real good."

"Do they give you enough water? I can bring you a drink."

Jessica sighed. "You should go. The guards don't like visitors. Get lost, Renee, before you get sick."

"I wanted to make sure you heal up." Renee felt ludicrous, like a pleading child. "Tell me you will, Jess. Make a promise."

Jess stayed silent a long time. "The Kingsmen come in with syringes, sometimes. They take blood. Guess—" Jessica hacked and hacked, and Renee heard her spit. "Guess everyone wants a taste now. Not just the monsters." She laughed, a sound like sandpaper on dead grass. "The Kingsmen said we'd get better, then jammed us full of needles."

"The medicine will help," Renee said. "The capital makes good drugs, you'll see." She heard Jessica mumbling soft words to herself. Renee cleared her throat. "Jessica? When you came down sick...did drinking wine start hurting?"

Jessica coughed. "Think so. Can't remember."

"When your temperature spiked, did you ever get visions?"

"Like fever dreams?"

"Never mind."

Jessica drew a shuddering breath. "Sometimes I see...fangs made of steel. A terrible, terrible mask."

"Jess?" No answer. Renee put her head in her hands, searching for the words. "Jessica...Matthew died. We buried him today before church. Everybody..." She remembered all the impassive faces. Villagers worried over their own problems plenty—why fret for a wayward boy? Renee swallowed. "Everyone gave him a proper send-off."

A long moment passed before the sick girl spoke. "Guess I'll see him soon. Hooray."

Renee felt the need to leave, like a deep itch. "Don't you worry," she said. "I'll visit again tomorrow."

"Goodbye, Renee."

Renee shook her head. "Nuh-uh. Let's stick with, 'see you later.'"

"Goodbye."

Renee swallowed hard. "Jess? Jessica!" The other girl said no more. Renee gave the cracked boards an uncertain glance and walked on.

# 3

With her coins gone and her arms grocery-laden, Renee came home to find the inn's front door unlocked. Renee paused on the threshold. "Nammy?" she called. "Collin? Where'd you monkeys go? You better not be breaking into the larder, or Papa will skin you." The children didn't answer. Renee set down the food. "I said no more surprise hide and seek, damn you two! Come help me carry stuff, or I'll eat all your sweets by myself. Om-nom-nom." Renee felt someone watching her, and apprehension tied a knot in her stomach

"Hey Renee. I—"

"Daah!" The girl spun and raised a fist. She quivered to a halt, feeling foolish. A brown-skinned man with a rough face smirked at her, arms crossed. He wore a long Waylighter's coat, and Nammy sat astride his shoulders, gripping his dark hair for balance.

The man raised his scar-torn right eyebrow. "Jumpy much?"

"Uncle Lukas!" Renee threw her arms around the traveler. He felt like a gnarled oak, and squeezed back so hard she saw spots. Renee tapped out, wheezing. Nammy's kneecap ground into her temple. "Okay. 'Kay you win, let go!"

Lukas guffawed. "Say Uncle!"

"Gaah! Uncle!" Renee pulled loose and freed her hair from Nammy's clutches.

Lukas beamed. "Haha! Still undefeated!" He kissed Renee's forehead, rough lips scratching her skin. He looked older than his thirty-odd years. "I let myself in the tavern. Hope y'all don't mind."

"Mama gave you a key?"

"Nope. Got lock picks, though. How you doing, brat? Keeping the parents in check?"

"Trying." Renee stepped out of Nammy's reach as the little girl grasped at her. "Could you get rid of her, Unc?"

"Nope, I found him first! Mine!" Nammy frowned. She spread her knobby arms like a bird. "Flying!"

"Down you go, teeny-tiny!" Lukas plucked her off his shoulders and knelt. "Go find me some bugs, Miss Naomi."

The little girl's face lit up. "Nasty bugs?" Lukas gave a somber nod, and the child sprinted away repurposed.

Renee straightened her hair. "Well done."

"All in a day's work." Uncle Lukas stood. "Now you gotta help with my saddlebags. You chased off my mini-mule."

Renee snorted. "Right. I'd love to see Nammy do some work for once." They walked around back toward the stables.

Lukas cleared his throat. "Speaking of work. Did you do the assignments I gave you?"

"Yeah, I read the histories."

"Good! Putasne intelligis Caventhi?"

Renee grinned. "Intelligo!"

"Duis congue vestrum fac numquid?"

Renee puffed out her cheeks. "Y...es?"

Uncle Lukas sighed. "Answer in Caventhi, kid."

Renee furrowed her brow. "Ita...solu...studuerim."

Lukas nodded. "Not bad—except your pronunciation sucks ass-crack."

"Bite me! I can't learn sound from a book."

"Good point. How far'd you get with your calculus?"

"Infernal useless crap! How far do you think? The school house never even taught us algebra."

Lukas frowned. "If you never get in over your head, you never grow. Keep mathing, damn you."

"'Kay." Renee sighed. "What, pray tell, will I do with Her Majesty's Calculus?"

Lukas's eyebrow-scar rose high. "Build canals. Test bridges. Fight cure-proof diseases. You know—useless crap."

"Hey!" Renee said. "You know I can do math. I just don't see the point of proof—"

Lukas cut her off. "Just imagine. Someday, you could live among folks who know more than twelve words!"

Renee grinned. She swapped her crisp, melodic vineyards accent for a cowgirl drawl. "Plain talkin' ain't hurt me none."

"Buh," said Lukas. "You could live in a place...where machines flush your turds away!"

Renee squinted at the man. "You one of them fancy toilet-wizards?"

Lukas pointed a finger at the girl. "Mathematics built our world, Renee, and I'll tell you how our world works. A woman gets two life options. She can get educated and make her name, or get hitched and make babies. Like your prune-faced mother, bless her soul."

"Ad-hominem," Renee said.

Lukas blew a raspberry. "Whatever. Hate calculus all you want, then shut up and study. Gotta suffer through the hard tasks if you want a good life."

"Now you sound like Mama."

Lukas glared at her and kept walking. "Very unfair comparison, Renee. She glorifies toil to shut you up and get you scrubbing. I glorify toil toward a goal. Learn well, and someday servants will scrub your magic toilets for you."

Renee slapped her uncle's arm. "Why did you come home so soon, Lukas? I thought the maintenance service put you out laying new road until next year!"

"Population survey," he said. "The Waylighters got wind of local communities experiencing hardships and sent me out to investigate."

"'Hardships?'" Renee scanned his face for clues. "You mean cannibal attacks."

Lukas's eyes revealed nothing. "I mean hardships. Drought, crop blight, poor trade."

"I don't think crop blight ate Matthew's guts." In her head, the words sounded funny. Spoken aloud, they didn't. She looked away to wipe at rising tears.

Lukas looked down at the girl. "What?"

"I thought you knew," Renee said. "Matthew, um...earlier, in the morning? They found him all torn up, and he already...Matty already—"

"I didn't know. Hey." Lukas pulled Renee into a hug. The man stank rotten, like horse and sweat and travel. He smelled like freedom. Renee buried her face and let the tears flow. Lukas worked loose and looked her in the eye. "Let me get unpacked. Then I'll go take a look, see what I can find."

Renee walked them toward the stables. "No, I shouldn't pull you away from your job. Matthew can't get any deader, and we got bigger problems right now."

"Like what?"

"You didn't see the Kingsmen?" Renee said. "Lavigne caught an old-fashioned plague, and the monks came to treat us."

Lukas froze. "How 'old fashioned?'" He gazed at her with knife-sharp eyes. "If someone caught Ratzvan's, you gotta tell me."

Renee shook her head. "Not Hound's Plague. Nobody transformed or came back from death's door for a snack."

"Alright." Lukas scratched his bristly chin. "Any lesser symptoms? Diet changes, tumors, swings in appetite?"

Renee shrugged. "Dunno. Folks catch a brain-cooking fever, go listless and dry out. Started last month. Now we get new cases every day. The Kingsmen find 'em, and put them in the storehouse. They do what they can, and haul severe cases off to a specialist."

Lukas ground his teeth. "Why didn't anyone telegraph me? I need to talk to your mother. Where'd she go?"

"Probably glad-handing at the church. I'll go get her, if you promise to behave. I don't want another damn fight."

"Your mom and I don't fight, we get in disagreements."

"Loud-as-Hell disagreements."

"Ah ha-ha-ha. At least she taught you hospitality—I hope. You got some eats for me and my horse?"

Renee narrowed her eyes at the man. "Depends on what new books you brought me."

Lukas laughed. "Saddlebag. Come open up the stables, and we'll get Clipper settled." He gestured to his horse, tethered down the way, and Renee followed him. They reached the gaunt mount where he stood cropping grass. "Go on," Lukas said. "Claim your spoils."

Renee shied back. "I hate your horse."

"Clip won't hurt you unless you get in biting range. You want your education bad enough to risk a chomp?"

Renee glared. "You just like watching him scare me."

"Truth," said Lukas. "Oh, fine." He dug a leather bundle from his saddlebag. "Don't want you growing up to farm babies like your Mama, God rest her."

Renee stomped her foot. "Mama's not dead, she's at the church!"

Lukas feigned surprise. "Oh? Bother! Hurry and hide your books before she returns." He tossed her the heavy bundle. "Unlock the stables for me, then find Collin and Nammy."

Renee sniffed. "Baby-sitting. Yay!"

"Would you rather brush Clipper down?"

"Hell no. Wait, you didn't brush him yet? You always said, 'care for your horse before yourself.'"

"See, Clip? She does listen to us!" Lukas tickled the big beast's jaw, and Clipper bit his shoulder. "Ouch." Lukas rubbed at his new bruise. "Asshole horse."

Chores finished and siblings secured, Renee guided Lukas up the road.

"Right," he said. "What'd I assign you last time?"

"Adrianne Fetchland's 'Notes on the Enlightenment.'"

"What did you think?"

Renee pondered. "Interesting, I guess. Hard to read."

"Just 'hard to read?' No opinions on Roziel's greatest modern thinkers?"

Renee shrugged. "Roziel's greatest wishful thinkers. They say pills and gears can fix the world, if we make enough of them. Maybe they could, but with our factories banned, burned and buried, we'll never know. Enlightenment scholars made plans, sure. Then the world changed. We can't go on building like war never happened. Zaitsova beat us, remember?"

Lukas frowned. "So what, we should give up? We push forward or we die, Renee. Pills and gears do save the world, chunk by chunk. Remember the antibiotics we got for Collin's pneumonia? They didn't exist twenty years ago. Without them, we could only stand by, pray, and watch the boy drown in his snot. Your mother wants a simple life because she thinks keeping your head down means safety. No such luck—simple living means simply dying."

They reached the Inn's porch, and Renee stopped her uncle with a hand on his chest. "All right, Lukas. All jokes aside, you owe me and explanation. Why do you hate my mother?"

Lukas drew breath to answer, then stopped. He plastered on a smile and blew a kiss past Renee. "My favorite person!" He called. "Speak of the Dragon, and your mother appears." Renee's parents strode up the street towards the inn. Mama frowned at Lukas, crossing her arms tight. "Go stow your books," said Renee's uncle. "I need to talk to the baggage."

"Can we go to the woods before dark? You said I could shoot your crossbow."

"Sis would chop off my head. So no."

Renee paused. "Lukas?"

"Yeah."

"I know you and Mama never liked each other. Just remember she takes care of us, all right?" Though she doesn't always take care of me, Renee thought.

Lukas looked at her a long time. "We got along once," he said. "Before your big bro kicked the bucket. Now go do your job. We'll talk later."

# 4

The falling sun bled red and orange across the landscape, and gentle wind stirred as the last villagers hurried indoors. Wise folks stayed hunkered down after nightfall. Renee watched light's last sliver vanish, and barred the tavern door. "Alright Papa, I finished sweeping out front."

"Good." Her father stood cleaning wine cups behind the bar. He passed a pair to her with a slosh. "Take the geezers their drinks, take orders, wash down the tables and go help your mother." He kept his eyes on his work.

In back, villagers hunched in groups. They clutched cups and muttered, drinking to forget their wasted days. Rumors thickened the air.

"Another sick wagon arrives tomorrow."

"Again? Damn, I thought they just came once a week."

A snort sounded from a man in the corner. "They come when the bodies pile up."

Conversations muted when Renee drifted near, and resumed when she left earshot. Wary looks followed her. In the corner, Rand mourned his dead brother, lifting drink after drink. Renee snuck a glance every few minutes. He hunched lower to the bar as time wore on, a huddle of bent spine and hairy forearms. He started boozing just after the funeral, and never stopped. His eyes flicked bloodshot daggers at the room. Across the way, Lukas sat with map and compass, penciling entries in his log-book. Renee delivered the drinks, grabbed a half-full wine glass off a vacant table and joined him.

"What'cha working on?" Renee pulled the ledger toward her.

"Hey. Waylighter eyes only." Lukas smacked her hand and continued scribbling. "Real classified stuff. Road repair tickets, rainfall records...Ooh! A proposal for a new telegraph route!"

"Really? Just looks like doodles. Of..." Renee squinted at the page.

"Me in a cowboy hat. So what?" Lukas said, covering the scribbles with one hand.

"I expected some intrigue," said Renee. "Don't you hunt monsters?"

"I just track 'em. They don't pay me enough to attempt takedowns without support."

Renee assessed Lukas over her wine glass. "So you do fight, if someone sends help."

"Back off, Renee." Lukas shot her a dangerous look.

Renee debated pressing the point, took a drink and let the moment pass. The wine burned down her throat, and tears stung her eyes.

"Shitty booze?" said Lukas.

"Shitty?! You wound me, Unc. Lavigne grows the finest grapes in Roziel." Renee took another scalding gulp, and her stomach churned. Burn out the Dragon, she thought.

Lukas sighed. "I hope your folks know you drink."

"Please," Renee said. "Lavigne wouldn't exist without alcohol. Everyone makes wine. Everyone drinks wine. Even Nammy gets faced if we don't hide the bottles." Renee drained the glass with a shudder.

"A little drinking won't hurt you," Lukas said. "But a lot will. You'd better learn the difference."

Someone knocked at the tavern door—somebody outside, after sunset. The common room went quiet. Renee's father grabbed his shotgun from behind the counter, checking the weapon as he walked up front. He peered through the peephole, let out his breath and relaxed. The rest of the tavern exhaled as he opened the door.

"Evening, gentlemen," said Renee's father, stepping aside to admit Ichabod and Jeremiah. He closed the door and slotted the thick board in place. "Apologies for the precautions. We don't get much late-night custom. We got wine and beer—which do you want?"

The man with the pitted face grinned. "No thanks, boss. We brought our own!" Ichabod pulled out a flask and drank deep. "Ahh. I'll go grab us a table." He slapped Renee's father on the back as he shouldered past.

Jeremiah shook his head. "Please forgive my compatriot, he's...foreign."

Papa shrugged. "Everyone comes from somewhere. My name's Jean-Marc. What do they call you?"

The pair shook hands. "Jeremiah," said the man with the scarred eye. "And you already met Ichabod."

"Pleasure. Let me know if your friend changes his mind. A man his size could drink my kids through college. What else do you two need?"

"A soft place to sleep, and safe storage. We got a mess of guns we don't want folks touching."

The tavernkeeper shrugged. "Sorry. We ran out of private rooms some time ago. You can bunk in the common room, like everyone else."

Jeremiah slid a bill across the counter. "You sure?"

Jean-Marc double-took, then pocketed the money. "Guess I can make some arrangements. How long do you two want to stay?" He led Jeremiah toward Ichabod's commandeered booth, caught Renee's eye and jerked his head toward the bar.

"Damn," Renee said. "I best get back to work."

Lukas looked up from the rough map he sketched on. "I'll give you some free advice, kid. One: If a man travels, don't trust him."

Renee laughed. "Says the roadman."

"Two: If a man refuses a drink, don't trust him. Booze makes inhumans sick."

"Superstition," said Renee.

Lukas gave her a piercing look. "If you say so, O expert monster-tracker." The gnarled Waylighter licked his pencil tip and went back to mapping. "Keep an eye on the newcomers, and steer clear of 'em."

"Oui, mon capitaine!" Renee flipped him a salute and marched off. She wiped down tables, grabbing up abandoned wine cups and guzzling the dregs as she went. The liquid soldered her throat like white fire. Better than holy water.

"Girl!" some drunk called. "I said, girl!"

"Two minutes." Renee made for the bar, and someone gripped her arm from behind. "Ow! Get off me." Renee turned to face the offender and fell silent. Rand stood over her, hulking and crooked. His face shone red and slack with booze. Renee knew the man—the more he drank, the worse his temper got. She swallowed hard. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Rand scoffed. "'Sir,' indeed. You can throw me a Saint's Day parade. You know what I want, miss Cheval—fetch me a fresh bottle." Since his childhood, Rand solved every problem with his fists. The big man teetered where he stood, bereft and miserable. Somebody's blood would hit the floor before long.

Renee tried to hold her voice steady. "Papa said no more for you tonight."

Rand's face twisted, and he bared his teeth. "What, you didn't notice? Little Matty dropped dead today." Rand's grip cut her circulation numb. "The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out. You call yourself his friend? Then comfort his family. Get me a mother-fucking painkiller." His throat worked, alcohol-dried tissues struggling to swallow. His eyes sparkled, and he blinked fast. "Renee. Please."

"Papa says you'll kill yourself."

"Ashes to ashes," Rand said. "You march to the bar and go fetch. Pretend the outta-towners ordered the booze." He glared at Jeremiah and Ichabod, dragging Renee toward their table. "A toast! To new friends. Thanks kindly for the drink, strangers."

Jeremiah sipped from a flask, expression blank as granite, and Ichabod raised his middle finger.

"Fucking foreigners." Rand grabbed a fistful of Renee's hair, pulling her toward the bar. She upset a table, and glasses crashed to splinters on the floor.

"Asshole, ow! Quit!" Renee stumbled and swatted at the man. "You'll yank my damn scalp off!"

"C'mon, girl. Talk sense to your papa and get me drunk, or I'll talk sense to you. You people ever hear of hospitality?"

Lukas didn't bother warning Rand, just swung a bottle into his jaw. Rand reeled, Lukas grabbed him and the two men went down in a tangle. Renee stumbled free and backed up to the bar. "Whoa—Lukas, don't!"

The big man landed on top, gripping Lukas by the throat and bludgeoning him with a hard fist. Renee's uncle bucked, rolled and twisted Rand up. He caught the drunk in an arm-bar, and both lay panting.

"Don't you struggle," Lukas said. "I swear I'll cripple you."

"Fuck your mother and fuck you, city boy! If you never ran from home, you'd—augh!" He spasmed as Lukas cranked his elbow. The onlookers went silent, and savvy regulars backed into corner booths as Rand wriggled and roared.

"You ever want to use your arm again, Rand?" Lukas winced and tongued his aching teeth. Blood dripped from an ugly split lip, spattering drops on Rand's shirt. "Lay your hand on my flesh and blood, I'll fix you up good."

"Don't preach family to me, Lukas, you don't know SHIT! You ain't come home for months."

"ENOUGH!" Papa's bellow silenced the struggle. Renee's father approached, fists balled hard. "Rand! I told you, you pick fights, you get the boot for good. You buried a brother today, so I'll let you off the hook—just once. Next time, I'll let Lukas take your ass apart." Papa's face contorted to an ugly grimace. "Now fucking get out."

Rand sobbed into the bloody, wine-smeared floorboards. "Matty...Matty..."

Lukas released Rand. "Do you need a hand?"

"Fuck off," said the big man, but leaned on Lukas's shoulder. Renee's uncle shot her a shaky smile as they limped toward the door. Other patrons breathed again, resuming their conversations.

Renee looked to the back of the common room, where Jeremiah and Ichabod sat easing down from fight-or-flight tension. Renee saw Jeremiah's handgun under the table as he went to holster the weapon, and recognized the workmanship— Jeremiah used a Sheepdog's revolver, like the one Priar carried. Heavy use dulled the metal, and Renee saw runic Scripture carved along the barrel. Meaning arced like lightning from the Caventhi script to Renee, and she spoke the unfamiliar words in her mind.

Behold, I am against you; I shall draw My sword from its sheath to cut the wicked from your ranks, and you will know that My Justice is Peace.

A red flash betrayed the blood caught in the weapon's grooves. Innocent lives trickled down the revolver's grip and dripped from the trigger-guard, soaking the gunman's fingers. Renee donned Jeremiah's mind like a glove. She knelt with tears in her eyes and a smoking revolver in her fist. Beside her lay a dying young woman. The gut-shot girl reached out a shaking hand. She stroked Renee's left eyelid with one gore-streaked finger, and her bloody touch boiled Renee's skin to scar tissue, sealing the eye closed. With a lurch, the real world snapped back into focus. Renee staggered, righted herself and looked to Jeremiah. He met her gaze with both eyes open, deep green irises drilling into hers.

Mama moved up beside Renee. "Did they hurt you, love?"

"No." The girl shook herself. "No, don't fret." She watched Lukas and Rand at the door. Her uncle maneuvered to lift the heavy bar while supporting the larger man. No trace remained of Rand's anger—he teetered on the edge of despair, grateful even one person cared. "Their cuts need cleaning, Mama. I should go help."

"Nonsense, my love. They brought all their pain on themselves. I need you to sweep up broken glass and help move tables. Then start the stew. We have more guests than usual tonight, so don't tarry." Mama pulled out a cigarette, rolling the paper between her fingers. She watched the door swing shut on Lukas and Rand. "I'll tell you a lesson I wish I learned young: Trouble will find you. Don't go looking for extra."

Mother Cheval turned on her heel toward the kitchen. Renee looked after her, then back toward the green-eyed gunslinger. His bad lid was clamped shut again, as if the eye had never opened. Renee looked toward the kitchen door, then to the front where the fighters exited. Lukas's blood left a speckled trail, calling to her. Renee took a breath and decided. The girl shed her apron and trailed the men, following blood into darkness.

# 5

Ever since Lavigne formed, her people feared the night. The dark hours offered endless shelter to monsters, both real and imagined. Superstition grew year by year, until even nights brilliant with moonlight drove everyone indoors. Wise villagers stayed by their feeble hearths—Renee did not. She and Lukas finished with Rand and turned for home. The wiry man's stories entertained Renee, and kept the night's terrors at bay. Knowing the danger of darkness, the Waylighters issued crank-powered electric torches to their rangers; Lukas let his niece carry the flashlight.

"Pew pew! Fwish!" Renee wove the clumsy beam in patterns.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Pew, I say!" Renee brandished the torch like a fairy's wand. "You know what? Forget dignity and adulthood. I think I'll go back to being a little girl. Never grow up!"

"Muh-huh." The pair arrived home, climbing the inn's wooden porch.

"Good evening, Lukas." Renee's mother stood in the darkness, marked by the soft glow of a lit cigarette.

Lukas gestured to his black eye. "Good in what sense, sissy-poo?"

Mother Cheval shrugged. "Good in the sense you got face-punched."

"While saving your kid's ass," Lukas said.

"Then you took her galavanting through the night! Cannibal attacks, Lukas. Someone killed young Matthew. Who knows what lies in wait when the sun falls?"

"I do, Evie, and I don't fear. You want your town to live? Good! Install some electric light-posts, and get a generator to power 'em up. The nasties can't go bump if you shine up the night."

"And you!" Mama stabbed her cigarette at Renee. "I saw you staring at those foreigners. Stay away from strange men. I told you countless times, and you ignored me."

"Mama!" Renee choked on her anger. "How do I learn without meeting new people? How do I grow any smarter? I can't stay in Lavigne forever! The boredom will kill me."

Renee's mother took a stoic puff. "Oh? When did you last stare death in the eye, little girl? If you lived through the hot war, you would treasure your boredom."

"Zaitsova ended the war before I turned one!"

"I remember," said Mama. "I always will. The world does not protect us, child. The world does not care."

Renee frowned at her mother. "The world doesn't want us dead, either."

Mama Cheval gazed into the middle-distance. "Sometimes I wonder."

Lukas laughed. "Hoh-hoh! Ennui!" He plucked the cigarette from her fingers and took a sultry puff. "Life is shit, mon cherie. I—chthaugck!" He doubled over, coughing until he saw spots. Lukas wiped his mouth. "Deadly garbage! Your smoking will kill you, sis."

"The act of living kills us, little brother."

Lukas nodded. "Sure. Blame the world. Blame fate! Remind me your second son's name? The one who died two days after a horse gut-kicked him?"

Mama's eyes danced with hateful flame. "You know his name."

"Shame," Lukas said. "Coulda lived, if you got him to a surgeon. Of course, surgeons don't live in the boonies. The horse didn't kill Nicolas." He pointed the cigarette at his sister, orange ember bright in the night air. "You did."

Eveline took back her cigarette. "Dear brother..." She turned his hand upward, caressing the palm. "I would trade your life for Nicolas' in an instant." She stubbed the cigarette out on his skin.

"Ow, fucking cunt!" Lukas smacked her hand away and sucked the fresh burn scar. "You know I'll hit a woman, Eveline!"

"Quit!" Renee butted between the pair and pushed them apart. "Both of you, God damn! Can you act like grown-ups? What's your mutual problem?"

"Yes, Lukas," said Mama. "Do tell."

Lukas ran a hand through his hair, glancing between angry women. "Fuck. Fine. I want Renee to go to school. Kid knows her shit. She can succeed."

"She succeeds every day," said Mama. "Do you not, love?"

Lukas laughed. "Whoo! Big challenge, scrubbing mugs in a drab country tavern. Come on sis, think of her future. I half-expected to show up and find Renee pregnant."

"Lukas!" Renee shouted. "Watch your God-damned mouth!"

Mama swatted Renee. "You watch your God-damned mouth, young woman. You remember when Frederique left home for the capital?"

"Yeah," said Renee. Frederique, her eldest brother. "I'd never forget."

"Lukas gave him the idea." Mama glowered.

"You what?" said Renee.

Lukas put his forehead in his hand. "I told your brother he could get work if he went to university. I helped him get sponsored."

Renee's mouth went dry. "What about me? Could I get sponsored?"

"Not another word!" Mama said. Water welled in her eyes. "Lukas, no more! Stop taking my children from me."

Lukas clenched his jaw against angry words. His eyes shone wet, tear-for-tear with his sister. "You don't know what schooling could give her. Eveline, how can you live a life only reading one Book...and still think you know all the answers?"

The woman spat. "How can you read a thousand, and still learn no answers at all?"

Renee felt an awful stretching, a pull between halves of herself. "Stop!" she said. "Mama, even if I stay, I can't live huddled under a rock. I gotta learn about the world."

Eveline's face hardened to a scowl, and she wiped tears away with angry flicks. "By all means! Sit down with our foreign visitors. Make friends with them and see what happens to you. Lukas, I want you gone in two days."

"Don't worry," he said. "I leave before sunrise."

"But you just arrived!" said Renee.

"Sorry, Renny. I got reports to make and appointments to keep. Now, if you'll excuse me." He hugged Renee and air-kissed his sister's cheeks, then left for the stables.

Mama nodded. "Ah, speaking of appointments, I rented your room to the two travellers."

Renee's jaw dropped. "What? No!"

"They need a locking door, and we need their money. You'll sleep with the babies tonight."

"Mama." Renee gritted her teeth. "Nammy and Collin smell like cheese."

"They do."

"They don't bathe!"

"No, not often."

"They bite in their sleep!"

"C'est hospitalité," Mama said. "In hard times, we make sacrifices. Go fix up your room for our guests."

Renee's fists clenched white at her sides. "I wish to express my displeasure."

Mama Cheval lit a new cigarette. "Alas, the price of adventure. Thank your foreign friends." She exhaled a plume of gray smoke. "Fuck off, my love. Go help your father clean up. Ah-ah-ah!" Mama barred Renee's way, snapped her finger and pointed to her cheek. Renee gave her two quick kisses.

"Love you, Mama."

"And I love you. I will continue loving you if it kills me. I pray you rest well."

# 6

Renee swore vengeance in the blackness. She waged war on her siblings, two masses of fidgeting limbs. Never did one girl bear such indignity. Collin kicked in his sleep, and Naomi never ran out of snot. Renee curled up tight for defense, and little feet trampled her back.

"No!" Renee whispered. "Quit and lie still, damn your eyes!"

"Love!" Nammy wrapped sleepy arms around Renee's neck.

"Let go of me, why are you sticky?" Renee untied the child's hands and pushed Collin off her ribs, wriggling away. She wrenched the single pillow from their grip and wrapped her head. Exhaustion dragged her down.

Renee wore her mother's white dress. She walked down the aisle toward a faceless man. His suit hung from him, tatters swaying in the breeze. She knew he came from her village, but couldn't remember his name. Renee didn't like most boys her age. Rude and mean, they disdained girls from the waist up. She turned for her groom's kiss and saw Matthew, eyes closed in death, cheeks split in grinning gashes from ear to ear. His arms encircled Renee, and she screamed. She felt the maggots squirm beneath his flesh. Hands pawed at her, feet kicked and a sharp pain shot through her backside.

"Ow!" Renee woke to Nammy's toes pinching her ass. The tot flexed the dexterous digits and attacked again. She grab-twisted the skin on Renee's hip. Renee swatted Nammy's leg. "Get off me, midget. What're you chewing? Give—ouch."

"Nmn..." Nammy's saucer eyes shone in the darkness. She gummed upon a length of Renee's braid.

"Ew, EW! Nammy, let go!"

"Mm—nmm!" Naomi giggled, stuffing more hair in her mouth.

Renee fought free and sat upright. Her throat and stomach burned. She rummaged for the wine skin in her bag and drank. Each mouthful filled her belly with molten lead, and she choked them down. Drown my demons, she thought. Sure hope they can't swim.

Naomi shook her. "I want some!"

"Shh," said Renee. "You'll wake your brother."

"Give me a sip, and I'll shut my God–damn mouth." Nammy whispered.

"Don't talk like me," Renee told her. "You'll get me in trouble. Here, you just get a taste. Pucker up." Renee gave her sister a light kiss. "You can drink for real when you get big."

"Num." Naomi licked her lips and squinted, trying to taste the wine.

"You lie still now." Renee pointed a finger at Naomi. "You sleep." Nammy kissed the finger, rolled over and dozed. Renee headed for the door.

"Renny?"

Renee ground her teeth. "Yes, Collin?"

"Are the Kingsmen gonna take me away?"

"What?" Renee sat on the edge of the bed. "No. Why?"

"Mama said! She said they'd come if I didn't act good, and they'd take me away, and, and, and they'd make me turn to a zombie still alive, but all gross and filled with worms! And I'd—"

"Collin, hush. Mama said Kingsmen would nab you?"

"An' make me eat brains." Collin yanked the blanket up to his nose.

"Shh. Think for a moment," Renee said. "Why would anyone kidnap you?"

"Because I acted bad!" Collin uncurled his fist, revealing a mushed-up ball of sprouts. "I didn't eat my vegetables."

Renee smacked her forehead. "Gross...no, Collin, the Kingsmen won't hurt you, but I might. Go to sleep."

"They won't turn me to a zombie?"

"No zombies! Did Mama really say so?" The boy nodded and hugged the blankets. Renee smoothed down Collin's hair. "Forget what Mama said. She just wants you to eat healthy. Kingsmen just quarantine the sick, and embalm bodies."

"Do they really work for the Pale King?"

"So folks say."

"King of the Dead?" Collin whispered. "Laurent Jackson down the street says the Pale King—" Collin stopped and clapped a hand to his mouth. "Oh, no! I said his name!"

"Collin, calm down. The King doesn't really appear when you call him. For all I know, he doesn't exist. Probably just a metaphor."

"Met who?"

"Never mind. Suffice to say, Kingsmen don't care if you eat your veggies. You can sleep safe." She kissed his forehead.

"Okay. So...I don't got to eat sprouts?"

"Go to sleep." Renee waited until she heard the midgets snoring. As she stole from the bedroom, her foot nudged her bag of belongings. Tomorrow's clothes lay folded inside, along with her hairbrush and empty wine skin.

I could go, she realized. I could fit my life inside one pack. Renee thought about her brother and schools in the city. If she asked, would Lukas pay her admittance?

The nasty half of Renee's mind laughed. What university would take you? Renee only knew her little town. She lacked higher learning and trade skills. You'll die where your parents raised you. Probably soon.

Renee padded down the hall to the bathroom, rinsing her hands and face in the washbowl. She froze at the sound of the two travelers talking in her room. Renee fought the urge to eavesdrop, and lost. Skulking close, she pressed her ear to the door.

Jeremiah's voice sounded. "Two wagons of sick folk per week. Like clockwork."

Ichabod grunted. "Yet no one packs their shit and moves. Damnedest blind optimism I ever saw."

"You mean blind faith."

"Same damn diff." The floorboards thumped beneath the big man's pacing boots. "Lavigne will rot, and rot these bumpkins with it."

"Not if we do our job," said Jeremiah.

Ichabod groaned. "Enough detective work, let's torch the damn town and go home. Lavigne makes me itch."

"We need to find the plague's source," said Jeremiah. "Speak up, if you know a faster research method."

"You know what? I think I do," Ichabod said. "The hicks just buried some dead boy, right? Let's go check him out."

Matthew, thought Renee. Her heart beat faster.

"They'd never let us exhume the body," Jeremiah said.

"Why ask 'em, Jerry? Salt of the earth types prefer ignorance."

Jeremiah sighed, and the bed creaked as he stood. "I just love your faith in people."

"What can I say? I'm an optimist."

"With a shovel?"

"Saw one out back," said Ichabod.

"All right, then. No rest for the wicked."

Ichabod laughed. "No time like the present, either."

A straight shot of panic hit Renee's bloodstream. She soft-footed away as fast as she dared, ducked inside the kids' room and nudged the door shut. The hinges closed without a squeak, and she breathed again. She pressed her eye to the door's crack and watched Ichabod pass. For all his bulk, he moved wraith-like, silent as tombstones. Renee slid down the wall into a rumpled heap. She listened for the men's retreat and counted until two hundred heartbeats passed. "What do they want?" she whispered.

Renee's siblings lay fast asleep, giving the odd kick or whimper. Renee set her jaw. No rest for the wicked, indeed. She stalked back to her rented-out room and went marauding. Renee grasped her door's latch and twisted. Probing with long-practiced motions, she coaxed the faulty lock until the mechanism creaked and turned over. The door eased open.

Gentle moonlight filtered through the window. Renee marveled how well she saw in the darkness; the lines of black on black stood out like frescoes, and strange tastes hung in the gloom. The room thrummed like a tuning fork around her as she stood with her eyes closed, breathing. Tiny motes danced in the air.

"What do I even think I'll find?" she whispered. She found no strange new items in the drawers. Men's clothes with empty pockets hung on the wall-hooks, and a scoped hunting rifle leaned against one of the bedposts. Saddlebags sat on the floor, crammed full of mundane travel gear.

"I felt so sure..." Renee sat down on her bed. Maybe they took all the incriminating evidence with them. The girl swung her feet, and her heel struck a sharp corner. "Huh."

Renee plopped down on the floor. Reaching under the bed, she hauled out a small trunk, brass-shod and worn by travel. She flipped the latches open and perused. Velvet lined the lid and walls. She ran her hand over the chest's top tray, all recesses filled with rows of vials and pouches. She glanced over the Old Caventhi labels, picked one up and squinted. Powder of... Powder of what? Her lips moved as she struggled with the syllables. She traded for another, read the second label and flinched.

Belladonna oil, thrice-refined, 40 cubic centimeters

"Hound's Bane." Renee's mouth went dry. She picked up another.

Crib death, powdered, .5 ounces

Devil's cherry, powdered, .5 ounces

Heroin, .3 ounces

Renee unfolded a leather pouch, revealing a row of steel syringes. One jar contained a dried-out lizard carcass. Renee reached for another bottle.

Female, age 32

Renee blinked. She held the vessel to the moonlight, then squeaked as she dropped it, scuttling backward. Teeth rattled in the tiny glass jar.

The air pressed tight around Renee. Shapes loomed in the shadows and vanished at a glance. She plucked up her courage and looked again. Fangs or human eye-teeth, Renee couldn't tell. She put containers back with trembling fingers. What lay beneath the top tray? She grasped the edges and lifted.

Two belts of bullets sat atop a heavy handgun. A row of stout cylinders nestled in loose bundles, straw-packed and fitted with fuses. Even a country girl could spot homemade explosives. At last, she came to the trunk's bottom to find—she held her breath—a book. Her shoulders slumped; after all the poisons, she expected shrunken heads or better.

Rope bound the old volume shut tight. Renee worked the knots and opened the cover. Dead languages adorned the pages in lurid, graceful strokes the hue of scabs. Thumbing through the volume, she saw diagrams for carving bone fetishes, a sketch of a bleeding, open eye, a drawing of concentric rings around a hanged man. Notes crammed the margins. She flipped another page.

Teeth like knives of flint and iron spear-points. Twisted obsidian horns above empty sockets. The Dragon glared up from the page, coiled resplendent on Hell's Throne. Renee tried to turn back, and strange gravity arrested her eyes. The beast's laughter grew in Renee's mind, soaring in volume until she couldn't think. She wrenched her eyes away and flipped the page back. The hanged man turned his face to her. The room's shadows flowed onto the paper, filling out the shading of his face, the depth of dimples as he grinned. The rings around his illustration deepened and became the steps down to his gallows pit. The man's arms burst their rope bonds and thrashed. He bobbed at the end of the noose, and his choking breaths rattled the bars of Renee's mind.

The dead man reached for Renee. The rope split his bony neck, tearing flesh and sinew. He fell, decapitated, and to Renee's horror, the body stood and strode toward her. Groping, reaching, the creature climbed from the pit. He sprinted up the steps toward the girl, falling forward into a wild leap for the page. Renee slammed the book shut and pressed the tome flat to the floor, expecting fists to bang the inside cover.

Silence fell. Shaking and sobbing, Renee shoved the book back in the chest. She replaced the tray, shut the latches tight and fled back to her siblings.

# 7

The Dragon stalked Renee through the vineyard. His nostrils flared, his fangs dripped gore and ichor. Hot breath like twice-dead carrion billowed Renee's skirts each time he exhaled. His claws churned in pursuit, tearing blighted furrows in the earth. Renee turned a sharp corner down a row, and the beast leapt after her.

Stalks whipped Renee's face and arms, and her foot caught on a loose stone. She fell in a tangle, struggling to scream. Her voice came out high and muffled. She turned on her back, scrambling away as the Dragon's jaws rushed at her. Heart racing, she tore herself from the nightmare.

"Renny! Renny! Wake up!"

"Renee, help!"

Naomi and Collin shook her like a rag doll. Renee blinked away the fog of sleep, yet the screaming continued. Ragged panic-howls shivered through the morning, and Renee bolted to her feet. She shut and pressed her back against the bedroom door.

"What happened?" she shouted.

Collin wrapped his arms around Nammy. "I don't know! We just heard a lady screaming!"

The shrieking rose, burbled and stopped. Without a window, Renee couldn't see what happened. A heavy blow fell against the building, making the bedroom wall shudder, and the children cowered. Three more thuds, and silence fell.

Collin shook. "Renee, what do we do?"

"Shh. Keep quiet." A man screamed in panic outside, and a gunshot sounded. Renee's siblings clung to her, and she stroked their hair. "Block the door when I go, and stay put," she said. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

"Renee, no!" Collin's eyes went wide. She slipped from his grip and escaped, closing the door behind her. His little fists pounded the other side. "Don't go, the Pale King will get you!"

"I'll grab Papa's gun and come back," Renee shouted. "Stay in your room!" Renee set off down the hall. Nobody in the common area. She looked in the hiding spot under the bar, and her stomach lurched. No shotgun. No ammo. Renee heard footsteps behind her, and spun to face her attacker. Arms wrapped around the girl, and she struggled like a trapped animal.

"Renee! Shh, darling!" Renee recognized her mother and stopped fighting. "Where are Naomi and Collin?" Mama asked.

"Bedroom," Renee said. "I made them barricade themselves. Where'd Papa go?"

For a moment, terror shone plain on Eveline's face. The woman forced a mild frown and said, "Your father went out to protect us."

"Oh God, oh God. What about Uncle Lukas? Maybe he can help."

"He left before sunrise, remember? Typical—never around when you need him."

"Papa went alone? He could die!"

"Yes, he could," Eveline said. Another gunshot sounded outside, and both women flinched. "Come, help me with the little ones." Renee's mother turned and fled back to the children's room, beckoning.

Renee swallowed hard. Soft voices nettled the girl. They whispered her father's doom and taunted her for letting him die alone. The brush of feather-light fingers tugged her toward the front door, and she hovered on indecision's brink, fighting dizziness. She took a deep breath and got steady. "Damned if I'll lose my dad," she muttered.

"Renee!" called Mama's voice from the back. "Come help your mother, right now!"

Renee thought of the Dragon among the grapes, and saw the tattered hangman in her mind. Why not act on her visions and fight back? Certainty fell on her like a lead weight. She threw the front door wide and went out to retrieve her father.

"Renee? RENEE!" Mama's voice followed her out.

People shouted outrage in the streets, and Renee made for the source of the uproar. "Get out of my town," she whispered to the unseen menace. Each breath felt like cold razors, and tears of terror obscured the world. Renee joined others, men poking their heads from their homes and moving in cautious knots toward the trouble.

"You get back inside, miss Cheval." A neighbor boy gripped her wrist. "No young lady should see—"

"Move!" She pulled his fingers off her arm and twisted. Renee jogged on, toward a circle of men gathered beside a building. "Papa? Papa!" She pushed through the gawkers to her father's side, and followed his gaze to the ground.

A man's corpse trailed gleaming blood and viscera. His insides soaked the parched dirt road. The scent hit Renee like a fist to the gut, grabbing hard and twisting. Nausea flared. Sudden fever threatened to buckle her knees, and she looked away. Through the press of gawkers, she saw a second corpse—a once-gentle woman who gave her daughter's old dolls to Nammy. The lady lay shot, black fluid pooling beneath her. Tattered gore clung to her lips, and her blackened eyes stared at the sky. Papa gripped Renee's hand. Her father never looked like he did now: old, worn and scared. "You should get to safety." His voice choked on the words. "I don't want you seeing such filth."

Jeremiah stepped from the crowd. His hat hid his eyes as he crouched over the dead woman, syringe in hand. Ichabod leaned against an old building, sour-faced. Men watched as Jeremiah drove the needle into the corpse and drew back the plunger.

Renee's jaw dropped. "Get away from her! The Kingsmen should take care of bodies—don't you know how sick you could get?!"

"Just drawing some blood." The traveller kept working. "Don't worry, I know my way around a sampling kit." Jeremiah wore surgical gloves and a cloth mask. He capped and stored the syringe, pulling out a small journal. "Mister Duponte, please continue."

"I heard screams and came running," said an old man. Jeremiah took notes as he spoke. Tom Duponte trembled, face pale as a sheet. He held a gun in a shaking hand. "I saw her crouched over the victim, all bloody. She looked up at me, eyes midnight black all the way through. I asked her what happened, what she did to the poor man." The speaker swallowed hard. "She didn't know me. She looked at me like..." His eyes flicked towards Jeremiah. "Like a stranger." A collective flinch ran through the crowd.

"What next?" Jeremiah said, ink pen moving fast.

"She howled like the Dragon himself, and she charged me. I...I told her to stop." His voice broke, coming through thick tears. "Then I shot her. I knew she turned cannibal."

"What manner of screams? Words, or inarticulate howling?"

"Words." The old man's voice dropped to scratchy whispers, and onlookers leaned close to hear him. "She asked the Lord why. And when I shot her off her feet, she kept crawling toward me, clawing in the dirt, screaming, 'I never sinned, I never sinned.' Over and over, 'till I finished her off."

Ichabod sighed. "Again? What a fuckin' nightmare."

"Thank you." Jeremiah tucked the pocket journal away and pulled out another syringe. He slipped the needle into the dead woman's arm. "When you first noticed—"

"Step away!" Sheepdog Priar pushed through the press. "My children, remember your shame! You stand and gawk at tragedy. Do you forget the dead's dignity? The woes of their families? God did not make grief for your amusement!" Priar stood between death and the onlookers. "Go! Find your neighbors. Comfort them in their broken hours." Priar froze, seeing Jeremiah at work. The preacher's mouth twisted in shock. "Have you...any idea what you've done?" His whisper carried in the hush.

"My duty, Sheepdog." Jeremiah never looked up.

Priar snarled. "What duty compels you to defile corpses? You and your foul-mouthed companion slept among us, ate of our food and dare put mortal hands upon the stricken!"

Jeremiah stripped his rubber gloves to don leather ones, and Renee glimpsed a hook-shaped burn scar on the back of his right hand. "Plague will eat your town alive," the traveler said. "I can tell none of you ever saw the Dragon's work. I saw plenty, and can help you. You can either trust me or run us out of town. Think long, and choose real careful."

Priar's hand went to his pistol. "My people will do as I bid. I stand as their way, their truth, the rock of their life. Through my grace, they know Our Father's good peace."

Ichabod laughed. "Yep. You done a bang-up job so far."

Priar cleared his throat. "My brothers, sisters, sons and daughters, hear me. Men from strange lands come to us, bent on upsetting our home. They foul the dead, sow distrust and blasphemy. God's own Messenger forewarned me—death walks with them. I see no men of faith before me." Priar spat in the dirt. "I see the Dragon's butcher, and his toadie."

"Easy, Sheepdog." Renee's father stepped forward. "I gave our foreign guests shelter. Couth or uncouth, I owe them a host's sanctuary. You want to speak against 'em, you best point to some proof."

"I saw proof," said Renee, and all eyes turned to her. She went on in a rush. "I found a chest in the room they rented, full of poisons, explosives and a dark book." Renee swallowed hard. "I saw ritual diagrams and Draconic drawings—somebody inked them in blood."

Papa narrowed his eyes. "You didn't see fit to tell me?"

"Of course not! I didn't wanna get whooped."

Papa nodded. "Fair point. Alright, best hear their side of the story."

"They rob graves!" Renee said. "I overheard them planning to dig Matty up. Go look at his plot, and I bet you'll find loose soil."

"You what?" Priar's voice filled the stunned silence.

Renee felt cold rage in the air, and firearms turned on the travelers. The one-eyed man backed up a step, raising his hands with slow caution. Renee glanced at Ichabod. The big man stayed still, leaned against a farmhouse wall.

"No denial?" Priar said. "No pithy rejoinder?"

"First rule of calming panicked mobs," Jeremiah said. "Keep placid. We needed to look at his body and examine the fatal injuries to see whether he changed. Know thy enemy."

Priar nodded. "We'll hear you out like civilized men—once you explain where you got a Sheepdog's gun."

Jeremiah's lips tightened. "Ordination gift. I serve Our Father and speak His Word." Over by the farmhouse, Ichabod snorted a laugh.

"I'd like to believe you," said Priar. "But I fear you shot some clergyman in the back and stole his iron. What stewardship do you serve?"

Jeremiah's good eye burned hot. "My own," he said.

"False savior." Sheepdog Priar held out his hand. "The weapon or your life, my son."

"Hell of a choice." Jeremiah put his hand on the grip, and a beat passed. The two men stood off, blessed pistols ready to belch lead. All around them, village men trembled, triggers depressed halfway. A savage howl cut through the morning, and all parties jumped.

A little girl came round the corner, wailing like a widow. Her dress clung to her, blood-drenched and bullet-torn. Her eyes and open sores streamed hot black pus. Men scattered, swearing and colliding as each tried to act. The girl's bare feet pattered the dirt. Renee's eyes locked on the child—little Mary Séverin, one of Nammy's friends. Just five nights ago, Renee gave her a piggy-back ride home from church. Now, the little girl ran with arms outstretched, fingertips scraped bare and showing bone. Jeremiah whirled and leveled his gun as panicked townsfolk crossed his field of fire.

"Move!" Jeremiah yelled, pistol up and waiting for a clear shot. Mary charged on, fifteen feet and closing, with too many bodies in the way to risk firing. The marksman rushed forward, shoving men aside. Ten feet. Five.

Ichabod's shot took the girl from the side and spun her off balance. Mary slammed the wall and tumbled to the ground, still lashing out.

"Haup...hee..." The dying girl mewled, teeth gnashing the air. "He...elp." Renee watched in horror. Blood puddled beneath Mary as her movements grew feeble. Too weak to hunt for food, she chewed her own fingers, teeth stripping skin and shearing cartilage. Ichabod aimed at her face.

"No!" Priar shouted.

Renee flinched at the concussion. A bone fragment tore a line across her jaw, and brain matter flecked her cheeks. Renee screamed, wiping and clawing her face. Hunger flared like a gnawing insect trapped inside her belly. The girl's smeared hands trembled, and she sank to her knees with a whimper. Her tongue lolled out, hungry for the gore on her fingers. She felt hands on her shoulders, and a man muttered confused platitudes as he tried to pull her up, away from the grisly sight.

"Nice shot," Jeremiah said, holstering his weapon.

Ichabod grunted. "Next time don't wait, just fire. Folks will clear a path when lead starts flying."

Jeremiah spoke in dry tones. "Sage words, as always."

Priar's breath puffed like a bellows, and ugly cords of tension stood out on his neck."You two took a life not yours to judge!"

"Point of interest, I killed her solo," said Ichabod. "Just for those of you who's keeping score."

Jeremiah rubbed his forehead. "Ichabod, work on your damn bedside manner."

"I blasted a gut-muncher. You want me to waste tears on 'er?"

Murmurs broke out in the crowd. "She turned cannibal!" one man shouted.

"How'd she escape the Kingsmen?"

"Work of the Dragon, I tell you. I bet the sick's all Dragon-worshipers, or they'd never catch plague."

"Watch your mouth! One of my cousins came down ill!"

"Idiot. We're all cous—"

A pair of distant gun blasts tore the sky. Harrowing screams followed, the howl of a torturer's theater. Fear swept through the villagers and built toward panic.

Priar's shout caught their attention. "Fear not the Dragon, my children! God walks among us. Get the women and children inside. Men, take up your arms! Defend your neighbors. I will confront the Kingsmen. The sick they cared for rose to make war on us. The Pale King's servants will explain their failures, and answer for them."

"Lead everyone back to the tavern," Papa told Renee. He checked his gun, speaking in clipped, controlled tones. "Keep an eye on your siblings and help your mother. No bickering, understand?"

Renee nodded. She stared at the dead girl's clotting blood-pool, entranced. Her heartbeat slowed, and the world grew sharper. She felt as if she watched the scene through a spyglass, from some far-off place. Black fascination tickled in her gut.

"Renee!" Her father shook her. "Repeat my instructions."

The girl tore her eyes from the blood-spatter, mouth watering. Cold terror gripped at her spine. "Y-yes Papa. I'll go inside."

"Good girl—get moving." He kissed her forehead and sent her off running, then went to join a knot of village men where they stood cradling their guns. Nervous looks darted between them.

Ichabod walked along, lining up villagers. "First tip?" he said. "You see an infectee, you shoot to kill. No whining, no trying to save 'em. They'll scoop out your guts for a snack. Aim for center-mass. Every hit counts. When a muncher falls down, you blow out their brains to make sure."

"Right," said Jeremiah. He checked his revolver's cylinder. "Keep a wide line of march, and watch your flanks. Protect the man beside you."

"You want no more than an excuse to murder us!" Priar shouted, advancing on Jeremiah.

Ichabod got in his way, gripping the Sheepdog's collar one-handed and twisting. "Listen good if you want to live, preacher-man. Walk away, and we'll clean up your cannibal mess—then leave, like we never existed. You play your cards right, you could get back to fucking altar boys by sundown."

Priar shoved back, ruddy-faced. "My children, trust not in false prophets! I will give sleep to the ailing, for we must know mercy from butchery! I will suffer NO foreigner to harm my people!" The Sheepdog went to draw, and Ichabod swung his shotgun. The stock cracked Priar's jaw and knocked him limp in the dirt. Moaning, the man rose to his knees in a daze of blood and dust. He looked up into the barrels of Ichabod's shotgun and Jeremiah's revolver.

Jeremiah cocked the hammer. "You best run home, Sheepdog. There are wolves about."

Priar bared his teeth, too apoplectic to speak. Hands shaking with rage, he picked up and holstered his gun. "God watches you, stranger," he spat.

"Too true," said Jeremiah. When Priar vanished 'round the corner, the travelers turned to the shocked crowd. All around them, frightened village men pointed their weapons. No one pulled the trigger—the pair looked like men not to shoot at.

Ichabod cricked his neck. "Well, boys, let's go kill some cannibals."

# 8

Screams swept in waves through the village as Sheepdog Priar sprinted toward the Kingsmen's sick-building. Cool, implacable wrath pounded in his veins and tinted his vision red. Priar promised to cure the ill. He swore to reunite spouses and siblings, and they believed him. Priar blinked away tears. His jaw clamped like a vice, and he tasted his bloody gums.

"Lord." Priar choked out the words as he ran. "Tell me how I failed, and earned Your vengeance. How can I make right my wrongs? Help me act in—"

Tortured bellows sounded. A cannibal villager rounded a building, and her eyes snapped to Priar. "Sheepdog!" she screamed. "I see you! Run! RUN!" The woman sprinted at Priar with teeth dripping blood, and her left leg went slack as Priar shot her through the chest. The cannibal twisted and crumpled in place. Calm as a stone, her Sheepdog aimed and shot her twice in the head.

"Help me act in wisdom, not in fear," Priar whispered. "Guide me down the bright path. Answer me now—for good people die while I falter."

Priar closed in on the storehouse. He saw no hooded figures, no stoic Kingsmen at guard. The doors stood an inch ajar, showing flickers of strange light within. Priar gripped a door handle, heart thudding, and pulled. The door creaked back an inch on corroded runners. He heard people working inside and risked a glance.

"BLASPHEMY!" God's Messenger roared in Priar's head. A man's voice, alloyed with thunder. The preacher screamed, gripping his temples and kneeling. The mind-voice dropped to a lethal purr, like saw-mill blades on vertebrae. "Did you forget My orders, Sheepdog? Drag yourself out of My sanctum."

"Forgive me, Lord, I come to beg your—"

"I gave you ONE FUCKING JOB!" The Messenger's voice boomed like end times. "Control the sheep, and keep them FAR from me. You failed, and you want My help? Inbred cunt." The light from the storehouse squirmed, bathing Priar's face with inhuman color. The divine voice stopped to inhale, and His words sank to human volume. "Tell me you got rid of the two travelers."

Priar gritted his teeth. "No, Lord."

"Damn you, what a mess. Priar, do you know why I chose you to serve Me? You share a noble trait with Me—we both love destroying the faithless. I spent time and trouble molding you in My image, and I thought you would go any length for the Lord's love. Now I doubt you. Explain why I still need you, Sheepdog."

Priar struggled to his feet. "I came to save my people. The sick rise from their beds. They hunt us like beasts, Messenger."

The soundless voice barked a laugh. "Back from the grave! What a miracle. Careful what you pray for, my child."

"I'll burn the plague out of Lavigne." Priar unholstered his gun. "The Kingsmen failed us. Let me inside, Lord. I'll kill the rest of the sick to save my people."

"You ignorant SHIT, I still need them!" Priar flung himself down and howled in pain. God's Messenger growled. "Go back to your church and do penance. Whip yourself until the Lord loves you. When you find your obedience, I will fetch you. And you will do My work."

Priar picked himself up on unsteady legs. The world swam as he turned toward the church, and the man bowed his head. "Thank you, Lord."

"GO!"

Again, Priar ran.

# 9

Jeremiah's gun tracked a figure bolting past. His shot sheared flesh and blew bone splinters loose. The cannibal screamed, tumbling to the dirt, and villagers surrounded him in a semicircle. Firearms thundered until the creature howled no more. The men watched Jeremiah with shadowed eyes as the tall man reloaded.

A villager beside Renee's father nudged him. "Jean-Marc, you need some more rounds?"

"No," said the tavern-keeper. "I still got eight left." He finished loading and pumped the action. He hardly fired his gun since his war tour—now he wished he did more target practice. For fifteen years, Lavigne thrived in peace. We will again, Jean-Marc told himself. Maybe. He looked at the ghoul's mulched remains, trying to pretend he wouldn't see them in his dreams. He tightened his grip on the shotgun.

"Keep moving," Ichabod yelled. "Stay alert, and look for ambush spots. I don't want them fucking us from behind." The big gunman checked down an alley and waved the group forward.

"HELP ME!"

Renee's father wheeled around. A middle-aged man ran toward them, gasping and stumbling. He dashed as if chased, though no pursuer appeared. He bled from a dozen small wounds.

Villagers raised their guns. "Should we shoot?"

"No!" The frantic man tripped, fell to his knees, got up and stumbled forward. "Don't kill me, I can still heal!"

Renee's father cursed. He knew the oncoming cannibal—a father of four, and a tavern regular. Jean-Marc aimed, steady and true. "Stop or die!"

"I swear I won't hurt you!" The man lurched closer, black mouth gaping. Manic terror shone in his eyes. The Dragon worked him like a marionette. "Just put me back in the barn! I CAN STILL HEAL!" Jean-Marc's weapon spewed buckshot, and the cannibal's chest caved in. He lay convulsing, cracked ribs leaking blood and clear fluid. Jean-Marc quaked, dropping his gun to brace on his knees with both hands. He swallowed back mouthfuls of bile, dashed the tears from his eyes with one hand and picked up the firearm. He watched Ichabod deliver the coup de grace. Lead scrambled the man's brains, and he lay silent.

"Holy shit!" A man kicked at the new corpse. "It's Papa Séverin, turned cannibal."

"Can't be him. Séverin went out of town on last night's sick wagon. The man couldn't stand, much less run."

"I recognize him," Renee's father said. "The Kingsmen hauled him off, not a shadow of a doubt. Guess he ran back to town for a meal." The other men muttered and swore.

Ichabod shrugged. "Great. Jerry, we best cut the munchers off at the source, unless we want an outbreak."

"Right," said Jeremiah. "You go find the cart. I'll check the building the Kingsmen kept infectees in. The rest of you, get back to your homes and protect your families." He grimaced, pressing a palm to his bad eye. "Keep on your toes, Ichabod. I feel a strange force creeping 'round. Realstrange."

"Hoo-ray." Ichabod began ambling away. "See you when the wet shit hits the fan."

# 10

The crowd's screams pressed in on Renee. The jostling mass of villagers pulled her along, past a scene of massacre. Three cannibals pinned a thrashing man, fighting each other for the first bite, and Renee smelled the spray of fresh blood. She lost sight of the struggle as the crowd pulled and pushed her forward. A turn at the next intersection put her up front, and she tried to lead the villagers like Papa told her. In truth, everyone knew the way to the tavern. She rushed along, trying to stay ahead of the human tide. They trampled her heels in their haste, shoving her along like the cow catcher on a speeding train.

"Ow!" Someone stomped Renee's heel, and she stumbled. As she righted herself, the sky echoed to a mighty explosion. Villagers ducked their heads and shrieked, giving Renee a clear view. Smoke rose from the quarantine building, the place Kingsmen stored the infected. Splinters flew, somersaulting as they fell to earth. Through the smoke and flames, Renee felt a slow heartbeat's tide. She stood entranced. Jessica, she thought.

"Fuckin' move, girl!"

"What?" Renee flinched as she came to. Men and women surged around her, fueled by fresh panic. Knees, elbows, feet and shins slammed the girl, and shoulders pushed her aside. "No. NO! Let me loose!" Renee grabbed the splintered edge of a house and hugged the rough planks close as the crowd flowed past her. She lost her grip, buffeted onward. Men and women swept her along, inexorable as a river. She planted her feet and struggled against the current until her foot caught and she went down.

Panicked villagers tromped over and around Renee—just a loose rock in their path. A booted heel came down on the girl's hand, and her pinky popped out of place. Renee screamed and curled into a ball, clutching her fingers. Passersby kicked and trampled her into the gravel. She rolled, crawled and clawed her way up to the side of a building to take shelter under the raised foundation.

Seconds, and the human torrent passed. Renee lay gasping, sobbing from the sudden shock. She tried to pull her feet beneath her, and someone yanked at her leg. The girl looked down, and desperate eyes stared back. A young man lay trapped beneath the house. The cannibal's left hand held a gnawed cat carcass, his right grasped Renee, and black ichor ran from his mouth. His teeth snapped the air as he tried to pull the girl closer. Renee kicked hard at his face, fighting to pull herself free. Vision still spotted with blackness, she felt his teeth skitter along her shin and screamed, worming backward out of his reach.

Renee allowed herself a few aching sobs, head still ringing from her neighbors' footfalls. She cradled her injured hand. The man under the house scrabbled in the dirt, croaking through mucus and blood. Failing to break free, he collapsed in the dust and returned to chewing the dead cat. Renee picked herself up and limped along, watching for ghouls. Breath came in hitches past bruised ribs as she made her way to the old storehouse. Her wracked joints made the short journey painful. She turned the last corner, and saw the old building up close.

Smoke rose in gray and black strands. The air smelled familiar, like a memory yet to occur. The stout double doors hung burnt and blasted, clinging to the frame in long splinters. Black scorches climbed the building's face, and the wooden wall sagged, turned half to ash. A gray-robed figure lay crumpled to one side, face covered by a breathing mask. Blood stained his robes and trailed in dark lines from his ears. Fury twisted in Renee's chest. The Kingsmen failed their duties. Now she and her home paid the price.

"Jess?! JESS!" Renee approached the building's black maw. Sulfuric fumes stung her nostrils and made her eyes water as she squinted into the storehouse. Dim flickers revealed symbols painted on the walls and floor—the scrawls reminded her of the unholy book from Jeremiah and Ichabod's chest. "You...sons of bitches..." She swayed on her feet, blinded by smoke and welling tears. Renee crouched and pulled the mask from the robed corpse's face, and the breath caught in her throat. Dead eyes stared back at her, crystal blue beneath a fine black hairline. Renee saw a human before her, not a Kingsman. He looked handsome and hard, like a soldier. She cursed as she fumbled with the mask, fitting the seal to her mouth. "You'll pay for what you did to us," Renee said. She tried not to look at the carcass, tried to ignore the voices at her hearing's edge. Dark whispers egged her on.

"Stop!" shouted Jeremiah. "Don't go into the shadows!" Renee turned to see the man running toward her, good eye wide with fear. "You'll lead the damned right to us!"

"Get away from me!" Renee backed up into the storehouse.

Jeremiah held up empty hands. "I won't hurt you if I don't need to, miss."

Renee felt a silent thrum from behind her. A metallic growl filled the air, and Jeremiah's head snapped up. He looked over Renee's shoulder, and his scarred eye wrenched open. His words broke off in a growl of pain and he crumpled to his knees, clamping both hands to his face. Blood seeped from his bad eye, pouring through his fingers down his chest. Renee's pulse thumped like a slow bass drum. Behind her, she felt great power beckoning. She watched the man writhing at her feet, crouched down and pulled the pistol from his hip holster. He made a grab for her arm, grip weak as a kitten, and she brushed him off.

"You come to my town," Renee said. "You pull your dirty gun on my friends and family!" The Sheepdog's pistol weighed half a ton in her hands, and shook like a leaf. She felt the memory of blood on the grip, stains left by women and children. The girl's teeth clenched as she pointed the revolver at Jeremiah. The barrel bobbed with the trembling of her arms, and a thousand voices screeched at her to fire. "You deserve death," she whispered.

Jeremiah gazed at Renee, cheek gummy with hot blood. "You got no idea."

Renee willed herself to pull the trigger. With a scream of frustration, she spun and hurled the gun into the storehouse. The weapon sailed into the smoky interior, thumping and sliding into the darkness. Renee rubbed her palm on her frayed dress, trying to expunge the phantom blood. "You stay the Hell away from me," she said, voice muffled by her gas mask, then turned and walked deeper into the storehouse. Winds of another world howled, and darkness enveloped her.

# 11

"Jessica!" Renee ran through the dark and cold. Blackness swallowed her words, and her footfalls dragged as if through thigh-deep snow. Numbness gripped her flesh. Each inhale pricked her with frost, and each exhale turned to wisps of coiling mist. "Jess!" She shouted. The wind laughed. Renee's toe caught on a hard object, and she sprawled. "Ow, what in Hell?" Renee brushed the snow away to reveal a dead body. A woman lay half-buried, limbs taut and rigid. Her pallid skin burned to the touch.

"Oh, no." Renee gazed on, mind slow with dread. The woman's eyes stared into milky nowhere. Her corpse held hands with another. And another. A ring of dead lay in the snow, hands linked, their extremities blackened with frostbite. Despite the freezing cold, the cadavers stank. The smell came in through Renee's mask. She worked frantic fingers over them, revealing faces and checking pulses. She found the body she dreaded.

"Jess." Renee shuddered, wracked by a choking sob. Her friend lay prone, eyes open and glazed with thick frost. When Renee looked away, she saw blackness all around—no sign of the quarantine building or the door to outside. Where did the sickhouse go? Renee thought. Out. I need OUT!Renee struggled to her feet. "Hello?" The dim tundra ate her voice, and spoke back.

Hello.

The sibilant reply drenched and chilled her. "Stay back!" she shouted, stumling in the snow. She felt the void like a fist of ice around her, tightening as winter slunk closer. Cold iron chinked and rattled. Winter took form out of nightmare, and a skeletal creature of frost and metal slunk from the fog. The prowling beast's tail lashed, links scraping as they moved. The mind-voice cracked like thin river ice.

Did the Wolf's robed servants send you? Offer your warm flesh to thaw me.

"No!" Renee scrambled backward, and the beast landed on her. Knife-length, hinged claws pinned her shoulders. Inside the beast's ribcage, a rattling engine burned like the sun, orange-hot and caked with glacial frost. A flesh tongue spooled from the deathly creature's mouth. The beast lapped at her throat, and his teeth came down.

A hand seized the back of Renee's shirt and pulled. The world turned ninety degrees as she slid down through the snow and into bright reality. The beast's teeth missed her by inches, then vanished. No more freezing cold—Renee dangled from Jeremiah's arms, back in the storehouse. All around her, sick beds heaped with comatose patients. Intravenous tubes dripped dark fluid into them. Wine casks from the cellar lay open, and their sweet fragrance mingled with decay.

"No. My neighbors!" Renee groaned and tried to stand. Threads of black coursed through her vision. She shivered, lost consciousness for seconds and resurfaced, kicking and screaming.

"Breathe deep and slow, miss." Jeremiah set Renee down and crouched to check her pulse. "Don't run from the pain. Dig your heels in, girl. Tell me your name."

Renee's eyes rolled as she reached for the knowledge and missed. She scrambled through her memory in a panic. "Can't remember! I don't know my NAME!" The world flickered around her, from packed earth to hard frost. Day to night.

"Calm, now. I got a beast to fight once I free you—don't make my job harder." Jeremiah seized a piece of burnt timber. He scraped ash loose from the boards with his pocketknife and lay his hand on Renee's forehead. The man raised his voice. "Gehennam amicum, I feel your grip. To Hell with you! Back down the monster's throat, and begone from the girl. By the Martyr's blood, I release her."

A snarl like unoiled machinery thundered from the building's shadows. What do I care for your gods, fleshling?

Renee sobbed on the ground, praying. "As I walk the valley of the Dragon's shadow, I fear no evil. Fear no evil..." She forgot the rest of the words. Convulsions took her, and Renee's thrashing fist struck Jeremiah's ribs. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe.

Give me the girl, said the monster. Sacrifice to my hunger.

"Sorry," Jeremiah said. "I can't abide slaughter."

An iron-on-bone laugh resounded. Liar. Bare your memories to me.

Dark power reached into Jeremiah's skull, and he shut his good eye. The scarred one stayed open, wild and staring into other worlds. Jeremiah saw only fire, and heard a lover's scream over the sizzle of a branding iron. Illusions.

"Blood of my blood, faith of my faith." Jeremiah choked out the words. He seized his pocket knife and slashed his palm. Numb terror gave way to pain, and the flames disappeared. Fingers dripping blood, Jeremiah surged upright. He swung his fist, scattering red rain in an arc. The droplets sizzled in the dirt and threw up wisps of dancing smoke. The shadows howled and writhed, and two worlds pulled apart as the frostbitten presence recoiled.

Jeremiah crouched. He mixed the scraped ash with his blood, daubing the mixture on his own forehead, then Renee's. "I bought us a minute," he said. "Try harder—remember your name."

Renee gasped a breath, and the air stung like knives between her ribs. "Aly...AI..." Renee blinked, groping for her identity. She struggled to make her lungs work. "R-Renee. Renee Cheval."

"Close call," Jeremiah muttered. "He got you bad."

"What happened to me?" Renee said.

"Someone called on powers from beyond. Not sure why. Whatever they summoned stuck a fork in your brain meat and stirred."

"What do I do? Will I die?!"

"Keep quiet and focus," Jeremiah said. "Run home as soon as you can stand, and warn folks to pack up and leave. They need to know a stranger invaded. A real one."

Renee clamped her jaw and nodded, taking deep breaths.

Jeremiah went on. "When the dust settles, you go get yourself a specialist." His somber face cracked in a half-smile. He wiped the blood from her forehead. "You got some talent, you know. Seeing a stranger in the flesh would kill most folks. Feeling better? Get moving. I'll catch up."

Renee gaped. "The monster will kill you! You best run."

"Not without my revolver." He jerked his head backward toward the shadows. "You tossed my favorite gun into some corner."

"You want to fight him unarmed?"

Jeremiah shrugged. "I'll use my spare. What could go wrong, hmm? Ah!"

Ice winds howled, and Jeremiah jerked up straight. His back arched, and veins stood out in his neck as he struggled for air. He tottered on tip-toe, like a noosed criminal balanced before the prop gets kicked out. The roar of the metal fiend echoed from the walls, and storehouse timbers shook. The beast's snarls gave way to a grinding basso, a chant with a bone-breaking rhythm.

Broken sternums, fetid nostrums, on your feet, on your feet,

Drive my scalpel, swing my sickle, brother mine, brother mine,

March for ruin, brother mine, on your feet, ON YOUR FEET.

The words thundered, colliding and blending with each other. The world reeled to the sound of ten thousand boots in lockstep, ten thousand soldiers chanting. The quarantine patients rose from their beds. Pallid, starved, wracked by fever, they marched to the beat of Hell's drums. Renee dragged herself toward the storehouse door with tingling arms. She got to her feet, shaky as a newborn fawn, and looked back.

Jeremiah stood, struggling for control of his body as the sick folk advanced on him. Muscles bunching, he reached up and grabbed his own throat. The fresh blood burned his skin, and the force binding his arms and legs disappeared. Jeremiah dropped to the ground, choking, and pulled the pistol holstered at the small of his back. He kicked away the first sick man to reach him, and shot the next two dead. The metal cat shrieked from the shadows. Glancing back, he saw Renee at the doorway. "Run!" he shouted. "Damn you, RUN!"

Renee bolted, chased down crooked streets by gun-thunder and primal roars. Half-blind and hobbled, she couldn't feel the ground beneath her feet. With every step, she threw herself toward home.

# 12

Renee ran, stumbled and kept running as Hell nipped her heels. The wind carried whispers. Daylight faltered and faded, turning to the orange of dusk though the sun stood high overhead. Heavy clouds threatened snow on the horizon. Renee reached the locked tavern door with her heart in her throat.

"Mama!" Renee's chest heaved, caught halfway between sobs and panting. Renee pounded on the old timbers. "Papa! Open up!"

Fearful muttering, scuffles and scraping sounded inside. The door unbarred.

"Renee!" the girl's mother embraced her, arms so tight they hurt. She kissed Renee twice on each cheek. "Imbecile child! Where did you go?" Tears choked the woman's voice. "I worried myself mad, and sent searchers! What happened to you?"

Renee clung tight to her mother, trying for answers. None came—a numbing-cold fog wrapped her mind. Renee shook her head.

"Sit, love. You look a fright. I'll get you some mulled wine." Mama pushed the girl down in a chair and kissed her again, then bustled away through the crowd.

"Wait!" Renee called, too late. She needed to relay a message. Strangers coming, death at their doorstep. She formed the words, but couldn't push them out. The girl lapsed into a mind-poisoned doze.

Neighbors packed the tavern past capacity, more than ever before. Men held their wives, and women held their children. Villagers sat in whispering huddles. Dread hung heavy on their shoulders.

Renee fought herself awake and limped through the crowd, trying to smile at the frightened onlookers. Renee couldn't stop shaking. Shadows writhed, always at the edge of her vision, and murmurs carried from corners where no one spoke. Ghostly images hovered and clung to the villagers. Black faces, black wings. Some of the creatures turned, gazing at Renee as she passed. Not real, Renee told herself. No one else saw them.

A hand tugged Renee's skirt. "Are we gonna die, miss Cheval?"

Renee startled. She spilled backward onto the floor, and her head struck the wall. The little girl who grabbed Renee's clothes recoiled with wide eyes, wondering whether to cry. The child's mother shot Renee a dirty look, steering the small girl away. Black wings ruffled, and Renee heard soundless titters of amusement. She snapped her eyes shut and breathed hard.

"I need to warn you," Renee said, chest tightening. Her brain struggled to find the right words. "Leave town, or monsters will come for us. I saw a presence in the sick house, but I can't remember the word for him...Ah! Stranger!" Renee took a deep breath, and the exhale turned into a scream as her mind erupted with black fireworks. Cold metal squeezed her beating heart.

"Whoa, whoa! Get back from her!"

Renee heard villagers stomping and chairs scraping as they recoiled from her spectacle.

"No, I don't want to die!" Renee felt a presence looming over her, solid and implacable. The girl squeezed her knees to her chest, choking as she spoke. "L-leave me alone."

"You know I'll never leave you." Papa's voice rumbled in her ear. The big man's arms circled Renee and lifted her up. He carried her toward a seat at the room's edge.

Renee's eyes flickered open. "Daddy!" Renee sobbed with relief. The words came all at once, tumbling like a spring waterfall. "Daddy, the storehouse! I found Jess dead. I saw a great cat made of metal, like a fiend from the Book. He made the sick get up, and they'll come for us, Papa! We'll die unless we run."

Papa held her close. "Our patrol just came back—they found not a monster in sight. We got the place locked tight against cannibals. Don't fret, Renny. No one hurts you without stepping over me."

"Jean-Marc, give the poor girl some space." Mama approached, wine glass in hand. "She saw enough fearful sights today, without your bearded mug in her face."

Papa kissed his wife and chuckled. "All right, Renny. Keep calm and let Mama take care of you."

"Drink up, love." Mama held out the glass, and Renee tensed up.

"I don't want any."

Mama frowned. "Obey your mother, young woman. The drink will soothe your nerves."

Searing claws of hunger and revulsion tore at Renee, and her stomach churned. "I said no!" She slapped her mother's hand away, and the glass shattered on the floorboards. The drink's hot fragrance filled the air, and Renee retched. "Keep your wine away from me!"

Mama and Papa exchanged worried glances. "Renee?" Mama said.

"I gotta go!" The girl staggered as she stood up. "Leave with me if you want. I won't wait around for the reaper."

"Renee," Mama whispered. "You frighten me, love."

"You don't understand, you all have to leave! Now!" Renee looked around the crowded common room. Villagers stared by the dozen, faces etched deep with terror. The girl's stomach clenched, and she doubled over clutching her belly. She gasped for breath, and her eyes fixed on Rand. The big man hunched over the bar, a miserable gargoyle with a dry throat. A pang of foreign hunger made Renee shiver, and all at once she knew Rand felt her misery.

Renee saw through the big drunk's eyes. She chopped wood alongside her brother Matthew—her first time back on her feet since falling ill. Standing and swinging an axe felt good. Far from the stink of her old cot, she tasted fresh air. Matthew kept her alive through the worst of the fever, fed her and wiped up when she fouled herself. Humiliation tinged Renee's gratitude. Alive again, and working. She swung the axe, and a log split.

Matthew sweated as the pair toiled. Renee smelled every drop, and her mouth watered. Matthew caught a bad sliver of wood, and when he pulled the splinter from his wrist, the whole world ran red. Matthew, the only one who cared about her, bled. Renee couldn't resist her hunger. She fought her own muscles as she picked up a log and bashed Matthew's skull. The boy struggled as he went down. Renee got her incisors on his throat and twisted. She gnashed and worried, flesh unyielding under her blunt teeth. At last, tissue gave, like the stopper ripped from a fresh whiskey bottle. Muscles tore, and blood pounded. The axe lay forgotten beside the struggling pair. Renee gorged, and her whimpers built into a wail.

"Matthew, I didn't mean to! I'm sorry!" Renee screamed. She shook herself and looked around. Every eye in the tavern fixed on her as men edged in front of their families. The girl flicked her eyes to Rand. He saw her desperation, her hunger, and nodded in recognition.

"Renee?" Papa gripped her shoulder, scared. "You need to lie down."

"Don't touch me!" Renee struggled for breath. She wanted to vomit. All around her, blood flowed through living cups. She smelled the salt and iron in her neighbors, felt their pulses like moth wings on her skin. "I need to leave before I kill someone!" The girl backed away toward the door.

"Grab her!" Papa yelled. "She'll get herself killed if she leaves."

"NO!" Renee fought free of grasping hands. Legs tangled in her dress, she fell and scrambled. Her eyes scanned the room for escape. People hemmed her in on every side, and hands reached down to seize her. "Don't touch me! Let go!" Renee broke free, bounding over children wrapped in blankets. She clawed past arms reaching to stop her and heaved to unbar the door. Hands caught her and pulled her back into the press.

"Let me go, you damn idiots!" Renee howled and scratched.

"Shit, she bit me!"

"Oh God, she's turning cannibal! Quick, take her down!"

"NO! Get off her!" Renee heard Papa yelling in the background. "Shit, I'll get her. Evie, go grab Naomi and Collin, get them somewhere safe!"

"Papa!" Renee shouted, thrashing. "Papa, HELP!" An arm closed around the girl's neck and pulled her off her feet. She scrabbled for the door, fighting the fade as her vision went spotty.

"I got her," said a man's voice by her ear. "Give me a hand!"

Renee kicked like Uncle Lukas taught her, driving her heel into the man's groin. She got her feet on the planks and twisted his grip. Up on the elbow, down on the wrist. Her captor fought leverage with muscle, and screamed as his shoulder disjointed. Renee whirled, and time slowed as she lunged.

The pair went down hard. Renee landed on the man's chest, crouched like an animal. She shoved his chin back and bit his throat, gnashing for purchase. Her jaws struggled to rip skin and cartilage. His panicked heartbeats thudded in her ears, and the villagers screamed, inaudible to Renee. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she wrapped her arms around him. She felt the instant her teeth broke skin, and roared protest when the crowd pulled her away. She lunged against the hands restraining her, jaws snapping and saliva flying, until a bottle's stout end bashed her temple. The scalp wound trickled into her eyes. Renee hit the floor half-conscious, a string of drool down her chin. Booze ran from the fallen bottle, and blood ran thicker.

# 13

Sheepdog Priar knelt on a slick of blood and sweat, breathing from the bottom of his gut. He saw the church ceiling reflected in the pool of his agony.

"My Father in Heaven, forgive my defiance." He said the words, but didn't feel the remorse. The thorn-wood switch trembled in Priar's hand and lashed up for another stroke. A bloody metronome, the cane struck raw, red zippers in his flesh. Sweat stung his eyes, and red drops pattered down like tears.

"Teach me humility."

Gritting his teeth, Priar brought the cane up in another whistling arc. The thorns peeled skin and stung the fat beneath.

"Patience!"

Slash.

"Temperance..." Priar choked on the last word. Outside, gunshots rang and ghouls bellowed. The man clenched his teeth, gripping the rod so tight his knuckles popped. "ENOUGH! No more games, Lord. Use me as Providence intends. Forge evil's bane of my flesh." The preacher set down his switch. "A Sheepdog should fight for his flock. You, the Almighty, made me for vengeance. Bid me scourge the wicked, not myself."

"Don't stop on my account," God's Messenger whispered from the darkness. "Whip away." Velvet-soft and gentle, the words devoured all other sound. The priest clamped his teeth and lashed his back again, three swift strokes. Boots clicked in the shadows, the sounds of a man or angel pacing. Priar averted his eyes.

"Lord," the Sheepdog whispered. "What good does my suffering do?"

"Petty entertainment," said the Messenger. "I like watching stupid men hit themselves."

"Beware, Lord," said Priar. He gripped his holstered pistol. "Thy justice comes even to—Ahh!"

A boot on Priar's back pushed him flat, digging into fresh wounds. "Would you PLEASE shut your hole, and act like a normal FUCKING person? God, why do I ever use zealots? Realize, once and for all, I don't love you dumb cattle—especially you, Priar. You play hero to your people, then can't even stop their stampeding! You God-fearing failure." Priar growled, an animal sound of pain and denial. "Shh," said the Messenger. His dark voice slithered. "Shh-shh-shh. Take heart. I know a way to save your precious herd."

Priar's mind rebelled through pain's haze. "You mean 'flock,' Lord."

"No, herd, and shut up. You let the town go to Hell while I wrangled a stranger."

Priar went pale. "A stranger, in the flesh? Who summoned the beast in among us?"

"Your mom! Shut the fuck UP, remember? I need the people calm, so go lynch someone. A scapegoat, a whipping boy—a Sacrifice. Give your hicks a show to ease their minds."

Priar nodded, fighting for focus through pain and thirst. His hand found his scabby switch. "Yes, my Father. In the light of your name I shall—"

"Shut your mouth. Get your shit together and get moving. For the love of Me, QUIT FUCKING UP your job." The boot ground into Priar's back, then lifted. The unseen footsteps receded, vanishing who-knew-where.

Sheepdog Priar gazed at the sweat and blood sheen on the floor, seized his cane and snapped the cruel instrument in half. Pain's euphoric aftermath took him in a current, and his senses soared to the Paradise beyond. He bowed his head and slid his shirt back on, fastening the ties with clumsy hands. The cloth clung bloody to his back as he rose. Priar heard a dull roar like the tide—his flock, in mortal terror at the church door. A hundred angry villagers joined voices into one endless, grinding howl.

Priar drew his gun, and metal caught the candlelight. "You gave me a duty," he whispered. Outside, a hundred men and women wailed, ripe for the Sheepdog's aid. They screamed for comfort, justice and vengeance in God's name. "I will oblige them," said the Sheepdog. "I will make myself your strong sword arm." The months of doubt, the sleepless nights, his nagging uncertainty left him. He unbarred the door and stepped out to deliver God's will.

# 14

Storm clouds billowed and darkness crept in, staining the sky a dull ochre. Villagers swarmed in Hell's shadow, pulling a young girl between them.

"No!" Renee screamed and struck out. She lunged to grab a passing signpost. Fingers pried her grip loose. A kick subluxed her elbow, and she drew in on herself, whimpering. Hands came from everywhere, snatching, pinching, tearing. Villagers yanked her by the hair until her spine strained. Hands seized her clothing, threatening to strip her naked. "No!" She thrashed and clasped her body. Chunks of hair came out with scraps of scalp, and the crowd raged. Murderer, they cried. Witch, defiler, cannibal. The voices fused into a seamless, rising scream. The wall of sound buffeted Renee as they bore her through the village.

"Renee!" Papa struggled forward, fighting a tide of his fellows. He broke free of the men restraining him and lunged to take hold of his child. In the bitter scuffle, a shotgun went off. Renee's father clutched his torn chest, confused. The man crumpled.

"Dad, NO!" Renee scratched and kicked until a lit torch bashed her face. Blind, deaf, ears ringing with the gunshot, Renee went rigid and screamed. She gave up fighting, and inexorable hands dragged her off for execution. She curled up as tight as she could. Their destination loomed ahead, the quaint chapel at town's edge.

A stain spread on Renee's mind as the crowd carried her. She remembered the Sheepdog's foul-smelling wine, the burning visions and panic. She fought with new strength, got her feet on the ground and took two running steps before hands dragged her back. Renee head-butted a man grabbing her arm, skull crunching his nasal cartilage. Someone spun her around by the shoulders, and knuckles struck her face.

Renee fell. She learned the taste of boot soles, and turned her head to protect her teeth. The beating lasted twelve grisly seconds, and Renee lay motionless. Hands grasped her limbs and pulled her along. The girl gulped for air, vision blurry from blows to the head. Villagers cried out.

"Priar! Help!"

"The Dragon walks among us!"

The crowd hushed as the church doors yawned open. Priar emerged, tall and grave, and his presence spread like quiet snowfall. Townsfolk looked on, haggard, soiled and despairing. They drew close to the preacher, their last rock of safety.

"Sheepdog, thank the Lord!" a woman cried. The silence cracked and other voices erupted.

"We got the Dragon's slut!"

"Fucking cannibal! Burn her!"

"Save us!" Some villagers wept, falling prone to abase themselves. Others raged.

"My children!" Priar raised his arms for silence. Torch fire reflected his own flame, the spark of a thousand sermons. He spoke in a voice louder than most men shouted. "Feel not the fear of the godless. Yes, horror besieges us. The enemy howls at our doorstep, plague burns and ghouls prowl. Behold— though the weight of sin darkens the sky, the Lord stands stoic for us! He bids us strike DOWN our foes, strike OFF our wicked chains!"

A ragged-half cheer rose, then died a quick death. Priar roared on, heedless of the crowd's fear.

"Brothers, sisters, I know the Lord's trials strain your faith—I do not fault you! Hear me now—the Lord sends us proof of His love. Our Father's flesh walks at my side. God's Messenger, His very Voice, laid hands upon me and tasked me with your preservation. Who among you will take shelter in my faith? Who will drink from the cup of God's justice?"

The villagers' voices rose in reply, stronger now. I will, they said.

Priar raised his head, eyes full of fire. "Shall I end our ordeals? Shall I root out the evil that walks among us?"

"We caught the Cheval girl!" shouted a young man. "Please, Sheepdog, give us the word."

Priar's eyes scanned the fevered scene and lit on Renee. "Young miss Cheval. We knew her for one of Lavigne's kindest daughters."

Two men supported the woozy girl. She flew into a thrashing fit as Priar approached, and her keepers restrained her. "Run!" Renee shouted. "Everyone, get far from Lavigne! The monsters from outside will kill all of us!"

"Shut your whore mouth." Priar slapped her so hard the sound echoed, and Renee lapsed into silence. The Sheepdog's face hovered inches from hers. "Tell me your sins, child," he said.

"She jumped someone," said the man on Renee's left. "Tried to take 'is throat out with her teeth. Sheepdog, I think she killed Matthew."

"Didn't." Renee forced the clumsy words out. "His brother ate him. I looked in Rand's thoughts, and I saw the kill." She coughed and licked blood from her split lips. "You best run, too. The fiends want you bad. I can see them." Her voice gave way to ragged croaks, then to sounds between laughter and sobbing.

Priar's lip curled. He gripped Renee's lolling chin and made her meet his eyes. "Unclean child. By the Lord you once loved, I will cleanse you. Recant your blasphemy! Where do your dark gods hide from us?" He gestured to the congregation, then back to Renee. "I do not see your monsters—point me to them!"

Renee's mad eyes snapped into focus, raking over every inch of the preacher. "All over you," she whispered.

Priar bared his teeth. He saw Renee red through the haze of his fury. "Bind her for burning," he said. "The Lord calls on us to give of our own."

The crowd took to ritual like fire to kindling. A dozen hands hauled Renee up, pushing her against a signpost. Half-conscious, Renee felt her shoulder pop as men wrenched her arms back and cords cinched her in place. Villagers ransacked the town's dilapidated buildings for spare timber and built a tent of kindling around the girl's legs.

"Lord!" Priar called. "Hear our cry of penitence. Forgive us for harboring evil!" Priar took a torch from an outstretched hand and stood before Renee's pyre, flame held high. "Now, in the light of your grace, we cast our lot against evil!"

The crowd roared like chained animals. At long last, they found a vent for their terror. Priar's eyes softened as his torch drew nearer the kindling. "Forgive me for failing you, child." He whispered, barely audible as mob anxiety swept up the scale to an overbearing roar. "I do as the Lord God demands."

# 15

Horse hooves pounded out a rhythm on the old dirt road. Ichabod rode out from town, following the Kingsmen's cart-tracks until they veered off the path. When he saw corpses scattered in the tall grass, he swung from the saddle.

"Stay put," he said, hitching up and slapping the big beast's side. "Good horse."

The animal took after his owner; he gave Ichabod an "up yours" glance and cropped some grass. The sick wagon lay ahead, upended and abandoned. Ichabod slid the shotgun from his saddle scabbard and approached like a hunter, senses reaching out for wayward motion.

He scanned the woodline all around, then toed through the wagon's remains. He found no signs of life, but plenty death. A man and woman lay rotting, skulls blasted and brains spilled across the path. Ichabod pulled on gloves and flipped the woman face-up. The bullet hole went in clean and took off half her head. Hollow-point forty-fives, Ichabod thought. Delivered with military precision. Two dead-on shots adorned her chest, turning both lungs to ground pork. "Who shot you two?" Ichabod muttered. Blood soaked the dirt. He squeezed a handful. Still damp.

The dead pair looked bad even by corpse standards. Gaunt ribs showed, and dehydration wrinkled them—they fell sick long before getting shot. Lifting their hands, Ichabod found broken fingernails gummed with blood and shredded tissue. He shouldered his shotgun. The wagon looked big enough for a baker's dozen of sicklings. More, if the driver packed them in tight. The big man kept alert for cannibals.

Ichabod stalked a bread crumb trail of corpses. A village man hung tangled in the brush with his vital organs ruptured by gunfire. Ten yards on, another lay with his neck slashed open. A dozen stab wounds turned his belly to a bowl of bloody stew.

Ichabod panned his gun over the final scene. Two sicklings lay beside a prone man robed in gray—one of the Kingsmen who drove the cart. Ichabod scanned the clearing and approached, gun raised. One of the sick men still lived. The wretch stirred into motion, mouth frothing as he struggled to drag himself toward Ichabod. The big man kicked the hand aside and slammed his boot on the ghoul's skull, and the arm fell motionless. Ichabod approached the downed Kingsman and kicked his ribs. Thunk.

"The fuck?" He swung his foot back for momentum, and the Kingsman flipped over. The robed figure raised an ugly pistol, and Ichabod knocked the gun away as a shot cracked the silence. He stomped the man's wrist, hearing bones break with a wet crunch. Ichabod pinned his opponent.

"Better lie still," said the big man. Adrenaline raged an icy course through his veins. He caught the Kingsman's other hand in motion, bringing the knife to a quivering stop. Gore crusted the blade. "Drop the weapon."

"Get your dog hands off me, filthy cunt!" The enraged man's voice came out muffled, with a harsh accent. Ichabod levered his opponent's wrist until the Kingsman screamed. Joints popped as they shifted, and the knife dropped at last. The gray-robed man's hood fell back as he struggled, revealing a gas mask beneath.

"Let's see your pretty face," Ichabod said. He grabbed the gore-sheathed knife as his opponent writhed and gasped.

"Stop, damn you!" The man in gray shrieked as the infected knife bit into his jaw. Ichabod sliced the straps and flipped the mask aside. Hard blue eyes and sharp features greeted him.

"Fuck me." Ichabod stared, then switched to the northeastern tongue. "Esti Zaitsev, fratele meu?" Are you from Zaitsova, brother mine?

The downed man went deadly still, and his voice burned like cinders. "Never call me your brother."

Ichabod laughed. "You look like a war-poster soldier, you know that? I bet the recruiter creamed his fatigues when he saw you coming. You in military intelligence? Sciences? Tell me where you came from, soldier boy."

"Out of the snow, with my brothers and sisters. Into the snow we'll return."

"Ah, special forces." Ichabod tightened his grip. "Vy Snega Kot?" You a Snow Cat? "Doubtful—a proper Cat wouldn't get caught. So you kill a bunch of Kingsmen, put on their clothes to blend in...then what? Why did you come to Lavigne?"

"To fuck...your mother."

Ichabod clucked his tongue. "You'll need a big honkin' bucket of lube—the old cunt's been dead for ages. Tell me your unit's location."

The soldier glared. He hocked to spit, and Ichabod slammed a palm into his nose. The bone broke crooked, filling the robed man's mouth with blood as he bared his teeth. They shone blunt and yellow, smeared with greasy crimson. "Mai bine ma omori, ai naibii caine." You better fucking kill me, dog.

"Don't tempt me." Ichabod patted the broken man down and pulled out a flip-pouch of syringes. "The new sampler pack. What'd you bring me? Plague boosters? Combat drugs?" Ichabod's eyes fell on the labels. His face went ashen-gray as he read the foreign characters, and his hands shook. "You...you made a new strain?" he whispered. "You brought back fucking howler's serum?!"

"New and improved howler's serum! Mutations happen in minutes! Sometimes less." The gray man chuckled, glee plain and hateful-fierce in his eyes. "Bow-wow!" He snapped his teeth and barked, ululating into a long, manic howl.

"You piece of shit! I thought you people learned your lesson. You killed your own city, remember?" The gray man kept laughing, and Ichabod snapped. "Remember?! Do you remember?!" He shook the man, beating his head on the ground. The fake Kingsman choked, spat blood and went on guffawing. Ichabod pulled out the silver syringe and flicked off the cap. "Ever seen a howler in action? I watched a man get injected once." Ichabod pressed the plunger, and a thin squirt of fluid left the instrument. He brought the needle to quivering rest at the gray man's throat. The soldier's laughter died as he struggled, unable to break free. Ichabod snarled as he spoke. "I watched, up close and personal. I was nine. What, not funny anymore? I agree. Now, let's bond over mutual trauma."

"Nu! Nu va rog sa nu faceti!" The soldier screamed, all grip of bravado lost. "Do not! I beg you, do not!"

"Who commands you?"

"The men call him the Starving Wolf!"

"I don't give a fuck what his flunkies in murder-club call him!" Ichabod screamed. "Give me a name!"

"Fane!" the Zaitsev man wept. "Stefan Fane!"

"The God-dammed boogeyman of the war?" Memories of war-time posters rushed back. Ichabod could picture the man: tumbling, tangled hair and crazy eyes, a subdued smile, arms crowded tight with tattoos and near-gangrenous track marks. The nickname "Starving Wolf" fit Fane like a glove. Ichabod cleared his throat. "I hope turning stings like the clap," he said. "I'll see you in Hell, brother mine."

"NO!"

Ichabod drove the needle deep.

# 16

Jeremiah ran as fast as he could. He nursed a cracked rib, and each breath drove a lance of pain up his side. Twisted memories burned in his skull as he chased the sounds of chaos. A mob gathered by the old church, shadows dancing in the light of their torches. Unnatural midnight blacked out the noonday sun, and whispers of violence crawled through the night on the wind.

"Burn, burn, burn." The gathering chanted in hypnotic frenzy. Priar knelt by the post, whispering to Renee. As the preacher raised his torch, Jeremiah raised his revolver.

The shot's echo made the crowd flinch. The scar-eyed man stood with pistol pointed skyward. His voice rang clear and angry as he drew a bead on Priar. "Drop the torch, Sheepdog. NOW! Good—the rest of you, step away from the girl and stay put." Jeremiah cocked the hammer, and the villagers shrank away from Renee's signpost. "You keep your flock in line, Priar. As long as they stay back, nobody gets hurt. Understand?" He saw weapons in the rabble, a mix of ill-maintained shotguns and hunting rifles, plus the odd sidearm. The mob came expecting to lynch monsters, not face a human sharpshooter. Best not give them time to find their courage. Jeremiah nodded toward Renee. "First, let the girl down."

Priar laughed. "Why in the name of God should I?"

"Self-preservation," Jeremiah said, walking closer. He stopped ten paces from the Sheepdog. "You got no time to deal with the possessed. Don't you see the sky? I'll handle the afflicted —you pick a direction, and don't stop running."

Angry voices rumbled from the crowd, and Priar spread his hands. "We weathered drought, quarantine and the ravage of monsters. We will not abandon our homes." The man stabbed a finger at Renee. Her head lolled, blood-crusted lips moving as she muttered strange words. "Look at her!She lies at the heart of our suffering! I exercise my authority to—"

"Authority!" Jeremiah snorted. "You got no reputation with me. What'd you do while ghouls roamed the town feasting?"

Priar stood tall. "I did my Lord's will. I don't expect your kind to understand."

"Good, because I don't. You ask me, you should protect your people, not serve 'em up flambé."

The crowd surged and raged. "Get OUT of our town!" a man screamed.

Priar gestured them back, voice rising. "Look in miss Cheval's eyes, and see the darkness she hosts. Her monsters want slaying."

Jeremiah shook his head. "She never wanted to do harm, nor did the ghouls who tore your town apart. Someone chose for them, and pulled their strings. I saw the abomination in your sickhouse, Priar—you turned the place into a damned cultist's den."

"Baseless slander," Priar said. "God's Messenger does His good work from the storehouse. He promises salvation, unless we let outsiders interfere."

Jeremiah's eyes narrowed. "'God's Messenger?'"

Priar drew up taller. "An angel in man's form, who speaks Truth like thunder. He walks with me, and makes known God's designs. We all feel His touch and hear His whispers."

"You...think God sent you a playmate? A real one, flesh and blood?" Jeremiah shook his head. "You're a God-damned mental patient! Who else heard the Messenger's voice? Who else saw him?" Jeremiah gazed at the crowd. "Anyone?" Doubtful looks passed between neighbors, and eyes cast downward. "I thought not! You let your Sheepdog lead you right to the slaughterhouse. He chose Renee as a victim. Kill her, and her blood stains your hands! If you want proof of his wrong-doing, go look in the storehouse!"

"Enough talk!" Priar turned his back on Jeremiah. "My children, the time comes to put aside our fears. Light the pyre, and deliver us." Faint whispers cut through the night, interlacing and bolstering his words. The crowd's rage resurfaced and the bravest men advanced, weapons raised.

"Stay BACK!" Jeremiah shouted. He fired, and a torch-wielding man collapsed, screaming and clutching his leg. Priar sprang forward, pistol-butt cracking Jeremiah on the temple, and the pair locked in a scuffling embrace. Each man held his gun to the other's head.

"Why?" Priar asked through his tears. His face distorted, a miserable rictus of conflict. "I suffer under terrible purpose, I hear my Lord's voice! As dearly as we wish to, we cannot thwart God's will!"

"I can thwart yours," Jeremiah said. "I feel other worlds latched to your hide. Someone worked darkness on you, Sheepdog. Show me the culprit—bring your Messenger to me, if he exists."

Priar grimaced. "I'll die before forsaking the Lord's trust."

"Fine by me." Jeremiah grabbed Priar's gun hand. One good yank broke the Sheepdog's wrist, and Jeremiah twisted, forcing Priar's arm behind his back. The crowd howled their fury and lunged, calloused hands outstretched. The scarred man fired twice, and two villagers collapsed with flesh wounds. Jeremiah turned Priar to the crowd, shielding himself from gunfire. "Halt or he dies!" The threat stopped the villagers short, and they stood eyeing him with sullen-faced hate. "Good," said the sharpshooter. "You hear me, Messenger? Your operation ends tonight! Let's see some divine intervention. Come out of hiding, if you like, to save your Sheepdog and prove your power. Or you can run. Slink back to the shadows you came from. A win-win exchange, if you ask me. Three!" Jeremiah cocked the hammer. "Two!" He put his finger on the trigger, set his jaw in a grim line and began to squeeze. "One."

"Stay your hand."

A voice broke on the crowd like quiet thunder. Jeremiah's skin crawled, and he followed the gaze of the villagers. Men and women shivered in a slow wave of motion, eyes settling on the church doors. A slender figure stood clad in black, three gray imposter Kingsmen at his side. Beneath his hood, a steel mask obscured the man's features. The face-plate showed stark, bright curves of metal, the bone-sharp semblance of a skeletal jaw. The carvings evoked a feline skull, refined beyond mortality. Too stark, too perfect in symmetry. All deep-set eyes and graceful, curving fangs, like an old-times Scriptural angel.

God's Messenger spoke. His words soaked the world, unmuffled by his mask's steel.

"Oh, ye of little faith."

# 17

Ichabod found no trace of Jeremiah in the wrecked storehouse. The big man re-mounted and raced toward the tavern, roaring obscenities. Around every turn, he expected more pistol-toting Wolfsmen. "Can't afford to diddle around searching for you, Jerry!" The wind whipped his words away. He leaned hard in the saddle through a sharp turn. "We gotta leave town, now."

Signs of recent turmoil marked the outskirts. The doors of empty houses lolled, and the mob's passage left the undergrowth trampled. Skidding up to the tavern, Ichabod hitched his horse and dashed to the door. "Jeremiah!" he shouted. "I better find you packing to leave!" He kicked the door open, swept inside and froze.

Rand bent low over a carcass. The big drunk gnashed, moaning as he drooled bloody slop into the corpse's chest cavity. He ripped and swallowed in gaping mouthfuls so careless he chewed his own cheeks ragged. They hung in fleshy tatters from his jawbone. His head snapped up, and he roared as he surged to his feet.

"Shit!" Ichabod pulled his sidearm and emptied the chamber at Rand. The cannibal howled and careened on, heedless of the holes punched in his frame. He swung fists like maces, hardened from a thousand beer-soaked brawls. His knuckles slammed Ichabod's jaw and gut, and the firearm hit the floor, sliding to rest under a table.

Burst capillaries dyed Rand's eyes crimson. He screamed like all Hell rode behind him, a single endless, roaring note with no pauses for breath. The two went blow for blow, hammering each other like locomotive pistons. Ichabod's knife came out, swinging up toward Rand's belly. The bloody lunatic knocked Ichabod reeling, and the knife scraped out along Rand's ribs to fall in a harmless clatter.

Rand lurched forward, grabbing Ichabod's throat, taking them down in a heap. Sticking his fingers in the cannibal's eyes, Ichabod swore a blue streak as he held back the gnashing jaws. Knife! Ichabod thought. Where'd I drop my fucking knife? The men rolled in a scuffing gale of bites, elbows, knees and head-butts. They slid and grappled to the wall, slamming the base of a liquor rack. Bottles toppled around them, bouncing, breaking, popping their stoppers.

Two lamps fell with a sputter as combat upset a table. Ichabod's face hit the floor with Rand's hands around his neck, and the ghoul shoved down, muscles bunching, twisting, dragging Ichabod's face through the heaped bottle fragments. Shattered glass ripped the pockmarked man's cheeks and eyelids, coarse chunks scrubbing deep in his flesh. Ichabod kicked Rand's knee and rolled the writhing, howling mess of a man off him. Gripping a bottle, he slammed Rand in the temple—a blow to kill a lesser monster. The big sod bucked and screamed, and Ichabod hit him again.

"Die! Quit squirming and die!" Ichabod hammered away. Rand's legs kicked, flailed, and lay still at last. The bottomless screams whimpered out.

Ichabod breathed. He shook his vision clear, found his fallen knife in arm's reach, and did a double take. Lamp-flames spread across the slick of spilled liquor toward the mess of broken bottles and furniture. "Oh, crap."

Rand's bellowing recommenced as he regained consciousness. The brute levered himself to his knees and lunged, catching Ichabod around the middle. His teeth ground at the pockmarked man's neck.

"Agh, quit! God damn!" Ichabod bucked and strained. "You want to cook us, dumb-shit?" Too late. The liquor rack went up like kindling, and flame boiled across the floor in flicking sheets.

Ichabod twisted and thrashed. The pair jostled, rose to their feet and fell backward as Rand shoved. Ichabod got the knife between them, and Rand's weight crashed down, driving the blade in deep. Rand coughed, his torn lung kicking up bloody mist-breath. Ichabod closed his eyes against the red drizzle; the old pockmarks on his face burned like hellfire.

Die, Ichabod thought. He turned his face, clamping his lips shut tight as Rand retched blood on him. The heat pressed in on the pair as the flames spread. For real, you stubborn fuck! I got appointments!

Rand's face twisted, a picture of un-tellable agony. He inhaled and bellowed, gut-screams like a dying game animal. Manic heaves of stress laughter rocked Ichabod's frame, and he struggled to keep his lips sealed. Rand wept, and hot filth slid down the cannibal's leg as his bowels gave last call. Ichabod twisted the knife, and Rand lost his voice at last. The screaming faded, and his red eyes dulled.

Ichabod yanked his blade free and heaved the hulking corpse into the flames. The big man ripped his shirt off, cleaning himself with the dirty cloth. He swiped infected blood away in quick strokes, and emptied a whiskey bottle over his head. His cuts burned, and Ichabod clamped his teeth. He donned his shirt, staggered upright and choked on searing air—fire towered, blocking the interior hallway. Smoke obscured the world. Ichabod looked at his booze-soaked clothes.

"Fuck our luggage." A jolt ran through the big man as he pictured the chest of reagents and occult tools. A book of the damned, sitting atop a bundle of high explosives. Ichabod bolted, snatching up his pistol as he ran. Another shelf of liquor bottles went up as he stumbled, coughing, from the inferno. He found his horse still tied at the post, screaming and rearing.

"I got you, boy. C'mon!" He mounted up and spurred into a run. "Hyah!" Ichabod counted the seconds in his head. Maybe a minute until the luggage blows, maybe five. No way to—

A rowdy dynamite chorus rocked the night, tearing chunks of roof off the tavern. Burning splinters rained on Ichabod and his rearing mount. The man stared back at the smoldering inn.

Bitter, thick smoke boiled from the wreckage. Purple-white flames lit the cloud from within, casting shadows of headless, impossible creatures. They danced, and their footfalls stirred up laughing cinders. Veils tore, and another world dripped into reality. Dark symbols traced out from the fire, creeping over the ground, burning the dirt black. Lost hieroglyphs soldered themselves on the land, where no more plants would grow. They spread like vines, reaching inky fingers toward Lavigne's center. A stranger's flowing script.

Ichabod shuddered and looked away. "It was a boring town, anyway. Hyah!" He spun his mount and tore off down the road.

# 18

The Messenger stood before the crowd, arms spread. His voice tickled Heaven's belly.

"Kneel, my children. I come to you, light-bearer in the hour of darkness, salvitor in the face of mighty villainy. Give unto me your cares, your dangers, the dirt-clogged fetters of your earthly bodies. Trust your necks to the crook and bend your knees." The cloaked man strode through the petrified townsfolk. His voice came from all sides—from inside. Jeremiah fought the impulse to release Priar, drop his weapon and genuflect. One man in the crowd knelt, then another. God writhed and twisted in the Messenger's words. Weeping mothers bent their bodies prostrate, and their husbands and sons knelt one by one. The masked man drew close to Jeremiah and lowered his voice. "You can kneel too, foreigner." He made a flamboyant hand motion. "Deliver to me your sorrows and grumbulations."

Jeremiah's lips tightened. "'Grumbulations?' Go fuck yourself." His good eye moved over the masked man. A fixed-blade knife and repeating pistol hung from his belt. Body armor showed beneath his blacks, and his mask flashed a predator's grin, long eyeteeth glinting in the torchlight. Some memory itched the back of Jeremiah's brain.

The cloaked figure spread his arms wide. "Stay your bloody hand, my son. Will you cast the first stone against Me, the Lord's own vessel?"

"I've shot my share of messengers," said Jeremiah.

The other man laughed. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper, and he flicked at his combat knife's handle. "You got balls, brother mine. I like balls."

"Cute," said Jeremiah. "Let's skip to introductions."

"What, my half-assed toadie didn't tell you? I serve as the Lord's humble middleman." The Messenger sketched a deep bow. "I go by many names—you south-folk call me the Starving Wolf. Obey me, and I'll spare you. Then we'll go our separate ways." His voice carried the sound of a smile. "Fuck with me, and I'll sound you with a salmon knife."

"I know a con man when I see one," Jeremiah said. "You roll in, misquote scripture, pull a rabbit from a hat and glory be, everyone worships you. Then you bleed them for 'donations,' grab what you can and run. I used to play the same con. In the end, false Sheepdogs get put down."

"Not always." The Messenger stepped closer. He leaned into intimate talking distance, ignoring Jeremiah's revolver in his face. "Next time, try getting godly powers first. They sparkle up your resume something fierce."

"What do you want?" said Jeremiah.

"Your gun."

Jeremiah's bad eye itched and stung. His muscles twitched, and he fought the mind-tug on his gun hand. "Nice try," he said through clenched teeth. "I put down your pet in the sickhouse. I can put you down, too. Don't fuck with me."

"Not Fluffles! He took hours to conjure, you monster!" The masked man choked on mock tears. "Fine, you want blood? Why don't you just give me your gun? Er, I mean 'shoot me?'" He gestured to the crowd at his back. They stood armed and ready, watching the Wolf with dumb awe. "Oh, right. My adoring public. Kill me, and they'll fuck you dead. Maybe I should let 'em at you. So much gushing, glorious blood. I infected the whole town. Want to let red flow, and see who goes cannibal?" The Wolf cooed. "Or will you give me your gun?"

"I'll give you one bullet."

"Look in their eyes while you doom them!" The Wolf pounded one fist to his sternum. "LOOK AT THEM!" Jeremiah's neck spasmed, and he turned his head to gaze at the gathered villagers. The masked man went on in soft tones. "Mothers, fathers, littlest daughters. I don't want to kill my experiments, but I won't flinch if you force my hand. Best part is, they'll still love me—they won't even fight back. So hand me. The fucking. Gun."

Jeremiah pictured men and women shot through, dead before they hit the ground—ever more innocent lives on his conscience. His hand drifted outward, offering up his weapon. Pain seared, and Jeremiah's left eye flew open as he snapped back to awareness. Too late, he made to yank his hand back. The Wolf plucked the gun from his grip, and blood drooled from Jeremiah's blighted eye. Through the crimson, he saw shadowed legions chained to the Starving Wolf. They crawled all over Sheepdog Priar and stalked around the group of villagers.

The masked man chuckled, reaching out to pinch Jeremiah's cheek. "Who's a good boy? Whoseagoodboy?! You are! You stay a good boy, and I'll keep you. I need a man with your insight. Just remember, don't cross me or people will die." The Wolf fired Jeremiah's weapon. A villager fell dead, and a woman in the crowd screamed into low sobs.

"Son of a bitch!" Jeremiah surged forward, and at a gesture from their master, two Wolfsmen restrained him. They delivered a beating while Hell's sky watched over the scene. The woman in the crowd shuddered into silence, clutching at her neighbors. Villagers waited, Dragon-struck, for the sacrificial knife. "God, I hate southern guns," said the Wolf. He dumped the cylinder into his palm and tossed the empty revolver aside. The false Messenger held the bullets in his upraised fist, and his voice soared to address the congregation. "My children! Raise your eyes to Me." The cowering villagers looked up from the dirt. "I come bearing the seeds of your future." A dramatic sweep, and he scattered the revolver's cartridges. "I bring the will of the Lord, that bullets may fall, never fired. Plow them into the earth, the soil from which a new day rises. Do you seek the way forward? The noble path, through safe and gentle fields? Do you believe?"

Priar's throat worked, swallowing hard. "I believe!" Some onlookers knelt dumbfounded. Others took up the affirmation, and the night whispered with them.

I believe.

"Look at him!" Jeremiah shouted. "Would one of God's siferum carry a pistol? A combat knife? Would he hide his face with a mask?"

"Hit him some more," said the Wolf. A balled fist slammed Jeremiah's mouth, and he tasted blood. Knuckles pummeled his guts and bones.

"Call the Lord's wrath on him!" a villager shouted.

"Strike down the unbeliever!"

"Silence!" The Wolf's voice carried, cutting all talk down like stalks of grain. The villagers went back to crouching, flinching, groveling in the dirt, and the masked man chuckled. He whispered to Jeremiah, "God damn, I get wood when that works." He let his voice soar again. "My flock, do you burn for salvation?"

The crowd cried out.

"Yes, Lord!"

"Deliver us!"

"Then let us hear the witch's confession and purge her." The Wolf jerked his head at Priar. "Do your duty, Sheepdog. With all haste."

Sheepdog Priar stepped forward and knelt by Renee. "Hear me, wayward daughter. Give us your testimony, and let the just decide."

Renee's head lolled. The half-conscious girl struggled to focus, and Priar's shaking didn't rouse her. The clergyman pressed the end of a torch to her bare arm, and Renee woke screaming.

"Better," said the Sheepdog.

"Bastard!" Renee shouted between sobs of pain, straining at her bonds.

"Renee Cheval, daughter of Lavigne, you stand accused of breaking the Kingsmen's quarantine. You trespassed into the sickhouse and loosed the turned cannibals within."

"No! They already broke loose! I went in to see my sick friend!"

"Guilty," said Priar. "By your own admission. Next, you set upon your neighbor, attempting to kill him."

Renee sagged. She felt the blood beginning to crust on her lips, and her insides squirmed. "I tried to warn them."

"Guilty."

Renee spat in Priar's face. "Dragon-slave! I see the monsters latched onto you. They'll drag you down to Hell, alive and screaming!"

The crowd shouted and raved at her blasphemy. Amidst the cacophony, the Wolf turned to gaze at Renee. "Holy shit," he said under his breath. The masked man shoved Priar back and bent close to her. "Look at me, girl. Can you see the creatures?" He spoke in soft, reverent tones. "Describe them."

"C...cold," Renee mumbled. "Black wings. Black eyes."

The Wolf laughed, a low rumble starting from his gut. "Well, God damn! Cut her loose."

"Lord?" Priar asked.

"Don't question me," the Wolf said. "Just obey." Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a silver syringe. Two townsfolk worked the ropes with pocketknives, and Renee spilled into the dust.

The girl's mind labored to catch up. Death seemed far away now, replaced by a grislier fate. "Stay away," she said, voice reedy and feeble.

The Wolf knelt at Renee's side, tracing tender fingers down her cheek. "Cast off your fear, my daughter." His strange voice wove tendrils through reality. The masked man lifted a syringe, slim and silver. "In the fever delirium of your worst moments, I bring you light and comfort. Embrace My Gift, and you will rise reborn."

Renee's thought swam through gauze, padded and clumsy. She held her arm out, ready for her shot. A quiver in her joints betrayed the inner struggle, a terror she couldn't put words to.

"Wait, my Lord!" Priar felt the doubt, heavy like a brick in his stomach. He watched Renee tremble, eyes blackened and bleary. The needle-tip gleamed in red torchlight. "We need to kill her while we can! Suffer no stranger to live! The Book says—"

The Wolf snarled. "I don't give a crusted shit what the Book says. Sit down, shut the FUCK up and let Daddy work."

The voice pulled Priar earthward, like serpent-coils around his wrists and ankles. Acid betrayal stung in the preacher's veins. Why? he thought. God's teachings urged the destruction of dark hosts. Priar watched Jeremiah struggle against the restraining Wolfsmen, and thought back to the Messenger's actions. All the strange commands and off-hand comments added up, and Priar understood. God did not send the masked man. How could I believe? For months, the Wolf's voice bored into Priar's head, working into his mind's cracks like freeze-and-thaw. The Sheepdog knelt, helpless. "Forgive me, my Lord," the man whispered. "In my thirst for glory, I turned away from you."

The Wolf held the needle to Renee's arm. "Now relax, princess, 'cause this is gonna fucking hurt. On the bright side? I almost envy you if you survive."

Priar screamed in impotent fury. He slammed his fist into the ground, and horrifying agony shot through his broken wrist. He focused on the jagged bone fragments, centered himself on the pain and clawed his way free of the Messenger's grip. The Sheepdog leapt on the Wolf, grabbing for the syringe. A moment's tussle, and the masked man rammed the needle into Priar's chest. He slammed the plunger, injecting the whole dose straight into muscle.

"Whoopsie." The Wolf kicked Priar away, where he lay convulsing. "Woo! That shit is gonna FUCK you up! Thanks for wasting a whole dose of howler, you putz."

Priar's lungs worked in frantic gasps, spraying specks of blood from his lips. "Save me!"

"No," said the Wolf. "Your turn, girlie." He pulled a duplicate from his pouch, advancing on Renee.

Jeremiah fought to break free. "Damn you, leave her alone!"

"Hell no. I waited two weeks to try out my new recipe." He found Renee's vein with the expertise of a drug fiend, and brought the syringe down.

Across town, Renee's tavern exploded. Smoke billowed, kindled by profane writings, and warped flames churned at the sky. Thunder rolled out from the occult detonation, pressing down on Lavigne. Phantom winds tore through the vineyards, slicing vine trellises in dancing spiral patterns and bending crop stalks into geometric figures. Rotten symbols carved themselves on the earth.

Everyone moved. Farmers fled pell-mell, screaming. Jeremiah slipped free of his captors, pulled his spare gun and fired. Free of the Wolf's puppeteer voice, he fanned the hammer once, twice, a third time, hitting the man center-mass. The Wolf jerked and staggered, ballistic vest taking the impacts.

"Fuck!" The masked man stumbled as he fled, clutching fractured ribs. A Wolfsman advanced on Jeremiah, firing hard and fast without pausing to aim. Jeremiah pulled the trigger twice, and the false Kingsman sank to his knees. He died clawing at the holes in his belly. Jeremiah's flank ached where one of the shots clipped him, and he felt blood seeping through his shirt. The scar-eyed gunner saw the other two Wolfsmen coming for him, and limped for cover as bullets pelted the dirt at his feet. The black sky howled rage from on high.

# 19

Renee shivered and shook, pupils flaring as she spasmed on the ground. Frightened humans ran, crawled, cowered as chaos unfolded. One moment, Renee saw Lavigne, the next showed her another world. She saw what other villagers only felt: all around them stalked the husks of blackened creatures. Frail, dead flesh clung to their bones, skeletons of every grotesque shape. Foul ichor dripped from their fangs.

Renee shook herself and tried to focus. The villagers ran, terrified of shrieking wind and men with guns. Renee saw the beasts among them, darting in a savage dance of glee. One sickly hound of a creature bent low to a villager. The beast threaded its tongue down the man's throat and lapped up his dying moans.

The Starving Wolf shouted orders, propped up by one of his surviving servants. "Get the girl on the cart, and grab whoever else you can! Beat 'em, drug 'em, whatever. Time to get out—this town's fucked."

Hands looped under Renee's shoulders to drag her away. Chills and nausea wracked the girl, and she felt sudden vertigo as a Wolfsman laid her down in the bed of a cart. She reached a feeble hand to the sky, where black-feathered creatures wheeled. She saw them as deeper patches in the night. Splinters flew as a bullet struck the cart near Renee's face. She didn't care—she saw only black wings and empty eyes. A crawling chill sank into her bones.

Renee didn't hear the hoof-beats charging up the road, nor did the Wolfsman escorting her. Busy securing the girl, he took a shotgun blast to the back and cried out. Ichabod's second shot spun the guard around, spraying viscera over the wagon.

"About time!" Jeremiah took the opening, popping from cover to fire. The guard assisting the Wolf abandoned his master, turning to sprint away. A shot caught him through the ankle, and he sprawled into an army crawl, slithering for cover. Ichabod put a slug in the retreating man, and his prone form went limp.

Renee's veins leaked putrid fire into her flesh and bones. The girl's stomach rebelled, and she shoved her fingers down her throat. Renee retched, and fluid the color of hot tar gushed out. Pain gripped her temples like a vice as she swallowed her fingers again. She leaned her head to one side to vomit. Away from her, Ichabod and Jeremiah exchanged shots with the Wolf. The injured man fled in mad serpentine zags, out of sight into the tall grass. Ichabod swore, straining against Jeremiah's grip.

"He'll lead you right into a trap," Jeremiah said. "Let him go!" He dodged back as Ichabod swung a fist at him.

"No!" the big man shouted. "He dies! Tonight!"

Jeremiah grimaced. "Shit...fine! You tank, I'll flank. Let's go get our stuff and start tracking him."

Ichabod balked. "Right. Uh, our gear kind of exploded."

"What?!" Jeremiah said.

"Blew up."

"What!?"

"God damn, Jerry, you speak the language. Your explosives caught fire. Bada-boom."

"The book! Tell me you got the book back!"

"Up in smoke—hence the unholy campfire. You can hang around, thumb-in-ass, all you want. I gotta go get the Wolf."

Jeremiah double-took. "You know him?"

"Old war criminal. He brought in the imposter Kingsmen."

Jeremiah slid fresh rounds into his revolver. "We'll do the best we can, and retreat if the fight goes sideways. When we—"

Jeremiah didn't get to finish. Sheepdog Priar screamed as his body contorted. His clothes hung torn from his gruesome frame, and blood poured from the lashes on his back. His mouth gaped open as his vertebrae shattered and healed, rapid-fire. His spine lengthened, reformed, lengthened and reformed until his neck broke under the weight. His head lolled in a sick upside-down twist. Ichabod and Jeremiah exchanged glances, raised their weapons and fired.

The warped creature jerked and twitched with each impact, a jittering puppet-dance. Unearthly tones twined with Priar's voice as he moaned. The dark marks written on the earth climbed his body, spiraling up to eat into his bones, and his skeleton shattered into horns and thick spines. His fingers elongated to whips of skin and sinew. Bone fragments studded the tendrils, like glass bits in a torturer's lash. The monster born of Priar's flesh lumbered forward. He howled, and the world screamed in pain.

# 20

Renee propped herself on one elbow, watching with detached serenity. Men fired wild shots into Priar's melted, shifting mass. A handful of Lavigne's townsfolk rallied behind Ichabod and Jeremiah, adding hunting rifles and old shotguns to the offensive. Bullets tore the flesh from Priar's torso, making one wide-gaping wound of his chest. The whips of the monster's fingers caught and squeezed a villager, flaying him down to the bone. The man died screaming as the tendrils siphoned his fluids, dragging him closer. Priar's ruined chest exploded outward, and teeth formed from his shattered ribcage. The Sheepdog's tendrils shoved the ruined corpse inside, bloody maw chewing and gnashing.

Renee rolled onto her back. She heard the dying and undying screams, and did not care. Even the black-winged creatures' trills grew faint. "Am I dying?" she whispered.

Of course.

Renee blinked and looked for the speaker. A thin, fragile wretch with black-feathered wings stared from the edge of her cart. Its stubby hands gripped the wood, fingernails wide and blunt with crescents of dirt underneath. The creature stared at Renee, looming over her like a living gargoyle. The fiend's dessicated plumage scritched like dead leaves, and a curious smile unburdened by feeling split its features. Like a human turned statue, made alien by heartless eons. Renee pictured a living face hardened and blackened by deadly cold, worn down with wind, water and time, grated, stripped, starved to the bones of a memory. Now only a thin smile remained, etched into bones of porous charcoal. Dying embers shone from the beast's hollow sockets. Renee felt the being's hunger, and swallowed hard. "Hello, stranger."

A laugh with an alien accent sounded in the girl's mind. You will know me well enough, Renee Cheval. You will die tonight, unless you hear my offer.

Renee's mouth worked, dredging up the spit to wet her lips. "...All right. What can you give me?" Near her, men howled, torn apart by a nightmare. Renee willed her leaden body to move, reaching out a hand. The monster breathed in her scent, tasting her sweat on the air.

The one and only Gift, said the creature. I offer you power.

Visions gripped Renee. She envisioned herself, rising dark and deadly from the cart.

You will fear no one, the stranger said.

She saw herself standing, flames whipping her hair in an inseparable mass of roiling orange.

Remake yourself, vicious and free.

Renee laughed at the flames, the knives, the guns and petty magics men pointed at her.

Roam where you will. Feed on the shadows. BECOME.

Renee saw herself born again. A black goddess with her fists in the ashes, sweeping her rivals aside. Priar, the masked man and the sky full of other winged travesties burned.

A shudder ran the length of Renee's body, and she smiled. "Oh? What would your fell bargain cost me?"

A trifle. The creature crawled nearer. A fist-sized organ of no consequence.

"My heart?"

Ye-ess!

Renee touched the little beast. She ran her fingers over once-mighty armor, now thin and brittle like eggshells. Like campfire ash-chunks and rusted tin siding.

"No one bargains unless they stand to profit," she said. "What if I suspect you'll swindle me? Suppose I refuse your deal, and take what I want."

The creature's eyes narrowed in confusion. Too late, it tried to withdraw. Renee gripped the creature, hauled back her fist and punched through the rotted armor. She wrapped her fingers around the withered heart as the fiend shrieked, struggling to rise on tattered wings. Renee pulled her fist free, stained black with coarse ash. She held the beast's heart in her hand. The stranger tried to fly, and tumbled into the cart's bed beside her. Heat seared Renee's gums as she sank her teeth into the organ. The flesh cracked, brittle and hot like live coals.

Cinders kindled to life inside Renee as she tore off chunks and swallowed. Each mouthful grew as she chewed, filling her stomach with pounds of hot, dry ash. The meal became a struggle, a bitter test of dominance. The stranger clawed at Renee, fighting to reclaim its essence, and she kicked the frail beast aside. The girl ripped off mouthful after mouthful.

The final bite burned down Renee's throat, and fierce pain consumed her. Her flesh, her bone, her tendons seared and came apart. She screamed in horror as her skin blackened and turned to ash. Renee burned, and the world burned with her as darkness fell.

# Epilogue

Ichabod collapsed on one knee. "God damn."

"Yeah." Jeremiah fumbled with numb fingers, pushing the spent cartridges from his handgun. The two travelers and a handful of village men stood around Priar's ragged corpse. No part of the Sheepdog remained recognizable. The hail of gunfire spread him across the whole churchyard. "Bright side," said Jeremiah. "No more heavy supplies to carry."

"Shut yer mouth," said Ichabod. "A cannibal freak set the whole inn on fire. You want me to burn off my face fetching keepsakes?"

"Wouldn't mind."

Ichabod spat. "Too fucking bad."

Jeremiah finished reloading and put his gun away. "Let's get the hell out of—Whoa." He threw out a hand to check Ichabod. "Stand back. I heard movement." Jeremiah glanced at the villagers. None looked in shape to stand or walk. A dark-tanned man with a barrel chest lay on hands and knees, weeping in the dirt. Young men gazed into the distance, broken. The smart ones had already fled, grabbing what they could on their way out. "Just us," said Jeremiah. "You got my back?"

"Nope. You got mine," said the big man. "C'mon." The duo rounded the church house corner, and Ichabod stopped short. "Shit," he whispered. "She lived."

Renee stood in the midnight darkness, watching stars not visible by mortals. Eldritch runes and whirligigs marked the profane soil, and she trod on them with bare feet. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and turned to the two men.

Clinging ash dyed Renee's skin white. Her eyes shone black and glossy when she opened them, like twin pools of oil. She stared at other worlds, sketches laid atop her own like tracing paper. She blinked, and stepped toward them.

"The fuck happened to her?" Ichabod said. He backed up fast, gun raised.

"One way to find out." Jeremiah held out his hand. "Give me your tranqs."

"Fuck no, let's shoot her while we can!"

"Shut up and hand them over!" Jeremiah dug out a needle-vial of pale fluid, steeled himself and stepped forward.

Renee smiled a sad, distant smile and reached out, tracing Jeremiah's scar with her finger. Her hand fell as he injected her, pumping sleep into her neck. Renee's muscles went flaccid, and the world grew dim.

"She'll flay us alive when she wakes!" shouted Ichabod. "What the fuck can we do with her?"

Renee watched the men through closing eyelids, and realized they didn't matter. Nor did she—besides the words of the burned book, nothing did. She listened to their conversation with divine indifference.

"Look at the kid," said Jeremiah. "Her family died or ran off, and she'll turn all the way cannibal unless she gets medicine soon. Arthur can put her to work."

Ichabod groaned. "You don't mean to bring the farm girl with us?"

"Yeah," Jeremiah said. "Let's get her to Grimoire, and fast."

# Continued in Grimoire 2: Cannibal

Lavigne lies buried in ash, and a new ember burns within Renee. Fever, mad visions and the burden of inhuman hunger wear at her, body and soul. Jeremiah and Ichabod can offer a new path, a way to control her abilities or even cure her—but Renee wants more. She wants revenge, and the Dragon whispers promises of power. Journey with Renee across the smoking battlefield of her mind. Journey with her surviving family as they flee Lavigne in panic. Get the next book, and see what becomes of the Chevals.

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Nathan Ohrdorf does alt process and film photography work by day, and plays bass for a Denver metal band by night. Clint Looney lives in Seattle, where he spends his time training software engineers on blindness and playing blues guitar.

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