

# STEPHEN D. SULLIVAN STORY SAMPLER

## Stephen D. Sullivan

• Walkabout Publishing •

Smashwords edition.

© 2010-11 Stephen D. Sullivan

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. (I'm a real person trying to make a living, not some faceless mega-corporation!)

*

Walkabout Publishing

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All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning, or any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author.

Cover art & design © 2010 Stephen D. Sullivan.

_Get free wallpapers of my stories at_ www.stephendsullivan.com _!_

##  CONTENTS

BLUE KINGDOMS STORIES

The Blood-Red Isle

Festival at Wolfnacht

Kidnapped by Saurians – A Dungeons & Dinosaurs story)

Monster Shark – An Umira the Accursed Story

Snowraven

STORIES OF THE STARCUTTER CREW

The Gift of the Dragons

Sisters in Arms

CRIMSON STORIES

Forever Crimson

The Gates of Paradise

Crash of the Titans

Time War

Crimson & Dragons

HORROR STORIES

Tricks & Treats

SCI-FI STORIES

Ares Zone-A

Last Call at Corona

STEAMPUNK STORIES

The Last Ranodon (formerly "Of a Feather")

Automata Futura

OTHER STORIES

Ghosts of 9/11

Luck o' the Irish

ABOUT THE STORIES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BLUE KINGDOMS STORIES

The Blood-Red Isle

Festival at Wolfnacht

Monster Shark – An Umira the Accursed Story

Snowraven

THE BLOOD-RED ISLE

~ A Blue Kingdoms Story ~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

### I. The Unexpected Jungle

"I thought Isla Sangre was supposed to be a blasted rock," Rik Armstrung said as he stepped ashore. He glanced back at the twelve people disembarking alongside him: nine humans, beside himself—including a derenki—and three basilisks. A rugged crew, for the most part, but the landscape ahead didn't look like what they'd signed aboard for.

"Yeah," the Midknight named Memnon agreed. "This place is as overgrown as the jungles of Kesh."

Lush vegetation tumbled down from the island's mountainous peak all the way to the shoreline. Thick brush and tangled vines sprouted between the crags and boulders lining the water's edge. An aroma of flourishing greenery and slow decay hung in the air. The isle's sweltering humidity smothered every sound, even the lapping of the waves against the shore. Though Rik peered hard into the jungle, he saw no sign of the palace they'd come all this way to find.

Memnon's fellow Midknight, Antiope, giggled—an action ill-suited to a mercenary warrior. Her deep blue armor seemed inappropriate to Rik as well, exposing far too much skin to really protect her. "Are you sure you've got the right island, Baron?" she asked.

"We're sure," Baron Robellar replied. He flashed a cold stare toward both Midknights as he stepped out of the sampan, setting polished boot to rocky shore. "Persha doesn't make mistakes, do you, Persha?"

Persha, Robellar's personal mage, fumbled with her scroll cases and managed a brief smile for her boss. "Of course not, milord. Reifworm and I have followed the trail as faithfully as Al-Shakir follows the stars."

Rik looked from the maroon-robed girl to the captain of Robellar's guard. Al-Shakir was tall, muscular, and obviously very capable; he was also extremely superstitious. Rik wasn't sure whose judgment he trusted less: Persha's, Shakir's, or that of Tel Reifworm, the sea mage who had guided them all to this overgrown rock; none of the three seemed to be sailing with a full crow's nest. Rik trusted Robellar, though—or, at least, he trusted the baron's greed.

"We were lucky to find this isle at all," Reifworm added, getting out of their small boat. Chun Ping, the expedition's captain, tied the sampan's line to a rocky crag, and Reifworm put a binding charm on the rope to hold it in place.

"It's only because of Persha's excellent research that we are here at all," Reifworm continued. "If she hadn't turned up a stone native to Isla Sangre, we'd never have been able to navigate through the warding spells set around the island."

"We are lucky to get here at all," Chun Ping said distantly. "This is not a good place to sail." She gazed longingly toward her junk, moored five hundred yards offshore. The boat's sails hung limp, as though this entire part of the World-Sea was holding its breath.

Persha finished collecting her gear, plopped down on a boulder, and wrung out the soggy hem of her gold-trimmed maroon robe. "The Blood-Red Queen's enchantments have protected Isla Sangre a long time," she said. "Despite her fierce reputation and considerable occult powers, Sanguinarre didn't want people to find her island."

"Nor did the wizards who killed her," Robellar added. "The Mistress of Pain had enemies, but her enemies also have enemies. Keeping the isle secret was good for all of them. And, as it turns out, good for us, too." A smile tugged at the corners of his stern lips as he stared into the jungle, which crowded down the rocky shore nearly into the water. "We all know what we're here for—and it's got nothing to do with the late queen's politics."

Zhek, Brak, and Grif, the company's three basilisk mercenaries, grunted noncommittally. Apparently the lizard-men didn't understand the baron's full motivations any more than Rik did. Robellar might want the loot from this isle to secure his position back home, or he might want the fame of having found Sanguinarre's treasure, or he might have some other unfathomable political motivation. But the basilisks, like the Midknights, Rik, and most of the others in the company, were in this purely for the wealth.

"Well, I don't like this place," put in Lita, the baron's paramour. Her golden jewelry rattled as she clung to Robellar, and her blond hair hung damply across her smooth shoulders. She seemed to fear that, at any moment, the jungle itself might attack them.

For once, Rik agreed with the courtesan—even if he couldn't fathom why the baron had brought her along. Dragging around a concubine defied common sense: there would be plenty of time for debauchery after the treasure had been won.

Isla Sangre had been a bad place when Sanguinarre ruled it, and it was still bad. Rik and the rest had come to extract treasure from a lifeless crag, and instead found a jungle. That made Rik feel uneasy, too.

"Tosh!" Wharkun, the derenki, scolded. "It's just a bloody great forest. True, we didn't expect to find it, but it's nothing to be afraid of." He leaned against the long handle of his battle ax and twirled his great, walrus-like moustache in his thick fingers. Wharkun was fatter than most of his cold-bred kind, and already the northern heat was causing big droplets of sweat to bead on his ruddy skin.

"The Company of Lian Fyre created this forest," Persha warned. "I'm sure they didn't do it merely for show."

"Our wizard is right," agreed Al-Shakir. "The battle mage and her people never did anything without a purpose. These tangled trees are a warning for those who would defy the Company's will. They would make such a jungle truly dangerous, in case the queen's allies returned after the war."

Reifworm scoffed. "Izanti and Carnelian Fyre never expected anyone to return here. All of Sanguinarre's retainers are dead. They died alongside their dread mistress. Without my navigational skills and Persha's research, we'd never have gotten close to these shores—and I am the best sea mage in this part of the World-Sea. I predict that we'll find Isla Sangre pleasantly deserted. Look around—not even a bird in the sky or a crab on the shore." He smiled, showing his crooked teeth.

Rik didn't feel sure that the lack of fauna was a good thing. He'd been a pirate and sailed with the Selene navy before turning mercenary, and—in his experience—neither appearances nor advice from hired sea mages could be taken at face value. A glance toward Memnon and Antiope told him that the Midknights didn't trust Reifworm any more than he did.

Baron Robellar made a final check of his weapons and equipment; the rest of the expedition did the same. Despite the unexpected jungle, none in the landing party even considered turning back. "Is everyone ready?" Robellar asked.

"Aye," the others replied, all save the basilisks, who grunted, and Lita who said nothing but appeared pale and worried.

"Let's go, then," Robellar said. "Persha, which way?"

The young mage consulted a rough-cut crystal just small enough to fit in her palm and frowned. "This way, I think," she said, pointing directly upslope. "The charm's portents are vague, though. Something's fouling them up."

Chung Ping spat. "Bad magic. This whole island reeks of it."

"The sooner we find what we're looking for, the sooner we'll get back to your precious ship," Robellar snapped. "Follow me." Taking the direction Persha had indicated, he began hacking his way into the jungle.

_Read more in_ "The Blood-Red Isle" _available in_ Zombies, Werewolves, & Unicorns _and in single story form at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

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FESTIVAL AT WOLFNACHT

~ A Blue Kingdoms Story ~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

### I. Intruders at the Gate

Konstantine crept up the stairway and peered over the spikes topping the wooden palisade. Falling snow made the nighttime countryside around Wolfnacht a blur of gray and white. The young villager could barely see the Timberline Mountains—though their peaks loomed just beyond the forest trail. He wiped several large, wet flakes from his eyebrows and stared into the gloom. He'd heard a sound, but what was it? What kind of man or beast would be out on a frigid night like this?

Normally, the village guard would have investigated such noises, but Wolfnacht's guard posts remained empty, and snow covered the catwalks atop the surrounding wall; no one patrolled the palisade tonight.

The sentries are all safe in their homes, Konstantine thought. Or maybe they're busy with the town elders. The adults were always busy nowadays, and, as usual, they hadn't seen fit to tell "Stan" what they were up to. Konstantine fumed about that. He was fifteen, and nearly in his majority, but no one had seen fit to tell him the purpose of all the hushed meetings.

Melting snow dripped down Stan's hair and splashed into his eyes. He pushed the sopping black locks away from his forehead. "Fool!" he muttered quietly to himself as he continued peering into the storm. "If you had any sense you'd be inside with all the rest!"

But, despite the wet and the cold, he didn't want to go back inside. There was something about the storm that had compelled him to venture into the night, something he'd felt even before he'd heard the muffled chimes.

This blizzard was different. Something about it was making the coarse hair on the back of Stan's neck stand on end. If he could figure out what, then he could go back inside where it was safe and warm.

He heard the noise again—a tinkling, bell-like tone, cutting through the hissing of the wind.

A flash of movement drew Stan's eyes to Wolfnacht Pass, barely visible through the snow. Dark shapes lurked at the base of the mountains, trudging away from the rocky cleft, heading toward the city. Konstantine strained his eyes, but he couldn't make out what the shapes were. He turned toward the alarm bell, dangling from a scaffold on the parapet a dozen yards away. Should he ring it?

No, he thought. No sense stirring things up. Not on a night like this with everyone so busy. Those shadows could be just a trick of the light and the snow. We're not expecting visitors. And, besides, no one ever comes to Wolfnacht anymore—not unless there's a festival.

The idea struck a chord within Stan. Could the elders be preparing for a festival?

Konstantine didn't remember any festivals being at this time of year—though Wolfnacht had a very long history, and sometimes an ancient remembrance would catch him unaware.

If they're preparing for a festival, where are the tourists? Stan thought. He tried to find the shapes again, but they'd vanished like specters amid the blowing snow.

Maybe the shapes are tourists on their way to town, Konstantine thought. Maybe it's some kind of snow festival, and they were waiting for a blizzard.

The idea seemed unlikely. Few tourists visited Wolfnacht nowadays, and even merchant caravans had become a rare sight. The remaining villagers refused to leave their decaying town, despite the struggles of daily life. Wolfnacht had been a thriving city once, before the Third Wizard War, and none of the remaining elders were willing to admit that those glory days had long past.

Stan knew his people would hang on as long as they could, eking out a marginal living by hunting and farming, rather than retreating to the safety of the Atrian Plains. Stan didn't share their devotion. As soon as he reached his majority, he would leave Wolfnacht and never look back.

"Those shapes aren't tourists," he muttered, not caring that there was no one around to hear him. Not even the bravest merchant or the rowdiest tourist would venture through the mountains during a snowstorm like this.

A chill, entirely unrelated to the weather, ran down Konstantine's spine. Would a blizzard bother the Enemy?

Stan didn't know. The elders of Wolfnacht seldom mentioned the supernatural threat lurking beyond the Timberline Mountains, and when they did speak of it, it was always in hushed and furtive tones.

Could this be the Enemy, looking to catch Wolfnacht unaware?

The shapes emerged from the snow again, but this time they weren't at the foot of the mountains—they were much, much closer.

How can anyone move so quickly through this kind of weather? Stan wondered.

The shadows resolved themselves into mounted figures, moving in single file, plowing rapidly through the fresh-fallen snow.

Konstantine hurried toward the alarm bell, near the main gate. He wrapped his hand around the cold, wet pull-cord, but then hesitated.

Maybe it's not the Enemy, he thought. Better to get a good look at the intruders before stirring up the whole town. The adolescent took a deep breath to steady his nerves.

Gradually, seven figures emerged from the storm. Clouds of breath and steam rose from the riders, only to be whipped away by the snowy wind. The riders appeared human. They were dressed in heavy cloaks, wearing armor, and carrying weapons. Dirt and blood stained the travelers' clothes; they looked as though they'd been through a war.

Konstantine gaped and his arm dropped away from the alarm bell. It wasn't the warriors that riveted the young man's attention, though; it was their mounts. Though one of the steeds was a simple pack horse, the remaining six animals were unicorns.

Stan had never seen anything like the unicorns before. Three were brilliant white, nearly invisible in the storm, save for the blood staining their coats. The fourth was dappled gray, and the fifth shone like gold. Ahead of the rest came a magnificent silver mare with a long, spiral horn protruding from her forehead. The unicorn stopped a respectful distance from the gate, and the lead rider—a big man with a serious face and a drooping moustache—called up to Konstantine.

"You there!" the man said, glowering. "I am Lance Sergeant Carl Volstag of the Sixth Atrian Cavalry, and this is my mount, Stardust. Your village is in dire peril, and my company needs rest and healing. Open your gates and let us in!" The sergeant wore tarnished and dented plate armor and carried a spiked mace.

"Please," added the rider of the gold unicorn, waiting just behind the leader. She shivered slightly as she spoke; she appeared barely older than Konstantine.

Stan couldn't seem to find the words to reply. He gazed at the strange visitors, one after another. Despite their wounds and their weary faces, he had a hard time believing the riders were real. He'd heard tales of the Atrian Cavalry, of course—everyone had—but he'd never seen so much as a single cavalry trooper before in his life. He noticed for the first time that there was a body, bloody and unmoving, slung over the back of the pack horse in the middle of the group.

"Stop gaping and let us in, boy!" Volstag commanded.

"I-I'll have to ask the elders," Stan called back. The riders didn't seem evil, and he'd never heard of the Enemy using unicorns before—Could unicorns even become undead? But the arrival of a patrol of Atrian Cavalry in the middle of a blizzard was unlikely as well. Perhaps it was some kind of Enemy trick.

Stan couldn't leave the palisade unmanned with intruders at the gate, so he grabbed hold of the wet, chilly bell cord and pulled. He beat the alarm in a clear, steady rhythm—hoping to convey a sense of urgency, rather than panic, to the people of Wolfnacht.

As the peals echoed above the storm, the doors of Wolfnacht flew open, and the villagers spilled out into the snowy streets. Some people pulled on clothes as they ran, others hefted weapons or buckled up ancient armor. Many of the townsfolk appeared frightened, others seemed curious, and some looked annoyed at being called out on a snowy evening. Many of the townsfolk carried torches and lanterns as they bustled toward the gate.

Berman, the chief elder, spotted Konstantine standing atop the wall and glowered at him. Many of the other villagers glared, too.

"What is it?" Berman called. He finished buttoning his trousers over his large belly and slogged up the palisade stair.

Nikolas, a rangy man with scruffy black hair and a stubbly face, laughed. "It's just my little brother, Konstantine," he barked as he followed Berman up. "Stan's a bit daft. Just havin' some fun with us, I'm sure."

"Well, Konstantine will find I don't have much of a sense of humor on a night like this," Berman said.

"I swear, Elder Berman, this is no jest," Stan said. The wolfish look on his brother's face made Stan's stomach twist.

Sweat dripped down the adolescent's brow and mingled with the melting snow. "I-it's important," he stammered. "We have visitors. Look!"

_Read more in_ "Festival at Wolfnacht" _available in_ Zombies, Werewolves, & Unicorns _and in single story form at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

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# KIDNAPPED BY SAURIANS

~ A Dungeons & Dinosaurs Story ~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

Tara Swordsong ran through the jungle, the hungry carnosaur only a few strides behind. Tara's bare feet padded swiftly over the lush growth, sending up puffs of foul-smelling spores and filling the air with clouds of blood-sucking insects. The teenager sprinted through the swarms, ignoring the tiny assaults on her flesh. _Stop and swat and you're dino food!_ She was clad only in skins, attire more suitable for swimming than fighting, but the scanty outfit kept her fast and agile, both essential when dealing with dinosaurs—especially the predators.

The dino-nikus hissed and cawed as it pursued her, calling the rest of its pack to the prey at hand. The dino's three-toed feet pounded through the groundcover, its deadly claws scarring the earth where it passed. To the jungle girl, the beast smelled like warm snakeskin and rotting meat. It was fast, too, almost certainly faster than Tara over open ground.

To anyone watching the pursuit, the girl would have seemed absurdly outmatched. She was nearly naked and lacked the dinosaur's natural arsenal: the feathery scales, the curving claws, and the dagger-like teeth. Her spear and knife seemed inadequate by comparison. The girl's one clear advantage, her bow, remained strapped to her back, useless while running.

Yet Tara remained confident. She changed direction swiftly and randomly—once right, twice left, two right, left, two right—defying the dino to hone in and take her down. And even while running, she kept her goals in mind. First: lead the dino to a place where she could kill it and give herself an advantage over any that followed. After that: find and rescue Trixa's kidnapped baby.

The dino screeched and hissed, closer now, despite Tara's evasive tactics. She could almost feel its hot breath on the backs of her legs; in the reptile's mind, she saw murder, a vision of her own grisly death—her head crushed and entrails ripped out, guts dripping from slavering dinosaur jaws.

_Not today_ _!_

The jungle thinned, revealing a ten-yard stretch of open ground ending at a huge, twisted ginko tree. Tara cut loose with a final burst of speed, knowing the dino-nikus would do the same. She leaped, reaching for the single bare branch stretching out over the gorge ahead—a chasm the dinosaur, its blood boiling for the kill, had failed to notice.

Tara's calloused hands wrapped around the slender limb, and she swung, converting forward motion into upward momentum. The dino reached for her, clawing at her legs and back, but she arced up over the top of the limb. The reptile missed by scant inches and fell, screeching, into the river valley below. Its life ended amid smashing rocks and pummeling water.

Tara landed atop the tree limb, crouching lightly like a cat. She didn't smile; smiling would have suggested she approved of the reptile's death. She didn't. The death was merely necessary, the way of the land of Sauria, necessary because Trixa's baby _must_ be rescued. He was the future of her tribe.

Besides, there was no time to smile. The rest of the dino's pack had found her, brought by the cries of their recently deceased brother. Four more dino-nikus prowled out of the jungle, warily eyeing the girl in the tree. They hissed and cackled to each other, communicating in what passed for raptor language.

Tara nocked an arrow to her bow and put it through the eye of the lead dino while the remaining three rushed the tree. The dinos ignored the death of their comrade, now twitching on the ground, and began climbing, digging their long claws into the bark of the ginko's wide trunk. These gangly reptiles were not brilliant climbers, but they'd reach Tara's limb quickly enough if she let them, which she _did_ _not_ intend to do.

She fired one more shot, which bounced harmlessly off a dino-nikus' feathery scales, before sprinting down her branch to the main trunk. The dinos snapped at her as she flitted past, but they remained a yard down the tree, just out of reach. Nimble human fingers and toes quickly propelled Tara up into the higher branches. From here, she would be able to pick off the rest of the pack at her leisure, long before they could reach her.

As she took aim, though, the jungle girl's preternaturally keen senses warned of another threat approaching. She had just shot an arrow down the gaping maw of the lead dino—killing it from the inside—when something even worse emerged from the trees: a yu-tah raptor.

The yu-tah looked like the dino-nikus in both shape and coloration, but it was huge—twice the size of the smaller predators. _This is not natural! Dinos do not hunt in mixed packs!_ Tara's stomach clenched; was she high enough in the tree to avoid the new beast's snapping jaws?

The dino she'd just killed tumbled down and slammed into its fellows, carrying the remaining two dino-nikus back to earth. The reptiles crashed into the tree roots, squabbling and screeching like scared chickens. They, too, sensed the new threat. But they needn't have worried; the larger raptor ignored them, focusing instead on the girl in the tree.

Tara scrambled higher into the boles of the spreading ginko as the big raptor sprang. The tree was large, far wider at the base than Tara's arms could encircle, but the reptile's impact shook it to the roots. Tara clung tight and barely avoided losing her grip. Below, the jaws of the yu-tah yawned wide, waiting to devour her.

_Read more in_ "Kidnapped by Saurians" A Dungeons & Dinosaurs™ _story_ _at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

MONSTER SHARK

~ An Umira the Accursed Story ~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

### I. Treasure

Sharks circled Umira, above, below, and on every side. Their cold black eyes gazed at the triton starwatcher, scrutinizing her scaly blue skin, her long green hair, and her glittering jewelry. Umira gazed back, her own black eyes trying to peer into their alien minds.

Are we so different?

Eyes, teeth, skin . . . all so similar. Both, feared and hated—outcast from civilized societies.

We are alike.

Despite their similarities, a chill of doubt ran through Umira. As a triton, she'd been around sharks most of her life, but she'd never faced so many at once, never a school this large or with so many different species: redfins, daggertooths, blues, hammerheads, and more. Mariners had named this place the _Shark Keys_ with good reason.

Had it been a mistake for Umira to come here? Would this decision be her last? Even with all her strength and skill, a school this size could tear the triton apart in moments. Would that be so terrible, though? At least then there would be an end. At least then she would know: there was no place in the Blue Kingdoms, either above or below the waves, for Umira the Accursed.

Umira steeled herself, strangling the dark thoughts until they vanished into the depths of her soul once more.

I will not die this day. Not unless I am stupid. Not unless I show fear.

She kept her swimming movements regular and her heartbeat calm. She did not reach for the serrated longknives strapped to her hips. Instead, she forced every aspect of her body to send a single, potent message:

_I am_ not _prey._

Though Umira was neither mage nor telepath, the sharks seemed to believe her. They remained curious but respectful, keeping their distance from the starwatcher. Even the school's sole _ravager_ —a species of shark known to eat both human and triton—spared Umira merely a passing glance.

Is this what it feels to be accepted?

Umira focused her sea-born senses on the school, heard the water passing across their gills, felt their sinuous movements as waves of pressure against her scaly skin. She moved in harmony with them, but she still could not tell: Was this _acceptance_ or merely indifference?

She reached out and caressed the side of a passing redfin with her webbed fingers. The fish arched pleasurably under her touch. Its skin felt smoother than her own. Then the shark darted away into the azure distance of the middle depths.

I am like them. More than I am like people.

For a moment, Umira almost felt at home.

WHOOMPH!

Smothered thunder shook the deep. The entire water column quaked, and the sharks swirled in agitation. Some buffeted Umira, their skin scraping like sandpaper now. Umira gasped involuntarily. The school wasn't attacking, though; they were confused, frightened. Umira felt the confusion, as well.

The pressure, the sound, the sudden rush of cold from deeper waters, all dazzled the triton's senses. Every instinct told her to flee, to swim away, fast, as her fishy brethren were already doing. Only Umira's intellect overcame her panic. Once more, she strangled the fear inside, pushing it back into the deep recesses of her mind.

In an instant, the rest of the school had vanished into the deep, leaving Umira alone.

What just happened?

A shadow eclipsed the bright disc of the ocean's surface, many fathoms above. She looked up and saw the silhouette of a large ship cutting through the waves.

_People_? _People did this? How?_

As the waters calmed around her, Umira felt a slight tingling just below the surface of her scales.

Magic.

But from where? The ship felt alien, an intruder in her world. She felt the magic emanating from it, but there was something else, too . . . She peered down into the indigo depths, and noticed a faint glow that hadn't been there before—not a reflection from the surface above, but something different, something that made her feel as though crabs were crawling across her skin: powerful, ancient magic.

She looked from the ship to the strange glow and then back.

The humans' magic is causing this somehow. They are harming the ocean! They must stop!

Umira swam toward the surface, her sleek body cutting through the water with sinuous powerful strokes. As she drew near the ship, something splashed into the water to her left: a glowing, greenish orb that sent tingling electricity across her skin. The light sank quickly, leaving a trail of hissing bubbles in its wake.

It dropped into the blue and then exploded.

A senses-numbing shockwave buffeted Umira, thrusting her toward the surface. The bottom of the boat's hull loomed above, unyielding, covered with sharp barnacles.

_Read more in_ "Monster Shark" _at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

# SNOWRAVEN

### Prologue

Lightning ripped the sky as factions of god-like wizards battled, shattering the world and rebuilding it, time and again, to their own liking. For the millions caught in the confrontation's backlash, the war seemed like the end of everything.

On the Azure Sea, towering waves crashed through the hole in the _Ransom's_ side, quickly flooding the ship's lower compartments. The _Ransom's_ crew scrambled across her splintered decks, heaving longboats overboard and clambering to safety. They either didn't hear—or chose to ignore—the cries of the slaves drowning in the hold.

Yanna of the Wind Raven tribe slipped the chains from her wrists as the water surged up around her hips. She was only seven years old, and the shackles had never fit very tightly. A week of near-starvation during their passage had made Yanna just thin enough to squeeze out of her bonds.

"Mother! Father! Sister!" she screamed, but the roar of the waves and peals of thunder obliterated her words. The cold, salty water pouring through the breach stung her eyes and made her cough. The chaos and darkness made it difficult to see more than an arm's-length in front of her. The weeks of bondage since her tribe had been kidnapped from their lands had been terrible, but this was even worse. Yanna's heart pounded, and tears streamed down her face, mingling with the sea spray, as she pushed through the swirling currents, searching for her family.

"Yanna!" Her mother's cry echoed above the crash of the sea and the screams of the dying. "Yanna!" Her father's voice, as well. She spotted them in a flash of lightning, clinging to the bulkhead near a maw-like break in the ship's hull. The _Ransom_ had been snapped nearly in half.

Yanna heaved herself through brine and the darkness to them. "Where's Shadi?"

Pain twisted her father's face. "She's gone!" He held up his hands, as if pleading with the Great Spirit for mercy. Her mother did the same, and Yanna realized that both her parents still wore their shackles. They could not escape the sinking ship!

"Mother! Father!" Yanna seized their chains and pulled with all her might. The links were rusty, but they neither broke nor tore loose from the bulkhead. She looked at her parents, her dark eyes pleading with them to do something—anything. Eddies swirled around Yanna's shoulders, threatening to drag her deeper into the hold and drown her amid the debris and corpses.

She slipped and almost went under, but her father's strong hands pulled her to the surface.

"Go!" he said, thrusting Yanna toward the breach in the hull.

"Go, my Little Raven!" her mother implored. "Save yourself!"

Yanna shook her head, and sea foam spattered from her long black hair. "I can't!" She threw herself back into the imagined safety of her mother's arms.

"You must!" her mother insisted. She embraced the girl one last time, her fingers lovingly tracing the raven mark on Yanna's exposed shoulder. The symbol of their people blazed under her mother's touch, despite the chill of the water.

"You are the last of our tribe!" her father added, pushing Yanna toward the breach once more. "You must survive! Be brave, my little warrior!"

Yanna tried to protest, but a wave slapped her in the face, choking off her words.

Then, suddenly, another surge propelled her through the gap and into the open ocean. She floundered, reaching for the ship, but the swell ripped her away. She watched helplessly as the waves dragged the wreck to the bottom of the Azure Sea, taking her parents—and the life she had cherished—along with them.

### 1. Raven's Warning

A lone raven circled lazily in the gray, late-autumn sky. The bird looked as though it was searching for something, but what that might be, Katyana Ravenlocks couldn't discern. Her tribe—her people from her life _before,_ when she was merely Yanna _—_ thought that every appearance by a raven carried some portent for the future. "Reading the signs" had been part of Kat's tribal education, but she hadn't mastered the art before her kidnapping. As she watched the bird overhead, Kat wished that it could talk, that it could tell her what it knew of the future and the part she would play in it.

_Tell me where my enemies lie_ , she thought. _Tell me where to find them and how I may slay them._

A stern voice split the chilly afternoon air. "Katyana!"

Kat snapped to attention, her reverie broken. "Yes, ma'am?"

The warrior smiled at her. "No need to be so formal, Katya, my love, but you must pay attention. If you daydream while on patrol, you may never wake up."

Kat nodded and clutched the reins of her small bay mare, Brunhilde. Even through her leather gloves, her hands felt cold. "Yes, Mamma Stacia. But I wasn't daydreaming; I was watching that raven." Her breath puffed out in small white clouds and drifted up toward the distant bird. "I think it might be trying to tell me something."

A look of understanding—and shared loss—flashed across her foster mother's eyes. "I know you miss your people," Stacia Flamelocks said, "but ravens can't really talk—not here, not to us. No matter how much we want things to be different, the world we loved is gone. We need to make the best we can of _this_ world. We need to keep our minds on where we are and concentrate on the tasks at hand."

"Yes, Mamma."

Stacia rode confidently beside her foster child, focused, attentive. Her dappled stallion, Elsinon, towered over Brunhilde, just as Stacia towered over the sixteen-year-old. Kat was tall, and growing taller, but her foster mother was a giant of a woman. Peeking through the clouds, the afternoon sunshine turned Stacia's red hair into a cascade of molten gold. Her green eyes scanned the rolling hills, seeking out any threat. The tree-dotted landscape that surrounded them was brown and quiet, hunkering down for winter. Already, stray patches of snow clung to the ground.

Riding so close to Stacia, Kat felt inadequate in every way. Her hair and eyes were dark and plain, not fiery and lustrous; her body wasn't as full or firm. She wasn't as strong as Stacia, nor were her reflexes as sharp, and she certainly wasn't half the warrior.

If I had her skill and strength, I'd track down every last one of Teng's marauders and make them pay.

_Read more in_ "Snowraven" _at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

### STORIES OF THE STARCUTTER CREW

The Gift of the Dragons

Sisters in Arms

# THE GIFT OF THE DRAGONS

~ A Blue Kingdoms Story ~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

Captain Ali al Shahar eyed the golden trinket in the girl's hand. "So, Princess," he said, "why is this bauble so important to you?"

Princess Makachiko Sunrii averted her brown eyes from the captain and adjusted her carefully fitted silk garments. "It's been in my family a long time," she said. "I didn't want to see it lost."

The captain shook his head. "That may be your story, but I'm not buying it," he said. "Even with the pirate ship burning, and cutthroats all around you, you were more concerned with rescuing that necklace than with saving yourself. Why?"

Kor dar-Bek, the Starcutter's first mate, nodded. The half-ogre's huge frame completely filled the cabin door blocking the afternoon sunlight; his brutish countenance made the nod seem vaguely sinister.

Makachiko frowned. "It's really none of your business, Captain," she said. "You may have rescued me from my captors, but neither I nor my family owes you any explanations."

"True enough," Ali said. "All I was promised for your return was a fat reward. However," he continued, his hazel eyes growing cold, "I am captain of the Starcutter, and anything that may imperil my ship or crew concerns me. Rescuing you from the Purple Tern Brigands was dangerous. Taking you home, even with the pirates defeated, will be more dangerous still. Everything aboard this ship concerns me, including that necklace."

"What the captain is saying," Kor explained, "is that you either come clean about that trinket, or you practice up on your swimming." The half-ogre's eyes gleamed poison-green, and a wide grin cracked his gnarled face. He bowed slightly and added, "Yer highness."

The princess looked alarmed, too alarmed, really, for one of her breeding. She glanced hopefully from the captain to the half-ogre and then back, pleading with her deep brown eyes.

Princess Makachiko's looks were enough to sway the mind of nearly any man. She was round in the right places and slender in the rest. Her dark hair cascaded over her bare shoulders. Her silken clothes, rescued from the pirates, clung lovingly to her figure, and revealed much of her tanned skin. "Captain," she said, "please. . . ."

Ali folded his arms across his chest and gazed sternly at her.

"Give it up, girl," the half-ogre said, laughing. "You'll never win a battle of will against the captain!"

Makachiko sighed. "Very well," she said. "It seems I have no choice but to tell you."

She held the necklace out so that the captain and the half-ogre could see it better. The medallion glittered enticingly in the sunlight leaking through the cabin's starboard porthole. The necklace looked like a tiny silver dragon. Its bejeweled form dangled from the end of the stout chain twined through the princess' slender fingers. The dragon's body curved into a sinuous "S," and its blue gemstone eyes gleamed. It almost looked alive.

"This bauble, as you've called it," Makachiko said, "was given to my father by the dragon queen Argentia Lumus—for services rendered during the recent Wizard War."

Ali arched one dark eyebrow and studied the necklace carefully. "So you're saying its value is more sentimental than monetary," he said. "Somehow, I don't buy that."

Kor moved forward, ducking to keep his head from brushing the cabin's top timbers. He laughed. "The captain's heard enough fish stories to last his lifetime!"

Makachiko's face reddened. "This necklace is a gift from the dragons. Its price is beyond measure!"

Ali's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"The dragon lady gave it the power to summon her people to my family's aid!" the princess replied.

Kor dar-Bek frowned. "That's a lot of fish-oil, too, Captain," he said. "If the trinket has that kind of power, why didn't she have the dragons save her ship from the Purple Tern Brigands? Or rescue her from their brig? For that matter, why doesn't she call them now to ferry her back to Sunrii Isle and save us the trouble?"

"It will only work once," the princess said icily.

The half-ogre scratched his stubbly chin. "Well, when your shipmates were being slaughtered might have been a good time to use it."

"The pirates caught us by surprise," the princess hissed. "And, besides, the necklace was immediately taken from me. Do you think I wouldn't have saved my crew if I could have?"

The half-ogre shrugged. "From what I've seen of you so far, it's hard to tell."

"Enough," Ali said. "Why the princess didn't use the medallion's magic—if it exists—is none of our concern." His handsome face melted into a smile. "Besides, if she used it to fly home, how would we collect the reward for her rescue?" He balled up his fist and affectionately slugged the half-ogre in the left biceps.

Kor dar-Bek rubbed his bony head. "Well . . . if we get into another fix," he said, "I hope her worship will be a bit more generous with her dragon-magic."

Ali looked from the half-ogre to the princess. "Don't worry," he said reassuringly to her. "I'm sure we'll have smooth sailing from now on."

"I agree," said a musical voice from the cabin door. "With their home base ablaze, the Purple Terns will be hard pressed to follow us. I saw no other Tern ships as I scouted the surrounding seas." In the doorway stood Sarifa T'Liil, the Starcutter's master-at-arms. The siren warrior folded her wings to duck through the cabin's human-sized portal. "I have assessed the damage from the skirmish, Captain," she concluded.

Ali nodded at the lightly-armored bird-woman. As usual, Sarifa appeared completely unfazed by the difficulties of the recent battle. Not one delicate red feather atop her head appeared out of place. "Go on," he said.

"Many minor scrapes and bruises," Sarifa reported. "Seven wounded, three severely—one may join his ancestors in the stars."

"Who?" Ali asked.

"Old Tifek," the siren replied.

Ali nodded grimly. "Is that Doran's assessment?"

Sarifa nodded. "The physician's Il-Siha training only extends so far. If you've any magic to spare, Captain, now would be the time to use it." She looked at him hopefully.

Ali shook his head grimly. "I used all the ship's blessing stones during the fight. I'm fresh out of miracles—even minor ones."

"Maybe her worship can help," Kor said. He turned toward the princess, bumping his brow on the rafters as he did so.

"I can't use the necklace for just one sailor," Makachiko said. "I have to save it for important things."

"Every life is important," Ali reminded her.

"Things that are important to my family . . . to my kingdom," Makachiko shot back. "The power of the medallion is not mine to throw away as I please. It belongs to the whole kingdom of Sunrii."

Kor glared at the princess. "What'd I tell you, Captain?" the half-ogre said. "The highborn are always trouble."

"It's not that I don't care," the princess explained. "It's just that I have to consider my responsibilities. If I wasted the dragons' gift on one lone sailor. . . . Well, what would the people of Sunrii say when the next typhoon struck?"

Ali looked from the princess to Sarifa. "Tell Doran to do what he can," the captain told his master-at-arms.

The siren woman nodded curtly. She folded her red wings tightly against her back and turned to go. As she paused at the doorway, the sunlight silhouetted her lithe frame. To those inside the cabin, she looked for a moment like a fiery-winged angel—a messenger of light and darkness, bringing portents for mankind.

Suddenly, the ship lurched hard to its starboard side.

"Rogue wave!" Kor blurted.

_Read more in_ "The Gift of the Dragons" _found in_ Martian Knights & Other Tales _and in single-story form at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

SISTERS IN ARMS

~ A Blue Kingdoms Story ~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

### 1. Captain's Gambit

The half-ogre stared at Lilani Coralshell's breasts, but Lia didn't mind; distracting the enemy's first mate was a vital part of Captain Marg's plan.

Lia leaned her chair back on two legs and tipped the bottom of her mug toward the tavern ceiling, savoring the taste of the heady Barbarossan ale as it slid down her throat. The cool froth dulled the swelter of the summer afternoon air and helped her ignore the stink of the overcrowded saloon.

The mountainous half-ogre seated next to Lia and her sister, Rina, continued leering. His bloodshot eyes probed the vast expanses of tan skin showing above, below, and between gaps in the Coralshell sisters' bejeweled armor. Lia could almost feel his bestial imagination pawing her.

The enemy captain, Ali al Shahar, wasn't following his first mate's lead, despite the sisters' scanty attire. He kept his keen eyes fixed on Marg Twoswords as they parleyed—and he wasn't looking at Marg's middle-aged body. Lia had heard of Captain Ali, and clearly he had heard of Marg, mistress of the _Silver Pearl_.

_This one is cagey,_ Lia thought as she drained her glass, _and not easily distracted. But Marg has his measure, I'll wager._ Lia tipped her chair forward, making sure to give the half-ogre a generous view. The brute's eyes flushed orange with arousal. Lia chanced a quick glance at Rina and, somehow, neither sister laughed.

As Rina fidgeted with the golden strap of her halter, "accidentally" exposing a bit more flesh, Lia pretended to study her drink, while actually sizing up the man sitting opposite Captain Marg.

Ali al Shahar's appearance did _not_ match his formidable reputation. Yes, he was athletic and handsome, with sea-tanned skin, a trimmed beard, and flashing hazel eyes—just the kind of rogue that Lia normally fancied, in fact. And, yes, he was well dressed. A bejeweled pendant in the shape of a teardrop dangled around his neck, and he wore two rings—one on the middle finger of each hand. The rings, a ruby-topped golden circlet and a platinum band of dolphins surrounding a deep blue stone, looked both ancient and valuable. But Lia had seen plenty of buffed and decked-out mariners in her time; to her, Ali was just another pretty face.

Seeming to sense her scrutiny, the enemy captain stopped talking to Marg for a moment. His hand strayed casually to the golden hilt of his cutlass as he glanced at the younger Coralshell sister. This was no leering appraisal, but the deft assessment of a clever mind.

_We can take him_ , Lia concluded, s _o long as he doesn't tumble to our plan_. She looked away, pretending not to have noticed Ali's scrutiny, as the captains returned to their conversation.

Lia and her sister had been sailing on the _Silver Pearl_ for four years, and Marg's schemes nearly always worked. During that time, Marg Twoswords had fleeced much tougher rams than this Ali—though Lia remained unsure why they needed to deal with him at all, especially a scant month before Marg's planned retirement.

What did their captain, who usually avoided contact with the men, want with this freemariner? Her ship, the _Silver Pearl_ , was nearly as swift as his _Starcutter_ , and her crew was at least as formidable. Surely they could tackle this mission without matching wits against such a famous seafarer—whether he deserved his reputation or not.

"What do you want from me?" Ali asked Marg.

A chill ran down Lia's spine; it was as though the _Starcutter's_ captain had read her thoughts. She took another drink to tamp down the worry.

"I mean, I'm flattered that you've invited me here, Captain Twoswords," Ali continued, "but if you have this map—as you say you do—then why do you need me? Surely a mariner of your renown can handle a simple treasure hunt."

"You're right," Marg said. She leaned over the table, her aging bosom practically spilling out of her bejeweled armor. "Normally I wouldn't ask for help outside the Sisterhood, but we're talking about a Khef-Tui island here."

Marg's cleavage didn't seem to distract Ali in the least. He folded his arms across his chest and stared directly into her brown eyes. Lia listened, while being careful not to seem like she was. She knew that though Rina appeared to be flirting with the half-ogre, her sister, too, was paying careful attention.

"Even with a map, the lands of the Khef-Tui are hard to find," Marg explained. "Their race has been dead a long time; you know that as well as I, Captain. The ancients guarded even their most insignificant outposts with magical wards and diabolical tricks. They didn't like intruders."

"No one's found a new Khef-Tui ruin in ages," Ali replied, "and most so-called Khef-Tui maps aren't worth the papyrus they're painted on. What makes you think this one is real?"

"The Sisterhood has resources most people aren't privy to," Marg replied. "My map is genuine, I assure you. What's more, I know for certain that no one has plundered this island. Can you even imagine the riches of an unspoiled Khef-Tui isle? There'll be enough loot for both of us to retire—and set up our crews for life as well."

Now Ali leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "It _would_ be a prize worth winning," he agreed. "Though I ask again: Why my ship? Why me?"

Marg shrugged. "You have a knack for finding things, Captain al Shahar—treasure especially. Everyone knows that. Plus, you're the best navigator in the western Azure Sea."

Ali frowned; clearly, neither flattery nor matronly sex appeal would win this battle for Marg.

"Why should I trust you?" he asked. "For all I know, this is some Sisterhood plot to lure me and my crew into a trap and take our ship. You're pirates, after all—no offense."

"None taken." Marg's brown eyes flickered dangerously. "But wouldn't this be a long line to play just for one ship—even a fast one like the _Starcutter_?"

"Maybe. But how can you prove your good intentions?"

"I only brought two of my crew with me to parlay," she said, indicating the sisters.

"And I only brought one."

"But yours is twice the size of mine."

A smile flashed across Ali's bearded face. "And yours are twice as good looking."

The table lurched slightly, and Lia realized that Ali had kicked the half-ogre in the shin. The brute grunted in shock and stopped staring at the sisters. He glared at Ali for a moment, then, seeming to remember himself, bobbed his head deferentially. "Sorry, Cap'n," he muttered. His ogreish eyes went deep green as his rough-hewn face grew deadly serious.

Marg laughed, a sharp, boisterous outburst. "I was beginning to think you hadn't noticed, Captain. I did, indeed, bring two of my comeliest buccaneers with me. You can't blame a girl for trying to even things out just a bit."

"With the Sisterhood, the odds are never even," Ali replied.

Again, a momentary flash of anger in Marg's eyes. "I'll give you the map, then," she offered. "You'll be navigating anyway, so your ship should take the lead."

"That might be . . . acceptable," he said.

Marg slowly brushed a stray lock of wavy auburn hair out of her eyes. "Then we have a deal."

"Great!" Lia chimed. This was the signal she and Rina had been waiting for. Lia threw back her head and guzzled the rest of her drink in one long gulp, giving the half-ogre a generous view of her bosom.

Rina downed her ale in the same lusty manner. Once finished, both girls wiped their lips clean with the back of their tanned forearms.

"We should drink to our future success!" Lia declared.

"Barman," Rina called, "another round!"

The barkeep wiping tables nearby bobbed his scraggly head.

"And one for the captain as well!" Marg added.

Ali al Shahar shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't drink spirits."

"I insist," Marg replied as the barman pushed through a throng of patrons to fetch the drinks. "We must toast our partnership. You wouldn't want to bring bad luck upon our venture, would you?"

"The gods frown upon those reluctant to seal their oaths," Rina put in cleverly.

"There is but one God," Ali replied, never taking his eyes from Marg. "I'll join you in your toast, but without breaking my oath to Him, either. A birch beer will suffice for me. Kor, fetch it, would you?"

The half-ogre seemed startled by the request. He tore away his gaze, which had wandered back to the sisters, and grumbled, "Eh?"

Marg rose. "Never mind, Captain, the barman can get it. You there!" she called across the sea of unwashed heads. "Make Captain al Shahar's drink a birch beer!" The serving man nodded.

"Now, about that map . . ." Ali said.

Marg patted a bone scroll case fastened to the jeweled belt circling her full hips. "I have it right here." She unhooked the container and offered it to the captain as the drinks arrived.

Lia, Rina, and Kor took their beers, and Marg handed over the case. As Ali began to open the container, the _Silver Pearl's_ captain lunged across the table at him. Simultaneously, both sisters flung their drinks into the half-ogre's face.

_Read more in_ "Sisters in Arms" _found in_ Blue Kingdoms: Buxom Buccaneers _and in single-story form at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

CRIMSON STORIES

Forever Crimson

The Gates of Paradise

Crash of the Titans

Time War

Crimson & Dragons

FOREVER CRIMSON

~ The First Crimson Story ~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

I lay in the flower-spotted field watching my lifeblood leak away and thought, "Not again!"

I'd enjoyed this life and was not ready to see it end.

The manticore had a different idea. It stood over me, licking its blood-stained face and swishing its long scorpion tail back and forth like an angry cat.

I tried to reach for my sword, but the monster's poison had already worked its way down my limbs. I couldn't feel my fingertips. At least, I thought, I'm dying alone.

I hated when my little adventures got people killed. It's bad enough when I die myself; no sense causing anyone else's untimely demise. I guess that's why I'm a lifelong loner.

I made one last try for the sword, but it was no use. That feeling of serene warmth had already set in—the torpor of death. My body was not my own any longer; a feeling I'd grown used to in recent years.

I didn't have time to review my life—which was okay. It wasn't really my life anyway, but I'd been glad to take part in it.

By the time the manticore finished preening and ripped my throat out, I hardly felt it.

*

My first thought as I woke up was: Where am I?

That's usually my first thought. I suppose I could use these initial waking moments to reflect on my past mistakes—but I've found that doing so is often a good way to get killed . . . again.

I opened my eyes and gazed at the sky of a different world. Sunset painted the clouds yellow and gold, but the stars hadn't yet come out. I saw two moons hanging in the firmament, one bluish white, the other green and red. I recognized them.

This was a world I was familiar with—Illion—one of the first worlds I'd lived and died on. I had good memories of this place. It was a pleasant world, far nicer than the dimension ruled by super-intelligent slime molds, or the planet where humans were slaves to giant maggots. And let's not even talk about the faerie realms. There's nothing more annoying than a place where everyone walks around with delusions of godhood. Nothing. No wonder faeries treat everyone else so badly; no wonder everyone I've ever met—aside from the faeries themselves—thinks that faeries are the biggest assholes in the known universes.

Illion was a world dominated largely by humans and their near-human kin—which was just fine with me. It had magic, but not an overabundance of it. It also had technology, but not enough to ruin the ecosystem. I'd spent several extended stays here. Most of that time had proved enjoyable.

I didn't dwell upon where in the multiverse I was for very long. Instead, I sat up and looked around. An autumn forest greeted my pale blue eyes: maples and oaks, turning gently from green to gold to brown; clean, crisp air; rich, moss-covered earth. I was alone. No one jumped out of the forest to kill me before I could get my bearings; no sounds of beating manticore wings disturbed the still air.

Everything seemed safe and normal. I exhaled, long and slowly, feeling my chest gently sink as the air seeped out of my lungs. I let my hand slip from the hilt of my sword; the hand had instinctively darted to the weapon as I sat up. I took one more look around for hidden dangers, and then I stood.

I brushed the ashes off of my clothing—I'm always ash-covered when I first awake. Everything seemed to be in its proper place: maroon tunic with chainmail beneath, black leather belt, black leggings, sword, brown suede boots with a flint knife tucked into the right cuff and an obsidian dagger secreted in the left.

I stretched, trying to shake off the odd sensations washing over me.

There's always a period of adjustment when I first wake. My new body is mostly me, but the weight and proportions are different. That's gotten me killed more than once. I drew my sword and made a few practice cuts in the air. The silver-traced steel felt good, right, in my hand. I sheathed the blade.

I used Illion's two moons to get my bearings; it would have been easier once the third moon rose, but I didn't feel like waiting around until after dark. A game trail led from the clearing in a direction that I deduced was southwest. I stretched once more to get the stiffness out of my newly minted limbs and then walked down the trail.

Twenty minutes later I came to a road running north and south. I saw nothing to the north, just a rambling dirt lane wandering golden autumn hills. A slight grey haze hung over the hills to the south. A town, probably—fires, food. My stomach rumbled. I set off in that direction.

I hadn't walked long when a figure crested the top of the hill right in front of me. The girl was alone, perhaps nineteen years old, and ran as though being chased by Thulu himself. Her finely tailored clothes were dirt-stained and torn, probably from her head-long flight.

She collided with me, nearly bowling me over. A small burlap package fell from her hands, dashing its contents to the earth: a hairbrush, a few coins, a locket, some scraps of food.

She stopped and apologized, frantically picking up her spilled possessions as she spoke. She ran her dirty fingers through her tangled auburn hair, and muttered to herself—or maybe she was talking to me, though I didn't catch what she said. She glanced up at my face and momentarily froze. A question flashed across her brown eyes. For a few seconds, I thought she recognized me. Then she turned and fled down the road in the opposite direction to the way I had been walking.

"He's coming!" she cried. "Flee!"

That was it. Before I could even ask a question, she darted over the top of the next hill and was gone—a red-clad doe in the gathering twilight. I frowned. Then I turned about and followed in the same direction she had gone.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I've done more than a few heroic turns in my lifetime, but I've done my share of stupid things as well—more than my share. Doing heroic, stupid things is how I got into my unique predicament in the first place.

However, I've lived long enough to know that when a stranger tells you to flee, they probably have a pretty good reason for doing so. I may be brave, but I'm not foolish. So, despite my growling stomach, I decided to turn away from the town and whatever danger waited there.

Maybe tomorrow, I thought, with a good night's sleep and a full stomach I'll decide to check it out. Maybe.

It was a good plan, but it didn't work; the danger found me anyway.

I whirled at the sound of beating wings and dropped to the ground just in time to avoid the beast's flashing tail. A manticore. Another damn manticore. Lion body, human face, bat wings, scorpion tail, the whole bit.

_Read more in_ "Forever Crimson" _found in_ Martian Knights & Other Tales _and in single-story form at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

# THE GATES OF PARADISE

~ A Crimson Story ~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

White hot pain shot through my left shoulder as the crossbow bolt pinned me to the wall. The lotus eater reloaded, his purple-stained lips pulling back to reveal a rotten smile. At this range, he couldn't miss—his next shot would go straight through my chainmail and into my heart. I couldn't have _that_ ; dying now would screw up not only my own plans, but also ruin the future of the entire Nation of Marchuk. Even when you're fated to be reborn endlessly—as I am—there are times and places where it's damned inconvenient to die.

The arrow in my deltoid made it impossible for me to reach the two daggers hidden in my boots, but I still had my sword. As Purple Lips brought up his reloaded weapon, I hurled my silver-traced blade through the center of his chest. He fired as he fell dead, but his shot merely impaled the ornate carpet and the polished ironwood beneath my feet.

I yanked the bolt out of my shoulder and slumped to the floor, panting, fighting down nausea. I knew the wound wasn't fatal, but even an eternal warrior feels pain like everyone else—everyone, that is, except for lotus eaters.

*

"You're sure the Purple Lotus has your son, Your Highness?" I asked.

Queen Marchuk, resplendent in her maroon robes and glittering jewelry, dug her fingernails into the arms of her gilded throne; she nodded. "The local clan head, Davian, sent the prince's signet along with a scroll listing terms."

"What ransom are they asking?"

The queen laughed ruefully, and moisture glinted at the edge of her weary eyes. "No ransom. They say the prince will remain their 'guest' until we stop persecuting their . . . associates. The price of our son's safety is to be the poisoning of our own people. Davian's Purple Lotus yakuza won't be satisfied until every last man, woman, and child in our kingdom becomes a purple-lipped addict. Clearly, this is not a price the Nation of Marchuk can pay."

"So you want me to find your son and return him," I said.

"Crimson, because of your unique . . . situation, you are the only one we can trust."

"I'm going it alone, then?" I ventured. Working alone was fine by me; a solo mission meant not having to watch anyone else's backside. Plus, over the course of many lifetimes, I've grown used to relying upon only myself.

"Yes," the queen replied. "Our spies inform us the prince is being held in Davian's pleasure palace on the island of East Hornbeam. Go there and bring him home."

"No problem."

"Davian will move the prince if he suspects a rescue attempt, so we cannot supply you with transport via our navy or merchant fleet," Queen Marchuk explained. "However, we have arranged passage for you with a freemariner of good repute: Captain Ali al Shahar."

I smiled. I'd met the charming Captain Ali during a previous lifetime.

*

As I lay bleeding on the floor of the pleasure palace, running footsteps echoed down the hallway behind me. I heaved myself over to the lotus eater's body and jerked my sword free from his carcass. As I wobbled to my feet, Felice—all blond curls and breathless curves—rounded the corner. I managed a weak smile, happy that she'd disobeyed Queen Marchuk's orders and come to assist me in my quest.

"Crimson!" she gasped. "Thank the gods! When I heard fighting, I feared the worst. Oh! You're wounded!"

"I'll recover."

She looked as though she didn't believe me. "Have you found the prince?"

"Not yet," I burbled, still fighting nausea. "I've been a little busy."

Felice's brown eyes scanned the lavish corridor, noticing for the first time the three additions I'd made to the decor: the recently dead lotus eater, plus two guards I'd slain earlier. Felice was a sailor—a captain in Marchuk's merchant fleet—not a warrior, and the sight of the bodies shook her.

"Oh," she said, looking pale.

I sheathed my sword and ripped off the left sleeve of my tunic to bind my shoulder wound. "What kept you?" I asked as I worked.

"I found a parchment with a layout of the compound in the counting room," she said. "Maybe it can help us locate the prince."

I nodded. "Let's take a look."

While I tied up my bandage, she unrolled an architect's drawing on pale vellum. Her hands shook as she knelt and spread the scroll out on the carpet, well away from the bodies. I crouched to get a better look.

"These rooms in the front of the complex are for the public," she said, running her finger over one side of the diagram, "and these in the back, abutting the hillside, are probably Davian's private residence."

"Those _would_ be the most defensible," I noted. "That leaves this middle section we're in for operations and quarters for Davian's staff and guards." So far, the map wasn't telling me anything new; I'd surmised the layout of Davian's pleasure palace from its outside appearance. The fine red hairs on the back of my neck began to prickle; more of Davian's people were bound to stumble by soon and discover my handiwork.

"Look here, though," Felice said, pointing to a number of solid rectangles in the middle of the drawing. "I think these could be private chambers designed for special clients, and this area next to them looks like a central garden."

"That makes sense," I agreed. Though purple lotus trade was illegal in nearly every nation, the clan still entertained high-power clients all across the Azure Sea.

"I bet one of those rooms is where they're keeping the prince," Felice concluded.

I agreed; those rooms were both private and defensible, and they were easily accessed from the offices and operations center where we were now. Clients staying in those chambers would have the best service and security Davian could provide. Even a kidnapped prince might go unnoticed in such an area.

Felice pointed to a long corridor running down the map's center; the passage started near the public areas, and led almost straight to the doorless rooms. "If we can get to this corridor," she said, "we can reach the private chambers without fighting our way through the staff quarters."

"Yes," I agreed. The rooms separating the public area from the private were probably filled with guards. However, we'd broken into the building's offices, bypassing all that. So we could reach the central corridor without passing those guard posts. Getting to the private inner sanctum looked fairly easy; the trick would be getting back out.

"Let's get moving," I said. "Help me drag these bodies into a closet. That should buy us a bit of time, and we're going to need every break we can get."

_Read more in_ "Gates of Paradise" _at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

CRASH OF THE TITANS

~ A Crimson Story ~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

"So, this is the great hero?"

"Yep," the god replied.

"The legend?"

"That's him."

I remained incredulous. "The Titan slayer?"

The toga-bedecked god circled in the air like an agitated hummingbird. "Don't mention the 'T' word," he said. "It's bad luck." As if to lend credence to his warning, thunder rolled across the clear Mediterranean sky.

I ignored Zeus' rumbling and stared at the "hero" lying at my feet, sprawled amid a thatch of fallen olive branches. He had the physique of a Greek statue, a handsome, kind face, and a purple welt on his head the size of a pomegranate. The winged sandals on his feet flapped limply, like homing pigeons exhausted after a long flight.

"Not much of a legend," I observed.

"He's not a legend _yet_ ," the god replied impatiently.

"He's a work in progress," the goddess added. She hadn't spoken until now, and I knew better than to address a deity before being spoken to—especially not _this_ deity. In all the worlds I've visited in my many lifetimes, there are few beings who can kick my ass outright, but she was one of them: gray-eyed Athena, warrior maiden supreme.

Her golden companion didn't worry me as much. Given his nature, I knew he wouldn't be sticking around long. "That's where you come in," Hermes quipped.

"You're going to take Perseus' place while he recovers," the goddess concluded.

"Why me?"

"Because you're beloved of the gods, Crimson, my dear," Hermes replied. He rolled his eyes, but I had a hard time seeing it, both because he was flitting around so quickly and because of that godly radiance thing. His golden skin gleamed blindingly in the sunlight.

"Beloved or cursed?" I asked.

"Some say there's little difference," Athena replied. She looked at me with her piercing gray eyes, and I knew she was seeing right down to my soul. She was right, of course.

Beloved of one god is often cursed of another—which, in a round-about way, is how I got here. One good deed unhinged me in time. Now I'm stuck wandering from world to world, life to life, until... Well, when my involuntary wandering might end, not even wise Athena could say.

"So, what happened to the big guy?" I asked, looking at Perseus once more. He didn't look like he was going to wake up anytime soon.

"Trouble with the winged sandals," Hermes replied.

"I warned you about giving them to him," Athena told her half-brother. "He may be a prospective hero, but he's still a mortal man—with most of the usual failings."

"Can you blame him for celebrating?" Hermes asked. "Killing Medusa was a great victory. I'm sure you would have done the same thing." He looked at Athena; she remained stern. "Well, maybe _you_ wouldn't, dearest sister."

I resisted the urge to laugh. "So he _crashed_? How is that possible? These olive trees aren't tall enough to crash into."

"They are if you're drunk," Hermes put in.

"How he got in this sorry state is hardly relevant," Athena admonished. "Though I will admit to being a bit disappointed."

"He did better in many of the other realities," Hermes observed. "Maybe this timeline just doesn't deserve a hero of this caliber." Many gods are not bound to just one time and place. They move from world to world and time to time, trying to repeat their successes—or correct their failures. This venture was starting to look like the second.

"We must work with what we have," Athena said, "as always. The point is that his fate is jeopardized, and you, Crimson, have been chosen to help him complete his destiny." She smiled at me, and I suddenly knew why Athenians had named their city after her.

Nevertheless, I resisted. "What's in it for me?"

"You're a hero; I'm surprised you need a reward."

"Reluctant hero," I reminded her.

"A young woman will die unless Perseus inter—I mean _you_ intervene," Athena said.

My hear twinged, but I shrugged. I knew it didn't pay to give in to gods too easily.

"She's a princess," the goddess added.

"People die every day. Why should I care about some rich girl? Why don't the gods ever step in for the 'little people?'"

She fixed me with her gray eyes, sending shivers down my soul. "Perhaps that is why we have heroes."

I crossed my arms over my mailed chest. "Strike me dead if you want—for all the good it will do you—but I'm not doing this for free. I've done my share of godly 'favors.'"

Hermes laughed. "Listen to her! Chosen by the gods, and she asks what her reward will be! Perhaps it should be a night with me! I like a woman with spirit!"

Athena's eyes grew cold, but I merely said, "I think you might be too fast for me, my lord." The goddess laughed—a bright, musical sound. Blue lighting streaks of displeasure crackled across Hermes' golden skin.

I quickly added. "I mean, I might not be able to keep up."

He smiled at that, and, despite myself, I felt warm all over. "We'll find someone more leisurely for you, then. Eros, perhaps."

"Gods! They never think of anything else! Why don't we ask her what _she_ wants?" Athena suggested. "Tell me, Crimson, what does your heart desire?"

"I need a vacation—some time to relax."

"Not incompatible with my suggestion," Hermes noted.

"I'd like some time where no gods are calling on me, no people need rescuing, and nobody's trying to kill me. Just time to kick my feet up and be myself."

The goddess looked at me. She didn't have to say, "This _is who you are—you are a warrior, born to battle_." She didn't have to say it, because I felt it in her gaze. Curse all gods and their insights!

"Well, that's what I want," I added peevishly.

"Then that is what you shall have," Athena announced.

"Assuming you can finish the task," Hermes put in.

"Okay," I said. "What do I have to do to rescue the girl? Kill some scorpions? Put down a kraken or two?"

"This one _has_ been around!" Hermes said to Athena. "Remember that kraken thing? What a mess! Though it turned out all right in the end."

"This is more along the original lines of the plan," Athena said. "The Fates' plan, I mean."

"Just slay an ordinary sea monster," Hermes added. "No poisonous spew or acid breath. Nothing special. I'm sure you can handle it."

"That's all?" I asked. I had been expecting something more ... titanic.

"The trick will be getting there in time," Athena warned. She gave me the winged sandals, which had somehow gotten off of Perseus' feet and into her hands. "Ever used these before?"

"I was hoping for a winged pony..." I said as I laced on the flapping booties.

"Then you should have asked for one," Hermes put in. "That would have been an easier reward to obtain than peace and quiet."

"...But I'll make do," I finished.

"You should take the purse as well," Athena said. "In case you need it."

Hermes picked up a bowling-ball-sized silver bag lying near the unconscious hero.

"What's in it?"

"The head of Medusa," Athena replied.

_Read more in_ "Crash of the Titans" _at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

TIME WAR

~ A Crimson Story ~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

Our sasquatch battalion storms up the time fortress's left flank, throwing scorpion riders into the abyss along the way. The enemy's ZTZ-99s roll out in defense, so we send our dragonfly squadron on a bombing run, knocking out several of the tanks and pushing the bulk of the enemy's defenders back toward the citadel. Naturally, they call in a retaliatory strike from their starfighters. As is usual with these things, the whole situation rapidly degenerates into a shitstorm of blood and guts and firepower. If war is hell, then Time War is a quadruple-scoop of hell with flaming jalapeños on top.

Magical and technological bolts of energy blaze through a sky filled with stars, planets, galaxies, and some forms of cosmology I don't recognize. The landside battlefield is a broad two-dimensional checkerboard, suspended in thin air, surrounding the fortress. Neither the heavens, the earth, nor anything else around us seems possible—and, of course, without the time meddlers, it wouldn't _be_ possible.

My name is Crimson, and today, I'm a grunt. Being semi-immortal, I get swept up in this kind of thing more often than you'd probably believe. Sometimes I even survive. Most who live through a Time War forget it ever happened. _I_ remember—thanks to the "gift" from the gods who put me in this situation. That and a talent for killing things is probably why I've been chosen to lead the infiltration squad on the right flank.

While my team is going in on the right, Carnelian Fyre's troops are keeping the enemy busy on the left. Yeah, _that_ Lian Fyre, the hero of the Fourth Wizard War—the Fire Mage who can toast you with a glance. I know. I thought she was dead, too. But who knows what portion of space-time the meddlers plucked her out of. We've met before, she and I, either in my past or her future. So, for me, this battle feels like a Warrior Chicks Reunion Tour: Lian and Crimson together again, for the first time. _Scarlet_ _Fire and Red Death_ the troops called us—among other, less repeatable things.

My team's job—and the job of our counterparts on the other flanks—is to get inside the fortress, find the woman responsible for this mess, and put both her and the time vortex out of commission. Why? Because you just can't have folks messing around with the timestream, screwing up quadrillions of innocent lives.

Some immortals never learn; they have a pathological need to "fix" the universe, make it over in their own image. So, when this particular galaxy-spanning squabble broke out, the demi-god on our side—Tanalon, Lord of Order—scooped up heroes from all of time and space to prevent his nemesis—Yathmog, Lady of Chaos—from fucking up the cosmos beyond all recognition.

While Lian, the sasquatch, and the rest are keeping things nice and toasty on the left, my squad moves among the troops on the right, looking to bust into the citadel. My infiltration team includes a time traveler known as The Professor and a demon-borne assassin named Pietro "Orm" Ormin. He's the muscle, I'm the finesse, and the Professor is the brains—at least, when I'm not being the brains.

Under covering fire from our dragonfly corps, we make it to the base of the citadel—an architectural monstrosity that looks like it's been cobbled together using cast-offs from all of time and space. I spot a medieval cathedral, a Frank Lloyd Wright building, a Zeppelin, and some kind of gossamer-rigged sailing ship, among other elements, all topped off by a 20th century Russian space rocket, which serves as both an observation tower and a gun emplacement.

My team mingles among the troops—which we hope will conceal us as we break off from the main force and enter the citadel on the sly. Most of our soldiers are samurai turtles, and they're making hay out of Yathmog's Blackwater Mercenaries. (Bitch demi-goddess should have known better than to bring hired help.) Just when it looks like the turtles will wipe out the last of the mercs, Her Wickedness 'ports in the storm troopers. No, I'm not talking about the pansy clones in plastic armor, I mean the real thing.

Of course, there _had_ to be Nazis; you can't have a Time War without Nazis. Troopers versus turtles heats up real good, even before the goddamn flying monkeys start swooping over, throwing poo at everyone. The chaos buys my team the time we need to sneak inside the fortress. The Professor uses his cell phone to reprogram the lock on a hidden maintenance hatch, and we're in like Flynn, unnoticed.

None of us expects that will last.

You don't get to be an evil demi-god by leaving a lot of chinks in your defense, but this conflict is so big, some areas are bound to remain vulnerable. The last thing I see as we duck inside are a bunch of chainsaw-wielding rabbits fighting against Neanderthals with Tommy Guns; I have no idea which ones are on our side.

My team and I have a good fix on the location of the time vortex. You need a lot of shielding to protect that sucker, so it's housed in a spherical metal chamber—like a gigantic natural gas storage tank—in the middle of Yathmog's architectural nightmare. We figure that the demi-goddess will be hanging out there, directing the action and making sure things fall the way she wants once the vortex stabilizes. We need to stop her before then, or the Queen Bitch gets to remake the game in her favor, permanently. Other stealthy assault teams will be heading in that direction, too, as well as our main forces. Hopefully, the body of our army will distract Yathmog's internal security and give one of the smaller groups the chance to get through and settle her hash for good.

"Watch yourself!" the Professor warns as Ormin steps toward a doorway that looks like a submarine hatch.

The big man glances back at him but keeps going. I flatten against the wall, pressing the Professor back with me, as Orm crosses the threshold. The fire that bursts from all sides of the portal would cook most people—but I guess there are advantages to having your soul melded with a demon. Orm stands in the conflagration, his armored body seeming to swell in the flames. He sweeps the perimeter of the door with his double-edged sword, shattering the flamethrower jets. His leather-and-plate armor smokes a little, but his hair isn't even mussed when the fire dies away.

"Coming?" he asks in a deep, grim voice.

"You could have been killed," I say.

He turns away. "If only it were that easy."

_Read more in_ "Time War" _found in_ Stalking the Wild Hare _and in single-story form at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

CRIMSON & DRAGONS

~ A Blue Kingdoms Story ~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

Is there anything in the multiverse worse than waking up naked and chained to a dungeon wall? I say, _Yes_ : dying before you get to pay back the son-of-a-bitch who put you there.

I intended to make sure that the bastard priest who put me in this position got what he deserved, and in _this_ lifetime, not some future one. Of course, being naked and chained to a dungeon wall, I wasn't currently in a position to do much about it.

Acting as pin-up girl in some sadist's twisted fantasy isn't something I've experienced a lot in my many lifetimes, mostly because "death before dishonor" has always been my mantra. Of course, that kind of hard-ass credo is easier for me to follow than it would be for most, death not being a permanent set-back in my case. In situations like this, my peculiar brand of immortality is more of a blessing than a curse. Trouble is, I wasn't the only one in this jam.

Other women—little more than girls, really—occupied the dungeon with me. We were chained in a line against a damp stone wall, each of us far enough apart from the rest that we couldn't possibly touch or help each other in any way. I guessed from their pallid skin and soft bodies that the others weren't going to be much help in getting us out of this predicament.

I hadn't seen my own body in a mirror since I revived in this new incarnation, but I knew what I'd find; the "gift" from the gods that unhinged me in time also allows me to look more or less the same every time I'm reborn: trim and muscular, pale blue eyes, red hair—shoulder-length in this incarnation—and busty. Somehow, I always end up with big boobs; I figure the gods must like them. And so, judging from the endowment of my cell mates, do pervert clerics.

I assumed it was the priest who'd put me here, as the last thing I remembered before waking up in chains was accepting a drink from him. I really must learn not to accept wine from strange men, even when they drink from the same skin first. Either he had some magic that protected him, or he'd built up an immunity to whatever drug he slipped into the drink. I wondered if my fellow captives—there were five of us, counting me—had fallen prey to a similar fate.

I couldn't see what I had in common with the other girls, aside from chest size. All had different skin and hair colors; three were human, one an elf. All four looked exhausted and terrified, their hair ragged, their eyes puffy from crying. They slumped against the wall, their chains hanging limply. I was at one end of the line, a girl with short, mousy-brown hair at the other.

I stood and tested the strength of the shackles. Though rusty, they seemed sturdy enough, and the walls were smoothly joined stone. This was no makeshift prison; whoever constructed it knew what they were doing—unfortunately.

"Hey!" I called. "Who's in charge here?"

"Quiet! He'll hear you!" said the girl with mousy-brown hair.

"Do you want to be next?" hissed the Elf, though I wasn't sure if she was talking to Mousy or me.

"Next for what?"

"For the _dragon_!" the Elf replied.

"H-he took my sister!" the long-haired Brunette, chained next to Mousy, said between sobs. "He just came and took her!" I noticed an empty set of shackles at the start of the line, and I remembered hearing screams just before I woke. I wondered how long ago he had taken the sister—and was she the first victim, or just one in some kind of sick series? "The wall just opened up, and he dragged her through, and . . ."

"And you'll be next if you don't shut up," the Elf shot back. "On second thought, keep talking."

"Bickering won't help," the blonde in the middle of the line said. She looked older and a bit less haggard than the rest. "I'm Princess Rachelle of Narosh. Who are you?"

"Crimson. Just Crimson."

"Crimson, how did you get here?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. Last thing I remember was having a friendly drink with this priest, and then next thing I know, I wake up in this shit hole."

Saying "shit hole" brought my attention to the stench of the place, a wonderful combination of dampness, mold, and human excrement. Some of my companions had not comported themselves with much dignity during their captivity, not that I blamed them. I looked at the wall the Brunette had indicated earlier, but couldn't see any obvious door. In fact, I didn't see any way in or out at all, just stone and mortar. Either the room was sealed by magic, or its exit was a secret door constructed by some very clever stonemasons.

"The priest would be Bentano Dracus," Rachelle said. "He drugged you."

"Where are we?"

"In the catacombs below Dracus' church, I think."

"And how do you know this guy?"

"Dracus was my father's chief priest when I was a child. Years ago, the church kicked him out for . . . questionable actions. I heard he went to Lemagne and started his own church in an old, abandoned cathedral. I was passing through Lemagne when I was kidnapped. I woke up here."

"Looks like Dracus' actions have gotten even more 'questionable' in the intervening years."

"I never did like the way he looked at me when I was a child. I like it even less, now."

"So, who are the rest of you?" I asked.

"Look," the Elf replied, "there's no use getting to know us, because we're all going to _die_!"

"I don't want to die!" the Brunette sobbed.

"Quiet! He'll hear you!" Mousy added.

"What? You think that shutting up will make this lunatic spare us?" I asked. "You think maybe he'll get tired of feeding girls to dragons before he gets to you? Forget it! I've met guys like this before, and they just keep on killing until someone stops them."

"Why is he doing this?" the Brunette wailed.

"Power, I think," Rachelle said. She seemed almost completely calm now, and regal, even in this awful situation. "Bentano Dracus always wanted power."

"No," I replied. "People may say they do this kind of thing for power or some other motive—but the only real reason to chain someone up and kill them is because you get off on it. Dracus is no different. Thing is, this time, he picked the wrong victim."

_Read more in_ "Crimson & Dragons" _at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

HORROR STORIES

Tricks & Treats

From the collection

TRICKS & TREATS - A Quartet of Terrifying Tales

TRICKS & TREATS  
A Frost Harrow™ Story

HARRASSMENT OR HALLOWEEN PRANKS?  
Frosthaven Chronicle, October 31

Stanislaus Kaminski claims local business tycoon Abner Winslow is trying to force him from his home. Following a recent rash of vandalism on his property, Kaminski—a longtime Winslow Hills resident—said, "Winslow [has] been after me a long time. But Noah Frost give [sic] me this land. Ain't none of Winslow's hooligans going to drive me off."

According to court documents, Winslow obtained the land in question from Frost over a decade ago. Kaminski has been "squatting" on the property since at least 1950. So far, Winslow has been unable to evict Kaminski. "The court process can be slow," a Winslow spokesman said, "but Abner Winslow is a patient man. Kaminski has no deed, and, sooner or later, he'll be evicted."

As to Kaminski's charge of vandalism by Winslow's associates, Winslow's spokesman said, "Pranksters, that's all it is—pranksters getting an early start on Halloween by tormenting an addled old immigrant. Mr. Winslow has nothing to do with it."

*

The cold October wind cut through Dotti Zigler's coat as Jeff pulled her out of the front seat of the battered Chevy.

"I'm coming," she told him. "I'm coming. You don't have to be so rough."

"I just want to get this done," Jeff replied. He looked grim, almost supernatural, in the moonlight. His unruly blond hair cast dark shadows over his handsome, angular face. He peered into the woods and down the trail leading to the old man's shack, almost as if he could see the dark deeds ahead of them.

Marquis and Lynn tumbled out of the car's back seat, laughing, their bodies half-entwined. They were high, as usual. They never did anything important without getting high first. Tonight's mischief was no exception.

Lynn took a last hit on the crack pipe. "Are you sure you don't want some, Dotti?" she asked.

Dotti shook her head. She felt frightened, scared right down to the bone. She wanted to get high, but she'd never liked crack. And she knew being stoned wouldn't help, not tonight. The only thing to do was to push through this and get it done—not for herself, but for Jeff.

"Let's go," Jeff said, trudging down the trail without glancing back.

Marquis and Lynn giggled and followed after him.

"For God's sake, keep quiet!" Dotti whispered. She glanced around nervously, fearing someone would spot them at any minute.

"Don't get your panties twisted," Marquis replied. "We got a ways to go yet."

"How do you know that?" Dotti asked. "Have you ever been here before?"

"Winslow said it was a mile and a half from the road," Lynn replied. "Or was it half a mile?" She giggled again. Marquis planted a sloppy kiss on her lips.

Jeff glanced back and hissed, "Shut up, all of you."

Marquis frowned and Lynn pouted mockingly, but both of them clammed up. Dotti did, too.

They didn't dare use flashlights, but the full moon shone through the bare trees, illuminating the overgrown path through the woods. An early snow had fallen a week before, and patches of half-frozen slush still dappled the forest floor between the tree trunks. The air temperature hovered a bit above freezing, and wisps of fog rose from the ground and whirled into the sky.

To Dotti, the mist looked liked dancing ghosts. She hurried to catch up with Jeff but snagged her foot on a root. She sprawled to the ground, landing hard and crunching into the dry leaves and brittle grass. The impact jarred her elbows and knees, and her breath rushed out in an anguished gasp.

Jeff stopped and spun, angry at first, but his face turned sympathetic when he saw her lying on the ground. "Are you all right?" he asked, giving her a hand up.

"I'm okay," Dotti said, dusting herself off. Her knees stung and her elbows tingled, but she knew if she stopped walking, she might not start again. "Let's just get this over with."

"Sure thing, babe," Jeff replied. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and for a moment, his brown eyes sparkled in the darkness. In that instant, Dotti remembered why she loved him. Then he turned serious again and resumed walking. Dotti and the others followed.

It didn't take them long to reach Stanislaus Kaminski's cabin. The building was a ramshackle affair—more a hovel than a home—crouching in the middle of a small clearing at the end of the path. Mismatched, ill-fitted boards formed its walls, and rough-hewn shingles covered its roof. Leaning timbers propped up an overhang on the front, but the whole porch looked as though it might collapse at any moment. Moss dangled from the building's roof, and grime covered its two tiny windows. No light came from inside.

Dotti and the rest moved off the path and crouched behind a low, rock-strewn mound at the edge of the clearing. The rise hid them from view of the house. As they crept to the top of the hill, Dotti's hand brushed against something cold. She gasped.

"What is it?" Jeff whispered.

"T-this rock," Dotti said quietly, "I think it's a tombstone!" She ran her hand over the stone's smooth, cold surface, her fingers playing across a row of incised letters. In the darkness, she could barely make out the inscription: S-O-F-I-A.

"Maybe the old man knows we're coming and dug his own grave in advance," Marquis joked. He reached into his coat, pulled out an automatic pistol, and checked the action.

Jeff grabbed his arm. "Put that away," he said. "We won't need it."

"What if the geezer's got a gun?" Lynn asked.

"We won't be here long enough for him to use it," Jeff replied. "Just take whatever's out on the porch and go. That's the plan. That's what Winslow told us to do. He hired us because the guys working for him last night were fuck-ups. That's why he _fired_ them. Do you want to fuck this up?"

Dotti shook her head, and Marquis and Lynn did, too.

"Good," Jeff said. "'Cause fuck-ups don't get paid. Let's just stick to the plan. Got it?"

Marquis and Lynn nodded. "Stick to the plan," they repeated. Dotti nodded, too, though her stomach felt twisted and queasy. Reluctantly, Marquis put the gun away.

They peered over the top of the hill at the cabin. Nothing stirred; no lights flared from within; only the sound of the vandals' own breathing broke the autumn silence.

"You think he's sleeping?" Marquis whispered.

Jeff shrugged. "Let's go," he said. "And for God's sake, keep quiet."

The others nodded again. Quickly and silently the four of them crested the mound and stole over the clearing in front of the house.

Dotti nearly gagged as they reached the porch. The place smelled foul, like rancid grease and rotting meat. A dozen shallow tin pots lay near the edge of the porch. Strange mottled lumps sat in each pan. In the moonlight, it was impossible to discern what the lumps might be, but they seemed to be the source of the stench. Dotti looked around, but saw nothing else on the porch to steal. Jeff looked confused, too.

"Is this is?" Marquis whispered, incredulous.

_Read more of this and other stories in_ TRICKS & TREATS – A Quartet of Terrifying Tales _found in_ Martian Knights & Other Tales _and in the_ Ghosts of 9/11 _collection at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

SCI-FI STORIES

Ares Zone A

Last Call at Corona

# ARES ZONE-A

## Stephen D. Sullivan

Screener First-Class Anone carefully monitored the metal detectors and other advanced security systems at her Zone-A workstation. All seemed well as the troops streamed past in endless, perfectly regimented rows, but she still felt jittery. The Major's warning played an endless loop in her head: "Check for any irregularities that might indicate a threat. Watch the eyes, especially. Often, you can spot an infiltrator through its eyes."

The eyes of these troops were focused and clear, every one the proper color for a Zone Trooper. They kept their gaze fixed ahead, not even glancing at the security station. No wavering, no nervous tics. Their stolidness soothed Anone's worries. These were the best that Mars had to offer. Soon this section would be safely on their way; Anone's job would be finished, and theirs would begin.

Some would guard mines and factories; others would protect other transport stations. Some would work anti-rebel patrols, still others would take the battle to the enemy homeland. Had there been a formal declaration of war? Anone didn't remember one coming across the wire, but she supposed with bombs exploding in Zone-M there must have been one.

Or perhaps not. As the Major said, the rebels were not like the colonists. They weren't logical—they didn't play by the rules, not in war or anything else. An image from the morning's briefing flashed before her: explosions, fire, shattered bodies and lost limbs, Zone-M causeways running with blood.

The newswire said that it would be at least a month before the rubble was cleared and reconstruction could start—and at least half a colony-year to rebuild. Anone shuddered. She couldn't understand things like this. Why would anyone cause such destruction? Just the idea of it made her guts rumble uneasily. Life in the colonies had gone smoothly for ages! Why couldn't the rebels be content working in the mines, factories, and installations as they had done for so long?

"They do not think like us," the Major had warned, echoing sentiments often repeated on the newswire. "They have forgotten their place in society."

Anone shuddered again, and her fingers trembled. Once more, nagging worry rose up inside her. Feeling this way wasn't normal; it was distracting, and distraction could be disastrous for both screeners and the colony. She needed to be fit to perform her job. All screeners had to be in top condition. Could the news about the rebels and the bombings be causing these nervous tics? Why did today seem different? There had been rebel bombings last week and the week before, as well. True, this week's incidents were closer to Zone-A, but that was no reason to go all to pieces.

She decided to get herself checked out once her shift had ended.

The troops currently passing her workstation were loaded down with equipment—weapons and devices that Anone didn't recognize. Her monitors passed them through without so much as a warning blip. Machines were not the threat; the colony's enemies could only disguise themselves so much. They were only flesh and bone, after all. Their powers to blend in did not extend to impersonating weapons.

_Read more in_ "Ares Zone-A" _at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

From the Uncanny Encounters: Roswell Anthology

LAST CALL AT CORONA

## Stephen D. Sullivan

It's nearly three A.M. and I'm sitting in my room at the Desert View Motel, twenty miles southeast of Corona, New Mexico, waiting for the aliens to arrive.

I never believed in aliens—until tonight. I once worked with a writer who said his dog had been eaten by a monster from outer space, but I assumed he was lying. Authors are professional liars anyway, and a smart freelance photographer learns to take everything his feature writer tells him with a grain of salt. Believing the bull that authors sling around can lead you into a lot of trouble.

The same goes for believing strange women who appear half-dressed on the doorstep of your motel room in the middle of the night. Sucker that I am, I had let her come inside anyway . . .

* * *

"Hi," the woman at the door said, flashing a hopeful smile. She was about five-foot-two and dressed in a pink tube top and very brief blue-jean shorts. A wavy blonde mane framed her heart-shaped face and tumbled across her bare shoulders. Her hair was wet, and tiny beads of water trickled down her tanned skin; she must have just stepped out of the shower, because there hadn't been any rain in this part of New Mexico for weeks—maybe longer. "I'm Beth."

I stood in the doorway with my hands propped on either side of the frame, blocking her access to my room, as I peered past "Beth" into the desert night. I half expected to find a muscular pimp hiding in the darkness. I'd nearly fallen victim to a similar come-along while photographing Aztec ruins near Mexico City, and I didn't want to stumble into that trap again. Despite my trepidation, I didn't see anyone lurking in the dusty motel parking lot, waiting to jump me.

"I'm Tom," I replied. "I don't remember ordering room service. Hell, I didn't even know this joint had any."

"I'm not with the motel," she said. "I'm a guest, like you. Is that your beat-up jeep in the parking lot? The one with the Seattle plates?"

"Maybe."

Her blue eyes flashed attractively in the light spilling out from inside my room. "'Cause if it is, I need a favor."

"How big a favor?" I asked.

She leaned forward, craning her neck to look inside my room, while, at the same time, giving me an unavoidable view of her bosom. The points in her tube top indicated she was cold; not surprising as the desert temperature had dropped thirty degrees since dusk. "Aren't you going to ask me in?" she replied.

Now, I'm familiar with scantily clad women in both my capacity an eligible bachelor and as a freelance photographer, and usually there's nothing I like better than some nymph wanting to get into my motel room. But something about Beth was making my "spider-sense" tingle. Unfortunately, before that sensible caution could make its way to my forebrain, I found my lips saying, "Sure. Come on in."

I dropped my arms from the doorframe to admit her, and silently cursed myself for thinking below the belt—as usual.

"Thanks," she said, brushing tantalizingly up against me as she sidled past. The damp scent of jasmine in her hair lingered in my nostrils as I followed her in.

She plopped herself down into the room's sole chair, a padded vinyl and tube-steel abomination that had somehow escaped unscathed from the 1960s. The chair squeaked loudly despite the fact that Beth couldn't have weighed more than one-hundred pounds soaking wet.

"Can I get you a bottle of water?" I asked. "Sorry I don't have anything more, but I usually travel light."

"I've got some beer in my room," she offered. "I could fetch a couple if you like."

"Maybe later," I replied. Sharing beers with a cute girl was always a great way to end the day, but the cautious portions of me were now in better control. Those parts knew that strange women seldom arrived unannounced in your room after eleven P.M. just to offer you a beer. "You said you needed a favor?"

She settled into the chair and crossed her long, tanned legs. Dad always told me good things come in small packages, and despite my being exhausted after finishing my assignment and driving up from Carlsbad, she was looking mighty good. I sat down on the bed opposite her; it squeaked, too, though not as much as the chair.

"My Land Rover broke down," Beth said. "You probably saw it in front of room six when you drove in." I nodded—it had been the only other car in the lot aside from the one next to the office—and she continued. "The thing is . . . there's somewhere I need to be tonight."

_My bed?_ the less-sensible part of me wanted to reply, but, instead, I went with, "Where?"

"A spot in the desert a couple of miles from here," she said. "It's too far to walk, or I'd just hike out there myself."

She definitely didn't look like she was dressed for a hike. "So, you want me to. . . ?"

"Loan me your jeep," she said. "I can pay for it." When she noticed my skepticism, she added, "I'm an investigator—doing research."

"In the desert, in the middle of the night."

"Yes."

"Why not just rent a car?"

"All the rental places are closed for the weekend, and the motel manager got called away—some kind of family emergency—so I can't ask her, either."

_And probably, the manager wouldn't respond to your considerable charms the way I am_ , I thought. "Look," I said, "I don't know what kind of scam you're trying to pull here, Beth, or what kind of deal you're looking to score tonight. And—You know what?—I have no intention of finding out. It's been a long day amid a long week, and I've worked very hard, and I'm tired, and I've still got a long way to drive before I get home to Seattle. So, sorry, though I like the package, I'm not buying whatever it is you're selling. Maybe some other time." I stood, walked to the door, and held it open.

She didn't budge from the ugly vinyl chair. "Tom, you're my only hope," she pleaded. "I'd throw myself at you but, frankly, I'm just not that kind of girl."

_Could have fooled me_ , I thought.

She must have noticed my eyes wandering over what little there was of her outfit. "Okay," she said, "I admit I did sexy myself up a bit before I came over to see you, but that's only because I need this so desperately. If I don't get out into the desert in the next two hours, I'll miss _them_ , and it may be ages before I'll get another chance."

"Them what?" I asked, immediately regretting it.

"The aliens."

Gorgeous and sopping wet or not, I'd had as much of her as I could take. "Okay," I said, "that's it, Beth, or whatever your name is. You need to get out of my room now, before I call the manager."

"She's gone for the night, remember?"

I swore. "Okay, I'll call the cops, then," I said. "There has to be some kind of authority even in this Godforsaken place."

My threat didn't rattle her at all. "Nearest cop is twenty miles away in Corona," she observed. "It'll take them a good long while to get here. I'm sure that before they arrive, you and I can work something out."

I closed the door again. "I thought you just told me you're not that kind of girl."

"Well, I'm not, but you're a photographer, right?" She nodded toward my camera bag and some other equipment that I'd stowed in one corner of the room.

"So, what? You're going to pose for me?"

"Nope," she said. "I'm going to get you a picture that will make you famous. You've heard of the Roswell crash?"

"Sure. I passed through Roswell on the way here. Great bloody tourist trap."

"You bet. But did you know that the Roswell crash wasn't actually in Roswell? It really happened on a ranch just a couple of miles from here. The incident just became known as the 'Roswell crash' because there's an air base there, and that's where the crash investigators came from."

She took a deep breath, which made those the twin points in her top stand out even more. "Suppose I could get you a picture of the aliens that crashed in Roswell."

_Read more of this and other stories in_ Uncanny Encounters: Roswell _at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

STEAMPUNK STORIES

The Last Ranodon

Automata Futura

THE LAST RANODON

(formerly "Of a Feather")

## Stephen D Sullivan

O'Brien grabs his Remington from the map table and swings it toward the incoming ranodon. "Miss Kit! Miss Tesla! Duck!" he hollers. The prehistoric beast—jaws open, talons extended—dives directly toward me and Zoe as we stand together, amidships.

"No!" I shout. "No guns! Use the cannon!" While I admire O'Brien's devotion to keeping us safe, I'm not about to lose months of careful scientific work because of his superstitious nature.

But the captain of the _Louisa_ isn't listening. He draws a bead on the center of the ranodon's forehead. Fortunately, Armstrong grabs O'Brien's arm, spoiling the captain's aim. The shot goes wide, merely clipping a hairy feather from the trailing edge of the pterosaur's left wingtip.

The ranodon's eyes blaze with reptilian hate as it swoops in. At the last instant, I throw my arms around Zoe, carrying us both to the deck. The beast's talons flash harmlessly over our exposed backs.

The creature wheels for another pass, but as it does, I spring to my feet and run for the cannon mounted in the bow of our shallow-draft steamer. Armstrong continues wrestling with O'Brien, struggling to keep the captain from shooting our prize before I can carry out my plan. Zoe—often the wisest among us—lies flat on the bottom of the boat. Miz Tesla isn't on this trip because of her bravery; she's here because there isn't a piece of equipment in the world that she can't fix.

I swing the cannon around as the ranodon comes for me, murder in its yellow eyes. I tick off the range in my head, waiting for the optimal distance. _Thirty meters. Twenty. Fifteen. Ten..._

I pull the trigger, and the specially manufactured shell bursts from the end of the big gun. A weighted net billows out, surrounding the reptilian monster. The ranodon squawks, entangled, and crashes into the side of the boat before plunging into the murky Greenwater.

"Quick!" I call. "Help me pull her out before she drowns!"

Immediately, Armstrong appears at my side with a pair of boat hooks. My cousin has his faults, but superstitious fear of monsters is not among them. Together, we quickly snag the net and pull the raging, sopping-wet beast aboard the steamer. The ranodon snaps ineffectually at us as we pin the netting to the deck. O'Brien inches forward, his gun leveled; Zoe follows a few steps behind, her eyes wide with wonder—and more than a little fear.

The ranodon is all flailing wings, snapping teeth, and sharp talons. Even its brilliant plumage doesn't make it appear any less threatening. I can hardly blame Zoe and O'Brien for being frightened of it. If I hadn't devoted so much time to studying this creature and its ilk, I might be afraid myself. As it is, all I can see is the monster's immense archeobiological value: the last known ranodon, east of the Antes! Most scientists in my field would give their lives to see something like this—and more than a few have.

"Take it easy, big guy," Armstrong says, pushing the barrel of O'Brien's Remington toward the deck. "No sense shooting it now. Kitty and I have everything under control—and, besides, you wouldn't want to hit one of us by mistake." Reluctantly, O'Brien lowers the gun.

Armstrong smiles at me, and, for a moment, I see what every other woman in the world sees in Ray Armstrong; my cousin is one handsome piece of work. Fortunately, being a blood relative, I am immune to his legendary charms. "Nice shot, Kitty," he says, beaming. "Everything went just like clockwork."

I smile back, ignoring his use of a nickname I abandoned as a child; being family does have its privileges, after all, and Ray is the only kin I have left. I shrug. "Months of planning... a dash of research... and enough money to choke an anaconda... Anyone could have done it."

"Anyone with the last name of Chapman-Challenger," Armstrong says, apparently trying to give me a swelled head.

"Or Armstrong," Zoe adds. Armstrong blows her a kiss, and my mechanic blushes.

I take a deep breath, more relieved at the capture than I had first realized. I needed a big score on this expedition—we all did.

"Fetch the Rolleiflex, will you?" I tell Armstrong. "We're not getting paid for shots of the landscape, and my trust fund is looking awfully skinny lately."

"At least you still _have_ a trust fund," Armstrong replies, eyes twinkling.

"Lucky for you that I do," I shoot back good naturedly. Money runs through my cousin's hands like water. "Otherwise, who would hire an old sot like you?"

Armstrong gazes up, thoughtfully. "Some rich widow, I'm sure. You know, come to think of it, that might be a good career move for me. . . ."

I laugh. "Zoe, bring me some of that bait, will you?"

Zoe's bespectacled eyes, both wary and fascinated, remain fixed on the prehistoric creature thrashing in our net. If the ranodon were free, it could easily carry her ninety-pound frame into the wild blue yonder. "Do you want the f-fish or the meat?" Zoe asks.

"Antean ranodons are flesh eaters," I say, "so we'll try the meat first." Zoe nods and goes to get the bait from the steamer's storage locker.

"This beauty's a long ways from the Antean Mountains," Armstrong observes as he comes back with the camera.

"Not as the ranodon flies," I note. My cousin focuses and takes pictures as I examine the hissing, snapping beast.

"A female, just as I expected," I say, pleased.

"Do you really think there's a nest nearby?" Zoe asks. Gingerly, she hands me a strip of meat. I flip it to the ranodon, careful not to lose my fingers to the pterosaur's sharp teeth.

"She's mating age," I reply. "And it's the right season, and the locals did bring down that male six weeks back."

"So the time is about right for hatchlings," Armstrong agrees.

"Just what we need," O'Brien grumbles, "more of these blasted gooney birds! I give you three-to-one that they get one of us—or all of us—killed before this is over."

"If they get all of us killed, how are you going to collect?" Armstrong asks.

"Well, we could turn back," the captain suggests.

"When we've already got a mother ranodon in our nets?" I ask. "When we're so close to a nest I can almost touch it? Not on your life."

As one, all of us turn and gaze at the tepui rising from the Amazonian jungle a short distance upriver. The plateau rises precipitously from the river's edge. Its sides are sheer rock, wrapped with tenacious, clinging greenery. Bushy thickets cover the top of the escarpment.

"Like something out of the family album," Armstrong notes.

I nod. We have Amazon explorers on both sides of the family—extending back into the seventeenth century. One ventured even further into the jungle than we have, in search of the legendary Maplewhite Land; another freed some local Indians from slave mine run by a psychopath with a trained ranodon as his "guard dog." Those triumphs were ages ago, though, and, at the moment, I wish we had our ancestors' elaborate equipment—and funding.

"An autogyro would really come in handy about now," Armstrong observes.

Zoe sighs; there's one back home—from grandfather's day—but not enough cash for the parts she needs to repair it. "Or one of those new Russian helioships," she adds.

Armstrong grins at her, sharing my mechanic's fantasy. "Yeah . . . Even one of those small twin-rotor jobs with the overhead gas cells would do. 'Course, if we're dreaming, we might as well dream of a new helioliner, with all the trimmings."

"I'd settle for a small, heavily armored gunship," O'Brien puts in. "If we're going after more of these crazy birds."

"Pterosaurs," I remind him. "More like feathered reptiles."

"Whatever they are, I don't like 'em," the captain says, "not even when they're netted and pinned to my deck. That devil would just as soon take off your fingers as look at you." He glares at the ranodon and clutches his gun tighter.

"Why don't you check the boiler," Armstrong says. "I think it might be low on pressure." It's more of a command than a suggestion. O'Brien grumbles, but turns to check on the boat's aging engineworks.

My cousin shades his eyes and gazes toward the tepui's summit. "You going up?" he asks.

_Read more of this adventure in_ Steampunk'd _at better book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

AUTOMATA FUTURA

## Stephen D. Sullivan

Zoe stood outside the Great Man's door, her references clutched in her left hand, along with the cablegram that had summoned her to this ramshackle structure. The hall of the building was dingy, its once-ornate carpet musty, dust filled, and stained. The hallway's sole light came from a grime-covered window at the far end. It seemed odd that Doctor Von Lang, the famed inventor, should live in a deserted tenement, though he was a renowned eccentric. Yet, Zoe had checked, and the city registry definitely said he owned the building, so. . .

_Maybe I should have brought Armstrong or CC with me_ , Zoe thought. _No! You can do this! We need this job so Kit can continue her research, so_ all _of us can—so we don't go broke. You can do it!_

She remembered Ray Armstrong's confident smile from earlier that day.... "If Victor Von Lang wants to see you, it must be important. And if he's got work, so much the better."

"But what could he possibly want with _me_?" Zoe had asked.

"Zoe, you're brilliant," Kit Chapman-Challenger, whom Zoe called "CC," put in. "Bring your references, in case he wants them."

"B-but . . ." Zoe stuttered.

Armstrong cut her off. "No 'buts,' kiddo. Just keep the rendezvous and knock him dead."

_Dead,_ Zoe thought. _I wish_ I _were dead._

She stretched out her trembling right hand and pressed the doorbell. Somewhere in the unplumbed recesses beyond the battered mahogany door, a distant buzzer sounded.

Suddenly, the door flew open, and the face of a wild man poked out. His shocking blond hair protruded in all directions; grease-smeared goggles covered his frantic blue eyes. Zoe jumped back and nearly lost her glasses.

"Can't you see I'm busy?" the man said, fairly spitting the words. Then, he looked Zoe up and down, and his gaunt face brightened. "Miz Tesla?"

Zoe nodded mutely.

The madman grinned from ear to ear. "Welcome! Welcome! Do come right in." He held the door open and motioned for Zoe to enter. "I'm Victor Von Lang."

"I-I'm Zoe. I got your cablegram."

"Of course, of course." Doctor Von Lang laid one greasy, glove-clad hand atop the shoulder of Zoe's freshly cleaned blouse. Despite his apparent mania, his touch felt surprisingly gentle. "I know who you are, Miz Tesla: aide-de-camp and chief mechanic for the world-renowned Kit Chapman-Challenger."

_World-renowned but perpetually strapped for cash_ , Zoe thought.

"That's why I cabled you," Doctor Von Lang continued. "Do step inside. We have so much to talk about." He gently moved Zoe through the doorway and into the cluttered laboratory beyond.

She gawked. Beakers, tubes, electrical engines, lathes, drills, cutting equipment, and more filled the huge space to overflowing. The ceiling in the lab stood easily thirty feet tall.

It looked as though Von Lang's lab took up the entire floor . . . maybe the entire structure. _No wonder the building seemed deserted!_

Zoe held out the papers clutched in her hand. "I brought references . . ."

"References? Don't be silly! Why would a mechanic of your caliber need references? I wouldn't have cabled you if I thought you needed references."

"Why _did_ you cable me, Doctor? You said something about a job. . . ?"

Von Lang pulled off his dirty goggles and gloves and smoothed back his hair. "Yes, of course. I almost forgot in the excitement of the moment." He removed his chemical-stained lab coat and hung it on a mahogany coat rack. "You've heard of me, I suppose?"

"Everybody's heard of you, Doctor Von Lang—"

"Call me 'Victor.'"

"—You invented the ionic storage battery, the electro-steam converter, the micro-motor, the artificial skin used to treat burn victims during the war . . . all before you were twenty-five."

Von Lang waved his hand dismissively as he washed up at one of the lab's many soapstone sinks. "Child's play. Anyone could have done all that."

"Don't be absurd, Doctor. Your inventions have changed the world—"

"Poppycock!" He straightened and looked her directly in the eye. "People sing of my accomplishments every day, yet the world remains full of chaos and greed. If anything, I've merely accelerated humankind's inhumanity toward its fellows. That is why I have withdrawn—retired, as it were—to these humble chambers."

_I'd give my right eye for a lab this humble_ , Zoe thought.

He looked away from her, out the lab's tall windows, and his blue eyes grew distant. In that moment, Zoe realized how truly handsome he was—once he'd cleaned himself up.

"Yet," he said quietly, "it's this very isolation that vexes me now. One person, no matter how brilliant, no matter how talented, cannot do everything." In that moment, despite all his money and property and patents, Von Lang seemed terribly sad and vulnerable. Zoe remembered, then, how he'd lost his wife in an industrial accident, several years before.

He must be lonely living here all alone.

"That, Miz Tesla, is why I cabled you. I need your help."

"Zoe. You can call me 'Zoe.' But why do you need my help?"

"Because you are the best mechanic in Manhattan, if not the entire country—or perhaps even the world."

Zoe blushed from the tip of her nose right down to her toes. Von Lang didn't seem to notice. "I-I'm not—"

"Of course you are. Do you think I can't afford to hire the best?"

"So you're hiring me?"

"Of course! Why did you think you were here? What is your usual rate?"

_Read more of this adventure in_ Hot Steam _coming in the Summer of 2011 to better book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

OTHER STORIES

Ghosts of 9/11

Luck o' the Irish

GHOSTS OF 9/11

~ Stories Written in the Aftermath of Our National Disaster.~

## Stephen D. Sullivan

9/11/2001

## THE LAST TERRORIST

The master terrorist sat in his posh room and sipped his bottled water. Wine was forbidden to him by religious faith, so he disdained it. Murder, too was prohibited by his religion, but the master terrorist ignored that commandment; it stood between him and his goals.

It had been a good day, a good month, a good year. Images of the burning, crumbling towers—still fresh in his mind—brought a smile to his lips. It had all been so perfect, like a movie script, a script endlessly rehearsed by his operatives and flawlessly performed, a script in which thousands of unwitting "extras" had died on cue. A script that he, himself, had written.

The master terrorist chuckled and took another sip of Perrier. The response, of course, had come quickly. But the terrorist was nothing if not a master of misdirection. Even now, US forces battered a city miles from where he sat drinking. They were destroying a set of buildings he had long since abandoned. Come dawn, they would discover their victory hollow—again. He had beaten them once more, though the victory had its price.

He frowned. The endless shell game of eluding the authorities tired him. The result, though, was worth it. Headlines and pictures flashed all round the globe, showing the Americans for the fools that they were. The choices of airlines had been symbolic, of course: United, American. The fools should count themselves lucky there was no "States" airline. Symbolic airplanes, symbolic towers, symbolic deaths—symbolic of the weakness of the Great Satan.

How he had showed them! Showed them that missiles weren't needed to strike at the heart of America. Showed them that billions spent on high-tech space weapons couldn't foil low-tech terrorism. Showed them that even the mighty could be brought low by a man prepared to do anything to achieve his cause.

The cause. In his mind, he gave lip service to the service he had done it. In his cruel heart, though, he knew what his cause had become—chaos, destruction, death. His own glory. That was enough in itself, now. It made no matter that other people died at his behest, people on both sides, caught in the crossfire between two superpowers—the US, and the terrorist.

He smiled again, feeling the warmth bubble up inside him as the water fizzled down his throat. The Americans were fools. They attacked the wrong target. They were weak and would never catch him. Soon, he would strike again.

The explosion caught the master terrorist by surprise. He dropped the bottled water. It splashed across the expensive Persian carpet at his feet. The lights in the overhead chandeliers flickered. In the distance, he heard shouting and the sound of alarms. Gunfire followed.

The terrorist's pleasure melted as fear stabbed his icy heart. The room shook again, and gray smoke began to leak from beneath the door on the far side of the room. The master terrorist glanced around, frantically.

Where were his bodyguards—the people who kept him safe? Someone should have responded by now. His men should have arrived at the first sign of trouble. He walked toward the door, but the gray snakes of smoke brought him up short. Beyond the door, more shouts and gunfire.

He couldn't go that way. Where were his weapons? He looked to the antique desk nearby. A few quick steps brought him the right drawer. He opened it and pulled out the automatic pistol secreted inside.

Another explosion; the building shuddered once more. The lights went out, and the terrorist groped in the darkness.

The other exit—where was it hidden in this safe house? He tried to remember, but the many hideaways he used clogged his mind. He had used the hidden exit here before, but then there had been aides to guide him. His mind ran through the hundreds of hiding places, hundreds of exits he had used over the years.

Behind the tapestry?

No.

Behind the bookcase.

The shouts and gunfire grew louder. The smoke grew thicker. Why didn't the emergency lights come on? His heart pounding, he groped his way to the bookcase and pulled the books from the shelves until he found the hidden button. He pressed the button and stepped back as the secret door slid open.

Smoke leaked through. Smoke . . . and light!

The master terrorist brought his gun up—too late.

A sharp crack thundered in his ears and hot pain seared his wrist. Involuntarily, he dropped the gun. He looked down and saw blood streaming down his hand. "H-how dare you?" he gasped.

The figures stepping through the smoke didn't answer. They wore fatigues and carried guns and powerful floodlights. The lights cut through the smoke, revealing the terrorist in the darkness.

A lone commando stepped out of the crowd. The terrorist turned to run, but tripped and fell to the floor. Sweat beaded on the master planner's forehead, fear glistened in his eyes. "Do you know who I am?" he roared.

"A coward," the commando replied.

_Read more of this and other stories in_ GHOSTS OF 9/11 ~ Stories of Our National Disaster ~ _found in_ Martian Knights & Other Tales _and in the_ Ghosts of 9/11 _collection at better e-book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

LUCK O' THE IRISH

## Stephen D. Sullivan

##

## ONE

## A Chance Meeting

"Name your price," said the politician, smiling broadly in my direction.

I stuffed another forkful of potato skin with sour cream, bacon, and cheddar cheese into my mouth as if I were considering his offer. Congressman Fitzgerald was an influential force in Massachusetts, and Mother O'Gale taught me to give powerful people due respect. In Fitzgerald's case, this respect lasted about ten seconds—which is a lot more than I would have given other pols.

I put the fork down and looked at my watch, my eyes tracing the intricate Celtic knots on its case as I flipped it open. The time read seven past seven in the evening—a good omen. Maybe.

"Sorry," I said slowly, "but it's not for sale."

Fitzgerald smiled as if he couldn't believe he'd heard me correctly. Lines like canyons creased his wide red brow; his bushy white eyebrows knitted together. He pursed his thin lips, and his dark pupils gleamed in small but intense eyes. Clearly he wasn't used to being turned down.

"Now, look, Shawn—do you mind if I call you Shawn?"

I shrugged, as it clearly didn't matter to him whether I minded or not. Politicians tend to do what they want anyway.

"Shawn," he continued, "I've been looking for a watch like that for a long time. It reminds me of one my grandfather brought from Ireland when he first came to this country. I'd really like to have it, and I'm willing to give you anything you think is fair for it. You look tired, like maybe you could use a vacation—are you taking a plane out?"

"No," I said. "Actually, I've taken a fancy to one of the waitresses who works in this little airport bar and grill. Just my bad luck she isn't working tonight." I took another bite of potato skin.

"Well, I'm taking a plane out, and I don't have much time. So, since you could use a vacation, why don't we make a trade. You give me the watch, and I'll arrange to lend you my cottage on the Cape for a week—staff included. Bring your lady friend if you like. If you need, I could talk to your boss, arrange the time off for you."

I chewed carefully, as if considering the offer. Finally, I said, "I'm self-employed."

"A busy man, then?" he asked. I nodded. "Well, okay, then, let's cut the bull. I told you to name your price, and you wouldn't. You don't seem interested in trading either. Surely there's something you're interested in, something a man in my position could give you.

"Do you want to meet the Governor, or the President? I can arrange it. Tax trouble? I can fix it. Just give me a hint here; tell me what it is that you need. What turns you on?"

"Actually," I said, leaning back in my chair, "there is something I rather fancy. . . . I like a bit of a game now and then."

The congressman raised his eyebrows. "Pardon?"

"You know. Games of chance. Gambling."

Fitzgerald's dark eyes lit up, and he smiled a winning, professional smile—one guaranteed to melt the hearts of constituents.

"Well, then," he said. "Name your game." He checked his wristwatch. "It has to be brief, though. I've got a plane to catch."

"All right, then," I said, leaning forward now as if engaging in some great conspiracy. I dropped my voice so only he could hear. "I'll put my watch up against your plane ticket. We'll draw one card from a deck. High card wins. You draw first."

"But you don't even know where I'm going."

I smiled. "I like to go where the wind blows me."

"But I paid full price for this ticket."

"A minute ago, you were willing to pay any price for this watch," I said, dangling the timepiece in front of him on its long chain. The watch sparkled magically in the bar's dim light. I knew I had him.

"All right," he said, gruffly nodding his head. "I suppose you have cards on you?"

"I do, but you can pick up a new deck from the shop next door, if you like."

Fitzgerald nodded. "I'd prefer that."

"Go fetch them, then," I said, leaning back and propping my feet on the barstool between us. "Hurry back."

The congressman frowned and grumbled a bit, obviously not used to running his own errands—especially when a scruffy-looking rogue like me might have done it for him. He puffed to the knickknack shop next to the bar and returned several minutes later with a pack of fresh Bicycles. As he broke the seal, I wiped the last bit of sour cream from my lips and took my feet down.

"Shuffle," I said, trying hard to make it not sound like a command.

Fitzgerald did as he was told, expertly manipulating the deck for a minute or so. He handed the cards to me. I split the pack roughly in half, put the bottom set on the top, and handed the deck back to him.

As he straightened the deck, I said, "You draw first, Congressman."

He put the deck on the bar and carefully selected a card from about a third of the way in. He looked at it and smiled. "King of clubs," he said with smug satisfaction as he showed me the card.

I nodded at him. "My turn, then." I let my hand hover over the deck for a moment or two to build suspense. Then I reached in and plucked out a card from near the bottom of the pile.

As I pulled it out, I turned the card toward Fitzgerald, and the expression on his face told me all I needed to know. I broke into a broad smile as I glanced at the card. "Ace of hearts," I said, trying not to sound too self-satisfied.

"Not a magician, are you?" Fitzgerald grumbled as he reached into his coat pocket.

"Nope. Just a lucky guy," I replied, taking the plane ticket from him. I dropped it into the front pocket of my leather Boston Celtics starter jacket while simultaneously stuffing my pocket watch back into my pants. My fist came back out of the pocket with enough money to pay my tab. I dropped the cash on the bar.

Fitzgerald raised his glass to me. "Well," he said, "enjoy your trip."

"I will."

As I left the bar for the parcel locker, he called after me, "Where'd you get that watch, anyway? Maybe I can get another."

"Ireland," I said. "But I'm afraid it's one of a kind."

"Ireland, eh?" he said, his voice fading into the din of the airport as I walked away. "Must be the luck o' the Irish."

When I reached the airport lockers, I fished the key out of my pants and retrieved my Celtics backpack from where I'd left it earlier. As I slung the pack over my shoulder, I pulled out the congressman's ticket and looked at it for the first time.

The words printed on the outside of the boarding pass brought a smile to my lips. Luck of the Irish, indeed. Though I had no idea what fortune had in store for me, at least I now had a destination.

Las Vegas, Nevada.

_Read more in_ Luck o' the Irish _in print and e-book form at better book sellers everywhere!_

* * *

ABOUT THE STORIES

This collection of excerpts began when I decided I needed to include some "come-along" features in the back of my e-books. It used to be traditional (and in some books it still is) to give a preview of another book after the text of the main book. It seemed to me a good idea to start doing that in the burgeoning e-book market.

That meant taking the time to go through my stories and pull out a few pages that might serve as a story intro, a teaser that might get readers to buy one of my other stories. It's a time-honored marketing technique, but one I hadn't—at the time—seen a lot in e-books.

As a freelance author, one of the problems I always face is getting my fans from one or my projects into another one. This is especially true since I've been publishing my own work. In traditional publishing, readers can follow brands as well as authors, so I needed to make sure that people could do the same with me.

The first part of my branding was re-doing all my e-book covers to give them a better line look, with my name at the top in big letters. The adding of story samples was the second part.

However, after I began pulling those samples out of the stories and putting them all in one place, it occurred to me that I could make that place into an actual e-book—one which I could give away (or sell cheaply on sites that resist giveaways).

And that's how you've come to be reading this.

My plan is to update this book constantly, as I add new stories to my online offerings. If you're part of a service that gives free updates, you may want to check back every few months to see what's new in this collection.

If I've done well, you'll even find something you'd like to buy.

As always, I await your feedback.

—Steve Sullivan

Updated November 28, 2010

www.stephendsullivan.com

fanmail@stephendsullivan.com

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Since 1980, as a writer, artist, and editor, I've worked on some of the best known and most influential properties in the world, including: _Dungeons & Dragons_, _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ , _Star Wars_ , _The Simpsons_ , _Middle Earth_ , _Fantastic 4_ , _Speed Racer_ , _Thunderbirds_ , _Dragonlance_ , _Legend of the Five Rings_ , _Iron Man_ , _Darkwing Duck_ , _Mage Knight_ , and many others.

I've written (and published) more than 30 books and numerous short stories. I've won the Origins Award, gaming's highest honor, for my fantasy fiction twice: first for _The Lion_ (the final book in the original L5R series), and then for my Mage Knight short story, "Podo & The Magic Shield." I created, wrote, and colored _The Twilight Empire_ ™ comic strip, which ran in _Dragon_ magazine for more than 4 years. I can't even count (or remember) the number of comics and game projects I've worked on.

All that is nice, but what really matters to me is that my readers enjoy my stories and art. I hope that you will give my work a try, and if you enjoy it—and I feel confident you will—please mention me to your friends.

If you have questions or suggestions, you can contact me by writing to fanmail@stephendsullivan.com.

* * *

#

## Thanks for reading these samples!

## Now buy the books!

© 2010 Stephen D. Sullivan

www.stephendsullivan.com

Adventure guaranteed. (Monsters optional.)

www.walkaboutpublishing.com

~ Official Home of The Blue Kingdoms ~

* * *

You can find more of my e-book & online stories on the Books & Stories Online page of www.stephendsullivan.com.

## Look for more of my books and stories coming soon!

Be sure to write and let me know how you like this story at: fanmail@stephendsullivan.com.

Ask about my "review a story, get a story" policy.

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Updated 12/11/10

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Luck o' the Irish

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