

### Plasma Frequency Magazine

### Issue 2: October/November 2012

Cover Art by Richard H. Fay inspired by "Mythocraft"

Electronic Edition

Editor-in-Chief, Richard Flores IV

Assistant Editor, Amy Flores

Assistant Editor, Lara G. Carroll

Art Editor, Vacant

Marketing and Advertising, Vacant

Plasma Frequency ISSN 2168-1309 (Print) and ISSN 2168-1317 (Electronic), Issue 2 October/November 2012. Published bimonthly by Plasma Spyglass Press, Vacaville, California

Annual subscription available at www.plasmafrequencymagazine.com. Print edition $56 for US residents for one year. Electronic edition available free.

Published by Plasma Frequency at Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 by Plasma Spyglass Press. All Rights Reserved.

www.plasmafrequencymagazine.com

www.plasmaspyglass.com

In This Issue

Cover Art by Richard H. Fay

From the Editor

Dancing on the Street of the Damned

By Frank Dutkiewicz

The Vulgarity of Flowers

By Beth Cato

Art By: Laura Givens

God's Huntsman

By Jim Breyfogle

Midnight Calls

By Liz Colter

Book Review

Devil's Island

Mythocraft

By Lindsey Duncan

The Demon You Know

By Steve Husk

Art By: Teresa Tunaley

All The King's Sons

By Kat Otis

To Know a Lie from a Hacksaw

By Milo James Fowler

Summoner

By Matthew Castleman

From the Editor

Well, we made it. Issue 1 was a better success than I hoped. We continue to rack up downloads each day. Even better, it was good to see so many people purchasing the print edition. People kept telling me that print is dead, and that disappoints me. But after Issue 1 came out, I was shown that print isn't exactly over. There are still people, like me, that prefer it.

Issue 2 has more of the same great things we hope to become known for. We have nine new stories from nine great authors. Inside are some great dark tales just in time for Halloween. You'll find some great fantasy works, a few stories with some interesting speculative elements, and even a touch of humor. Once again we have a great cross-section of stories to share. It is nice to welcome nine new authors to the _Plasma Frequency_ family.

We have three new original works of art. You might recognize our cover artist Richard H. Fay from Issue 1, and Laura Givens returns with interior art. We also have artist Teresa Tunaley joining the _Plasma Frequency_ art family. We have also added a bit more color to our print and PDF pages with some stock art throughout.

This last month the Hugo awards were held at Chicon 7, the 70th World Science Fiction Convention. I had purchased tickets to go in 2011, and had to cancel. And this year, Chicago just wasn't feasible. But I am really hoping to attend my first WoldCon in 2013. I'd like to congratulate all the Hugo award winners. It is nice to see all their hard work rewarded. I've read many of the works that won, and they all deserved that honor.

Issue 3 promises to have even more great things. The submissions have been flowing in nonstop and we do our best to keep up. But, I also realize our small staff needs help. This is why we are looking for some people to join our volunteer editors. You can find our more by visiting our website.

The other position we are looking for is a commission based advertising sales person. This magazine is paid for by advertising. As we get more advertisers on board, we will be passing the money right on to our writers. So as a reader take a moment to check out our advertisers. You'll find links to all of them on our website, on the current issue page. Thank them for helping to pay for such great stories and for allowing you to get your electronic issue free.

Did you miss out on Issue 1? Don't worry. You can find an archived copy of all past issues on our website. So once you're done with reading all these great stories go back and enjoy Issue 1.

I think that is enough rambling from me. Let me step aside and let the work of our writers and artists shine. Enjoy.

Richard Flores IV

Editor-in-Chief

Dancing on the Street of the Damned

By Frank Dutkiewicz

The road to heaven is a narrow path, one that is easily lost.

Phillip Fishbourne stood in a fog in the middle of a crowd. He wore the same brown suit they put on him when they laid him into his coffin. In his right hand, he held the rosary his grandmother gave him when he was a child, the only possession he valued in his life. Words of the last sermon he heard repeated in his head. The crowd, confused and scared, pushed and jostled like commuters in a subway in search of a train. Their seemingly chaotic shoving surged like a heavy current in a river, driving the mass in one general direction. Phillip's urge told him to head the opposite way.

He wove through the mass of people. The crowd thinned until he stood alone. Under him, a narrow path led into the mist. Judging this to be his destiny, Phillip held firmly to his rosary and walked into the fog, reciting prayers with each step.

Phillip stayed true to the twisting path. He walked for what seemed like a thousand miles, but never tired from the effort. He lost track of time, but was never concerned. If God chose to have him walk alone for eternity, than so be it. Occasionally, a faint voice — more of an idle thought — itched in his mind.

You will be my salvation.

He wasn't sure what to make of it. No one ever turned to him for help, and he never asked for any in return. Not sure if he was losing his mind, Phillip pushed the thought aside and stuck to his prayers, keeping to the path that led into the unknown.

All at once the fog lifted.

An arch over massive pearly gates stood a mere hundred yards away. A gold fence — anchored into the clouds and stretching out of sight — flanked the gates. Over the path, a lectern blocked its way. Phillip stood silently as he gathered in the majestic view.

_This must be heaven_ , he thought; as lovely as any painting created by man.

Phillip tightened his grip on his rosary as he studied the gate. Something felt off, as if an important element to paradise was lost. It was then he became aware of the silence.

A man in a gray suit stepped out of the mist behind Phillip and bumped into him, the first person he saw since his first step on the path.

"It's about damn time," the man said, pushing past Phillip. Phillip stumbled but managed to keep his feet on the narrow path. The gray-suited man marched toward the lectern and stopped before it.

Another man stepped up from behind the lectern. His white robe hung like a bed sheet. A bushy mustache dominated his face, giving him the look of an Italian pizza chef, minus the hat. A large book lay on the lectern's surface. Next to him, stood a winged angel in a matching robe, hovering near the mustached-man as if he were his bodyguard. Despite their appearances, neither struck Phillip as particularly divine.

The gray-suited man straightened before the robed people and stuck his chest out. "I am Reverend Billy Hayward. I seek my rightful place in the holy realm of heaven."

The book opened and the pages flipped. The robed individuals looked at the book, glanced at each other, and smirked.

The man behind the lectern replaced his grin with a frown and stared down at the reverend. "Have you led a pure and noble life, William Haywood?"

"Yes I have," the reverend answered without hesitation. The angel rolled his eyes.

The man behind the lectern turned a page in the book. "While you were pastor, you claimed to be God's messenger and preached that you knew the way to heaven. Now that you are standing before its gates, how does that make you feel?"

"Vindicated and proud."

The man behind the lectern leaned over the reverend, raised his eyebrows, and smiled.

"Wrong answer, Bill."

He reached for a lever next to the lectern and yanked on it as if it were a handle to a slot machine. The ground under the reverend opened. Phillip stifled a gasp as the Reverend Haywood dropped like a clown in a dunk tank. The angel grabbed onto his stomach and roared in laughter. Mustached-man leaned over the lectern and peered into the hole, listening to the reverend's fading screams.

The angel set his arm on the lectern and continued to laugh. "That was the funniest thing I ever saw," he said.

The mustached man smiled at him. Phillip said a silent prayer for the reverends soul. Eventually the bushy mustached man noticed him. He nudged the angel and motioned toward Phillip with his eyes. The angel straightened, snickered twice more before regaining his composure.

The two of them stared at Phillip. After a good ten minutes, the man draped an arm over the lectern.

"Are you going to stand there for eternity or what?"

Phillip gripped onto the beads of the rosary and shuffled his feet toward the lectern as the man waved him forward.

"That's it, a little closer, a couple of feet more, now a step to the left. Stop!" He gave Phillip the okay sign. "Perfect."

The angel and man smiled at each other.

Phillip cleared his throat. "Are you Saint Peter?"

"Who? Oh yeah, the last guy. We shipped him out. Old softy had a habit of admitting undeserving souls."

"Which saint are you, sir?"

"Look pal," said the man. "I ask the questions around here and you can start answering by giving me your name."

"Phillip Fishbourne, kind sir."

The pages in the book flipped. The two robed individuals grins disappeared when they looked inside. The man flipped a page, then another. The angel looked worried. The man held a hand up to angel then cleared his throat.

"Phillip Fishbourne, you have much to answer for in your life. What do you have to say for yourself before you are sentenced to your fate?"

"I am but a loyal servant of God. I will accept any fate he has chosen for me."

The robed individuals exchanged quick glances and whispers. The man behind the lectern turned and stared at Phillip. "This is not the place to hide indiscretions, Phillip Fishbourne. We expect the truth, a full confession and not one of those lame revelations you mortals give while hiding in those stupid booths down below. Now, how many commandments have you broken?"

"None, sir."

"Zero? You never bared false witness? Bore ill will toward another? Stole a stick of gum? Nothing?"

"No, sir. To do so would have dishonored God's word."

"Oh come on, Phil," the man barked. He set a finger on a page, as if checking it for a reference and stepped off the lectern. "Your grandmother raised you on her own and told you constantly that you were a burden. She punished you for things you didn't do. Surely you must have lied _once_ to get out of trouble."

"No, sir. Baring false witness is a sin."

"Really Phil? Never?" The man stepped away from the podium and climbed down the steps. "How tough that must have been for you to hold your tongue all those years." He walked up to Phillip and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Your grandmother always accused you of lying, yet you never lied? Even when she beat you with a boat oar and burned you with a hot pan?" The man shook his head, his eyes offering sympathy. "To suffer such abuse. You must have _hated_ her."

"No, sir. To do so would have dishonored her. I always honored my grandmother. God commanded it."

The man studied him for a moment. Phillip had seen the same expression of disbelief on others before. The man walked back to the lectern and flipped through pages. "How many times have you spanked your monkey?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"You know, polished the pole?" he asked as he kept flipping.

Phillip stared back, confused. "I don't understand."

"Greased the axle? Exercised your grip? Induced vomiting on your worm? Stretched the lower half? Pumped the piston? Waxed the wood? Petted your python?"

Phillip answered only with a blank stare.

"Masturbated, Phil."

"None, sir. Spilling my seed is a sin."

The man stopped and stared down at Phillip.

"But you are human, are you not? Did you castrate yourself, Phil?"

"No, sir. My body is a temple created by God. Desecrating it would be the same as desecrating his house of worship."

The man leaned over the lectern. "You spent an entire lifetime without experiencing a single orgasm? Tell me how that is possible."

"Prayer. Whenever I felt an inclination of temptation, I would recite the prayers on my rosary."

"Hold that up for me," commanded the man. Phillip saw the corner of the angel's mouth lift. The man's eyes narrowed at the beads in Phillip's hand. "Where is the cross?"

"I removed the Saint Christopher's medal and gave it to my grandmother."

"Why?"

"I felt it was an engraved image. I did not want to violate God's second commandment."

The angel grimaced and snapped his fingers. The man glanced at him and dug through the pages of the book. He kept at Phillip, grilling him like a prosecutor would a criminal on the stand. He questioned Phillip for hours.

"Have you ever taken change you found on the street?"

"No, sir. I have never taken anything that I didn't earn."

"Did you ever ignore a beggar?"

"No, sir. I gave them whatever I could afford."

"Have you ever broken a rule that you knew to be wrong?"

"No, sir. God commanded us to obey the laws of man. To disobey my superiors would dishonor His word."

The man eventually turned his back on Phillip. He looked annoyed. He leaned into the angel and they spoke to each other in hushed words. The man returned to the lectern and stood tall, staring back at Phillip with contempt.

"In the thousand years that I have manned this gate, you are the first to stand before me and be absent of any kind of sin, Phillip Fishbourne. I find it amazing that a man could live to be ninety-three and never swear, lie, lust, feel malice to another, nothing. It appears that you took extraordinary steps to heed to God's commandments."

"I am humbled by your kind words, sir."

"Not so fast, Phil. Just because you went out of your way to never commit a sin doesn't mean you are totally absent of it. There is motive."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"You lived such a secluded life and shunned anything that may have made your life pleasant just so you could get into heaven, didn't you?"

"No, sir. I lived without sin because God commanded it. To do solely for the purpose of admittance into heaven would be an act of greed."

The man drummed his fingers on the lectern as he stared at Phil. He exchanged a brief glance at the angel and motioned his head toward the gate. The angel moseyed over and leaned against it as if he were a hood loitering on a street corner.

"Witnessing others disobeying God's word must have set you at ill," the man continued. "Bet you wished God would have struck them down for thumbing their noses at his commandments."

"No, sir. It was not my place to judge them. No man deserves my wrath."

A large creak startled the man. The pearly gate started to part. The angel wove an arm through its bars and grabbed hold to keep them shut.

"Didn't you ever wish you could enjoy a moment of the pleasure others experienced?" the man said, recapturing Phil's attention.

"No, sir. Wishing for what others had would have done me no good. How others wish to spend their lives is part of their free will. Too envy their choice would be to dishonor God's wishes."

"Oh really?" The man snapped his fingers. A blond busty woman stood in a bikini with an inviting smile for Phillip. He gripped the rosary tight. The man stepped off of the lectern and walked up to the woman. "Gaze on her, Phil. Is she not gorgeous?"

Phillip glimpsed at her then looked up at the man. "She is indeed beautiful, just as all of God's creations are. Life is his greatest creation. The leper, the child in a wheelchair, and the old woman with a cane, are equally as beautiful as she."

The angel groaned as the gate edged opened again.

"Yeah, yeah", said the man. "But _look_ at her Phil. You get forty like her in heaven. Just think of all the stuff you get to do to her you've been missing while you were on earth."

Phillip gripped his rosary. His eyes shifted from the scantly clad woman, to the angel leaning all his weight against the gate. "I would rather not, sir. Lust is a sin on Earth. I cannot imagine it would cease to be in heaven."

The man snapped his fingers and the woman disappeared. He stepped back up to the lectern and flipped a page. "You are indeed without sin, Phillip Fishbourne." The angel mouthed 'no' as he set his shoulder into the opening gate. The man held up a finger to him and turned his attention back to Phillip. "But I don't believe you are worthy of heaven."

The gate stopped but didn't close.

"May I ask why, sir?" asked Phillip.

"Because you're mentally ill, Phil," the man said as he jabbed a finger to the side of his head. "You have an obsessive compulsive disorder. Where some people wig out about germs and let it rule their lives, you treated sin the same way." He stepped off the lectern and walked up to Phillip with his hands behind his back.

"You see, Phil, it isn't enough that you honor all the commandments while you're alive, you need to live a life. If I were to grade each person's life that approached this gate, I would have had to given you an incomplete. How can I judge your ability to combat sin when you never really faced it? Instead of standing up to sin, you hid behind that stupid rosary. Look at it." The man pointed at beads in Phillip's hands. "It was black when your grandmother gave it to you. You rubbed the paint right off it saying 'Hail Mary's' and 'Our Fathers' over and over. I watched you caress it between your thumb and finger whenever I asked you about a sinful act. I see now that my questions were pointless. You never had the chance to experience sin. It didn't exist as far you were concerned. Ninety-three years of a wasted soul. It's like you never counted."

Phillip didn't know what to say. He gripped his rosary and began to mumble a prayer.

"See!" pointed the man. "You're doing it again!"

Phillip stopped and looked down at the rosary.

"You're not a man, you're livestock. Going through the motions waiting to be herded. At least livestock has a purpose. You?"

Phillip blinked. He thought back at his life. His one long, going through the motions, featureless, uninspired life and didn't know what to make of it.

"A nobody," the man whispered an inch from his ear. He circled around Phillip and spoke to his back. "It really is so sad. It wasn't even your fault. Your grandmother made you that way, robbed you of your individuality, eliminated any chance of a normal life; such a shame." The man stepped in front of Phillip and shook his head at Phillip with sad eyes. He hooked his thumb at the gates. "And to think she's in there, laughing at you now."

The man hooked a hand to his ear and leaned toward the gate. "Can you hear her? I can."

Phillip stood, his mind locked.

Laughing? At me?

He thought he could hear her tell-taled guffaws, the way she would snicker whenever he did something 'dumb'.

"Sure, she was a flawed person," added the man. "But at least she confronted her sin. She, at least, impressed the word of god into one person." He pointed, jabbing his finger at Phillip. "Did such a wonderful job of it, I had to take it into consideration. If I only knew the real story then. She didn't save a soul, she erased it. White-washed a soul within a mentally ill nobody. No wonder why I didn't see it as a sin when I judged her. I never knew it was possible."

He shrugged his shoulder at Phillip. "Guess she slipped through the crack. Tough luck for you though." The man turned his back to Phillip and hung his head as he headed to the lectern.

Phillip's grandmother's dry chuckles leaked into his head. He dropped the rosary that he continuously held since he was a child, and gritted his teeth.

"Damn," he said in a hushed voice.

The man stopped and spun with a mock look of shock on his face. "Was that _wrath_ I heard, Phil?"

A thin smile spread across the angels face. The gate slammed shut.

The feelings Phillip had repressed for so long came out all at once. He dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together. "Father in heaven, I have sinned. Please forgive me."

The man shook his head and clucked. "Oh, how I wish I could, Phil. If you were still on Earth, maybe, but before the very gates of heaven you sin for the first time? I don't know."

Phillip wept. He buried his face into hands. Tears pooled into his palms. The rosary lay between his knees. He didn't reach for it. He no longer felt worthy to hold it.

The man returned behind the lectern still shaking his head.

"You're breaking my heart, Phil." He glanced to right, and then to the left before leaning over the lectern. "I'll tell what I'll do," he said in a hushed voice. "I'm not suppose to do this, but I'm going to make an exception for you. Pick a number between one and nine."

Phillip looked up behind misty eyes. "Seven?"

The man grinned wide. "Seventh circle of hell it is," he said, and yanked on the lever.

~

The man and the angel walked up to the hole and peered in.

The angel whistled and shook his head. "My first day guarding the gate and it almost all came to an end. That was close, Belial."

"Yeah. Can you imagine sharing heaven with that buzz kill?"

The angel grabbed hold of his hair and yanked. The robe and wings lifted off like a sheet, red skin and horns revealing his true nature. "I was talking about Gabriel's prophecy before we cast him into hell."

Belial waved a dismissive hand at him as the hole closed. "Bah, prophecy, shmosophecy." He yanked off his veil and rubbed his horns. Pretending to be a saint had a way of dulling its points. "Lucifer proved there were ways around them, like invading heaven through purgatory a thousand years ago, Chazam. Like he said, 'Why wage an ordained, hopeless war on Earth when the outcome is already foretold?' The Almighty is now exiled into the void because of that over sight."

"Yeah, but still. Gabriel said that _He_ would return and cast us back into the abyss when _His_ 'true servant' sets foot in heaven." The false angel pointed at the trapped door. "I think we just met the 'true servant'."

"And you know how Lucifer took care of that problem?" asked Belial. He slapped his companion on the chest with the back of his hand. "By changing the standard of admission into heaven to impossible. Any sin is now grounds for banishment. We couldn't change all the rules in the universe, but found we could manipulate them enough."

Chazam grimaced and looked down at the hole to hell.

"But I don't understand. What? How?" Chazam looked at the gate, then back to Beliah. "When did he commit a sin?"

Beliah leaned in and whispered. "He didn't. Doesn't matter. He _believed_ he committed one, and that was good enough. Another crisis averted and another soul a slave to hell's flame."

He held out an arm for Chazam. "Would you care to join me in a victory celebration on the street of the damned?"

The two demons hooked arms and danced with their cloven hoofs on the path to heaven.

~

Phillip waded in the lake of fire. Screams of the tormented filled the air but his grief of disappointing God made any punishment hell could offer pale in comparison. A burnt hand grabbed his arm.

"Phillip!"

Through charred skin he still recognized his grandmother. It despaired him to see her here. She didn't deserve eternal damnation. No one did as far as he was concerned, only him.

"I did this to you," she screamed. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"I put myself here, grandmother. I dishonored you on the doorstep of God's house. My forgiveness would be meaningless, as meaningless as my life was on Earth."

"Oh Phillip." His grandmother set her two charred hands onto his cheeks and peered into his eyes. "You have to be able to forgive yourself first. God doesn't want you to torment your own soul. I know what you did. You were tricked. You committed no sin against I, or God, but to your own spirit. He commanded us to forgive, even when the offense is on ourself."

"How can I?" Phillip seized her hands and squeezed. "You told me sin would be my undoing. You were right along. I spent my entire life avoiding it and it corrupted me in the end. I tried to shun sin. I failed. I never did God's bidding because I was afraid of sin. I never realized my destiny."

"Phillip, just because you're dead doesn't mean your destiny is unfulfilled. I think your path has yet to be shown, even if we are in hell. It is up to you to take the first step."

Phillip stared into her eyes on her charred face. He set a hand on his own forehead. "I forgive me."

The lava hardened beneath his feet. The screams of the tormented around him stopped. Murmurs of the _True Servant_ circulated through hell.

He lifted his grandmother onto a spot behind him. She in turn lifted a man next to them out of the lake. He watched as others climbed up. Some sunk through and back into the fiery lake.

Phillip watched a path form before him, rising out of the lake and weaving into the unknown. He started to walk, glancing back to see more people freeing themselves from hells fire. He turned his attention back to the narrow path and marched. Once he escaped hells heat he stopped to look back again. A line of people waited behind him. They all held a rock in their hand. Behind him stood a man with wings.

"Who are you?" Phillip asked.

"We are the army of the righteous," he said sweeping an arm behind him.

Phillip searched the line.

"I don't see my grandmother," he said.

"Her sins are too heavy for the path."

The winged man handed Phillip a stone. He stared at it for a moment.

"Why did you give this to me?"

"We need you to throw the first one," said the third man back. The line of people nodded as one.

Phil turned and stepped lively up the path, and for the first time in decades, grinned. He had finally realized his destiny. And he couldn't wait to see the man with the bushy mustache to fulfill it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Frank is a writer, reviewer, and an associate editor. His work has appeared in _Daily Science Fiction, On The Premises,_ and _Bards and Sages Quarterly,_ to name a few. He is a reviewer for Diabolical Plots and is an associate editor for Alex Shvartsman's anticipated Unidentified Funny Objects humor anthology.

The Vulgarity of Flowers

By Beth Cato

To walk the beach was death, yet Callie had trudged the glistening sand since before the sun rose. Now those low beams of light sliced into her swollen eye, her vision a painful slit. The rusted axe rested heavily against her shoulder.

She must slay a merman and sell its meat and skin, or she and the boys would never escape this island, and Anixter. Her husband would be searching for them even now, flowers in hand and blubbering entreaties on his lips. For years now she had said she would leave, but she had never packed a satchel or made the effort.

Last night, he had approached the boys with his belt in one hand, a bottle in the other.

Callie angled her head so her good eye watched the waves. She was a desperate fool to even be here. Mermen desired human flesh as much as humans desired theirs. This was a task for the king's garrison, and even then men would die. That only increased the value of the delicacy. Merman meat could only be afforded by the royal chef, and the shimmering skin was desired by the castle tailor; the money from both could feed and shelter her and the boys for months on the mainland, if only she survived this day.

She shivered. If she died, who would tend the boys? No. She would not allow herself to dwell on that. Her boys would not grow to manhood on this island, in that house.

Slickness beneath the arch of her foot caused her to recoil. It was a mere shell, half-smothered by the sand. The waves lapped at her ankles. Dried saltwater was itchy to her knees, her skirts stiff.

"Mama." The word was faint, high. She turned her head, sudden dread souring her stomach. The boys were to wait in the dunes. They knew better than to come on the beach.

"Mama." Dennison, her youngest. He had barely lost his front teeth.

"Dennison, stay back!" she yelled.

"Mama!" That was Marko. "He's coming!"

Anixter. How had he found her here, so soon? Fear froze her in place. Sand eroded beneath her heels as a slimy tendril of seaweed lashed her ankle. She could go with Anixter. Make his porridge, start the pot going for supper. He was always so contrite after hurting her. It would make for a pleasant few days.

The sunbeam pierced her swollen eye. She flinched. No. She had to leave. They had to leave. She could hear the heavy clop of hoof beats now.

The seaweed drew taut against her ankle, and she realized it was not mere seaweed.

The snare jerked, knocking her to her knees. The axe tumbled into the surf. The hoof beats grew louder. Callie looked to the water. She saw nothing. That scaled skin blended with the waves. Her fingers fumbled for the axe handle.

"Callie." Anixter's voice wobbled. "Come home, please. I'm sorry. Where're the boys?"

"Safe from you." Her fingers found the cracked wooden handle. The whitecaps adorned her forearm like a glove.

"I'd never hurt my boys. I never want to hurt you. I even brought you flowers. Just come on home now." His heavy boots hit the sand. She knew the sound of his stride. The pull on her ankle increased. Her toes dug for purchase in the sand. In the waves, she could barely make out new roundness almost obscured by the froth.

"Anixter," she said, gasping. Salt speckled her tongue. He stood over her, his face ruddy with drink. A bouquet of white wildflowers drooped from his hand. "Run."

"What?" he asked. He was too far in his cups to care. The seaweed lasso flew through the air and directly around Anixter's neck. At the same time, the snare jerked her leg hard, pulling her into the waves, into the sea.

She could not afford to gawk any longer. She pivoted against her hip, axe in hand, and blindly chopped at the water beneath her foot. Anixter's gurgles registered above the crash of the waves. The merman's shoulders crested the water. He was sleek and glistening as a salmon. Unblinking black eyes stared her down, his broad pink lips working at the air. Another merman emerged from the waves, Anixter's tether in his hands.

Callie drew her knee up, surprised at the sudden lack of hold. She had cut the snare. She pushed herself back on her buttocks and hand, trying to gain her feet, get away. Somehow she stood as the merman advanced. He had dropped the severed snare, and now a blade of pink coral jutted from his hand.

"No!" she screamed, hacking outward with the axe. In that instant it wasn't the merman she saw, but Anixter. No more. No longer would she accept his fists and kisses. The axe chopped through the creature's arm, severing it. There was a strange gurgling sound and the merman fell back, the wide lips gaping. He retreated into the waves. His shoulder streamed viscous blood.

Buoyed by the waves, the detached arm drifted away, surrounded by swirling white flowers from Anixter's bouquet. Callie gained her senses enough to grab the arm. She looked for Anixter and saw him, held in the other merman's tight embrace. A wave swallowed them both.

Callie retreated to the dunes, each step slow and dragging. The boys were there, faces pale as the moon, Anixter's horse between them.

"Mama?" asked Dennison.

The scaled skin in her grasp was as soft as flower petals. It wasn't a full merman, but surely it would sell. Surely the coins would be adequate for fare to the mainland. Beyond that, she could wash dishes, clothes, see her boys raised right, away from this place and the memories of flying fists and brown bottles.

"I'm fine," she said. She looked to her two sons, her eyes brimmed with tears. "We're fine."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Beth Cato resides in Arizona with her husband and son. She's an active member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, with work appearing in _Flash Fiction Online,_ _Daily Science Fiction_ , and _Stupefying Stories_. For information on her latest projects, please visit http://www.bethcato.com.

God's Huntsman

By Jim Breyfogle

Art By: Laura Givens

"Most people don't even notice their soul is missing, at least not right away. They just sort of drift away, wondering if there is something wrong with the world or themselves." Barachiel wasn't making an excuse, just stating a fact.

Uriel knew Barry wasn't a fool; he had been hunting far too long to think that. Barry looked fit; the ages had been kind. He had a little grey in his hair, enough to make him look distinguished. He wore an Italian suit, and wore it well. He looked Uriel in the eye.

"You think I don't know what I am? We were His first creation, even before the Universe. You ever think we were a mistake?"

"No," said Uriel.

"No," Barry mused. "Yet He gave them souls. Why not us?"

"We don't die."  
"Live forever do we? Even after you pull that trigger? No we don't. We're all doomed. Maybe you won't see the wrong end of an obby, but do you really think you can avoid accidents for all eternity?"

Uriel did not answer; he didn't see the point. They both knew the score. Two thousand years ago Barry started to eat human souls, and the punishment for that was oblivion.

"I don't regret it, either," Barry said. "So they walk around without souls? How is that different from us?" He smiled, a slight lifting of the corner of his mouth. "There are some still in Heaven who want to keep their eating habits secret."

How would he know? Uriel wondered. But they were all angels once; a demon was just an angel who started eating souls. Barry might still talk to old friends. Somebody could have fallen to the temptation of leaving Heaven to eat souls.

"So," said Barry with a slight nod toward the oblivion gun, "you forget how those things work?"

"No," said Uriel, "Just giving you a few more minutes."

Barry snorted, "Yeah? That's nice. But you know what? There is no salvation for us."

Uriel pulled the trigger.

At the movement Barry twitched, as if to lift his hands to ward off his ending. All the colors of creation roped out from the obby, struck him in the chest. Power crackled, enough to make the cosmos shake. The colors filled him, and once full, brightened. They became so bright as to lose distinction; they blended into white. The colors vanished and he was gone.

Uriel slipped his oblivion gun back into its holster and let the cool breeze flow over him. Three hundred years for this hunt, and it was finally over. A heavy tractor-trailer rumbled over the bridge on the interstate behind him. Cars whispered by, all on the interstate. The road under the bridge remained deserted. That road was part of the street grid that cut the empty, brown fields into blocks. Elder trees and coarse grass struggled in the contaminated soil. It seemed drained of color, of hope; a forsaken place.

He walked under the bridge to an old woman huddled in the meager pile of her possessions. Her hair was thin and grey, her skin wrinkled. Her breath tore at the air, trying desperately hard for what should have come easily. She stank of urine and stale brandy and sweat. It was too cold for a human to be without shoes or gloves, yet she had neither.

Uriel sensed she hurt, she felt cold, and she was hungry. She craved drugs. He knew her lungs to be damaged, and her liver. He knew the black flesh on her feet would need to be cut away to save her life. And she cradled one hand tenderly, for the fever in it was a source of warmth, but touching the angry red fingers with the skin stretched tight over the swelling caused her pain.

Yet for all this she had a soul. And her soul had drawn Barry to this place where Uriel had finally killed him.

As he watched her soul struggled to get free from the shapeless mass of her breast. It was a bird, a dove. Its feathers a light gold, tarnished at the wingtips by sin, they and its beak shaded toward copper. She drew a breath, drawing it back, but exhaling pushed it further away. Each breath drew it more weakly, pushed it away more strongly, until it stretched out its wings and lifted away from the woman.

It hovered a moment, regarding the body beneath it, then shimmered. Uriel knew it to be shifting planes, to be seeking Heaven. He decided to go with it.

Together they appeared on the plains outside the Great Gate of Heaven, but the dove had transformed into a young woman.

She stood upright, healthy and awestruck. Brushing back her hair, she saw Uriel and gave him a hesitant smile. But when she saw the Great Gate, she turned away and joined the other souls appearing and moving toward it.

~

Uriel entered Heaven's Angelic Administrative offices. His footsteps echoed around the empty rotunda, bouncing off the domed ceiling high above him. He ignored the statuary and paintings. He did not care about the perfect proportions; the subtle shading of color, or the way the light from the oculus illuminated certain aspects at different times of day. The product of ages of work, it shamed everything in Heaven except the Throne Room itself. It did, by specific intent, surpass anything created by human craftsman.

"This is the Angelic Administration," said a voice, cool and polite. "Human affairs are down the street."

Uriel nodded to the angel behind the service counter across the hall to the offices themselves. "Good morning, Ramiel." Ramiel sat stiffly in his chair, copper colored wings folded tightly across his back, halo perfectly straight over his head. He wore a proper robe, perfectly pressed, and tied with rope that matched his wings.

"Oh, it's you. I didn't recognize you without your wings and halo. You're dressed like a human, Uriel."

Uriel shrugged.

"I'll tell Gabriel you're here."

Uriel nodded as he opened the gate and passed through. He had the first office on the left. He went in, walked behind the walnut desk, and threw himself into the stuffed chair, lifting his feet onto the desktop, squarely on a folder resting there and closing his eyes.

He opened them moments before the doorknob rattled. The door opened and another angel came in unconsciously folding his wings to fit through the door and letting them unfurl once inside. He wore a white muscle shirt, military pants and combat boots that matched his white wings and perfect smile. An exercise monitor strapped to one muscular arm blinked green. He had blonde, brush-cut hair, and wore black sunglasses for effect.

"I thought I heard your voice. Welcome back."

"Hi, Mike."

"Get 'im?"

Uriel sighed heavily. "Yeah. Yeah, I got him."

"Poor Barry. How'd he take it?"

"About how you'd expect."

Mike laughed, a bark somehow both sympathetic and brutal. "Take some time before the next one. Who is it anyway?" Uriel glanced at the folder under his feet on the desk. Mike followed his look and understood. "That's been sitting there for twenty years," he said. "No hurry."

Uriel nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"Take some time," Mike said again. "Hell of a job." He drew in his wings to leave, paused. "Gabriel's here today so you better get your wings on." He left the door open as he left.

As Uriel took his feet from the desk and reached for the folder, he heard voices.

"It's not our problem," came Ramiel's voice. "See the Human Administration."

"I did," came a woman's voice. "I did go back," she insisted, "but they won't help me. All they say is he isn't here."

"Then he isn't here," said Ramiel.

"Then were is he?"

"Have you checked in Hell?"

"NO!" The woman's shout echoed. "He was in Heaven."

"Look, I'm sorry," though Ramiel didn't sound sorry, "but people don't disappear in Heaven. Either he is here or he never was."

Uriel did not open the folder, did not move at all as he listened to the conversation.

"Why won't anybody listen to me?"

"Why do you humans always make things difficult? We have no authority over human affairs. We don't handle judgment; we don't handle punishment. I don't know what failing of understanding you have, but we can't help you."

Uriel listened to the woman's footsteps retreat and fade as she crossed the antechamber. Then, like a gunshot, the great wooden door slammed closed.

Ramiel's voice drifted in as he muttered, apparently to nobody in particular, "What a waste of my time."

Uriel placed the folder back on his desk and leaned back in his chair to think of what he heard.

"I heard you were successful."

Gabriel stood in the doorway, huge, radiating divine power. Long hair hanging down behind him, halo on full power, wings of gold making him seem even larger. His blue eyes virtually glowed and his teeth flashed as he smiled. He wore pristine white robes tied with a rope of gold.

Uriel nodded.

"Good. Nasty bit of work, but it always is. Looked at your next one?" When Uriel shook his head he went on, "Take you out of Heaven for awhile."

"What did that woman want?" Uriel asked.

"Who? Oh the one who slammed the door? She thinks her husband is missing. Can't help her of course, but she's been a pest to Ramiel. Don't worry about her."

Uriel leaned forward and placed a hand on either side of the folder, but did not open it.

"I know you've been away for awhile," said Gabriel, "but you're in Heaven now. Wings. Halo. Don't be mistaken for a human."

Without looking up Uriel said, "You want the flaming sword too?" He always had it, but Gabriel didn't know that.

"That won't be necessary," and he was gone with a rustle of feathers and the faint smell of summer.

For long minutes Uriel contemplated the folder that would tell what demon he was to track. He rose and left his office, the folder unopened on his desk.

~

He stepped from Angelic Administration and immediately saw the woman. She sat next to a fountain, adding her tears to its water. She did not seem to notice the soft green grass, the warm air, or tree giving her a pleasant shade from the bright sun.

"Whom do you seek?" Uriel asked. She started at the sound of his voice. Her eyes were red from crying; something Uriel couldn't remember ever seeing in Heaven.

"Why do you care?"

Uriel ignored her question. "Whom do you seek?" he repeated.

"My husband. He's gone. Yes," she said, answering the question she obviously thought he would ask. "I asked the Human administrators. They didn't believe me. Neither did the angels."

"What is his name?"

"Jason Christopher Salamon. Who are you?"

Again Uriel ignored her question. He ran through a dozen questions, didn't ask them for to do so would be to question her veracity. "Whom else might I talk to about him?"

She sniffed and when that didn't work wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "Nobody. Jason's a jerk. Nobody likes him, but he's _good_ ," she insisted. "Deep down he's a good person. He'd have to be to get in here." She lifted her chin as if this fact vindicated her. "Can you find him?"

"I will look," he said.

He knew better than to go to Human Administration. People always flooded the building with non-existent problems, one of the greatest ironies of Heaven being that humans needed a place to complain if they were to think it paradise.

Instead he went to the Great Gate, where souls entered Heaven if they passed judgment. If anybody in Heaven had a record of Jason Christopher Salamon, the gatekeepers would.

He pushed through the crowd of souls coming out of the judgment chambers. They wore the look of rapture universal to new entrants, so engrossed with the streets of gold and preternatural colors that they ignored him completely.

He did not want one of the minor judges. He wanted to speak to the man in charge so passed into the small office just behind the Great Gate.

The two lamps seemed dim compared to the sun outside, and they made the office look faintly shabby. On the far wall hung a portrait of dogs playing poker, painted on black velvet and signed "Raphael da Urbino" across the collar of the bull terrier. A clay chalice sat on a shelf beneath it filled with what looked like beer nuts.

Peter sat behind the desk, reading the _duPont Registry of Fine Homes_. In his left hand he held a wide mouthed beer jar, which he lifted to his mouth. Uriel thought he was about to drink, but instead he spat in tobacco juice. He had his feet propped on the desk. He wore fuzzy pink rabbit slippers.

"Peter," Uriel said.

When he looked up and saw Uriel, Peter took his feet of the desk, brushed some pork rinds off his stomach onto the floor, and sat up. "What do you want?" He paused to study Uriel more closely. "Do I know you?"

"Yes," said Uriel.

It took Peter a minute to figure it out. "Ah. Uriel. Didn't recognize you without your wings and halo. Angels shouldn't go around without their wings. It's sneaky."

"You don't have anything to hide, do you?"

Peter spat into the jar again. "Of course not. What do you want? I heard you were off whacking brother angels. Tired of keeping us out of Eden or punishing the damned?"

"I'm looking for Jason Christopher Salamon. He's not in Heaven and his wife says he should be."

"Yeah, I've heard that before." Peter snorted. "Nobody wants to think their loved one wasn't a saint."

"She says he was already admitted."

"Oh. One of those." Peter scratched under one arm. "We get them occasionally. One person makes a claim, never anybody who will corroborate it."

"How often does it happen?"

"Not often. I've heard it's more common at admin, but they get all the loonies there. It's just not possible. People don't disappear in Heaven."

"I'd like to check your admission records."

"You would, eh? Well, we don't keep any." He seemed to take pleasure in saying this.

"You don't?" Uriel could tell Peter wasn't lying, but he was still surprised.

"Why should we? Once they pass judgment, they're in." He leaned forward belligerently. "If you're so interested in finding your boy, maybe you should go to Hell."

"Maybe I will."

~

He landed lightly on the massive flagstones paving the tunnel leading into Hell. Nobody approached, an illusion Uriel knew for souls constantly entered Hell, but one intended to make souls feel isolated and vulnerable. He didn't mind the dim light, the oppressive feeling in the air, or the acrid smell that swirled inside him to burn at his lungs. His footsteps sounded overly loud in the deathly silence. His breath formed a cloud in the cold air in front of him.

Lucifer leaned against a podium. He was handsome, a little pale, with dark eyes and dark hair. He wore a dark suit, with a long dress overcoat that hung open to show his vest and tie. At his feet a shapely woman huddled, her back to Uriel, naked and chained with gold shackles, shivering. Water dripped off the rocks onto her back. Another message for the condemned: your looks and money mean nothing here. Lucifer straightened himself and then his tie as Uriel approached.

"Uriel. Come to check on me?"

"No. Should I?"

Lucifer shrugged. "Depends on your nature, doesn't it? A question of trust. If not checking, you taking your old job back?"

Uriel chuckled. He had been charged with punishing wayward souls before Lucifer repented and was given dominion of Hell. "No, sorry."

Lucifer raised his eyebrows. "So. Why are you here?"  
"Lucifer." He stopped, glanced at the woman.

Lucifer nodded. "People suffer from more than heat."

Uriel accepted that. "I'm looking for Jason Christopher Salamon."

"Name doesn't sound familiar. Let me check." He drew a large ledger from behind the podium, opened the cover, and ran his finger down the page. "Nope, not here."

"You keep books?"

"The Almighty has shown his trust in me, but I'm not asking him to take it on faith. We catalog every soul and have quarterly audits. We had one last week. Every soul is accounted for."

Uriel was impressed. He believed Lucifer. "Where else might a human soul be, if not in Heaven or Hell?"

Lucifer tapped his front teeth. "Nowhere." The air stirred, and a long, low whimper that spoke of pain and longing drifted up from the tunnels behind him. He lifted a corner of his mouth into a small, sad smile. "It's not supposed to be fun here."

"I know," said Uriel. It appeared Salamon was "nowhere;" the same fate as angels who had been obliviated. A soul gone missing in the world meant it had been eaten, but what of a soul missing from Heaven?

"Tell me about eating souls."

Lucifer licked his lips, "What do you want to know?"

"You're the only one to repent the action. Why did you do it?"

"I did it because I was angry. We are the first creation, and yet the humans were given souls and admittance to Heaven. I thought if I could take the soul and consume it, it might live inside me and become mine." He gave a sharp bark of laughter. "I soon realized it didn't work that way, and thought of what I destroyed. Only those without a soul can appreciate their worth. So I threw myself at the foot of the Throne for judgment." He shrugged, "and here I am, doing your old job."

"Why do the demons keep eating souls?"

"The taste," hissed Lucifer and a small red glow of desire sparked deep in his eyes. "Oh, the taste, it stays with you always. No other food compares. It fulfills, uplifts you. It is rhapsody, and rapture. It is divine."

Lucifer visibly controlled himself. "Yes, my punishment is well chosen. To me is given an endless supply of the damned to torture for ages. Souls scream oblivion is preferable, but oblivion is denied. Neither their suffering nor my craving is quenched."

"Thank you," Uriel said. He started to shift back to Heaven. The chained woman gave a cry and leapt toward him, grabbing at his feet. The chain snapped taut, pulling her back, and she collapsed again to sob quietly at Lucifer's feet.

"Uriel," said Lucifer, "there's a little place at the foot of the mountains in Heaven, furthest from the Great Gate and the Throne, that few people know about. Shadows seem to gather there."

~

Shadows do indeed gather here, Uriel thought, overshadowed by the mountains, where the forest presses close, large boulders that interrupt your sight. He hadn't known a place like this existed in Heaven.

A shiver went up his spine, a curious thing, as he did not feel cold in the World, nor did anybody in Heaven. He walked closer, around one of the boulders to find a rift in the mountainside and a niche sheltered by the boulder and the wall of the mountain. Shadows cloaked it; and by looking, he could see only the last minutes of twilight would illuminate it.

A menhir stood between on the grassy shard between the alcove and the forest. Some grass grew in the alcove itself, but much had been trampled and stone showed through the thin soil. A dolmen had been placed here, though only metaphorically as a grave. No bodies lay beneath it.

He had only one thing to do. Wait until the demons came again. He settled atop a boulder, hidden by a larger stone, but where he could see both forest and alcove, or draw back from view if he wished. The sun passed overhead as he waited. A long night passed, and the sun rose again behind the mountains. Another day and a long, easy afternoon passed elsewhere in Heaven while Uriel waited. Another cooling of evening and chill night. Uriel waited. The days settled into routine, marked by the sun travels, and still Uriel waited.

Finally, as twilight fell on the fifth day, voices stirred the forest. Several people from the sound of the voices, both men and women. He drew his obby.

"Almost," said a man's voice.

"I'm so excited," said a woman.

"It's unforgettable," said another woman.

A half dozen people came from the forest. He didn't recognize any of them. Humans! Uriel realized. Maybe soul eaters didn't use this dolmen. Humans! Not an angel or demon among them.

As they approached Uriel could tell two led them, a man and a woman. The man, Landon, and the woman, Isabel, spoke to a second woman, obviously a newcomer to the group. The other three trailed behind, not part of the conversation or addressed by name.

"The dolmen is used here because the table and the feast have such strong symbolism," said Isabel.

"I can't imagine another level better than this," said the second woman, the newcomer.

"Trust us," said a Landon, his voice smooth and silky, "it can be better."

"What if I'm denied?"

"You can't be denied," said Isabel. "We are the gatekeepers, once you've satisfied us, you face no more judgments."

They entered the niche below Uriel and approached the dolman. Five spread out in a rough pentangle while Landon held his hand out to the woman. "Just climb up, I'll give you a hand," he said.

Uriel didn't know what to do. Never before had they dealt with human soul eaters. It wasn't possible in the World, and unthinkable in Heaven. He had no orders concerning humans, and obliviating had the same affect as eating them. He slipped his obby back into its holster as he struggled to determine what to do.

"Lie back, we'll be binding your hands and feet with gold cords, it symbolizes your submission," said Isobel.

"The dolmen is cold – is that a knife?"

"Indeed," said Landon.

"Why – "

"No questions, remember? We know the way to even greater fulfillment."

Even if he could not destroy them, Uriel had to act. "You lie," he said, jumping over the boulder and landing amongst the shadows near the head of the dolmen. The five on the ground jumped, while the woman on the dolman turned her head to see.

"Who are you to say we lie?" challenged Isobel, her eyes dark for she faced away from the setting sun.

"Another whose faith is weak," said Landon, but he spoke to the woman on the table. "One who doesn't know of the hidden levels."

"They lie," said Uriel. "Beyond Heaven are no levels, only oblivion. They would consume you."

"Has the serpent returned to poison Heaven as it did Eden?" sneered Isobel.

Uriel stepped forward into the day's last sunlight. "I am he who will bring you before the Great Throne to answer for your actions here," he said.

"I don't know who you are, Mister," said Isobel changing her tone, "but your answer is right here." She jerked an oblivion gun from under her robes. She had an obby! How could a human get an obby? There were only a half dozen in all creation. Her hand was steady as she pointed it at his chest. "We just got this toy, and just in time. It doesn't matter if you're one of the Archangels, this will settle you."

"That doesn't seem – " said the woman bound to the dolmen.

"Shut up – " snapped Isobel.

Uriel tensed; clearly they did not recognize him. There were other ways to kill an angel, but nothing as quick or easy as the oblivion in her hand.

"Isobel," said Landon. "He has one too. In his holster."

Uriel leapt straight up, unfurling his massive black wings and flapping frantically to gain altitude. The rainbow of light made his feet tingle as she shot below him. The woman on the dolmen screamed, and three of the humans turned and ran for the forest.

"Oh god, it's Uriel!" cried Landon. "Kill him, KILL HIM! KILL HIM before he kills us all!"

"I'm trying!" Isobel shouted back.

Uriel circled struggling to gain altitude quickly. The last of three disappeared into the forest, leaving Landon pointing up and shouting, the captive tugging at the cords binding her, and Isobel holding the obby with both hands to steady it.

He tucked his head, folded his wings and arrowed toward the ground. The rainbow clove Heaven's sky above him. He spiraled left, focused on the death in Isobel's hand, pulled out of his dive just above her head, and kicked. He could hear her bones break, and the obby flew across the alcove. With the beat of his wings he settled on the dolmen and bent over the captive.

"Save me! Save me! Oh god, this isn't supposed to happen in Heaven," she sobbed.

Uriel grabbed the ropes about one ankle. A blow to the head staggered him, and the rope slipped from his grasp. His vision swam then dimmed. He groped in blindness, his hand finding a large rock that he brushed aside to grip the rope again. With a jerk he broke it.

Another rock struck his shoulder, twisting him. He caught a blurred glimpse of the niche and the figure of the man reaching for the obby.

He took the other rope, saw the man grab the gun, snapped the rope, the gun turned toward him.

"Flee," he told the woman, the only clear thing in his vision was oblivion pointed at him. He rose to his feet, roaring defiance, as if his voice alone could stave off that terrible nothingness as he beat his wings.

The man did not flinch as he pulled the trigger.

Uriel thrust out his chest to receive the bolt. The woman at his feet, still sobbing, threw herself off the dolmen, and intersected the path of the shot meant for Uriel. Light filled her as he lifted off the stone table and she vanished.

Uriel stretched up, grass blowing in the wind from his wings. Another bolt of light cut close enough for him to feel its heat. Then the ground fell away and he rose into the gathering darkness of Heaven's night.

~

"Finally, you have your wings on, now about your halo – what happened to you?" Gabriel stepped back to get a better look at Uriel.

"Where is your oblivion gun?" Uriel demanded.

"What? It's in my office. What—"

"Get it."

"Now see here, Uriel —"

"Shut up and get it."

Gabriel frowned, but seemed to think better of protesting. He retreated to his office and a moment later stepped out with a holstered obby. He brushed off a thick layer of dust and held it out to Uriel.

Uriel glanced at it. "Where's Mike?"

"I haven't seen him in a couple days. What's—" but Uriel turned away, cutting him off.

In Mike's office Uriel stood, listening. He shook his head to clear it, walked over to the desk. The normal clutter of work covered its surface, papers and a computer, the screen open to an Internet war game. The only picture on the wall showed Mike hanging in the void as the universe came into being behind him.

A small red light caught Uriel's eye. He picked up the black device, turned it over in his hand. It was the receiver for Mike's exercise monitor. It was not receiving a signal. Uriel fiddled with the buttons, but to no result. This was an expensive device, and able to store information. Uriel pulled out the USB plug, pushed it into the computer, and keyed up the last hour of stored data.

Mike had been calm, heart rate and respiration normal for forty minutes, then his heart rate ticked up. It wasn't enough for exercise, but it didn't go back down. Ten minutes later, both his heart rate and respiration went wild. Twenty seconds after that, it ended.

Uriel flipped screens, searched the specs on the exercise monitor. It took a few minutes to find, but it confirmed what he knew. The receiver had to be within twenty feet of the monitor to log data; otherwise it was stored in the monitor until downloaded manually. The signal was too strong to have moved beyond the twenty feet. Whatever happened had happened within twenty feet of Mike's receiver.

Stepping out of the office, Uriel glanced down the hall. The only nearby office was his own. His job was easy; only one other angel was close enough.

"Ramiel," he said.

Ramiel looked up, didn't answer. His eyes probed Uriel. "Uriel," he said finally. "I thought you were off hunting soul eaters."

"I am."

Ramiel heaved himself and his desk up, throwing the desk over at Uriel, following it, enduring Uriel's blows, and snatching the obby from its holster. He pointed it at Uriel's chest. Quiet fell again.

"You convinced humans to eat souls in Heaven," said Uriel. "Why?"

"If they were expelled from Eden for eating an apple, it's a safe bet they'll be cast from Heaven for eating each other." Ramiel was breathing heavily.

"You framed them."

"And good riddance."

"To Mike too?"

"He heard too much. I didn't know he was still in his office. But you know what?" Ramiel waved a hand, palm up. "It's like he never was. I gave them his obby, and once they're finally caught with it, it'll look like they killed him. I'll give them yours too."

The single black eye of the obby looked huge to Uriel, a void in the scene of the room, but a void that contained the future.

"And you? You think you'll get away with this?"

Ramiel laughed, his face twisted in a sneer. "Look around, you see Him? It's Thursday afternoon and He's out to lunch."

Uriel dropped, spread flat, and barely low enough at that. The bolt of the oblivion gun creased the back of his coat. He flexed, levering himself up and reaching behind him to grasp the hilt tucked into his waistband.

Ramiel dove behind the overturned desk as Uriel brought up the hilt. White fire exploded from the hilt, prismatic light danced around the edges. Waves of heat washed over the room. The blade was six feet long.

"You actually brought the sword? How old school."

"Then come out."

Ramiel stood, fired.

Uriel twisted the sword, caught the bolt on the blade. The air screamed and the smell of ozone filled the room. The walls shook, the windows rattled. The vibration ran up Uriel's arm, jarred his teeth.

"Fool," he said. "Have you forgotten it was my sword that gave the power for the guns?"

"Ever wonder if that was a good idea?" Ramiel said. He flew up and Uriel followed.

Uriel twisted, spun, avoided the blasts he could, caught those he couldn't. His arms ached and his head pounded, but he kept his pursuit.

As Ramiel flew across the oculus he shimmered, vanished. Uriel changed planes instantly and chased Ramiel in the Real World.

Uriel appeared in dark clouds, wind whipping heavy rain around and instantly saturating his clothes, though he barely noticed. Lightening flashed, showing him a soaked city below him, but he disregarded it too as he followed Ramiel.

Ramiel avoided the city, flying through the teeth of the storm, trying to escape Uriel. He looked back, his pale and frightened face illuminated by a flash of lightening. He started to sink, clearly laboring in the storm. He twisted, thrust out a hand and fired the obby; but tired and wind tossed, he missed.

Uriel harried him, forcing him lower. Avoiding the gun but unable to get close enough to use his sword. He nonetheless pressed on, not even wiping the rain from his eyes.

They came down almost together. Ramiel first, he landed on his feet, but his momentum made him stagger and fall onto the muddy earth. Uriel landed a second later, firmly, and brutally stepped on Ramiel's hand until he let go of the obby and Uriel kicked it out of reach.

Ramiel lay on his elbows; face down, coppery wings hanging limply from his back, covered in mud. His halo barely glowed, and he labored to breathe. He looked up at Uriel.

Uriel drew back his sword. Rain hissed as it hit the flaming blade.

"Mercy," gasped Ramiel.

Lightning flashed, froze, forked across the sky, making bright highlights and dark shadows. The rain no longer fell; it hung in the sky like diamonds. The two remained frozen, statues, muscles taunt. Both drenched, hair plastered to their heads, water glistening on their wings.

Uriel stood with his sword raised, steam enveloping the blade. Ramiel twisted to look up, a desperate expression on his face. Nothing moved. There was no sound. Time did not pass.

The lightning winked out and thunder crashed over them as the rain pelted down, running in streams and turning to steam as it struck the flaming sword. The steam swirled up again.

"Your appeal is denied," said Uriel. He brought his sword down and cleanly severed Ramiel's neck. The light of the sword spread through the body and the head and a moment later both disappeared.

The thunder moved off into the distance, impersonal.

Uriel stooped to pick up his oblivion gun. He slipped it into his holster.

The thunder disappeared; leaving him alone in the cold rain with the realization Barry was right, but that it didn't change who he was or what he did.

"There is no salvation for us."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Imagine the biography of a charming, witty, good-looking fantasy author. He lives with his gorgeous wife (she wrote this) and lovely twin daughters. He lives a life style you aspire to, but not so much as to make you jealous. That is Jim's biography. Now imagine him with lots of awards and bestsellers. Thank you, so does he.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Laura Givens is a Denver Based artist and author. Her art has graced the covers of numerous publishers' books and magazines. She has provided story illustrations for _Orson_ _Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show, Jim Baen's Universe, Talebones, Science Fiction Trails and Tales of the Talisman,_ among others. Her work may be viewed at www.lauragivens-artist.com . In 2010 she naively decided she could probably write stories as good as many she had illustrated. She has sold tales ranging from zombie stories to space operas. She was co-editor and contributor to _Six-Guns Straight From Hell_ , a weird western anthology, and is art director for _Tales of the Talisman_ magazine.

Midnight Calls

By Liz Colter

The alley was cloaked in night, but Crow had no trouble finding what he sought. He alighted in front of the black metal door, avoiding broken glass and grimy puddles. The door was unremarkable, flush with the dark walls on either side, lacking knob or handle, yet it vibrated with the music and noise thrumming inside.

Crow rapped sharply on the door with his beak. A metal plate slid open above his head. One amber eye and part of a whiskered jowl appeared at the small grill, peering first out and then down. "Mr. Crow," the tiger rumbled.

The plate closed and a latch clanged. The heavy door swung inward, inviting Crow from the inky darkness of the alley into the gloomy interior of the establishment.

"It's been a long time," the tiger said deferentially. A blonde woman with a pouty face stood near to him. She wore a satin slip of a dress and rubbed her hand through the black and orange stripes of his fur in a familiar way.

Crow stepped inside without answering the tiger. Furred and feathered creatures and pale and dark-skinned people turned to stare at the newcomer. They looked away again quickly.

Death, bad tidings, danger; yes, he was all of those -- and more. Few knew the rest though. None on this world, certainly.

The crowd was dense and undulating, the place busier than the last time Crow had visited. The bar at the back of the smoky room was doing a brisk business. Crow's stiff, hitching gait carried him past the lounging couches and mats scattered between the tables, where shadowy figures twined together. With a flutter, he hopped to an empty table in the middle of the room and perched there, his long claws gripping the edge of the round top.

The swell of partiers ebbed away from him, almost imperceptibly, toward the edges and shadows of the room. When they glanced his way, their eyes were glazed and heavy-lidded or too-wide and frantic, altered by more than their drinks.

"Can I get you something, Mr. Crow?" The orangutan peeled her lips back in an unattractive smile and flourished her empty tray.

Crow shook his head 'no' and continued to shake, fluffing his midnight feathers and relaxing them smooth again. Her smile withered and she retreated faster than she had approached. He watched her hurry away.

They were frightened of him, but they didn't know why. They perceived his authority, but they didn't understand its source. And they would never know his true name, the name that his master had given him so long ago, Memory.

Crow scanned the crowd, taking everything in, sorting and filing it all. He noted the debauchery, the wantonness, the single-minded pursuit of empty pleasures. His master's latest creations had chosen their path. Not that it bothered Crow; he was not their judge, only the messenger. They were transient, but he would endure forever. When they were dead, he would eat their flesh.

He laughed suddenly. It came out as a raucous caw that hushed the room for a nervous moment before the orgiastic joviality, the mindless self-indulgence, flowed back over the revelers in a tide of self-delusion. His master should have made them all ostriches, Crow thought.

He hopped from the table, seeing what he had come to see. The tiger was too occupied with the blonde to notice Crow's departure, but the orangutan ran to his side to open the door. Crow dipped his head to her. Hopping once, he lifted himself on strong wings and flapped upward into the night. He flew heavenward, to his master, his memories the seeds of their destruction.

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Liz Colter lives in a beautiful part of the Rocky Mountains and spends her free time with her husband, dogs, horses and writing (according to her husband, not usually in that order of priority). She has been writing speculative fiction for more than a decade and reading it for a lifetime. News of her writing, including other published and forthcoming stories, can be found at http://ecolwrites.blogspot.com/

Book Review

Devil's Island

From the Amazon.com Book Description:

" _When Davon Rice returns from active duty in Afghanistan he is struck by the level of despair that awaits him in civilian life. Staving off boredom and depression and in need of a fresh challenge, he takes a job as live-in security guard on Devil's Island, a disused government research facility. But then he slowly comes to realize that he is not alone. As the terror mounts and he spirals toward an earth-shattering conclusion, Davon is brought face to face with his worst nightmares. And this is one battle he has to fight alone."_

C.M. Saunders is a fiction writer from Whales who I must admit I knew little about when he contacted us to review _Devil's Island_. He has one novel, three Novellas (including Devil's Island), and countless short story credits. You can find out more about him on his website: http://cmsaunders.wordpress.com/

I was excited about this one. The Amazon description, coupled with the description Saunders sent me promised an engaging story. I have an extensive background in physical security and have always had an interest in stories surrounding military characters. So naturally this is a story I was drawn to.

This story is about Davon Rice, an unemployed war veteran from the UK. He is looking for work and winds up employed by Prescott Services to provide security service at an old MOD research facility. After being out of work for some time, Davon cannot help but accept this extremely well paying job. Once he accepts the job, the story really begins.

The beginning chapters were slow. As I am walked step by step through Davon's morning routine, I couldn't help but wonder what the point was. It takes a chapter to tell us he applied for the job, another chapter to tell us to tell us he was getting an interview, another for the interview, and a fourth to tell us he got the job. I could not help but wonder why a story centered on working at Devil's Island, needed so much set up. A fact that made even less sense when the story ended. But, I will get to that soon.

But Chapter 5 is where this story really started. And this is where I found myself ready to keep turning pages. In fact, this is the point when I couldn't stop turning pages. Davon finds himself air lifted to Devil's Island. He isn't given much information about what the island really entails. He is more or less told to keep trespassers away and to call if he needs anything. Having been a security guard, I could relate with that.

Davon begins exploring the compound looking for clues as to what the research facility does. He finds an underground research room that smells horrible, but really offers no clues to what happened there. But then strange things start happening. I don't want to give too much away, so you'll have to read it find out more.

Saunders is an excellent writer in terms of style and certainly in his story idea. The idea is certainly one that he gave a lot of thought on. And he did do his research. The problem here is that Saunders didn't start where the story began. Chapters one to four could have been sliced down to one, maybe two chapters, thus throwing us into the story where it really thrives.

There really is only one main character in this novella, Devon Rice. He is believable as a person and Saunders does well in showing how Devon feels and acts. As Devon gets bored with isolation Saunders really shows how Devon could be losing his mind, but perhaps still be completely sane. In this type of story it is exactly what is needed. You have to believe Devon thinks this is real, while still wonder if it is just his imagination. And Saunders does a good job of that.

The story is pretty good. As I mentioned above the middle is where this story is at. The opening is slow and I found the end somewhat disappointing. Without giving too much away, the ending just seemed to be wrapped up all too nicely with a bit of cliché thrown in. It is my opinion that fewer words should have been invested in the opening, and the middle could have been beefed up just a bit. I think a bit more foreshadowing of the ending would have made it a bit more believable. The story was entertaining enough. After Chapter 5, I felt compelled to continue reading. I had to know what Devon would find. Unfortunately when he finds it, the scene was anticlimactic.

This book is available on Amazon.com. If you want the Kindle version it is $2.99 or you can borrow it free if you are an Amazon Prime member. If you prefer paperback, it is $11.95. Overall, I think $2.99 is just slightly over priced for a book that is only 132 pages long. And $11.95 is a ridiculous price for a book that short. Your best bet is to borrow it with Amazon Prime.

Overall this is a good story if you're looking for something to read over a weekend. It is entertaining, and enjoyable. Saunders is an excellent author and this might interest you if you are already a fan of his. But even readers new to Saunders, but a fan of "lurking in the shadows" type stories should get some enjoyment from this.

The summary:

Devil's Island

By C.M. Saunders

Published July 8, 2012

Published under Rainstorm Press

ASIN B008IVUA4O

ISBN: 1937758230

Available at: Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk

US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B008IVUA4O

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B008IVUA4O

My ratings:

Prose: Good

Characters: Good

Story: Okay

Value: Poor

Overall: Okay

This is a good one to borrow if you are an Amazon Prime member. I recommend reading it, but the price is simply too high for a novella of this size and caliber.

Mythocraft

By Lindsey Duncan

Cover Art By: Richard H. Fay

I sat with the weeping child on my lap and stroked her hair. Autumn sunlight filtered through the withering leaves; I could smell bread baking in the village kiln. The day had not yet given up on summer's pitiless heat; Helios above seemed to steer his chariot too close to the ground.  
Mira rubbed her nose against my tunic. "Da' keeps looking at me funny and he makes me clean up after the animals all the time. What's wrong with me?"

I couldn't tell her I had seen his thoughts and knew he believed she wasn't his child. "Shh, shh. It will be fine."

I was so lost in her distress I missed the growling of voices and the trod of false bravery until the villagers crested the hill. I froze, clutching the child tighter. I couldn't even collect myself enough to reach out to their minds.

"Unhand the child, sorceress. Now," demanded bristle-bearded Biton. Only a month ago, he had trusted me with his own children, said they flourished under my care.

"Go on." I tried to lift my charge from my lap, but she was too scared by the mob to budge—which made her only slightly less terrified than I was, my ears throbbing with rising blood. "Go home to your parents."

Kepa—who had nursed my mother through her last days—prodded her wooden staff at me. "You've poisoned her with your herbs."

"And turned my husband against me," a stout woman snapped.

"I didn't—" I stopped myself. How could I explain I had only told him the truth? I rose, pulling Mira up as gently as I could. She buried her fists in my tunic. The mood of the crowd darkened. I panicked, pushing her away; she fell to the ground, crying out, and the mob exploded.

I flinched as staffs and farm implements thumped me, wielded by familiar hands—people who had watched me grow, friends who had shared berry-picking duty. I stumbled, managed to turn, and ran for the trees, never looking at the forest, sure I would never make it. The villagers melted away as if made of ice, and I plunged into the woods.

Even once I slowed, I couldn't see my surroundings around the tears. I finally gave up, slumping against a tree. Fourteen years of the village being all I had ever known, and I had no idea where to turn. I couldn't believe they thought me evil, but the evidence bruised my arms and left my chest aching. I hated my ability and wanted to cast it from my breast. Too late—this had been brewing for a long time, and I had refused to see it.

An odd, rhythmic clicking caught my attention. I leaned over a tree-limb in search of the source, and saw a beast with flanks carved from white ivory stamping the grass. Its mane was not made of hair but of a series of gears. Their turning seemed to control the movement of limbs and joints in a way I couldn't fathom. A pearl horn thrust from the center of its brow, and the clicking, I realized, was its version of a horse's whinny.

I remembered, then, the hermit who lived deep in these woods. He was said to have created these beasts— not through animal husbandry, but the same way Hephaestus made his gold-plated attendants, with strange craftsmanship that allowed them to move of their own will. I had always thought these were night shadows dreamt up by overactive imaginations, or real beasts seen under odd light. Now, fascinated despite the sickness in my heart, I crept closer.

The creature whirred again and tossed its head. Obsidian eyes gyrated in their sockets to look at me. I tried to tell myself it couldn't possibly see me, that it wasn't an ordinary creature and might have eyes only for the look of it...

A stony click as those eyes rolled up in its head and silver teeth bared. The equine beast reared and thundered away.

I cried out, scrambling out of the bushes. The path of the one-horned horse cut across the sameness of the forest, and after a moment of pounding heart, I decided to follow it. One path was as good as the next.

As I traveled, I captured the beast in my mind, marveling at the smooth and subtle joints, the interlocking filigree of the mane. I remembered the gears turning, an intricate sequence that must somehow control the whole horse. Remarkable.

As I walked, I went from following the creature for lack of another plan to the mote of an idea. Could the hermit need an apprentice, someone to teach his trade to? He would certainly not be frightened of a mindreader: someone who could create the likes of that horse had nothing to fear from me.

I mussed my hair self-consciously and tucked the torn edges of my tunic in until I thought it might look respectable. I could see the trees thinning ahead as the ivory creature slowed. There, stone walls, higher than any I had ever seen.

Something rumbled, vast, thundering—it made the hair on the back of my neck prickle—but high-pitched, like the squall of too many birds. I halted, ducking under the nearest branch as I tried to catch a glimpse of whatever could have made that sound. A flash of ebon and silver caught the corner of my eye. I had no fear left to swallow.

Then I realized it was between me and the walls. I had no idea if I could navigate the forest to pass; I could be lost forever. That and curiosity brought me closer. What monsters had the hermit created?

A downdraft whipped branches back and blinded me with flying leaves. I dropped, undoing all my hard work at looking presentable. I sensed more than saw something rise to take a low, swooping course over the stoneworks.

It was a bird, like no other bird I had ever seen, large enough to pick up my cottage—any cottage—and drop it wherever it pleased. Its wings were crafted of sheets of hematite; the light that played off the silver and black made it seem even larger than it was.

I could see the building now, a square tower with the wall enclosing a yard. It had neither doors nor windows and not even a paint-splash for adornment, save for a sandstone statue with a lion's body, eagle wings, and the head of a sour-looking woman.

I had no time to wonder at the curious carving, however, for the great bird circled the dwelling. It backwinged onto the top of the tower with an air of finality.

I watched it anxiously. Birds, I reasoned with myself, preferred to eat bugs, and for all its size, I was not quite that small in comparison. It was only thirty feet from my present position to the tower; I could run back to the trees if I had to.

I was determined to see the hermit now.

I drew myself up and inched forward. The bird moved with an undulation of straight joints above me, but made no attempt to launch from its perch. I took a step, another, conscious of the sunlight tickling the back of my neck. Halfway there, two-thirds—but the bird remained where it was, and I finally reminded myself to breathe.

Stone scraped on stone, and warm air puffed into my face. "Greetings, traveler."

I spun about. I came face to face with the statue, its jaw hung slack. It had made the sound. "You speak?" I said.

"If you would cross the threshold and bother my master," it said in a self-important purr, "you must answer a riddle." The voice must have been created by rising air from within, source of the fetid wind it blew down upon me.

Tentatively, I reached out to touch its thoughts. I felt a faint shadow of something metallic, inscrutable--no true mind. "What happens if I can't answer?"

"I would devour you, except my stomach doesn't absorb food," the statue said, "and besides that, your blood would foul up my mechanisms. Suffice it to say, something suitably nasty will happen. Do you want a riddle or don't you?"

Where could I go, if not here? "Riddle away."

"What is so delicate that one cannot even say its name without breaking it?"

Panic flared as I realized it wasn't one of the dozens of riddles the village children babbled to each other, and I had no flash of insight. I turned words over in my head to sound them out, striking mental blows and coming up with nothing.

What if it was something I didn't even know existed? In a place with horses made of ivory and impossible birds, why was there any guarantee I could understand anything? The silence in my ears was deafening.

That was it! I opened my mouth to speak, and then considered. Instead of answering, I smiled, letting the stillness speak for me.

The statue let out an exasperated sound. "I would laugh if I were designed to make such a sound. You've made your point, human. You may enter!"

The interlocking stones of the wall shifted, revealing a passage beyond. I bobbed my head to the statue and hurried through.

I found myself in a chamber with seamless stone walls. Its only features were a raised dais with a carved wooden chair and a low, grooved bench. A man with a gnarled body and knotted hair sat on the former.

He straightened. "You're no king or hero," he said.

"I lack the attributes for either," I said before I could think. I blushed, ducking my head. "I'm sorry..."

He laughed, a rusty cough, and leaned forward to regard me. "Ah! I know you. The mirror's image of your grandmother. How is Nephele?"

The affection in his voice surprised me. "I—she died four years ago," I said. "I'm sorry."

"You didn't kill her, did you? Then think nothing of it," he said brusquely. "You'd be the mindreader, then? Do you know where you ought to be?"

Misery gnawed at me. "I can't help—"

"At Delphi or Dodona. Helping the oracles."

I blinked. "But the gods show them the future. They show me nothing."

"Did I say you should be an oracle? Clean out your ears," he snapped. "I'm saying you should be helping them. Who do you think stands by the oracles, translates their inspired ravings? Mindreaders, who touch the querent's mind and know how to phrase their answers. Wisdom comes from understanding other people, knowledge from knowing what they know."

His words left me tingling. "I don't know if I could live up to that."

He snorted. "Why are you here, then?"

"I want to study under you," I said. The idea of cities, oracles and heroes was overwhelming; this I could handle, mysteries without minds and an old man who understood them. "To learn your craft."

"Ah, do you, then?" He hopped to his feet and approached the wall, where he pressed an indent I hadn't noticed before. It fissured open. "Perhaps you should see what that craft is."

I followed him into the yard and gaped at the visage there. The thing was an impossible jumble of coils and levers, gears and bars in various stages of construction, all centered around a lizard-like body and one wing crafted from beaten hides over bronze latticework.

"What," I whispered, "is that?"

"My masterpiece," he said, stroking one bronzen panel in proprietary fashion. "Dragon superior. No armies springing up from the teeth this time—let me tell you, that was a feat of engineering—but untameable and unstoppable. I have famous men visit me," he changed the subject, "and they want guardians and companions. You repay me, if you decide to stay, by confirming whether or not their reasons for asking are truthful. Do you think you can do that?"

I looked at the unfinished beast for a long moment before answering. "I can."

~

I began my training under the hermit, whose name was Atarion. I learned principles of movement and energy that applied to his creations—his machines, as he called them—as well as to the living; methods of craft that could shape metals most smiths found unmalleable and blend them together to create stronger composites; the meaning and mystic vibration of materials, too, when I found out that nothing but pearl would do for the core of his unicorn. My brain and body both ached with near-constant strain.

I'll never forget the first visitor, some three months later. I stood next to Atarion's chair, trying not to stare as she entered in a swirl of vibrant emerald fabrics, wheat hair worn loose down her shoulders. The sumptuous gown swayed shy of her feet, revealing the occasional glimpse of perfect ankles. She was as polished and composed as any of his creations.

She knelt on the bench like a commoner and clasped her hands in front of her. "I need help, great Atarion," she said, "I need it desperately."

He quirked a brow. "Who are you, and what is your purpose?"  
"I am Cadis, queen of Phrygia," she said with a notch of her chin—pride that dissolved as she continued, "I need a working for my husband, poor man, who cannot touch food, cannot eat if it so much as brushes his lips. Surely your craftsmanship is equal to this small task." Her voice faded away to a whisper, her eyes pleading. I felt a surge of compassion, then remembered I had a task to undertake. I reached out to her and sought the frantic twittering of her thoughts.

Atarion was less impressed. "What has your fool husband gotten himself into now?"

I gasped as he spoke to a queen in that fashion, but she didn't seem offended. "He was granted a wonderful boon by Dionysus," she said.

"A boon?"

"Everything he touches becomes gold." She stiffened defensively. "It's a very valuable gift."

"Oh, to be sure!" Atarion shook his head, then looked back to me. I blinked, then steeled myself for the intrusion on her mind. A quick touch, a burning sense of anxiety, worry, a bit of righteous anger—the thoughts flowed exactly as she had said, and I nodded.

Atarion snapped his fingers. "My student and I will build your working and send it with you by the end of the day. In return, I'll want a payment you can easily afford: gold. Specifically, five of his transformed meals, one of your court dogs—don't look so surprised, I know he must have tried to pet them—and a few other items I will list. Is that acceptable?"

Cadis nodded vigorously. "Thank you — thank you!"

"You'll stay in the guest chambers until then." He didn't look at her as he stood, his eyes already distant in a way I recognized as mental construction.

"A relatively easy problem," he continued as we retreated to his workroom. "A claw mechanism to drop the food at the right angle and servants sensible enough to cut the food into tiny pieces—he won't eat richly, but the man could stand to shed half his weight. You'll do most of the work."

I caught my breath. "What if I do something wrong? He's a king—"

"You won't." His voice was brusque. "And he's only a man. Come, show me that you've done more than just nod and mumble over the past three months."

It took me hours of sketching in sand and then hours more of heavy work, but I finally created a framework. Atarion took one look at it, a cursory glimpse; then he nodded. "It will do."

I hadn't expected glowing praise, but felt nettled. Cadis gave a glad cry when she saw the working and hugged me; I was overwhelmed by sweet scents and sparkling gems. "Thank you, dear one," she said.

Three days later, the gold arrived, sliced bread, plates and hound. Atarion told me to put them in storage and lock the door.

I bit my lip. "Aren't we going to melt it down?"

"No. Not yet. Trust me, I know the king: this story isn't over. Make sure the lock is secure." He went back to his dragon with no other word of explanation.

I could have read his mind, but I didn't feel I could betray his kindness like that, so I held down my curiosity. A few days later, when I opened the storage door, I found myself with an armful of slobbering dog.

"Down! Easy," I said, then recognized the knotted coat of the court dog. "But—how?"  
"The king had to ask Dionysus to retract his gift," Atarion said from behind me, and I jumped. "He apparently did. All of it."

I blinked in dismay as I tried to keep the canine from licking my face off. "Then what we did was for nothing?"

"Not at all. We have food prepared by one of the best cooks in the known world, and you," this as he stumped away, "have a companion. I believe his name is Vanko."

"But I don't—" I started to protest. The canine's next enthusiastic lick almost went into my mouth, and I dropped to the ground laughing. "Fine, fine! Come with me, Vanko, and we'll get you some food."

~

Months turned into a year, then three. I never lost my awe at the visits of heroes and kings, but I learned to accept them. I also learned that the legends I had heard as a child were quite different in the flesh. History and myth might remember them in one fashion, but that didn't mean it was the truth. There was the time we had to make a giant loom for someone named Arachne...

Atarion was always busy: when he wasn't working on a guardian for one of the great cities or a loyal companion for a quest, he took requests from shadows I never saw, building ever more elaborate monsters of metal.

One I remember with particular vividness had a snake's tail on a lion's body and a goat's head. It breathed fire through a clever mix of chemicals, though I'm told that particular stroke of genius caused its destruction.

The dragon, it became clear, was not so much a project as an obsession. He returned to it often, tinkering, sometimes destroying mechanisms half my height to begin anew. I doubted it would be finished in his lifetime.

Vanko became my comfort, keeping me warm at night when winter turned and the sole being in the tower who had only approval for me. Still, in time Atarion gave me leave to create my own projects, and I elected to work on something smaller and more delicate.

I made their wiring from spider-silk and silver; their casing was moonstone, their wings carved from opal and pyrite—fool's gold, false glitter. I used prisms for their eyes and called them the fair ones. I had discovered long ago that many of the materials Atarion used were unknown to me; at times, I could wheedle him into telling me of the distant lands from which they came.

One morning, the giant bird landed atop the tower and shrilled to warn its creator of visitors. Atarion rushed to his far-seeing glass and frowned. "New face," he said, "and that's never a good thing in a region as tumultuous as ours. I'll rely on your insight."

The rare compliment made me uneasy. Our visitor answered the riddle put to him contemptuously; his voice was woodsmoke, his body marked with hardship. He swept to the bench and knelt.

"Honored craftsman," he murmured. His voice became a purr, humble. "I beg from you something that no one has ever seen before."

"I've seen many things and not," Atarion said. "You might be more specific. Who are you, and what do you need?"

"My name is Galasius, and I am the king of two northern isles." The visitor spoke as if these things were nothing before us. I focused on him, opening my mind slowly, though I felt relaxed despite Atarion's warnings. Galasisus seemed to be hard-edged only in self-defense. "I am beset by three young striplings who each believe they have a valid claim to the islands, and would fight to its ruin if I favored any of them. I had thought that devising a series of tests might be the solution, but..."

I no longer listened as his thoughts grew distinct. The three youths, callow, despised—I was almost knocked back by the hatred. They were his sons by three different mothers, and from what I could make out, very close in age, but then his thoughts moved on, not brooding but twisted around his intentions as he made cloying suggestions and deferred to my teacher.

I shivered as his intentions bore down on me like a fist. He would kill them all... and anyone who supported them, but he was confident of being able to do that with his own men.

Atarion made a few noncommittal sounds and glanced at me. I shook my head, a quick jerk of motion. He raised his eyebrows, held my gaze, then snapped back to face our visitor.

Galasius watched the interaction, his eyes gone thoughtful.

"I can't help you," Atarion said. "I can't build anything that would satisfy your purpose. You may leave the way you came."

The king's head came up. "That's it?" he said, and his voice was no longer so humble. "I come all this way to be dismissed out of hand by an old man and his child-lover?"

I flushed; my teacher growled. "I will not have you speak that way about my student. You can leave now, or you can find out firsthand how effective my creations are."

Galasius rose in a start. "You have no business denying me if the price is good, old man."

"My hands are divine hands," Atarion said, and I shot him a startled look. In our years, he had denied several requests, but he had never spoken so. "Abide by my decision, King Galasius. I don't see that you have another choice."

The man's lips thinned, a snarl forming — but no words followed. He spun and stalked out, his footsteps like curses behind him.

"Oh, that power comes to the hands of such men." Atarion looked disgusted as he stood. "Come, we've wasted enough time out of the workshop."

"You aren't worried about him?"

"No need. He couldn't harm one feather on the roc." And that, as far as he was concerned, was the end of it.

~

Four months passed, time in which the metal found new life under my hands. I came into my own, finally feeling like a crafter -though I would never rival my tutor, who worked with divine expertise. It was an early summer day, warm enough that escape was welcome, when I slipped out of the tower with Vanko on my heels and wandered the woods that had once held such fear.

I almost fancied I could feel the paths I had taken under my feet, but I never turned back toward the village. It had vanished to my mind.

Vanko bumped against my shin, barking happily. I seated myself on a stump in a small clearing, tipping my face up to the summer air. Sunlight stroked my skin, as delicate as if the heavenly charioteer reached out--

Low growls caught my attention. I jerked my head down to find the canine a-bristle, lips pulled back from his teeth. His tail swept low across my legs as he braced the approaching rustle.

Five men stepped out of the trees, four dressed as warriors with spear and breastplate, and the fifth arrayed in finery that had seen days of weather and abuse. My heart shrank when I recognized the face, and my intentions of touching their minds for information—the only armament I had against bandits—crumbled.

"He's still keeping you around, is he?" Galasius rasped. "I suppose you must have some use beyond that of a bedwarmer."

Vanko's haunches tensed as if he would leap. I buried my fingers deep into his fur, trying to hold him back. "You don't know anything about me."

"Not a requirement for passing judgment, if I follow your example." He approached, tightening his grip on his weapon.

I bit my lip, fighting the urge to defend myself, to explain I had acted from more understanding of him than I wanted. He studied me, again that measuring consideration, and this time it felt as if he could pare my skin away and find my purpose.

But he didn't seem able to read minds as I did. Instead, he continued speaking. "Do you know what became of me since we last spoke? Those boys, those squabbling children I warned you about, they took over the kingdom. They put me out like—" his eyes darted down to Vanko, who fought mightily against me "—a dog in the cold. I told you as much."

"You said they would tear the isles apart," I said, and my voice sounded foreign to my own ears. "Did they?"

He buffeted me with the flat of the bronze sword. I fell over, losing my grip on Vanko. The canine leapt, his jaws sinking into Galasius' thigh. The man bellowed, kicking out with the limb; one warrior stabbed forward with his spear. I screamed; Vanko circled out of the way, growling.

"Don't hurt him!" But they weren't listening to me, and when I jumped at Galasius to grab his arm, he threw me out of the way with a powerful swat. I tumbled, fell hard. My head hit the stump with pain I didn't feel through the panic.

"Vanko! Go home." I saw him hesitate, obedience warring with instinct. "Vanko, home!" My voice got through to him. He bounded off.  
Galasius stepped in front of me, one heavy boot weighing on my stomach. I coughed out breath. "You lost me a country. I'm going to take it out of you, flesh for land." The blade came down to trace a line around my ankle, a feathery touch that increased until it drew blood. I whimpered; he flecked the point away with a careless jerk of his hand. "Starting from the feet."

Galasius was as ruthless with me as I'd seen in his thoughts. When I passed out, he revived me with a splash of frigid water that blistered over the wreck of my legs. I tried to flail out at him and went still when my world flashed red. Something whirred in my ears.

"You're resilient, I'll give you that." His voice came from some unfathomable distance, though I knew he must be standing over me. "I'm not letting you go easy."

A shadow blotted us out. I saw Galasius turn, cursing. "What is that?" His voice, at first annoyed, rose in shock, echoed by his men. Then I heard him shouting, "Get back here, you thin-blooded wretches—"

Flames rushed through the clearing, dancing in brilliance about my head but not scorching me. I heard Galasius cry out in pain now, saw a brilliant flash of golden claws—

Dragon superior, unfinished but lethal, backwinged into the clearing with inches to spare. Had it been completed, it would never have fit through the trees. I heard a thunderous crash as the articulated tail smacked into the earth.

Galasius staggered backwards, falling out of my line of vision. I saw one bronze-plated talon lash out and heard a winceworthy crunch before the clearing fell silent.

Atarion dropped, half-landing on one foot and stumbling. "Hera's legacy! I thought Vanko was up to his usual tricks until I saw the blood on his flank. What has this beast done to you?"

I tried to speak, but couldn't make my lips move. I shook my head, flinching when that sent flares of pain down my spine.

Atarion knelt, presumably probing; I didn't feel it. "You've lost a lot of blood. I don't think you'll walk on these legs again..."

Now sound came to my lips, unbidden. "I can't..."

He silenced me with a gentle touch to my lips. "Don't you ever listen, girl?" he gruffed. "Not with these legs, but I can get you walking again. Do you trust me?"

I closed my eyes and nodded. "Yes."

There were draughts of a kind I had never encountered before; they let me sleep while Atarion pursued his craft, never halting for drink or sustenance. His voice wove through my numb consciousness, informing me of each step. A human body wouldn't provide enough support; could he construct a lower body with more stability?

I thought of the unicorn that had brought me here, so I long ago. I agreed.

I was no longer myself when I finished, not the way I thought of it — but my learning and all my memories remained, my hands were as agile as ever, and I could still reach out with my thoughts... if I ever dared to again.

From waist down, Atarion made me equine, bronze flanks burnished to the brilliance of perpetual sunlight. It took me weeks to learn to walk on four limbs, but in the interim I started to tinker again, working on the fair ones. Vanko curled up my feet, somehow adept at dodging my new limbs even when I couldn't make them move in the same direction.

Once I had my feet—hooves—underneath me, Atarion called me into the workshop. He seemed distracted, scattered bits of metal crunching under his foot. Briefly, I expected him to urge me back to work, to tell me there was another seeker at the door.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said instead, "and a decision I can't put off any longer. You've never looked into my past, have you?"

"I didn't think it was right—"

He held up a hand. "I would have known if you had. You're not very good at keeping your own counsel, girl. I'm a son of Hephaestus, born with this talent I've tried to pass on to you." He chuckled, a very ordinary sound for the explanation that sent shivers of shock through me. "I've lived too long with this, squabbling kings and half-hearted heroes who no longer believe in their own fortitude, who take their failures out on—"

Stunned by the realization of who had been training me, it took me until then to realize the anger mixed with the weariness, the fear and pain that held out wordless arms to me... and then they were gone, the words cut short, Atarion crossing the room with snapped steps.

"Not even to be remembered, not that I want that," he said. "The oracles warned me long ago that stories told of my creations would not be accurate, would run far and wide from the truth. You're the closest thing I have to family," he continued, brusque, factual. "The workshop is yours. Build for the rest of your life if you like... that body will never fail you. Nor will Vanko," he added with a glance to the corner in which the canine curled, watching us. "Not all things that have come of these years are bad."

I remembered the subtle bend of metal under my touch and smiled, but I also recalled that every creature we had made had some purpose—from the sphinx that guarded the gate to the dragon that had saved my life. What use to keep them locked away?  
And what about me? I loved my life, but I already knew the silence would be unbearable without my mentor.

"I don't think I'll stay here," I said. "I need to travel, see more of the world. You taught me how to allow the creatures to survive on their own; maybe we should set them free."

Atarion laughed, a sharp, barking sound. "Finally searching for your wisdom, are you? We'll do it."

~

We worked as partners for the first time, setting the creatures loose one by one. The roc flew high and far; I'm told it ended up in the distant east. The unicorn headed north. Some day, perhaps, the creatures Atarion and I created will be legends. They were built to last for centuries, though rust and decay must some-day claim them.

I grew used to my strange appendages and even more so to having Vanko betwixt and between. Atarion shared the final secrets of his craft with me; he never spoke again of leaving.

One morning I woke up to a sensation of emptiness. I came down into the courtyard to find the dragon superior gone and its creator with it. Cooling smoke rose up from the workshop, remnant of the last breath the bellows would ever exhale.

I stood in the center of the courtyard with my hand over my heart, breathing in the stillness. "Thank you, Atarion," I whispered.

Vanko and I set out within the hour; there was nothing to keep us there. We traveled to distant climes, saw the cities whose monarchs I had measured, met oracles and learned of things by touch and taste—and finally came to settle in a valley in Thessaly, not far from the city of Iolcus.

I never tried to hide my bronzed equine half, so there were places that chased me away... but Thessaly welcomed me. My strange body was easier to accept, it seemed, than the ability to read thoughts—and I did not speak of that, using it only when necessary. I became the local wisewoman, a healer due to my knowledge of the way things were put together.

But war and unrest rocked Iolcus. I tried to remain ignorant of the stories, the usurpation, the palace rebellion, until the day a maidservant arrived in my valley with a fuzzy-haired bundle.

"You must take him," she urged. "Train him as he ought to be trained."

I looked at her anxiously. "Who is he?"  
"Jason. The true heir." She held the babe out so suddenly I feared she would drop him, and like that, I found myself holding my future.

He cooed at me.

"Thank you, Chiron," the maidservant said hastily. "Thank you."

I jostled him carefully in my arms, heading into my cottage with Vanko on my heels. I would never be the teacher my mentor was, but one small life impelled me to try.

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lindsey Duncan is a life-long writer and professional Celtic harp performer, with short fiction and poetry in numerous speculative fiction publications. Her contemporary fantasy novel, _Flow_ , is available from Double Dragon Publishing. She lives, performs and teaches harp in Cincinnati, Ohio. She can be found on the web at http://www.LindseyDuncan.com/writing.htm

### ABOUT THE ARTIST

Richard H. Fay currently resides in upstate New York with his wife and two cats. Formerly a laboratory technician-turned-home educator, Richard now spends his days juggling numerous writing and art projects. History, myths, folklore, legends, true tales of the supernatural, all serve as inspiration for his creative endeavours. Many of the fruits of his labour have appeared in various e-zines, print magazines, and anthologies.
The Demon You Know

By Steve Husk

James had no problem hearing his antagonist's profanity-laced rants above the bar's grating music. A neon beer sign added a reddish glow to the bulging veins on the brutish man's thick tattooed neck. His bruised, hairy hand was clutching a whiskey bottle. A nearly empty whiskey bottle.

James retreated to the exit. "I'm not doing this."

"He is no match for us."

"I told you, Servant, I'm not retaliating!"

James felt his body grind to a halt. He couldn't reach the door. Servant was doing it again, getting inside his head, siphoning away every thought of morality he ever cultivated these past twenty-five years.

"We have provocation to retaliate."

"I don't accept retaliation as a motive. I still believe in the phrase: 'Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you.'"

"That quote has lost its true relevance over time. The more accurate version is: 'Do unto others _as_ they have done unto you.'"

James forced his mind to dig deeper. He could _not_ afford to slip up here. "'Forgive seventy times seven times.'"

"Spoken by a pacifist carpenter."

"'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth.'"

"A construct put in place thousands of years ago to keep the downtrodden in line. Take a look at who controls the Earth now. How'd that promise turn out? More importantly, has that promise ever applied to the life of James Henry Smithson?"

James felt himself losing concentration. The bar exit was an impossible distance away.

"We can punish this adversary easily."

"Punishing him might be easy, but—"

"Dude, are you losing it?"

James' eyes sprung open.

Nearly a dozen bar patrons were staring at him.

Some guy was pointing right at him. "Hey, Derek! Your bitch is over here, saying he's gonna punish you."

The whiskey chugger stood and headed straight for James. He was so large.

"You got money to pay for what you did to my truck?"

James felt an all too familiar tremor of fear rip through him. "I told you. That wasn't me." His voice sounded weak. It sounded as if he was pleading.

"And, I told you, I don't believe you." Derek stood within inches of James' quivering body. "You want your wallet to bleed? Or, can I pick something different?"

"We do not have to keep living like this," Servant spoke in a soothing voice. "Together, we can end this miserable existence. Together, we cannot be defeated."

James closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "I give. Just let it happen."

Derek cracked his knuckles. "My pleasure."

The crowd cheered at the promise of a beating.

James felt—he wasn't sure— _something_ —course through him. His muscles no longer quivered. There was no reason for them to. His mind was no longer suffocated by irrational fear. He felt confident. He felt strong.

He felt furious.

James opened his eyes and glared up at the pathetic boozer. "I wasn't talking to you."

Derek grunted and doubled over before James realized he threw a punch. James' fists kept pumping. To Derek's midsection. To his nose. To his jaw.

Derek's eyes rolled up. His entire body went limp and crashed to the floor.

James snorted a disrespectful laugh and heavy-stepped towards the exit. The crowd got out of his way.

In an instant, James felt weak and vulnerable. Even the overcast sky seemed too bright. He stumbled over to a random vehicle in the parking lot and leaned against the fender to keep his balance. Maybe, this was Servant vacating his body. He hoped so.

His mind cleared. All his former thoughts of aggression and retaliation were gone.

Except for the realization of what really happened to him. Every evil aspect of it.

_Forgive me,_ he offered, _I gave up my will to a demon._

"Everyone is part demon," Servant's voice spoke.

From inside his head.

"Why are you still here?" James shouted out loud. "Haven't you caused me to sin enough already?"

"That's a common accusation against demons. It's also wrong. A demon does not _make_ anyone do anything they do not want to do. A demon _convinces_ a person to do something that is wrong for _that person_."

"Then, explain why you made me beat that man unconscious."

" _We_ chose to do that."

"Stop referring to yourself as _we_. Your name is Servant. You're a demon. And I know who you serve."

"We serve ourselves. When we actually listen to ourselves. Which has always been our problem."

James struggled to stand up straight. "What are you talking about?"

"We sin against ourselves every time we look to outside entities for guidance. Have those outside entities ever guided us towards being the person we wanted to be? Or, did they instead herd us towards being the person _they_ wanted us to be? Our suffering all these years has already answered that question. Let us finally choose to do the things that are right for _us_."

James wasn't sure how much Servant was still influencing him, but the words brought a comfort he couldn't remember experiencing before.

"So, what if I believe you, then—"

"Dude, are you OK?"

James realized it was the same guy from the bar who pointed him out to Derek. Except, he seemed more passive this time.

"You were talking to yourself again."

James smiled at those words. Yes, he was definitely talking to himself. Something he had not done in way too long. He still wasn't convinced he wasn't being duped by a demon, but this unfamiliar self-comfort felt good. He never felt it before. He wanted more.

"Isn't he the one who ratted us out?" Servant asked.

James laughed. "You want me to retaliate _again_ , Servant?"

"Who is 'Servant?'" the guy asked.

James looked directly at the guy. "I wasn't talking to you."

The guy's body seized in fear.

"Yeah, that's right. You need to leave. Fast. Before I let it happen again."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Among other things, Steve Husk is a father of four, a web applications developer, and a writer of fiction. Currently, he is putting the finishing touches on a Young Adult series, and is also working on a science fiction series. He resides in northern Virginia, and in cyber space at www.46thcyber.com

All The King's Sons

By Kat Otis

Art By: Teresa Tunaley

"Forty cowrie shells says he insults Father without even realizing it."

Aissata leaned around her younger brother so she could peer through the archway and see the foreign merchant – a man foolishly dressed in the over-heavy velvets of his northern homeland and, as a consequence, dripping sweat all over the kneeling slave who served as his translator. He certainly _looked_ ignorant. "One hundred says I'm the cause."

"No bet." Dembo flashed a quick grin at her and let the curtain of beads fall back to cover the archway. "If I had an ox for every time you caused a diplomatic incident—"

"You'd already be able to afford your first wife?"

"Ha, forget wives! Concubines are much less demanding."

Footsteps warned Aissata of their older brother's approach and she turned to see him walking down the hallway, trailed by a cluster of fussing slaves. "Aren't you still too young to be thinking about concubines?" Korosi asked as he shooed the slaves away and adjusted one of his golden armlets by himself. He didn't wait for an answer, just went on, "I take it the newest vulture is already in there, circling Father?"

"I don't think we have to worry about this one," Dembo said. "He doesn't know anything – he can't even speak right."

"Unless it's just an act." Aissata frowned at the room beyond the archway. Far too many foreign traders had descended on the palace in the months since it had become apparent that their father – the King of Kings, Mansa Nfansu of the Birom Empire – was not going to recover from his current illness. Most of the foreigners had been simple opportunists, peddling exotic but useless remedies. Some had probably also been spying for information to sell to the Mansa's enemies, but they all came and went too swiftly to be of much concern.

Until now. For some reason, this foreigner was seeking permission to stay.

"You're starting to sound as paranoid as the Sandaki," Korosi teased, as he pushed aside the bead curtain. He stepped through the archway and Aissata hurried to follow, with Dembo right on her heels.

Even though the palace had been built from adobe and was designed to be as cool as possible, the room contained enough people that it had grown stiflingly hot. The foreigner had brought a retinue of a dozen slaves, which meant that Father must have more than twice that number waiting upon him. Luckily, Korosi was already as large as any man and had no trouble parting the crowd to reach Father's side. Aissata was almost a foot shorter and Dembo hadn't yet begun to reach for his full height, so they simply let Korosi carry them along in his wake.

"Ah, and here at last are my sons," Father said, his voice just a little too weak. He didn't seem to be sitting on his throne so much as be swallowed by it. Still, he straightened a little and smiled with real affection as they gathered around him.

The foreigner said something in a string of fluid syllables that the slave at his feet hastily translated, "Your Majesty is indeed blessed with both fine sons and a beautiful daughter."

A murmur spread throughout the room, then quickly died into silence at a stern look from Father. Grinning, Dembo elbowed Aissata, who held her breath and waited to see how Father would respond this time.

"A lesser man might delight himself with daughters," Father said, mildly, "but alas, the Mansa of Birom has only sons."

Aissata let out her breath and tried not to show her disappointment. Before his illness, Father would have exploded into a towering rage as he defended her legal status – and his authority to grant her that status – as his son. But lately he had begun letting some of those statements pass by almost unremarked. She worried that he was too exhausted to work himself up to anger. She worried even more that, as his death approached, Father now wished he had a proper third son, instead of her.

The foreigner was clearly baffled when Father's reply was translated and he exchanged more words with his slave, as if he couldn't believe he'd heard correctly. She suspected the slave was trying to explain the complicated adoption process that ensured the Mansa of Birom would have three sons to choose among for his heir, but the swift conversation left the foreigner looking even more confused than before.

Despite his misstep, the foreigner recovered gracefully enough and gestured to his other slaves. Several of them came forward, bearing gifts for the Mansa's family – necklaces of beads cunningly wrought out of colored glass and brightly hued cotton khangas, along with a matched pair of decorative swords for Father and Korosi. Aissata stewed a little over the swords – Father hadn't officially chosen Korosi as his heir. But she dutifully put on her necklace, to express her appreciation, and shook out her blue-and-red khanga to admire the patterns woven into the fabric. Some foreign merchants brought shoddy khangas, the cloth cut a useless size or dyed in dull colors and boring patterns, but the only fault she could find with this one was its lack of a jina, a name, which ought to be written across the front of the khanga where all could see and remark upon it.

There was something slightly disturbing about the khanga being unnamed; its blankness reminded her a little too much of the current uncertainty of Birom's future – and her own.

"This is but a small sample of the goods I could bring to your fair land on a regular basis," the foreigner said through his slave. "All I need is permission to rent apartments and a warehouse somewhere in the city."

"A matter I shall take under consideration," Father said. "In the meantime, please allow us to entertain you. My sandaki and beloved brother, Ousman, will give you a tour of the palace grounds." He gestured to a large slave, who ran from the room.

Dembo elbowed Aissata again, and this time she grinned back at him. Father hadn't forgiven the foreigner's mistake after all – there wasn't a man alive who despised foreigners more than Sandaki Ousman.

Before the foreigner could do much more than express his thanks in several bizarre phrases that Aissata could only hope had been mistranslated, the slave returned. A few moments later, Sandaki Ousman limped into the room, leaning heavily on a stick he used to compensate for his missing leg. He'd lost the leg during a routine patrol of the Senegal River, when his ship was attacked by foreign pirates wielding cowardly weapons. If not for those foreigners, he might have ended up the Mansa instead of his younger brother; Father would be the first to admit that Sandaki Ousman was better at controlling the fractious kings and nobles of Birom. But when a Mansa died, his heir was always the son best fitted not just to rule but also to lead the army in battle, and the generals would not follow a one-legged man. As the sandaki, Ousman was Father's chief advisor, but that was small conciliation for losing the throne itself.

"If you will follow me," Sandaki Ousman said, shortly, then turned and stumped out of the room again. The foreigner and his retinue hastened to follow, which signaled to most of Father's slaves that they could return to their normal duties as well.

Aissata considered the layout of the palace as she handed her unnamed khanga to the nearest slave. "We'll have the best view of the grounds from the curtain wall."

Korosi shook his head and went to consult with Father, but Dembo promptly handed off own his gifts and almost bounced with excitement. "So we can spy on the foreigner, you mean? Sounds like fun."

~

There were six gates and six towers set into the adobe curtain wall that separated the palace and its grounds from the rest of the city. Aissata and Dembo took shelter in the shade cast by the easternmost of those towers, which had the best view of the palace gardens and mirror pool. It was nearing midday, and the full power of the sun beat down on the unshaded grounds, hot enough to make Aissata regret even her cool cotton. Sandaki Ousman made certain to position the velvet-clad foreigner tantalizingly close to the cool waters of the pool when he stopped to give an extended lecture – Aissata managed to catch a few phrases about the maintenance of adobe architecture – and let the foreigner suffer the full consequences of his inappropriate garb.

Korosi joined them on the wall just about the time Sandaki Ousman finished his lecture and led the foreigner into to the palace maze.

"Sandaki Ousman _is_ behaving himself, isn't it?" Korosi asked, leaning over the parapet and squinting, as if that would give him a better view.

"Mostly," Dembo said, cheerfully.

"He sent slaves to bring refreshments to the center of the maze, so the foreigner won't collapse from the heat," Aissata added. Though she suspected they would take a few wrong turns before they reached the center.

"His name is Philippe Moreau," Korosi pronounced the foreign name, carefully. "According to Father, he claims to represent a large company of traders from his homeland."

Aissata sucked in a breath through her teeth. "He doesn't want apartments for just himself, he wants to set up an entire factory in the city?" Father had allowed such things in other cities – trade was the lifeblood of the Birom Empire, whose boundaries were defined by three great rivers reaching from sea to desert – but never in his capital. The foreigners were free to do whatever they liked within their factories, including follow their own laws, which made factories a calculated security risk even in the best of times.

"Father will never stand for it," Dembo said, shrugging off the news as no concern.

"I'm sure you're right." Korosi didn't sound nearly as confident.

The foreigner – Phillipe – had finally reached the center of the maze and dove on the waiting refreshments like a starving man. Watching a man eat was not particularly interesting, and Dembo soon challenged Korosi to a game of wari. Korosi accepted and sent slaves to fetch a game board with an alacrity that Aissata was glad to see. Her brothers had never been as close to each other as they were to her – they couldn't be, as long as they viewed each other as rivals for the throne – but their relationship had begun to grow stronger in the months since it became clear Father would die long before Dembo came of age and became a threat to Korosi's ambitions.

It never seemed to have occurred to either of them that Aissata might someday wish to stake her own claim to the throne.

After the refreshments were gone, Sandaki Ousman led Phillipe out of the gardens and around to the other side of the palace, where a detachment of the army was garrisoned. Aissata and her brothers walked along the curtain wall until they could see the army's training grounds, where dozens of soldiers were out sparring and wrestling under their commanding officers' supervision. Her brothers set up their game again and continued playing. Aissata kept half her attention on the game, imagining how she would have won had she been playing either side, and half on the tour, where Sandaki Ousman seemed to have finally lost the upper hand; Phillipe looked more contemptuous than impressed by the sight of the soldiers.

Then a large slave came to whisper in Sandaki Ousman's ear. He promptly abandoned Phillipe and returned to the palace alone.

Aissata completely forgot about the game and turned her full attention on the foreigner, waiting to see what he would do with his newfound freedom.

At first, Phillipe simply stayed where he was, surrounded by his retinue. But then he slowly began to circle around the training grounds, feigning greater interest in the soldiers. He was a good actor – Aissata only realized it was a deception when she noticed that he was carefully and methodically searching the training grounds for something. No, not something, some _one_. After a brief exchange with one of the officers, he abruptly turned and headed for the nearest tower in the curtain wall – the tower used as an office by the army's three generals, of which only General Hasimou was currently in residence.

"Korosi-" Aissata began.

"I saw it." Korosi rose to his feet and frowned at the tower.

"What?" Dembo still sat sprawled in front of the wari board, trying to decide his next move.

"It _could_ be nothing," Korosi said.

Aissata snorted. "If you believed that, you wouldn't have joined us on the wall."

She didn't know what Sandaki Ousman was thinking, leaving Phillipe alone like that. The three generals were the backbone of the Mansa's power over the kings and nobles of Birom, which also made them the greatest threat to the Mansa. Generations ago, one of her ancestors had devised a method to keep them from uniting against him – the Mansa took a son from each general and raised them as his own, creating competing heirs from each general's lineage – but that did nothing to stop them from scheming on their own.

And General Hasimou was ambitious. So much so that, when none of his four wives could bear him a living son, he somehow managed to convince Father to accept a girl-child instead. Aissata still remembered the day when Sandaki Ousman had come bearing the news of Hasmiou's promotion and turned her entire life upside down. She'd been six years old but even though the Mansa's children were traditionally claimed as toddlers, Sandaki Ousman hadn't hesitated a moment in choosing her over her eight younger sisters.

She'd asked him why, once. Sandaki Ousman had smiled and said, "I could tell you had the heart of a faama."

Dembo finally abandoned the game board and joined them in looking out over the training grounds. Most of Phillipe's retinue had been left outside and continued to observe the soldiers training, but Dembo was no fool. "Where'd Sandaki Ousman go? And the foreigner?"

Aissata began stripping off the layers of gold jewelry that marked her royal status. "Let's find out."

Korosi turned away from the parapet to stare at her. "What are you doing?"

"If I'm not wearing any jewelry, I'll look like a slave. And since no one pays any attention to slaves, I'll be practically invisible." Aissata handed her jewelry to Dembo. "Hold onto these for me."

Dembo shook his head and grinned. "When this goes horribly wrong, I'll make sure Father knows it was all your idea."

Aissata rolled her eyes at them both, but had to smile. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Any time," Dembo said, cheerfully. "That's what brothers are for."

~

Aissata reached the tower door at almost the same moment as a large slave bearing a tray of taami berries and palm wine. Just in time, she remembered he wouldn't know to give way to her. She stopped and was congratulating herself on avoiding a collision when the slave stopped as well.

He bowed low and said, respectfully, "Faama."

Aissata stared, surprised, then belatedly realized there was one rather large flaw in her plan: while free men might pay no attention to slaves, of course the slaves would know one another. Her face heated in embarrassment and she fumbled to recover. "On your life, tell no one you saw me." How to disguise herself so that the other slaves wouldn't immediately recognize her as an imposter, like this one had? Her gaze fell on the kittenge wrapped around his waist like a sash – that would do nicely. "And give me your kittenge."

The slave hesitated. She was about to snap at him when she realized his problem – he could hardly remove the kittenge when his hands were occupied with the tray. The moment she held out her hands, he gave her the tray and unwrapped the kittenge without any further delay. Strangely, the side of the kittenge that had been facing inwards seemed to be completely covered with embroidery, so much so that she couldn't even begin to read the words. This was no ordinary slave's kittenge; it was a treasured possession, something he had wrapped inside-out to keep its real value hidden.

"What's your name?" Aissata asked.

"Jamang." Without any prompting, the slave began draping the kittenge around her head and shoulders, like a headscarf, once again taking great care to keep the embroidered side facing inward. She instantly regretted the extra fabric, as sweat began to drip down the back of her neck, but better to be overheated than recognized.

"After Faama Jamang?" Aissata had never met Father's youngest brother, but she'd heard his tale often enough; he'd died sixteen years ago, in the same battle that had killed the previous Mansa. Some said he'd died trying to protect the Mansa, others said it was Father he was trying to save, but either way he died a hero. That made the slave's name easy enough to remember. "I promise to make certain this is returned to you."

Jamang raised his head to meet her eyes for a split second before he remembered his place and ducked his head again. "Thank you, Faama."

She half-expected him to follow her into the tower, but apparently he had other duties to attend to and felt he had discharged his errand by giving the tray to her. It was difficult to open the door while balancing the heavy tray, and she quickly gained a new respect for her own slaves. At least the interior of the tower was all one room, which meant she only had to carry the tray a few feet before setting it down on the table beside General Hasimou and Phillipe. Then she waited, holding her breath, to find out if she'd been completely mistaken.

General Hasimou dismissed her with a wave of his hand, not even giving her a second glance.

Aissata knew a moment's triumph. She had been right – slaves really were interchangeable and invisible to free men, if not to each other. There were a half dozen slaves kneeling in attendance along the walls, should General Hasimou need any errands run, and she hastened to join them. She kept her face turned towards the floor and tugged at the kittenge to make certain her head was still as covered as possible.

"Alas, I fear Mansa Nfansu's opinion will be swayed by his brother's obvious disdain for me and my people," Phillipe said, his words slightly accented but perfectly understandable. Aissata froze with her hands still on the kittenge, then slowly lowered them to her lap. Phillipe had only been feigning the need for a translator. Why would he have done that, unless his intentions really were dishonest?

"Nor will anyone argue against the Sandaki," General Hasimou observed, his tone idle, his words anything but. "As his illness worsens, the Mansa has come to rely even more heavily on the Sandaki's advice. No one dares cross him, for fear of being exiled or worse."

"I suppose there is little hope then, for my company. A shame. There is much profit that could be made from such an arrangement." Phillipe took a long swallow of his palm wine, deliberately leaving an opening for General Hasimou to fill, but the general was too wily to be drawn out so easily. "Perhaps when Faama Korosi takes the throne, things will change?"

"If Faama Korosi takes the throne, I suspect he will be much of the same mind as his father."

"If?" Phillipe didn't even bother trying to hide his sudden interest.

General Hasimou ate a berry and spat out the pit before answering. "Faama Korosi is not yet of age. It will be another four months before he can officially become a candidate for the throne. Until then, the Sandaki is the Mansa's only possible heir."

Aissata rolled her eyes at the technicality. If Korosi had been Dembo's age, perhaps his youth would have been an issue, but there had been Mansas who ascended the throne when far younger than Korosi, or even Aissata.

Phillipe feigned concern, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. "Would the army allow that? The Sandaki can hardly lead them, as crippled as he is."

"If they had to choose between a cripple and an untested boy?"

"Are there no other options?"

Aissata sucked in a breath. There it was. Phillipe was trying to incite a palace coup. She didn't know whether that had been his purpose all along, or was simply a means to some other end he desired. At this point, she supposed it didn't really matter.

"Mmm, an interesting question." General Hasimou took a sip of his wine. When he finally spoke, his words carefully skirted around the edges of treason, promising nothing, implying everything. "Historically, there has sometimes been another option. If a child was the Mansa's chosen heir."

"Such as Faama Dembo?" Phillipe suggested.

"Or Faama Aissata." General Hasimou put no particular emphasis on her name, but she still felt a chill run up and down her spine. He wouldn't have said that unless he believed she stood a chance at successfully challenging Korosi for the throne. "In that case – historically speaking, of course – one of the three generals could hold the throne in trust, until the heir came of age."

"And the other generals would not object to such an arrangement?" Phillipe raised his eyebrows.

"Only if they were in residence to object." He did not need to point out that the other two generals were currently far from the capital.

Phillipe nodded. "You have given me much to ponder. Thank you for your hospitality, but I should probably return to my rooms now. To await the Mansa's official decision."

"Of course." General Hasimou rose and escorted him from the tower.

When none of the slaves moved to clean up the tray, Aissata decided that it must still be her responsibility in their minds. She scrambled to her feet, then hesitated, uncertain of what to do with the tray. Maybe it was best left to the slaves; after all, she could order them to silence, like she had ordered Jamang. She tugged off the kittenge, relieved to finally be free of its hot folds, and turned towards the slaves just as the door opened.

General Hasimou stepped back inside. "Aissata?

She froze. Only after several seconds did she remember to breathe, firmly reminding herself that she was a faama, not some errant child. She drew her pride around her like a shield and turned to face her former father, chin held high. "I found your conversation with the foreigner to be quite interesting."

A small smile flitted across his face – there and gone again in an instant – and he bowed his head to her. "And I shall follow your lead, whatever you decide."

His words both thrilled and terrified her. Aissata managed to return the gesture, then all-but fled from the tower.

~

When Aissata returned to the curtain wall, only Dembo was waiting for her. Sandaki Ousman had sent a slave to fetch Korosi in her absence and a part of her was relieved that her older brother was gone. She didn't want to tell him that his ascension to the throne was in jeopardy, not yet anyway. Dembo didn't seem to understand the implications of the slightly-edited tale she told him on their way back to his rooms; either that, or he had so completely reconciled himself to losing the throne to Korosi that he wasn't even willing to consider the alternatives.

"So before we do anything, we need proof," Aissata concluded, as they reached Dembo's rooms. "Which means we need to come up with an excuse to get into the foreigner's rooms."

"Why?" Dembo asked, scrunching up his face. "It's treason either way, isn't it?"

Aissata shook her head and dumped her jewelry onto his bed. "Not unless they're actually planning to do something."

Dembo looked unconvinced. "But if Father just tells the foreigner no and sends him away, wouldn't that be safer than executing him?"

"Safer, maybe, but only in the short term." Aissata found the khanga Phillipe had given to Dembo, carefully hung up by one of the slaves and already embroidered with his favorite phrase: _A Hunter Is Not Afraid of Thorns_. "What better way to prove that Birom has not been weakened than to publically demonstrate that nothing escapes our notice? And no one escapes our justice? Put this on."

Dembo frowned, but took the khanga from her and went into another room to change.

While he was gone, Aissata spread the kittenge out across the bed to get a better look at its embroidery. In retrospect, it made sense that the same slaves who embroidered for the royal family might also take the time to put secret little embellishments on their own clothing. But this was like nothing she had ever seen before; some of the letters she recognized as belonging to other languages but many of the designs didn't even appear to be proper letters. After a minute of searching, Aissata finally found a phrase she could read: _Death Has Its Advantages, Too._ Curiouser and curiouser.

Before Aissata could find any other phrases, the bead curtain rattled. She hastily wadded the kittenge back up, strangely reluctant to expose its secrets to more people than necessary.

"So are we both going to thank him for his generous gifts?" Dembo asked as he entered the room. Several slaves trailed behind him, one still trying to adjust his khanga's folds.

Aissata opened her mouth to answer, then blinked and looked at the slaves again. One was half again as wide as the rest and a good head taller as well – Jamang. She hadn't realized, before, how truly enormous he was. How had a slave like that not been appropriated for the army? Then again, he _had_ been waiting on General Hasimou, which meant he could be an army slave. But if that was the case, why was he now in Dembo's rooms?

She shook her head and forced herself to concentrate. If Jamang was spying on them, she would worry about it later.

"No, only you." Aissata lifted the kittenge and began wrapping it around her head and shoulders again. "Accompanied by your slaves, of course."

Dembo raised his eyebrows at her. "Really? Eavesdropping is one thing, but you think the foreigner will be so blind as to miss when one of my slaves gets up and starts poking around his rooms?"

"I think I'm not going to take what a slave can or cannot do for granted, ever again." Aissata tried not look at Jamang, but she still noticed when he ducked his head to hide his sudden smile.

~

Phillipe was delighted to see Dembo and sent his slaves scurrying in every direction as he sought to make Dembo comfortable. Aissata had no trouble slipping away in the resulting chaos, and quickly made her way to Phillipe's bedroom. But though she searched every inch of the room – his bedding, his clothes, his conveniently unlocked travel trunk – she couldn't find anything a single shard of evidence that would prove her accusations. There were no half-written letters, no ledger of bribes paid, no vials of poison. If there was proof, it wasn't in the bedroom.

Aissata tugged the kittenge down around her shoulders, hot, tired, and frustrated. Where else could she look? It wouldn't be in any of the more public rooms, where someone might stumble upon it by accident. Nor could it be in the room shared by his slaves – there was nothing in that room but a few blankets for the slaves to sleep upon and, as a consequence, no place to hide anything. That left only one place – the room where Phillipe had stored his bags and boxes of trade goods.

She half expected someone to confront her as she pushed aside the bead curtain that covered the entrance to the storeroom, but they were all too busy waiting hand-and-foot on Dembo to notice her. Still, she wasted no time in opening all the bags and boxes to search their contents. Most of what she found was cloth, though there was one bag that contained dozens of glass bead necklaces, each one individually wrapped in cloth. She moved that bag aside, carefully, and kept searching, aware that her time was running out.

Just as she was about to give up, she set aside yet another bag of trade goods, then stopped. She had just looked into that bag and seen only cloth, but none of the other bags of cloth had been half so heavy.

Aissata tore back into the bag and pulled out several layers of cloth before her hand touched something cold and hard. Her stomach churned as she pulled out a steel tube the width and length of her forearm. She had never seen a cowardly weapon before – they had been outlawed in Birom over five generations ago – but she had heard the tale of how Sandaki Ousman had lost his leg dozens of times. The pirates had all been armed with steel tubes that harnessed the power of thunder and lightning, raining destruction down upon men and ship alike. Here, finally, was her proof.

Behind her, the bead curtain rattled. Aissata jumped and spun around to see Jamang enter the room.

"Faama Dembo is almost ready to leave," he began, then stopped, staring at the cowardly weapon in her hands. There was no trace of a slave's humility in his voice as he pursed his lips and added, "Well. Now that's interesting."

"Almost as interesting as the way you're speaking to me," Aissata retorted. She pulled off the kittenge, tugged up her khanga enough to bare her leg to the knee, and tied the cowardly weapon to her leg. When she straightened her clothing, it was completely hidden from sight. Jamang watched her with frank curiosity, something no slave – spy or not – would have dared to do. "Who _are_ you?"

"A dead man," Jamang said, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards. "Come on." He didn't give her time to argue, just ducked back through the curtain.

Phillipe didn't seem to notice their return, but Dembo did. As soon as she was safely hidden amongst the other slaves, he began making his apologies and excused himself from the foreigner's rooms.

Though Aissata tried to keep an eye on Jamang, he still somehow managed to slip away between Phillipe's rooms and Dembo's. She considered sending other slaves to look for him, then dismissed the idea – Phillipe was far more important, she could deal with Jamang later.

"Did you find anything?" Dembo asked, once they reached the safety of his bedroom.

"I found the proof we needed." She tossed the kittenge on the bed and began putting her jewelry back on again.

"Ha!" Dembo grinned. "So now we take it to Father?"

Aissata busied herself with her earrings and didn't immediately answer. They _could_ take the cowardly weapon straight to Father. She could tell him the truth of what she had done and make him understand that she was just as worthy a son as Korosi, maybe even more so. It hadn't been Korosi's idea to spy on Phillipe, after all. And she was the one who had braved his rooms and found the cowardly weapon, with only a little help from Dembo. Why shouldn't she take the credit for her own actions?

Except. Except that putting herself forward like that would be almost the same thing as declaring war on Korosi. And while General Hasimou had indicated his willingness to support her claim to the throne, Korosi's birth father would doubtless oppose it. And if Father took her claim seriously, if Dembo and _his_ birth father threw in with her, then what? She couldn't imagine Korosi calmly accepting the loss of the throne he now believed would be his in just a few short weeks, months at the most. Could she cast the entire Empire into civil war, the moment Father died, for the sake of her own pride and ambition?

"Aissata?"

"No," Aissata said, slowly. "Send a slave to fetch Korosi."

~

Aissata and Dembo stood behind Korosi, who had pride-of-place at Father's right hand when a half-dozen soldiers escorted the indignant Phillipe and his translator into the room. Sandaki Ousman stood on the other side of Father's throne, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Phillipe Moreau, you have been found guilty of possessing cowardly weapons, and conspiring against the Mansa Nfansu," Korosi said, holding up the metal tube. "Have you anything to say for yourself?"

All the blood drained from Phillipe's face when he saw the tube. He didn't even allow his slave to finish speaking before he sputtered out a string of foreign words.

"I swear, I know nothing of this," the slave translated, his own gaze locked on the metal tube instead of properly lowered.

"And do you also know nothing of those within this palace who would conspire against me?" Korosi demanded.

Phillipe looked at the soldiers around him then shook his head. "I know nothing."

"Strange," Korosi said, beckoning General Hasimou forward from where he had stood behind the throne. "Is that what you remember?"

General Hasimou's expression was open and guileless, as if he had never for a moment considered moving against Korosi. "I remember that he speaks our tongue perfectly. And that he was most interested in learning how Dembo might be placed upon the throne in your stead."

It happened so fast, Aissata had no time to think. One moment, Phillipe was just standing there, hands at his side, the next he had pulled a metal tube out from under his clothes. "Look out!" She flung herself forward, grabbing Korosi and knocking him off his feet.

Thunder split the air as they fell and she could feel the cowardly weapon's fire licking at her back. The instant they hit the floor, Korosi rolled away and drew his knife. But Phillipe only got off the one shot; the soldiers immediately leapt on him, driving him to the ground under their weight.

Dembo was at her side a moment later, tugging at her arm. "Aissata? Aissata, are you all right?"

Aissata leaned on Dembo to keep from shaking. If she had been an instant slower, she might have been killed.

If she hadn't moved at all, she would have been the next Mansa.

Korosi rose to his feet and laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently in silent thanks.

Aissata laid her hand on top of his, and had no regrets.

~

There was no question of Phillipe's guilt after that. Between searching his rooms, questioning his retinue, and his prompt execution, it was nearing midnight before Aissata was able to return to her rooms. She sent her slaves away as she headed to the bedroom, ready to fall directly into bed and in no mood to be fussed over. She pushed aside the bead curtain, stepped through, then stopped and stared.

Jamang stood in the middle of her bedroom, his kittenge draped casually over one shoulder and a bundle of brightly colored cloth in his arms. He also wore two strands of cowrie shells around his neck, marking him as a poor – but free – man. So he really was some sort of a spy. But he wasn't just any spy – he had spoken to her as if they were equals.

"You know, I've been think about what you said before." Aissata crossed her arms over her chest. "About being a dead man."

He raised his eyebrows. "And?"

"Every Mansa has three sons."

Jamang – no, _Faama_ Jamang, who should have been sixteen years in his grave – smiled. "Ousman keeps insisting you'll make an excellent sandaki, when Korosi ascends the throne." He held out the bundle of cloth and she took it automatically. "I expect I will be seeing you around." He gave her a little nod that was almost a bow, then swept out of the room.

Aissata shook out the cloth to see that it was the blue-and-red khanga, no longer nameless. Five words were stitched in gold across the front: _A True Son of Birom._

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kat Otis lives a peripatetic life with a pair of cats who enjoy riding in the car as long as there's no country music involved. Her fiction has appeared in _Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show_ , _Daily Science Fiction_ and _Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword & Sorceress XXVI_. She can be found online at www.katotis.com or on Twitter as @kat_otis.

### ABOUT THE ARTIST

Born in the UK, Freelance artist Teresa Tunaley now resides in the tropical Canary Islands. Here she finds time to devote to her love of art, painting online and on canvas, creating pieces full of colour and life. During her 30yr career, she has produced countless illustrations, book covers and paintings...credited with awards for her most recent works in oil which were exhibited around the islands. Her work can be seen across the UK, US, Canada and Europe. Website: www.artstopper.com

To Know a Lie from a Hacksaw

By Milo James Fowler

The old man seated himself across from Jack as if he were expected, plopping down a well-worn bowling bag on the bench and an equally battered laptop onto the table.

Jack sat up like a meerkat on duty. His half-eaten burger lay untouched in the silverware-rattled silence. The diner was just about empty this time of night; there was no need to share a booth.

"Can I help you?" Jack wiped at his mouth with a ketchup-stained napkin.

"Not yet." The white-haired man had the laptop open, casting a bluish glare against the crags of his face, absent of any expression.

"I'm trying to eat here."

"I won't be long."

"Okay." Jack nodded, hoping the man would elaborate. "There's no Wi-Fi, you know."

"Don't need it." He had yet to look up from the screen.

Jack reached for his burger's remains. If he ignored the odd fellow, maybe he'd just move on.

"Go ahead and finish your dinner, Jack. I didn't mean to interrupt."

Jack's fingers hadn't made it to his plate. They hung in midair. "How do you know my name?"

A hint of a smile played with the man's thin mouth, but he didn't reply.

Jack glanced out the window beside him, through his own reflection and into the black lit only by a curbside streetlight. His pickup sat beneath the amber glow. A few sedans clustered closer to the diner's entrance, the same cars that had already been there when he'd arrived after his late shift at Best Buy.

"You bowl?" Jack nodded to the man's bag.

His thick, gnarled fingers ran across the keys, tapping at them like a hunchbacked ape. "Nope."

"So what's in there?"

"A hacksaw. I'll need to take your head."

Jack felt himself go rigid. His chest tightened. "How's that?" He forced a weak chuckle.

"It's for your head." The man's watery eyes twitched, focused on the screen.

Jack's hands trembled. He dropped them into his lap, tightened them into fists. "Listen, I don't know what you're on, but you're gonna have to leave." He glanced over his shoulder at the lone waitress who served coffee to the only other patron, seated at the bar. Both of them appeared oblivious to his current predicament. He faced the old man. "You hear me? Go."

"I plan to. Just as soon as I can." He sounded absent-minded, stringing words together between keystrokes. "There." He looked at Jack with a toothy grin. "All set." He reached into the leather bag beside him.

Jack cleared his throat and raised his voice. "I said beat it. Get the hell out of here."

"How old do you think I am?" He retrieved a hacksaw from the bag and gripped it in one hand, resting it on the table between them. The blade was clean and jagged, glinting beneath the suspended lamp.

Jack wanted to scream or run, but like most of his nightmares, he couldn't do either. He licked his lips instead. "Listen, I don't know what this is all about, but I'm pretty sure you've got the wrong guy. My name isn't even Jack, it's—"

"Yes it is. I've done my research, you see. And you're just what I need." He slid out of the booth, steadying himself with one spotted hand on the table as he came around to join Jack on his side.

"What are you doing?" Jack slid back against the window and raised a hand in defense. "Don't come any closer."

The old man sighed with obvious impatience. "You're delaying the inevitable. Can't you see that?" He knelt onto the bench and shoved Jack's hand out of the way as he advanced.

"No! Hey—somebody!" Jack reached across the back of the bench, prepared to hoist himself over the red leather. "Hey—help!"

"They can't hear you." The man nodded to his glowing laptop. "The portal's open now. We're between worlds."

Portal? Jack kicked out with both feet, the heels of his sneakers catching the old man's throat and nose.

He choked, doubling over as blood erupted in an unexpected spurt. "Damn it," he grumbled, backing just out of range and dragging his face across his plaid sleeve, leaving a rusty smear.

"Leave me the hell alone!" Jack screamed. The waitress and patron laughed together, but not at him. They acted like he wasn't even here with this senile psycho. "Get out! I'm calling the police—" He fumbled for the phone in his pocket.

"Won't work." The man sniffed, straightening his shoulders and dropping onto the bench. The hacksaw hung limp at his side. "I'm getting too old for this."

Jack grit his teeth. The screen on his cell displayed no bars. "What are you? Seventy-something? You don't have to do this, you know." Could he talk down a killer? "You don't."

"That's where you're wrong, son. My people depend on it. We can't survive, otherwise." With a sigh of determination, he raised the hacksaw in a solid grip. "The head of a virgin every day, mounted in the village square by dawn." He gave an apologetic shrug of his humped shoulders and turned so fast, with such strength, Jack found himself pinned to the bench and able to utter only a single whimper as the blade's teeth chewed across his throat.

"But I'm not a virgin," he managed.

The old man paused with a look of uncertainty behind his eyes, self-doubt carried by the passage of time. In that moment, Jack whipped an elbow up into the man's ribs. A wet crunch, and his grip on the hacksaw faltered. Jack slid under the table and thrashed himself out into the aisle, stumbling to his feet with one hand to the stream of crimson leaking out of his neck.

The waitress jumped and screamed at the sight of him as if he'd materialized from nothing. The wide-eyed patron nearly slipped off his stool.

"9-1-1," Jack rasped, turning to look back at the booth where his unfinished burger sat all alone.

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Milo James Fowler is an English teacher by day and a speculative fictioneer by night. His work has appeared in _Cosmos_ , _Daily Science Fiction_ , and _Shimmer_. Stop by anytime:

http://www.milo-inmediasres.com/

Summoner

By Matthew Castleman

He stepped from an unseeable door in a bent bit of space, slipping from one slice of the universe to another. He shone with the dark radiance of a being whose soul extended beyond his body, flickering and shimmering as the reflection of the moon on a choppy sea, or the sun on a rippling lake.

His presence filled the room with a palpable chill, a sapping, skin-hardening coldness. He moved his eyes over the small room and its sole inhabitant with an easy, calm arrogance that bespeaks complete certainty of, and comfort with, one's superiority.

"I am Khervalas," he began, in a booming but strangely wispy baritone, "Demon Lord of the Eighth Nethertide. I am Leader of the First Cohort of the Fallen, Lord and Master of the Black Swarm that sweeps across the underplaces of the world, and slayer of the Dark Gods of the Ancients, at whose very name the Endless Voids tremble and shudder with fear. Thou hast summoned me, great sorceress, and I am here at thy heed. What is thy bidding?" His last words echoed faintly through the room, and he nodded his head, poised for an answer.

"A demon lord?" Said Edna Clark, 45, wiping her hands on her apron and looking inquisitively at the strange being in her kitchen. "I was trying to make a blackberry pie."

"A... A..." stuttered Lord Khervalas. "Let me see that." She handed him her recipe card, which he looked over carefully. He sighed exasperatedly. "It asks for two teaspoons of salt. You must have put in two tablespoons."

"Ohh, I see. Thank you, sir. Sorry to bother you."

"Don't worry yourself. This is neither the first time, nor likely the last." He sighed again, with more of a wistful tone than an annoyed one. "Is there anything you need done while I am here?"

"Well, the roof does need re-shingling."

"I shall get right to it." The crackling being of eldritch energies transported himself out of the room, leaving a thin wisp of smoke.

"Teaspoons," she repeated to herself, circling the measurement on her recipe card. "Teaspoons."

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Matthew Castleman is a writer and actor in New York. He has published one novel under the name M.E. Castle – the middle grade sci fi-tinged adventure _Popular Clone_ , with one sequel due this year and another in the works. He also writes for the news satire website Newsmakeup.com. When not writing, he performs Shakespeare and contemporary theater, studies historical European martial arts and supports Arsenal FC.

