

Blood Moon Rising

Published by S.K. Gregory

Smashwords Edition

Blood Moon Rising

© Copyright 2015

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and events are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places or incidents are coincidental and not intended by the author.

Blood Lust Copyright © 2015 S.K Gregory. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

Under the Moon Copyright © 2015 Michael Noe. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

Balls, A Man's Pride, A Woman's Best Weapon Copyright © 2015 Riley Amos Westbrook. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

The Seventh Night Copyright © 2015 M. L Sparrow. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

Moonlight and Murder Copyright © 2015 Sharon L. Higa. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

Blood Rites Copyright © 2015 Kat Gracey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

Tales of Naveah Copyright © 2015 David Wind. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact David Wind.

Night Time In The City Copyright © 2015 Ash Hartwell. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

Blood Moon Copyright © 2015 Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

Hunter's Moon Copyright © 2015 Toneye Eyenot. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

Blood Moon Over Modesto Copyright © 2015 C. L. Hernandez. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

A Harvest Season Copyright © 2015 Donald Armfield. All right reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Contents

Blood Lust by S. K. Gregory

Under the Moon by Michael Noe

Balls, A Man's Pride, A Woman's Best Weapon by Riley Amos Westbrook

The Seventh Night by M. L. Sparrow

Moonlight and Murder by Sharon L. Higa

Blood Rites by Kat Gracey

Prelude to Nevaeh, part 1, Tales of Nevaeh by David Wind

Night Time In The City by Ash Hartwell

Blood Moon by Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason

Hunter's Moon by Toneye Eyenot

Blood Moon over Modesto by C. L. Hernandez

A Harvest Season by Donald Armfield

Blood Lust

By S. K. Gregory

It's a full moon tonight. The Hunter's Moon or Blood Moon as it is sometimes known. It seems fitting. Both names do, considering why I'm here.

I've been hunting them for months, ever since that night. The night they took everything from me. I plan on paying them back, retribution for what they put me through.

My life used to be perfect. It was just me and Aidan living in the middle of nowhere, living off the land. We never bothered anyone, we were happy. Then they showed up.

A bunch of teenage dicks, looking for a thrill, took Aidan away from me. He didn't stand a chance, not when they showed up armed to the teeth. Aidan tried to protect me. Tried to keep me safe, like he always did, but he couldn't protect himself.

I'm close now. I can hear their voices in the distance. They chose the wrong place to have a party, out here in the middle of the woods. This is my domain. I barely make a noise as I walk through the trees. They won't hear me coming and they won't see me until it is too late.

They must have lit a fire because I can smell smoke. The smell takes me back to when Aidan died. They burned our cabin down afterwards. I saw the flames from a distance, after Aidan made me run. Why did I run? I should have stayed with him, if I had, I might have been able to save him.

He didn't make a sound when they started beating him. He took it all, because he knew that if he did cry out, I would have come running back. He knew me so well.

There is a clearing up ahead and I can see the flames flickering through the trees. Slipping into the shadows, I move closer. There they are. Four of them, drinking and celebrating like they didn't just commit murder.

Anger flooded through me, but I resisted the urge to launch myself at them. I needed to be patient. Aidan always said it was something I lacked, but now it was a necessity. I couldn't take all of them at once, they already proved that they were dangerous. But they were drinking, a lot from the look of it, so I would just wait.

I settled by the tree to watch them. It struck me how young they actually were. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. They should be worried about school or college, spending their spare time hanging out with friends or girlfriends, not killing people.

"To the Brotherhood," one of them cried, raising his beer in the air. The other three cheered and did the same.

The Brotherhood? Was that what they called themselves? Their little club? Was that the right word? Gang? What did it even matter? I was just trying to distract myself while I waited.

The urge to move, to do something was overwhelming now that I was this close.

"Patience is a skill, Lisa. One you need to learn." Aidan said to me once. We were attempting to fish in a lake near the cabin, but I kept complaining that we couldn't catch anything. Aidan was determined though and sure enough we went home with two trout for dinner. He never gave up on anything. Not even me.

I was hopeless when he met me. Lost. He looked after me when he didn't have to and before long I was in love with him. I couldn't believe my luck when he said he loved me too. Four years. That's all we had together. Four short years. It wasn't enough.

One of the boys was telling a story now, I strained to hear what he was saying over the radio that was playing some stupid dance song.

"...this guy was a runner. I mean like he could be in the Olympics, he was that fast. Well I could have caught him of course, but I thought I'd go after him in the car instead. I cornered him in this alleyway and he completely lost his shit. He was actually trying to climb the walls. I sat there revving the engine waiting for the right moment..."

I covered my ears. I didn't want to hear the gory details. How many people had they actually killed? I would be doing the world a favour getting rid of them.

Over an hour passed, they continued to drink, moving on from beer to whiskey. Soon one of them left the pack to take a piss. I followed him. He wasn't much taller than me, skinny with a shaved head.

I waited until he was distracted and his hands were full. Sneaking up behind him, I snapped his neck in one fluid movement. He didn't make a sound as he dropped to the forest floor.

One down, three to go.

I admit I felt sick about what I just did. I'm not a violent person, at least I don't consider myself to be, but this was different. This was justice.

Picking a new hiding spot, I went back to waiting. The other three kept drinking. One of them mentioned their friend, but none of them bothered to go look for him. I guess they weren't as close as I thought. Didn't they worry about how vulnerable they were out here? Or did they think they were such big bad hunters that no one would come near them?

It was that arrogance that I hated the most. They thought they were invincible. Well, I just proved that they weren't.

Number two headed into the trees a short while later. This was going to be easy. I saw him walk behind a tree and hurried to catch up, but when I rounded the tree, he wasn't there.

Shit.

I forgot about being stealthy as I rushed forward. I stepped on a branch which snapped loudly. Number two stumbled in front of me still clutching his drink.

"What the...?" he muttered. I rushed him before he could shout out and warn the others. I tackled him while clamping a hand over his mouth. He struggled, trying to throw me off, but I'm tougher than I look. Pulling my arm back, I punched him hard in the throat. There was a loud crack and he started struggling for air. I watched while he took his final breath, wondering what it was like for Aidan. How scared he felt.

"You should have left us alone," I said softly.

That day started out like any other. Aidan woke me up with breakfast in bed. I never actually got to the breakfast part, instead we did other things.

After lunch we took a walk like we always did. It was a cold, crisp autumn day and the whole forest was awash in color. I remember feeling so content, so happy. We were miles away from all the trouble in the city, free to just be ourselves.

As we approached the cabin we saw them for the first time. One of them sat on the swing on the porch, another leaned against our car. The other two circled us.

I wasn't afraid, at first. I thought maybe it was just local boys, messing about. It was the look on Aidan's face that scared me. He knew exactly what they were, like he could smell it on them.

He said one word to me, "Run."

It was a hoarse grunt, but I knew not to disobey. As much as it killed me, I turned and ran into the trees. And I kept running. When I came back, hours later, the cabin was almost burnt out and what was left of Aidan lay on the ground.

Something broke inside of me when I saw him. For so long he was the one constant in my life, the only thing that made sense. All that anger I had inside me, the anger I tried to control and had been controlling for so long, finally took over. I don't remember much about the following few days after Aidan's death, but when I was aware of what was going on again, I knew what I had to do.

Overhead the moon had reached its apex. I began to undress. The last two would face me in my true form. I just wish that I would be able to remember the look on their faces, but I knew I wouldn't.

My spine cracked and I got down on all fours. This part was always painful, but I welcomed that pain now. I had never been so focused. Tonight they would know what it was like to be the hunted. My skin ripped apart and I was gone.

*

I awoke face down on the ground. It was daylight and my body ached. Sitting up I looked around the clearing. It was painted red. The mangled remains of the two boys were spread everywhere. They were barely recognisable as people. A string of intestines hung from the branch of a nearby tree. A foot lay near the burned out campfire.

A scene like this would have horrified me once, but now I revelled in it. Getting to my feet, I checked myself for injuries. A few minor cuts, but they would heal quickly.

I cleaned myself up using the water from a nearby stream before searching for my clothes. Once dressed, I left the campsite and started walking. All of Aidan's work, everything he did to help me supress the wolf inside had been undone in a single night.

There was no plan for after. All I thought about was getting them. Now though, I had a new plan. Ever since werewolves were revealed to the world and all these would be hunters started popping up, werewolves had to hide. To be less than what they were in order to survive. Why not change that? It was time we took the title of Hunter back.

Under the Moon

By Michael Noe

I feel my resolve slipping away as the daylight begins to fade. Not here, I think as I feel the hunger explode. It doesn't just come through the stomach. It flows through my veins, I begin to drool as my senses begin to morph, and twist. I can smell the hot crimson musk as well as the sweat that drips from the people that walk by me unaware. Not here, anywhere but here! There's nothing I can do now. I knew the change would be coming and yet I ignored it as if it weren't at all important. This crowded city street would soon flow with blood. I would rip apart these innocent fools and in the morning the hunger and blood lust would be a distant memory. I would smile as I remember my nakedness and the feel of gore that stains my body. These innocents that smelled so delicious didn't stand a chance. They were the prey and what I wouldn't eat I would rip apart. There would be chaos as limbs were ripped from shoulders. Heads would roll like wayward bowling balls after a really awkward gutter roll.

There was nothing I could do now. I could feel the hunger growing and with it the desire to feed. Who knows, maybe deep down I wanted these people to die. Lord knows I've infected more than my share of whores, and bums. It just always amused me that a bum or a whore could become a werewolf. These people had nothing to lose and if the hunters found them so what. It wasn't like they were going to be missed. I was doing them a favor. I also infected my share of people that were pillars of society. You never really know anyone and the fact that your mayor or even your boss could be a werewolf was quite interesting. It was a sickness that was spreading like wildfire and as I hunted I noticed that there were more of us. How long would it be before we outnumbered the normals? If our food source ran out would we begin to attack each other?

The hunters would start to thin the herd. They were always watching and if you watched the news you would see that wolf attacks were on the rise. What you didn't see was that once these wolves had a silver bullet in their head they became human again. Try reporting that on the six o' clock news and watch people scream bullshit. Werewolves were something out of horror films. They didn't really exist. The hunters didn't say shit and who could blame them. It was easier to keep quiet. It was better that way. We could avoid them as much as possible and they would continue to hunt us. It was just how things worked. Life is funny that way. There is always something just beyond your realm of understanding, so you always miss it.

There's no way to hide now and as much guilt as I want to feel the animal side of me thinks fuck 'em. They're all dead and they don't even know it. Tonight I have a feeling that everyone will know that werewolves exist. Bring out your cellphones peeps. This is going to be one hell of a Facebook post. I envision the screams as I watch the sun dip lower and lower. Soon I would begin to change and I knew that doing it on a crowded city street was not only dangerous but stupid. The change may be quick but a bullet from a hunter is quicker. Any of those walking by could be packing heat and they know that tonight is a full moon. Not just a full moon. A total lunar eclipse.

I bet you're wondering who I am and I have to be honest and tell you that I just want to share my story. I forgot that part of this tale includes who I am, or at least try to be these days. I'm a reporter for the Akron Beacon Journal. Nothing really special, but it pays the bills. You've probably read my work and if I did my job right I may have made you cry a little over some human interest story. That's what I do. I pretend to give a shit so you'll buy our paper. I want you to believe that I care about the stories I report on and over the past five years I was able to snag a few Ohio Excellence In Journalism Awards, but outside of Ohio I was no one. Shit, even in Ohio I was a nobody. I had always wanted to be a writer, but I wasn't good at telling stories. I fell in love with the news because it gave me a chance to witness history as it unfolded.

That's not what this is about though. My name isn't important. How I became a werewolf is. You want to know all of the details right? I bet you think it was all romantic or at the very least gory. It was sort of romantic in its own sick way. Romance is all fairy tale shit anyway. Why is it that people think that becoming a werewolf is a beautiful experience? It's not like we asked for this and it's not even a gift, it's a curse. It's a disease, except you don't get to wither away and die and the symptoms you get turn you into a beast every time there's a full moon. Sounds beautiful doesn't it? I bet you want to sign right up don't you? Let's not forget being pursued by the hunters. You want to be hunted while they drink beer and take pot shots at you? The life of a werewolf isn't at all glamorous.

When I was infected I was in a small hole in the wall bar. This was the kind of place where just breathing in the air was liable to get you higher than God. Behind the bar was a bra hall of fame. Random girls would lift up their shirts and donate their bras and there wasn't anyone that complained about the display of flesh that always went on. It was a place where you could be at your lowest but suddenly feel alive. There were never any fights and I swear the jukebox only played Skynard. The place was the size of a basement, but people always found a way in. If there was an actual Sodom and Gomorrah, this would be it. I loved the place and while I could have drank at a more respectable place I always found my way home to Barney's. I say home because to me it was my home away from home.

That night I was far drunker than normal. One of my stories had been picked up by the AP and I was feeling pretty damn good. It was one of those times that I was truly proud of myself and didn't feel like a total asshole for being a reporter. My job was to expose human misery and this time it had paid off in a big way.

I walked into Barney's feeling like a king. The jukebox was blaring out Led Zeppelin's The Rover and some skinny big breasted blonde was lifting her shirt to donate her pink bra to the wall of fame. If there was a heaven I swear it would be that bar. I ordered a shot and surveyed the crowd looking for anything interesting. I wasn't one to indulge in one night stands but that night I was feeling too good not to indulge my carnal desires.

I can't tell you who it was that bit me. When I woke up, I was hungover and didn't even know that I was bitten until I got a look at myself in the mirror. It was a small bite that leaked blood but didn't require any stitches. The bitch did leave a note telling me that she had a nice time and hoped we could meet up again. The number she left me led me to a man named Marcus and he laughed quite hard at my call.

"So I take it you meet Stacy." His voice had the rasp of a heavy smoker. I envisioned him as a slightly balding man with a preference for leather jackets and speed metal.

"Yeah, and she gave me the wrong number."

This made him laugh harder and I felt stupid for even trying to call her in the first place. What was I expecting? Dinner and a movie? She was a one night stand. Everyone has them. I wanted to hang up but his voice took on a serious tone. "She gave you the right number. We need to talk. Are you available this evening?"

It was my time turn to laugh. "Nice try and no. Look I made a mistake." I hung up and nursed my hangover the best I could. A half an hour later there was a knock on my door. Maybe that's her, I thought, but as I threw open the door all of my hope dried up quickly. Standing there was a six foot white guy wearing a leather trench coat. Underneath it was a Mӧtley Crüe t-shirt. His eyes were hidden by dark black shades, and when he smiled I could see row upon row of white teeth. The face was pale and dotted with beard stubble.

"Hello, Ryan. We spoke on the phone." The raspy voice was unmistakable. I felt my knees weaken as I took in his muscular frame. This was the kind of guy that muscled his way through his problems. He'd kick your ass if he was having a shitty day and here he was on my doorstep.

"I don't want any trouble okay? I don't know why you're here but you should just leave. I'll call the cops." My voice shook slightly and I felt as if I were back in high school. I hated the way I sounded. I wasn't a weak man, but this guy looked like he came out of the Octagon.

"You met Stacy which means you found plenty of trouble. She bit you right? We're like two peas in a pod you and me. We should talk."

He shoved his way in and it took all of my strength to remain standing. "What the fuck? You just can't barge into my home!"

He then told me that Stacy had infected me with lycanthropy and there was no cure. I of course laughed and threw him out, right out on his ass. That was folk tale shit. Werewolves didn't exist. Marcus was a damn lunatic and if I listened to him any longer I was afraid that I would start laughing. This didn't look like the kind of guy you wanted to laugh at. When he finally left I instantly forgot about him, but a week before the full moon I started feeling restless. I slept a lot and no matter how much I ate I was still hungry. Worse than that every muscle and bone ached. No matter how many aspirin I took the pain never went away. I thought I was coming down with something and went to see my doctor. There was nothing wrong with me that he could see. When I returned home, Marcus, was on my porch reading The Art Of War. A bottle of Cherry Pepsi sat next to a pack of Camel Blue.

"I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, Ryan. I'm sorry I disrespected you." He stood up and offered his hand. I reluctantly shook it and noticed that he was paler than he looked the last time I saw him.

"I appreciate that, but you're insane."

"Am I? You feeling a little hungrier than normal? Sleeping more than you used to? You look like shit and I know what's wrong with you."

I shook my head and smirked. "I'm a werewolf right? When that full moon hits am I gonna bark at the moon, Marcus?" I couldn't hold my laughter back any longer. While I laughed he just stood there glowering at me.

"Look, I know it sounds crazy. I was exactly like you. Stacy did the same thing to me. I can prove it. Just allow me to help you."

"Wait, do you want to come over on the next full moon? We can listen to the Ozzy classic Bark At The Moon while we're bonding."

"You can joke all you want but I'm serious. If I come back will you hear me out then?"

I agreed just to humor him. When he did show up I knew that once the moon came up the joke would be over and he would be gone. The problem was that he was right. Stacy had infected me and as I changed I screamed. When I looked over, Marcus was screaming with me. It felt as if all of my bones and muscles were being pulled through my asshole. My teeth elongated and exploded through bleeding gums while my skin ripped like tissue paper to allow the coarse brown hair to grow out on my now naked body. My joints cracked and popped loudly as they unhinged and then formed again. My nose soon became a wet black snout and my eyes blurred momentarily but soon they refocused and everything was brighter and more intense. I had never seen so clearly and the pain that I thought would kill me ended, and I was exactly what Marcus said I was.

I truly was cursed and as I hunted I had never felt so alive. Marcus was right there with me as we headed toward the woods we feasted on small animals and deer. In the cold light of day our instincts led us back to my house. We were both covered in gore. The stench of blood poured from my body as I lay on the floor and instantly fell asleep.

When I awoke Marcus was in the kitchen waiting for me. He taught me about my new life and the hunters. I didn't want to be like him at all, and thought that there had to be a way to protect others. Stacy had cursed me, but I didn't have to be like her or Marcus. The only problem was how was I supposed to keep myself locked up? There was no one that would believe me anyway. I was trapped and it was my own damn fault. I was a creature that was hunted and as the numbers grew, so did the hunters.

The hunters wanted to destroy us but the thing was that we could smell them. They had a slight musky odor that other people didn't. I would seek them out and destroy as many as I could. There would be reports on the news about wild dog attacks and I would smile. I would remember their stomachs ripping open, their entrails squirting blood into my gaping mouth. As a wolf I'm still able to think, but I can't control what I do. I may think about not harming anyone but when the smell hits, instinct just takes over. It's not like in the movies. I never wake up naked in a field somewhere. I always know when to go home and once the first rays of the rising sun hit I'm back in my house. Always covered in mud, or leaves, and a lot of blood. There is always blood.

Snapping back to the present I know that I have to find refuge. I can't change here. My eyes scan the buildings and alleys and soon I know that I'll run out of places to go. I know that once I change there will be no quarter. No one will be safe. I wonder where Stacy is. Is she out among us howling at the moon, or did the hunters get her and put a bullet in her head. I often imagine her lying in a gutter with her skull ripped open like a half peeled orange. Brains leaking from the hole the hunters had put in her head. With any luck she's suffered and I wish I were there so I could piss on her cold lifeless corpse. It seems fitting doesn't it? Almost romantic in a sick kind of way. Rivers of blood will flow in the city streets tonight. I lick my lips in anticipation as I duck into an alley just as the pain rips through my body.

No matter how many times the change has occurred it still hurts. It's like being ripped open and turned inside out. It feels like being thrust from the womb in an origami shape. I hit the ground and try to keep myself from screaming. The joints and muscle expand and then collapse. My shoulder rips free from its socket and reforms into a new shape that's stronger and leaner. The alley smells of garbage, but underneath that is the welcoming smell of human flesh. I burst out of the alley in a flash of fur. I growl and pounce on a clueless woman chatting on a cellphone. My jaws widen as they aim straight for her slender throat. My tongue caresses her throat as I wrench it open. Her blood pours into my mouth and I whimper in pleasure. This is just a snack. The hunters are my feast tonight. The eclipse has emboldened me. I want to tear their flesh from their quivering bones. I intend to turn a few just to make them suffer. Imagine their horror when they find that they're no longer the hunter but the hunted.

My nose quivers slightly as I focus on a scent. It's the scent of a hunter all alone. He has no idea that I'm nearby and I can't help feel as if destiny is with me this night. Maybe it's the blood moon guiding me, or it could be just his dumb luck. Usually hunters travel in groups. Either this one just got lost or is too stupid to realize that you always travel in groups. Of course tonight I'm going against my normal instincts and venturing outside of my normal hunting zone. As I scan the streets I can see that I'm not the only one. There are packs of wolves pouncing onto fleeing pedestrians. I can hear the screams mixing in with the low guttural howls of the wolves as they tear flesh from bone. The moon is affecting all of us and I let my instincts take over. Blood glistens in my pelt as I stalk the lone hunter. As I get closer the smell of shit fills my nostrils. His fear rolls off his body likes waves from a turbulent ocean.

I roar and I'm on him, tearing at his face. There isn't enough time for him scream as I rip the flesh off his face like taffy. I chew on bone and feel my teeth sink into his brain. I keep chewing until nothing is left. Nothing recognizable anyway. What's left would easily fit into a garbage bag. I nudge his lifeless body up so I could sink my blood stained teeth into his stomach. I feel pieces of his liver slide down my spasming throat.

Bored, I walk out and watch the carnage unfold. I see a bloody severed head roll past me. The mouth locked in a scream. The sightless eyes bore into mine accusingly as if I were responsible for the carnage that is being unleashed. The screams have died to dull breathless shrieks. I see another hunter running toward a pack of wolves feasting on a woman clutching the hand of her dead mate. Her blonde hair is streaked with gore as she struggles to fight off the beast. Another is gnawing into her leg.

The hunter is screaming and I watch as he raises a shotgun toward a pack of wolves as they saunter off toward Lock 3. The nice thing about Downtown Akron is that there are a lot of people and The Lock has plenty of ground to run in. There are buildings that are connected to a parking garage and there's also the concession stand. It's ripe picking for the wolves. Before he can get a shot in, I'm on him. I don't want to kill him. I want him to suffer so I take a bite out of his hand causing him to drop the rifle. His screams are loud and annoying. I want to rip his jaw off but I restrain myself. On the next full moon he'll be one of us. If I could, I'd be smiling. Instead I howl and run off into the crowd of corpses laying helter-skelter on the blood drenched sidewalk.

The night is the color of blood. I sniff the air seeking out more hunters. There have been many who have joked that the blood moon is a sign of the apocalypse and in a way they were right. The stench of death hangs thick in the air. The howls overpower the screams of the dead and dying. This is a sort of apocalypse. A thinning of the herd, if you will. The moon is shining down on us all, illuminating the scene of carnage. In the distance I can hear the sound of gunshots. How many innocents are being slaughtered? It doesn't matter that I can't speak. I can think just fine. The hunters are scared. This is an uprising and in the morning how many will be left?

I ignore the confused masses that stream past me. They didn't matter to me at the moment. What matters are the hunters. As I slowly made way toward the shots I see a movement to my left and roar. A gun swings toward me and I barely have a chance to run before a bullet whizzes by my head missing me by mere inches. I hear a scream and watched as another wolf appears right behind him, sinking its wide jaws into his spine. The body slumps to the ground as the wolf tears the body to shreds. The gun clatters to the ground as the wolf snarls and feasts on the dead hunter.

I sniff the air and know exactly where I need to go. The hunters won't all be eliminated, but I can at least lessen their numbers. Is it possible that my curse is now a blessing? We have feared the hunters for so long that now as we feast on the city streets there is no stopping us. In the morning there will be no explaining us away. There is no way to pretend that we don't exist. Tonight we are all one under the moon.

Balls, A Man's Pride, A Woman's Best Weapon

by Riley Amos Westbrook

A woman sat on her lime green couch, tapping her fingers impatiently on the arm. She was eager for her husband to return home, looking forward to punishing him for his transgressions. Her rage bubbled, threatening to overwhelm her patience.

She visibly struggled to master her temper, having to take several moments to calm herself. She wanted to be cool, calm, and collected when that bastard walked in the door. He needed to pay.

The woman stood, hoping that her pacing would help her relax. All her plans of calm disappeared when she heard his car pull into the driveway. The anger came roaring back, a fire inside her that wouldn't be quenched.

It continued to swell, threatening to drag her down into a deep chasm of rage. It took everything she had to stop herself from charging at him outside and beating him bloody. Though she wasn't a large woman, her bite more than matched her bark when she was angry.

James stepped into the house, smiling as he walked over to give his wife a hug. He didn't even notice her temper. "How was your day today, honey?"

She just glared at his back as he set dinner on the table. She watched him go into the kitchen, still glaring at him when he came out.

James finally noticed the hostile attitude wafting off his wife. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, as he continued to set the table. Forks, knives, spoons, and plates, he kept his attention on them, waiting for the tirade to begin.

"You ruined my fucking shirt." she said, attempting to keep the heat and a tremor from her voice, and failing, "Do you have any idea how long I've had that shirt? My sister gave it to me before she went off to college. It's the last thing I had left of her, after Mom's house fire."

Her body started to change with the power of her rage. Venom dripped from her teeth as they elongated. She grew an inch to her height and a half inch to her incisors.

"Why would you use it as a rag? Now I can't get the damned paint and grease off of it, and there's a hole right over my nipple!" her skin was lobster red with anger. Heat emanated from her, sending shimmering waves of fury through the room.

James seemed to shrink a little under her rage. "I didn't realize, dear. I'm sorry I didn't mean to ruin it." He wanted to make it up to his wife, but he didn't know how.

"But you did! I've been sitting here all day, waiting to give you a piece of my mind!" A drop of venom fell from her teeth to the floor, burning a black spot into the varnish of the hardwood.

At her continued attack, James tried again. He walked over, looking to take her in his arms as he said, "I really mean it, I'm sorry."

She stepped out of his arms, pushing him away with anger. He stumbled, needing to reach out a hand for a chair to catch and steady himself on.

Now he swelled as his anger started to bubble. James seemed to grow two feet to his height, and a beard that stretched to his belly button. "What the hell, you dumb bitch. You expect me to take that?" he demanded stepping closer to tower over his wife.

She considered cowering away, then remembered her last boyfriend. He'd beaten her until she was bloody the one time she had cowered from him. She would never be another man's punching bag, even if she did start the fight.

Before she knew what she was doing, she grabbed James by his testicles, squeezing them tightly and dragging him down to her level. "I don't really think you understand just how tiny of a dog house you're in. Your feet and ass are hanging out the front. I suggest you start giving in to what I want, or I'm going to hurt you."

James glared down at her, "You're really starting to get on my nerves. Dragging me by my balls, like I'm your slave. You can kiss my ass, I tried apologizing, but now you can apologize to me!"

Her ire raised again, and she grabbed a hold of his beard, yanking his balls up towards his chin. "Here, let's see if you can suck your own balls." she taunted him.

James began to shrink as the pain overwhelmed his anger. Soon he was on his knees, begging for mercy. "I'm sorry, honey. I didn't understand the gravity of this situation. I thought it was just a shirt, but I guess it wasn't. What can I do to make up for it?"

She started to shrink from her overgrown size, her teeth losing some of their sharpness. The venom that dripped from her teeth lost some potency. "You can ask for a week off from your job, and we can do like we said we would. Tour Europe and deposit bits of my sweet sister in each country."

"How the hell am I supposed to pay for all that?" he demanded.

In answer, she twisted her fist.

"All right, all right!" he yelped out, "I'll find a way to pay for it! Within six months. Now will you let my balls go, please!" he begged, continuing to shrink under the agony.

The woman tightened her grip just a bit more. She needed to make sure he understood who was in charge.

"Fine, at least give me three months so I can make it worthwhile!"

His wife shrank to her normal size, releasing her vice like grip from him.

He collapsed to the floor, clutching at his smashed testicles, and wondering if he'd ever not feel the pain again.

The woman patted him on the chest as she said, "Thank you, love. I knew you'd come to see things my way."

The woman helped her husband to his feet, steadying him as he swayed uneasily. She stood up on her tippy toes, kissing him on the very end of his nose.
The Seventh Night

by M. L. Sparrow

The forest was dark and ominous that night. If there were any stars to see, the tree tops blotted them out. A thick, grey mist swirled between the trunks, reaching out as if searching for something unknown. Not so far in the distance, wolves bayed to the unseen moon. A shiver ran down her spine at the chilling sound and Tia pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"Come away from the window, girl," the disgruntled voice of her employer, Ms. Mayberry, called from a chair in front of the fire, "there are better things for you to do than dilly-dally by the window. What are you looking at anyway?"

"Nothing, Ma'am," she answered quickly, turning her back on the night beyond the frosted glass. Going over to the fireplace, she knelt before it, poking and prodding the dwindling embers until they flared to life once more. On her feet again, she went to the wizened old lady, who sat in a padded chair so large it seemed to swallow her whole, and tucked in the knitted blanket draped over her knobbly knees. Alice Mayberry was a tiny, frail old woman, with skin so thin her veins stood out in stark detail, claw like hands and a few wisps of white hair atop her otherwise balding head. However, though her body had deteriorated, her mind had only grown sharper and her tongue crueller, which was probably why her family had hired Tia to care for her instead of insisting she move into their house, in the nearby town, when her daughter, who had cared for her for many years, died. Having no family of her own, Tia had been the perfect choice for the job; indeed, they didn't even need to pay her, she was expected to just be thankful for the food and water she was given, for the roof over her head and the clothes on her back.

But Tia had not always been an orphan and she was not thankful.

Having busied herself cleaning and chopping the wild mushrooms she'd found in the forest this morning, to use in a stew tomorrow, Tia soon became aware of her mistress snoring and peeked over to see that she'd fallen asleep in her chair. Her head was bowed down so that her chin rested on her chest. She would awaken in the early hours of the morning, when Tia was curled up asleep on the rug by the fire, and demand to be put to bed, all the while calling her vile names for allowing her to fall asleep in her chair.

Sighing, Tia finished what she was doing, wiping her hands on the apron around her waist, before stepping over to the window.

Earlier she was certain she had seen a pair of pale, glowing yellow eyes staring out at her from the darkness. It had probably just been a lone wolf, prowling around the cottage, sniffing at the half-a-dozen chickens they kept in a small coop outback, near the log pile. She had not told Ms. Mayberry though, because then the old lady would spin a morbid, fantastical tale of men transforming into beasts, witches eating the entrails of children and ghosts rising from their graves. All of which would happen beneath a blood red moon.

That night, the stone floor hard beneath her and a threadbare blanket no match for the nip in the air, she dreamt of a time long gone, when she had been happy and secure with two parents who loved her and a cloister of younger siblings. Once upon a time, the whole world had been laid out at her feet...or so she'd believed. But that was before the fire. Before everything burned to the ground. Before everyone died. Before she was sent to the orphanage. Before she came here. It felt like another life entirely. And as she dreamt, those yellow eyes watched her, until she was awoken by a shrill, impatient voice yelling for assistance.

All the days passed the same, out in the depths of the forest, with no one but the animals and the old lady for company. Tia cooked, cleaned, saw to her mistresses every whim, collected the chickens' eggs, milked the cow, fixed what needed to be fixed and then, when the day was through, she collapsed in front of the fire, to the sound of Ms. Mayberry snoring in the chair. Again, those eerie, haunting eyes followed her into the realm of dreams. They watched her as if they knew a secret she did not, staring out of the darkness, taunting her with their knowledge. She reached out to the creature, but it shrank away from her, always keeping just out of sight.

It happened every night for a week. Seven nights of restless sleep, chasing something which always remained just out of reach. As the days went by she became increasingly curious, becoming edgy with it, eager to know what the omen meant. Tia was not one to believe in superstitious stories, but surely this had to mean something?

On the seventh evening, just as the sun was setting, the last few golden rays sneaking through the canopy of green above, she ventured to ask Ms. Mayberry about the symbolism of the disembodied eyes.

A cackle of laughter echoed around the cottage, quiet except for the crackling of the fire. "You're doomed," Ms. Mayberry told her gleefully, delighting in her supposed misfortune as only someone who is old and bitter could. "If you see eyes in the dark it means Death is looking for you. He will find you and you will die, as surely as the sun shall rise tomorrow." Her laughter became a dry rasping cough, but even that could not put an end to her amusement; she slapped her bony hands against her knees, almost doubled over now.

Lips pursed in irritation, Tia left the cottage and stepped out into the twilight, closing the door on her mistress. Lowering herself to sit on the stoop, she listened to the sounds of the forest around her; nearby an owl hooted and a rabbit, or some other small animal, rooted around in the bushes. It wasn't so bad here, not really – some people may even enjoy the quiet and the solitude, but she longed for freedom and adventure. She wished to explore distant cities and see sights others couldn't even imagine. Her father had been a gypsy, before he met her mother and settled down. As a child, he'd told her magnificent stories, igniting the desire for adventure that burned in her veins and creating the restlessness itch beneath her skin.

A gentle breeze whistled through the trees, ruffling the branches and sending a cluster of leaves to dance around her feet. Bending over to pick one up, she crumbled the brittle, heart-shaped leaf in her hand and opened her fist to let the wind pick the pieces off her palm and carry them away. Frowning, dwelling on her own bad luck and the horror of her fate, to remain a servant her entire life, she watched the little pieces fly away... And froze.

A pair of yellow eyes gleamed in the pre-darkness. The breath caught in her throat. Was she asleep? Slowly, slowly, so as not to frighten it away, she stood, her entire body trembling with an equal mix of nerves and anticipation. Instead of backing away, the creature padded forwards, its head quirked to the side, as if inspecting her. The animal was not as intimidating as that uncanny yellow gaze suggested, in fact it was simply an overgrown dog – big and black, but with a rounded face, floppy ears and a tail that curved upwards and waved in the air. Making a low, rumbling sound in the back of its throat, the huge canine turned in a slow circle and headed back the way it had come.

Tia stretch out a hand. "No, wait..."

The creature didn't look back, but it did pause, one of its' front legs lifted in mid-step. In that split-second, she instinctively knew that it wanted her to follow. Without thought, she did. But at the edge of the small clearing, she glanced back. Smoke billowed from the chimney, spiralling up into the starless night sky and the breath caught in her throat as she saw the moon that hung heavily over the little, ramshackle cottage, close enough to touch. It was stained a menacing shade of red, as if stained with blood. A foreboding sign; it almost made her retreat back to the cottage, but the idea of what her life would become stopped her. She refused to spend the rest of her life waiting hand and foot upon a bitter old lady; if she remained she would end up as cruel and twisted as her mistress.

With her decision came a lightening of the heart which enabled her to break free of the fear and uncertainty that had paralysed her. Turning her back on the cottage and the life she had led since the death of her family, she found the dog had been waiting for her. Gathering her courage, wrapping it around herself like a cloak, she stepped into the woods, the darkness closing around her as the sky was blotted out by a canopy of leaves. Twigs snapped beneath her feet, leaves crunched. All around her, the rest of the forests' inhabitants had gone silent. She felt like a fairy, or a nymph, or some other mystical being, running through the woods in the dead of night.

It could have been hours or mere minutes, but eventually they reached the edge of the forest. Having lost sight of the creature, she slowed down hesitantly as she stepped past the line of the trees. The ground dropped away several feet in front of her and the dog was nowhere in sight. Getting as close to the edge as she dared, she peered over, looking down at the fast flowing river far below. Perhaps it had fallen? But no... she couldn't believe that. Then, across the chasm, those glowing eyes appeared. A long, wailing howl carried across on the wind, enticing her over.

This was her moment, she knew it in her heart. Either she'd fall or she'd fly. If men could turn into wolves, ghosts rise from the underworld and witches enslave whole cities under the power of a blood moon, maybe a servant girl could fly.

Moonlight and Murder

by Sharon L. Higa

I slouched against the light post, my hat pulled low over my brow. I'd been shadowing that bum, Gi-row for the past three weeks undercover, and still hadn't been able to catch him in the act.

My source had told me that a shitload of Coke had just hit the streets, Gi-row being the primary buyer of the product. He'd used baby powder to cut the coke, then cooked it into rock form. So far, from what my CI said, he'd pretty much doubled, if not tripled his profit on the original product.

The crap of it all was that I had yet to be able to bust him on an open sale. The dealer was cagey and knew how to keep from getting busted. He always did his business in a motel room or from the back of his van which had completely tinted windows all around. The front was blocked from the back section by a blackout curtain – I tried peering in one time when he was occupied with a sale; and the motel rooms – forget about it. Anyone caught creeping around the windows in any of these fleabag flophouses could end up with either a bat upside the head or, worse yet, a bullet in the brain.

I shifted my stance and raised the brim of my hat, just a little. I'd just caught a trace of movement at the curtains of his current domicile. The shadow that had passed by was fleeting, but suddenly my head snapped up to full alert, my eyes now glued to the second storey room.

There was a sudden flurry of motion flagging the curtains in the room back and forth, up and down, then suddenly the dull white color turned a darker shade of...

I didn't hesitate. I shoved away from the light post, pulling my Glock from the waistband of my jeans and booked it for the stairs, one eye still locked on the now recognizable color of red splattered all over the curtains, which had gone eerily still.

I hit the door full force with my shoulder, coat whipping out behind me, not even bothering to identify myself. I slipped at the entranceway and just about went down on my ass, but I made damn sure my hands were wrapped around my gun.

I hollered out, "POLICE!" as I regained my balance, then my jaws shut with a definite clacking sound. I stood stock still, staring in disbelief around the shabby interior of the room.

A blood trail as wide as two bodies started where I was standing and led back toward the bathroom. Blood and bits of skin, bone and multi-colored viscera were splashed and flung hither and yon, yet not a full body was in sight. I reached backwards and slapped at the light switch. The sudden brightness from the overhead light did nothing to dispel the gross condition of the room.

I cautiously made my way further in, stopping when I heard a small crunch beneath my shoes. I slowly lifted my foot and saw a baggie with a now-disintegrated pile of what had been rock cocaine inside. That's when I started really looking around the room.

Interspersed with the blood and gore was what looked to be a snowstorm of white dust. The cocaine had been flung everywhere; it decorated the dresser top, the sheets - little clots of white in the red. I figured at least a street value's worth of seventy five grand was now contaminated and useless. Plastic baggies - whose intent was obviously to house said cocaine - were bunched in clumps in the now drying blood, scattered across the disheveled bed, strewn about the floor.

I glanced into the far corner and saw a metal weigh scale, broken, leaning against the baseboard. The lath and plaster wall about four feet above it was punched in – a pretty good dent where the scale had obviously hit before ending up in its final resting place.

I brought my focus back to the bathroom and where the blood trail seemed to lead. Making sure I didn't step in any puddles or smears, I made my way to the partially open door and nudged it the rest of the way with the muzzle of my gun. I leaned forward and peered inside, weapon at the ready.

The bathroom window had been shattered, the metal blinds covering it hit with such force they were now lying partially in and out of the tub, the shower curtain hanging by only two clips. The blood smear went past the tub, and stopped just below the broken window. Something glittered within the red substance.

It took me a minute to realize what I was seeing. I shook my head, and looked again. The bathroom window had been shattered inward, as if someone had literally crashed through the window to get into the room.

How in the hell...? The question flashed through my mind as I gingerly made my way to the broken entry point, making sure to check behind the door and in the tub for anyone possibly lurking there. I let out the breath I had been inadvertently holding; the bathroom was all clear.

I moved as close as possible, not touching any part of the window and saw there was a block wall about five feet across; the property line between the motel and the empty lot next door. The wall was the standard six feet high, which meant that whoever came through this window had to leap an additional eight feet straight up and five feet across to even get to the ledge, much less inside.

"Imfuckingpossible!" I found myself exclaiming out loud. That was when I noticed something fluttering, snagged in the corner of the broken frame. Without thinking, I reached down and plucked it from its place and jammed it into the front pocket of my jeans.

I back-trailed my way out of the room and quickly moved down the rusted metal stairs to the motel office, which, conveniently, was closed.

I glanced around. In all the time I'd been here, not a person had come out of the other rooms; not a soul had called 911. It figures. Nobody in this god forsaken place wanted PO-PO sniffin' around. I made my way to the back of the building and looked up, following the trajectory down from the only light shining from the second floor.

I worked my way down the trash strewn path to the figure that lay, motionless, below the shattered window. Sure enough, it was Gi-row – or what was left of him. His body was broken and twisted in a most bizarre fashion, his head wrenched around so that his chin was literally lying in-between his shoulder blades. The look of sheer terror was still in the rictus of his features. I crouched down next to the remains and muttered, "I sure hope the undertaker can do somethin' 'bout your face, dude, otherwise it's a closed casket ceremony for sure."

Sighing, I pulled the cell phone out of my back pocket and called it in.

*

The coroner had already carted Gi-row's lousy corpse out of the alley and was headed to the morgue when my sergeant finally approached where I was standing, finishing up my statement with a fellow detective.

"What the hell, Waters? You were supposed to be on this guy!" His arms and hands were gesticulating as he walked right up to my face.

I calmly lit a cigarette and blew out a ream of smoke while he stood, hands fisted by his sides, feet shuffling like he was really holding back from planting one of 'em literally up my ass.

"You know the case is shot now, don't you? We've got to start from square one – all over again, understand – because our only buy connection is now occupying a slab!"

"Well, Chief, look at it this way," I calmly said, as I blew a smoke ring to the left of my superior's apoplectic features, "Whoever (or whatever, I mentally thought to myself) did this did the community a great service. They not only got rid of one skank-wad scumbag, but they destroyed a ton of coke that will not be out on the streets, slowly killin' the poor schmucks addicted to the shit."

The chief leaned in, almost nose-to-nose with me. "Damn your eyes, I'll..."

I shot my head forward, bumping my forehead against his with enough force to let him know that I was pretty much done with his blustering show of superiority.

"You'll what, Chief? Suspend me? Take me off this case?" I snorted in derision. "You and I both know that ain't gonna happen. I'm the one whose gotten it this far when everyone else you'd put on it in the past sat pullin' their dicks. So, what say you save the show for the media and let me do my job, okay? Because you know for a damn fact, I will bust this case wide open."

The chief pulled back and took a deep breath. "Okay, Waters. Okay. I got a little hot under the collar. Go on, get some sleep. Leave your statement on my desk tomorrow and go do whatever it is you do. Now, get the fuck outta here and let me clean the rest of this snafu up."

I tucked my Glock into the back of my waistband and flipped my coat over it. Snapping the front together with my right hand, I reached into my left front jeans pocket and felt around.

Yep, still there.

Without another word, I turned and walked away from the scene, my eyes glancing up at the full, blood-red moon directly overhead, while my fingers incessantly rubbed the wad of silver-grey wolf hair I'd plucked from the broken window frame.
Blood Rites

by Kat Gracey

Verona...

A whisper through the air, I looked around the classroom to see who had called my name. My classmates were busy concentrating on the test in front of them. I was also pretty sure that none of them knew my name, despite the fact that I had been here for well over a year, so it wasn't one of them.

Verona...

The call was louder this time and I recognised the voice. It was Crystal. And she wasn't calling my name using her mouth, she was using telepathy again.

What do you want? I responded in my head, pissed that she was using it while I was in class. We agreed to only use it when we really needed it.

Meet us on the quad after class.

I rolled my eyes, what was wrong with using her cell phone to send me the message? Crystal always liked to show off though. Ever since her powers had increased, with my arrival to town, she used them whenever she could. At least Gillian didn't flaunt her magic. She was the third member of our bewitching trio.

Finding out I was a witch was a shock to me. Before I moved to Wishing Wells, I thought I was normal. I lived with my parents, I got good grades and apart from the occasional premonition, I was just like everyone else. Well, okay, premonitions weren't normal. Mom always said I was intuitive. She didn't know the half of it. Like that time I predicted Nana's death a week before it happened.

Dad called it a coincidence. I called it a curse. I did my best to ignore the visions that would appear before me, tried to block them out. That was until I arrived in town.

The second I crossed the town line, I felt this inexplicable pull. Before we could even start unpacking our things at the new house, I found myself running outside. I made my way into the middle of town, a place I had never been, and straight towards two girls, my age.

Crystal smirked when she saw me, "About time. Welcome to the club."

From that day, my abilities had grown. The telepathy came first. Then our other abilities. Crystal and Gillian explained everything to me. I was a witch, like them. In order to be more powerful, we were drawn to each other, to create a coven. It sounded so archaic, but that is what we became.

When the bell rang, I hurried out of the room, out towards the quad. I spotted Crystal right away with her platinum blonde hair and model physique. In comparison, Gillian was only five foot one, with caramel colored skin and short dark hair. They were so different. I came in the middle somewhere. I was several inches taller than Gillian, but not as tall as Crystal. My hair was an unruly red which never did what I wanted.

As I got closer, I felt that familiar tingle across my skin that came with being near them.

Crystal was watching the football players as they jogged by, while Gillian had her nose stuck in a book, her lips silently moving as she read.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Nice ass, Johnson," Crystal bellowed at one of the players. He shot her a terrified look over his shoulder and sped up.

He knew better than to go anywhere near us. We had built up something of a reputation in school. Even the freshmen who didn't know our names, knew to give us a wide berth. There was a nickname floating around too. The Witches of Wishing Wells. Try saying that three times fast. I guessed there were worse nicknames.

"Do you have to terrorize every boy in this school?" I asked.

Crystal shot me a dark look and flicked her blonde mane back over her shoulder. She was what my mother would call a man eater. Every few weeks she would choose a new guy to torment. At first she would flirt with them. Or her idea of flirting anyway. Then she would show up everywhere they went. When they didn't give in, Crystal had taken to using magic on them to get them to comply.

By then of course all the fun had gone out of it and she would dump them and move onto the next one. I guess she wasn't much different from a lot of guys at the school, except their magic was called alcohol.

The team disappeared around the corner of the school. A few minutes later, Eric appeared. He was the water boy for the team. Or that was what the coach called him. He was the coach's son and not the most athletic person in the world. I think his dad wanted him to be part of football whether he liked it or not, so he made him the water boy.

He was kind of skinny, with dark unruly hair and warm brown eyes. We had a few classes together and he was nice. As he went by he raised a hand and waved at me.

I waved back aware of Crystal watching the exchange.

"Oh, look," she sneered, "there's your boyfriend."

My face heated up and I turned away so she couldn't see. We may have been part of the same coven and we did need each other, but ninety per cent of the time I couldn't stand Crystal.

"Hey, Eric," she called.

I turned so fast I almost fell over. Why was she calling him?

He jogged over to us, out of breath and drenched in sweat.

"Hi," he said. It was all he could manage as he tried to catch his breath.

"Verona wants to date you," Crystal said.

"What?" Eric and I both gasped at the same time. His was for a different reason.

"Come on, it's so obvious that the two of you like each other. What's wrong don't you want to go out with her?" Crystal said.

I could have killed her. It was none of her business.

What the hell are you doing? I asked her with my mind.

That trademark smirk appeared, "Well?"

"I, uh, no. I mean yes, I would date her. Only if she wants to," he hastily added.

I'm going to kill you.

"Good, so the two of you can meet up tonight? You know the old barn out on Miller's farm?"

He nodded, "Yeah, I know the one."

"We're having a little get together. Be there for ten."

What was she doing? Tonight was the night we celebrated a year since our coven was formed. We were going to perform a ritual under the blood moon to increase our powers.

"Yeah, sure. I'll see you then, Verona," Eric said. He gave me a smile and ran off after the others.

"What the hell are you doing?" I snapped.

"Relax, the ritual doesn't start until twelve. That will give you and lover boy plenty of time to make out."

"Damn it, Crystal. I don't need you to set me up on a date."

"Please you would never have the guts to ask him out on your own. I was just giving you a helping hand."

I was going to give her a helping hand around her throat if she wasn't careful. She was up to something.

"We should go over the ritual for tonight," Gillian said, finally looking up from her book.

"Please, it's just the usual crap. Light some candles, some chanting and abracadabra," Crystal said.

"But what about the sa..." Gillian started to say.

"We'll discuss it tonight," Crystal snapped.

The bell rang. "I'm going back to class. See you guys tonight."

*

My stomach was in knots as I drove out toward Millers farm. It was after ten, Eric would already be there. Or would he? Maybe he wouldn't turn up.

Despite my protests, I did like him. And I had thought about asking him out, but I was terrified he would knock me back. Now that I knew he liked me too, I was a nervous wreck. Boys usually didn't want to date me. In fact, I had only ever been on one date before. The night ended with a feeble handshake and a promise that he would call me. He didn't.

It wasn't too late to turn around and go home. I found myself looking for space to turn the car around on the narrow country road.

If I didn't show up though, Eric would think I was trying to mess him around and he would never speak to me again. I pressed my foot down on the accelerator. I wasn't backing out.

Eric's car was parked a few feet from the barn. He stood beside it, hands jammed into his coat pockets. When he spotted my car, his mouth broke into a wide grin. I found myself smiling too.

"I didn't think you were coming," he said when I got out of the car.

"Sorry, I'm just late."

We stood awkwardly for a moment. A cold wind blew up and I shivered. There were no lights out here. The only light came from the moon above us. I could already see a slight red tint to it.

"Is there a reason why you are holding your get together here?" he asked.

"Yeah, privacy. The others won't be here for a while though."

"Okay, do you want to sit in the car then? It's freezing out here."

I followed him to his car and climbed inside. It was warm from the heater being on and smelled of leather and the faint scent of aftershave that Eric was wearing. Did he make the effort for me?

He switched the overhead light on so we could see better.

"How's football going?" I asked.

He shrugged, "Okay, I guess. Coach thinks we can make the championship this year."

"You call your dad, Coach?"

"Yes, he insists on it actually. And not just at school."

I chuckled softly, "That's weird. My dad's a doctor, I think it would be strange if he wanted us to call him doctor at home."

"Coach is kind of a hard ass. Do you want to listen to some music?"

I nodded and he switched on the radio. He found a station playing old rock songs. We listened to a song in silence, while I tried to think of something to say to him. Something that didn't involve witches.

The song ended. "Maybe we could..."

Before he could finish his sentence, I leaned across and kissed him. He tasted of mouthwash and I wondered again if he had made the effort for me. Had he hoped I would kiss him?

I sat back in my seat and almost screamed. Eric's face was covered in blood. It dripped from a wound across his forehead and there were scratches over his cheek and neck. He looked like he had been viciously attacked.

"Verona? What's wrong?" he said, reaching out to me.

I blinked rapidly and the blood vanished. It was a premonition. I felt sick. Every premonition I have ever had, has come true. Someone was going to hurt Eric.

"Verona, say something," he cried.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, "I just don't feel very well."

I stumbled out of the car, breathing the fresh air in and trying to shake the image from my mind.

Eric jumped out of the car and came around to help me.

"I get it, if that wasn't what you expected when you kissed me," he said.

"What? The kiss was fine. Honestly, I just feel faint."

"Then you should probably sit down."

He led me to the barn doors. There was a bale of hay on the ground beside them. I sat down on it. Eric sat beside me and took my hand.

"I think you're supposed to put your head between your legs," he said.

"I'm okay, really."

He brushed my hair back from my face, "Do you want me to drive you home? I can drive your car and come back for mine later."

I thought of the million different ways my premonition could come true. He could be attacked coming back for his car. Or maybe he would crash his car. Why didn't the damn premonitions come with more details?

"No, I feel better now," I said.

He put his arm around my shoulders and I felt like crying. He really was a nice guy, I didn't want to see him get hurt.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"What for?" he asked.

"I should have asked you out myself. We could have been sitting in a diner or at the movies right now, instead of out here in the middle of nowhere."

"I don't mind. I've got good company." He leaned in, his hand on my cheek and kissed me softly. He was a really good kisser.

I had to tell him what I saw. Maybe it was possible to prevent my premonitions.

"Eric, I have to tell you something," I said.

That familiar tingling ran across my skin. The others were near. Why were they so early? Or was Crystal hoping to humiliate me again? Nonetheless I was glad they were here. More people to help me protect Eric.

"Verona? What do you want to tell me?" Eric asked.

"Um, I think the others are here. Just a sec," I said.

I walked a few feet down the road, looking for their cars. I couldn't hear any approaching.

Crystal? Gillian? I called in my head.

No reply. Maybe I was imagining it. Or maybe it was the full moon affecting me.

I turned to go back to Eric. Crystal and Gillian glided out of the corn stalks by the side of the road. I swallowed a scream.

"Why didn't you answer me?" I hissed.

"And miss the opportunity to scare the crap out of you?" Crystal said.

They were both wearing long flowing dresses. I didn't realise they wanted me to dress up. I was wearing a skirt and jumper. It would have to do for the ritual.

"Can you guys wait for a while? I need to think of something to tell Eric," I said.

"No need. He can join in on our celebrations," Crystal said.

"Yes, he has a special part to play," Gillian said, shooting Crystal an annoyed look.

"Don't be ridiculous. He can't find out about us."

"We're going to set up in the barn," Crystal said. She stalked off.

"Gillian, what's going on?" I asked.

"You know how important it is to cement our pact. We vowed to keep our circle together. No matter what." She walked off after Crystal.

Why was she being so cryptic?

I hurried back to Eric.

"Looks like our time alone is over," he said.

"Yeah, I guess. Look, Eric, maybe you should go. These get togethers can get out of hand. I wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"What are you talking about? What are you guys doing out here?"

"Nothing. Please, go home. I'll call you tomorrow and we can arrange another date," I said, trying to push him towards his car.

"Wait. Those rumors at school aren't true, are they?"

I cringed. Eric must have heard all about us, but he never said anything about it before now.

"No, of course not. We're just having a girly night. You know, manicures, braiding each other's hair," I babbled.

"In a barn? In the middle of nowhere?"

I sighed, "Eric please."

"I should go," he said.

"You're not going anywhere," Crystal said. The barn was aglow behind her, lit with dozens of candles. "You want to know if the rumors are true. See for yourself."

Eric followed her into the barn.

"No, don't," I cried. He would think I was a major freak if he saw what we did. I knew Crystal was up to something. She was going to scare him off for good.

Gillian was marking out a circle with a bag of salt. In the centre of the circle, Crystal had painted a bunch of symbols. They didn't look like the usual ones we used. Most of which had come from Wikipedia.

I grabbed Gillian and pulled her to one side, "We have to get Eric to leave. I had a vision about him. He was covered in blood. I'm scared he'll get hurt."

"Don't be silly," Gillian said, "It won't hurt. It'll be quick."

"What will?" I said.

Eric let out a grunt and I turned to see him fall into the middle of the circle. Crystal had hit him across the face with a baseball bat.

"Eric!" I cried, rushing to his side. The blow had split the skin on his forehead. Blood leaked down his face, just like my vision.

"What did you do?" I screeched.

"I told you he was part of the ritual," Gillian said, calmly.

"Yeah, he gets to be the sacrifice," Crystal said.

"You wouldn't dare," I snarled.

"It's part of the ritual, we have to," Gillian said, showing me the book she had been reading at lunch.

I snatched it from her and threw it across the room.

"If that's what we have to do, then the ritual is off. I don't want to be part of the coven anymore."

Gillian and Crystal shared a look.

"You don't betray the coven," Gillian said in a matter of fact tone.

"Betray? You're crazy, I never signed up for this."

Crystal gave a loud, nasty laugh, "Please? What do you think witches do? Sit around drinking herbal tea and swapping cake recipes. We can tap into a primal power and that requires a sacrifice."

"I'm not going to help you," I said, checking to see that Eric was still breathing.

"You are not going to stop me getting my power," Crystal hissed.

"Our power," Gillian said.

"The coven will get power, but the one who actually performs the sacrifice, well let's just say that they get a little extra power boost."

"What?" Gillian snapped, "I didn't know that. Why do you get to do it then? I'll do it."

I couldn't believe they were actually having an argument over who got to kill Eric.

My eye caught one of the candles which was perched precariously on the edge of a beam, over a bale of hay. I took a deep breath to focus myself, concentrating hard on the candle, willing it to fall. Crystal and Gillian were too busy arguing to notice me.

The candle wobbled slightly. I tried harder and the candle tipped over and landed on the hay. Smoke curled from it as it began to catch fire. I shook Eric by the shoulder trying to wake him. We needed to move.

He groaned and his eyelids fluttered.

"Eric please get up," I said in his ear.

"What's that smell?" Crystal said.

"Fire," Gillian screeched. They both rushed to try and smother it. I noticed that Crystal had dropped her knife. Snatching it up, I slipped it into my pocket. It could come in handy.

I got Eric to his feet and with his arm around my shoulders for support, I helped him outside.

"Verona? What's going on?" he slurred.

"Just move," I said.

"Verona!" Crystal screamed. I struggled to get my keys from my pocket.

Energy crackled around me and suddenly an energy bolt struck the front of my car. Smoke erupted from it. Crystal always did have the showiest power.

"Come on," I urged Eric. We headed into the field, trying to hide amongst the corn stalks.

"You are witches, aren't you?" Eric asked as he stumbled along.

"Yes, but I'm not like them. I won't hurt you."

"How are we going to get away?"

"I don't know. We just have to keep moving."

Eric could barely walk though. I needed a plan. We went a few hundred yards in.

"Look, Eric I want you to stay hidden. I'll go back and try to get your car, then I'll come back for you," I said.

He handed me his keys, "Be careful."

"Just stay hidden."

Crystal was yelling my name. I sneaked around trying to come out behind them. Gillian was still inside the barn, while Crystal paced in front of field as if I would just suddenly appear and give myself up.

I could probably get into the car, but how would I get back to Eric? That was assuming he hadn't passed out.

What if I left him and went for help? He was well hidden. I felt bad for even considering leaving him behind. He didn't ask for any of this.

Using the car for cover, I got to the door. It was locked. Without thinking I pressed the button on the key fob. It beeped and the headlights flashed, lighting up Crystal.

"Shit," I whispered. That was so stupid.

Another bolt of energy fired my way. I managed to throw myself to the ground and avoid it.

I didn't have enough power to go against her. Racing back into the field, I tried to get back to Eric. We would have to head for the road and hope someone came along.

I found him slumped over on the ground.

"Eric," I cried. I shook him and his eyes opened.

"Verona? Did you get the car?" he muttered.

"No, I couldn't get to it. Let's go."

"I don't know if I can," he said.

The side of his face was caked in blood. Was he going to die? God, this was all my fault, I should have told him to stay away.

"Crystal is stronger than me, I can't go against her," I said.

"I'm sorry, Verona, I can barely walk. You go, get the cops."

"No, I'm not leaving you. If Crystal gets you, no one will be able to stop her."

I wished I was stronger. When it came to our powers, we had our own natural talents, but when it came to the big stuff, Crystal lucked out.

I heard someone crashing through the field towards us. We started moving again, but far too slowly.

"Come out, Verona! Gillian and I have decided, you aren't worthy of being part of our coven. So you and your boyfriend both get to die."

She sounded crazy. They were both crazy. I always thought Gillian was halfway normal but I guess not.

Eric was flagging again. We were going to get caught. He collapsed and I couldn't get him up again.

"Please Eric, we have to keep going," I begged.

"I can't. I'm sorry."

I began to cry. If I left him here, he would die for sure.

He reached out a hand to my cheek, "It's okay. Hey, at least we got one date first," he said, kissing me softly.

"Verona!" Crystal was closing in. She was going to kill me. I was sure of it. I didn't want to die out here. There was nowhere left to run.

My hand closed around the knife in my pocket and I was struck with another premonition. This time Crystal stood over me, her hands were covered in blood. I could see the moon above her, the same color. Turning my head, Eric's body lay next to mine. He was dead.

"You shouldn't have tried to go against me," Crystal said, before she drove the knife through my chest.

I fell back onto the ground as the vision faded. She was going to win. I would never get close to Crystal to the knife on her and there really was nowhere to run. It wasn't fair. None of it was. I didn't want to die. There had to be a way out of this.

"I'm really sorry, Eric," I whispered.

"It's not your fault," he said, his eyes half closed.

"Not for that. For this," I said. I pushed the knife through his throat. He gave a short gasp before slumping to the ground. Blood leaked down my arm as I pulled the knife free.

I sank to the ground beside him. It was the only way. If I hadn't, then we would both end up dead. At least now I stood a chance.

My body began to hum as the sky turned red above me. I could feel it all. The power was incredible. Nothing could stop me now.

Crystal appeared.

"No! What did you do!" she screamed lunging at me.

I flicked my hand at her and she was thrown through the air. She hit the ground hard and grunted in pain.

Before I could finish her off, she took off running. She wouldn't get far.

Returning to the barn, I found Gillian muttering to herself while flicking through her book.

She glanced up at me, then did a double take.

"Crystal, she's here!" she yelled.

I ignited her book just by thinking it. She yelped and dropped the blazing tome.

Her face went white.

"I was just kidding earlier. Me and you are cool, right? We can forget about Crystal and make out own coven. Right?" her voice had reached an usually high pitch.

The book was still smouldering. A tiny spark from it and she was on fire. She began to flail around, screaming as she was burned to death. I watched, unmoving. She had once been my friend, but none of that mattered anymore.

Now it was Crystals turn.

I found her trying to hotwire Eric's car. Grabbing her by her hair, I dragged her out of the car.

"Are you going to start begging like Gillian did?" I asked, shoving her to the ground.

"The power was supposed to be mine," she said, trying to crawl away.

"That's all you care about. Power. Now here you are about to die in the middle of nowhere. How does that feel, Crystal? Are you scared?"

She tried to look defiant, despite the tears rolling down her cheeks, "No."

"Yes, you are. Now you know what it feels like."

"Just do it, but you have to live with the fact that you killed the only boy who's ever liked you."

I hit her with everything I had. There wasn't much left when I was finished, just a scorch mark on the ground. The barn was now in flames too.

Dazed, I started walking towards the road. The horror of everything would hit me eventually, but right now, I felt numb.

The fire trucks passed me on the road as I walked back towards town. They would find the bodies soon. My car was back there, it wouldn't take long before the finger was pointed at me.

A car drove up and I held out my thumb.

"Where you headed?" the driver, a middle aged woman, asked.

"As far away as possible," I said, getting into the car.

"It's kind of dangerous to be our here alone at night," she said.

"Trust me, I can take care of myself."

As we crossed into the next town, the eclipse ended, and they sky was lit once more by the brilliance of the full moon.

Tales Of Nevaeh: Prelude To Nevaeh

ROTH

PRELUDE TO NEVAEH

By David Wind

I

4048 AD

The great seal of the office of the President of the United States of the Americas filled the screen. Five seconds later the screen flickered and the president came into focus. The date appearing in the lower right corner of the screen read April seventeenth, two thousand, one hundred and thirty-seven.

Watching the playback from his chair, the viewer scrutinized the image. Deep concern etched the president's features. His face was a taut canvass of beige toned skin and accented by pale blue-green eyes set above a sharp aquiline nose. His short curly hair was more salt than pepper, and his usually full lips were set in so tight a line they were barely visible.

"In the one hundred and thirty-six years leading to this point in time the world has not just imploded, it has divided into two separate entities: the Americas and the rest of the world.

What started as a horrible terrorist attack in New York City in 2001, escalated into a war we have had no choice but to endure. But I am not here to repeat to you the history lessons we are all too painfully aware of, nor of the mistakes made on all sides; what I am here to tell you about is the future."

The president paused; not a single line of tension had slid from his face. "There are now two parts to our world: theirs and ours. The unified terrorists known as the Circle of Afzal, led by Afzal Mahmud Terak, have played the part of destroyer. What was a once great world, which our ancestors built into a multitude of nations spread across the globe, is no longer so.

Yet, there is still hope. Three years ago, nuclear war raged across Asia and Europe and reached down to the tip of South America. Moreover, while no nuclear bombs have detonated within our country, we must live in a world filled with radioactive fallout. Nuclear winter is coming. The sun is fading from our skies. The contaminating radiation has all but destroyed agriculture. The world is beginning to starve: our animals are dying and the ones strong enough to survive are changing in ways that stagger our imagination. Our children are being born—those unfortunate enough to live—physically and mentally mutated.

Yet there is still hope. A year and a half ago, the Council of the Americas voted to find a way for our civilization to continue. Some scientists believe it will take tens of thousands of years to recover from the nuclear devastation working its way around our planet. Other scientists have theorized that it might be as short as three thousand years—thirty centuries—for the earth to rid itself of the worst of the fallout.

Yet there is still hope. Twenty-nine years ago, our space program built a starship intended to discover other habitable worlds. The program ended eleven years after it began and two years after the ship was finished, for reasons of which we are all aware. The ship has been in high orbit, twenty thousand miles above our planet. For the past eighteen years, it has been orbiting under our full control. The ship's cameras are the finest ever produced and give us pictures of the world, every day. Sadly, these pictures speak of a dying planet. Most of Eastern Europe, the Middle East and Africa is now desolate radioactive wastelands with clouds so thick the land is barely discernible. It appears no people have survived.

Yet, there is still hope," the president repeated. "Over the past year and a half, we have been conducting a search for people who—for whatever reason have been lucky enough to have not succumbed to the fallout. These people are still one hundred percent biologically human without any genetic mutations, either physical or mental, induced by radiation. We have found two hundred qualified men and women.

While two hundred is a small number, our scientists calculate it will be enough to repopulate the world, thousands of years from now. The technology to put people into ah...a form of 'suspended animation' came about at the same time as the ship's construction.

The method our scientists discovered to put a human body into a state of stasis has proven successful on both animals and humans. While it is not the stuff of science fiction—freezing a person to keep them preserved until awakening—it follows a similar principle. The body stops functioning within the stasis field. The scientists explained the theory behind stasis, but I will not try to explain it to you, as I do not understand the science. What I know, is exhaustive tests have been made over the past twenty years for both long term duration and waking/sleeping durations, and the stasis fields work!

Animals who live only a year or two have been awakened ten, fifteen and twenty years later, showing absolutely no changes from the day they had entered stasis until the day of their revival. The scientists awakened several every few months to see the effects of waking and re-entering stasis over a long period. Again, there were no negative effects: no muscle degeneration, no brain degeneration and no cellular aging. Anyone entering stasis can come out of it at any time in the future; I repeat, at any time!

Therefore, mankind's greatest hopes rest on the two hundred men and women who have volunteered to keep humanity alive. Allow me to introduce the flight crew."

On the screen behind the president was a photograph of a group of six men and women.

"From the left to the right. First is Admiral Theodore Wingate, Mission Commander—" the president began. The first picture filled the screen while the president's voice emanated from the speakers. "—next to him is Commander Andrew Tibbett's, Chief Navigation Officer. Captain Carol Cantor is our Chief Pilot and the officer next to her is Commander Solomon Roth, Chief Scientific Officer and back up pilot. Dr. Simon Marks is the Chief Medical Officer and Dr. Samantha Calloway is the Assistant Chief Medical Officer."

The images faded and the president came back into focus. "These six men and women are the crew of the starship aptly named, Mayflower. Their passengers, culled from every area of our country, are a full representation of our civilization. They are comprised of scientists, medical practitioners, teachers, engineers, military and technology specialists. The Mayflower is also an Ark, carrying the cell tissue of our world's animal life.

The shuttles to the Mayflower took off early this morning. As I speak, the crew and the 194 passengers are preparing to depart orbit. When the ship returns to us, three thousand years from now, and if our world proves habitable, those two hundred men and women will herald mankind's rebirth. If not, the crew will set course for one of three planets identified as habitable and begin a search for a new home.

Thank you and bless you."

The monitor went dark, flickered, and the president reappeared. This time the emotions playing across his features all but reached out through the scene and into the Mayflower. "That speech was broadcasted to the world this morning. Now let me tell you six of the reality of our situation. For the past eight years, ever since the fall of China, our scientists have been working on a project to protect the planet from the heavier wave of radioactive fallout heading toward us."

A map filled the screen behind him. "This is the projected path and timeline of the oncoming radiation. As you see, it has already begun to affect us, years ahead of schedule. However, in thirty days, our scientists will release a strain of bacteria, one that has been developed—and believe me when I say I know how strange this will sound—to eat radioactive fallout and render it harmless. At least that's how they summed it up after trying to explain how the bacteria surrounds each radioactive isotope and neutralizes it. We have seen promising results at the strike in the Falklands. This is our hope for you and your mission; but it will not happen immediately. In fact, the sad truth is it will not stop the radiation from destroying all life. The scientists believe the bacteria will work within the projected time span of three to five thousand years and remove the radiation from the ground and the atmosphere. This way, when you return, it will be to a clean but barren world, a world ready you and your passengers. As you know and as our tests keep reaffirming, over seventy percent of the people remaining in the world are sterile and the number is growing."

All that remains is to wish you good luck and for you to remember one thing: humanity depends upon you." The president looked to his left, and then back at the camera. He started to speak, swallowed hard and shook his head. "I was about to say, all our prayers are with you, but given the reality which has brought us to this point in time, those words seem more a curse than a blessing. So instead, let me simply say, goodbye, good luck, and thank you."

Solomon Roth shut off the monitor, ending the two thousand year old recording and turned to the controls. It had taken almost an hour for the fogginess to depart and another half hour for him to shower, dress and hydrate. He would hold off eating for a few hours until his body adjusted to full consciousness. When he'd stepped onto the bridge, the first thing Commander Solomon Roth had done was to turn on the monitor and play the president's final transmission.

Each time he had been awakened, he'd played the recording to re-acclimate himself to the purpose of his new life. Now fully awake, he looked at the surrounding screens. There were no windows on the ship's bridge, located in the center of the ship, because the center was the safest place: protected by layers of hull and decks made of the strongest metals ever discovered.

The Mayflower's elliptical orbit traversed the solar system without coming too close to the sun. The ship came into Earth's view every fifty years. It was the crews' job to monitor and review the files of those passages and to scan the earth.

This was Roth's fifth duty round since take off. Scheduled for duty every four hundred years, he was out of stasis for two months each waking period, which translated into two duty periods every millennium.

During his last awakening, four hundred years earlier, he'd read the alert files left for him. Thirty-two travelers had died during the three rounds of duty preceding his, and another seven had died in the years between the previous stasis period and now.

He'd found the problem had been stasis equipment failure. Unfortunately, he had been unable to find the cause. To find the reason, Roth had set up monitoring instruments and cameras in all stasis areas so he could see what was happening when awakened for his next duty tour.

Turning the command chair to his left, Roth activated the cameras in the stasis rooms and inspected each stasis chamber. When he pressed the button for the fifth chamber, his heart skipped.

Ten of the chamber's twenty stasis units showed failure. The floor of the chamber held ten bodies in varying stages of decomposition. Bile flooded his mouth. He propelled out of the chair and headed to the chamber. When he stepped inside, the odor of death and decay hit him like a punch.

Roth returned to the bridge. Darkness bored deeply inward, centering within his soul. He forced himself to return to protocol by reviewing each chamber. When he was done, he had found thirty more stasis unit failures.

Forty people had died in the past four hundred years, which meant, since their journey started twenty-four hundred years ago, half the travelers were dead.

He reprogrammed the crew's stasis reawakening duty schedule to adjust for the losses. Then, staring at the mission calendar, he wondered if he or anyone else would survive the next millennium.

II

5248 AD

Roth stared at the planet centered on the control room's main screen. I didn't sign on for this, he thought. How long has it been? It was a pointless question because he knew exactly how long: two years, eight months and twelve days of consciousness since he had boarded the shuttle at Earthport; two plus years of life rationed out over three thousand years of stasis.

The ship had voyaged through the universe for three thousand one hundred and seventeen years, following a huge elliptical orbit. This was Roth's ninth awakening or his service rotations. With each revival, there had been fewer and fewer travelers. He had spent as much time as possible, trying to find out what had killed them but had been unable to come up with an answer before he'd had to go back into stasis.

The last awakening had begun routinely but ended with the knowledge he would never return to stasis. He was the last person alive—all others had died either by a malfunction of equipment or by the same mysterious issue that had caused the other deaths, an issue he had finally solved. A dormant mutated virus, brought aboard by one of the colonists, had entered the ship's air circulation units when the colonist's stasis pod malfunctioned. When the dormant virus mixed with the ship's atmosphere, and it became live. Of the two hundred people on the ship, over three quarters had died from the virus. Roth alone had proved immune. The forty-three who had not perished because of the virus died due to various equipment failures. Those who had started the war of annihilation had finally succeeded in destroying their enemy and themselves by destroying every inhabitant on earth.

For the first five months after the last awakening, he had been insane—a skeletal lunatic of a person who cried and screamed and ranted against everything. Then, one lonely day, the ship's alarms had gone off.

What Roth had seen in the ship's monitors should have been the last straw of whatever shreds of sanity remained; but instead, what lay before him had returned him to sanity.

Two hundred thousand miles ahead, floated planet Earth.

After an unimaginable amount of time, his mind had worked through the insanity and his training had risen to the surface. He'd taken control of the ship from the computers, which had kept the ship in its elliptical orbit within the solar system for the last three thousand years, guiding it toward home. He had done this in spite of his wondering if there was any point to having remained alive.

The original mission had been the recreation of the human race; and, sadly, Roth knew he could not be the newest version of Adam, for there was no Eve—the women were long dead—unless you counted the embryos in stasis, though Roth doubted they had survived.

He'd gathered what little strength he could manage and put the ship into high orbit nineteen hours after the first warning had sounded. Once the orbit was established, Roth had sent out a dozen automated spy-bot probes. The almost invisible probes had spent twenty-six hours covering the entire planet, axis by axis. When the spy bots returned, Roth spent weeks watching every second of the videos they had recorded. Against every eventuality the scientists had been able to theorize, he'd learned that the radiation unleashed by the nuclear holocaust had not destroyed the earth. In fact, the bacteria the scientists had released at the time of his voyage, had not just succeeded but surpassed all imagination.

What remained of America held life such as he had never before seen. Yet, the people inhabiting it were seemingly backwards— appearing more like the people who had lived just after Earth's medieval period. They wore armor of leather and metal, fought with sword and knife and bow. They lived in castle-like keeps with towns spreading out about each keep. Science appeared forgotten, technology non-existent—a happenstance Roth believed to be for the best, seeing how science had murdered the planet.

He'd spent weeks reviewing the visual records. He'd laughed until he could no longer catch his breath and then cried for the billions who had died three thousand years before. Perhaps, he hoped, the people who had survived would do better.

Then Captain Solomon Roth, the last survivor of his race, and of all the races of the peoples of the planet from when he came, had done the wisest thing possible. He'd sat back, closed his eyes, and instead of rushing down to the planet's surface, he had waited, studied and learned.

Roth spent the next seven months watching the world below. Sending out daily probes until he'd gotten every inch of the planet charted, he had learned the language and the customs of the people inhabiting what was left of the North American continent. What he'd seen in the remnants of Europe, Asia and Eastern Europe had terrified him. That part of the world held the desolate ruins of nuclear war and populated by horribly misshapen beings—mindless masses ruled by hidden beings that did not appear in any of the probe recordings. These beings, this darkly threatening force, he'd become certain, were the remnants of the Unified Circle of Afzal—the very ones who had destroyed the world of his time.

South America was barren of life, both human and animal, and separated from North America by a swirling ocean of what had once been the lands of Central America and Mexico. The giant rainforests of the equator were gone. Canada and Alaska were ice-infested frozen mountain ranges surrounded by oceans of ice and tar fields.

While North America's land mass had changed, it appeared to be the only surviving land mass of the Americas. The nuclear attacks that had destroyed so much of the world had not destroyed North America. The reports he'd viewed from the bots had shown only a few small hits and two massive strikes. One strike was on the finger-like island of Manhattan. It was still there, but only the rubble of the once mighty center of American and world commerce remained. Where Central Park had been, there was now a giant fused crater. The damage from the explosion had radiated outward in a huge circle of destruction that left nothing standing.

A strange orange-red haze floated over Manhattan, like a dome of quarantine set upon the island. Roth was certain Boston had been the second strike, as there was no trace of it left. He could only imagine what had happened where the west coast and the western states had been. The once great land of North America had lost a full forty percent of its mass.

From then on, he'd spent the rest of his time studying North America. Although the land mass itself had changed, everyone spoke the same language. There were dialects, true, but only slight differences between the ten dominions that made up this new world.

He'd learned about their sciences, which seemed to be more spiritual than physical—metaphysical. His belief was born from his study of the women who he'd realized were the scientists or... sorcerers. He was more inclined to thoughts of mysticism caused by what he had seen on the probes' recordings, for the women were able to do things that he could only describe as paranormal.

Roth studied their ecology and understood, while the animals and the foods growing were not the same as in his time, the principles of evolution controlling the world were the same. One of the wonders of the mutations produced by the radiation was a strain of moss that glowed in darkness and was used everywhere to illuminate the interiors of their living structures.

However, the changes in the animals had captivated him the most: the people had tamed what he assumed were the mutated descendants of horses—large four-legged animals called kraals. Kraals were perhaps twenty percent larger than horses, with thick strong legs and triangular heads, which looked like a cross between a horse's and viper's head, only larger. They were fast, much faster than the horses of his time, and carried their riders with ease. There were gorlons, which reminded him of large dogs, somewhere between a Mastiff and a Great Dane, but fiercer. Like dogs, they were everywhere people were. There were also small dog-like creatures called coors.

Roth saw parallels in every form of life; large cat-like animals called rantors hunted the mountains and the forests with the king-like majesty of cougars and lions while snakes—which the people called snucks—as well as fish and birds of all varieties flourished. Elephantine-like beasts roamed the hotter areas of the planet. However, the birds caught his imagination as much as the horse-like kraals. They called the largest of the birds' treygones. They were larger than the size of an earthly eagle, but anyone with any sort of imagination would have drawn the parallel to miniature dragons. The shape of their heads was oval and triangular at the same time; the folds of their wings, their long bodies and elongated tails were similar to what earthly artists had envisioned as dragons, for thousands of years.

Because the probes were nearly invisible and could receive audio from within a quarter mile of wherever they flew or hovered, he'd been able to get a full-working study of the evolved version of English. Within weeks, he had used the computers to gain full understanding of both its meaning and syntax.

The people fascinated him too. The lines between races had disappeared; the people were an ethnic mixture of multiple races, yet they were not bi-racial. The people of this new earth were a homogeneous race—their features a mixture of every race he had known three thousand years before. The color of their skin had nothing to do with the color or shape of their eyes or the color or elasticity of their hair. He learned too, from the recordings, that while each had distinct roles, men and women had evolved into what he could only term as complete equals. In most instances, men were stronger, physically, yet there was no division between the sexes when it came to anything, be it soldiering, working or ruling.

The only division seemed to be in the metaphysical abilities of the women. No matter how many recordings he had watched, he had not found a single instance of a man showing any paranormal ability.

After studying all the probe reports, Captain Solomon J. Roth set a full routine for himself. Exercise in the morning after breakfast, language studies mid-morning, sword practice after lunch followed by the study of the people, their society and its political hierarchy.

What appeared medieval was far from such. A king ruled his dominion with the aid of his queen in a partnership of equals. Both had their strengths and each needed the other's to rule properly. The people in a domain had the freedom to stay or move to another one, should they feel the need to change fealty. Loyalty was given, not taken by strength. The rulers knew this and largely treated their people with respect.

Yet, from what he learned, there was continual discord between the ten dominions, and they fought in many skirmishes. But try as he could, the information from his probes was not adequate for him to understand why these dominions fought each other so fiercely, as nothing changed within their individual borders at the end of a battle. The importance of this was something he knew he must discover if he were to become a part of this earth.

When he reached the stage of readiness he needed, he put together what he believed would be everything necessary to begin a new life on the planet below. He took no weapons other than those he created in the machine shop: two swords that were made of Trilimion, a metal found on the surface of Saturn's moon, Titan. It was the hardest and strongest metal humankind had ever discovered, with ten times the strength of titanium and used primarily for satellites and the hull of the star cruiser on which he had spent the last three millenniums.

He made two knives of the same metal and used the ship's computers to replicate the armor worn by the planet's inhabitants—primarily armor for the upper torso, biceps and thighs. This too was made of Trilimion. He built a second set of armor as well, for Roth believed in back-ups. He took a week to walk through the ship, deciding on what would be best to bring with him. In the end, he realized he could bring only a little of what the world had once been.

Technology would not only be unnecessary, it would be foolish, as the inhabitants had not yet found any need for technology. He had spent many hours debating over this and had come to the only possible conclusion: what happened three thousand years before had caused a genetic memory so deep it had prevented the growth of technology as a means of preservation of the species.

Should he bring the books from his dead version of the world? Then he wondered what possible purpose it could serve if he were to teach these people his Earth's history. He could think of no benefit, no reason why anyone would want to learn about a world which had destroyed itself because its people needed to control every aspect of their planet, while doing their best to use up every last natural resource of their world.

In the end, Roth decided to bring those things he would need to stay alive until he adapted to his new home and to take a few select pieces of technology and history, which might eventually prove to be important.

With that in mind, Roth gathered his supplies. He loaded the food, water, clothing and the weapons he'd made, along with thirty pounds of raw Trilimion. After a long and final consult with the ship's computer, he put together the medications the computer assured him would allow his survival and acclimation to his new home. For the past three months he had been inoculating himself, using the medical computer designed for that purpose three thousand years earlier, in preparation for the people of the ship to populate a new world, which he thought was the joke to end all jokes—the new world was the old world.

When the lifeboat was loaded, he returned to the ship's control room and reprogrammed the ship's main computer. Two hours later, he stepped into the lifeboat, his appearance an almost perfect replica of the planet's inhabitants.

He piloted the lifeboat out of the ship and, when he was clear, sent a signal to the ship's main computer. A bright glare had followed his signal as the starship engine kicked on. Roth continued down to the planet's surface, while high above him the huge ship sped into a new orbit where it would wait a signal to begin another voyage through the solar system—a ghost ship from a ghost planet. Then Solomon Roth turned the shuttle and headed home.

III

The ground was dry and cracked, the air hot, but when Solomon Roth drew a breath of Earth air into his lungs for the first time in three thousand years, he tasted sweetness instead of recycled ship atmosphere. In that moment, he understood how his decision to come home had been the right one.

He looked around. The desolation was complete.

In what had once been the borders of Texas and New Mexico, there was now nothing more than hills and valleys of crushed gravel, sand and dust. The geological changes staggered him, and wisely, Roth did not dwell on them. Instead, he walked to the closest of the hilly outcroppings and found what the drones had already discovered: a cave formed by earthquakes so fierce they had turned this once magnificent cattle country into a desert the likes of which made Death Valley of his day look inviting.

Roth knew there was no fresh water within a hundred miles. The salt water of the Pacific Ocean was two hundred and fifty miles west of his location, and fourteen hundred miles closer east than it had been in the time from when he had come. Nevertheless, there was water east of his location.

He spent the next four hours setting up the cave. He carried five poly-steel crates into the interior. Among the crates where three computers: each powered by a nuclear battery designed to endure for centuries. In the computers' solid-state memory banks rested the history of the Earth from man's earliest writings until the twenty-second century. In addition to the historical files, the computers contained the entire digitized catalog of the Library of Congress; a wealth of information from Harvard, Yale, Oxford and Stanford Universities; and the digitized artwork from every major museum in the world as well as the logs of the starship Mayflower.

Roth did not intend for anyone to find or use the computers—considering no one alive today knew what a computer was—he just believed they belonged here rather than on the starship. Making sure the crates were as far back from the entrance as necessary, he stepped into the mouth of the cave, placed three explosive charges in the predetermined positions and returned to the shuttle.

Unloaded and next to the shuttle was the armor, swords and the knives he'd made onboard; an all-terrain vehicle, which was one of the many aboard the ship designed for exploration, stood waiting. He put on the upper body armor and helmet, strapped on his sword and stored the rest into the two compartments of the four-wheeled vehicle.

He went into the shuttle and, sitting before the controls, programmed the shuttle to return pilotless to the starship. He set the timer for three minutes, looked around once and left. Outside, he mounted the all-terrain vehicle and drove a hundred yards away.

The shuttle's engine kicked on and, in a dust storm of swirling gravel and sand, lifted straight up. It hovered for a few seconds and then shot upward, angling toward the heavens.

Watching, Roth's throat constricted. He turned to the cave, lifted the remote detonator and pressed the switch. The cave opening disappeared in a cloud of dust. Two minutes later, he stood in front of the blocked opening. Five feet of rock had completely sealed the cave.

He placed a map of the entire western area on top of his spare set of armor. The map would lead him back here, if necessary.

He looked at his reflection on the gleaming steel body of the vehicle. The hours beneath infrared lights had tanned his olive-toned skin. He was unsure if being paler than anyone else in this new world would be the cause of suspicion. Still, he felt thankful for his mother's Mediterranean blood, which had given his skin a naturally darker cast.

Swallowing hard, he did not dwell on his situation; rather he accepted where he was and who he was, as he gunned the vehicle forward to claim his new life.

*

On midmorning of the second day of his arrival, Roth reached the Northwestern edge of the desert, and the start of the mountainous wastelands leading into Welkold. The area looked more like the moon than Earth, which was the reason he'd chosen this spot after a year of studying Nevaeh. Because it was the least traveled in the region, it was the perfect place to leave his spare weapons, armor, and enough raw metal to make more if necessary, along with thirty computer-drawn maps of Nevaeh.

He set a small charge against the rocky face of a lumpish hill and detonated it. After storing his equipment, he covered the opening with rocks to make it appear as natural looking as possible.

When he was done, he stood there for several minutes, going over every detail in his mind. His next move would be to drive the vehicle to within a few miles of the border of the nearest dominion, where he would send the vehicle into the depths of a lake. Once done, he would enter the dominion and start his new life.

While he knew it was risky, he could think of no other way. If he failed to be accepted into this new world, then there would be only one option left to him—to finish his days alone and take his knowledge of what once was to his grave.

He shrugged, smiled, and pulled out the single rolled map he'd kept. Although computer-generated, the map looked like it had been hand-drawn. With his forefinger, he traced a path to the dominion known as Kashold, where he would offer his services as a Free-Blade, the term the people of Nevaeh used for mercenaries.

Roth climbed into the vehicle and started in the direction of the lake, which bordered both the dominions of Kashold and Welkold. He took another deep breath of the beautiful and clean air and did not look back as he drove off to his new life.

He did smile though.

*

Four months after landing, Roth was in the foothills between Lokinhold and Brumwall, in the service of the Free-Blade leader, Ekul. He had joined this band shortly after arriving in Welkold and had spent the first several weeks learning the ins and outs of being a Free-Blade. A month after joining, the leader, Danil, had fallen in a skirmish with another band of 'Blades' who fought under the banner of Lokinhold.

With his death, a new leader had stepped forward, and as was the tradition, he'd challenged anyone who opposed him as leader. None did, for he was a large mean-tempered fighter, who gave no quarter whether to friend or foe. Roth disliked the man's bullying ways but stayed silent. As the new man, and as someone who was not born of Nevaeh, he understood it was best to stay silent and solitary.

Just after they made camp on the day before entering Brumwall, Ekul called the men together to go over the next day's plan for entering Brumwall in order to answer the king's call for two Free-Blade companies. Halfway through the strategy, Ekul was proposing—a plan of deceit and slaughter, Roth could hold back no longer. "Why?" he cut in.

Ekul turned to him. Dark brown eyes glowered over a bulbous nose and wide mouth. "What did you say, little man?"

Ignoring the slur, Roth repeated his question. "Why?"

"Why? Why what?"

"Why should we go after other Free-Blade companies? What's the point?"

"To get rid of the competition. The king has called for two companies. There will be many more than that," Ekul declared. "And we need the coin."

"So you want to ambush the other companies, kill them off so we will be hired?"

"Exactly. Now you are beginning to learn, little man."

"Why do we not go to Brumwall and offer our services and tell of this company's years of service and victories?"

"Because I am a Free-Blade. Talking is not what I do best."

"I can teach you how to do such, and more," Roth offered.

"Teach me to talk to a king? Why bother? My sword speaks well enough."

Roth knew he was battling against the impossible, but that had been his life for the last three thousand years. As Ekul's words faded, Roth stood. "I can teach you how to talk to kings, and perhaps teach you a few more things as well."

Ekul's face drained of blood, and then the blood came pouring back, turning his skin a mottled and angry red.

"So you think you are better than me, little man?" Ekul challenged, a lopsided grin tugging the left corner of his mouth upward.

Behind Roth, several men snickered, knowing how powerful a fighter the Free-Blade leader was.

Ignoring the laughs and the comments, Roth held the leader's eyes. "I said I could teach you a few things, I did not say I was a better man than you."

"To me, it is the same thing."

"Only a foolish man would think so. But if you do not want to gain the knowledge I possess, then I will not offer such again."

Roth turned around, but before he could take a step, the big man's hand fell on his shoulder, his fingers digging painfully into the muscle as he turned Roth to face him again. "Do not turn your back on me. I lead my Free-Blades, not you. You either follow, leave, or die."

Roth's face showed nothing of the larger man's grip; instead, he smiled. "Perhaps as our leader, you might show some degree of wisdom. You have seen me fight but a few times. You know me not, nor my abilities with the blade, yet you seek challenge. Why?"

Ekul laughed. "So you understand, eh? I like you not. You talk with strangeness, you are solitary, and you know not how to follow properly. If Danil had not taken you on, if I was leader then, you would not be one of us."

The man's words were no surprise for he had sensed Ekul's dislike from the first. "Truth is good, is it not? Now we know where we both stand. What would you have of me? Leave your Free-Blades?"

"I would prefer your blood on my blade. I like you not," he repeated, "not the sickly paleness of your skin, or the strange twisting of your words. I would fight you, I would kill you and I would laugh over your body."

Roth's every muscle vibrated with the words. His senses turned acute, his skin tingled, and then he smiled. "Strange, is it not? I see a man standing before me who is strong, has great ability, but sees only as far as the tip of his nose. I do not dislike you, Ekul, but I think you are a poor excuse for a leader of a band of Free-Blades such as we are and would be happy to take your place."

Everyone within hearing distance laughed. Ekul stood taller, his right hand going to the pommel of his sword. He looked at the men semi-circled behind Roth. "Shall I finish this woman-sized man?"

Roth did not turn from Ekul. His concentration locked not on the man's hand, but on his eyes. He heard the murmurs and laughs behind him and knew the men of this Free-Blade company had no love for Ekul but would not voice their dislike.

Ekul's smile widened from its lopsided grimace into a tooth-baring picket fence of a smile. "It is settled, little man; it is time for you to die."

The taller man's sword leapt from its scabbard. A heartbeat before it did, Roth's sword was out and their blades met in with a crash. His stroke stopped, the bigger man back-stepped, spun and slashed at the joining of Roth's neck and shoulders.

Roth easily turned out of the way of the clumsy stroke, took two steps forward and slammed the flat of his blade on Ekul's wrist. The man screamed and the sword fell from his numbed fingers. Before the sword hit the ground, the tip of Roth's sword was at the man's throat, a droplet of blood trailing down Ekul's neck.

Hatred spewed from his eyes. "Finish this."

Roth drew his sword back but held it at the ready. "Join me as a Free-Blade, or leave."

"You shame me by not killing me."

"No, I value life, even those who would see mine end. I give you a choice, which path you take is up to you."

"Not yours."

"Then you are free to go. Do so now."

Glaring at Roth, he turned to the others. "Will you follow him, or me?"

It took all of forty seconds for thirty-one of the three dozen Free-Blades to step behind Roth. At the site, Ekul spat at Roth's feet, picked up his swords and began walking back toward Lokinhold, the other four Free-Blades following behind.

Half a dozen paces later, Ekul stopped, turned and said, "I will not forget this shame. One day, you will pay."

Roth gave the man a short nod. "I look forward to that day." Turning back to the men, he said, "I thank you for standing with me, even though you know me not well. Each of you is here by choice. I will ask no more than you stand loyal. We will not be fighting other Free-Blades just for a job. We will do so by showing we are strong, smart and able to handle anything asked of us. Does anyone disagree with this?"

When no one spoke, Roth said, "Tomorrow we enter Brumwall, in two days we will be in Apolis. There, I will apply for our company's employment with King Ecorah. We will present ourselves as a unified company, ready and willing to serve."

He turned to a man standing in the center of the company. "Steban, how are our supplies?"

"We are well stocked at the moment," said Steban, the Free-Blade cook.

"Then make us a feast tonight. Tomorrow we move with speed. We do not want to be the last to arrive."

*

It was late in the afternoon when the thirty-two mercenaries, now known as Roth's Free-Blades, reached the Keep of Apolis. The guards stepped before them, barring their entry. "What do you here, Free-Blades?"

Roth took a step forward; his hands held open, and said, "We answer the summons of King Ecorah."

The officer in charge looked Roth up and down. "A Free-Blade, are you?"

Roth leaned in toward the guard, his eyes locked intensely on the officer's eyes. "I am Roth, these are my men. Is there issue here?"

The man blinked twice, and then shook his head. "There are already two companies waiting for the King in the training grounds. You and your men can set camp there. The King will meet with all leaders tomorrow afternoon."

"Are there no inns to accommodate us?"

"There are no inns large enough for you and your men."

"Does Apolis not have more than one inn?"

The guardsman nodded, unsure of how to handle the situation. Free-Blades were notorious for not spending their blood-earned coin. "There are several, all are together on the fourth street from here."

"My thanks, guardsman," he said and, with a quick signal to his men, started forward.

The eyes of the people in the street and the vendors at their stands followed the unusual procession of Free-Blades, as they made their way down the road. When Roth turned onto the cobblestone street, he found rows of inns on both sides, all built the same, but each painted a different color.

Roth stopped his men with a raised hand. "Who knows these places?"

Two men stepped forward. The one known as Somid said, "I have used the third inn and the one across before. Both are clean, but Roth, why pay when we can stay in the training grounds?"

"I have my reasons, and your coin will stay with you. You are now my Free-Blades; the burden is mine. If you drink wine tonight, do so lightly. Eyes will be on us. Each of us will be respectful so that word of our conduct reaches the King. Am I understood?"

One of the larger men cleared his throat before saying, "And if we are not?"

"I suggest you turn and leave now. You either follow my instructions or be gone." Roth fell silent, but his eyes, locked on the bigger man, said much. It took only a few seconds for the man to nod.

An hour later, with their five kralets stabled, their supplies stacked and secured, all were in their rooms. Roth then went to the tavern and waited for his men. It would be a long night, he knew, but the one thing he needed to do was to make sure the Free-Blades followed his orders. He had used his last coin to pay for the rooms, knowing that by doing what no other Free-Blade company would do, would gain him notice. He had formulated a plan on the way here, and he would let nothing interfere with getting the company employment.

*

To a man, the Free-Blade company slept until mid-morning, when Roth wakened them and got them moving. Once fed and dressed, they headed toward the training grounds where the other two Free-Blade companies waited.

Roth stayed behind. He was not the type to sit patiently for something to happen, not with all the years of waiting behind him. Just after midday, an hour before King Ecorah was to review the Free-Blades, he made his way to the main castle keep.

Halfway there he stopped, frozen to the spot. Dressed in a simple long tunic and leather pants, with a simple short sword hung at her side, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She walked with strength and confidence, her head held straight and proud.

He could not take his eyes from the gentle planes of her face, the shimmering waves of raven hair, or from her amazing large gray eyes, which were set within soft mocha skin. He had never before felt what he did at that moment and knew he would never again look at another woman.

In that instant, she turned to look at him. Her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly.

Roth crossed the street in five steps and stopped before her. He bowed his head slightly and said, "I do not know you yet... but now that I have seen you, I will never look at another woman."

The next thing Roth knew, the tip of a knife pressed against his neck. He stiffened but did not move.

"How dare you speak to the Princess Enaid in that manner?" demanded the man, who Roth saw bore a strong resemblance to the woman.

"I know not who she is, nor you. I speak my mind." With a lightning-quick move, Roth slipped his forearm between himself and the man, spun and pushed the blade away as he completed the spin. Then, grabbing the knife from the man's hand, Roth caught him around the neck and slammed him to the ground. The knife, now in Roth's hand, hovered above man's jugular.

"Your manners are poor, your actions rude," Roth said. He withdrew the blade and started to rise. That was the last thing he was conscious of as a blast of pain ripped through his head and everything went black.

*

His first awareness was of a man with a deep voice going on about exiling whoever this strange Free-Blade was. Roth stayed silent, his eyes closed while he listened to the conversation.

Carefully opening his eyes enough to see, he found a bear of a man pacing at the foot of the bed he was laying on. The man was huge, his skin ebony, his long straight black hair laced with strands of gray. Standing on each side was the woman he had spoken to and the man who had attacked him.

"Give me one reason I should not exile him!" the large man asked. In that moment, Roth realized the speaker was the king of Brumwall.

"Exiling him will be a mistake," the woman said.

The king spun to look at her. "And why is that, Daughter?"

She turned to the young man. "I sensed no malice in him, there was no intent to harm. Tell him, Darb."

The man shuffled uncomfortably for a moment and then nodded. "Father, this man, with my knife at his throat, disarmed me and used my own knife on me in less than a deep-drawn breath. He could have ended my life...he did not. You want to count him as one with Brumwall, not against."

"Yet he attacked the Prince of Brumwall."

"No," Roth said, "I only defended myself, your Highness."

"Ah, he wakes. Who are you?"

"My name is Roth, Highness. I lead a small company of Free-Blades who have responded to your call.

"You are the one who stays at the inn?"

"I am."

"You come for employment but insult my daughter?"

Roth held back for an instant as he studied the king. The man's pale blue eyes had a depth to them that showed much intelligence. "My Lord, if it's an insult that I said that now that I have seen her, I would look at no other woman, then I should be exiled, for I have no place in this dominion. On the other hand, the loss of my fighting knowledge to Brumwall would not be in your best interest."

"Ah, a braggart are you? Has your audacity no bounds?"

"My Lord," Roth said respectfully, "It is not audacity, merely truth."

The king started to speak, but another voice cut in. Unseen and behind him, a woman stepped forward. She walked to the bed and stared into Roth's eyes for several long seconds. When she was done, she turned to the king. "My Lord, there are reasons to not exile this man."

"Now my wife takes this...Free-Blade's part?"

"Your wife takes only your interest to heart. This man speaks the truth, and should you exile him, you exile your daughter as well."

"What mean you?" Ecorah asked, his puzzled features matching the tone of his words.

"Enaid," the queen said, turning to her daughter.

"I know him not, as yet, but what I do know, and what I have seen, is that this man and I will share our lives together."

"He is not of royal blood."

Enaid smiled at her father. "His blood has no bearing since you have your son Darb, who will marry and leave an heir to follow him. I am not needed for such purpose, so I am free to choose."

Ecorah looked at his wife and then his daughter. He ran a large hand through his hair. "Am I in the middle of some strange jest?" He pointed a long finger at Enaid. "Nothing in Brumwall happens without my approval. And for that..." He shook his head, his eyes never leaving Roth. "For that, we will see. "Now, Free-Blade, tell me your story."

Night Time in the City.

Ash Hartwell.

Brandon stood on his small, sixth story balcony surveying the city and savouring the last cup of coffee he'd managed to squeeze from the pot. The autumnal evenings had, of late, taken on a chill the lukewarm, and if he were honest, slightly stewed, liquid did little to ease. It was however, bitter enough to wash away the plastic aftertaste of the microwave meal for one he'd just eaten, and strong enough to stimulate his work-tired senses.

The weak sun had set some time ago, although the day's thick cloud and persistent rain meant the event slipped by unnoticed, the depressing gloom just darkening as the neon city shone ever brighter until, without warning, it was night. The clouds had since lifted a little and here and there, Brandon could see patches of clear sky, but city's electric glow obscured all but the brightest stars. The moon still hid behind the thicker banks of cloud rolling away to the west.

Brandon drained his cup and inhaled the urban smells drifting up from the busy streets below. Kebabs, burgers and fried onion from the take-away on the corner mixed with the salty, stagnant mud of the river estuary, and the subtle, gracious scent of perfume. Tilting his head into the breeze he sniffed again, filtering out the tangy fast-food and stagnant river he concentrated on the perfume.

It was sweet, sensual and understated in the way only a skilled perfumer could create. Brandon recognised the delicate scent; it was...had been, a favourite of his wife before... He brushed away a tear, cursing himself for his ability. He tried to focus on the smell of the food, fried chicken, salt and vinegar, anything apart from the one smell that reminded him most of his dead wife.

Away to his left a car horn sounded, a man's voice yelled excitedly in Turkish. A smile flicked at the corners of Brandon's mouth as he heard Craig, the take-away's delivery driver, respond.

"Fuck off you..." The last part of his sentence drowned out by the rattling whine of his scooter firing into life. Brandon liked Craig's no-nonsense, teenage angst approach to life, it would carry him far in this city, if it didn't get him stabbed for being a cocky shit. There was a thin line between success and failure for today's youth and on occasion, Craig had fallen foul of the line.

A few more words, angrily shouted in Turkish, were followed by a screech of tires. Below him, a battered silver Merc swung round the corner and sped away with over revved gear changes. Brandon watched it go with a smirk, waiting for the driver to realise his mistake. The saloon reached the glowing red-eyed traffic light at the corner before its lights flicked on. He watched as the lights changed through their pre-ordained sequence and the car disappeared behind a bus, before turning away to concentrate on the distant skyline.

The towering cranes of the distant docks were just about visible, blinking red lights marking their position for the benefit of aircraft still flying in and out of the city's airport. The monolithic office blocks situated on the far side of the river were still well lit as arrogant bankers completed complex foreign deals and minimum wage cleaners tidied up their mess. To the east, Brandon made out the great expanse of the Royal parks, the floodlit palace sitting in the middle, before the sprawling old town gave way to the jungle of 1960's high-rise suburban living and densely packed streets.

By day this sprawling metropolis of glass and steel offered Brandon little. He was awkward in social situations and although well-educated, deliberately took a job well below his ability because it allowed him to work in almost solitary confinement in the bowels of the museum imputing data and cross-referencing exhibits. He'd met Helen, his wife, at university, noticing her on the first day, but for a computer nerd – she was pretty cool and he...well, wasn't. It had taken her two years to convince him she was serious about going out for a date. She saw past the awkwardness, the bumbled sentences and chronic shyness and liked the kind, intelligent and ruggedly handsome man behind.

For a while he'd flourished, coaxed out of himself by the confidence and love Helen gave him. But then, shortly after their second anniversary and only a few months after moving to the city, she was killed, stabbed in the heart by a spotty youth for refusing to let go of her purse. The trauma of this, coupled with Brandon blaming himself for her death, for failing to protect her, sent him spiralling back into social isolation and the psychological chasm of depression that came with it.

By night the neon city of shadows extended him anonymity. He moved about with little human interaction as people hurried, eyes downcast, from one destination to another, or huddled in all-night cafés and self-serve laundrettes, pointedly ignoring him least he turn out to be the local nutter or some religious freak looking for redemption, or worse, converts.

Brandon thrived in this world of half-light and shadow where things were not always as they first appeared. His senses came alive as he walked the streets night after night, hunting the spotty youth who haunted his nightmares. He would prowl the streets for hours until exhaustion forced him to sleep, often waking with the dawn to find himself in some strange part of town. He doubted tonight would be any different.

Pulling his jacket on, Brandon checked his keys and phone were safely secured in the zip up pocket, before leaving his flat.

Once down at street level he sniffed the air. The Turkish driver had left a heavy scent of hand rolling tobacco, the imported kind, as he'd driven away to the north. Craig's cheap knock-off cologne, infused with the warm smell of scooter fumes, headed away to the east. Brandon tilted his head, shutting out the ever-present low pitched rumble of traffic and the melee of voices tumbling from the kebab shop's open doorway.

Then he heard it, the sharp clicking in the distance. She was walking fast, heading south towards the river. Brandon crossed the road, picking up her soft, familiar scent he started to follow the young woman's trail. After a couple of hundred yards she'd crossed a busy intersection and passed through a set of wrought iron gates into a small park. She was still out of sight but her scent was stronger. He was getting closer.

An elderly woman walked towards him dragging a scruffy dog along beside her on an extendable lead. As the woman got closer the dog became agitated, pulling at the lead and giving a rumbling warning growl which became a fierce snarl, its sharp canines bared in anger or fear, as Brandon got closer.

"I'm so sorry dear. I don't know what's got into him," said the elderly woman apologetically, tugging on the lead.

"That's alright," mumbled Brandon, his eyes fixed on the dog. The woman turned away, struggling to bring the beast to heel.

Brandon felt the familiar flame flicker into life deep within his soul. He bared his teeth and snarled back at the dog. It whined and scuttled behind its owner, head down, tail between its legs. He smelt the dog's fear as it cowered away from him, refusing to look up, completely submissive.

Before the old woman had a chance to turn round, Brandon took off into the unlit expanse of the park, away from the orange street lamps and brightly lit storefronts. His vision as sharp in the darkness as it was in daylight. Pausing briefly he sniffed the air again, fearing he'd lost the scent. The park with its carefully planted trees and tidy hedges had a different smell to the streets, it was sweeter, cleaner. The local wildlife had all left their tell-tale scent as they scurried back and forth, hunting and scavenging under cover of the nocturnal hours. An urban fox had, only recently, stopped where he now stood, perhaps to watch his encounter with the dog, before moving on.

Then he picked up her scent again, drifting on the breeze from the far side of the park. He'd lost ground dealing with the dog and needed to quicken his pace if he were not to lose her. He set off across the grass at a gentle jog, his ears pricked, searching the general city hubbub for the sound of her heels.

Emerging onto a quieter side street, Brandon pulled up the hood on his jog top and darted across the empty road, ducking into the shadows. There he slowed his pace to a walk. The click of her heels louder now, every few steps the rhythm skipped as though she were forcing her pace, the scent of her perfume stronger. But there was something else too. She was scared!

Brandon wondered why a woman, wearing heels and expensive perfume, would walk through this part of town at night. Still, it made his hunt easier. He hurried on, aware of another scent mixing with the woman's.

Brandon reached a darkened crossroads and followed the trail to the right. He could see the woman now, she was close. Behind her, and not far in front of Brandon, followed the source of the other scent. Sweat, greasy food and spot cream. A scent so familiar to Brandon he knew it like his own. The scent he'd searched the city's streets night after night to find.

The woman stumbled on trying to put distance between her and her pursuer. The tall figure behind her quickened his pace, a powerful lion closing in on a graceful, yet helpless gazelle. Above them the moon, full and bright, emerged from behind the clouds brightening the narrow side street. The woman's blond locks shone silver as she glanced over her shoulder at the gangly youth following her.

He broke into a run, intent on catching her before she could make it back to the relative safety of the busier, well-lit main road.

She screamed.

Brandon's powerful legs propelled him forward. He was on the spotty youth in a heartbeat, his razor-like claws tearing through the grubby hoodie to slice flesh. His first strike raked down the man's back, pushing him to the ground, the momentum smashing the front of his skull into the concrete.

Dazed, the spotty youth tried to rise but Brandon loomed over him. The smell of fear, and the unmistakable smell of human excrement, filled his nostrils as he stared down at the grubby teenager who'd so brutally taken Helen from his life. He was pale, blood flowed from a gash on his forehead, his eyes wild and staring, mouth hanging open, too terrified even to scream.

Brandon snarled, his warm breath turning to vapour as it left his snout. Then he struck. Burying his teeth in the youth's soft flesh, he tore at his throat in a revenge-fuelled frenzy.

When it was done, he thought of Helen and the way she used to run her hands through his fur, ruffling his ears as she waited patiently for him to turn back. He took a last look at the woman as she disappeared round the corner at the end of the road, and trotted away. His instincts told him if he followed the prey long enough the hunter would show.

Five minutes later, having found his phone in the remains of his clothes, Brandon scrolled down his contacts and pushed the call button.

"Craig? I need a lift... Oh, and bring me some clothes."

Blood Moon

by: Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason

He forced the pedal to the floor, covering ground faster than she could possibly run. His headlights cut a wide, yellow swath through the open field in which she fled. The smile on his face broadened, the nervous sweat on his forehead felt cold from the autumn air blasting through his open window. His bumper nearly kissed the small of her back and he felt a jolt run through his groin. He was still amazed by the feline grace she had displayed when she leapt from the passenger side window, rolled and came up sprinting for the forest. He enjoyed the chase, the pursuit of her. He hadn't had one fight like this in years...he welcomed the challenge. In the last ten years of stalking the highways he only came across a handful like her but every single one couldn't outmaneuver him. In the end he was always the victor.

The engine of that old Chevy roared like a steel beast behind her. He could feel the power rumbling up his thighs and he could hardly contain his arousal. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself; he wanted this foreplay to last a bit longer before he ran her down. It was beyond difficult to restrain himself as he watched the naked skin of her back as she ran, it was like white satin stretched over her bones. He could still smell her skin in his nostrils; it held the faint aroma of honeysuckle and rust. He wondered then if she was menstruating and it was all too much to bear. He rammed the pedal home, he could feel the impact and she rolled out of sight. He got the truck under control after it fishtailed slightly then he jumped from the cab after killing his headlights.

The knife was on his belt, the same that he used to cut that sun dress off of her lithe body. He put his hand on it and scanned the aftermath of their collision. In the light of the blood moon...the hunter's moon, he could see her pale skin and her ass length dark hair. She was only in her panties now, her body twisted. She was face down in the soft forest soil, her back heaving, fighting for air. He thought he may have broken her spine, more than likely some ribs. He approached to hear her softly whimpering. The sounds of her agony were by far the most erotic things he had ever heard. It was time for him to show her how badly he needed a night like this. How it invigorated the hunter within him. Beneath the blood moon he felt like a primitive god glaring down at the sacrifice at his feet.

"I'm sure you've seen on the news those girls that have gone missin' up and down this highway." He loosened his belt, unbuttoned his jeans. "The hunter of highway 51, that's what they called me after finding all those remains." His speech was well rehearsed, one he had recited more than a dozen times over the years. "How come you little girls refuse to listen to the warnings, just go walkin' along the roads all alone." At this point in his game they usually began to plea yet this one didn't even look at him. She just kept on writhing and worming around upon the ground, black earth and tears soiling her beautiful face. "Stupid bitches, every last one of you." He said through clenched teeth. He stopped for a moment to pull his shirt off over his head watching her as she squirmed. Her skin was drenched with sweat. He thought she may be going into shock. "I'm gonna put it inside you and watch you wiggle around." He was primed and ready for her now. She had teased him long enough, his grizzly ritual must be completed. He knelt on the ground beside her, sliding his pants down to his knees. "Roll over for me now, unless you want it doggy style." He said grabbing her by the back of her head.

Her dark hair fell aside, revealing her face. Her jaw hung down and blood ran from the corner of her mouth. He hesitated when he noticed how muddy she was. The crimson light of the moon made it look as though hair was spreading up her abdomen. He roughly attempted to brush it away to find that it was indeed hair. Her face continued to contort, her body still writhed but not from any injuries sustained. It roiled and churned to accommodate the shifting of bones, twisting muscle. He fell back upon his bare ass. His once triumphant erection shriveled up into a vile worm that hid amongst his pubic hair. A guttural laugh came from her throat and he fumbled with the knife that was now bound up in his jeans beneath him. "There are others that hunt these forest roads, only we leave no evidence behind." She spoke in a gravelly voice, tilted her head back and the howl that came next chilled his blood. He felt something that he never had before... a sense of helpless fear. It carried through to the tree tops, frightening slumbering birds from their perches, shattering the quiet serenity of the forest.

He went crawling across the ground, mud and dry grass clinging to his partially naked body. He could hear the snapping of her bones as she finished the transformation from a seemingly innocent young woman into flesh hungry killer. His boots slipped as he struggled for purchase, he knew that if he stopped to attempt to pull up his pants that it would only give her more time to leap upon him. He was only yards from his truck, his only salvation when he caught eye shine in the tree line to his left. He knew from his expeditions of hunting the animal variety of prey that there were three sets of eyes watching his every movement. From the height in which the green orbs, like hovering fireflies, stood the owners of them must have stood nearly seven feet tall. He cried frantically, clawing at the grass and dirt, intent upon making it to the cab of his getaway vehicle. His limbs shook so violently that he hardly covered any ground. The weight of her fell upon his bare back, the ripping sensation along his spine followed by the shower of his own blood brought the realization to him that his days hunting the highways were over.

She clamped her slobbering maw about the back of his neck as the other three beasts advanced. He knew in those final moments of his life that the demonic howl that had escaped her once delicate mouth was nothing more than a dinner bell, its tolling brought with it not only that alien fear that he was never accustomed to feeling but his demise as well.

HUNTER'S MOON

by Toneye Eyenot

Spring is upon us, and the Equinox nears. People are beginning to leave the warmth of their homes in greater numbers, and for lengthier periods. Even children; after long months parked in front of an Xbox, unconsciously crave that long forgotten marvel, known as 'the outdoors'. While the northern side of the equator welcomes the impending longest night, my mates and I make preparations down here in the Blue Mountains of NSW, Australia. This year, just as every year for generations, The Great Hunt is being put in place. The unforgiving bushland south of Katoomba will once again be the hunting ground, and we have come close to collecting our quota of prey, for the night of the glorious Blood Moon. Eleven down, two to go. Each representing one of the thirteen moons in our lunar year, so far, our haul looks promising. They are quite a lively bunch. Some even look like they might have a few tricks up their sleeve...we'll see.

We are a small circle. An unobtrusive pack who blend in with the humans, as we have done for hundreds of years. The first of our bloodline to reach these shores came over from England on the first fleet. Most of them still hunt to this day, along with their descendants, our mountain pack included. We are already blessed with unnatural strength, but O, when that lunar power takes hold, and we cast aside our human skin! With only one more day until the Blood Moon, I feel...we all feel the anticipation...the bloodlust escalating within. The moon is big in the sky, as we pile into the beat up Bedford van, its windows sprayed black throughout the back.

Thee Unnamed, as always, is at the wheel. He's a no nonsense bloke. Tear ya throat out, soon as look at ya, he would. Right now though, he is calm. Frighteningly calm, as he waits for us all to bundle into the back. Legion claims the front seat, with a playful snarl at any who would challenge his assertion. He is a staunch, fearless predator, with more than a hundred savage kills to his pelt. The wolf within always threatening to burst forth, he lives as close to his true self as discretion will allow. The rest of us get to bounce around in the back. Oftentimes such as like now, it turns into a mini mosh pit, with the latest 'Blakk Infinity' tracks blaring through the speakers. There are a few more of us scattered through the mountains, but tonight, it's just us, the core group. There's me, Legion and Thee Unnamed, as mentioned before. There's Maggot Man (he likes to bury his food just that little bit longer than most), who is the most depraved and "inventive" of us all. He would disembowel you, while simultaneously giving you the courtesy of a golden shower. Then he will sit with your defiled corpse, and discuss life, death and the universe with you. He's a deep fellow.

Storms is another kettle of fish altogether. He's a Wildman, and he loves to party. There have been plenty of close calls, where Storms has written himself off to the point where he begins to lose control of his skin. There is almost always someone there to either calm him, or take him away and let him ride out the lunatic wave, away from prying eyes. There have been times, however, when there was nobody to coax the beast back beneath the skin. None escape and live to tell though, when Storms assumes his true form.

Ether is the strategist of the pack. He knows the hundreds of trails, the peaks and dips, caves, rivers and creeks scattered throughout the vast mountain ranges. He organises the hunts, and gives us all a designated role. We never question Ether, when he puts a plan to action. His cunning is flawless, and his execution...merciless. We haven't got to me yet, but right now there's a tale to be told. We'll get to me later. Our spirits are high, as we head west along the Great Western Highway. The van begins to slow a little, then picks up speed again. A disappointed chorus of 'aawwww!' and 'aaarrgggh!' sounds from the back of the Bedford, and the moshing resumes.

As we enter Blackheath, the van once again slows. This time it stops, the stereo goes off, and we all sit deathly silent and still, straining to hear the conversation taking place.

I hear Legion say, "There's seats in the back", and Thee Unnamed simply say "Get in", before the door slides open, and two teenagers; a boy and a girl of about seventeen or eighteen, lean forward to enter the van. Several hands reach from the gloom and pull the surprised pair into the back. The door slams shut, throwing the back of the van into darkness, and its new occupants into a panic filled state of terror. We now have our thirteen. The stereo kicks back in full blast, to add to their horrific experience, and the moshing resumes. This time though, with a bit more celebratory oomph.

We will take these last two back to our den with the others. An old, long abandoned mine, just outside of Woodford, we have taken up residence in; courtesy of Ether, of course. Though the accommodation might be crude...six small cages to house the thirteen participants...and apart from the branding, we take good care of our prisoners. We make sure they are adequately fed, allow them out to bathe once a day, and for half an hour each day, we chase them through the bush, while Ether monitors the prisoners intently from his vantage point atop a large rock, before herding them up and returning them to their cages. We don't molest them, or otherwise harm them in any way. We have chosen them because they look as though they might have a sliver of a chance. We want our prey to be as close to the top of their game as they can be, under the circumstances. We cannot dishonour the Hunter's Full Moon with broken, compromised offerings.

The Bedford veers off the dirt track, and bumps along a few feet, before rolling straight into a mass of foliage. The van is swallowed up, and the vegetation resumes its form (Another Ether discovery). Legion jumps out and pulls the side door open. With a shove, our two terrorised captives tumble out onto the grass. Before they can stand up, we are all around them. Legion turns towards the den and strides off.

"Walk," grunts Maggot Man, and gives the girl a light push on her shoulder. The boy moves fast to put his arm around her and lead her away from Maggot Man and into line with Legion's footsteps; his heart thumping up his throat and making him hiccup uncontrollably. We all fall around the huddled pair, as they stumble and trip their way to the shaft opening, carefully hidden by a large wattle, which Ether had transplanted there as a sapling.

I unlock the last cage housing only one occupant, and the new recruits are ushered in. They'll be a little cramped, but it's only for one more day. These are the three freshest catches, so fair's fair. Most of the prisoners carry a defeated, blank gaze. Some display a quiet, calculating rage. None say a word. The first bloke to open his mouth, was dragged from his cage, held spread-eagled on the floor, and branded on his chest with a full moon circle. He was returned to his cage, and then one by one, each prisoner met the same fate. Punishment or reward...We won't have anyone missing out. We only had six of them at the time. Those six were privileged with two moons, when the ninth captive decided to show some spunk. Numbers ten and eleven were filled in on proper protocol the moment they were caged, as is now the case with the final two. As a result, we have an obedient, albeit morose lot.

Maggot Man is in deep contemplation as he lights the fire in the large clearing outside. As the following night draws ever nearer, we all fall into an introspective silence. Legion wanders out of the dark, with a nine foot diamond python draped around his shoulders, its head lolled over his dirt covered fingers. Looks like dinner's on, and there should be enough to go around. Maggot Man pulls the dead snake from Legion's shoulders with a wry smile, and whips out a razor sharp blade, expertly skinning and gutting the creature in less than a minute. Cut into three sections, the python is skewered across the open fire, and we wait for our meal in silence. Ether is inside the mine, looking over the captives, as he determines which of these doomed wretches will put up the most fight. All eyes peer back at him, huddled in the farthest corners of their cages. One of them; a woman in her early twenties, crawls forward and begins to speak. Ether pounces from his squatting position to all fours just before the cage door and raises a finger to his mouth in a gesture of silence. The woman jumps back at the sudden advance and returns to cower by her cellmate, another woman, slightly older looking and with strong, proud features. She puts a protective arm around the young woman's shoulders, pulling her into her breast. Ether stares them both down for some moments, an evil smirk across his visage, before returning to his squat position.

"I hope you all like snake," I address the captives as I enter the den with a large plate, piled high with cooked sections of the python. "Tomorrow night, you will all need your strength. Eat up. Eat up." Going from cage to cage, I hand each prisoner their meal. The girl we have just picked up is crying. Her male companion is trying to console her. He takes his portion and reaches his hand out again for hers. Just as his fingers touch, I pull away with a malicious grin. "Let her take it," I say, then turn my attention to the frightened girl. "Look. It's good."

I bite of a chunk of the stringy flesh and hand it to the girl, who just stares at me with enormous, tear filled doe eyes.

"Please, just take it," her friend pleads with her in a nervous whisper. Reluctantly, the girl lowers her eyes to the ground and slowly reaches for the snake, snatching it as soon as her hand makes contact. She doesn't eat it, just holds it in her hands, her eyes closed, imagining the warm safe comfort of home, as the heat from the food radiates through her hands.

"There ya go," I tell her with mock reassurance. "Eat it while it's still warm."

Ether is still in his squat, watching the captives eat. Some nibble timidly on the unusual delicacy, while others devour it as though they haven't eaten in weeks. He is starting to form a mental database of the captives. Some show a bit of promise... a naïve will to survive. Others, not so much.

I wander outside to the fire, and turn my gaze to the Moon. She is beautiful. The tiniest lick of shadow hugging her curve, I undress her with my eyes, and imagine her blushing a deep shade of scarlet. Storms is sitting across the fire from me, drumming feverishly with two sticks, on an assortment of different sized rocks he's gathered, to constitute a primitive drum kit. I pick up a hand sized rock and take a seat by the fire. While Storms blast beats and drumrolls on the rocks like a man possessed, eye join in by bashing the rock against a larger stone intermittently, throwing the beat deeper into chaos. We are joined by the rest of the pack, each taking up a spot around the fire, and belting out a cacophony of disjointed rhythms that echo through the mountains for miles. The prisoners sit in abject horror, as outside, the drumming gets wilder and is now accompanied by growling screams, whoops and howls that reach a crescendo, and continue to keep rising. We are all in a state of pure ecstasy, awash in the maddening lunar rays. Our ritual continues through the night, until dawn begins to make its presence known, then we retire to the den to sleep.

*

It's mid-afternoon before any of us begin to stir. I sit up and look over to the prisoners. They're all awake, and look like none of them have slept a wink all night or day. Thee Unnamed has gone out to rekindle the fire and boil up a big pot of oats. Good energy food for the prisoners, because fuck knows, they sure look like they could use it. I am feeling very agitated right now. Last night's marathon has left us all energised and on edge. Tonight, we hunt under the Blood Moon, and that time can't come fast enough. Conversation has been minimal, almost non-existent for the past day or so. We have been mentally preparing for this night, and gradually shrugging off our human guise and accompanying habits. As the day begins to fade, our communication will be relegated to no more than growls, grunts and gestures.

I squint as I leave the den into the bright afternoon sunlight. We have a few hours of daylight left. After breakfast, we'll take 'em down to the watering hole, where they can wash and shit, or whatever. Maybe we'll chase 'em around a bit first... just to warm 'em up.

When my grandfather came here on one of the first boats, he came as a convict. Shackled 'round the neck and chained to the front of a line of convicts. Once ashore, he had snapped the shackle in his bare hands, and killed all the crew, before setting the convicts free. He kept that chain of shackles, and passed it down the line, to end up in my possession. We have used this with every Hunter's Moon. The broken shackle which rode my grandfather's neck was the fourteenth in the chain, which made it the ideal herding tool for the ritual hunt. I open the chest in the far corner of the room, take out the shackles, and walk over to where Ether is once again squatting before the cages as the prisoners eat. This time, he's speaking.

"We are all going to take a little run out to the waterhole. Work off that big breakfast you're all eating. There, you can clean yourselves up, and take care of any bodily functions that might be needing your attention. Tonight, you honour our big sister in the hunt. Beneath the Blood Moon, you will be set free. You will have a head start for as long as it takes us to prepare. If you survive until dawn's first rays, you get to keep your life. It is our obligation to make sure that doesn't happen. It would be advisable to go your own separate ways, to ensure a greater chance of escape, but it would also be advisable to not stop running. We will find you, and we will eat you beneath the Moon's soft rays. If any of that isn't perfectly clear, you are already dead." With that, Ether spiralled up as he stood, and strode out of the den.

"You. Out." I motion to the new girl as I open the cage. She grips firmly to her friend; legs pulled tight up into her body, and starts to babble hysterically. Reaching in, I grab her ankle and drag her from the cage, kicking it shut as she is removed. She's screaming now, and that is really beginning to grate on my nerves. I put my hand around her throat and squeeze, just enough to cease her excruciating racket. She instantly falls limp and compliant, and I put the shackle around her neck. When I open the gate, the boy moves with a mixture of hesitation and urgency. It's clear he wants to take his place behind his friend before the remaining cellmate gets in first. I nod to him, and he obediently crawls out, lowering his head to bear the second shackle. None of the other prisoners put up any kind of fight or argument, and the convict chain is full. Taking my grandfather's shackle in hand, I lead the prisoners out of the den and into the blinding sun.

"Run!" Legion jumps in front of the chain of prey, his arms outstretched to seem unnaturally long, eyes blazing like yellow lamps and fangs glistening in a crazed snarl. It's comical, watching them freak. They all try to run in different directions, only to yank each other backwards into a tangled pile of frantic bodies. We all run in and lower to our haunches, yelling "Run!" and snapping at their exposed, struggling flesh, until they manage to writhe to their feet and huddle in fear. Thee Unnamed walks to directly face the jumble, and calmly says, "Run." Awkwardly, as a unit they step forward a few paces, until they manage to get a bit of synchronicity, then they begin to pick up the pace. Of course, they begin running in the wrong direction, so we herd them, biting them and howling playfully. The excitement is showing in each and every one of us. The more our excitement mounts, and the more animalistic we become, the deeper their terror grows.

With the formalities out of the way, it's time to leave. The prey are herded off to the Bedford, and we pile into the back with 'em. Once the door slides shut, the darkness returns. This time, there is no mosh. No loud music, just the darkness, and four pairs of yellow eyes glowing hungrily and silently at our quarry. The trip out to Katoomba is only twenty minutes away, and Thee Unnamed navigates the highway patiently, avoiding any attention from passing motorists, and the odd highway patrol car. We still have nearly an hour until the sun bids farewell, for its shortest sleep of the year. Unfortunately for these poor souls in our captivity, the sleep will not be short enough. The van bounces onto rough ground, as we reach our destination. Pulling up around behind some trees, we all pile out into the impending dusk. Storms grabs the broken shackle and starts dragging the prisoners along behind him, eager to get the hunt underway.

"Wait." Maggot Man walks along the line, securing blindfolds on each prisoner. "Right. Go."

We walk for twenty minutes, until the last light of the sun stretches its fingers desperately up behind the mountains to the west. The party enters the clearing where the Great Hunt has always commenced. We round up our prey in the centre, and surround them as their blindfolds and shackles are removed. Completely disoriented and hopelessly lost, after their blind trek and with daylight fading fast, the thirteen rabbits stand petrified. Darkness swallows the last of the sun, and the night creatures begin their cacophonous song. We watch the sky, with salivating jaws, and aching muscles, until she makes her appearance. The thirteen witness the air change around them. Begin to electrify. Her light precedes her, and we feel the rush begin to build.

"RUN!" I scream at the stunned humans, just as Legion literally explodes into wolf form, his transformation almost instantaneous with anticipation. The prisoners scream and instantly scatter, as Legion sits primed, like an athlete at the starter block. His guttural howl rattles their bones as they disappear into the trees. All except one, who fainted at the horrific sight of Legion's transformation. I kick him repeatedly in the leg, until he rouses.

"Run!" My face is distorted as I scream at him. They have until we all turn, and then the chase is on.

It takes hold. I feel my bones snapping and reforming. My brain is on fire and feels like its bursting through my entire skull. My insides are twisting and rearranging themselves. The agony is exquisite; quite akin to a full body and mind orgasm. I hear my brothers all howling in unison, and I realise I am howling along with them. The Blood Moon is enormous above the trees, and she smiles her blessing down upon us. We all look to Ether, who gives us each a quick glance, then a nod in a particular direction...and it's on.

I tear off in the direction given to me, hardly able to contain myself. I keep alternating between running upright, and on all fours, just wanting to run faster. I already have a scent. This one won't make it far. Keeping my senses sharp, I continue at full stride, until I see movement up ahead in the shadows. I leap up into the lower branches of a eucalypt and climb higher into the tree tops. I then continue my chase from above. This one has been too easy. No challenge at all. Moving from tree to tree, the prey hears my approach but doesn't know where to run. She just squats down in terror with her hands over her ears. She never knew it was coming, as I land on her from the tree above, crushing the life out of her. The night is still so young, and I wager some of my brothers will have found similar success by now. I decide to make a meal of this one, and give a howl to indicate a kill. Sure enough, two more howls sound in the night. I recognise them as Storms and Legion. That's three down already. I tear the clothing in shreds from the corpse, and gorge. My first human meal in weeks, and I savour every bite. Her guts are bittersweet, and I dig up beneath the rib cage for her precious heart, while I strip her thigh of flesh with my slavering jaws.

Another howl sounds out, and then another, and another still. That's six already. This lot aren't putting up much fight at all. I leave my prize, and lumber a few paces. Holding her still faintly pumping heart in my claw, I turn my head to the sky, and try to pick up another scent. There's someone a little way east of me. The scent is vague, but it's there, and I am on it. This one has made good ground in the time elapsed. I have honed in on this target now, so its time is drawing to an end. Biting down into the heart, blood oozing deliciously down my throat as I chew, I drop to all fours and bound off through the trees with a triumphant snarl. I detect a change in direction, so I change my course to intercept. The direction is short lived and the scent begins moving away north. It seems as if they're circling back. Clever, this one. Either this person is purposely and regularly changing direction, in an attempt to throw us off the scent, or is so hopelessly lost, they are running in circles. Either way, I must now rely on intuition, and foresee every change. I must put myself in the kill zone, ahead of my prey.

My body shifts instinctively left, and I move through the thick bushland; the power of the Blood Moon saturating my being, and driving me intently towards my next prize. My instincts serve me right, and I have circled around to meet my prey head on. Now I lie in wait. This one can come to me. Within minutes, the sounds of heavy footsteps, crashing through the bush betray the victim's approach. Three more howls; two in unison, and one closely following, indicate that nine of the thirteen have been killed. That leaves my mark here, and only three more. Another howl, this one Maggot Man, spurs me to action. Instead of waiting, I charge straight towards the oncoming prey, who doesn't see me until I am on top of him. Now he sees no more, as I have bitten most of his face off. He still has the capacity to scream though...which he does. I put an abrupt end to that, by ploughing my fist through his abdomen and digging my way up to his heart, before squeezing the life out of it. Thee Unnamed howls a moment before I throw my head back, and joining my chorus, Ether heralds the final kill.

As one, the pack howls to our beloved scarlet sister, now sitting high in the night sky. The Great Hunt has been a success, as it always has, and we all bask in her power. Cascading over me like waves of blood, I sit in awe of her beauty. I will sit here until her beauty fades into dawn, and I once again walk the paths of mortal men.

Blood Moon Over Modesto

by C. L. Hernandez

The meth lab down the road blew up with an ear-splitting roar and a billow of fire. The explosion had been powerful enough to blow out the windows of the crack house across from it, and Twitchy Pete's wan face was bathed in the orange glow of the ensuing flames. Perfect, he thought, just perfect. With all the attention focused on the blazing ruin half a block down the street, Twitchy could finish his own cook in peace.

Amateurs, Twitchy thought, as he grinned behind the paisley bandanna that served as a dust mask. Damn tweakers with their lack of common sense and their homemade gear. They deserve to get their asses blown up. One had to use the utmost care when dealing with the components of a good batch of methamphetamine. Ethanol, acetone, red phosphorous—one wrong move and KA-BLAM! No more meth lab, and goodnight, sweet prince.

Whirling beams of red and blue added counterpoint to the steady orange flicker of the burning house: a tardy ambulance had finally arrived. Twitchy doubted they'd find anyone alive, but there would no doubt be plenty of charred bits and pieces for them to bag and tag. He found this oddly hilarious, and the bandanna puffed out from the force of his laughter. There would be a lot more dead tweakers in a few days.

He tugged the bandanna down just enough to take a swallow from a half-empty bottle of schnapps. Cooking meth was thirsty work. Before he replaced the square of cardboard that served as a shutter for the basement window, he had another look at the phenomenon taking place in the sky.

The raggedy veil of clouds had drifted away, revealing the moon in all its dusky crimson glory. It hung in the post-midnight sky, bloated and bizarre, like a huge bloodshot eye. Its energy was thick and sweet. He imagined he could feel it seeping into his bloodstream, empowering him. Everything was going so well tonight.

He replaced the dirty piece of cardboard and returned to his cook; it was almost ready. He muttered under his breath as he worked, his words jumbled and scented with schnapps. After a few minutes, the sounds of the conflagration outside dimmed, faded, and became meaningless. All that mattered to him was the droning of his own voice and the project at hand.

A Blood Moon was always the best time for magic and murder. It isn't murder if they're dying to begin with—is it? Twitchy chuckled before he answered himself: No. No, of course not. Why, I'm just helping them along, aren't I? I'm helping to clean up my fair city, aren't I? The only good tweaker is a dead tweaker!

Twitchy added the final ingredients: a little more rat poison; a generous helping of drain cleaner, much more than in a regular cook; and a handful of weed killer. Bubbles of sardonic laughter rose in his throat as he completed the lethal mix. "I should call it Tweaker-B-Gone!" He was really cracking himself up tonight.

His restless gaze settled on the wooden box and leather bound books on the shelf in front of him, and the laughter died on his lips. "Mom..."

He ran rough fingertips over his late mother's belongings. He really should move them to a better place. After all, she was the reason for his pending mass murder. He'd warned her about that alleyway, damn it, he'd warned her! Damn tweakers were always lurking in that dank and gloomy alley behind Tack's Liquors, and some of them were desperate enough to kill a helpless old lady for twenty dollars and a half-bottle of pain pills. Twitchy's mom was never a model citizen herself—all that talk of her practicing witchcraft and all—but still, she'd been all he had.

"This is for you, Mom," he whispered. "All for you. The cops aren't doing much about it, but I will." He picked up the carved wooden box, opened the lid, and stirred the jumbled contents with a jittery finger. She'd collected the weirdest things. Pebbles, little bottles of dried herbs and powders—and was that a chicken bone? A gentle smile bowed Twitchy's lips, something completely out of character for him. "Silly Mom," he whispered. But there was no time for sentimentality now. He had tweakers to kill.

Something ran over his bare foot. The box slipped from his fingers and landed with a splat in his bucket of product. "Aww, damn it!" Twitchy had just enough time to see the end of the rat's scaly tail before it disappeared into a hole in the wall and retreated to whatever unwholesome nest it had come from.

Silently cursing the rat, he plucked his mother's miscellany from the plastic bucket with a pair of tongs. A couple of tiny glass bottles had broken; he picked out the larger shards and left the rest. Who cared if a meth-head got a snoot full of broken glass? Besides, he'd probably get the rest when he strained and dried the finished product. Something from the upended box had tinted the meth an orangey-red color, he noticed. Maybe that would disappear as it dried. It was almost the same color as the Blood Moon.

*

In a couple of days, Twitchy emerged from the run-down shack that passed for his home. It actually wasn't bad for this part of Modesto. The roof only had a few holes in it, and there was even a postage stamp-sized lawn with a chain-link fence around it. Behind the house, a set of railroad tracks pointed at the horizon and collected heat from the late-summer sun.

Under Twitchy's arm was a canvas bag, and inside the bag were carefully measured packets of the special meth he had prepared the other night. It was time to share the bounty. Modesto's vast tweaker community would be thrilled at the surprise he had in store for them. Well, briefly, anyway. Twitchy double-checked the coins in his pocket to make sure he had the proper bus fare and headed west on Yosemite Avenue toward the nearest bus stop. The residual energy from the Blood Moon still surged through his body, putting an extra pep in his step. Today was going to be a good day.

He rode in silence to the park down by the river, tightly clutching the canvas bag against his body. Once he reached his destination, he strode across the park's yellowing grass and perched himself on a nicked and splintery picnic table. He was early; the tweakers hadn't ventured out into the daylight yet, but they would be here soon enough. There were so many of them. No wonder the stoners up north called this place Methdesto. It was a shame what was happening to this city. He rolled one of his pant legs up to the knee, a signal the dealers used to show they were ready to do business.

And Twitchy was more than ready.

It wasn't long before he saw the first one. Raw-boned and wide-eyed, she lurched out from the shelter of the long-untrimmed shrubbery. She shaded her sunken, squinting eyes with a dirty hand and peered around at her surroundings. Twitchy hailed her with a wave, and she came towards him, wiping her palms on her grass-stained cut-offs. He didn't use the stuff himself—never had—but he blended in well with them and they seemed to trust him.

"You holdin'? How much?" The girl rocked from side to side on her shabby sneakers and fingered a crusty sore on her cheek.

Twitchy could smell her greasy hair, and he struggled to keep the smile on his face. He was no prize himself, but he found the female tweakers even more revolting than their male counterparts.

The girl eyed the bag on Twitchy's lap. A breeze picked up and flapped her pant legs around the scant meat of her thighs. "You holdin', right? Right? How much? Don't play me, man."

"How badly do you want it?" A sardonic grin twisted the lower half of Twitchy's face. It was always fun to mess with them.

"Huh?" Tweaker girl blinked rapidly, her face a vacuous mask. Then: "Oh—oh yeah, I'll do ya..." She tugged at the button of her filthy jeans and nodded at the shrubbery. "Over there good?"

Twitchy cringed. "That won't be necessary. Please, keep your clothes on." He reached into the bag, plucked out a packet of meth, and held it between two fingers. "It's your lucky day. No charge." To avoid any chance of touching the girl, he tossed the packet onto the sickly grass.

She scrabbled after it like a starving dog going after a bone. She fell to one knee to get at the only thing that mattered to her. She picked up the meth in its tiny plastic bag and held it in front of her red-laced eyes. "Why's it orange?"

"You disapprove? I believe that's called looking a gift horse in the mouth." He extended a hand and made beckoning gestures with his fingers. "Give it back, then."

The girl had already dipped the end of a pinky finger into the orangey-red powder, and she gave it an experimental taste. "No!" she said, shaking her matted head firmly, "No, it's good! I don't care if it's orange!" She clutched the tiny bag to her chest, smiled with all four of her teeth, and then scurried away to the far end of the park to partake of her prize.

Twitchy curled his lip in distaste as he watched her run off. Their eagerness always sickened him.

A crumbling, low-rent apartment complex slouched next to the sidewalk across the street, and three more of Modesto's meth-addled denizens lurched out from behind one of the splintered doors. It was almost as if they could smell the powdered orange poison in the canvas bag. They stood in the parking lot for a moment, tugging and picking at their ratty clothing while they squinted into the bright morning sunshine. They spotted Twitchy and shuffled across the street without bothering to watch for cars.

Good, Twitchy thought as he watched them come forward. The more, the merrier. And there's plenty for all.

The three meth-heads stopped in front of the picnic table, their beady eyes tracking from the canvas bag to Twitchy's rolled-up pant leg. Their blemished faces were narrow and weasel-like. One of them spoke: "You holdin'?"

"Indeed," said Twitchy. "Enjoy the harvest, gentlemen." He tossed three packets at their feet. "No charge today."

"What? No shit? For free, right? Right? Right?" The tallest of the trio bent at the waist, picked up one of the packets, and inspected it closely. He cocked a suspicious brow at Twitchy. "What's this orange shit?"

"It's a very special blend," Twitchy replied. "It's called Blood Moon Revenge. It's very potent."

"Like that freakin' moon the other night!" Another of the three piped up. "Did ya see that damn thing? Did ya? Freakiest looking thing I ever seen!" He picked up another one of the meth packets and opened it with careful fingers. "End of the world," he said, sticking a dirty piece of drinking straw into the tiny bag. "End of the world."

"You have no idea," Twitchy said, eyeing the man with interest. "And don't do that right here in front of everyone. You want the cops to show up?"

"Cops!" the man said with a derisive snort. "Cops around here don't do shit."

"That's for sure," Twitch muttered as he watched the three men head for the privacy of their apartment.

A few minutes later he heard a woman's high-pitched wail of distress coming from the other end of the park. From the sound of things, the female had just discovered the true nature of Blood Moon Revenge. He imagined the look on her face right now, the expression of abject horror as her liquefying brains spewed out of her nose and her eyeballs exploded. It would be heaven to watch. Following Tweaker Girl's dying scream were the anguished, three-part harmony wails of the trio of Tweaker Dudes from across the street. Blood Moon Revenge: powerful stuff indeed.

Twitchy knew that it would most likely be a while before anyone found the bodies, and even longer before anyone called 911, but he left the park just the same. No sense in taking chances. There were plenty of other parks and more than enough meth-heads.

All that day Twitchy traveled on the bus, going from park to park and distributing his deadly wares like a demented Johnny Appleseed. When the sun sank in the east and turned the gritty air the color of a brush fire, Twitchy's canvas bag was empty. No matter. He would do another cook in a few days, and another after that, and another after that. He would continue to exterminate the meth-crazed vermin from the streets of Modesto until he was either caught or died. Today was a good day.

Once he was back in the run-down shack that passed for his home, Twitchy prepared for bed, then collapsed face down on his smelly, sheet-less mattress. He had just enough time to reflect on the events of the day before falling into a deep, exhausted sleep.

His eyelids snapped open sometime later that night, and he peered around in the dusty gloom of his musty bedroom, wondering what had awakened him. Something scraped against the other side of the single window: a slow, high-pitched squealing like fingernails on a chalkboard. Another rat? Was it trying to get in? Twitchy cursed under his breath and got out of bed.

His bedroom window was covered with cardboard like the one in the basement, and he pulled it aside, grouchy at having his sleep disturbed and fully expecting to see another greasy, scabrous rat.

He could have handled something like that.

The gaping, eyeless face of the dead tweaker girl was mashed against the glass. Her pale, bony hand tapped and scratched against the windowpane. Dried brain matter and bits of jellied eyeball clung to her cheeks and chin. Her cracked lips struggled to form words. "You holdin'?" she croaked. "You holdin'?"

Twitchy yelped and spun away from the window. "I'm seeing things," he told himself, fighting to keep his voice calm and rational. "That's all it is. I exhausted myself today, and now I'm seeing things. I'm dreaming. There is no way that girl could still be alive! That stuff cooked her brain!"

"You holdin'? Are you? You holdin'?" A man's voice joined in, then another. And another.

Twitchy looked. He had to.

More dead faces of the addicts he'd killed pressed against the window. Their rotted teeth clattered and chattered. Empty eye sockets seemed to stare directly at him. Cast off bits of flesh oozed, slug-like, down the filthy glass. "You holdin'?" they moaned. "You got any more shit? You holdin'? Are you?"

Behind the revenants clawing at the window, Twitchy could see at least a dozen more, all of them pawing, and scratching, and repeating the anguished litany: "You holdin'?" A scrawny arm burst through the glass and snatched at Twitchy's shirt. He heard more of them at the front door, beating on it and rattling the doorknob with their dead hands, desperate to come in and see if he had a little more...just a little more...

"You holdin'?"

While Twitchy screamed out the last of his life upstairs, an errant breeze slipped through a crack in the basement window and riffled the pages of one of his late mother's books. It was just a little puff of wind, warm and city scented, and it dissipated just as soon as it had appeared.

The open book revealed a page that was torn, stained, and packed with line after line of Twitchy's mother's graceful blue-ink penmanship. A potion for creating a zombie, read the heading. Combine dried, powdered puffer fish, the skin of a marine toad, and the leg bone of a hyla tree frog. Add a generous pinch of ground mandrake root, and feed the mixture to your intended victim. Works best when prepared by the light of the Blood Moon.
A Harvest Season

by: Donald Armfield

Harvest season is upon us, the gathering has come to an end.

The reapers amass and display their lifeless collection.

A horde of bodies preserved, to satisfy a famished plantation.

The memories of the suffered rise with the burning flame,

As their final minutes as the living are told in horrific details;

Excruciating pain, mutilation and torture martyrizing their souls.

Days of preparation, fastening the dead to a stave,

Putrid flesh, organs and preserved blood soil the field

The moon pulls its curtains over the luminescent glow

A crimson-colored lunar and the draining of lifeless corpses.

Seeping into parched grounds, exposed to the bask summer heat.

The first drink of the harvest season has come before us.......

Let us eat the tainted crops, for we will go stronger.

Human sacrifice on the land we treasure,

In exchange for salvation in the underworld.

Thank you for reading our book. If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to leave us a review at your favorite retailer? Thanks!

Author Information:

S.K. Gregory – www.skgregory.com

Michael Noe – www.ephesians616.wordpress.com

Riley Amos Westbrook – www.rileyamoswestbrook.wordpress.com

M. L. Sparrow – www.mlsparrow.wix.com

Sharon L. Higa - www.leapingunicornliterary.com

Kat Gracey – www.witchesandwerewolves.co.uk

David Wind- www.davidwind.com

Ash Hartwell – www.www.ashhartwell.co.uk

Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason-www.facebook.com/sistersofhorror

Toneye Eyenot – www.toneyeeyenot.weebly.com

C. L. Hernandez – www.cindylouhernandez.com

Donald Armfield – www.facebook.com/donald.armfield

