FEATURED STORY

IN THIS ISSUE:
TIR NA NOG II—NL GERVASIO
The Bones
MALAKH V—SIOBHAN MACINTYRE by Cheryl Tracy
INTO THE SKY—ROBERT PEARLE
DESPAIR’S MISTRESS—LEONA J. BUSHMAN
DEMONS, VAMPIRES, AND THE MYSTICAL POWER OF BLOOD—CORBIN J SILVERTHORN
and more!

Vol. I, Issue VI
 RUNNING INK PRESS

Forever Nocturne Magazine

Volume I, Issue VI

Herein are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
authors’ imagination or were used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Non-fiction (if any): news articles were thoroughly researched before being accepted for submis-
sion, and links are given for more information.

All rights reserved © 2010 Running Ink Press

Edited by N. L. Gervasio and Sharon Gerlach

Cover Design by N. L. Gervasio and Sharon Gerlach
Magazine Design by N.L. Gervasio and Sharon Gerlach

Published by Running Ink Press

PRINTING HISTORY
2010

This magazine, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form, without the prior written per-
mission of the publisher or individual author.

For information, address:

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ISBN:

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

1st Edition

MATURE CONTENT: READER DISCRETION ADVISED

2
October 2010
Volume I, Issue VI

Welcome to FN’s sixth
edition. Who knew we’d
make it this far? As you
may notice, we’re still a
free e-zine and we will
remain so. We’ll just have
to figure out another way
to pay our writers, but
that will be down the
Inside this issue:
road sometime.
Demons, Vampires, and the 4
Mystical Power of Blood A lot of changes have
happened in our personal
Despair’s Mistress 6 lives over these last seven
months, which is why you
Tworror 8
haven’t really seen us pro-
moting the magazine, but
Into the Sky 9
we’re still here and don’t
Fagan 9
plan on going anywhere.
In fact, we’re still working
on e-book publication
amidst our writing, edit-
ing and querying books.
Sharon and I are design-
ing this issue together as
part of a changeover
where she’ll take over the
March issue and I’ll take
over the Halloween issue.
Don’t ask who’s doing the
issues in between once
we go quarterly. I try not
to think that far ahead,
except that one issue will
likely fall around summer
solstice and the other
around New Year’s. But of
course, we’re still working
on our degrees. Seems
like it’s taking forever and
I know I’m ready to be
finished with mine.
Enjoy the reads you find
in this edition, and thank
you for checking us out.
Don’t forget to click
around. Most images
have hyperlinks.
NL Gervasio

Fallen 9
THE BONES
by Cheryl Tracy
FEATURED
Malakh V 10

Tir na nOg II 11
Once a year was all he got nowadays. Per-
In the Arms of Death 42
sonally, he’d rather it fell on Christmas but
Halloween had its perks and, evidently,
was the one time of year that he could get
it done spectacularly. Everyone dressed up.
All the monsters were out - including him.
He was invisible among all the imaginary
monsters of the world. As far
3 as he knew,
there were no serial killer costumes avail-
able in the children’s department. He
supposed that a Dexter or two would be
making the rounds among the adult par-
tiers but that would just be too hilarious
if that actually became his target.
His favorite victims were the little
(Continued on page 10)
 Photo credit : “Budapest on Fire,” © 2009 Lapopat (Italy)

Demons, Vampires, and the Mystical Power of Blood

by Corbin J. Silverthorn

Since the beginning of time, the mystical properties of blood have been deep-rooted in the psyche of our hu-
man experience; especially in that of ritual magick.
Blood is what carries nutrients to all parts of our body. It sustains life. It binds us irrevocably through
blood bonds. Without it, we die. But, what else does blood carry? Is it only a liquid to bring life to our tissues?
Or is there something deeper, something more meaningful, something more powerful, which is carried within our
blood cells?
Our DNA is the code of life. It tells us the composition of our ethnicity. It determines what we will look like;
the color of our skin and our eyes. Some in the scientific realm believe DNA may even carry the memories of
our ancestors. Can this be so? What if DNA carried our own memories of past existences? Or, pieces of our
soul?
Our blood, our very being, is infused with a divine spark. It is that divine spark which gives power. And it
is what separates the power of human blood over that of animals when it comes to blood sacrifices. For Chris-
tians, it is the blood sacrifice of the god/man Jesus that broke the bonds holding humanity in spiritual captivity.
(Continued on page 10)

Cade Shepherd is on top of the world as this year's Ultimate Fighting Champion. He doesn't even remem-
ber his life as Gage Dempsey, a Shadow Walker with the ability to magically transport himself from
shadow to shadow. In fact, he can't remember anything before waking up in a cheap motel room ten
years ago with mysterious burns on his hands--not even the woman he almost died for.

Embry Hollister has picked up the pieces of her life, learned to control her ability to generate flame, and
now works an enforcer for the Council of Races. But when her father is captured by the human military
and the Council refuses mount a rescue mission, Embry has no choice but to go rogue. All she has to do is
find the man with the new name and new life who was completely wronged by her people, give him back
the memories they stole, convince him to join her on what's probably a suicide mission, and hope that
after ten years of living as a regular guy he still remembers what her father taught him.

And after that, she just has to leave him. Again.

Kait Nolan is a writer of action-packed paranormal romance that features a fresh and inventive mythology. No sparklay
vamps here! Her debut release, Forsaken By Shadow, is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, Sony, Scribd,
Amazon UK, Kobo, BooksOnBoard,Diesel, and SpringBrook Digital. It is also available in audio from Crossroad Press, and
SpringBrook Digital. She can be found at her website, Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, MySpace, Pots and Plots (her cooking
blog).

4
When it comes time to confess, will it matter?
Blood Moon
The blood moon will shine bright in our realization
My words will be forgotten, my face will be forgotten
Ending up alone, standing before the final days
Shadows will be the only thing to comfort me
When it comes time to bleed, will it matter?
The blood moon will darken the world's consciousness
My love will be forgotten, my soul will be forgotten
One woman of many, judged the same Allison Claire
Isolation will be the only thing to hold me
When it comes time to remember, will it matter?
The blood moon will consume our hearts to make us forget
And it won't matter at all.

learning to fly

Tripping through life

stumbling, falling
palms out, knees scraping on concrete
i bleed
underneath
layers of words, skin, eyes
peeling off, pouring out
into my delicate hands

christel grady
5
LEONA J. BUSHMAN

DESPAIR’S MISTRESS

Chapter 1
Ancient Ireland

The boggart, Rumplestiltskin, slithered in the deep

night. His short stature and natural colored clothing cam-
ouflage his appearance amongst the thick forest back-
(Continued on page 7)

6
(Despair’s Mistress—Continued from page 6)
drop. He has chosen to walk lightly this
night. Somewhere nearby, there was a dis-
traught, young woman. His kind couldn't
resist young women who needed help. It
felt like a compulsion. He fed off their dis-
may. He delighted in their confusion and
pain when forced to keep their word.
He smiled to himself. It was a good
night. It was the night for his kind. The
night they ran free in their true form. Their
brutal faces reflecting their natural per-
sonalities. Not forced to mask their ap-
pearance and prance about like little elves.
Leprechaun, the local folk called them. He
frowned in distaste. Leprechauns were not
in this area of Ireland. He had personally
made sure of that. Actual leprechauns
were cousins of elves. Magical and fairy
like in their appearance. Sweet. Ha!
His kind had easily chased off their
kind. They were tricksters like the bog-
garts, but they were like children playing
at being dad—lacking in foresight to see
the bigger picture. Now he and his fellow
boggarts. Rumplestiltskin stopped and
squatted, feeling the greenery between his
fingers. They knew how to make the most
of the big picture.
He closed his eyes as he tuned himself
into the vibes radiating off the live leaf in
his hand. Yes, he has chosen the correct
way. The pain and despair are growing
stronger now. The flora in the area was
7
soaked in it. The fauna were starting to
thin out, running from the scent, their
symphony of cries warning others to leave.
They knew instinctively that the scent
would bring something far worse than
strong emotions—namely, him.
The closer he was coming to his target,
the faster his heart beat in anticipation. He
felt the quickening that meant his body
was preparing for the absorption. He
breathed deep through his nose and the
scent in the air permeated his senses. He
no longer needed to touch anything to
know he was going the right way.
The sadness seeped slowly into his
pores. He had to work hard to keep from
swallowing up all that was in the air. If he
did, he would lose the scent entirely and
be unable to track it. He would miss out on
the real feast. Still, he is unable to resist a
little taste. His enjoyment halted abruptly
as a disturbing thought hit him. A morsel
this sweet wouldn't be left alone long.
Especially this night.
He grinned. His pointed teeth gleamed
in the moonlight, the contrast eerie to the
darkness of the blood on his teeth from
the last human to lose against his tricks.
This night was a good night. He reveled in
being in his free form. In not losing magical
energy to keeping his appearance more
human or leprechaun. In being a boggart.
He was the best of his kind. He was the
leader.
(Continued on page 14)
 d
2n ual
n
An

For those new to this, #tworror is a 140 character horror story specifically for Forever Nocturne E-
E-
zine. Our second annual #TWORROR contest on Twitter yielded us some great entries. We’re
pleased to bring you the first and second place winners, who claimed gift cards of $20 and $10 re-
spectively. We hope you enjoy our favorite entries below.

FIRST PLACE: $20 GIFT CARD

@THEGYPSYSCRIBE Squeak. Each noise made her jump. Squeak. Her heart skipped beats. Squeak.
She flicked on the lights. Hands wrapped around her throat.

SECOND PLACE: $10 GIFT CARD

@jerzygirl45: The first slice liberated an eye from its socket. The second, not so clean, took the
other. The third quieted my screaming tongue.

HONORABLE MENTIONS
@GRAE42 Stepping into the night fog, it circles my neck, suddenly chocking me as it pulls me back
into the shadows, my last breath fading

@frankenbuhh: She backed against the wall as sharp veins wrapped themselves around her body.
With each twitch they sliced deeper through her skin

@thegypsyscribe: He pulled the trigger & watched her body fall to the street. Blood pooled under
her. People screamed. He slunk back to the shadows.

@grae42 hands relax, twitching calms, darkness settles. A single candle flickers as the last breath
escapes her body. I smile and shut the door

@cher_dawn Running made sense, but why run when 3/4 the world was dead & rising & the one he
loved was the 1 hungrily reaching 4 his flesh?

@blanghinrichs Barricaded inside, they sank to the floor, safe for the moment from the zombie
horde. Janet didn't notice the scratch on Lee's arm.

@blanghinrichs He said he loved her. She knew better & strangled him before he could betray her,
but also before he warned her of the deadly virus.

Thanks for the entertaining entries, and we’ll see you same time, next year!!!

8
 A bright star shot across the sky in a down-slope angle, burning brighter, longer
and slower than others before dissipating into the desert background. Everett looked
to the Elder standing next to him under the full moon’s glow, its luminescence making
(Continued on page 20)

Into the Sky

Fagan by Robert Pearle
by Jack Coey
Certain dreams leave scars.
Most of them just wither and
The obituary read: fade with consciousness. Usually
bits and pieces are recalled, dur-
Joel Fagan, one-time Best Supporting Actor nominee, was ing those first few moments you‟re
found dead in his hotel room by a chambermaid. The cause of awake. If it‟s scary, a deep breath
death is under investigation. Mr. Fagan was runner-up for Best is taken, and thanks are given for
Supporting Actor award in1968. He lost the award to George surviving it. If it‟s beautiful, alarm is
Kennedy in a highly contested, controversial decision. Mr. Fagan chastised for going off so early,
continued to make films, but he never reached that level of and every detail is mulled over
prominence again. through the day.
But certain dreams leave scars.
Mr. Fagan is survived by a brother in Bethel, New Hamp-
Robbie had one of those
shire. Arrangements are unknown at this time. Mr. Fagan was dreams. Like the ones he used to
sixty-two years old. have as a child, when he had a
(Continued on page 23)
fever, this dream was startlingly
vivid and impossible to forget.
He hadn‟t given himself enough

Sharon Kitchen
(Continued on page 34)

9
(Demons—Continued from page 4)
The Aztecs believed human sacrifices would appease
the gods and bring good crops and fortune for the
coming years. Blood oaths are not only exchanges of
the physical, but also of the spiritual.
The saying “Blood is thicker than water”, is be-
lieved to refer to the power of blood in blood bonds
and sacrifices, over the power of the water broken at
birth. Water cleanses, but blood binds, renews, and
regenerates.
Blood, Demons, and Possession
The divine spark, or universal spirit that is within us
all, is said to be a great temptation and attraction to
ghouls and fiends lurking in shadows, waiting for the
opportunity of the proverbial open door. It is a mys-
tery they wish to possess. They look to corrupt.
And we must ask why.
There is a legend that tells of the origin of de-
mons. It is believed by many cultures that demonic
vampiric spirits named Afrits, emerge from the blood
of murder victims to seek revenge. Similar spirits
emerge from the blood of those executed on hal-
lowed ground. Once unleashed and separated from
the life giving blood, they seek to fill themselves of
that which they have lost… the divine spark.
And now, these corrupt spirits… these abomina-
tions, possess the bodies of humans, seeking to some-
how ingest the power. And as the blood is spilled by
these murderers (vampires), more demons are
unleashed. But some sort of mutation or evolution
seems to have happened. They no longer have to
hunt for a human host. As the vampire drinks the
blood of his victim and slowly drains the life and the
soul from the body, the new demon takes possession
of the “dead” body. And there is some kind of ge-
netic fusion with the DNA remaining in the body. The
demon now acts like the victim, when the victim was
alive. It fuses with the memories, knowledge, and
experiences carried in the DNA. The demon itself
does not even realize it is a separate life form from
(The Bones—Continued from page 3)
princesses because he had never understood what a princess had to do with Halloween. It was a night
for monsters, not royalty or pirates or cartoon characters. But whatever. He’d already taken nine prin-
cesses. He’d also taken six pirates, a vampire, three werewolves and twenty-two women. He’d changed
from women to children out of necessity rather than desire. He hoped this year he’d be able to get an
adult male but men rarely fulfilled his criteria.
This year he wanted to take out someone dressed up as one of the characters from the Twilight
10
that which used to be the human being.
The demon does not have the power to sustain
the body on its own, and so it must drink blood
often to keep the human host animated. The body,
without the soul, dies and must rot, but, when the
blood is ingested by the vampire, the body is tem-
porarily regenerated. And it is regenerated in a
way that is beautiful in its corruption. It becomes
ageless. The magick that happens creates the illu-
sion of perfection.
Not always does the transformation create a
stunning creature. At times there is such corruption
within the soul of the victim, the physical aspects of
the new being are perverted into the grotesque.
Remedies
As of this moment, there are no known remedies for
these vampires except absolute destruction through
burning. And the reason for the fire is to ensure no
afrits are unleashed. It was believed, and perhaps
still is, that a transfusion of blood from a virgin
somehow reverses the affects of this unholy corrup-
tion.
There are spells, passed down from the an-
cients, even King Solomon himself, that are pur-
ported to detach the afrit from the human host. The
body eventually dies because the afrit can no
longer control it and therefore cannot drink the life
sustaining blood it needs.
The spells are said to be written in grimoires, kept
safe somewhere, from the hands of these beings
who, with good reason, should wish to destroy
them.
Warning
To anyone desiring the bite of the vampire, you
should consider yourselves warned; you will not
become an immortal, but instead, your body will
become a vessel for these repugnant creatures; a
harbor for murderous fiends. ∞
(The Bones—Continued from page 10)
movies. He was certain there’d be droves of them.
He’d seen all the movies and had a favorite charac-
ter. He wanted his target to be Alice - the cute little
pixie of a vampire in the Cullen Clan. Yes. That
would definitely please him. He’d been eavesdrop-
ping on conversations here and there and knew
that many pre-teen girls were enthralled with the
movie and characters and more than half of them
wanted to be Alice. That meant his chances of get-
ting what he wanted were pretty high.
He wouldn’t be able to take care of his target
the way he most preferred but that was all
right. He missed many of the things that he used to
be able to do. Sometimes it depressed him. To
cheer himself up he often visited those that he’d
killed. He kept some of their bones hidden in his
secret place. At least that had never been discov-
ered; he was glad of that. It was all he had left now.
Sadness touched him...or tried to. He shrugged
it off. He wasn’t about to get depressed today of all
days. This was his big day after all. And there were
perks. He didn’t have to worry about getting
caught. He could openly visit the graves of his vic-
tims, especially when the urge to kill was building in
him again. Knowing that the graves held bodies
that he knew intimately thrilled him. And knowing
that each and every body was missing at least one
bone could sometimes make him smile for weeks.
He was so looking forward to today’s offerings.
He didn’t have to wait long or, not usually anyway.
There had been one year when it had been close
and he’d only gotten one little princess. That had
been disappointing. But he’d improved his skills
since then. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do,
was it? Honing his focus and intention had become
easy and, since he’d conquered them, being limited
to one night of fun a year had become much more
tolerable.
Lately, he’d been visiting the graves and his
secret place. The bone collection pleased that part
of him that enjoyed art. And it was art. It took a very
11
creative, brilliant mind to come up with ways to
find, capture, murder and dispose of bodies. It
was his gift. He prided himself on the fact that
none of the women he’d taken had ever sus-
pected that they were even in danger until it
was too late. He wished he’d taken a little more
time with a few of them.
The trigger was and had always been the
same. He’d be living life and hanging out on
Twitter when he had a few minutes to blow and
then someone, usually a woman, would type it.
He’d spot it in his stream as Re-tweet, or receive
it directly from one of his followers, or from
someone he was following. It drove him over
the edge every single time. Three little
words...words his mother had said a hundred
times a day while bemoaning her existence.
He’d heard it so often by the time he was
fifteen that, one day, when she’d been goofing
off on Twitter and had texted it to someone
while saying it out loud, he’d finally obliged her.
She’d been his first.
Just kill me.
The police thought they’d pegged what his
‘type’ was. The age and gender variance had
driven them to distraction until they’d finally
figured out that what all the victims had in com-
mon - besides being dead - was that they all had
Twitter accounts. Accounts that he could then
use to find out their name, location and - thank
you, MapQuest, their exact location. They were
right about that, but had never been bright
enough to figure out what his trigger was. It
was those damned words that made him do it.
They’d asked after all, hadn’t they? He’d
simply fulfilled their request.
It was all more difficult now that he was
unable to perform his duty except on this one
night of the year. That was a real pain in the ass.
At first it had pissed him off but then he was
very adaptable. He suspected that most, if not
all, serial killers were; it was part of their profile.
He was pretty sure he’d seen that on an episode
of NCIS or CSI. That was all right. He’d learned
(The Bones—Continued from page 11)
how to work within his new limitations and even
enjoy the added challenges that sometimes
cropped up. His first Halloween had been a total
failure; that still gnawed at him even though he’d
more than made up for it in the following years
For the last few days he’s been hanging
around the Halloween costume department of Wal-
Mart. He hadn’t had any luck yet and was beginning
to get a little nervous that time would run out be-
fore he’d be able to complete his task. He could
troll for a candidate all he wanted to but without
the trigger - without the invitation - he couldn’t per-
form. If that happened he’d be forced to wait an
entire year before he could try again. That would
make for a miserable year.
Just then a little girl, perhaps ten years old,
squeaked with delight. He turned in time to see her
snatch a costume off the rack.
“I found her! I found her!” She waved the
hangered costume around, literally jumping up and
down. “I told you I would, Mama!”
“You’re kidding.” The mother took the cos-
tume from the child’s hand. “You found a Rosalie
costume?”
The little girl snorted. “No. Do I even look
like a Rosalie? She’s got long blonde hair an’ is
mean. It’s Alice! Alice is little an’ funny just like I am
an’ her hair is brown like mine.” She frowned up at
her mother. “Didn’t you even pay attention to the
movie?”
“I did when the wolves took their shirts
off.”
“Mama!”
The woman laughed. “Are you sure you
don’t want to be Neytiri from Avatar? She was a
princess and - “
“Nancy’s bein’ her. There can’t be two of
us at the party. I wanna be Alice Cullen. No-one else
is bein’ her an’ if you don’t let me, I don’t wanna go
to the party at all.” She crossed her arms over her
chest and scowled up at her mother.
“Fine. It was just a suggestion. You don’t
have to get snotty.”
12
“I can have it?”
“Yes. What else do you need?”
“Some jewelry. I saw it in another aisle.
An’ a bag or something for when we go out trick-
or-treating.”
“Go find a bag and some of those sticks
that glow when you break them. You know the
kind I mean?”
“Yup!” The little girl ran two aisles down
and vanished.
The mother looked the costume over
then put it in the carriage. She swiped some hair
out of her eyes, pulled her Blackberry from her
jacket pocket then pushed a few buttons.
He moved closer to her so he look over
her shoulder and see what she was doing.
She shivered, pulled her jacket zipper up
then started typing. She found it, she texted. I’ll
never hear the end of this from my MIL. Just kill me
now.
He smiled, pausing as the sensations
coursed through him. He had to want it bad to do
it and he did want it. He wanted it so badly he
could nearly taste it. When his desire filled him
completely he lifted one hand, leveled it out then
stuck his hand through her back, wrapped his
fingers around her heart and squeezed.
She gave a little jerk of surprise and sud-
den pain, made several guttural bubbling noises
then slumped to the floor, smashing her head on
the shopping cart as she fell. It rolled out of the
small aisle into the main aisle.
He dropped down next to her, watching
her body twitch and convulse then go still. This
was where he needed all the focus he could
gather. He had to put every ounce of concentra-
tion that he could muster on his extended finger
then scrawled the number 42 in the blood pooling
next to her head. When he finished he admired
the woman’s wide eyed expression of sur-
prise...the way her mouth hung open...and the
way her blonde hair soaked up the blood, turning
it an odd shade of orange. He memorized every
detail, imprinting her image deep inside himself
(Continued on page 13)
(The Bones—Continued from page 12)
then stood up.
A woman, wearing an employee badge
came down the aisle, frowning. “Damned, slobs
could at least pick up after themselves.” She bent
down, grabbed at the dead woman’s jacket then
stood bolt upright and started screaming.
She started to run, stopped, went back,
twirled around then turned and ran right through
him.
He shuddered. He’d been dead for three
years and still hadn’t gotten used to having living
people walk through him. He doubted he ever
would. Still, there were benefits to being
dead...like being invisible, like being able to con-
tinue killing when the need arose even if it was
only one night a year. Halloween, when the veils
between the worlds of the living and the dead
grew thin, allowing him to re-enter the world of
the living and continue his work.
He wanted to stick around to see what
happened when the little girl saw her mother.
That would have been fun. He wanted to be
around when the cops came. Maybe Detective
Benson would be with them. He was the one who
had finally figured out that he, Bobby Striklan,
had been responsible for the murder of thirteen
women in Maine’s York County. He’d actually fig-
ured out the connection between Twitter, Google
Maps and MapQuest. He was the one who had
set him up and taken him out.
That was why it was so important that he
marked the number in the woman’s blood. That
was his signature as Benson called it. He had al-
ways used one of the victim’s bones to write
what number that victim was and he’d kept that
SHARONGERLACH.WORDPRESS.COM
13
bone. His bones. His mother had been 1. The last
victim, when he’d been alive, had been lucky 13.
Though she hadn’t been very lucky for him. Ben-
son had figured it out and, after a bit of a tussle,
had shot him. He didn’t even remember dying.
The last thing he did remember was Detective
Benson screaming at him: “Where are the
bones?!”
Now here he was and he wanted to
make certain that Benson knew he was still
around.
Yes, Benson might shrug it off, thinking
that he’d had a partner. That was fine too be-
cause that would make it a case that the good
detective would never solve. Maybe it would
haunt him to the grave and beyond. That would
be delicious.
But he had a feeling that Benson knew it
was him and that shooting and killing him hadn’t
stopped him. He’d killed twenty-eight—now
twenty-nine—more times since he’d been dead.
He was able to do that because he had twenty-
four hours to do his thing to as many people as he
could find who pulled his trigger.
By dawn the veils between the worlds
would slam shut again and he’d be locked out for
another year. But Halloween hadn’t even begun
yet; there was plenty of time left. He could feel
himself getting stronger as the darkness ap-
proached. He started walking through the store
looking for anyone with a cell phone. He’d no-
ticed that several of the cashiers took their break
in the back room and got on-line. Maybe one of
them was a Twitterati. Maybe one of them would
say the three magic words. ∞
(Despair’s Mistress—Continued from page 7)
He sent out a burst of magic that
would leave his scent over the traces of
the human's emotions. All would know he
had claimed this one as his alone. She was
so strong in her despair. His magic leaped
in power. It's been so long since he'd felt
this level of power he'd forgotten how
truly empowering it felt to be in the pres-
ence of despair. It was getting stronger
with every step he took.
He started to jog through the under-
brush. There was a clearing not far from
him where an old farmer and his daughter
lived. From the direction the emotions
were emanating from, he'd say they were
coming from one of them—the female
from the taste of it.
He broke out into the clearing and
stopped at the sight of a woman on her
knees, weeping. She sat near a log, her
cries wrenching a deep hunger pain from
him. Yes. This was it. He breathed in. Im-
mediately a surge of power swept through
him. He dropped to his knees, his hand
clutching his chest. He hadn't felt that kind
of power in—he frowned.
14
He'd never felt that kind of power. It was
both exhilarating, surpassing the greatest
feeling he'd ever known, and it hurt. Bad. He
felt as if someone was ripping his heart out
of his chest. He stopped the intake of energy
and stared at the girl. What was she that her
emotions were both aphrodisiac and poison
to him?
Her dark blue cloak shimmered in the
moonlight. It was ethereal and almost black
in its appearance under the moon. Her chest-
nut hair reflected slivers of light beams that
he knew no human would be able to detect
but that his kind, and all elf kinds would see.
It was the presence of magic. She was magic.
He'd never taken the sadness from a
creature of magic before. Usually he killed
them outright. Nevertheless, he had heard
stories—suddenly he remembered. Only
those great in power could take the magic
from another without it killing them. To
steal magic was akin to stealing a soul. It can
be done, but you have to be careful. Now, if
they give the magic to you… An unpleasant
smile crossed his features. That was a differ-
ent story entirely.
(Continued on page 15)
(Despair’s Mistress—Continued from page 14)
Chapter 2
Rumplestiltskin strode purposefully
towards the woman letting her hear him
and hiding his natural appearance. He
wanted—needed—her willing coopera-
tion. He kept his visage clean and mascu-
line, adding inches to his image to further
step away from his normal look.
"Miss," he said his voice gravelly.
"What can be so wrong to cause ye to cry
like this?" He hoped he wasn't overdoing
it. It has been a long time since he wor-
ried about making conversation with a
human. The language felt foreign on his
tongue and he wanted to rinse his mouth
out at speaking their foul language.
The woman started. She jumped up
and backed away from him. She ran her
hands across her face, wiping her tears.
She unconsciously ran her hands down
her thighs in an attempt to dry her hands.
"Who-who are ye?" Her lips quivered,
but she spoke clearly. "I've never seen ye
around here before."
"I was walking in the woods and I
heard ye crying. I had to see who it was
that radiated such sadness."
"What were ye doing there at night?"
she asked incredulously, taking a step
back.
He gave her a sheepish grin. "Truth of
15
it. I was lost." As if, he thought. It was
impossible for his kind to be lost in their
own woods. They would smell their way
back if they had to. He had to hand it to
her, although distraught, she wasn't tak-
ing his half answers at face value.
"Lost."
She obviously didn't believe him. He
cleared his throat. He looked down at his
shoes while speaking. "Lost. I, uh, fell
and hit me head. When I awoke it was
dark and nothing looked the same." He
peeked up at her face to see if she be-
lieved him. She didn't totally believe him,
but he could see she wasn't as afraid as
she had been.
Good. He needed her badly. "So what
has a lady like yourself crying so?" Ye
gods, he hated their foul language.
"It's me Da. He's, he's—" she couldn't
finish before another sob tore at her
throat.
He saw her swallow and the pressure
to swallow her sadness whole in one big
gulp was nearing a crescendo. He had to
tamp down his urges. He didn't want to
be poisoned. "Your Da is making ye cry
like this?" He could barely speak as the
need to feed surged through his body.
"Aye, something is terribly wrong. I'm
sorry, I don't know ye and I'm dumping
me problems on ye." She sniffed trying to
hold back the torrent, for which he was
grateful. She was dumping more than
(Continued on page 16)
(Despair’s Mistress—Continued from page 15)
she knew on him.
"I'm something of an apothecary back
home. Did ye want me to look at him?" He
almost snickered. His way of dealing with
the sick was kill them. He smiled as pleas-
antly as he could instead.
"Oh, would ye?" relief flooded her,
tamping down the sadness. He blew out a
breath. It would be easy enough to bring
her sadness back when he was ready. For
now, this bought him time to trick her into
willingly give him her magical essence.
"I would feel remiss if I didn't help a-a
bonny lass like yourself." Now she'd know
he was a fake for sure. He'd tripped over
bonny lass. He thought she was ugly with
her smooth skin and small chin. Although
her eyes were interesting. It was rare to
see such a dark blue in these parts.
She smiled prettily at him and turned
toward the small cottage in the clearing.
She walked away a few steps before look-
ing back. "Are ye coming?" She smiled, but
the sadness was back in her face. Good. He
couldn't let her lose it completely.
He nodded his head and took a step as if
to follow her to reassure her that he was
coming. He put his hands in his coat to hide
them as they walked. He didn't want her to
see the way he had them clenched. It was
the only way to release some of the ten-
sion that being next to her caused.
A short time later, she hesitantly opened
16
the door to her cottage. She paused with
it opened only a few inches, and turned
to him. "I-I." she cleared her throat. "I
feel as if I need to prepare ye for the
sight you are about to see. He's become
gruesome. I don't know what happened.
One day me Da was fine, the next like
this." He felt her sorrow well up anew
and felt the pinpoints of his nails prick his
skin.
In truth, this woman was strong in
magic. Yet, he sensed she knew nothing
about it. How was he going to get her to
willingly give up her magic if she didn't
even know she had it? He felt a low growl
start in his throat and quickly covered it
up with a cough.
"Excuse me, lass. I'm afraid I'm not as
young as I used to be." She nodded and
stepped into the house. She still held the
door relatively closed. He watched her
take in a deep breath. In. Out. Oh how his
head reeled with each outpouring of de-
spair and hopelessness. He put a shoul-
der on the doorjamb as if he was relaxed
when he was anything but. He felt as
drunk as if he'd drunk their secret recipe
honey mead. Trying to clear the dizziness
from his head, he looked around her to
the main room.
There was a bed set up next to the fire
and a large body filled it. Her dad looked
larger than life from this angle. He
breathed in to help him think clearer. If
(Continued on page 17)
(Despair’s Mistress—Continued from page 16)
she's magic, then she had to have gotten it
from somewhere. Could her Da be magic
as well?
He stepped into the room, walking closer
to the bed with its invalid looking patient
on it. He strode around so he could see the
face and knew that it was a good thing the
lass expected a different sort of reaction
than normal. Otherwise, she'd know some-
thing was hugely wrong.
A harsh gasp escaped him as he looked
down on the visage of one of the elders
from his tribe. One thought to be lost over
twenty years previous. He felt prickly, as if
someone were watching him. He looked up
quickly. It was her. She was afraid that he'd
leave in a screaming fit. Her fear rocked
him. Hard.
He allowed a small gasp to escape. Her
father was a boggart. Somehow, he must
have hidden his true self from her all these
years since she was so utterly distraught
now. She was looking upon him anxiously.
"Can ye help him?" He looked at her
hands wringing and felt the drool pooling
under his tongue.
"Aye. But it will cost ye." He finally
rasped out.
"I'll pay anything. Just help him."
"Ye say that quick before knowing
what it is that I may ask of ye."
"I do na have much to give ye. If it is
too much, I will na be able to pay. If I have
17
it, I will give it. It is a simple thing really. I
love me Da and I want him better."
He smiled. He knew it was a predator's
smile, but he let it loose anyway. "I want
the magic ye carry within. Give it to me
freely. I will make your Da look as good
as he was."
She scoffed. "Me Magic? I have na any
magic to give ye. I am a simple woman."
"Then what have ye to lose, lass?" He
said mildly, even though he could feel his
heart beat in his hands. Thump. Thump.
"I do na want to cheat one gracious
enough to help a stranger such as me."
She looked at him with fear and sadness.
"Ye would na be cheating me when it
is what I ask of ye. Do we have an ac-
cord?" He stretched out his hand in the
human fashion. She looked at it. Her sad-
ness and fear making her heart run ram-
pant. He felt every beat along his spine.
With obvious reluctance she placed her
hand in his.
"Aye, we have an accord." Her hand
clasped in his, he immediately began to
feed from her, ripping her magic as fast
as he could. He felt ill. She began to fear
him and struggled for release. Her fear
only made him stronger. He put his other
hand on her arm.
She pulled all of her weight against
him, but it was to no avail. He had her. A
bright green light began to form in minia-
ture lightning shapes from her arm to his
(Continued on page 18)
(Despair’s Mistress—Continued from page 17)
hands. The hunger that had pulsated at
him since first smelling her sadness be-
gan to take as well. She was crying in
pain, fear and sadness. Her hopelessness
nearly dropped him to his knees with the
pleasure of it.
To be able to push those feelings
deeper while feeding off them was a high
like no other. He let go of her and went
over to her father. The father had slept
through it all. Rumplestiltskin laughed.
He waved a hand over the father's face
and it went back to the form that was
cleaner and more human. He had to fix it
or her magic would cause him to im-
plode. Reneging on your word where
magic was concerned wasn't a healthy
practice.
His body swelled up as the power
flowed through him. She was rich and she
still had more to give him. She was part
boggart if her claim of kinship was true.
Her power would sustain him for years to
come. Maybe he should tell her of her
heritage. No, it was better this way. She
might find out one day, but in the mean-
time, he had a veritable feast in her. One
he could feed off daily.
He met her tear filled eyes and let his
true form show. "I am not as I seem. Ye
have given me your magic and I'm even
more powerful than I was before. Now, I
will feast from your sadness. Ye will be
18
mine to feed from. Mine alone. When your
dad wakes, he may know what has hap-
pened, but he will be unable to reverse it."
He laughed again.
He sucked in a deep breath. Yes. Her
scent was growing sweeter as sadness
filled her being. Even though her Da's vis-
age had changed back, she now knew the
truth—he was a creature of the night.
"Aye," he breathed. "Give me more. I want
to suck your energy." Every pore felt alive.
He knew he had enough to last him days,
just as he knew he'd be back tomorrow.
And every day.
But he wasn't finished. The control he'd
exerted in waiting for the permission he
needed to take her magic had infuriated
him and he intended to draw every ounce
of despair and hopelessness out of her be-
fore he left this night. He closed his eyes
and breathed. The taste, so sweet.
The high he felt was new. He didn't stop
until he felt her energy dwindling. He did-
n't want her to die.
He slowly stopped the energy exchange
and opened his eyes. Eyes he scarcely be-
lieved. No longer was there a young human
lass before him, but a pale imitation. He'd
sucked her human life dry, but she was
part boggart. Therefore, she lived.
She finally realized that the horrible pain
had stopped and stood up to look at him.
Her lips shook as she spoke. "What are ye?
What is me Da? Ye look like he did before
(Continued on page 19)
(Despair’s Mistress—Continued from page 18)

ye—" she couldn't finish.

He let his pointy teeth show when he
grinned. "We are boggart. The boogieman
from ye childhood."
He knew she was no longer as human as
when he'd come upon her, but he didn't
care. He fed off the misery of boggarts as
easily as the humans. He turned away, shrug-
ging until she spoke.
"Ye will na feed from me again. If ye try, I Photo Credit: “The Fool” - ©2004 Ulrik De Wachter (Belgium)

will kill ye." She turned and fled out the door,
raising the hood on her long cloak as she left. Even though he was right behind her, he
couldn't distinguish her in the night.
"I will find ye again, lass," he whispered. "I will find ye." ∞

NIGHT’S COLD KISS: A Dark Brethren Novel

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19
(Fallen—Continued from page 9)
the Elder appear ghostly.
“An important one has fallen,” he said.
The glowing fire-orange tail made it different
from the others as well.
The Elder nodded. “There haven’t been
many of those. Not since … you know.”
“Why do you think that is?”
She shook her head, loosened strands of
her long white hair wavering with the mo-
tion in the light cool breeze. “It’s hard to say,
but I fear the answer and having seen one
now. Go investigate.”
Everett turned and stepped inside the
adobe building to retrieve his weapons.
Upon his return, he’d suited himself with
crossbow, arrows, and his shotgun, along
with a few daggers. Before he walked into
the desert, the Elder grabbed his arm.
“Take heed, Everett,” she whispered.
“This one will not be like the others.”
He nodded once, whistled for his com-
panion, and began his pursuit of the Fallen.
Everett’s duties were to extinguish any
Fallen that arrived. They were his proof that
God existed. Without them, he’d simply be-
lieve that religion was something made up in
the minds of men. The wolf trotting at his
side was a pure being, able to discern the
Fallen from ordinary humans or whatever
it’d chosen to become. Sometimes, the
Fallen took the shape of a human, some-
times it was a creature. On few occasions,
what the Fallen had chosen to become ex-
isted neither in this world or the next. He
could only describe them as monsters.
Coyotes barked and howled in the dis-
tance, signifying their kill for the night. The
20
wolf stopped briefly to listen, ears
perked, head cocked to the side. Everett
snapped his fingers and she caught up to
him as he made his way through the
brush, careful to stay on a clear path. In
the desert, things liked to hide in the
crevices of rocks and beneath desert
sage. If you weren’t careful, you’d end up
with fangs in your calf.
Which was the reason Everett wore
boots with his camouflage pants tucked
inside.
When they’d trekked a few miles, the
wolf stopped to sample the air. Everett
halted and waited for her signal, crouch-
ing low when he saw her upper lip start
to twitch into a snarl. The low growl that
came from her was only loud enough for
him to hear. He pulled his crossbow off
his back and notched an arrow. From the
corner of his eye, he watched the wolf.
She looked straight ahead, so Everett
studied that direction and saw a figure in
the distance. His eyes widened when he
realized the figure wasn’t walking away
from him, and he quickly ducked to the
side for cover. They never came toward
him. It was as though they could sense
him just like the wolf could sense them.
Another star shot overhead, and he
looked up just in time to see where it
landed. Moments ticked away like hours
as they waited for either Fallen to enter
their field of vision once again. The wolf’s
head snapped to the side and she
growled again.
“Ma'iitsoh, no,” Everett whispered as
he watched the wolf’s muscles twitch.
“Down.” He didn’t need the wolf to try
to protect him. It wasn’t her job.
(Continued on page 21)
(Fallen—Continued from page 20)

Allison Claire —Poetry — bedazzledbutterfly.blogspot.com

The ground vibrated beneath him and Everett held his crossbow ready
and aimed in the direction that held the wolf’s attention. Whatever the sec-
ond Fallen had chosen to become, it was big.
From the tops of the brush, it soared into the sky, black as oil, and eyes
red and fixated on Everett. His finger depressed the crossbow’s trigger,
sending a silver-tipped arrow through the air and into its heart. A war cry
came from his left and he quickly grabbed his shotgun, but as he pointed it
toward the other one, the Fallen launched itself at the black beast as it hit
the dirt in front of Everett. With another cry, a sword slashed through the air
and decapitated the creature.
The Fallen stood over its kill, whispering, as Everett watched, stunned.
He’d never seen a Fallen kill one of its own. Dark brown hair whipped around
its body in a flurry from the sudden wind. With a jerk, it looked to the sky,
and Everett followed its gaze with his own. Then it turned toward him.
He raised the shotgun. And froze.
She stepped forward, the moonlight casting upon her pale skin and divine
features. She’d chosen her true from. Everett had only ever seen one other
such as her, and he briefly wondered why she’d made this choice. “We have-
n’t much time.”
“Stop,” Everett shouted as he stood. The wolf jumped up and the Fallen
held her hand out to her. Ma'iitsoh sniffed the air and sat back on her
haunches. Everett cocked a brow.
“You are the assassin of the Fallen,” she said in a voice worthy of song.
He nodded. “Yes, and you’re one of the Fallen.”
She giggled. “Am I?”
“I watched your star,” he said.
“Was it like his?” she asked and jerked her head back to point out the
creature she’d slain.
“Well, no,” Everett said. “It was slightly different.”
“I don’t have time to explain to you, but we must hurry,” she said as she
continued to walk toward him.
He kept his shotgun pointed at her, and watched her walk past him.
“What’s the hurry?”
She stopped and turned her head to the side, her vibrant yellow eyes
(Continued on page 22)

21
(Fallen—Continued from page 21)

glinting in the moonlight and searing into his gaze.

“God is dead.”
Everett blinked. “I’m sorry?” He couldn’t possibly
have heard those words just now.
She turned her head and continued walking toward
the direction Everett originated from, toward the hum-
ble adobe structure and the Elder. “You can help me, or
you can stand there like a fool and stare at the stars as
Armageddon falls upon us.”
Ma'iitsoh followed the fallen angel.
Everett looked to the sky and saw a thousand stars
descend.

22
 C.J. REDWINE
(Fagan—Continued from page 9)

Todd Morgan was my brother-in-law, and director

of the Morgan Funeral Home which was owned by
his father. We had this tacit agreement that when- WRITING WORKSHOPS
ever there was an unpleasant duty or service he had
to perform, he would call me for help. I can’t re-
member how it even started, and my wife, more
Is your query letter garnering you
than once, told me to say no. I couldn’t. When I
enough rejections to wallpaper your
read the obituary, I knew what was coming.
den? That pesky synopsis making you
You see the obituary about a man named Fagan?
certain you’ve found Hades on earth?
he asked, found in a hotel room?
Is your plot so tangled even you can’t
’t f Yes. figure out what your story is about?
The internment is Saturday morning at eleven,
Our Lady of Grace, see you there.
With her popular workshops on writing
winning queries, amazing synopses,
When I got there, there was Todd, two gravedig- and plotting fantastic stories, urban
gers, and a woman dressed in black with a veil over
fantasy author C.J. Redwine can show
her face. Todd convened us together and told the
you the way out of your misery and
gravediggers to lower the casket into the grave.
When that task was complete, Todd read the ser- confusion.
vice, and said a few words about Mr. Fagan. What
Todd didn’t know was I had acted with Mr. Fagan in
a community theatre production about ten years
ago, and knew something about him. When the
QUERYWORKSHOP.
service was over, the woman in black walked away,
and I went after her.
BLOGSPOT.COM
Excuse me, ma’am. My name is Jack MacCoy and
I acted with Mr. Fagan.
Because your story is worth it.
I couldn’t see much because of the veil. A husky
voice said,

Joel touched a lot of people.

I had to suppress the urge to laugh. I thought, If
that’s so, then where are they now?

Excuse me for being so forward, but who are

(Continued on page 24)

SILVERTHORNPRESS.COM

23
(Fagan—Continued from page 23)

you?

His second wife.

Nice to meet you, extending my hand, what did you say your name was?

The husky voice took my hand in a limp handshake, and said,

Olivia Perkins. I heard the sensuousness of her voice. I was curious to see what she looked like. She
turned to continue walking.

I guess his brother couldn’t make it, I blurted out.

There’s a lot his brother didn’t understand, she said.

Miss Perkins I don’t want to bother you with this now, but are you staying somewhere here in town?
How about I take you for dinner tomorrow night?

I’m in production at the Weathervane theatre.

You dark Mondays?

Yes.

How about Monday night if I drive to Whitefield and we have dinner together, what do you say?

Oh, all right. It’s a bother for me, and I’ll regret saying yes, but all right.

Great. See you then.

Todd sat hunched over the glass of beer.

There was an empty vodka bottle in the room the police told me, and he died alone. I got a phone call
from a Brian Fagan in Bethel, NH. who wanted to send me a check to cover the cost of internment, and when
I asked about family, he said never mind about that, just get him in the ground as quickly as you can. It is
very rarely that I get offended by what people do, but I must say his coldness sent shivers up my spine. That’s
when I called you.

I acted with Fagan ten years ago in a community theatre production of Inherit the Wind.

You did?

He was the biggest egomaniac, drunken bum, I ever met. We all hated him, but the audiences loved him.

A lot of those guys are that way. And when they kick off some former mistress or wife or neglected child
writes a book about what a prick the guy was, and all the housewives are aghast. John Wayne had a mis-
tress! Not John Wayne! It’s comical, it really is.

You know anything about the Lady in Black?

Got a phone call asking where and when the service was, Todd grinned and said, I got a hard on talking
to her over the phone.
(Continued on page 25)

24
(Fagan—Continued from page 24)

I laughed.

That voice is something else, isn’t it? Her name is Olivia Perkins and she was Fagan’s second wife, she
told me. She’s in a play at the Weathervane, and I’m going to have dinner with her Monday night.

Nice.

Do you know the cause of death?

The cop said unofficially it was booze.

I would have no trouble believing that.

Why are you getting as involved as you are? I mean driving to Whitefield to have dinner with his ex-wife?
What’s in this for you?

Curiosity, I guess. A man drinks himself to death, alone in a hotel room, and I have to think that if you
work backward you will come across some kind of story. I’m curious to find out how men become such bas-
tards. I remember the play I was in with him he screamed at a teenaged costume assistant, and she left the
theatre in tears and never came back. I don’t treat people that way, do you? Of course not. So what happens
that a human can become so callous to the feelings of others?

Wouldn’t it be easier to read a book?

You’re absolutely right, Todd, except it wouldn’t be as much fun.


The drive to Whitefield took about an hour and a half. I found the theatre, and had a hunch there were
techies working on the set. I opened the door and walked into the lobby, and sure enough, I heard ham-
mers pounding. I walked into the theatre and there were three or four undergraduates in tee shirts and
baseball caps welding hammers and saws.

Can we help you? yelled one through the darkness.

I’m looking for Olivia Perkins, I yelled, and all motion and movement stopped, and the undergraduates
looked out at me like I was alien. Silence.

The Coachman Motel on Route 31, a voice said.

31 North, another voice said.

Thanks, I answered, and as I walked back out of the theatre, I could hear them talking about me.

I found the hotel and went to the office for a room number, and again, I had the sensation that I was do-
ing something unexpected. The old man gave me a good looking over before he said,

Room eighteen. To your left when you go out the door.

I knocked on the door and heard,

Who’s there?

(Continued on page 28)

25
 MALAKH V
by Siobhan Macintyre

“Suzanne, you have to eat.” To tempt me, he waved a fragrant piece of jerky beneath my nose, but I turned
away.
“What’s the point?”
“Survival,” Russ said simply.
I closed my eyes, easing their dry, gritty ache. “Again I ask, what’s the point?”
He didn’t answer. Instead of pressing my point, I eased myself down into the grass, warmed by the fair
summer day, and curled into a ball. We had arrived at this park while I had been unconscious. Russ hadn’t ex-
plained where we were going, and I didn’t recognize the tiny but well-kept square of recreational land. Trees
dotted the flat landscape, offering shade on rare days when the sun beat down without mercy. Traffic was
slow on the street that flanked it, and from behind us came the sound of water and boats.
Since Russ had brought us here, I had to assume Ian had moved to the Montlake neighborhood. I think it
was the Montlake neighborhood, anyway—the area was upscale, the lawns manicured, the houses just a bit
larger than necessary. Fresh out of college, Ian had gone to work for the Navy as an administrative assistant,
and he’d lived modestly for a number of years, socking away most of his salary in his savings account and long
(Continued on page 45)

The real estate market is about to

heat up.

When Bret Jacob walks into Jill's real

estate office, she attempts to maintain
a professional demeanor, but memo-
ries of accidental voyeurism in high
school, years of what-if's, and Bret's
drop-dead sexy grin only serve to ig-
nite her fantasies.

Bret needs a farm for his growing

landscape business. When he sees
Jill Daniels' picture in a real estate ad,
he can't believe his eyes: The shy girl
from high school has blossomed into
a desirable woman. Ten years ago,
she didn't stir his blood and drive
away all rational thought; now, he's
fighting the urge to take her in his
arms long enough to ask her on a first
date.

26
 Cael wandered about the frozen landscape, looking for Niamh. She hadn’t been in her tent
when he went to search it early the next morning. Instead, Cael found her bathing in the hot spring
not far from her camp. If she wasn’t a warrior, he’d have been surprised by her solitude, but he
could find no trace of her guards in the vicinity. It felt like a trap, but one he seemed willing to walk
right into if only to hear her speak his name again. Her beauty held him captive, and as he paused to
watch from behind a large rock, he questioned Zachariah’s determination to see her dead, but re-
minded himself sharply it wasn’t his place to question. Zachariah requisitioned him for a job, and he
must fulfill his obligation.
But he’d already faltered.
Niamh waded out of the small lagoon, the rays of dawn reflecting in water droplets adorning
her smooth skin, giving her body a shimmering quality even without the Fae aspect. His brow
arched as he watched her. Any human woman wouldn’t dare attempt to bathe as cold as it was in
Nambria these days regardless of the warm waters. As she picked up her clothes, Cael moved in
quickly and stood before her as she straightened. To his surprise, she didn’t flinch.
(Continued on page 50)

And Where Do You Get Your Ideas From?

By Ellen Couch

Doris pulled her thick woollen coat closer about her as a cold gust of wind rattled through the bus sta-
tion, and wished she hadn’t stayed so long at the signing. She should really have had a cut-off time, and that
cut-off should have been long enough before the last train to give her a chance to catch it. But no, she had
always made a point of staying as long as there were fans waiting, misty-eyed with excitement, hearts speed-
ing up at being in the presence of Doris Lynch- the Doris Lynch, author of the ‘Marshall’s Lore’ books, and so
many others. There was always a queue- usually a very long one- of people clutching their battered first, sec-
ond, thirteenth editions of their favourites of the series. It didn’t half do a number on her poor hand. She
looked at the pouring rain outside, waiting for the familiar headlights and rubbing her wrist through the thick
woollen gloves made for her by a fan at a Canadian signing. Still, it was a good thing to make people happy,
and good to hear from all of them how she inspired, moved, or thrilled them.
Busy in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the young man until he sat down next to her on the bench and
said, more as a statement of fact than a question, “It is you, isn’t it.”
She turned, hoping this wouldn’t be another of those conversations. “Me?”
(Continued on page 54)

27
(Fagan—Continued from page 25)

Jack MacCoy. I talked to you at Joel’s service.

Oh, damn it, one moment.

I smiled, and turned away from the door, and looked at the hills surrounding Whitefield. It took awhile
but finally the door opened. She was tall and her face was heavily made up which made her look cartoon-
ish.

I’m not inviting you in so don’t even think about it. We’ll go to the lounge, she snapped.

Certainly.

As we were sitting she said,

You’re paying for this.

Certainly.

She lit a cigarette which was not allowed, but no one said anything.

My usual, she told the server who looked to be a young actor with the theatre. I ordered and the
server said,

I really enjoy your monologue in the second act Miss Perkins.

Oh, go away, she said to the young server, and to me she accused, You’re probably a writer wanting to
capitalize on Joel’s death.

No, I’m not.

Didn’t you tell me that you worked with Joel? Then you know he was an artist of the highest order.

Certainly. You loved him?

Olivia blew a puff of smoke from her red and purple – eyed face.

None of your business.

How’s the show going?

As you have heard, the monologue in the second act is noteworthy.

I laughed.

How long is your run?

Labor Day.

Where do you live in the winter?

Manhattan.

Really?

I audition for Broadway.

(Continued on page 29)

28
(Fagan—Continued from page 28)

Certainly.

You’re annoying me.

I don’t mean to.

Stop saying certainly all the time.

Oh?

Good Lord Deliver Me with an extra dry martini.

Do you work a lot?

Mostly voice overs now.

You have a very distinctive speaking voice.

Tell me something I don’t know. It has made me a lot of money. Years of cigarettes and whisky and
screaming in the bedroom pay off.

Do you have any children?

It’s not for lack of trying, but I never could conceive.

I’m sorry.

Don’t bother. It was meant to be.

The young actor brought our drinks, and Olivia finished hers in two gulps, and ordered another.

Wow, I thought.

How did you and Joel meet?

We met on the set of Thirteen Steps.

What year was that?

1967.

That was the year he lost the Oscar?

He didn’t lose it, darling, it was stolen from him. In 1968 that was.

What part did you have?

I played the nurse in the emergency room.

Were you married then?

I was married to a pathetic producer who’s not worth talking about.

What was Joel like back then?

Olivia didn’t answer for a moment. She looked at the ceiling, and exhaled a stream of smoke. The young
actor placed her martini in front of her, and she raised the glass and took a sip.
(Continued on page 30)

29
(Fagan—Continued from page 29)

Joel was an underweight Dylan Thomas with that head of curly red hair and freckles. Very Irish. Skinny.
Beautiful blue eyes that looked through you. He was incredibly intense about his craft, and felt he could
change the world with his art. He was disillusioned with the church, and was trying to free himself from the
control and influence of the church in his life. His father was an abusive drunk, and I think his personal anger
got mixed in with his philosophical views and he was trying to work out a bunch of feelings to find peace. But
he was gifted and all those feelings gave intensity and vibrancy to his work. I remember I saw him in an
O’Neill play and I was profoundly affected by what he did. We all knew he was a genius, and he had a drive
that was extraordinary.

What was it like being married to him?

She laughed and answered, Impossible, in a word, impossible.

I would think so.

But I must say he made love to me the way no other man could. He was incredible.

How long were you married?

Just about two years.

How long have you loved him?

A long time.

It must have been painful.

Darling, if you only knew.

You didn’t get tired of the suffering?

Sometimes we don’t have a choice.

You never loved anyone else?

Not like Joel, no.

He had a problem with alcohol?

Oh, good gracious, yes, and it only got worse as he got older. His father was a drunk and he was too – I
don’t think he could escape it.

And you loved him in spite of that?

He had a passion like no one else I’ve known – I don’t know how else to explain it. Whatever the experi-
ence was – good or bad – you knew with Joel it would be deep, profound, and there’s never been anybody
else I’ve met who could duplicate that.

I looked at Olivia, and I could see that the alcohol was affecting her. Her glass was empty, and she said,
I would like another.

You sure?
(Continued on page 31)

30
(Fagan—Continued from page 30)

The look she gave me took away any doubt. I signaled to the server, and she didn’t have to ask. In a mo-
ment, she brought a drink.

You like to drink?

Olivia laughed.

Alcohol has given me more pleasure than men have.

I looked at her, she thought she was funny, but she was sad.

All these years you’ve loved Joel?

Yes.

How often did you see him?

Whenever he got in trouble with the cops I was the one who went and tried to get him out or the emer-
gency room or money when he needed it.

So whenever there was a crisis, you were the one to try and help him, and if he needed you it was all
right, but if he didn’t need you, then, you were out of luck?

Pretty much, yeah.

She laughed at, I think, a memory, and said,

One time, he went to see a psychiatrist, and the shrink told him he was feeling guilty because of feelings
he wanted to sleep with his mother, and he was furious, and stormed around the room saying, I will sleep
with anything in a skirt, that’s true, but I draw the line at my mother. Gracious, he carried on about that for
a month.

Tell me about his mother.

She was a concert pianist who had such a bad case of stage fright she couldn’t perform. She made
recordings, but never played in the concert halls.

And his father was a drunk?

He was a successful lawyer until the booze caught up with him.

Pretty sad, all in all.

They were gifted people but tormented by demons.

Do you think one can be healthy and be creative?

Olivia laughed out loud.

Sweetie, all the creative people I’ve known it was a dead heat as to whether they were more crazy or
creative.
So what happened with the Oscar?

(Continued on page 32)

31
(Fagan—Continued from page 31)

Olivia didn’t answer until she’d taken a sip of her drink, and a drag off her cigarette. I had the feeling this was
sensitive even after all the time.

Joel was cast in The Thirteen Steps as a serial killer, and at that time, not much was known about that be-
havior, and what Joel did that was so brilliant was he studied Capote’s In Cold Blood, and got an appreciation of
the logic of a serial killer that was not understood or known. When I say studied, I mean he immersed himself in
the book – he read it, oh, five or six times at least, and went to New York and met with Capote and got what he
could from him until they got too drunk. The study and research he put into it paid off in the character he played
– the audience was mesmerized by his portrayal, and the Academy nominated him for Best Supporting Actor and
they gave it to George Kennedy. George Kennedy had ties to Bobby Kennedy and it was suspected that the Acad-
emy wanted a certain political alignment should Bobby be elected President which seemed like it would happen.
Anyone knowledgeable about acting who saw the performances of both men overwhelmingly thought Joel gave
the better performance.

But for political reasons….

That’s what we believed happened.

All right so Joel was robbed of an Oscar. It seems like he had enough going for him that he would be able to
transcend that after a period of time.

He wanted to believe in something – just the way the rest of us do. He was struggling with the Catholic
Church, and his deliverance, if you will, was his own talent. But, he discovered, not even that was his own after
the Academy treated him so unfairly. He never got over it, he became cynical and jaded. I’m not a psychiatrist so I
don’t know, all I know, is that I tried to help him whenever I could.

Joel felt he didn’t get what he deserved out of life.

That’s putting it mildly, and he wasn’t wrong. He was smart enough to know it. He never had anything to
believe in, to trust, and that ate him up.

Yes, I should think so.

Death was really a release for Joel. Really, it sounds terrible to say, but some people are better off dead, and
he was one of them.

(Continued on page 33)

32
(Fagan—Continued from page 32)

God, that does sound terrible.

We sat in silence and she puffed on her cigarette. Finally, I observed,

Some people are born unlucky.

She looked at me.

You know, I’ve struggled with that question over the years, and I don’t think I have an answer, but only a
dilemma.

How so?

Is it really destiny or self-pity?

Probably both.

Which comes first the chicken or the egg?

The realization that your life sucks, and then the decision not to make it better.

You think that is always possible? To make it better?

Absolutely. Humans have that choice. Whether they exercise it or not is another question.

But Joel was betrayed by those he looked up to.

So? He could have choose to make a life for himself without them. When I knew him, he was mean to people
who didn’t deserve it.

Oh, that was Joel!

He was being unfair to others the same way he felt he’d been treated unfairly.

What goes around comes around.

But it didn’t have to is the point.

Easier said than done.

True.

We sat in silence.

I think I’ll have another drink, finally, she said. ∞

33
(Into the Sky—Continued from page 9)

time to forget the dream, but he knew it would be everlasting. If not the dream, then what he‟d done af-
terwards.
It was vividly surreal: raindrops the size of human heads, falling. That was it. Robbie had been stand-
ing on the underside of a cloud, as though the sky itself was ground. All around, enormous raindrops
seeped from the ground and fell upward—or downward?—toward the landscape below, a glittering city.
So what had been so scary about it? Robbie couldn‟t pinpoint exactly what had caused him to awaken
the way he did—sitting straight up, hearing himself exhale a deep, guttural gasp, looking around to see
nothing but the darkness of the bedroom.
He tried so hard to go back to sleep. But all he could do was lay there, staring at the blank, concrete-
colored ceiling. Something about the dream had been deeply, deeply urgent. If dreams stem from the
subconsciousness, then Robbie‟s had something very dire to tell him.
He just didn‟t know what.
After an hour of tossing and turning, Robbie slipped softly out of bed, careful not to awaken Caitlin in
the process. He tiptoed into the living room, turned on the television, and hoped to fall asleep in the re-
cliner.
Just as he was dozing off, watching the Weather Channel, Robbie was awakened by the sound of an
obnoxious buzzing—the kind that announced especially dangerous thunderstorms—but when he
jumped awake, he found the buzzing meant something far worse.
Breaking News! The screen exclaimed in loud, red letters. He turned the volume up a bit.
Thanks Joe. I’m standing here on the outskirts of New Andover, where an unexplainable phenomenon
has occurred. Many of the locals have disappeared. According to witnesses, gravity ceased to have ef-
fect…
Robbie lurched forward in the seat, turned the volume up a little more.
I’m hearing that there was a hailstorm—hail the size of grapefruits raining down on New Andover…
Grapefruits? “…Or human heads…?” Robbie said aloud.
Once he heard this, Robbie knew he wouldn‟t be sleeping tonight. His mother and father lived in New
Andover. Were it not for his relationship with Caitlin, he would have been there, too. Based on what he
was seeing on the television, he wished he had been. At least then, he might be able to make sense of
what was happening.
He flipped through the channels. FOX, CNN, MSNBC—they were all covering the catastrophe. No-
body knew what happened. Hail the size of watermelons, gravity ceasing to have effect, nearly all the
locals disappeared. The very few that were found were in shock, or comatose.
About an hour into the coverage, a theory arose: an unknown influence in space.
Something had happened above the sky. Something had come very close to the planet. Too close.
Something nobody had seen coming; no telescopes had picked it up, no satellites had registered any-
thing.
His stomach churning, his face a ghostly pale, Robbie forced himself to his feet and ran into the bed-
room. Caitlin‟s comfort ceased to have any bearing. He flipped on the light, threw open the drawers.
“Hmmm…?” He heard Caitlin mumble from beneath the sheets. “Robbie…what the…what the hell are
you doing?”
Robbie had no time to explain. “Caitlin, something happened. Something big. I‟m going to New Ando-
ver.”
Rubbing her eyes, Caitlin sat up, pulling the blanket around her naked breasts. “What? Wait, Robbie,
slow down…what? Right now?”
“Yes, right now. Watch the news. Something‟s happened.”
(Continued on page 35)

34
(Into the Sky—Continued from page 34)

Robbie was half-dressed now. Caitlin stood up and approached him, cautiously. “Rob? Are you sleep-
walking? You‟re not making any sense.”
“Watch the TV. Something‟s happened.”
Caitlin was growing alarmed, and afraid now.
“Robbie Peterson! Tell me what‟s going on!”
She tried to snatch the shirt from Robbie‟s hand, but he jerked away, scowling. “I had a dream. It was
just like what‟s going on. Watch the news. Something big happened in New Andover. I have to go there.”
“Robbie, stop!”
But he was already crossing the threshold into the living room, toward the front door. Caitlin, tripping
over the blanket wrapped around her form, followed close behind him, practically nipping at his heels.
“Robbie, you can‟t just leave! Are you out of your mind? Robbie, get the hell back here! Robbie!”
Without closing the door behind him, Robbie jumped over the front step and started down the walkway
toward his car. Caitlin, still practically naked, came to a screeching halt in the doorway.
“Robbie! You‟re an asshole, you know that? A fucking asshole! I hope you don‟t come back—asshole!”
Ignoring the screeching silhouette behind him, Robbie hopped behind the wheel of his car and started
the engine, backed out of the driveway, and headed for the highway.

Leaving the house hadn‟t gone as smoothly as it could have.

He thought it over as he made a beeline down I-95 toward New Andover. Was he crazy? He‟d had a
strange dream, seen something on the television, and left his house at two in the morning without so
much as an explanation to Caitlin.
Caitlin would get over it, though. She hadn‟t threatened to leave; she only did that when Robbie was
between jobs and money was tight. They were enough in love to let a temporary bout of craziness come
between them, as long as Robbie was back before nine AM Monday morning.
Something beyond human experience had happened in New Andover. He had too many loved ones
living there to let this slide without investigating. Aside from that, however, he couldn‟t shake the feeling
that his dream was somehow tangled up in this whole ordeal. The correlation couldn‟t be explained.
He didn‟t hit New Andover until about eight in the morning. Tired of the constant news coverage about
“something” happening, Robbie had turned off the radio, leaving him in utter silence as he sped toward
the city.
No sun this morning. A shroud of thick, bulbous gray clouds hung heavy over the city. The traffic on
the highway was surprisingly scarce, and most of the cars Robbie saw were headed out of the city. Ex-
cept for the emergency vehicles; he veered onto the shoulder three times to let convoys of ambulances,
fire trucks, and police cars pass.
Despite the cool Autumn air, Robbie had his window down. Even at 65 miles per hour, he could hear
the crescendo of the sirens over the wind whipping past the car, growing louder and louder as he neared
the city.
Robbie‟s cell phone displayed 6 Missed Calls. He didn‟t bother checking his voicemail, just like he did-
n‟t bother answering the phone any of the times it had rung. It wasn‟t a stretch of the imagination to fig-
ure out who was calling him.
About a mile outside the city, Robbie passed beneath an overpass. A totaled motorcycle was laid
down in the median. Beyond the overpass, he saw the roadblock. He slowed.
Enormous Army trucks were parked perpendicularly across the freeway, blocking every lane. Ahead of
(Continued on page 36)

35
(Into the Sky—Continued from page 35)

him, a cop car approached the blockade; one of the trucks backed up a bit to let him pass, and then
pulled forward once the officer had made his way through. As Robbie came to a stop, he wasn‟t re-
ceived quite as warmly.
A man dressed in full camouflage, toting an M-16, walked briskly to Robbie‟s car. He leaned out the
window and addressed him.
“Can I get through? I have family in New Andover.”
The soldier stood erect beside the vehicle and shook his head. “I can‟t let you pass.”
“Please? My whole family is here. I‟m begging you, I have to get through.”
The nametag displayed ROGERS. Like all Army soldiers, Rogers was clean-shaven with stone-cold
eyes that seemed to look through Robbie rather than at him. Though the soldier looked very young,
maybe nineteen or twenty, and his inexperience outweighed his sense of duty.
“…Look, you don‟t have family here any more.”
Robbie recoiled. “What? What the hell does that mean?”
“I mean…there‟s nobody in New Andover anymore. I‟ve been listening to the two-way all morning.
There‟s nobody left. You might as well just turn around.”
Rogers turned to leave, but Robbie wasn‟t done with him yet. After a brief pause to let the information
sink in, he spoke again. “Do they know what happened? They said it was in space. They said something
happened in space.”
Rogers stopped, did an about-face. “That‟s about right. Something happened out there, and it caused
something to happen here. Everyone‟s gone crazy. They said people…” The soldier paused, as though
chewing over his words. “…they said people started flying.”
“Flying?”
“That‟s right, flying. Whatever happened—out there—” Rogers nodded upward, “…It totally fucked with
people. Whoever didn‟t disappear completely, went insane.”
Robbie tried to digest this, to no avail. People flying? Somehow, Robbie didn‟t think that Rogers meant
flying in an airplane.
“Look, I have to get back to my post. You need to get out of here.” He leaned close to the window and
spoke in a hushed whisper. “We‟ve been told to shoot anyone that doesn‟t comply. You seem like a
good guy, so I don‟t want to do that. Don‟t make me.”
Swallowing hard, Robbie nodded and shifted the car into reverse. “I see…well, thanks for your help.”
With that, he pulled a U-turn and started driving the wrong way up the highway. It felt strange at first,
but then again, there wasn‟t any traffic flowing in the opposite direction.
So he couldn‟t get into the city. What would he do then, start the long, six-hour drive back home?
Without any alternatives, Robbie didn‟t see anything else to do but go home and try to smooth things
over with Caitlin.

It didn‟t take Robbie long to decide he was going to stay.

Somehow, he would get into New Andover. Maybe not in his car, he might have to sacrifice that. But
somehow…
As he passed beneath the overpass again, he noticed the motorcycle in the median, and got an idea.
If he could get the motorcycle running, he could roll it up onto the overpass, and maybe find a way into
New Andover that way. They‟d blockaded the highways—but what about the streets? He looked at the
sign bolted to the side of the overpass: JACOBS DR. He‟d lived in New Andover as a boy and knew that
(Continued on page 37)

36
(Into the Sky—Continued from page 36)

Jacobs Drive was in the city.

Robbie drove a ways, and found one of those breaks in the guardrail that emergency vehicles use to
turn around. He swung the car around, kept the car tight to the far shoulder, and parked it behind an
enormous cement support, where the Army soldiers down the road were unlikely to see it.
Checking in his rearview—out of habit more than anything else—Robbie stepped out into the empty
road and jogged to the median.
It didn‟t take him long to ascertain that the cycle was damaged well beyond repair. He didn‟t know
much about motorcycles, but trying to run the thing in the shape it was in would be like trying to run a car
without an engine.
What really struck Robbie was how the bike had been damaged. Its entire right side was crushed flat,
with only a few dings and dents in its opposite side. Frankly, he couldn‟t figure out how such extensive
damage could affect only one side. So he searched for clues.
Scattered around the motorcycle, Robbie found numerous chunks of cement. Not black asphalt—light
gray cement. Furthermore, the scrapes on the motorcycle didn‟t look like they‟d been inflicted by pave-
ment; there were just powdery, white scratches where Robbie would have expected chunks of the high-
way.
Robbie was stumped for a while. He inspected the supports in the median, and on either side of the
road, to no avail. So, the bike hadn‟t slid sideways off the road.
But then he recalled something that Rogers had said:
They said people started flying…
On a whim, he looked up, and there he found what the motorcycle had struck.
The ceiling of the overpass.
The network of cracked cement overhead was unmistakably prominent. Something had struck the ceil-
ing recently, from the underside. Despite Robbie‟s efforts to convince himself otherwise, it really seemed
like the motorcycle had somehow jumped off the road, pitched to the side, and gone smashing into the
ceiling.
…But what of the driver? Had the EMTs already cleared away the body?
That was when he saw her.
There were two cement slopes on either side of the highway, leading up underneath Jacobs Drive,
where the pigeons built their nests. A girl was up in the alcove, curled into a tight ball, shivering gently.
She stared directly at Robbie, as though deathly afraid of him, trying to remain as motionless as possible
in the shadows.
He approached her. The girl‟s face was as white as the Moon, and the sleek leather jacket she wore
(Continued on page 38)

37
(Into the Sky—Continued from page 37)

was ripped in several places, and smudged with ashen gray powder.
“Hey…are you okay?” He ventured. She didn‟t respond. “What happened? Why are you hiding here?
There‟s some paramedics up the road…”
“No…” She finally rasped, shaking her head. “Nobody…”
Robbie tried to get closer to her, but she tensed. The girl looked like a terrified rabbit, pinned in a cor-
ner by a pack of wolves. “What‟s your name? Can you tell me your name?” He doubted it—she looked
like she was in shock—but it was worth a try.
“Elizabeth…Liz…”
Robbie nodded understandingly. He didn‟t have any idea what he was doing, but if he treaded cau-
tiously, maybe he could help Elizabeth.
“Okay Liz…I‟m Robbie Peterson. Is that your motorcycle?”
She nodded blankly. Liz knew it was the right answer, but her mind felt fuzzy, vague, distant. She rec-
ognized the feeling. Back when she was first learning to ride, she‟d had an accident, and gone into
shock. The sensation--or lack thereof--is strange and terrifying to say the least. Everything seems logi-
cal, and Liz felt normal, but her actions might be otherwise. She couldn‟t tell; huddling under the over-
pass seemed like the best possible thing to do, after what had occurred earlier.
“So what happened?”
Liz hesitated and didn‟t speak for a while. Her eyes glozed over and she seemed to just stare into
oblivion. Dirt was smeared across her face and her mascara was running; Liz had been crying a lot. But
she wasn‟t crying now.
“They fell…” The words were barely able to force their way past Liz‟s lips. She‟d spent the better part
of the morning trying to push the image from the mind; what she‟d seen felt like a horrible dream.
“What?”
“They fell. New Andover. They all fell into the sky.”
Robbie cocked his head. Not surprisingly, Liz‟s testimony was even more cryptic than Rogers‟ had
been.
“They fell into the sky? Can you start from the beginning?”
Liz took a deep breath, and tried to figure out where this whole thing actually began. “I was driving—
here—on this highway. It was earlier. There was a hail storm, so I pulled under this overpass. I had the
radio on, and the DJs started screaming. Just, out of nowhere, they started screaming, and everything
went quiet. I didn‟t know what happened. And I fell toward the sky.”
“So…the bike, it just left the ground?”
“I was falling, but I was falling up. I fell off the bike and hit the overpass, and I was pinned there. It was
like I was lying on the ground, except I was…you know, up there. My head was hanging over the edge
of the overpass…and I could hear them. All of them.”
“All of who?”
Liz choked back a sob, and the tears welled up in her eyes. Yes, every horrific detail was swiftly re-
turning. Maybe she‟d forgotten more than she realized. In a way, she almost felt embittered toward this
Robbie fellow for dragging the memories back to the surface. “Everyone! Everyone in New Andover! I…I
could see them. You know how the clouds above cities glow at night? I could see everyone, falling into
the clouds. Just…plucked off their feet. Cars, trucks, people…everyone. There were poofs where they
broke through the clouds, and then they were gone. And…”
Liz paused again, trying to swallow back a nervous breakdown. “They were…all…screaming. All at the
same time.”
Robbie stood there, awestruck by Liz‟s story. For a while, he thought she might be crazy. But…what
(Continued on page 39)

38
(Into the Sky—Continued from page 38)

about the damage to the overpass? Everything added up.

Whatever the case, Liz was in bad shape, and in dire need of a hospital.
“Liz? I need to get you to an ambulance, okay? They‟re going to take care of you.”
Liz frowned. This man didn‟t know any better what to do with her than she did. “I don‟t want an am-
blance…I want to go home…”
“You can go home. You just need to go to a hospital first. I don‟t know if you know this or not, but
you‟re in really bad shape.”
From Robbie‟s standpoint, she seemed confused, perplexed by her surroundings, like a little girl lost in
a mall without her mother. Robbie extended his hand—not too close, as to alarm her—but let it hang in
the air for a moment.
Liz studied it. She couldn‟t go home; there wasn‟t any home left. She‟d been staying with her brother,
and her brother lived in New Andover. One of those rib-rattling screams had been his. What did she
have left now? In some ways, Liz felt like she needed someone like her brother, someone that could
take care of her when she couldn‟t take care of herself.
This was not to say that she was a baby. But there are certain things that can‟t be handled on one‟s
own.
Could this be one of those instances?
Eventually, Liz reached out and wrapped her fingers around Robbie‟s, and letting him guide her gently
down the slope.

Robbie looked in his rearview mirror. Liz was laying in the back seat, in the fetal position, shivering
profusely. Her leather jacket was draped over her body in an attempt to warm her up. He‟d had the heat
on, full blast, but that quickly proved to be a mistake. Liz‟s condition hadn‟t improved, but worsened; she
started sweating at an alarming rate, and the shivering didn‟t cease.
She hadn‟t wanted to go to the blockade. She just wanted a hospital. The man driving the car had
agreed to take her to the next town over, to the Kingsbury hospital.
We’ll tell them you were outside town, Robbie had suggested. We won’t say you were in the town
lines. That way, there’s less chance that the government will have any interest in you.
Robbie was grateful to some extent that Liz hadn‟t wanted to go to the blockade. If he delivered Liz
there, she would be taken from him. Visions of secret government quarantine sites sprung to mind, of
Liz being stripped naked and examined by soulless, mask-wearing doctors.
It wasn‟t just that Liz held the only key to whatever happened in New Andover, however.
“Why…why did you come here?” The question had been plaguing Liz. Robbie‟s car was the first she‟d
watched pass in hours. It was national news that the city of New Andover was under lockdown; nobody
comes in, nobody goes out.
Robbie heard a gentle whisper from the back seat, looked in the rearview, and saw Liz lifting her head
and looking at him. She didn‟t look any healthier, but she had calmed considerably.
“I…I guess I had a dream. I felt like I had to come here, like this place was calling me.”
Liz laid down again, closing her eyes. “…I was calling you. I probably would‟ve died up there. I might
die anyway. But at least it won‟t be up with all the pigeon shit.”
Robbie shook his head. “That won‟t happen, I promise. You‟re going to be all right.”
“So…why did your dream tell you to come here? What were you looking for? I saw you drive past, and
talk to the Army man.”
(Continued on page 40)

39
(Into the Sky—Continued from page 39)

Robbie sighed heavily. “My family lives in Andover. Well, they lived there. I‟m not really sure what to
think now.”
Liz paused. An awkward silence ensued. At last, she responded. “I‟m sorry.” And she meant it; she
could relate to what Robbie must be feeling.
“It‟s okay…” Robbie wasn‟t sure if he was telling the truth or not.
In the outskirts between New Andover and Kingsbury, chaos reigned. Buildings had been torn to
pieces, roofs removed. Almost all of the trees had been uprooted and there wasn‟t a car in sight, except
beneath the underpasses. Those cars didn‟t bode well; the roofs were all smooshed into the frame.
Limp, lifeless limbs dangled from mangled doors.
But Robbie kept going, trying to put that all behind him. He was quite relieved to finally cross the
Kingsbury town line; from there, he followed the blue signs marked with a white „H‟.
As he navigated the streets, Robbie couldn‟t help but stare at Liz in the back seat. She was sleeping
now, or maybe worse; he couldn‟t waste any time getting her to the ER. But he could still see her jacket
rising and falling with every breath.
I saved a life today.
When he wasn‟t looking at Liz, he was staring at the clock. It was almost noon now. If he expected to
get back in time to go to work in the morning, he wouldn‟t be able to spend much time looking after Liz.
Not that it would be a problem—he‟d been a good Samaritan, as soon as he got to the hospital, she
would be in the care of professionals.
They‟d probably never see each other again.
Robbie found the hospital and pulled in front of the Emergency Room entrance, killed the engine, and
hopped out. Liz didn‟t wake up when he tried to stir her, so he scooped her up in his arms and carried
her inside. She was transferred to a gurney, and disappeared into the bowels of the hospital, flanked on
every side by doctors.
At last, Liz was safe. Robbie retreated from the hospital, and got into his car.
But he stopped. He just sat there for a while, staring at the ignition.
Now, I leave. I go back home to Caitlin.
He wondered if Caitlin would ever ride a motorcycle, but quickly pushed the prospect from his mind.
Caitlin was a classy girly-girl, maybe even aristocratic at times. By no means would Robbie be able to
convince her to ride a Harley. Still, he found the prospect kind of sexy.
What was he thinking? After this, Liz would only be able to associate riding a motorcycle with one
deeply traumatic event. But then again, it was because Liz was on the bike that she hadn‟t been killed.
Robbie didn‟t even want to imagine what Liz would look like now, had she been driving a car.
Now, I leave. Back to Caitlin.
Still, his hand refused to work the key into the ignition. What would he say to Caitlin? She‟d be pissed
no matter what he said. Then again, Caitlin was always pissed. What was up with the way she acted this
morning?
I hope you don’t come back—asshole!
She probably hadn‟t meant it. In fact, he knew she didn‟t. She was probably just angry about being
awakened so early in the morning.
She was justified in her reaction, wasn‟t she?
Robbie shook his head. “What am I thinking…?” He asked himself aloud.
Finally, his fingers worked the key into the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life. But Robbie didn‟t
head for the road; he didn‟t jump on the highway and drive for six hours back to a screeching Caitlin.
He pulled around the side of the hospital, found a parking space, and left the phone in the passenger
(Continued on page 41)

40
(Into the Sky—Continued from page 40)

seat. Its screen displayed 12 Missed Calls.

Maybe Robbie lost his family that morning. Maybe he would lose his one true love in the days to
come. But whatever happened, he knew that he saved Elizabeth that morning, and he‟d done the right
thing.
He wandered back toward the ER, feeling oddly lighter, as though an enormous weight had been lifted
from his shoulders, one that he‟d never even known was there. Fate had brought he and Liz together.
Fate had to have a plan for a restless sleeper, and the one that didn’t fall into the sky. ∞

Recently, I had the opportunity to dissect—I mean interview—

author Missy Jane (@msmissyjane on Twitter). She’s quite person-
able and an amazing writer, so here she is to give you some in-
sights on writing and the publishing world.

What types of books do you write; genre and such? And do you
read the same genre you write?
So far I’ve written paranormal romance that borderlines urban
fantasy, and erotic romance. I do read those genres as well as
other genres of romance. Plus I read horror, literary fiction and
historical fiction.

What was your inspiration for They Call Me Death, or how did it come about?
The main character, Alexia, popped into my head as a female soldier standing guard atop a
wall and looking out over a bleak land. That scene came so vividly into my head I couldn’t
shake it and her story was born.

I understand there will be a sequel to this one. Can you give us any indication on its release
date?
Actually, though the sequel has been written, there is no release date. I’m sorry to say it was

41
rejected by my editor with no hope for a rewrite. At the moment my shifters are in limbo but
I’m working to resolve that.

What are some other books you’ve written?

I’ve written two other novellas and a short story and they are all erotic. Resignation and Two
Week Trial are available through Sapphire Blue Publishing. Two Week Trial is available through
Ellora’s Cave.

Can you name any authors that you absolutely MUST read the moment you see a new book
of theirs out?
Oh yeah, there are a few. Lora Leigh, Kerrelyn Sparks, Lindsay Sands and Kresley Cole. Also,
Stephen King and Stephen Lawhead. I’d say Laurell K. Hamilton is on that list for her Merry
Gentry series, but I think I’m Anita Blaked out right now. I bought Bullet and even had it auto-
graphed, but haven’t read it yet.

Why do you write in general? What motivates or inspires you to write or is inspiration for
your stories?
I began writing when a series I liked ended and I wasn’t ready to let go yet. That inspired me to
write something akin to that world and those characters, though not exactly the same. I’m of-
ten inspired by what I read, though ideas hit me at odd times and sometimes for no reason. I
thoroughly enjoy writing. I don’t know how a story is going to pan out until I’ve written it, so a
lot of times I feel the urge to write just to know what happens.

How did you get started in the publishing industry? Contests, conferences, writing groups,
etc.?
I hadn’t seriously considered getting published until I attended the Romantic Times magazine
Romance Writer’s Convention in 2008. I took a beginning writer’s class led by Judi McCoy and
she answered so many questions I didn’t even realize I had. She was awesome and very inspir-
ing. It was just the kick in the butt I needed to get a submission ready.

Can you give any hints as to what’s in store for future books?
Absolutely. I’m gearing up for NaNoWriMo and this year I’m working on a gargoyle story. It’s
paranormal romance all the way. I’ve also begun two other shifter stories (Katori and Sandulf)
that I may or may not submit to Samhain. Plus I’ve completed a story about an arch angel. It
needs some tweaking but may be ready for submission before anything else.

42
Tell our readers what books of yours are available and where they can purchase them.
They Call Me Death is the paranormal story of shape-shifters versus humans.
It’s available in print as well as e-book format: http://
samhainpublishing.com/authors/missy-jane

Resignation is an erotic tale of love found at the office:

http://www.sapphirebluepublishing.com/catalog/
product_info.php?cPath=42&products_id=65

Love in Disguise is an erotic short story set on Halloween: http://

www.sapphirebluepublishing.com/catalog/product_info.php?
products_id=71

Two Week Trial is a contemporary, erotic, fairy-tale

type story of unrequited desire sparking up again after
a few years of separation: http://
www.jasminejade.com/ps-8282-50-two-week-
trial.aspx

There are excerpts available for all of the books at the given links.

Any advice to aspiring authors out there on where to start in publishing?

Right now I’m with three different publishers and they all have pros and cons. My advice is to
do your homework. Make sure you read up on a publisher’s particular tastes before spending
the time on a submission. And most importantly, don’t give up. It’s not hard to get discour-
aged after a rejection but don’t let it keep you down. There are millions of readers out there.
Your work will find a home.

I’d like to say thank you to Missy Jane for visiting our magazine and talking about her books.
Now, go and check out her books. I’ve read They Call Me Death. It rocks!

43
 In the Arms of Death

Death is not coming, it's presently here

It has my possession
I will reap your soul with my touch
Walk beside me as you leave this world
No coldness or light will be
I will collect you, no evasion
You feel me in familiarity
Comfort in your quintessence
All names are to be written
Time will perish into dust
Living among you, waiting for Heaven
Don't fear me, adore me with your blight
Rest your harmony below the canvas
Love exists here, collapsing in enchantment
Loneliness ceases to hold you
I will not leave you, until you leave me
Happiness is subsequent, in the arms of death.

Allison Claire
44
(Malakh—Continued from page 26)

-term certificates of deposit. He could afford to live here, although he’d always preferred to live in smaller,
cheaper accommodations, such as my cozy apartment in Seward Park.
When he moved out of my apartment, I had no idea where he planned to go. His packing had been done
in bitter silence after a savage argument. The parting words he’d given me on his way out the door, the last of
his belongings stuffed into a box and held carelessly under one arm, had been surprisingly gentle.
“There’s something not right about him, Suze. You let me know when you figure out what.” In Ian-speak,
that translated to I’ll be here when things fall apart with him.
No, I hadn’t known to where he’d moved, but he’d never changed his phone number. I knew that be-
cause he called me every Christmas and birthday, and Caller ID doesn’t lie.
The terrible thought that I’d never get another of those calls was too much to bear. I curled up into a
tighter ball, wishing the sun could chase away the chill in my heart that had seemed to sink into my very
bones.
A hand smoothed down my back, and warmth and strength flooded through me. Russ. Russ and his dam-
nable otherworldly powers. My life had been ruined by his kind; I didn’t need his comfort or concern. I
shrugged away from his hand, perversely welcoming back the chill, the fierce ache in muscle and bone, the
gnawing hunger and persistent thirst.
“I’m only trying to help.”
“Famous last words.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Those are the very same words I said to Ian when Raum crashed on my roof and I mended him.” Some-
thing bothered me about this, but I was too weary to chase it down.
“I’m sure you meant well. You couldn’t have known what you were getting into.”
“It’s no excuse,” I said flatly.
A shadow fell between me and the sunlight. I opened my eyes to find Russ’s face close to mine. His eyes
shifted from blue to brown and settled somewhere near hazel.
“We’re almost done, Suzanne. Raum is close, I can feel him. And when it’s all settled and he’s dealt with, I
can take away the memory of all of this.”
“You can do that?”
“Yes. It’s generally how we handle these…situations when they happen.”
I considered the very tempting offer. To forget the last five years since the malakh had intruded in my life
would be heaven. But would it change an essential part of who I was? I didn’t want to lose identity; I just
wanted relief from the unrelenting longing and sorrow.
“It’s a kind offer,” I murmured, “but more than I deserve. Should we go?”
“Once you eat,” he said firmly. He pulled me upright and shoved the bag of beef jerky into my hands. I
hesitated only briefly, considering refusing, but again—what was the point? Placate him until we went our
separate ways, and then I could wallow in my misery until hunger or thirst ended it.
While I ate, he uncapped a bottle of Gatorade and set it by my knee. I wrinkled my nose, but I would drink
it. It was full of electrolytes and God knew this trek around Seattle was taking its toll on me. Abruptly I
stopped gnawing on the thin sheet of dried, teriyaki-flavored beef.
“You shielded me so he can’t find me. So why aren’t we taking the bus or a taxi? Why are we walking?”
(Continued on page 46)

45
(Malakh—Continued from page 45)

“The most safety I can provide is to make you invisible. It would be quite a trick to catch a cab or a bus
when no one can see us. How could we get the cab driver to take us where we want to go? What would the
bus driver think when his door won’t close after the last passenger he can see boards? Or the other passen-
gers when the seemingly vacant space before them is impassable?”
“I see your point.” Losing interest, I went back to the jerky, methodically chewing through what was left
in the bag without tasting it. I reluctantly chased it with the Gatorade, making faces as I swallowed but know-
ing I needed it. When I was done, he gathered my trash while I stood up and brushed the grass from my jeans.
My clean, brand new jeans. For the first time I realized the shirt I wore was clean and smelled new.
“You changed my clothes,” I said, a note of accusation sharpening my tone.
“You were very sick after we left Zanna’s house,” he said carefully. “I didn’t think you would want to walk
around Seattle in vomit-splattered clothing.”
I flushed. “I don’t remember that, but you’re right. I wouldn’t have wanted to do that. But…I don’t know.
It just seems a little…creepy.” Perverted, more like.
“I’ve seen naked human women before. You have nothing I want, Suzanne.”
“So unlike others of your kind, you don’t find us humans attractive?”
“Of course you’re attractive. I just have more control over myself than others of my species. Let’s go,
Suzanne. We don’t have far to walk this time.”
We crossed the park and turned north on the first street we came to. I didn’t pay attention to the street
signs until the road curved west and became East Shelby Street. I knew where we were now; definitely the
Montlake neighborhood. On the other side of the houses to our right was the Montlake Cut, a manmade wa-
terway connecting Portage Bay to Union Bay. If we turned north on the intersection up ahead, we’d cross the
Montlake Bridge, a drawbridge that allowed ships passage through the Cut and which connected the north
shore with the south shore.
I rather doubted we would cross the bridge, however; the north shore was dedicated mostly to the Uni-
versity of Washington. Sure enough, we crossed Montlake Boulevard and continued west on East Shelby. The
houses were graceful but aging, lawns well-kept but not obsessively so. It was exactly the kind of neighbor-
hood where Ian would live—not slummy or urban but not pretentious either, because he was none of those
things.
We walked side by side, Russ and I, our strides steadily eating up the distance between not knowing and
a grief so deep I could barely fathom it. But I’ve never been a coward, and I didn’t falter. Just as I had once
been forced to confess to Zanna that I had committed the most heinous of the Best Friend’s Unpardonable
Sins, I didn’t shrink from facing what was waiting for me in Ian’s house.
As we approached a curve in the road where East Shelby Street became West Park Drive East, Russ
paused, turning toward a large Victorian house on our right. It was obvious the owner was in the middle of
painting it; large splotches of flaking paint had been scraped away, and a ladder lay along the side of the
house. The trim was already neatly smoothed and freshly coated with rich color.
“Are you ready, Suzanne?”
I swallowed over a hard lump in my throat. “What are we going to find inside?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It could be, simply, that we’ll find Ian unharmed. Then again…”
“Is this really Ian’s house?”
Russ sniffed the air, inhaling deeply, his eyes closed, and then he nodded. “Yes.”
(Continued on page 47)

46
(Malakh—Continued from page 46)

I stared at the house, trying to envision Ian painting the lap siding sage green, applying the terra cotta red
to the eaves, a lighter terra cotta orange to the trim around the windows. I could see his fetish for detail en-
couraging him to brush burnt yellow in accent X’s above the windows and in various other small areas that
made the whole color scheme pop.
It didn’t take much imagination. Ian was very creative, and earth tones were his bag. I could see him on a
cool spring day, his wide-shouldered, muscled frame encased in an earth-brown pull-over sweater, raking a
hand through his windblown hair as he matched exterior paint chips to find the best combination of colors
for the Queen Anne Victorian before us now.
I felt drawn to the house, pulled toward it as though coming home. The colors beckoned me, spoke of
comfort and acceptance, rest and peace, and I knew then that Russ was right: this was Ian’s house, and he
had painted it all the colors I loved best, all the colors that had pervaded our cozy apartment.
He had painted this house for me.
My feet stopped, and I was unable to make them take another step although walking was a relief com-
pared to the ache from ankle to hip when standing still. Russ stopped beside me and simply waited.
“It’s my house,” I whispered. “He did it for me.”
“Yes,” he whispered back.
“Why?” I was only vaguely aware of the tears pouring down my cheeks. “Why would he do that?”
“He knew Raum had left you. He always knew that someday you’d come up this walk.”
“That’s silly.” But even if it was silly, it was also sweet. Sweet and—
“That’s faith,” Russ corrected softly. “What are you afraid of? Why did you stop?”
I couldn’t drag my eyes from the house. “You know why.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m afraid I’m too late. That he’s…that he’s…”
“Dead?”
“Yes.”
He inhaled long and deep of the afternoon air, scenting something on the mild breeze blowing across the
Montlake Cut. The day had taken on the golden light of a summer afternoon, that ageless quality when you’re
certain that time has stopped and you can live an eternity without aging, drinking your fill of life and love and
youth until your soul is drunk with it.
It came to me suddenly in that still, timeless moment what had bothered me earlier when I’d been think-
ing of Raum.
Can’t you just…fly us somewhere?
He lied to you about that. It doesn’t work that way.
“Russ,” I said slowly, still staring out at the Cut. “Do you know how I met Raum?”
“He was wounded and you found him, nursed him back to health.” He shrugged, unconcerned.
“He crash-landed on the roof of my apartment. We—Ian and I—lived in one of those classy old brick
apartment buildings with a flat roof that was set up as a courtyard, with raised gardens and those quaint little
wrought iron ice cream tables.”

(Continued on page 48)

47
(Malakh—Continued from page 47)

He didn’t say anything, just waited for me to continue, one brow raised over a copper-colored eye.
“I was on the roof at one in the morning, drinking wine and thinking about Zanna. It was her birthday.”
My eyes didn’t see the Painted Lady before me now; they looked into the past to the hot summer night that
had changed my life. I don’t know if I’d heard a sound or seen a shadow, but something had made me look up
in time to see the angel descending from the sky like judgment itself, glorious wings unfurled, black against
the midnight-blue sky. Black to match his hair.
He saw me looking up. Perhaps I’d made a sound to alert him. He checked his flight in alarm, caught his
foot on the roof of the enclosed stairway, and crashed onto the gravel with a shout of pain.
Then his eyes caught mine, green like a verdant meadow, a green unlike anything on this earth, and that
was the start of the unraveling of my will.
“He should have been invisible. He never should have taken the chance and allowed you to see him.”
“I know. He told me. But I did see him, and from the first look it was too late. He’d fallen on his wing and
sprained it, so he couldn’t shift his appearance completely, just enough to make his wings mostly unnotice-
able under a tee-shirt. He couldn’t fly, either. So I took him downstairs to our apartment, gave him a shirt and
a cover story, and woke Ian.”
And that was the beginning of my end. Ian seemed insubstantial compared to the angel, and even though
Raum had tried to fade into the background, in a small amount of time he completely eclipsed Ian. I had let
Ian go with hardly a qualm and had not regretted it once until after Raum had left me and I’d come back to
my human senses.
“But you didn’t get the point of this story, Russ. He had wings. He was flying. You told me angels don’t
fly.”
He looked stunned. “When did I ever tell you that?”
“When I first met you. I asked if you could just fly us to wherever we were going, and you said he lied to
me about that, it didn’t work that way.”
He stared at me openmouthed, and then began laughing. He laughed long and hard before he brought
himself under control and slipped his arm around me.
“Forgive me, Suzanne. That struck me as very funny.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“It’s just that you humans are so literal.” He turned me around to face him, and cupped his hands on ei-
ther side of my face. “I didn’t mean we can’t fly. I meant that we can’t just fly you to wherever we need you
to go. We’re a marvel of balance and strength. Our wingspan and the strength of the muscles required to fly
are enough to serve us…but not enough to carry a passenger.”
Hot color flooded my face and I tried to turn away. “Oh.” I frowned again.
“What else?”
“You said you can’t vanish from here and appear in Venice in an instant. Is that true?”
He sighed. “Your instant or my instant?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Major difference. A year in your realm is just a blip in time for me.”
(Continued on page 49)

48
(Malakh—Continued from page 48)

“So what looks like an instantaneous jump from one continent to another to me actually takes less time,”
I concluded.
“No. We don’t…it doesn’t work that way.” He seemed frustrated. “It’s so hard to explain to a human.
When we move long distances, we don’t move in this realm. It’s easier for us in our own dimension. Time is
different for us there, more like time is here for you. By your standards, we relocate instantaneously, but
moving through my realm is to me like taking a long journey.”
“Then why not travel through mine?”
“We can’t fly across the ocean without a rest.”
“Can’t you just land in the water and rest?”
He quirked a wry smile at me. “Sure, if I want to drown. I can die just like you can, Suzanne. I have to
swim to stay afloat. And then my wings get wet, and they have to dry before I can fly again.” He shook his
head. “Your species has some odd ideas about angels.”
I studied him with suspicion for another long moment, but he didn’t flinch away from my gaze, and I fi-
nally decided he was telling the truth. I let a smile curve my mouth just a little.
“All right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I don’t trust you.”
“You shouldn’t trust me, Suzanne,” he countered harshly. “I said I’m able to resist the temptation of your
species, but I never said I was immune to your attraction. You’re right to question me, to reserve your trust.
You’ve already been ill-used by my kind.”
“But you’re helping me track him down and bring him to justice.”
“That doesn’t make me a paragon of virtue. I’m just as susceptible to temptation as the next angel.”
“Well, that doesn’t exactly put me at ease.”
“Good. Now, shall we go?”
I turned my attention back to the house. Again the color palette called to me, beckoning me, seducing
me. A house painted just for me, by a man who had every reason to hate me but, from all evidence, did not.
“Yes, let’s go.”
The walk was long and winding, carrying us past tasteful gardens. Flowers bloomed riotously, thriving in
the capricious Seattle weather. The lawn was lush and freshly mown; the sweet scent of newly cut grass still
lingered in the warm air.
The flagstone walk ended, and now I could see the tools of Ian’s labor on the front porch: paint cans,
long wooden stir sticks, rags, rollers, brushes, rolls of plastic sheeting. And—so Ian that I nearly fell to my
knees and wept—the brown pull-over sweater I’d envisioned him wearing, tossed carelessly over the back of
a wooden Adirondack stained the same orange terra cotta as the trim around the windows.
My knees trembled as we went up the steps. My whole body shook by the time we crossed the wide
planks of the porch. I thought I might faint as Russ raised his hand and rapped on the screen door, and then
opened it and turned the front door knob, letting us into the foyer.
Ian’s voice rang out from the back of the house—“Be there in a minute!”—for he hadn’t heard our silent
entry.
He was alive!
Russ fell in behind me as I tracked Ian’s voice down the narrow hallway. His back was to us as we entered
(Continued on page 50)

49
(Malakh—Continued from page 49)

the kitchen, a snug tee-shirt flexed over his muscular shoulders as he cut oranges into wedges. My eyes drank
him in, but I could take no more steps. A gulf remained between us, broader than the ten feet that separated
us. It was the gulf of betrayal and pain and abandonment.
Ian turned. His eyes behind the familiar gold-rimmed glasses opened wide with shock. The bowl of
orange wedges slipped from his paint-speckled hands and shattered on the floor.
“Suzanne!” Barely a whisper, his voice cracked, broke. “Oh my God, Suzanne, where have you been? I’ve
been frantic!”
A cold chill raced down my spine. “What are you talking about, Ian?”
He took three steps to the right, snagged a newspaper from a careless stack on the breakfast table, and
shoved it in my face. The same paper I’d seen at Zanna’s, but this time I could read the whole headline.
Police call off search for missing bank executive Suzanne Harper after six weeks. ∞

(Tir na nOg II—Continued from page 27)

“I know why you’re here,” she said, her voice as calm as the waters were once again.
“Obviously.” He touched his sword’s hilt. “Drop what’s in your hands.” He gave the command
just in case she had a dagger hidden within the small bundle, but other reasons certainly entered his
mind.
Without a word, she complied and stood naked before him, her eyes never leaving his.
He spoke without distraction. “I’ll make this quick.”
“One question?” At her query, he nodded. “Do they ever tell you why?”
He smiled and shook his head. “And I don’t ask.”
“Why is that?”
“You said one question.”
“Yes, I know …”
“You’re delaying the inevitable.”
She took a deep breath, the rise of her breasts threatening to dissuade him from his task. “I’ll
have you know that I’m not afraid of Death. I’ve met him before.”
“Then you can get reacquainted.” With grim determination, he pulled his sword.
“I know why Zachariah wishes me dead.” His sword stopped halfway out its sheath. “Should I
tell you?”
“No.” He continued to withdraw his sword while trying to remember exactly how to kill her
kind. It wasn’t every day one killed a Fae.
Niamh didn’t move, which intrigued him even more. “I see. It doesn’t matter to you because
you’ve already been paid.”
Cael smirked. “That would be correct.”
“It should matter, Cael.”
He felt a tap on his right shoulder. “Sheathe it,” the man behind him commanded. Cael dropped
his sword back into its sheath and smiled at her.
“Very well done,” he said and raised his hands above his head, eventually placing them atop his
sleek hair while her guards searched him for weapons and took every last one of them.
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She returned the smile. “Thank you. You didn’t truly believe I would bathe without my guards
nearby?”
Cael shrugged. “It was worth a shot.” In truth, Cael knew better. He was curious if she would let
him go again.
Sean looked at her, waiting for her command, as he grabbed Cael.
Niamh picked up her clothes. “Take him away … and let him go.”
Sean shook his head, disappointed by her decision. Jerking Cael around by the elbow, Sean
roughly pushed him toward the path. Niamh chuckled as she draped her cloak over her arm and
walked in the opposite direction. Cael craned his head back for one last look at her, but Sean
pricked Cael’s back with the point of his short sword.
Cael carefully aimed his sarcasm. “Only her guards may see her bare-skinned?”
Sean glared, and then placed his foot across Cael’s as they walked. Cael stumbled forward and
fell to the ground.
Sean laughed humorlessly. “Watch your step. This forest can kill you if you’re not careful.”
“I’m certain it has help.” He pushed himself up and stood.
Sean laughed again and walked Cael far from the camp. He turned to him before letting him go.
“I want you to know that have I not such great respect for her, I would have killed you the first
time.”
“Understandably so. I’m surprised you didn’t,” Cael replied. “And is that all that keeps you from
taking my life?”
“No,” Sean said. “You amuse her. She knows when you’re coming, and will tire of this game
soon. Then she will order your death, which I’ll be only too happy to carry out.”
Cael smiled at him. Somehow, he doubted she would tire of him, though he didn’t doubt that
Sean wanted to kill him. Something disturbed him about the man. It was in the way he said
‘respect.’ He didn’t trust him. Cael laughed inwardly at his thoughts on the subject. Trust was a
good way to get oneself killed, so he trusted no one, save for his horse, Gohlyath, and perhaps one
giant of a man. It tended to be a very lonely profession. Sean pushed him forward, and he and his
men watched Cael disappear into the trees, but before Cael trekked too far, an arrow hit the tree he
was about to pass. It was a warning that narrowly missed his head. He looked at it, and then looked
back at Sean, who smirked. That smile alone told Cael something. Cael pulled the arrow from the
tree, ran around it, and deeper into the woods.
He wandered about, calling for his horse, when the colossal steed finally appeared, trotted up
to him, and he mounted the black beast.
“Took you long enough, Gohlyath,” he said as he patted his neck. Gohlyath snorted and can-
tered off deep into the woods.
“That’s twice now, Gohlyath, that she hasn’t put me to death,” he said. “I wonder why?”
Gohlyath neighed, his head shaking back and forth, up and down, seeming to answer Cael’s
question.
“Oh, what do you know?” Cael teased. He took the reins and led him to a cave, their stop for
the day until Niamh’s camp bedded down.

“Why do you keep letting him go?” Sean asked as he paced back and forth across the carpeted
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floor of Niamh’s tent.

“He won’t kill me,” Niamh replied as she sat at her desk and initialed some paperwork.
“Is that so?” She nodded silently. “He’s made two attempts now …”
“And failed at both.”
“Yes, but if he catches you off guard …”
“That won’t happen,” she replied and looked up with an arch of her eyebrow and a smirk on
her full lips.
“And if it does?” Sean asked, treading a fine line of insubordination for questioning his queen.
“Then you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you were correct,” she quipped.
“That’s not amusing, Niamh.”
“Don’t fret, Sean,” she said. “You always worry too much.”
“As your High Guard, it’s my job to worry,” he stated. “Why do you have to play these games
with him?”
“I enjoy it.” Her brow creased, and then she looked up at him again. “I think we should move
our camp to a different location. What do you think of the old temple just on the other side of the
mountain here?” She pointed it out to him on the map spread before her.
“Good. It offers cover and drinkable water. However, the road won’t be kind.”
“Yes, but it gets us farther away from Zachariah.”
“And that assassin.”
Niamh smirked. “Don’t worry about the assassin. I have plans for him.”
Sean merely grunted as he folded his arms over his chest and studied the map.
She leaned forward, placing a hand on either side of the map, and sighed deeply. “This is all be-
cause of him.”
“What are your intentions?”
“Kill him, I suppose.”
“Cael?” Sean asked with a tad of enthusiasm.
“No, Zachariah!” Sean’s face became sullen. “Stop pouting.”
“Then quit letting Cael go. He’s a hired assassin who won’t stop until his mark is dead, whatever
your plans are for him!”
“I know what he is, and you don’t need to raise your voice to me.”
“While you insist on playing these ridiculous games …”
She stood, but slammed her fist on the desk. “I am still Queen!”
Sean immediately bowed his head. “Yes, your majesty, you are, but …”
“Then you’ll obey my orders,” she yelled. “And if you don’t, I’ll find someone to replace you.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
Anger flashed in her eyes and her hand snapped forward, pointing at the entrance. “Leave me.”
Sean bowed once more, turned, and left her tent for the night. Never yell at the Queen. It’s a
good way to lose your head. If he wasn’t High Guard, his would be on its way to the block.

“Insubordinate,” Niamh muttered as she disappeared behind the curtain and headed to her bed
where her wolf, Xion, lay. Sean was lucky he stood in high regard; otherwise, his head would find
itself separated from his shoulders. She scanned this small room of her tent before removing her
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armor and weapons and laid them near the bed. Once undressed, she crawled under the many soft
pelts. It didn’t take long before her eyelids grew heavy and her mind drifted toward the realm of
dreams, but a low rumble left Xion’s throat, jerking her awake. Niamh slipped her hand under the
pillow, then brought it under the pelts again and laid perfectly still, mimicking sleep.
When something hit the floor with a quiet thud, Xion quickly left her side. Niamh used the trick
in the past, and as she listened to Xion chew on her bribe, she thought, Damn beast. Now she’d
have to train her on that note. Soon, she could feel Cael’s weight upon the bed.
Inch by inch he slowly crawled up until his face met hers. He pulled the dagger from his mouth
with care and placed it under her chin.
Her eyes opened. “Back so soon?” she whispered. He nodded, but was curious as to why she
wasn’t surprised. “If I were you, I’d think about this first.”
“You’re not me,” he replied in a hushed tone. He quickly drew in a breath as he felt her dagger
poke his side. In that short breath, he smelled the sweetest aroma. Saphrene berries. Damn her, he
thought as the scent clouded his mind. As though her damn Fae voice wasn’t enough.
She smiled at him. “What now?”
“I’m not certain,” he replied. “This has never happened before.”
“Well, I wouldn’t think that an assassin would kill someone in this manner,” she said, speaking
of the way he‘d positioned himself.
“This is how I’ve chosen to kill you.”
“Looming over me, feeling powerful?”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She chuckled. “I suggest negotiations are in order.”
“Considering the situation, I’m up for negotiation.” He moved his dagger down so she could
speak more clearly and he felt her dagger back away from his side, if only a little. The move made
him smile.
“Zachariah paid you to kill me, correct?”
“Yes, and even if you offer more, I’ll honor my deal with him.”
“But what if I were to double your pay?”
His right brow arched, as she had definitely intrigued him. “People are always willing to offer up
everything they can think of in order to save their lives.” He lowered his head until his lips neared
her ear. “But what kind of assassin would I be to take them up on it?”
“Not a very good one, I suppose,” she whispered, her breath floating over his ear and sending a
shuddering tingle down his spine.
Cael closed his eyes and drew her scent in once more to smell the berries coming from her hair.
“Exactly.” He licked his lips in anticipation of tasting her, and pulled back to look into her blue-
purple eyes. “However, this is quite a different situation, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is.” Niamh smiled sweetly as her voice sang. He was helpless. “Will you do it?”
“Hmm …” He couldn’t believe the consideration was in his mind. Then again, perhaps he could
take the money from her and kill her sometime later. But Cael knew that he’d have trouble killing
the woman, rather than just a mark. That revelation irked him. When had she turned into a woman
to him? Was it the first moment he saw her, or perhaps it was earlier in the day at the lagoon?
Maybe it was the moment he smelled that wonderful scent emanating from her. To cover his hesita-
tion, he reopened the subject. “Why does Zachariah want you dead?” Since she’d brought the sub-
ject up, he wanted to know.
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“I wouldn’t accept his love,” she stated.

“Come now, I know there’s more to it than that. A man can’t just kill a Queen, and love is no
matter when it comes to treaties.” He knew Zachariah couldn’t possibly know the meaning of the
word love. He was a filthy, vulgar man. Zachariah also would never become the true King of these
lands unless Niamh married him or she was dead. The latter tended to not ever happen to the Fae,
so it perplexed Cael.
Niamh lay silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, a sad tone filled her voice. “I loved
his brother, Xavier, whom I met at my coronation. He and I were to marry many moons later, but I
think Zachariah had Xavier killed because he wanted me for himself, as well as my lands.”
Unwilling to be drawn in, Cael chuckled under his breath. “And what makes you so special?” At
her glare, he continued to joke. “Now, now, don’t burn my eyes out with that look.”
“Remove your dagger from my throat,” she commanded.
“Ah, touchy. I was beginning to think nothing could get to you.”
“I won’t tell you again.”
Cael smirked. “Very well,” he replied, and did so. As his dagger lowered, so did hers. Their eyes
locked in the dim light as their silent test of will continued. Aware of her body beneath his, of her
breath on his ear, of the sweet dizzying scent surrounding her, he leaned down and pressed his lips
against hers.
Niamh felt his anger, his frustration, and his desire in that kiss. “Until we meet again, Niamh.”
As he fled the tent, Niamh realized then he would never kill her, and she smiled as she slipped
the dagger beneath her pillow once more. “Until then, Cael,” she whispered before falling off into a
deep sleep. ∞

(Where Do You...Ideas—Continued from page 27)

“Yes,” he responded, his expression eager and somehow hungry, “You’re her. You’re Doris Lynch.”
Then she remembered that she had seen this young man before, and knew where, too. That convinced
her that it was going to be one of those conversations, and sighed. “You were at my reading yesterday,” she
said finally, “You asked where I got my ideas from.” She didn’t mention that she’d noticed him go around to
the back of the line and get ready to ask another question, leading her to wrap up the Q&A with a little more
alacrity than she usually did for a home-town crowd.
“You remember me!” he was delighted. He was also, now she came to look at him, extremely gaunt. His
hair was carefully wild (she could tell as he’d clearly come through the rain, judging by the state of his clothes,
and it still hadn’t moved), and his clothing looked as though before it had gone through a washing machine a
few hundred times, it had once been black. His drainpipe jeans were still a little loose on him, gathered up as
tight as possible at the waistband by a large studded belt with a logo from one of her books.
Doris heard the roar of an engine, and looked past the young man to see her bus approaching. She stood
up and smiled benevolently. “Well, it’s always nice to meet a fan,” she said, and walked outside to wait for
the bus, silently thanking the higher power that had brought the bus before he could ask her any odd ques-
tions.
But the young man got up and stood next to her. “This is my bus, too” he said, and followed her on
board. She sat in the section at the front reserved for the elderly. He sat opposite her.
“I wanted to ask you,” he began, and she groaned inwardly, “If you had any advice for someone who wants
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(Where Do you...Ideas—Continued from page 54)

to be a writer?” But he was so sincere, his eyes wide with this opportunity to have the great DORIS LYNCH all
to himself, that she decided to be kind. She always decided to be kind. She was never quite sure if that was a
good thing. “It’s very simple,” she replied, relaxing into the role she had played so many times before in the
same situations, “write something. As often, and for as long, as you can. Finish it. Write something else. I
keep a notebook with me, always, to write down ideas when they come to me.”
The young man looked sour. “There’s more to it,” he said. It was not a question. “I do that already. No-
body will publish me. I want what you have.”
“Well, you just need to keep trying…” she began.
“NO!” he said, suddenly angry. “I know there’s something more. I know it.”
Doris looked nervously out of the window. She recognised the garage they were passing. They would be at
her stop soon. It was right by her door. She could just get inside and call the police, maybe.
“You’ve got something in your house”, he said, “A silver knife. I’ve seen you use it.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice trembling.
“I do- I was awake late last Friday night and I went for a walk down my street. I heard the bleating. I saw the
light from the doorway. I watched you with the knife. That poor animal. I went a bit closer- I couldn’t believe
it when I saw who you were. Doris Lynch, living there and doing that! On my street! And I knew that was it-
the secret.”
Doris cursed her bad luck; she knew she should have checked that nobody was around.
“You’re going to tell me about the ritual,” he said, “or I’m going to tell people about it.”
“And what good will that do?” she replied, tartly, “Who do you think they’ll believe? A crazed fan? Or a dis-
mayed and gentle old writer, living quietly by herself?”
“They’ll believe me,” he said, utterly confident. “Because you’re famous, and you’re still doing it. So you must
have to do it regularly. Next time, I’ll be waiting for you, and I’ll get photographs. You’ll have to perform the
ritual again some time. And then I’ll show the world, and every no-account 15 year old who writes stories full
of angst and sexy monsters will try and do the same thing, and your ritual won’t give you anything any more! I
know how these things work.”
Doris stood up and rang the bell to get off the bus. The young man followed her. She walked in silence.
When they got to her gate, she turned and fixed the young man with a hard stare.
“So. You’ll do anything to get published, and you think you know about the ritual. Alright then.”
The young man was taken aback. He had not, in truth, expected her to actually tell him anything. He had ex-
pected her to deny it. Still, this was it! What he had been desperate to know- the Secret.
Doris waited patiently as he fumbled for a notebook, then with a wicked grin told him not to write it down,
not ever. He would just have to remember.
“You’ll need a goat, and a sharp silver knife. Mark the knife with a rune for power, a rune for fire, and a rune
for truth.”
“Where do I find out what those look like?” he asked, somewhat dismayed.
“Where do you think? Look up ‘runes’ on Wikipedia, or Google it. Some schmuck will have a website about
them. They always do. Then you wait until you hear the clock on St Barnabas chime midnight. Time the chimes
carefully, because you have to slit the goat’s throat open at the moment when the clock would chime 13, if it
was going to- exactly then, so count carefully. And you have to do it at the full moon. Then wipe the blood on
your knife, and on your hands, over the lintel of your door, and shut the door. There will come three knocks
on the door. Don’t open the door. After that there will be 5 knocks on the door.” She paused.
“And what happens then?” he said, excitement now burning away the fear.
“You open the door. And much good may it do you.”
And so the young man bade farewell to the Doris Lynch, and he went home. He went to visit his grand-
mother, and took one of her silver dinner knives, and had it sharpened to a point. He found the runes, and
carved them in place on the blade. He paid some drunken students fifty quid to steal a goat. They thought it
was hilarious, and told so many people, who told so many people, that it passed into urban legend.
The young man kept an eye on the lunar calendar; he stayed awake every night for a week, counting the
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(Where Do You...Ideas—Continued from page 55)

chimes, practicing until he was counting in his sleep, at work, at home, always counting.
The night of the Full Moon arrived.
He dressed in the blackest (well, the newest) clothes he had. He led the goat to his doorway, keeping the
hall lights off in case anyone should see him and stop him- he had learned, after all, from how he had found
out about it in the first place. He waited, patiently, stroking the goat and calming it, telling it that it was doing
something important, helping him achieve the greatness that always should have been his. The chimes
started, and he counted, carefully. It was surprisingly easy to ignore the animal’s terrified struggling as he
sliced into its neck and felt the blood, warm and thick, running over his hands, smelt the iron smell of it, a tang
on the back of the scent of the animal’s urination, and, truth be told, his own, for he was so nervous. He
heard it patter like spilled tea on the tiles. The animal jerked once more, and was still. He stood up, and duti-
fully wiped knife and hands over as much of the door lintel as he could (he had had to Google that to, to find
out what Doris had meant). He shut the door, and waited.
Three knocks, loud and bold, frightening and determined. The wind had begun to howl outside. He
waited.
The wind died down. Silence fell.
Then five knocks, gentler this time, more tremulous. He stood up. It had worked! He had wondered if it
would. There was a hooded figure outside on the path. The figure, bent slightly against the winter air, re-
moved their hood. It was an old man. He looked at the young man.
“Well, what is it you’re after?” he asked. “Singing? Dancing? No…” he said, not waiting for a response.
“You’re a writer.” He called something in a tongue that made the young man’s head ache to hear it. The
young man blinked, and the old man was gone, replaced by a tall and impossibly beautiful woman. She
smiled, and he was lost. She walked toward him, and he knew he would do anything, anything she wanted, if
only she would approve.
She kissed him, firmly, on the lips. After, he could have sworn he felt welts, blisters, around his mouth. He did
not care. He would do anything for her.
She leaned towards his ear.
“Write.” She said simply. He breathed out a sigh, and she was gone.
For the next week, nobody saw anything of the young man. His friends couldn’t reach him on the phone,
he never went out. If you had walked past the house, you would have seen an unusual brown colouration
around the door, and heard the sound of furious typing.
Six weeks later, Conrad McLean published his first novel. It introduced a grizzled detective with Gulf War
Syndrome who was trying to unravel a vicious string of murders in his home town. It was modestly successful,
making enough for the publishers to give the young man, Conrad, a five-book deal. He went through panel
discussions, TV interviews, book signings, in a daze. He could not say where he got his ideas from. His advice,
delivered smugly, to other aspiring writers was to keep writing, it would happen for them one day.
And every night, he went straight home and wrote, as much and as often as he could.
Three more books appeared. They hovered in the top 10 for months.
Female fans lined up at the signings, for he was young and his fame made him attractive, and he wrote
about dangerous things that made them shiver with excitement. But Conrad McLean ignored their body lan-
guage, their clear willingness to do anything for him, or with him. He went home, and carried on writing.
The next book was the story of a young writer, found dead in their home, and of the. It had soaring trag-
edy, killer plot twists, a great nemesis for the detective, a satisfying, if not happy, ending. It went straight to
the top of the bestseller list. But Conrad McLean was not alive to see it.
Shortly after receiving his proof copy and cover artwork, Conrad McLean had died in mysterious circum-
stances, at his home.
The news of his death sent sales of ‘The Supernaturalist’ rocketing, and the internet was rife with people
who had read the book carefully and confidently asserted that McLean had predicted his own death- that the
bit about occult rituals was a warning to others.
Doris Lynch read his obituary aloud. A few of her fellow authors pulled off the hoods of their black cloaks
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to hear properly. The monthly Group Ritual and Committee Meeting was over, and now it was time for coffee.
“Didn’t you warn him?” said the crazy-haired New-York-Times-Bestselling fantasy writer.
“He did the ritual right, didn’t he?” said the billionaire children’s author.
“Who made this banana bread? It’s delicious!” said the writer of all those gory horror books, who was really
only there for the cakes and the trip to the pub afterwards.
Doris drew herself up in the carved wooden throne denoting her status as Chairwoman of their mystic alli-
ance, and addressed herself to the children’s author. “Why would I do a thing like that? Would you have
wanted Conrad McLean turning up at our meetings?”
They agreed that they would not. They had all seen Conrad McLean on The Tonight Show.
“Kid should have known better than to write a Mary-Sue” said the horror writer.
The Literati shook their heads, sadly, lamenting the impetuousness of youth. ∞

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