THE NICK OF TIME (and other abrasions) Precious Artifacts by Al Bruno III rev 1.

Copyright Al Bruno III 2011 Smashwords Edition License Notes: This free ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, and the reader is not charged to access it.

The Nick Of Time (and other Abrasions) Parthenogenesis by Al Bruno III The following story was originally published by Eden Studios

. . . shapes moving in the half-light . . . the falling droplets spatter hollowly on their dark hides . . . I fought my way to awareness, taking in distorted gasps of the waking world before the dream pulled me back down like a savage undertow. . . . faces that are not faces, with mouths that jut and wide eyes that

glitter and reflect . . . Whimpering, I fought to keep my eyes from closing. The musty bed creaked beneath me as I twisted and thrashed. . . . they know me . . . they chose me . . . their slick, gloved hands conceal a brutal strength . . . Choking back a cry, I found myself fully awake and half-falling out of bed. My clothes were damp with sweat and I couldn't stop shivering. I let myself slide the rest of the way to the floor and sat there cocooned in the dank bedclothes. I didn't know where I was, but this sure as Hell wasn't my bed. Slivers of memory came back to me -- a wedding reception, too much to drink and harsh words with a woman whose face I could barely recall. A relative? A friend? A lover? I tried to think but my stupor had robbed me of any coherent recollection. Christ! I had a class in the morning -- the last one before mid-term exams! I struggled out of the bedclothes and got to my feet. The room I was in offered no tangible clues as to where I was. Thick boards had been nailed over the windows, the frayed rug was a black and white chessboard pattern. The paint on the walls and ceiling was cracked and rotted away, revealing sable wallpaper. The bed was slender as a coffin and sagged in the middle, the nightstand beside it had no drawers, just gaping sockets. A single lamp illuminated the room with faint yellow light. It certainly felt like a motel room but there were none of the usual motel room amenities like a pad of paper, a bible or a telephone. Something about the place disturbed me -- more than my inability to remember where I was or how I'd gotten here. Had I really been that drunk last night? And where for that matter was my fiance? Visions of all my personal possessions lying on the front lawn spurred me to action. There were two doors on either side of the closet, one of them had to

be the exit. My first guess landed me in the bathroom. Oh well, I thought as I flicked on the lights, best make use of the facilities while I'm here. Puddles sat on the tile floor, veins of mold crawled along the underside of the toilet. A strange coppery scent hung in the air. I caught sight of my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. My suit looked like I had run the three-minute mile in it, my gray eyes were underlined with dark circles. Somewhere in the course of the previous night's adventures I had lost my best silk tie. I relieved myself quickly, afraid to touch anything with my hands, and stepped back out into the room. I debated between sneaking out or searching for a front desk to pay my bill, when I heard a voice out in the hall, a female voice. " . . . who's there? Come back!" "Hello!" I answered, relieved that I wasn't alone. "Who's there?" "My name's Ron," I stepped outside, "Ronald Mills, and I know this is going to sound crazy, but I don't have the slightest idea where I am." I found the hallway in no better condition than the room. It was a foulsmelling, crazy quilt of peeling paint and decaying plaster. Piles of debris, some almost waist high, ran along the left side of the hall. The sprinklers were rusty and dripping. More and more I had to wonder if I had stumbled into a condemned building. "You don't know where you are either?" There was a tremor of fear in the woman's voice. She was short and slender with long dark hair. She wore a sweater and faded bluejeans. However she had gotten here, she had gotten here without shoes, her feet were bloodied and filthy. "What's your name?" "Betty Hodgins."

"What do you remember?" She paused thoughtfully. "It was about ten thirty, I had just gotten home from work. I kicked off my shoes and tried to turn on my apartment lights but there must have been a fuse out. It was pitch black. I was trying to feel my way to the phone when my . . . my hand brushed something." "What was it?" "I don't know, it was greasy and . . . and . . . and it felt like skin." . . . slick gloved hands . . . A memory tried to stir but something held it at bay. "And the next thing I knew," she concluded, "I woke up here." First slipping off one shoe and then another I said, "The problem is that we don't know where here is." She tried to refuse the shoes but I insisted. "I was searching for an exit," hissing with pain, she carefully slipped the shoes over her wounded feet, "but this place is huge. It's like some kind of a maze." "How long have you been here?" "I don't know my watch was gone when I woke up." I checked my wrist, "Mine too. Have you discovered anything?" "There are elevators but none of them are running," she pointed back the way she had come, "and I haven't found any stairwells. All the doors around here are either locked with a deadbolt or torn off their hinges." "Wonderful." I looked first to one end of the hall and then the other, both went on for several yards and then branched out, "None of the locked doors have room numbers on them either."

"Yeah," she paused to peer into my room, "and all the windows are boarded up." "I don't like this." I went over to one of the piles of debris and yanked out a sizable board. I pulled out a second and handed it to her, "Who were you talking to when I came out into the hall?" She hefted her board uncertainly, "I don't know, I thought I saw somebody." "Well, lets keep heading the way you were going." "Sure." Betty said, "And watch your step, there are nails everywhere." One corridor spilled into another, one hour of exploration became three. We found no shortage of doors, some of them locked and some not, but we failed to find any that led to the outside world. It was kind of funny in a way, to feel trapped in a place so vast. As we continued to explore we found more mysteries -- corridors that doubled back upon themselves, rooms filled with stacks of waterdamaged books, and wide chambers empty of anything save for a few pitiful mounds of sodden clothing. Padlocked steel gates blocked en try to the non-functional elevators and neatly bisected some of the corridors. Sometimes we got the feeling that we were being watched. One of us would spy a furtive movement out of the corner of our eye, but when we tried to investigate we found nothing except more hallways and dead ends. I found out more about Betty than I did about our surroundings. She was a waitress with dreams of becoming a paralegal. Married right out of high school, she found herself divorced by twenty-one. She had no children and I gathered from her tone that she wasn't in a hurry to have any. After failing to break into any of the locked rooms, we pried the boards away from one of the windows, only to find ourselves staring at a wall of bricks. The room on the other side of the hall offered a similar view.

"Well that's it," I ran a hand over the obstruction's cool, slimy surface, "we're in Hell." Betty shot me a glance that was both angry and terrified, "Don't say that." "I was just joking." She stormed back out into the hallway, her eyes close to tears, "I don't care!" I hurried gingerly after her. The rubble-strewn floor had reduced my dress socks to tatters and was threatening to do the same to the undersides of my feet. A thousand bad movie clichs paraded through my subconscious as I chased after her; everything from billionaire madmen to alien abductions. Of course, I knew in my heart of hearts that the truth would be far more mundane because the truth was that I was no dashing movie hero and that billionaire madmen contented themselves with running for president. When I found Betty again, she wasn't alone. Her captor had her in a headlock, there was a desperate sheen to his eyes. "We don't want any trouble." I said calmly. "Then drop the friggin' board." The makeshift club slipped from my fingers, I had almost forgotten I was carrying it. The man looked to be in his fifties but was still heavily muscled. Even with a 2x4 in my hand, I wouldn't have wanted to tangle with him. Hopefully I wouldn't have to. "Now," he continued, "you two fuckoes are gonna show me the way out of here or I'm gonna break the both of your necks." To emphasize the seriousness of his threat he gave his hold on Betty a

momentary squeeze. She issued a crackling gasp, her face turning purple. "Look," I drew closer but held up my hands in what I hoped to be a peaceful gesture, "we don't want any trouble, but we can't help you. We're trapped here the same as you are." "You expect me to believe that?" "I sure as Hell hope you do because it's the truth." For a few tense moments he scrutinized us, then released his captive and shoved her my way, "What're your names?" "I'm Ron Mills," I put my arm around Betty drawing her close only to have her push me away, "and this is Betty." "My name is Frank, Frank Gordin. I don't remember how I got here." Betty answered "Neither do we." "How long have you been here?" I asked. "A couple of hours, I woke up in a room at the end of the hall." he pointed to the ravaged corridor behind him, "You're the first people I've seen since I started exploring." Betty shook her head, "What's going on here?" I pointed back the way he had come, "Have you found anything?" "Just a lotta weird shit." "Like?" He waved a meaty hand, "Just weird shit, there's this one room that's all empty except for playing cards nailed to the wall and then there's another that's got all these fucked-up lookin' scuba diving suits in it . . . "

. . . faces that are not faces . . . Another image washed through my mind. Betty drew closer to Frank, curiosity overriding her fear, "Diving suits?" "No air tanks though, just the suits." I leaned against the wall to steady myself, "Take us there." "What?" Betty exclaimed, "Why?" "Shouldn't we be trying to find a way out of here instead of doubling back?" "This may help us to remember how we got here." I explained. Betty peered at me quizzically, "What are you thinking?" "I'm not sure," I picked my 2x4 back up, Frank got one of his own, "but I don't think that we're going to be able to find our way out of here until we figure out who it was that brought us here and why." I motioned to Frank and with a sigh of resignation he led us back the way he had come. The room, I mused, must have once been a banquet hall of some kind, perhaps even a ballroom. It was the widest of any chamber we'd come across yet, and it was also the most despoiled. Blood from my feet mingled with the inch deep layer of stagnant water that covered the wide marble floor. I craned my neck to examine the pallid remnants of the extravagant frescoes and intricate scrollwork that lined the walls. A length of copper cable had been strung from one decaying wall to the other, and on it hung the four 'diving suits' Frank had told us about. The sight of them brought the memory I had been struggling with crashing to the surface. . . . the world lurches around me like a ship in a storm but I'm feelin' no pain. I finally told the bitch what I've been wanting to tell her for

so long and Holy Shit if I didn't do it in front of an audience. Not that I care, they were her friends, not mine. In an alleyway -- at this point God only knows where -- I stumble into the cool shadows not sure if I have to piss or puke. The wall is cool and inviting and I slump down it's length and end up falling into a deep sleep . . . "What are they for?" Betty asked, prodding one with a 2x4. . . . rain wakes me, I'm soaked to the skin but still too drunk to be concerned. I'm about to drift back off again when I see the shapes moving in the half-light. No. Not moving -- shambling. As they draw closer I can hear the falling droplets spatter hollowly on their dark hides . . . . Betty's prodding knocked the strange costume from its perch, it fell to the floor with a muffled splash. "Damnedest thing I ever saw." Frank said. A tiny squeal escaped from my lips as I watched Betty run her soft hands over the leathery material. . . . they loom over me, scrutinizing me with faces that are not faces, with mouths that jut and wide eyes that glitter and reflect. One of their hands brushes my face, its touch is oily. I can feel it leaving a slug-like trail as its blunt fingers trace my jawline. I scream and try to claw my way to freedom . . . The "suits" were completely sealed, the arms ended in gloves and the legs in soft, rubbery boots. A stiff-necked cowl sprouted from the neckline. The cowl's protruding, almost snoutlike mouthpiece and broad, dark-tinted eyepieces combined to give it the semblance of a bestial face. "There's somethin' real familiar about them." Frank commented, making me wonder if perhaps he too was beginning to remember. "There's no zipper," Betty observed, "How do you put it on?" . . . there is something nightmarish, yet dreadfully familiar about their

touch. It makes me realize that they know me, that they chose me. But why? And for what? My pleadings and cries are unanswered. They lift my swooning body up with ease and I cannot break free for their slick, gloved hands conceal a brutal strength. Consciousness begins to slip away from me and I can only sob as they take me to . . . "DON' TOUCH IT!" We all turned to see a boy with dark, curly hair standing in the doorway. He looked no older than ten, and wore filthy, threadbare clothes. A network of ugly scars worked their way up over his neck and face. "Who the frig are you?" Frank demanded. The boy took a cautious step backwards, "Those belong to the Thrones." "Thrones?" I looked back to the suits, "Who are the Thrones?" "The suits" was the boy's only answer. Frank drew closer, "How do you know that?" "They take the people away . . . " Now Betty was on her feet, "There are other people here?" The boy shook his head. "How come they . . ." Frank's voice became an angry growl as the boy turned and ran. The older man dived, catching him in a rough tackle. They rolled across the watery floor. I was about to intervene when Frank started screaming. The boy kicked free and scrambled out the door. I went after him, 2x4 in hand. A backwards glance showed Frank sitting straight up, a shocked look on his face and a dark circle of blood welling up on his

right cheek, marking where he had been bitten. Betty was at his side, trying to help him. A moment later I was out in the hall, chasing after the boy. The boy led me on a frantic twisting journey through the halls. I managed to keep up but it cost me most of the skin on the soles of my feet and at least one toenail. Finally he made a mistake and found himself in a corridor that lead to nothing but a boarded-up window. "Go away!" the boy reached down and began throwing chunks of debris at me. "Hey! Hey!" I slowed my limping gait. "Leave me alone!" "I don't want to hurt you!" "Go away!" I had to keep a hand raised to swat away the flying chunks of plaster and wood, "I want to get out of here same as you do." "Bull!" he shouted, "You're jus' like all the others!" "What do you mean?" "They think that since I knows about the Thrones that I'm in with 'em! Well I ain't!" The thought had occurred to me, and doubtlessly had also occurred to Frank and Betty. I cursed myself for letting paranoia get the better of me. I dropped the 2x4, "I'm sorry I scared you." The boy stopped throwing, "You mean that?" "Yes."

"I can't save you." "What do you mean?" "I'm small for my age, I can slip through the gates that separates one wing from another." "You know where we are?" "Yes." I carefully drew closer, "Where?" He kept his gaze locked with mine, "This's the Citadel of the Hierophant." As we found our way back to where we had left my two companions, I questioned the boy. He told me little more than his age -- twelve, and his name -- Vagabond. The name alone was enough to trouble me. Why had we been brought here? I wondered And for what possible reason? What could we have done to bring down the wrath of these so-called Thrones down upon us? "So who is this Hierophant?" I asked, hobbling next to him. Vagabond answered, "He lives upstairs. He rules from the seashore to the mountains. He's getting ready for some kind of a war, I guess." "Do the Thrones work for him?" "He makes the Thrones." That was interesting. "How?" The boy looked straight ahead, "I . . . I think I know, but I can't tell you."

When we reached the wide, waterlogged chamber, Betty and Frank were no longer there. I cursed under my breath. Had they set off looking for me? Or had they been taken by the Thrones? I shuddered at the thought. The stagnant water began to sting my feet. I spun in place trying to find some clue as to where they had gone. Vagabond tugged my arm, "Let's go." "What?" I asked, "What's wrong?" "Look." he pointed to the center of the room. The suit Betty had knocked to the floor had been re-hung with care, not only that, someone had taken it in, shortening the arms and legs. It looked like it would be just the right size for a child. Or for a twelve-year old boy that was small for his size. I shuddered and allowed Vagabond to lead me out of the room. "Where are we going?" I asked. "I'm gonna take you back to your friends, least that way you can be with 'em when . . . when it happens." he took me along a route I had not yet explored. "What do you mean?" "When the Thrones come for you." I stopped in the hallway, "How do you know so much?" "What does it matter?" he snapped back angrily, "I can't save you." "So you say," I leaned against the wall, raised one foot and began to pick out splinters, "but how can you be so sure?" He watched me cleaning my wound for a few moments before speaking again, "I've been here almost two weeks, I've gone from one

part of the Citadel to another and no matter what I do, it's always the same." I set the one foot down and went to work on the other, "What happens now?" "In every wing, there's one room that has food, a fireplace and all kinds of stuff. You all find your way there sooner or later." His features and voice were pinched with guilt as he spoke, "You eat. You drink. You stop bein' scared. Then the sprinklers go off. That's the signal. They take you upstairs. No one ever comes back." We started walking again, "What happens upstairs?" He shook his head, "I don' know and I don' want to ever find out. That's why I'm gonna get you back to your friends and then I'm leavin'. Way I reckon it we got a few hours left yet." "I see." After that Vagabond just stopped talking, replying to all my questions and comments with a noncommittal shrug. In a way I could understand. After all, in his opinion I was going to die. Why risk growing attached? I had other ideas. Hopefully once I got back together with Betty and Frank, we could formulate a plan. We might not be able to slip through the gaps in the gates like Vagabond, but between the three of us we might be able to tear one off its hinges. Perhaps if we found more prisoners, we could wrest control of the Citadel from this Hierophant character. There was a rattling squeal and the sprinklers burst to life, dousing us. Vagabond screamed, "No!" into the artificial downpour. I was about to ask him what was wrong when I heard the sound of countless deadbolts clicking back. The doors on either side of us swung open and Thrones were upon us. Vagabond tried to run and I tried to fight. Unfortunately I had neglected to pick my makeshift club back up and soon found myself being tossed around like rag doll.

They must have caught Vagabond -- I could hear his howls of terror. They goaded me into further struggles but it was no use, there were four of them on me now. I felt their greasy hands everywhere. The knot of Thrones surrounding me loosened, the majority retreated back to their rooms. I watched, shivering and wet. I felt clammy hands on the back of my neck, keeping me down on all fours. We waited there, the sprinklers continuing to pour down on us. I blinked the water from my eyes and tried to think of some way out. But all I could do was wish that back in my fiance's bed, that this was a nightmare. If only I could wake up beside her, I thought. If only I could wake up beside her I'd take back everything. A strange howling began to fill the air, it was a phlegmy, alien sound. The Thrones holding me down began to bay as well, answering the call. They let go of me and straightened. My muscles tensed -- to run or fight, I don't know which. Then my Throne struck me with its open hand across my back. I winced at the stinging pain. I heard Vagabond yowling but couldn't see him. Another blow landed on me, and another, driving me forward. Suddenly Vagabond was beside me, we were being herded forward like cattle. They ran us hard and fast over the biting debris, goading us to continue with a torrent of sharp blows. Any time we tried to straighten or raise our heads, we were beaten back down. A few minutes of this and my hands began to resemble my feet. I wondered what they were driving us towards. Visions of primitive sacrifice danced through my head. Or perhaps they would just keep doing this until we dropped. Two more Thrones joined us, savagely driving Betty and Frank before them.. Betty was panting and sobbing, Frank punctuated every breath with a curse. They steered us through a thick iron door and we found ourselves on a darkened stairwell.

Frank made a break for it, hurdling over the railing and on to the next landing. His keeper was on him in moments. The battle was brief and one-sided. I closed my eyes and tried not to listen as he was pummeled into submission. After he was returned, the Thrones began driving us up the stairs. I tried to judge how far we were going but after the first few flights, we were in pitch darkness. I submit completely to my keeper's blows and shoves for navigation. It seemed as though the climb would never end. I wondered if my joke had been correct and that this was indeed Hell. Finally, we were urged through a second iron door into a room that was warm and well lit. Our captors grabbed hold of the backs of our necks and forced us down until we were lying on our stomachs. My Throne kept firm hold of me, not that it needed to, my every muscle felt like lead. Slowly the blood roaring in my ears subsided and I began to hear the sound of classical music. Stravinsky, I think. Heavy footsteps approached, I found myself staring at a dress boot. "Lift them." The Thrones hoisted us to our feet, stood behind us and took hold of our arms. The room we were in was wide and mahogany-paneled, warm light filtered in through the stained glass windows. A long desk covered with blueprints and prisms dominated the far wall. Beside it was an antique chair, a tattered yellow cloak was draped over the back. The music was coming from the battered Victrola in the corner. A tall man wearing a dark gray uniform of a type I'd never seen before surveyed us. He was shuffling a deck of oversized cards. He wore a pallid mask similar in design to his minions but it was much more streamlined and hugged his face like a second skin. The eyepieces were clear, revealing cool dusky eyes.

It was the Hierophant. It had to be the Hierophant. He paused in front of Vagabond, "Let this be a lesson to you Fool, routines are established so the cattle may be easily collected." "What the fuck are you talkin' about?" Frank shouted, his nose was broken and he was missing teeth, "Where do you get off thinkin' you can do this to people?" The Hierophant stopped shuffling and rounded on him, they were inches apart, "You think you matter? You think God cares for you? You're nothing. You delude yourself with hope." Frank replied with a litany of curses, crimson spittle flying from his mouth to speckle the Hierophant's uniform and mask. When he was done, The Hierophant selected a card from the deck and slowly drew the thin edge of it against Frank's face, splitting the skin. After the first cry I looked away, staring down at my ravaged feet. Once Frank had been reduced to a silence marked only by slurred weeping, the Hierophant spoke again. "It may be of some comfort to you to know that I do not do this out of malice or dementia. You were destined for this, and I am merely fate's instrument." Betty's voice was merely a whisper, "What are you going to do with us?" "In life you were so little . . . but in death . . . you have such terrible wonders before you." "Why?" she begged, "Why are you doing this?" He shook his head sadly, "I could no more explain my aspirations to you than you could explain your dreams to an earthworm." With that our audience with the Hierophant was over and we were half-dragged, half-thrown through a nearby doorway. The tile floor was

cold and scuffed. I pulled myself to my feet and looked to my companions. Betty and Frank were cradling each other, Vagabond was lying on the floor, curled into a fetal position, his eyes shut tight. I wasn't going to give up yet, they would take me kicking and screaming. The room we were in was long with a high-domed ceiling. Diffuse light filtered in through tinted skylights. There were windows at eye level too, but they were almost opaque with dirt and grime. All I could see was a dark, twisted skyline and streets clogged with bowed, shuffling figures. I turned my attention back to the room, every few feet there was a stone pot holding a disease-ridden tree. I wondered what kind of a weapon one of the trees would make if I uprooted it. No, I thought with a frown, That might work against an ordinary man . . . but a Throne? Behind one of the rows of trees, there was a vent that fed warm air into the room. Realizing I had nothing left to lose, I sat down and began working at the grating in front of the vent, trying to loosen the bolts that held it place. I had no tools save for my bare hands but I didn't think one more cut would matter at this point. A furtive grunting reached my ears and I looked up to see Betty and Frank in each other's arms. I turned away almost immediately but the image of Betty, her features curled into an animalistic snarl, cradling Frank's ruined, bloody face to her bosom lingered in my mind. Luckily for me the decay that had taken its toll on the lower levels was also in effect here, the first of the four bolts came up more easily than I expected. Before I could share my victory with anyone the door opened and a pair of Thrones shambled in. They pulled Betty roughly away from her wounded lover and dragged her out of the room. Frank wailed with anguish and flung himself at the door only to have it slammed in his face. Frank was taken sometime between my removal of the second and third bolt, either he didn't make a sound or I was too engrossed to notice. The work had reduced my fingertips to shreds but I pressed

on, having no idea when the Thrones would return. When the fourth bolt was lying on the floor beside me I removed the grate. What I found made me want to cry. The vent was a little less than two feet in diameter. There was no way I could get through. I crawled over to Vagabond. I called his name but he didn't respond. I slapped his face but he didn't flinch. In spite of the room's oppressive humidity I began to shiver. Any moment now they would be coming for one of us. I leaned in to Vagabond and whispered to him, "The Thrones are coming for you next Vagabond. I can hear them at the door, they saved you for last." Suddenly my problem was no longer how to awaken him but how to keep him from my throat. I held his flailing hands and tried to make him hear, "I found a way out! Listen to me! You can get away!" Eventually he did and I led him to the vent. He looked questioningly at me, "Where does it go?" "I don't know.." "What about you?" I tried to keep my voice steady, "I can't fit though there, you'll have to go alone." "Don't you know what they're gonna do to you?" "They'll do it to you too." I nudged him towards the vent. Without another word, Vagabond crawled into the vent. "Good luck." I whispered as I hastily replaced the grate. Then I stood before the door and waited. If they found and took me first, it would buy the boy more time.

...they come for me eventually. I try to stay calm and go nobly to my fate, but in the end I beg and plead, my fingers scrabbling for handholds on the floor as they drag me to the sterile white room. Held down, held fast, I wail as the Hierophant kneels over me, a scalpel in his hand. With practiced ease he peels away my flesh. He listens intently, knowing that as I die, prophesies will spill from my skinned lips. When my breaths have stopped, the Thrones ease my body into its new skin. I shudder with understanding. At long last . . . understanding.

The Nick Of Time (and other abrasions) Artifacts And Heirlooms by Al Bruno III

Mulrooney was the last one left alive. He ran but the swamp clawed at his every step. The thick mire sucked at his feet, slowing him down. The bramble and thick roots made him stumble and fall leaving his hands and face bloodied. When he looked behind him he could only see the oily night. But they were there. He could hear them moving through the mud and water, swatting branches aside with their withered, impossibly strong

arms. He'd seen those arms crush the skull of Banning, blood and splinters of bone slathering over gnarled, bandaged hands. The sight had sent the rest of the crew scattering into the swamp, abandoning the crates of priceless antiquities. Everything abandoned except for one thing. Mulrooney reached into his pocket and felt the reassuring weight of the jeweled scarab. If he could just get to safety he would be a rich man, he could retire... or at least get into a more honest line of work. Mulrooney blundered into a patch of thick, knee-deep mud and for a moment he was stuck fast. Squealing he clutched at a nearby tree, dragging himself forward, leaving one of his shoes behind. He didn't dare try and go back for it. Not when Whemple's horrified pleading still echoed in his ears. Mulrooney had turned away before Whemple had been torn limb from limb, but the sound of it had nearly driven him to madness. Easy money. They'd thought it would be easy money, just pick up the cargo and drop it off again a few miles down the coast. Smuggling was never a problem, smuggling was their stock and trade. Drugs, illegals from Cuba and weapons had all been stowed on their boat at one time or another. Their skipper Blake was ex-Coast Guard and he knew the Everglades like no other man. He had loved it in a strange way but that was no protection when the alligators took him screaming into the deep. Mulrooney had almost been envious. That was a good sensible death. That was a death you could understand. Slipping into the silhouette of a dead tree, Mulrooney took a moment to catch his breath and try to gain his bearings. No matter where he looked he could not find the lights of civilization and the low-hanging clouds kept him from navigating by the stars. He had no way of knowing what way led to land and what way led back to the ocean. He could wander around all night and not find his way back to safety.

A guttural whispering joined the chorus of frogs, insects and birds. Mulrooney started moving again, knowing they would never tire that they would run him to ground, just like they had done to Patrick. Patrick had never been in the best of shape and though he tried to keep pace with Mulrooney he soon began to fall a step behind. Then two steps. Then a dozen. Then they caught up with him as he was doubled over gasping. Poor old Patrick, he tried to fight. He always tried to give as good as he got but his blows only raised clouds of dust and grime, his gunfire only tore holes through bloodless flesh. Thoughts of what had happened then gave Mulrooney renewed strength. He urged himself to move faster. Mulrooney vowed that if he ever found his way out of here he would find the man that had hired them and dispense harsh justice. They should have been warned. Their employer had been well dressed and smarmy, he called himself Jack Diamond. He smoked expensive cigars and liked to rest his snakeskin boots on other people's furniture. Jack Diamond. Mulrooney had thought that was a ludicrous name, like something out of a cartoon. When Banning asked him what they were bringing through Jack Diamond had smiled and said "Artifacts well heirlooms really." No one in the crew had believed him but the money he was offering was enough to buy a fleet of ships to replace the BRADY HEAT. What Mulrooney wouldn't give to be able to find that boat now. The name had been a gag, taken from the titles of one of the many pornographic movies Whemple had owned. They'd all been watching one of those movies just a week ago, as they waited outside US territorial waters for Jack Diamond's yacht the Rhiannon. The 'yacht' had been awe-inspiring; almost five times the size of the BRADY HEAT and equipped with its own helicopter landing pad.

Mulrooney remembered wondering aloud why a man with such wealth would need their help. The whole crew had agreed but there had been no turning back. Most of them men had already begun spending their shares of the payoff. The soft marshy earth gave way beneath Mulrooney's feet and he found himself waist deep in dark water. He squealed with fear and stumbled back. Blake had only been knee deep when the alligators had taken him, snapping and rolling as they fought over every morsel. They had been strange looking creatures too. Mulrooney remembered how odd their heads had looked- long and narrow almost spear-like. Not like proper alligators at all. Shivering Mulrooney doubled back and made his way along the ragged shoreline. The trip back had been easy, the Brady Heat had slipped into US territorial waters like a shadow. They followed the directions Jack Diamond had given them precisely making their way from the ocean to the Everglades, to where a third boat would be waiting for them. During the time it took to make the trip Mulrooney and the others became curious. He, Patrick and Banning had made their way down to the hold, chuckling and half-drunk with greed. Exhausted, Mulrooney fell to his knees, he shivered with shame and revulsion at the memories that came next. What had he been thinking? Why had he let the others goad him? There had been seven crates, most had been nailed shut but a pair of them relied on hinges and padlocks. Patrick had always been a good with locks, before joining the crew burglary had been his primary vocation. Soon both crates were wide open. One was full of statues, rings and necklaces, the sight of all the gold and gemstones dazzled them. Beautiful as it had been, it had all looked worn and in need of a good cleaning. Whemple wondered if Jack Diamond had robbed a museum. Patrick replied that it was more likely he had robbed some pharaoh's tomb.

To prove his point he showed them the other crate, the one the size of a piano crate that had shifted unevenly when it had been moved from the Rhiannon to the Brady Heat. When Mulrooney drew close to the crate a strange odor had filled his nostrils, the smell of dust, dead flowers and salts. The scent of a funeral home long abandoned. The crate was packed was with straw to protect its strange cargo but under that layer of material there were mummies. Five mummies, ancient and decayed and stacked atop one another. The sight left the three men speechless. The twisted frames the thick layers of sallow, half-rotted wrappings and the tangible aura of the antediluvian. Where would they see something like this outside of a television show, or a bad movie? The lower four of the embalmed figures were tall and stocky; they reminded Mulrooney of the physiques found on older cops and prison guards. The one that lay atop them was different, it was smaller and more carefully preserved than the others. The layers of weathered linen could not disguise the feminine curves of the body. Whemple had a gleeful laugh at that. A girl mummy! And she was just the way Mulrooney liked them, slender, coltish and not quite in the full bloom of womanhood. How he loved to gaze into fresh innocent eyes and watch them change, as they were educated in the ways of adulthood. It was a desire that had gotten Mulrooney into trouble into more than one occasion. He stared at it wondering. Was this some lost princess or a king's wife? Questions he knew would never have answered. It was Patrick who noticed Mulrooney blushing and staring but it was Whemple who made the dare. Go on! He had urged. Who will ever know? Do you think she's going to complain? Several dares and counter-dares later Mulrooney found himself leaning into the oversized crate. When he let his lips brush the frayed wrappings that covered the mummy's sunken mouth his friends cried out and clapped. When Mulrooney reached out and gave the girlish

shape's breast a playful squeeze they fell silent. Mulrooney woke with a start, face first in the muddy ground. He didn't remember passing out. He didn't even know how long he had been unconscious. Everything ached and blood was roaring in his ears. Groaning he pulled himself back to his knees to find her staring down at him. The chase had left her linen wrappings mud-spattered and torn, loose ends flapped around her in the warm Gulf breeze. She raised her one hand on her hip and cocked her head. She had been waiting. Hands shaking he reached into his pocket, pulled out the jeweled scarab and offered it with a mewling apology. The scarab had been an afterthought, a bit of mischief. Mulrooney had pocketed it as they closed the crates back up. There were seven boxes of Jack Diamond's artifacts and heirlooms, surely he wouldn't miss one thing? Mulrooney barely had time to rethink his theft. Less than an hour later the monsters tore their way from the Brady Heat's hold. Blake panicked and ran the ship aground. The whole crew scrambled for safety. They knew the movies from childhood, they knew how a living mummy would shamble and shuffle. They knew they could outrun the danger. But the mummies did not shamble. They moved steadily and silently, wafting along the ground like fog. Alone and in groups they had picked off the crew until only Mulrooney was left. "Please..." He begged, "...take it..." The mummy swatted his hand away; the jeweled scarab plopped into the dark water and was lost. She drew closer, her motions fluid and predatory. Her hand was on his shoulder, holding him with impossible strength. The linen wrappings had fallen away from the bottom of her face revealing flesh the color of rancid fruit and a smile brimming with uneven black teeth. And her eyes, when Mulrooney saw what was in her eyes he had to look away. He found his stare resting on her beast. The wrappings and flesh were still dimpled around where her fingers

had touched her. The mummy tried to speak her voice a guttural purr. She pushed him back into the mud, her touch shredding his clothes and his sanity. In his madness Mulrooney realized it had not been theft or blasphemy that had woken her- it had been an invitation. His unwitting invitation.

The Nick Of Time (and other abrasions) The Chosen and The Damned by Al Bruno III

It was dusk. Jeff Hayes stared down the sights trying not to shiver from the cold, trying to control his breathing like he had been taught. Wet snow was falling, soaking through his jacket and making the rooftop a maze of puddles. It would just be a little while longer before the girl stepped out of her front door to head for the bus stop, maybe forty minutes to an hour, and when she did Jeff Hayes would do shoot her dead. How old are you? the stranger asked. Fourteen, Jeff said. Water had dripped down between his eye and the scope blurring his vision until he blinked it away. His father had warned him that if anyone saw him up on the rooftop he was to drop the rifle

and run, Reverend Ferdman had stressed the exact same thing but Jeff stayed in his place and let the stranger talk. There was something both relaxing and familiar about the man. I brought soup, the stranger said. Do you want soup? There was the sound of a thermos being opened and then a warm, meaty smell reached Jeff's nose, I can't now. The stranger slurped audibly, As you will. This person you're going to kill- How do you know I'm going to kill someone? Jeff turned to glance at the stranger, he was no taller than Jeff was but his face was old and his dark eyes seemed even older, he wore a leather jacket and a weatherbeaten blue fedora. Well, you do have a rifle. Who are you? The stranger smiled, Magwier, Jason Magwier. Now who was this girl you're going to kill again? Her name is Janice. Jeff's throat tightened a little at the name, he turned his attention back to starting down the scope and tightened his hands around the reassuring solidity of the rifle, of his father's rifle. Janice? Magwier said thoughtfully, Janice and Jason and Jeff... how cute. Her father is a doctor that kills babies, Jeff tried to recapture the anger he had felt when he had first learned the news but he couldn't. So you're going to kill her? The sins of the father will be visited upon the son a thousand times. Reverend Ferdman said that means daughters too. A light flicked on in the house, Jeff angled the scope so he could watch

the Tillman family go through their morning routines. How do you know what she looks like? What if you kill the wrong person? I know who she is. Jeff said, he could hear the stranger pouring himself another cup of soup, We used to go to school together... back when I was still going to school. The Reverend said it was better we learned at home. Leaving school had been hard but Jeff's father felt they spent to much time filling him up with facts instead of faith. It had hurt to know he could never see his friends again but Jeff mourned them in secret. Reverend Ferdman was always warning his flock against earthly attachments that even loving your children too much was a kind of idolatry. Oh, Magwier slurped another mouthful of soup, This reverend sounds like a fascinating fellow. He said the Holy Spirit moved through him. Does it now? He would call you up to the altar and touch you on the forehead so the Spirit would go out of him and into you. Usually you faint or have visions but only the Chosen get to go up to the altar, only the ones that have been saved by my Lord Jesus Christ. Back in school I was always chosen last. Makes you wonder doesn't it? Magwier got to his feet and began to pace in little circles, If you can be chosen for redemption can you be chosen to join the damned? Is it even our choice at all? Some would say that it's all part of God's plan but if that's the case then that means that some people are going to be damned no matter what they do. I was Chosen. Jeff said, After I said I would do... you know... this. You volunteered to kill this girl?

I was Chosen. The snow was falling faster, the flakes getting thicker and wetter as the sky brightened. Magwier tried to get the lid back on the thermos but it wouldn't go, finally he threw it down into the alley, ...never liked that one anyway. More lights were flicking on, Jeff moved the sights from window to window feeling sick with anticipation, I think you should go now. But I want to hear more, Magwier returned to where he had started and saw down on the wet roof; he crossed his legs and rested his chin in his hands, It's not that often that I get to talk to someone that had the Holy Spirit in them. Were you scared? ...Yes, Jeff tightened his hands around the rifle again remembering the way it had recoiled when he first fired it, it was a heavier caliber than the one he was used to, But my Dad was there to catch me when I fell. Good man. She was my friend once. Jeff said. Come again? Janice- it was the three of us, me Janice and Greg, we hung around a lot in 7th grade. How long ago was that? A year ago... maybe. Everything changed when we switched churches. Really? Greg's Dad was my pastor but Reverend Ferdman said he was a ravening wolf. What was it like when the Holy Spirit entered you?

Jeff looked up from the scope but kept watching the house, he could almost see the muzzle flash- the face caught in a rictus of surprise and terror. Was it the same every time? Wait a minute How did you know my name? Eh? You said Jeff and Janice but I never told you my name. Actually I said Janice and Jeff. So who are you? How do you know me? Im am, Magwiers voice lilted with mischief, what I am. It was getting brighter now, the streetlights were flickering off, morning traffic began to clog the streets. It was just raining now and Jeff was soaked to the skin, he felt like he was going numb inside and out. He said, If she's good she'll go to Heaven. Janice? Magwier was lighting a cigarette it was thin and foul smelling, Will she be with the Holy Spirit? I suppose. So what was it like when you felt the Holy Spirit? Jeff frowned, I don't remember. Oh you must, how could anyone forget something like that? I just dont. Then tell me what you do remember. Magwier puffed smoke. No. Just go away. Sure... once you tell me.

Jeff sighed, My Dad was holding my elbow. Everyone was singing and the Reverend was there. I couldn't breathe. I was so excited. Usually only adults can be chosen to have the Spirit in them but I was special because of what I was going to do... And then what? The Reverend put his hand on my forehead. And then? One of the lights in the house flicked off, Jeff readied himself, She's coming. You have to get out of here. Magwiers voice was pleading, What was it like? Jeff spun in place and fired catching the stranger in the belly. Magwier tried to stand and blundered backwards. He kicked my leg out from me, Jeffs face felt cold, like it was hardening into a mask. He couldnt even feel his tears, My father kicked my leg out from me. I didn't feel anything. It was almost too easy this time, when he had shot his father he had been quivering and weeping, the rest of his family had been easier. Reverend Ferdman had been a wicked kind of pleasure. Jeff turned back to the Tillman house but his target was already making her way to the bus stop. Jeff considered trying to take the shot anyway but there wasnt a clear line of sight. Better to wait, better to surrender himself to what he knew he had to do. He would make ready to slaughter sons and daughters for the guilt of their fathers lest they rose up and possessed the Earth. With a sigh of resignation he headed for the stairwell. Magwier was coughing blood as he tried to speak, his fingers clawing at the wound in his belly. You were right, Jeff said as he headed out into the morning, Some of us are chosen to be damned, some of us are chosen to do the most terrible of things.

The Nick Of Time (and other abrasions) Cadaverotica by Al Bruno III Dedicated to George Vasilakos The following story was originally published by Eden Studios

It's the golden rule of Hollywood. The writer always gets the shaft. The producers make all the money, the actors get all the fame, the director gets to put his vision on the screen, the rest of the crew get paid and get to go home; but the writer? The writer pours his guts out onto the page and if he's lucky he sees 20% of what he wrote make it through the grinder. If he's really lucky, he gets paid what he's worth. That's my story in a nutshell. Two weeks ago, I was in a mansion, sipping margaritas and making love to one of the most desired women in the world. Now I'm alone, locked in a toolshed on some godforsaken island in the South Pacific waiting to die. I'm writing this in ballpoint pen on forty-something year old army stationary. I'm trying to get it all down while there's still sunlight streaming in through the shed's grimy windows. When the sun sets they're going to come for me. They're going to -No wait. Let me begin at the beginning.

When I came here, I had already sold a pair of spec scripts and a few short stories to some literary magazines. I was a young man out to make his fortune and while my sales were steady and I was getting good reviews for my work I wasn't making nearly enough to cover my expenses. So I started looking for other ways to use my writing talent to make cash. You know, greeting cards, ad copy, non-fiction articles for in-flight magazines, that kind of thing. That led to the mistake that torpedoed my budding career. I wrote some material for an obscure roleplaying game company. I needed the money and I figured no one would ever see the half-assed crap I was churning out so what was the harm? Well, they put some of that half-assed crap on their web page, crowing about the big time author they've got working for them. Just like that my legitimate writing career was over. I mean I couldn't get arrested in this town after my work on The Alien Empires Roleplaying Game's Space Angel Sourcebook came out. After that the only offers I had coming in where to work on more roleplaying games or churning out scripts for Lurid Video -- the adult film company. Given the choice between Dungeons and Dragons and Spanking Lesbians Unchained I took the better paying choice. And yes my smart-ass reader, there are scripts for adult films. You just happen to fast forward through all my best work. Of course, there's more to the story about how I got involved in the business but let me speed ahead and set the scene where the real story takes place. I'll fill in the background as I go. The Lurid Video film crew arrived here three days ago by chartered boat -- the SS Polaris. The ship was manned by three smarmy characters who asked no questions and charged little. Their cargo for this little excursion was a complete Lurid Video film crew. Said crew consisted of two cameramen, one lighting guy, one sound guy, six "performers," one tired, sunburnt writer and a producer who was also one of the performers. The island was some little flyspeck of a place, too unimportant to be

claimed by anyone. It was half jungle and half beach and not much of anything else. It was only notable because of the strange little statues that dotted the landscape. They were a little bit Easter Island, a little bit Aztec and a whole lot of H.R. Geiger. Their bestial features were half-lost to erosion. The damn things looked like something out of arts and crafts night at the Ritalin Ward. If there was a pattern to the way the things were placed I couldn't see it. Despite the expense of location filming, the producer had insisted we use this island. This was to be Lurid Video's magnum opus, a porno adaptation of Lord of the Flies. That was also the producer's idea, not mine. She was very specific about how she wanted this film to be made and she was painfully specific about the script. I'd just finished re-re-rewriting the damn thing an hour before we dropped anchor. A few words of background about our producer, perhaps you've heard of her? Vanessa Summerisle. I see you have, at the mere mention of her name sends blood rushing to thousands of male organs. Well unbeknownst to most people, the lovely raven-haired Miss Summerisle is also the owner of Lurid Video and has a hand if not a featured role in most of their productions. She is also in charge of their pay website, she writes the Java code for it and everything. She was also responsible for plucking yours truly from twenty-sided die obscurity and making me Lurid Video's wordsmith of choice. Vanessa Summerisle was beautiful, smart, limber and utterly ruthless. And truth be told, I was a little smitten with her. Yeah, yeah -- I know I'm a sap. Yeah, yeah -- I know Miss Summerisle's been hit with more oversized loads than an industrial laundry machine, but there was this certain something about her. Maybe it's because she thought I was a genius. When she approached me to become one of her scriptwriters, she said she knew my work. She even had one of the literary magazines one of my stories had appeared in. What can I say? I was impressed and flattered, mostly flattered.

Anyway, from the moment we set foot on the beach we were filming, I stood there, trying not to cringe as the pretty young, pierced and tattooed "actresses" mangled my precious dialogue. The plot was simple enough. A group of stewardesses are marooned on a strange island with only one man. They revert to sapphic savagery as they battle for exclusive rights to him. It sounds stupid I know, but I promise you it had a very happy ending. As the skinny-dipping/lesbian six-way scene began, I excused myself to go and explore the island. You m ay find it hard to believe but watching people film other people having sex is about as exciting as taking class on dentistry. Besides I was having a hard time watching Vanessa work. The island was strange. I know I said this before but I don't think I've quite gotten across to you how strange. First of all, the place was totally silent, no birds chirping, no nothing. It was like the whole jungle was holding its breath waiting for something. The only sign of life were the clouds of bloated black flies that seemed to linger around the statues. The air was filled with this faint, sickly-sweet smell, just strong enough to tickle your gag reflex but not strong enough to be recognizable. I wandered around for an hour or so when I spied a figure crouching up ahead. It was perfectly still, staring at me. I froze my breath catching in my throat before I realized that it was another one of those weird statues. It was about three-feet tall, almost child-like in proportion. Like I said before, the details were washed away with age but what I could see of the face was enough to give me the willies. The head was bulbous and misshapen, like one of those potatoes you find at the bottom of the bag. The eyes were too close to its forehead and too far apart, the mouth was too far down on the chin and too small. Despite of the dry weather, the stone was clammy to the touch. Yes, I touched the thing, don't ask me why. "It's a headstone." someone purred softly behind me. I nearly jumped out of my skin until I recognized Vanessa's voice. I turned to see her in her hiking boots, cutoff shorts and Smashing Pumpkin's T-shirt.

I smiled, "Shouldn't you be working?" "Geoff is doing the action close ups of the other girls," she said, approaching the statue with a kind of awe, "I wanted to explore a little." "You know more about this island than you're telling, don't you?" "There are stories, rumors, and legends." She ran her soft hands along the length of the statue, "Some say the island is haunted." "So . . ." this is how I liked her best, dressed like a normal girl. I could almost fall in love with her when she looks like that, then I remember what she does for a living and the affection I feel becomes a kind of queasiness. ". . . we're making a porno film on a haunted island?" "Scared? I thought you didn't believe in the afterlife." With a mischievous grin she patted the statue on the head and started trudging deeper into the jungle. I followed her, swatting at the sickly, low-hanging branches, "I'm an agnostic, not an atheist." "Yeah you don't know what you believe. At least I've committed myself to not believing in something." she led me deeper into the jungle. "Have you been here before?" "Are we talking about reincarnation or the island?" I rolled my eyes, "The island." "No. I read all about it though -- it has an interesting story to it." "Do tell--" I slipped on a mossy cluster of stones and fell on my face, "Damnit!" "Preston!" she was at my side, helping me to sit up. "Damnit." I said again, this time with a mouthful of dirt.

"You are so clumsy." She laughed, brushing off my face. I hoped the dirt would hide my blushing, "Only when you're around." "Flatterer." she kissed my cheek. "Come on, not much further. There's something I want you to see." Not much further turned out to be an hour of walking, mostly uphill. It was pretty darn hot too, and there wasn't even the slightest trace of a breeze to take an edge off the heat. In case you hadn't already guessed, us writer types usually aren't in the best of shape. Oh sure, there are exceptions, but for every Ernest Hemmingway you have about twenty other vaguely gourd-shaped men like me. Like I said before though, I was pretty well smitten with my silicone-enhanced tour guide. You know I can't even really explain to you why I came here, except that she asked me to. Of course, she asked me to join the shoot after she had screwed my brains out in her hot tub. How the Hell was I supposed to say no after that? Yes you heard me, I had sex with Vanessa Summerisle. Really. I'm not making this up. Believe me or don't believe me, see if I care. I'll be just as dead by the time someone finds this. This is how it happened. She invited me over to her place to discuss some last minute project she had in mind. A little fuck-fest filmed on location on an exotic little island in the south Pacific. Vanessa told me that she, a film crew and a handful of performers were heading out in forty-eight hours but they had no script. Would I be willing to bring along my laptop and bang out a script on the way there? At first I'd said no. I hate flying, I hate going on location and I was planning on devoting some more time to my novel in progress The

Black Rider. It was a western epic in the tradition of Lonesome Dove; I'd been working on it for almost seven years. It was about halfway done, maybe. Vanessa and I talked about the book some more, the conversation drifted to our hopes and plans, she plied me with margaritas and complements and asked me where I wanted to be twenty-five years from now. The next thing you know, she pounces on me, her lips her hands everywhere. Suddenly I was doing something most men can only dream about. There were other scriptwriters she could have called over that night but she chose me, but in that one moment that one night she'd wanted me for something more. I'll pause so you can finish retching. Hmmm. Now where was I going with this? Oh yes, the island. After passing by another dozen or so of those strange little statues, each one of them different yet just like the others, she led me to a clearing. In that clearing was a rusted old Quonset hut and a handful of rotting olive-colored tents. It looked like the exterior set from M.A.S.H gone to Hell. There was even a jeep, its tires flat, its body half-eaten by time and corrosion, parked in front of the dilapidated tool shed that would become my prison. "What is this doing here?" Even though the place was obviously long abandoned, we spoke in hushed tones. "It was an army base during Second World War. An entire platoon of men where stationed here. They all disappeared without a trace." "Charming." I said a cold tremor of worry settling into my stomach. "Are you sure you want to use this island?" "Oh yes. Its got terrific atmosphere." I sniffed the air, "Its got atmosphere all right."

"I want this film to have an undercurrent of danger. I want this to be the one they remember me by." "They'll remember this one all right." I said, thinking of the script she had outlined for me; scene after scene of crude couplings and how the statues figured prominently into most of them. "Come on then." she started walking again, "The best part is up ahead." I swung my arms in a sweeping gesture, "Better than all this?" She laughed, "Shut up and march." "Yes ma'am!" I caught up with her. To my surprise, she took my hand as she led me back into the jungle. "You said something about headstones?" "Each one of these is a grave marker." She paused before on of the grotesque effigies, "The people of this island was the last strong hold of the Tcho-Tcho culture." "And what does that mean in English?" "Let's just say they had some very strange religious beliefs." "Human sacrifice?" She flashed me that grin of hers again, "Much worse than that. These guys were mummified and buried while they where still alive." "You're sure this island is deserted right?" I stared back the way we had come. "Very sure." "So this is like their cemetery island?" "In a way. You see the only ones that got the fancy treatment and the

ugly statue were their high priests. They where chosen at birth and lived like kings until their thirty-fifth year. Then," she patted the clammy stone, "they surrendered themselves to their god knowing that they would not truly die but would instead sleep under the Earth until they where summoned back to life by their god." "Where did you come up with this?" "Not all the books I read are about Java code and the stock market." "Ever thought about hunkering down with a Jane Austen novel?" "Read'em all." Another hour of walking brought us to another clearing. The pale-green grass was knee high. It undulated slowly back and forth. The grass surrounded the squat stone rim of a well. It was made from the same material as those ugly-ass statues. There were these little hieroglyphics all along the side; it bothered me if I looked at them for too long. Trembling with either terror or excitement, Vanessa approached it, "It's here. I knew it!" "Shame we didn't bring a camera." I let her lead me to the well, this is where that nauseating smell as coming from. It was a cloying fetid odor, hard to describe. Imagine the smell of a butcher shop, mixed with the stink of an open sewer and add a dash of the scent of your grandma's house. By the time we actually got up to the thing, my eyes were watering. "This is where their god came to them," her voice was muffled, she had her hand over her mouth and nose, "Delphanos the Mad God." She was peering down into the depths of the well, the beckoned me to join her. I risked a glimpse down into the murky depths. The air wafting up the stone shaft was hot and putrid. There was this thick, sloshing noise down there, like water slopping up against the edge of a solid surface. Something glistened in the shadows. My heart started to pound, I felt like I was being stared back at. I thought I saw -No. I didn't see anything. There was nothing down there but decade's

worth of stagnant water and worse. I bet those GI's had used it for a latrine. I remembered saying, "We should be getting back now." Vanessa was quiet after that. She got me back to the boat just as it started to rain. That pissed the director off mightily, apparently he had fallen behind shooting the anal sex scene. His words, not mine. We called it a day and retired to the Polaris' cramped quarters. Vanessa turned in early, the rest of us whiled away the night, swapping stories, smoking cigarettes, snacking on breakfast bars and drinking pop. I used to eat pretty healthy but a few months in this business and you never want to see another spoon full of yogurt again. I remember asking Vanessa why she got into the porn industry, with her smarts she could have done anything. She smiled and explained to me that this was the one place where women were truly empowered. That led to a pretty enjoyable debate until she pointed out to me that I was asking pretty much asking my boss if she thought she was being exploited. Ah the sweet sting of irony. The sun set with no sign of the rain letting up so I decided to turn in as well. Vanessa had a little cabin all to herself I thought of knocking on her door to wish her good night but I thought better of it. The gentle rocking of the boat quickly lulled me to sleep. The dream I had that night was just plain fucked up. In it, I was standing in the middle of the street in a ruined city; it was like something out of Mad Max. The stink from Delphanos' Well was thick in the air. Then I heard this marching sound, and what I mean is that it was like marching but it wasn't. The steps were all in unison but there was this strange broken quality to them. Curious I followed the noise and found myself at a crumbling intersection. There was an army moving down the street, a sea of figures clad from head to toe in glistening black leather, their faces were concealed by blunt, snout-like masks. Their every step was uneven and loping, but

somehow they managed to move unsteadily in perfect unison with one another. In the midst of the dark shambling mass, they carried an elaborate, jewel encrusted palanquin. It pitched and yawed with the dark-clad things' movements. The figure riding in the litter wore a frayed ivory-yellow cloak around his shoulders. A mask concealed all his features save for his cool, dusky eyes. The mask hugged his face like a second skin and was the color of bone. I could hear him singing. It ain't no sinTo take off your skinAnd dance around in your bonesIt ain't no sinTo take off your skinAnd dance around in your bones Those nonsensical words hounded me, they chased me back the way I had come where I found myself face to face with another freakish army. They might have been human once, but their features, their bodies, where withered and blackened with the passage of aeons. They limped and they hissed, carrying upon their twisted backs a fleshy crucifix that boiled with maggots. The woman nailed to the cross, was naked and oiled, her ebony hair hid her face. I could hear her singing as well, her voice familiar as the telltale sting of a paper cut. Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk aroun'Dem bones, dem bones, gonna walk aroun'Dem bones, dem bones, gonna walk aroun'Oh, hear the word of the Lord.The head bone connected to the neck bone,The neck bone connected to the back bone,The back bone connected to the thigh bone,The thigh bone connected to the knee bone,The knee bone connected to the leg bone,The leg bone connected to the foot bone,Oh, hear the word of the Lord!Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk aroun',Dem bones, dem bones, gonna walk aroun'Dem bones, dem bones, gonna walk aroun'Oh, hear the word of the Lord.The head bone connected to the neck bone,The neck bone connected to the back bone,The back bone connected to the thigh bone,The thigh bone connected to the knee bone,The knee bone connected to the leg bone, The leg bone connected to the foot bone,Oh, hear the word of the Lord! I awoke just as both armies were drawing closer together, preparing to

clash. My pillowcase was soaked with sweat; I spent a few panicked moments trying to remember where I was and why I was there. The gentle rumble of my cabin-mate, porno's own Bobby Burns snoring gently helped me get my bearings. It was almost 3AM. I tried to relax and go back to sleep but when I closed my eyes all I could hear was Dry Bones whirling though my head. So, I got on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and headed up onto the deck. It had stopped raining and the sky was cloudless. The full moon looked swollen and was tinged with green. It was bright enough to read by. Leaning on the aft railing I stared at it for a while. I ran the events of the nightmare over and over in my head, examining and interpolating them until they had lost their disturbing qualities. The nightmare obviously had something to do with the feelings I was starting to develop for Vanessa, coupled with the stress of being away from home and those creepy statues . . . not to mention that thing I thought I saw at the bottom of the well when I damn well know I didn't see anything at all. I started to notice this thumping, sloshing noise. It was coming from right below me. Visions of The Creature from the Black Lagoon started bubbling to the surface of my mind. I got this sudden urge to run, but where the Hell was I going to run? I was on a friggin' boat for pity's sake! Looking down. I saw one of the two army surplus rafts the Polaris' crew was using to shuttle us back and forth to the island. Now, where is the other one? I remember thinking idly as I returned to contemplating the moon. I was trying to remember if a moon like that at this hour meant good weather or bad weather. I didn't relish the thought of spending a few extra days here. I half suspected that when we got back to the island the statues would be all in different places. Ha. If that had happened, I'd have swam back to LA. At this point I wish I had swam back to LA. My chances would've been better. After a few minutes, that missing boat began to worry me. How long would it take for us to get the talent and equipment with just one boat? I took a stroll from one end of the boat to another in hopes of

finding the thing. No such luck though. I decided to head up to the bridge and let the captain know. Halfway there I had the first officer waving a machete under my nose. "What you do here? Bridge for crew only." This wasn't the first time I'd had a sharp object waved threateningly in my face. I'd been mugged at knifepoint a few years ago. Taking in a deep breath, I thought to myself Don't burst into tears this time. Don't you dare burst into tears. "Crew only! You not crew!" his breath was rank with alcohol, and the something else I couldn't place. Something vaguely unsavory. "Yeah I get the idea crew only. Listen one of your boats is missing . . ." "We know." he said with a sneer, "You go back to sleep, we take care of everything." "You know? What are you doing about it?" With a wave of his hand he dismissed me and retreated back up the steps to the bridge, "We take care of everything. Go back to sleep." "And how did it get loose anyway?" I called after him, "Aren't you sailors supposed to be good with knots or something?" "Watch your mouth fatboy. You be sorry later." Fatboy. Great. You be sorry later. Even better, it was high school all over again. I headed straight for Vanessa's room. I was gonna do my best to talk her into dropping all this nonsense and heading home. I didn't like the island and I didn't like the crew . . . I didn't like any of this. I knocked on her door. There was no answer. Now I was really getting worried. I tried the handle, the door creaked open and I stepped inside. She had a cabin all to herself, she's the producer after all. All her clothes and things were still in her suitcase.

There were papers strewn about the bed and an old book lying face down on the pillow. I glanced at the title, The Prehistoric Pacific in the Light of the Ponape Scripture by H.H. Copeland. I guess that's where she heard about the island. Casually glancing at the papers, I saw that it was printed off a web page of some sort. The first paragraph to catch my eye read like this -- now remember I'm paraphrasing here. There are CREATURES that come from beyond reality, from beyond the realms of TIME and SPACE. Beware THEM for THEIR purposes are unfathomable. The ancient people had a name for THEIR kind -- the Mad Gods, the Beings from Outside. Know THEM as BODGE LOYAR -the harlequin in the ice; ANZON -- the bloodless whisperer; DELPHANOS -- the fallen angel of longing; ELDRAD -- the dismembered warrior; NOGGAR-DALLIEON -- the formless lurker; DAMIEA -- the goddess clad in worms; KRESSOR -- the walker through worlds -The papers slipped from my hands. I knew what this was . . . well at the very least I had a strong suspicion what it was -- the Carella Manuscript. You have no idea what I'm talking about do you? Okay, let me explain. There was this professor of archeology, or ancient religions, or something in that vein; he'd already published several books on secret cults and obscure belief systems. He's gotten some good reviews too, his books are all the rage in the intellectual circuit, and they're calling him the new Joseph Campbell. And by the way, if you don't know who Joseph Campbell, there's nothing I can do for you. Just skim ahead five paragraphs to the part where I get laid for the last time of my life and I'll catch up with you. For the rest of you -- our successful young Professor Carella decides its time to write his masterwork. He goes on an extended sabbatical that turns into job abandonment. He spends the next ten years travelling the world, researching all kinds of esoteric stuff. By now his other books have fallen out of print bu t he doesn't care because he's on the hot on the trail of something big.

Twelve years after beginning the work, he hands in a huge manuscript. And in this manuscript he reveals all the big secrets, he blurts out all the information that man was not meant to know. He reveals the existence of the "Mad Gods" and explains the inescapable logic of their victory over us. Of course that's what we all think the book is about because after Carella's editor read the manuscript he went mad. He killed Carella, strangled him I think, then he set fire to the house they were in -supposedly destroying all copies of the dreaded manuscript in the process. After all that, the manuscript became something of an urban legend. Reading it was supposed to drive you mad, if you read every fifth word you could invoke the Mad Gods in all their strange glory, it predicted the end of the world, the government supposedly had copies hidden away for use in World War Three. All of it bullshit of course. But here was an approximation some clever little webmaster had cooked up and it looked as though Vanessa was buying in to it. I remember thinking, Agnostic my ass. "What are you doing in here?" My breath caught, my hand flew to my chest, "Having a heart attack thank you very much. Haven't you ever heard of knocking?" "Preston. You're in my room." She brushed past me. Her sneakers and jeans were caked with mud, one of her fingernails was cracked. "Oh." Heedless of my presence she began to get undressed, slipping the light blouse over her head. She was braless as always, "Was there something wrong?" "No, its just that I was -- I am worried about you." It all seemed so stupid now. Was I really going to tell her that I got spooked because I

had a bad dream? "I don't trust the crew of this boat. I think they're up to no good." She kicked off her shoes, "You're being paranoid." "One of them waved a machete at me!" "Well what did you do to piss him off?" "And he called me fatboy!" Groaning with exasperation she sat me down on the bed with a good hard shove, "I know what's really bothering you." I tried to keep eye contact but my eyes kept wandering, "Vanessa, this is serious. Those guys are --" "This is really about what happened back at my place isn't it?" She strolled over and closed the door to her cabin, shucking her stained jeans on the way back. "You think I only slept with you to get you to help me out." "Yes. I mean no. I mean that's not what I'm worried about." "Preston . . . " she caressed my face, ". . . I like you, I like you a lot and I'm not using you." "Can't we just --" she shut me up with a kiss. She was on me like an attacking lioness. My clothes just seemed to melt away, The Prehistoric Pacific in the Light of the Ponape Scripture by H.H. Copeland and the Carella manuscript ended up on the floor, along with the comforter and the sheets. If I close my eyes, I can still remember how her nails felt on my skin, the way one broken one hurt just little, how it made me shiver. Think what you will but in that moment we weren't the porno actress and her pet writer, we were just a man and a woman and it was bliss. When it all ends I want to try and keep that moment in my mind, use it to block out the screaming horror I know I'm going to face.

After it was over and we lay spent on the cramped bed, she spoke in a husky whisper, "I'll tell you something I haven't told anyone else. This is my last movie. After this I'm done." It goes without saying that I slept peacefully for the rest of the night. The morning found the missing boat back where it belonged. I guess the captain had gone out fishing. The day's filming went pretty well. The statues where right where we'd left them, the sun kept the clouds at bay and Bobby Burns managed to come five times before succumbing to exhaustion. When it was Vanessa's turn to "perform" with him I had to walk away. My skin crawling, I wandered through the jungle until I found another one of the statues. For some reason, the face of it was covered with black flies. They buzzed away as I approached. Someone had painted a symbol on the things misshapen forehead. I traced a finger through the dark gummy ruby-colored, substance. Was it dried blood? I couldn't be sure. By the time I got back to the others Vanessa's scene was over, it was Claudia Tate's turn now. She'd had so many augmentations done to her chest that she looked like a cartoon character. The fans seemed to like her though. The rest of the day went by at a fairly monotonous pace, until one of the lighting guys happened to glance out onto the horizon and ask, "Hey! Where the Hell is the boat?" That's right kids, the Polaris had set off without us. I heard a mocking voice in my head, "Watch your mouth fatboy. You be sorry later." As the sun began to set, things degenerated into a full-scale panic. Hardly anyone knew we were here, those who knew we were here probably weren't sure where here was. We had no shelter, no supplies, no food. Heh . . . like Robinson Crusoe, its primitive as can be. Before things degenerated into total chaos, Vanessa took charge and led us through the jungle to the abandoned military base. At the very

least, it was a roof over our heads, after some brief discus sions about signal fires and searching for food we turned in for the night. Not a one of the twelve of us gave even the slightest thought to post someone on watch duty. After all this is a deserted island right? I woke up having to take a whiz some time later. I wasn't sure where Vanessa was, for some reason she'd felt funny about us snuggling up in front of the others. The moon was hanging swollen and low in the sky again. It looked like a bad special effect. I stumbled over jutting roots and prickly brambles. It seemed like a good idea to do my business some distance from camp. I walked what seemed like an appropriate distance and did what comes natural. It wasn't until I was finished that I noticed the toppled statue. Half concealed by a mound of freshly disturbed Earth, it lay on its back, gaping at the stars. I drew closer, wondering if I should try to set it right. I touched the stone. It was warm, clammy. Not cold like before. I wondered if one of the crew had done this, or if this thing had toppled over on its own. I thought I heard twigs snapping behind me. A sudden creeping sensation up the back of my neck alerted me to the fact I wasn't alone. I turned, "Vanessa will you please stop sneaking up on --" The shape behind me was human but emaciated, its leathery-looking skin was a muddy gray, and its teeth were the color of ashes. When it moved there was a sound like fall leaves crunching underfoot. In the moment before I started running and screaming, all Vanessa's words came tumbling back to me, "Each on of these is a grave marker . . . These guys were mummified and buried while they where still alive . . . They where chosen at birth and lived like kings until their thirty-fifth year . . . they surrendered themselves to their god knowing that they would not truly die but would instead sleep under the Earth until they where summoned back to life by their god."

Then I was running through the woods, fumbling blindly through the trees and bushes. Every statue I came across was askew or toppled over. I almost tripped over one of the dead shamans as it clawed its way out of the muddy earth. I didn't know how many were after me -Fuck, I didn't even know if any of them were after me but I kept running knowing deep in my heart of hearts that there weren't too many places you could run to on an island. Somehow my wild flight brought me to the clearing with the Well of Delphanos. The stench was worse now, the air was filled with a thick sloshing. I risked a glance backwards, a pair of dead men where shambling after me. The only noise they made was the crackle of their dead joints flexing. All sense of direction gone, I tried to double back, feinting around my pursuers and barreling back into the jungle. This time I found my way back to the others easily. I just followed the screams. Damn that full moon. How I wish it had been cloudy that night, that the shadows had been dark and long enough to hide the carnage. What I saw made me stop dead in my tracks. There was Claudia Tate, her flesh hanging torn and loose as she staggered and swayed with the animal urge to survive. A corpse shuffled after her. Another stood nearby, gnawing confusedly on one of her implants. Claudia was so proud of them, they were the new kind made with soy. I guess that means she made her own gravy. High-pitched screaming drew my attention to Bobby Burns. They swarmed over where he had fallen, pawing at him like he was a wrap party buffet. The director was swinging one of the boom mikes wildly, trying to hold off his attackers. He never saw the one he backed into. Someone was crawling pitifully, their torn intestines dragging in the dirt behind them like streamers.

Blood. Howls of terror. The dead men were relentless in their hunger. When the spidery hands grasped at me I was almost resigned to my fate. "No!" I heard Vanessa shout. I spun on my heel to see her standing in the clearing, the captain and his machete-wielding mates flanked her. She was nude save for the strange sigils painted on her in what I now know to be blood. "He isn't for you." She said, and with that the dead shamans shambled past me, looking for fresh prey. "Vanessa --" I tried to find words but my mind and my body where too exhausted. She nodded to the Captain, "Lock him in the toolshed. Treat him gently." I didn't resist as he marched me to the toolshed and secured the door with a brand new padlock. I curled into a ball on the floor and tried to shut out the sound of the feast. The next morning Vanessa came to see me. She was still wearing nothing but dried blood. She had a handful of breakfast bars in her hand. They must have come from Bobby's knapsack. "Hungry?" she asked. "No." I doubted I'd ever be hungry again. "What's going on here?" She knelt beside me, instinctively I withdrew from her proximity. "Delphonos is real, Preston. He made me promises." "You planned all this?" "He spoke to me in my dreams. He knew my desperation and revealed to me his need." "Stop talking like that!" I flashed with anger, "You're a fucking porno

actress, not Anton LeVey." "Things are changing, the war between the Mad Gods will soon spill over to our world. When they do the dead will rise to consume the flesh of the living." She closed her eyes and shuddered, "As was prophesied." I wanted to tell her she was crazy, but after spending half the night running from zombies it didn't seem appropriate. "Each of the Mad Gods will choose a viceroy to serve in the war. They alone will have the power to control the dead." "And you want to be one of these viceroys?" I wondered if I could overpower her and escape. But how would I get past the zombies? And where would I go? Was I supposed to storm onto the boat and sail to safety? That might work in a Bruce Willis movie but not in real life. My only hope was to reason with her. "Why are you doing this?" "I have ovarian cancer." she frowned, "I found out three months ago." "But --" "It's too far gone for the doctors to do anything. It's not too far gone for the fallen angel of longing." "Then why am I here?" Was it tears I saw in her eyes? "Am I going to be your official biographer?" "No." she kissed my forehead and stood, "There is a special ceremony that must be undertaken before I can truly become a viceroy of the Mad Gods. Anzon demands that the petitioner voluntarily mutilate his own vocal chords. To gain the favor of Kressor, you must wander the face of the Earth for no less then seven years -- never sleeping in the same place twice . . . That's why the high priests were awoken, to conduct the ceremony."

"What kind of ceremony?" There was an acid taste in my mouth. "You will be taken to the well . . . you see Delphanos demands the sacrifice . . . the sacrifice of a person you truly love." The door slammed to a close behind her. There was a rustle as the padlock was put back into place. It's dusk now. Not m uch longer. When she comes for me, I know she won't be alone, but I'm going to try and reason with her one last time. I'm not holding out much hope for a last minute change of heart though. Like I said before, the writer always gets the shaft.

The Nick Of Time (and other abrasions) Magwier A-Go-Go by Al Bruno III

Jason Magwier stirred, raised his head to inspect his surroundings and blinked. The room swam in and out of focus as he stood and he had to lean against the wall to keep steady. He was still in the empty basement of the cafe on Nooker Street, the windows were still boarded up, filthy mattresses and hooka pipes still crowded the floor. These were all familiar but there was still something wrong, everything seemed to have been twisted ever so slightly out true, like a reflection in a warped mirror. He inhaled deeply, a thick, cold odor filled his nostrils and then he remembered.

Black Sunshine... he whispered the name as he crossed the room. There were shards of shattered glass in the corner, all that remained of a sudden confrontation and a thrown phial; smoky remnants smoldered and clung to the tips of the broken glass. Magwier cursed his luck, he had come here to buy some of the damned stuff, not to inhale it. He cocked his head and looked around suspiciously, Time I was leaving I think. But the room had begun to confound him, the walls pressed in, the floor pitched, the ceiling drooped down low. The furniture melted away or perhaps it had never been there. He closed his eyes and tried to find his way with his other senses but they had been rendered equally useless. The hallucinations brought about by the Black Sunshine were as complete as they were malevolent and under the right circumstances they could kill their victim. Just like the clumsy-fingered dealer had promised. The thought of being left to the mercy of his own nightmares left Jason Magwier trembling and afraid. I'm not afraid, he opened his eyes and looked around the room. Everything had changed again, the patterns on the wallpaper fell and twisted on every side making his stomach twist with the illusion of free fall. He blundered around again, searching for the way out of the basement and back into the alleyway but for all he knew he was already out of the cafe, for all he knew he was about to walk out into the clutches of one of his many adversaries or, worse yet, into oncoming traffic. Don't be so melodramatic, he sneered. It was in that moment of overwhelming helplessness and fear that he first felt the presence of somethingStop doing that! -the presence of another. It was there-

I know you can hear me! Magwier glared. - was there behind himThere is nothing behind me, he spat. You're just trying to scare me now. Jason Magwier told himself that it was all just an illusion brought upon him by the Black Sunshine but it was there, a shape he could just glimpse out of the corner of his eye. It was bent and spindly and seethed with malevolence. What would it look like when he turned? Would it be bestial or nearly human? Would its eyes flicker with cruel recognition or would there be no eyes at all? Reaching into his pocket Magwier pulled out his trusty mirrorCheck again. -and dropped it back into his pocket in favor of a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He lit one and exhaled smoke but he didn't turn around because for all his bravado he knew the creature was still there. I'm hallucinating all this, especially your narration, Magwier stared at his cigarette, Maybe even this. It isn't really my brand. But he would not turn around because he knew that to do so would invite death. He felt the presence draw closer, looming over him and Magwier knew that pretending he was a character in a story would not protect him for long. Pretending? We're all fictional characters, Magwier laughed, Everyone has stories told about them and no matter who does the telling they're embellished or patently false. After we're dead all we are is memories and what is a memory but a lie you tell yourself. There is no monster. The words rang hollow because he still wouldn't turn around. Fine I will.

Jason Magwier turned the expression on his faceSee? What did I tell you? he said smugly, No monster, no monster at all. The room was empty, suddenly empty, where had the monster gone? Had the presence been just that? A presence? An illusion brought on by the dread narcotic Midnight Sunshine? Magwier stubbed his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe and looked around again. Was the room fading away or was it him? Feels like someone is slapping me awake, he said. I wonder who it is. And here's something for you to ponder, Magwier was almost gone, his smile hung in the air Chesire-like, If there was a monster, maybe it's behind you. Maybe it was behind you all along. And with that Magwier was gone, and the room was gone, all that was left was the emptiness of a fading dream. His final taunt echoed in the void; Or worse yet maybe its behind whatever poor sap is reading this...

The Nick of Time (and other abrasions) Behind The Panic Room Door by Al Bruno III

Something had gone wrong and the realization of this fact made Earle Gorsek break out into a cold sweat. He was nineteen years old, handsome and rich, being afraid was a new sensation for him and he didn't like it. Not one bit. For a full five minutes he sat in his leather recliner looking around the dark room. There was a glass of expensive scotch in his right hand, his grip tightened on the tumbler as he listened and waited. Earle tried to tell himself that it was just a power outage, nothing to worry about. That his father's men had seen to the vengeful stranger. Then why had the power gone out? It wasn't like he was in the middle of a thunderstorm, and his bills were all paid up. His bills were always paid up. Once his eyes had fully adjusted to the dark Earle got up and headed for the panic room near the center of his house. With the power out the alarm system people would have already contacted the sheriff's department. Again and again Earle assured himself that if the District Attorney couldn't touch him then neither could some weirdo with a gun fetish. It was only after he had the panic room door closed behind him that Earle realized he had left his cell phone on the coffee table. Whenever he was in trouble his first instinct was to call his father but he was on his own now. Earle didn't like that one bit either. With his cell phone out of reach Earle retrieved the pistol he kept in the panic room. As he reached for it he realized he was still holding his glass of scotch. He drained it before setting it down. The pistol was a snub nosed .38. It had been given to him by his father's bodyguard. That was back when the only thing Earle and his friends had been worried about was reprisals from the family of Tommy Dobson. But the Dobsons had left town, Earle's father had seen to that and they didn't have the money to hire a hit man to do their dirty work.

Earle's father had seen to that as well. Then why was this happening? Why had each of the guys that had been involved in that cold February night turned up dead? He aint human! He can do magic! That was what his drinking buddy Patrick has said before begging Earle and his father for the money for a plane ticket. He wanted out of town, out of the country if he could manage it. Earles father was only too glad to hand him a wad of cash, Patrick was spooked and spooked men could talk out of turn. Patrick never made it to the airport. He had hung himself in his apartment. A suicide, at least that was the story the press was going with. The guns empty, a smooth voice said. Earle screamed and pulled the trigger of the .38 anyway. It clicked impotently. The vengeful stranger stepped closer. He was a black man, in fact, his skin was so dark it was almost purple. He wore his hair in long graying dreadlocks that he kept pulled back from his face with a ribbon. He had an automatic pistol in one hand and a baseball bat slung over one shoulder. His expression was smug and catlike. Wait... Earle said, Just wait... Seth right? Your name is Seth? Zeth, the man corrected. My Dads a very rich man... This was never about money. Then what the fuck is it about? You broke every bone in Tommy Dobsons body and left him to die by the side of the road, Zeth said, thats what this is about. Earle threw the useless gun at him and missed completely, But you

didnt know him! Youre not even from here! You killed a man. It wasnt my fault! He hit on me. He gave me... Earle paused trying to remember the phrasing his lawyer had used, He made me temporarily insane! I had a gay panic attack! He hit on you so you killed him, Zeth chuckled mirthlessly, you went temporarily insane but first you let him buy you a drink and arranged to meet him in the park. Then you got all your friends together and headed out there. Quite the panic eh? The sound of his cell phone ringing spurred Earle into action. He threw open the panic room door and ran for the parlor. Was it his father? Or the sheriff? It could be the king of the queers for all Earle cared so long as they helped him, so long as they madeZeth fired his pistol, neatly shooting out Earles knee. He squealed and fell but he still managed to grab hold of his phone. Hes here! Earle shouted into the cell phone. The vengeful stranger was approaching, slipping the pistol into his loose jacket and getting the baseball bat ready. Hes gonna kill me! Please hes gonna... Blood was pooling out from his ruined knee, the pain was worse than anything Earle could have imagined but he forgot it as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. When Zeth was standing over him Earle raised the phone up and said, ...its for you... Cocking his eyebrow Zeth took the phone and put it to his ear, then he rolled his eyes, Magwier. Im busy... No... Its a personal project. Earle started to crawl away but Zeth pinned him in place by jabbing the bat into his blooded leg. Earle started to weep. Right... Right... Ill be there. Zeth threw the phone aside and turned his attention back to the man at his feet, Tears Earle? Did tears help

Tommy Dobson? What... Earle Gorseks face was all tears and snot, What are you gonna do to me? Something... Zeth hefted the bat, ...apropriate.

The Nick of Time (and other abrasions) Going Out, Going In by Al Bruno III

Are you going out? the dark haired girl asked. Her name was Audra and she was wearing baggy sweatpants and an even baggier t-shirt. There were six playing cards in her right hand and she kept them close to the surface of the table. She eyed her opponents with suspicion, You can't be going out already. You'll know when I'm going out, her roommate Judy replied. Her hair was long and yellow, her nightie was equal parts frills and solicitation. She had her cards casually fanned out and clasped to her bosom. She nudged the young man in black sitting next to her, Your turn. Isaac drew another card and sighed with resignation.

The Hammond Academy strove to keep the male and female Apprentices apart in an effort to curb the tide of sexually transmitted diseases, binge drinking and assassination attempts that came with every fall semester. Despite this Isaac Yoder snuck into the girl's dormitories every Thursday after dinner, because Thursday night was canasta night. Judy set down a group of matching cards and cackled victoriously, Youre not so tough at this game when Lorelei isnt there to help you. What do you think of them apples Amish boy? Isaac didnt react but Audra became annoyed on his behalf, Hes not Amish- hes a Mennonite. Big diff. You only bust his chops because hes taken a vow of silence, Audra took another card and grinned, finally! Going out? Wait and see. The three girls that lived in room 413- Audra DiMico, Lorelei Miller and Judy Bauer- were Isaac's only friends, the only students willing to look past the fact that once he completed his lessons he would use them to hunt and kill wielders of magic and creatures of mystery. They didnt care that he still had years until graduation. Speaking of Old Leather lungs... Judy thinned a few more cards from her hand before she went on, ...where is Lorelei off to this time? You think she tells me anything? Audra commented, Im just her best friend. A pair of electric lamps filled the room with pale sickly light, the card players were huddled around a three-legged folding table. The room had only one window and that was square-shaped and barred, its frosted glass made a smear of the night sky. Isaac studied his cards, occasionally stealing a glance at Judy. Over the last few months he

had become an expert at stealing glances at her. The trick was never to look for too long and never to glance at everything. Sometimes he would taken in the curve of her chin, at other times the color of her hair, sometimes it was they way the skin of her legs would rise up in gooseflesh when she had a winning hand. Alone in his room he would add those glimpses together, assembling them like the pieces of a puzzle until he had an image of her in his mind. In those half-dreams he would speak to her in a voice he barely remembered. Judy smirked, Is she off on another adventure with her stalker? His name is Magwier, Audra laid another handful of cards down. Hes her crazy stalker, Judy said, and shes crazy for sleeping with him. Audra frowned, Hes not a stalker, he just follows her around everywhere. There was a loud knock on the door. The two girls looked up in alarm but Isaac was already heading into the bathroom. With the door closed behind him he pressed his ear to the wood. Oh, he heard Judy through the door, why hello Dean Beardsley. What brings you here at this hour? Isaac was still holding the cards from his last hand; someday he would be forbidden to play games of chance, but he had years until graduation. He pocketed the minor suits and red queen. A message came through via the telegraph, Beardsleys voice was thick and wet, we have spoken to you girls about this. The telegraph is for administrator use only. Im sorry sir, Audra said, it wont happen again. Indeed, the Dean said. A moment later Isaac heard the door close and Judy gave the all clear.

There was scrap of paper in Audras hand, it was a chaos of dots and dashes but it wasnt Morse code. It was something the girls in room 413 had worked out for themselves. Well, what is it? Judy asked. Its Lorelei and Magwier. They need my help, theyre sending me on a mission, Audra preened at the word mission. Judy frowned, You dont have to help them. I want to. They need to me go to Route d'Abbaye. Fine then, Judy put her arm through Isaacs, they we go with you. The dark haired girl became a flurry of activity, she was changing her clothes oblivious to the boy in her room, She said you have to stay here. Screw what she says. Audra pocketed her Mojo bag and shook her head, You dont understand. Someone is killing members of the Lunt family. Gooseflesh ran down Judys legs, Im not a Lunt. Your stepmother is. Audra called as she was halfway out the door, Watch after her Isaac. He nodded as Audra slammed the door behind her. Judy threw her cards down in disgust. Isaac saw an ace of spades and another red queen. Judy still had her arm around his, she smiled slyly, Well what are we going to do now? Even if he could have spoken Isaac would have known better than to waste words on a moment like this. He kissed her and undressed her with familiar ease. He gave himself over to the sweet weaknesses of the flesh.

Someday he would have to kill Judy Bauer and all of her kind. He had sworn an oath not to suffer a witch to live but not now, not yet, he still had years until graduation.

The Nick Of Time (and other Abrasions) Assume The Position by Al Bruno III

Oh, I see youve recognized me. While my trial was years ago the so-called popular media has been obsessing over my case for over a decade. A veritable cottage industry has sprung up in the wake of the things did. You must understand however that I had little choice. The prophecies, I can see them lurking in the eyes of the Chosen. They glitter like teardrops about to be shed. When I see them I have to act, to do otherwise would be unthinkable. The Chosen arent alive like you or I, theyre shells, shells that hold burning embers of the truth. Those truths will be found out by someone eventually. So, why not me? Better me than some of those others, weve seen their handiwork already havent we? As the shell dies the truth escapes on the dying breaths. Those truths are why I turned myself in and confessed my every transgression. I

needed to be incarcerated; I needed time to contemplate the Truths I had collected. Years later, when the cleansing fire came to the Polk Institute for the Criminally Insane it passed by my door allowing me to escape. This happened because I willed it to happen. It was exhausting and painful but it proved to me that I was right and that I have the power to create a better, ordered world. History will not call me a madman, or a murderer or a sorcerer. It will me Hierophant. But enough of that, I still need to decide what to do with you dont I? And regardless of what the future holds, I need you to be kneeling.

The Nick of Time (and other abrasions) Jason Magwier Winds Up In Cleveland by Al Bruno III

It was a plain storefront building on a street called Euclid Avenue in Cleveland Ohio. The front doors were vault-like and well guarded, past them was the nightclub itself. It was small and clean, tables were arranged around a long bar. In the far corner a jazz trio played a ghostly, rambling melody. There were no mirrors or electric lamps

anywhere. Pexley Aldorus sat alone, drinking and sweating far too much. He was pudgy with thick glasses that gave him an owl-like appearance and a droopy mustache that made it seem like he had something to hide. This place wasn't just a cabaret, this was the Chiliad Fellowship and Pexley was all to aware that he didnt belong here. But what choice did he have? If he didnt move fast Yi Fen would put two and two together and realize hed been swindled. There was only one place Pexley could risk making a sale and only one man he could risk making a sale to. So this was it, do or die, all or nothing, Cleveland or certain death. Pexley had one last drink before he approached his perspective buyer. The man was dark-haired and wore a battered leather jacket. His arms were crossed, his head was down, he looked like he might be asleep or dead but when Pexley was a half step away he said, Mr. Aldorus I presume? Yes... Pexley grabbed a chair from an empty table and dragged it over, ...and youre Jason Magwier. Indeed, Magwier opened one eye, then another, his expression became cheshire-like, Im surprised you wanted to meet here. You arent really Chiliad Fellowship material. I came with a friend... Agnes Trim... Shes gone home now. And now here you are, a mayfly among the cicadas, Magwier made a show of sniffing at the carnation pinned to the lapel of his leather jacket. A chill ran through Pexleys blood. A white carnation? Yi Fen wore a white carnation! Pexley told himself it had to be a coincidence or a trick to put him on the defensive. I thought you traveled with a bodyguard, Pexley said, a black man with a taste for firearms?

He prefers to think of himself as a poet, Magwier said, but enough of that, I believe you have something you want to show me? Pexley cleared his throat, Yes, I recently came into possession of a rare item. You don't say? I have the Devil's Pocketwatch, Pexley pulled the item from his coat. It was oval shaped and made from copper and gold, it dangled from a red chain. The Devil's Pocketwatch? Magwier reached for it only to have it snatched away. Pexley said, I can see you're interested. Are you ready to name a price? Magwier fiddled with the white carnation, trying to keep it from going crooked, I don't think you understand what you have there. I understand, Pexley slipped it back into his coat. and I've tested the goods. This watch lets you go back and re-experience your sins. You feel everything you felt before. It's more than a memory and less than real. Oh, it can do far more than that, Magwier said, it can actually move you back along the skein of your misdeeds. You can bend back time. If you say so, Pexley shrugged. You can use it to make frozen custard for all I care, but how much are you willing to pay? I take cash, credit or black rubies. My offer is this. You give me the watch and I'll protect you from the inevitable reprisals that are coming your way. I wont waste my time with nonsense, Pexley grimaced as he stood up, I thought you were a man with foresight. He walked away hoping Magwier would call for him to come back but

he didnt. Once he was alone on the darkened streets, Pexley had to fight the urge to kick something. What a waste of time and resources this night had been. An arm wrapped around Pexley's throat. The movement was so sudden and forceful that he felt his ears pop. Then suddenly there was a familiar voice in his ear and a familiar knife at his throat. You didnt think Id know what you did? Yi Fen said. Pexley tried to talk but the arm around his throat was like a band of iron. He realized that when the knife touched his skin he wouldnt even be able to scream. Something sizzled past Pexleys ear. There was a wet pop and suddenly Yi Fen was dead. Just as suddenly Pexley was face down on the pavement. He would have been content to stay there for a few minutes but someone was already pulling him to his feet. Im surprised you wanted to meet here, Jason Magwier said as he brushed him off, you arent really Chiliad Fellowship material. I... Pexley gasped, ...you? Me? Magwier smiled, No not me. My friend Zeth happened to be writing sonnets on a nearby rooftop when he spied your predicament. Pexley looked around in confusion, What? Luckily he brought his rifle, Magwier drew closer, this is a rough neighborhood. Pexley was so dazed he didnt even realize that Magwier was going through his pockets until after he had taken the pocketwatch. Wait! Payment for services rendered, Magwier smiled, or rescued as it is. You planned this!

Magwier kicked over Yi Fens body and after a moments consideration of the neat head wound, plucked the white carnation from the dead mans dinner jacket. No, I just knew this would happen. Then why didnt you warn me? Pexley demanded. Maybe I wasnt sure, maybe I was guessing, grinning to himself Magwier put the carnation into his empty buttonhole. Then he began to wind the Devils Pocketwatch, with each twist he became more and more translucent, Or maybe it was just a sin of omission... Then he was gone and Pexley was alone on the streets of Cleveland.

The Nick of Time (and other abrasions) Smack My Witch Up by Al Bruno III

Judy Bauer ran out the door leaving bodies in her wake. Her jeans were torn up one side, there were unpleasant-looking stains on her blouse. Her long yellow hair had come undone and it swept out behind her. How many was that? It had been dark and she wasn't sure. It had all happened too fast.

The streets of Salem, Massachusetts were deserted and dark, in the morning none of the ordinary citizens would remember anything more than their dreams. Even the people working nights were asleep at their posts, in a few hours they would awaken embarrassed but oblivious. The February air was cold, it bit at her. The wisps of the dead thrashed mindlessly at her approach, the spirits of nature shuddered at her passing. A gray-hooded figure dove at Judy from out of an alleyway, slashing at her with a blade forged from silver and bone. Judy reached out, drew a ghost from the realm of the dead and reshaped it with her will. What was once gentle and mindless became a screaming poltergeist. It tore into the gray-hooded figure, stinging and tearing but never leaving a scratch. The knife of silver and bone fell to the sidewalk as the gray-hooded figure stumbled back into the street. Judy snatched the blade up, then started running again. Now how many? There had been eight to start with, there might only be three now. That was an odd number and that might be enough to tip the balance against her. Hunter-witches. The worst of the worst. Footfalls behind her, bare feet and whipping robes. The rest of the hunter-witches. Judy glanced back and cursed. There were three of them. Gallows Hill was her only chance, it was a park now but the ghosts and spirits there were thick as fleas on a fat pup. And wasn't it an appropriate place to go in the aftermath of a kangaroo court? Witches had put other witches on trial tonight; it was the kind of irony that Judy's roommate insisted kept the Earth spinning. What had been billed as a convocation had turned out to be a prosecution. The charge had been blasphemy. Blasphemy! Judy even hated the sound of the word. It was an accusation that the common horde

always made against their betters. What was it her mother had said? Blasphemy? Oh all the best people are doing it this year. Judy bounded off the sidewalk and ran across the deserted street. One of the hunter-witches had nearly caught up to her. A quick incantation and his hand was burning. He grabbed at her. The odor of burnt hair goaded Judy to run faster. She could just see Gallows Hill Park resolving itself out of the darkness. Unlike sorcerers and necromancers, witches drew upon already existing mystical resources. Modern witches strove to work in harmony with their environment, refusing to mark any part of the world, physical or otherwise, with their passing. That philosophy had never made much sense to Judy. Would the Sisterhood of the Magna Mater ask the permission of dead? Would the Brides of Cernunnos grovel before the spirits of the Moon? Should she stop walking out of fear of crushing insects? No. Never. Judy Bauer might only be nineteen years old but she knew hippie bullshit when she heard it. That was why she had tried to pass along what she had learned at the Academy to like-minded individuals, teaching them everything she could via coded letters and the occasional one on one meeting. This night of the Cara Cognatio was supposed to be the first meeting of her coven of strangers. The hunter-witch with the burning hand was too close now. Judy did need him on her tail when she started to make her way up the incline to the place where Bridget Bishop and eighteen others met their end. She spun on her heel grabbing at the hunter-witchs wrist, twisting the grasping hand back at him. Judy cursed the fire spirit that had settled onto his hand, driving it to consume everything around it. The hunterwitch went up in flames as Judy dove for safety. Her adversary burned and twisted upon himself like a scrap of old parchment. The remaining hunter-witches tried to save their dying comrade only to have the fire spirit lash out leaving one dead and the other with a

face that had been burned away. Then the spirit turned upon itself devouring its very essence. Judy didnt stay to watch. * There was a woman waiting for her at the top of Gallows Hill, the wise and proud Madeline Trevi. Her long white hair hung down around her shoulders, there was a fist-sized bruise on her jaw, it was dark and fresh. Judy could sense the ghosts of Gallows Hill clustered around her like a school of jellyfish. When Madeline Trevi spoke her voice was waspish, The Greater Eastern Council taught you well. I would have shared what I learned, Judy said. You would leave the world a husk. The world is a husk already. You're just too stupid to realize. With that Madeline Trevi began to speak in the lost tongue. The words rooted Judy to the spot. She felt the air around her begin to bristle like the seconds before a bolt of lightning, the grass hissed at her feet as though it was full of snakes, the trees swayed without the slightest hint of a breeze. The knife of bone and silver was still damp with blood, drops spattered everywhere as Judy threw it. The blade caught the old witch in the throat silencing her forever. Madeline Trevi fell forward driving the knife point all the way through to the back of her neck. Judy kicked her and watched as another witch died on Gallows Hill and new ghost took its place among the rest. All this. And on a school night no less!

The Nick Of Time (and other abrasions) Audra DiMico And The Curse Of The Cartwrights by Al Bruno III

They huddled together, hiding from the men with guns, but Audra wasn't afraid; while the city of Olathoe was filled with men with guns, it also had no shortage of places to hide. They were holed up in a long abandoned brewery, the floor was littered with glass smashed bottles and faded pamphlets. It was good enough for now but she had to get back to her dormitory. She glanced at the boy huddled nearby, his name was Iphot and he was beautiful. He looked her age if not a little younger. His milk white eyes and Chinese features combined to create a fragile beauty. Just looking at him made her feel frumpy, her dark hair was a tangled mess, her dress was stained and torn. A lot of men found Audra pretty but for all her bravado she rarely agreed with them. Of course it was hard to stay fresh as a daisy when you were on the run. Audra, his voice was like music, where are we? An old hideout, a temporary base of operations for whores and revolutionaries. she said, and at least the whores had the courage of their convictions. I was to be a something worse than a whore. They taught me secrets, I begged them not to.

Well not now, she scrabbled over to him and took his hand. He started at the sudden motion and Audra cursed herself for forgetting he had been chemically blinded. As far the Kuen-Yuin were concerned their handsome new plaything didn't need eyes to preform his duties. Come on. Let's get moving. I think it should be all clear. The streets of Beecker Street were back to normal, the prostitutes were back to plying their trade and the subversives were back to murmuring in the coffee shops. I smell food, Iphot whispered. Audra hushed him, Hold your breath now, long as you can. She whispered a minor incantation, something to make them less noticeable. It was better to be safe than sorry, especially when dealing with the likes of Jack Diamond. You're trembling. Shhhhh. How could she not shudder at the very thought of Jack Diamond. It wasn't too long ago that she had almost made her into a plaything of his very own. She had been saved by an Outlander, a hapless man named Matthew. She had fallen in love with him but he had been lost to her, lost to her by the Curse of the Cartwrights. They made it all the way to the next street before Audra had to take a breath, the incantation fell away but she knew that if they could just reach Haruspex Boulevard they'd be home free. A voice called from a nearby car, There she is! Sonofabitch! Audra grabbed Iphots hand and started running. There was never a damn Sentry around when you needed one. Footsteps clattered after them, the sound of expensive shoes on asphalt. Was this to be her lot in life? Putting everything on the line for one lost soul or another? She could almost live with that if once, just once, she won out.

Audra called it The Curse of the Cartwrights in honor of her fathers favorite TV show, a western called Bonanza. The men of the Cartwright clan were gold old fashioned cowboys but they had the worst luck in the world when it came to love. If one of them fell in love within the first fifteen minutes you knew that by the end of the episode they would waving a sad goodbye or standing be standing over a grave. It was just like her life, ever since grade school; each time she fell in love she was robbed by death, dismemberment or circumstance. Up a fire escape and down a flight of condemned stairs, through an alley and over a loading dock; she ran, dragging him after her. Soon enough they had found somewhere else to hide, a darkened brownstone that had been half burned away in one riot or another. The air was thick with ghosts, Audra inhaled deeply. You should have left me, he still had hold of her hand, he wouldnt let go. She smiled, I couldnt do that, not after what they did. Why were you even there? Iphot asked, Were you a guest? Fuck no! Lets just say I was up to no good. I wish... he paused, I wish I could have seen your face. Oh hey now, she gave him a little hug. That hug led to a kiss and suddenly they were undressing each other, laying their castoff clothes down on the scorched floor. His touch fluttered over her skin. By the time she realized he was a eunuch she was too aroused to even care or comment and his cock was as rigid as any other boy she had been with. When it was over they dressed quietly, Audra didn't know what to say, she never did at moments like this. Iphot stepped towards the doorway. He whispered Theyre here.

What? Audra said but her hands were already making preparations for one of the deadlier incantations she knew. As long as there were no more than three of them they were still going to make it. I can hear their footsteps coming up the stairs, he turned his head in her direction. Theyll never stop, not when I know what they need. I know another way out, Audra shook her head, I wont let them hurt you. No, he said, I wont let them hurt you. Thank you for trying. What are you- Iphot ran out of the doorway screaming like a madman, one of the Kuen-Yuin shouted in alarm and fired. As the stairwell filled with curses and recriminations Audra slipped out of the building and headed home. Her clothes smelled like old smoke and sweat, she only kept herself from crying by whistling the theme to her fathers favorite TV show.

The Nick of Time (and other abrasions) Linger by Al Bruno III

Amplifiers squawked to life, the feedback underscored the deep voice of Vincent Padre, Each of us has been drawn here by a greater power. Let us submit ourselves to that divine wisdom. Padre had gathered his flock of Apocalypse-hungry followers to the remains of a burnt out mansion on Kliftin Hill. This was a direct defiance of the laws of the city of Olathoe. Audra DiMico climbed in through the gaping, scorched remains of a first floor window and wondered how long it would be before the Constables found this little hideout. She found herself in what had once been an opulent lavatory but time and fire damage had left it looking no better than the cruddiest of gas station restrooms. The cracked mirror reflected the streetlights illumination and cast strange shapes on the walls. Audra eyed her reflection for a moment, just a teenage girl with tangled black hair and overdone makeup dressed in a plaid mans shirt, dark slacks and old sneakers. She didnt think she was as pretty as either of her dormmates but there were plenty of boys that disagreed. I tell you now that I have had a vision. A holy vision of burning skies and cities made of song. Padre paused so his followers could get a chorus of hallelujahs out of their system. Audra moved on, it didnt do for a girl like her to think about love and besides she had a mission. Her dorm-mate Lorelei Miller had called in a favor, and that meant she was in trouble again. Creeping towards the basement door Audra thought to herself that Lorelei was always in trouble, she seemed drawn to it like other girls were drawn to fancy shoes. The speakers hanging on the walls of the makeshift chapel Vincent Padre had built on the upper floor went silent and then suddenly hissed to life again, ...The fires of Damocles will sweep aside the old world, the old faiths. But the heretics will not die, oh no. They will be drawn down to the Great Below and they will live as worms. They will linger. Audra paused to whisper an incantation and then made her way down

the basement stairs. Not a single board squealed under her feet, the old burglars' spell had seen to that. She had a few other spells on hand as well, spells that could call down well-meaning monsters for defense and escape but at a cost. A cost Audra knew all too well. Better to get this done without being seen. Halfway down to the basement the air became humid and stinking, it smelled like one of the outhouses at her Uncles farm. She thought of cracked sewer mains and backed up septic tank and cursed herself for wearing her good sneakers. She told herself to breathe through her mouth, to forget her nose was even there. The basement was dark save for the dull glow of the Xenon Splinter. It was lying on a table, a length of crystal, sharp on one end and rounded on the other. It glowed weakly making Audra think of fairy lights and Christmas pranks. Audra stepped off the lowest step and felt the basement floor squelch under her feet. She wished she had worn socks. We will be reborn in smoke and billow towards heaven! Drawing close she marveled at the object on the table. The Xenon Splinter! The stuff of legends and bad poetry. It was in the care of Lorelei's boyfriend Jason Magwier but he was forever losing it. That only further reinforced Audras suspicion he was a dangerous loon. Still though, he and Lorelei were waiting for her in a safehouse on Route d'Abbaye. Best not to keep them waiting. When Audra put her hand on the length of red crystal it began to glow more brightly illuminating the room and confirming she was standing in a layer of shit two inches deep. Her stomach heaved and she threw up on her sneakers. So much for them. By the time she got her retching under control she realized she was hearing a thick slithering sound. And whining groans. The Xenon Splinter brightened again revealing the shapes making

their way to her from the four corners of the basement. Audra screamed. The shapes had been human once. They crawled. They were naked but the coating of filth, both dry and wet, had rendered them sexless and almost featureless. But still Audra could see enough, she could see the gouged faces, empty eye sockets, toothless mouths, the rotted holes where noses should have been. Their hands and feet had been hacked away as well. Each wound had been brutally cauterized. Audra thought of Vincent Padre's words ...the unfaithful will not die, oh no. They well be drawn down to the Great Below and they will live as worms. The miserable creatures drew closer, drawn by the sound of her screams. What did they want from her? Mercy? Revenge? Audra didn't know, all she knew was that if one touched her she would go mad. She backpedaled to the stairs but Padre was waiting for her. He was nauseatingly handsome. One of his acolytes peered out from behind him, How did she get in here? Padre smiled knowingly, She came in through the bathroom window. Didnt you girl? What happened to these people? Audra asked, What did you do to them? Do they disgust you? he plucked the Xenon Splinter from her hands, I hope not for you will be joining them. Oh how you shall linger. With that her courage broke, she spoke the most difficult of the burglar's spells without even thinking about the consequences. One of the things that dwelt in the Spaces Between heard her plea and plucked her out of angled space. The dweller was not quite and an angel and not quite a nightmare but Audra knew not the be afraid. She knew where the real monsters were.

The Nick Of Time (and other Abrasions) Tombs Of The Blonde Dead part one In The Garden Of Duchesses by Al Bruno III

Gurlich Mansion was the house that smut built and by all accounts it was one Hell of a house. It had an indoor swimming pool and an outdoor one as well, there was a huge dining room, a library, a private cinema, and of course there were the bedrooms; bedrooms of all sizes and shapes, bedrooms that had once played host to the famous, the infamous and the occasional lucky nobody. The only thing more numerous than mansion's bedrooms was the bevy of beautiful women that visited, partied and sometimes lived there for years on end. Larry Gurlich kept this a veritable army of undiscovered starlets, unnoticed models and sullied ingenues pliable with liberal doses of expensive champagne and false hope. He sat behind his antique desk, giving the words he would speak tonight another going over. It was memorized of course but at seventy-six he no longer fully trusted his faculties, after all hadn't he forgotten that young model's name just a few nights ago? In the throes of passion no less! Another sign that his glory days were far behind him. This new generation only saw him as an amusing relic, or a punchline; but it was more than that- Gurlich Enterprises' brand of pornography was fast being eclipsed by the Internet, home video and, worst of all,

respectability. Larry got up from his desk and stretched. He should have expected this, especially when you considered many Girly Magazine monthly centerfolds or Duchesses as the most popular centerfolds of the year came to be called- had found their way into the movies and TV over the years. Larry couldn't think of the precise number right off the top of his head but it was enough to keep nubile and trusting girls coming to Los Angeles by the busload. It amused Larry to imagine that some of the women that he and his guests had found so delightful over the years might have retreated back to the Midwest on the very same buses in hopes of finding anonymity and respectability. He imagined a constant exchange, a perfect self-renewing system; bimbos into farm girls and farm girls into bimbos. Sometimes he wondered if it was it time to hand over control of his empire. But to who? He had heirs of course- bastards one and all- but not a one of them had a brain for business. The glare from the setting sun had faded enough that he could watch the party taking place in the wide, maze-like garden some three floors below. His eyesight, and his memories were strong enough that he could enjoy the delights taking place without actually having to mingle with the Hollywood carrion that his parties seemed to attract these days. There was a time when he had personally vetted the guests and the guests of the guests but it as all too tiring, especially when the same old faces seemed to make it in no matter what. Larry had learned to trust his security staff in matters like this, they were experts at keeping things under control and under wraps. There was an expensive telescope by the window he used it to give the festivities a once over, he paused whenever an interesting specimen of femininity caught his eye. He hadn't spied any future cover girls or girlfriends yet but the night was young. The band hadnt even started playing yet. He spied a trio girls sitting on the concrete ledge that bordered the Koi pond. They had their shoes off and were dangling their toes just a few inches above the waterline watching the fish crowd and gape and beg. Larry chuckled, there was a metaphor for women in general if ever he

saw one. Abandoning his telescope he turned to examine himself in one of Gurlich Mansion's many full length mirrors, he always wore slacks and a tie, always something tailored and expensive; he wouldn't be caught dead lounging around in his bathrobe and he'd told Hugh Heffner so on more than one occasion. Larry was sure the snappy clothes helped him stay so young looking, that and just a touch of hair dye. Sometimes however the young beauties he brought to bed with him made him feel twice as old, had girls always been so damn aggressive and energetic? Or was it just that he got winded so much more quickly these days? Just as well he had always preferred to lie back and watch the show. Straightening his tie he went over what he was going to say one last time, trying to find the right tone for these kinds of things always left him feeling uncomfortable. How much was too much emotion? How much was too little? You had to be careful what you said when you were a whipping boy for the far left and the far right. Finally he turned away from the mirror and gazed at the coffin in the center of the room, it was shocking pink and held the earthly remains of the 1987 Girly Magazine centerfold of the year 'Chrystal Lustre'. It was hard to believe she had died so young, even harder to believe she had died of complications from a liposuction. The thing Larry remembered the most about her was her pale blonde hair, so pale it was almost the color of snow. Her hair color and breast size had changed almost half a dozen times since that first photo-shoot but he would always remember her as she was in that first centerfold spectacular, But she was gone now, lost to memories and back issues and just like the eight girls before her she had asked to be buried on the grounds of the mansion, in the Garden of Duchesses.

The Nick Of Time (and other abrasions) Tombs Of The Blonde Dead part two Severe Tire Damage by Al Bruno III

It was dusk and anonymous servants moved though the Garden of Duchesses lighting the elegantly sculpted brasiers one by one. Security and celebrities each blinded to anything but their own agendas. Most paid little attention to the girls at the edge of the koi pond. All three girls were on the verge of twenty. Audra Dimico was the tallest, with long dark hair and darker eyes, there was a wild party going on all around her full of beautiful and famous faces but she watched the stage at the edge of the garden expectantly. Whenever a roadie wandered out to check an instrument or a microphone she let out a cheer. Judy Bauer had yellow hair and wore her skirt short and her shirt tied up in the middle; her lipstick was the color of blood and she sipped from a margarita. She had eyes for all the boys, all the pretty ones anyway. Lorelei Miller was shorter with hair she wore in a pixie cut and erratically dyed burgundy, her eyes were candy-green and full of suspicion. She was the only one that seemed to notice or care that this lavish party was taking place in a graveyard. Not officially a graveyard but the Gurlich manor grounds had wide gardens larger than some city parks and nestled here and there among the erotic sculptures, zoo animals and tropical blooms were ten concrete mausoleums, each holding a Girly Magazine centerfold of the year - or Duchess as they were called. I cant believe were really here. Judy gushed, Isnt that Brad Pitt? Lorelei asked, Who?

A trio of girls passed by them, one of them flashed their breasts at a crowd of men who howled appreciatively. Hes an actor, Judy explained, he was in Thelma And Louise. Lorelei was more interested in the fish nibbling at her toes, I have no idea what youre talking about. You are such a dork sometimes. All I know is this show better be worth it. Dont worry, Audra was bubbling over, Severe Tire Damage is an awesome band. I have bootlegs of all their albums. Actually Lorelei already knew that the only thing she was going to get out of this show was a migraine but she had done a tarot card reading on Audra recently and the results had been ominous; even more ominous than her usual readings. A trio of bleached blondes staggered past, one of them exposed her breasts to a nearby group of men that howled with appreciation. Elsewhere other girls were laughing too loudly or dancing on rickety folding tables. Lorelei rolled her eyes and thought, Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of sluts. Jason Magwier, her sometime lover and full-time disaster magnet, had tried to warn her away from visiting Gurlich Manor worrying that the plastic bacchanalia might be too much for her. He never gave her enough credit, sure he had rescued her a few times but how many times over the last year had she rescued him? Besides, when you grew up in the Unified Abbey of the Greater Eastern Council of Mystagogues you learned to have eyes in the back of your head. I think that guy over there is making eyes at me. Judy leaned closer to her friends. Audra craned her neck, Where? Dont do that!

Then why did you tell me where he was? Lorelei snorted with disbelief, The guy wearing a leather jacket and a tie? Oh yeah, Judy said, Hes got a powerful need, you can see it in his eyes. You sure hes not just looking for the restroom? Judy laughed playfully, Bitch. Loreleis voice was neutral, Slut. A wave of applause and whistles rippled through the party-goers as the members of the band walked out onto the stage and played a few preemptive guitar licks. There they are! Audra stood and ran for the stage, then doubled back and grabbed her shoes, Come on! We can hear and see everything from here, Lorelei said. Come on, stay here. No way! Audra turned to the other girl, What about you? Judy was slipping on her high heels, I have to go talk to somebody about performing the Great Rite. Oh come on! Lorelei made claws of her hands and shook them with exasperation, The Great Rite? You know being a Wiccan is more than just not trimming your bush. Later, Judy backed away and waved jostling a bearded man in raggedy brown clothes. He made a grunting sound and headed deeper into the gardens. Judy mumbled an apology and turned to make eye contact with the object of her desire. What does she think- Lorelei turned to Audra but her best friend was

gone disappearing into the crowd forming around the stage. Great. Lorelei hopped into her shoes and tried to follow her when she felt a presence pass through her. It was a fleeting thing but the malevolence of it was so strong it almost knocked her off her feet. The fuck? She turned, trying to find it again with her other senses, the ones that could only be opened by the study of the most forbidden texts or the most terrible of experiences. Lorelei had gotten more than her share of both in her nineteen years but it was already gone. Oh no... her whispered was drowned out by the harsh melody of Severe Tire Damages first song. There were words for what she had sensed - a dark presence, a spiritual nightmare, a being from the realms of Nightmare of Death. But the most common name given to these creatures was demon. And Lorelei knew this was the kind of demon that never rose alone.

The Nick Of Time (and other Abrasions) Tombs Of The Blonde Dead part three Caged Exotics by Al Bruno III

It was dark now and the sculpted brasiers filled the Garden of Duchesses with flickering yellow light. The grunge band Severe Tire Damage were well into their first set; she sound of cheers and the squeal of distorted guitar riffs filled the night. Judy Bauer was giggling. She had her high heeled shoes in one hand and a plastic margarita glass in the other; she glanced behind her to make sure the man with the leather jacket and the silk necktie was still following her. But of course he was. She led him off the winding pathway to the shadowy borders of the elegantly sculpted treeline. Judys eyes adjusted quickly to the loss of light- but the darkness rarely held any surprises for her. She didnt even spill her drink. Her admirer Grady Smith wasnt so lucky, he blundered through sweet smelling blooms and tried to make his cursing sound good-natured. The passed close to a brass cage where an exotic bird made irritated sounds. Judy wondered momentarily at the cruelty of keeping the creature caged, alone and far from human sight. Who cared for it? Who took pleasure in its beauty? Did millionaire publisher Larry Gurlich even remember it was there? Well that was the difference of the sexes wasnt it? Given unlimited energy and resources male energy would horde and build monument after monument to itself- female energy on the other hand would be caught in a cycle of creation and destruction. Julie? Grady Smiths voice was somewhere behind her. Judy, she corrected and kept walking. Where are you? He sounded confused and frustrated, and that was just the way Dame Bauers youngest daughter liked them. She finished her drink and tossed the plastic cup aside, she felt a twinge of guilt at that but she was sure there were far worse things found littering the grounds of this place in the morning. Grady Smith headed in the direction of the glass, giggling Judy called back, Im over here.

For a record producer he had a lousy sense of hearing but that was assuming he really was who he said he was. Who knew how many faux producers and directors were out there trolling for bimbos? There was a building up ahead, for a moment Judy thought it might be some kind of lovers cottage or an elaborate storage shed but then she saw it was one of the eight burial vaults that had been scattered throughout the gardens. Actually, she realized, there are nine of them now. Nine beauties, nine almost celebrities, nine women who died with their dreams and their lives half realized. Slowing her pace Judy ran her the palm of her hand along the smooth granite wall of the tomb. It was a pitiful thing really, especially when compared to some of the sights offered by the city of Olathoe. Of course that was to be expected when you considered how much male energy was running rampant around there. Turning she pressed her back against the stone wall and waited for her pursuer to find her. When he did he pressed close, one hand on the wall the other on her hip. He filled her face with his stale panting breaths and pick-up lines that were staler still. Why was it the really handsome ones never knew when to shut up? Finally he had convinced himself that she wanted to be kissed and his head darted forward. She turned at the last moment letting him plant his lips on her cheek. Then she giggled again. She could almost feel his face going crimson, and let him stew for a few minutes before she pressed her lips to his. Then she slipped out of his embrace and ran to the other side of the burial vault. And he was hot at her heels asking her Hey baby, where are you going? but there was an edge of danger to that Hey baby.She knew it

was wrong to be a tease- wrong and dangerous but this was how she liked men best- frustrated and impatient, right on the verge of becoming beasts. Judy also knew she wasnt the only woman to play this game but unlike most she knew how to take care of herself; if record producer Grady Smith didnt know how to take no for an answer he would find choice parts of his anatomy melting away. The sound of a familiar guitar riff filled the darkness, it was Severe Tire Damage playing their only top twenty hit Lady Snakeskin. Judy let Grady Smith find her and they were kissing again. He was more insistent now, pressing himself against her, his hands were everywhere. They lay down on the ground, loosening their clothes in all the necessary places. Judy pushed him flat on his back and she was nibbling here and licking there. He called her Julie again but before she could think to scold or correct him the door of the burial vault fell open with a muffled crash. What was that? Grady Smith hissed in what would be one of his final breaths. A slender shape in a silk shroud stepped out onto the warm grass, it was a shape that dozens of young men had lulled themselves into sleep by dreaming of, it was shape that had even caught the eye of a middle aged Elvis Presley, it was the 1967 Girly Magazine. Duchess of the year Betty Cunningham. Twenty five years of decay had run riot over that famous figure reducing it to sinew and gristle, her beauty mark was long gone now, along with most of the face that had held it, the only thing that still seemed to have retained its luster was her long blonde hair. Betty Cunninghams rot-blinded eyes glared down at the couple sprawled on the grass.

The Nick Of Time (and other Abrasions) Tombs Of The Blonde Dead part four Resurrection In Pink by Al Bruno III

From the very moment the four members of the band Severe Tire Damage took the stage things started to go wrong. Half the attendees of the Garden of Duchesses' rock and roll wake started to rush the stage at the very first drumbeat and and Audra Dimico was part of the first wave. She managed to stay on her feet and reach the stage but only after she had been shoved, nearly trampled and surreptitiously felt up countless times. The lead singer of Severe Tire Damage was slurring the lyrics of every song, the lead and base guitarists were glaring at each other murderously and the drummer was obviously coked out of his mind. As far as Audra was concerned this was exactly what rock and roll was all about and the show was already worth the miserable journey from the wonders of Olathoe to the sun-bleached excesses of LA. The first song dwindled out and after a few sour chords and misstimed drum beat a new song began. Audra cheered a looked around for someone to share her ear to ear grin with but there was no sign of Lorelei. The must have gotten separated in the crowd; Audra started to worry but then she thought better of it, she knew they could take care of themselves. They all did, after all there wasn't a member of the Seventh Circle of

Greater Easter Council of Mystagogues that didn't have an outright murder or two to their names. It was almost a rite of passage, an unwanted and terrible one but a rite of passage all the same. The concert continued, and the audience crowded closer and closer to the sage as Severe Tire Damage started the work their way through their roster of hits. There were no well known faces in the crowd, just aspiring models and their failed cage fighter boyfriends. To Audra it was like drowning in a sea of steroid acne and breast implants. It was getting hard to breathe and she was starting to taste her own sweat and growing panic. Crowd control was failing fast as Gurlich manor security and roadies alike where pushed further and further back until they had to retreat up and onto the stage. Audra was close enough to reach out and touch the leg of Severe Tire Damage's long haired front man Harvey Whitstien but her arms were pressed tightly to her sides. She was starting to feel faint and sick to her stomach but even if if there had been the strength in lungs her to scream no one would have heard her over music thundering from the oversized speakers on either side of the stage. She considered an incantation but didn't think she had the strength to pull it off, she had only just managed to get them here in one piece, if she overdid it she might end up plunging herself into the heart of the Maelstrom. Better to scream her head off and hope for the best. Of course screaming was only an option when you had breath to spare and by the time Audra had managed to make the decision to call for help she was already swooning. As always whenever she lost consciousness she saw a parade of faces pass before her eyes, all the people she had wronged by loving them. At first there was only blackness, timeless, peaceful and empty of promises. Then commotion all around her, tossing her this way and that until she was flat on her back, she blinked and found herself dazzled by bright lights and a straggly curtain that swept to and fro over her face. Oh.

My. God. The roadies had pulled her up out of the crowd and onto the stage. They had laid her at the very feet of Harvey Whitstien like she was some kind of a not-quite a virgin sacrifice. He was singing to her, whipping his hair over her; there was an uncharacteristically mischievous look in his eyes. Audra tried to say something but she suddenly had a mouthful of drool. Once she started trying to stand a roadie bustled her offstage and gave her some bottled water, he asked her what her name was and where she was from. Audra gave answers she knew he wouldn't find surprising and then went about the business or re-hydrating herself and enjoying the show from some of the best seats in the house. She was starting to feel better around about the time Larry Gurlich and a half-dozen burly pallbearers brought a pink coffin onto the stage. The band and the crowd fell silent. Harvey Whitstien said, "This next song is one of our big hits, and it goes out to a very special lady that left us way too soon. She was a beautiful lady and one Hell of a piece of ass." Severe Tire Damage started to play their top ten hit 'Lady Snakeskin', the crowd went wild, Audra was on her feet jumping up and down in time with the drumbeats. From her vantage point she saw the pallbearers starting to sway in place, at first she thought they were just doing a bad job of rocking out but then they fell over like dominoes. Larry Gurlich grabbed his chest and fell to his knees. The music stopped as the pink coffin lid cracked and fell open. The crowd thought it was part of the show at first but once the members of Severe Tire Damage and their roadies started to drop dead one by one panic set in. Audra felt the strength draining from her limbs all over again as the woman in a nightgown-like burial robe rose from the coffin and began to shimmer with ghostly energy. Bit by bit she drew the souls from those nearest to her and with each one she consumed she became more life-like and beautiful.

Audra felt an unnatural arousal stirring in the pit of her stomach and everything was starting to go black all over again.

The Nick Of Time (and other Abrasions) Tombs Of The Blonde Dead part five The Nine Sisters by Al Bruno III

The hallways of Gurlich manor were littered with dead servants and broken finery, Lorelei stepped gingerly around both. When she glanced behind her she could see the Garden of Duchesses was on fire, doubtlessly braziers had been toppled in the mass panic but while the fire was growing in strength, the sounds of panic were dwindling as the guests fell to the ravenous appetites of the Nine Sisters of Kashchei. Stepping over a bloodied butler Lorelei made her way up the stairs, her senses telling her this was where the trouble had started. It was the story of her whole damn life, if there was something terrible to be found it was either near the roof or the lowest sub-basement- dark forces rarely dawdled in the lobby. Glass crunched underfoot and she noticed that particular attention had been paid to the mirrors- while bones and memorabilia had been smashed with an almost casual brutality the mirrors had been shattered and re-shattered again until all that remained was dust.

But that made sense didn't it? The Nine Sisters of Kashchei were as vain as they were hungry- they couldn't bear the sight of what they had become. What a world, Lorelei thought, even the demons live in denial. She paused at the third floor and let her senses reach out across the realms of dream and magic. What she wanted was two more floors up. Lorelei started running, things, were already out of hand, too many souls had been lost forever. The stairs were grimy with chips of glass and splashes of blood. A figure came at her from the shadows swinging an ax handle, Lorelei turned slipped in a puddle of warm red and felt the weapon connect with her leg. Her knee gave way with a sickening pop that was half sensation and half sound. When her assailant swung again she blocked the blow with her forearm but the pain of it left her numb from fingertips to elbow. But that gave her time to kick. And they thought these boots were just a fashion statement! Lorelei planted her heel right in her attacker's gut. The ax handle clattered down the stairs. She was about to kick again when she felt a warm tuneless humming in her ears. Now that they were finished with the final guests of Gurlich manor the Nine Sisters had moved on to the house. They flowed in through the doorway, their feast had returned the flesh of their adopted bodies to its former glories. They were all supple curves, inviting smiles and of course, blond hair but there was something hateful about their beauty now, their eyes were dull and doll-like, their skin flawless to the point of looking airbrushed. Her attacker forgot everything and ran to them. "Beautiful!" he shouted, "More beautiful than life!" It wasn't much of a distraction but it was all Lorelei had, favoring her

useless leg she hopped the rest of the way up to the fifth floor, cursing under her breath with each step she cleared. Larry Gurlich's study that was in no better shape than the rest of his kingdom; the bookshelves were toppled, the mirrors smashed, a telescope, a globe and dozens of rare baseball cards were scattered across the floor. On the top of the desk there was a mummified hand, a black candle guttering in the center of the palm. It was a Persephone Claw- the hand of a virgin that had been tortured to death. Just the thing for a layman sorcerer that didn't find a Hand of Glory gruesome enough. Lorelei swept it off the table, the flame went out but it was going to take more than that to break this spell. The sound reached her ears again, the song of the Nine Sisters grasping at her soul, a normal human would have been dead already but Lorelei just felt dizzy. What was it going to take to send these things back? Or worse yet, what if she couldn't send them back? Adept of the Seventh Circle or not, if she let these things get to close to her all the training and incantations in the world wouldn't matter. Moving as one the Nine Sisters entered the room. Suddenly Lorelei saw just what she needed. She retreated until she could get her hand around the telescope. The Nine Sisters were drawing closer, cooing seductions and taunting her with soul with promises of oblivion. Lorelei cracked the telescope in half over her good knee and spent a terrifying moment blundering through the bits and pieces that tumbled free. Where is it? Where is it?

There! Every telescope has a small mirror in it, and a small mirror was all she needed. The Nine Sisters of Kashchei were of looming over her. Lorelei held the two inch circle of polished metal and glass at eye level. The first of the Nine caught her reflection and her face twisted into a scowl of disgust, the others tried to look away but the Nine rose as one and the Nine fell as one. First the color, then the very substance of their bodies bled away until all that wasleft on the floor was rags and tatters. It was as horrible a sight as any other Lorelei had seen, she leaned on the antique desk for support and tried to catch her breath, tried to feel safe. Footsteps approached, she looked up to see Audra DiMico and Judy Bauer staggering into the room, their faces ashen. Lorelei gave them a grim smile, "What took you so long?"

The Nick Of Time (and other Abrasions) Tombs Of The Blonde Dead part six Sealed With A Kiss by Al Bruno III

How could it all have gone so wrong?

How could it all have gone so wrong after years of preparation? The Nine Sisters of Kashchei were no more, their sweet promises of revenge and delight unfulfilled. Oh, how Reynolds had wanted to lord his victory over his father, the father that had taken such pleasure in reminding him he was a bastard, the father that had never seen his son as anything more than a groundskeeper and a burden. Gurlich Manor was burning, the fire had spread out from the gardens and was finding fuel in everything- furniture, trees, even the bodies of the party guests. The light from the fire was as bright as a sunrise and it cast flickering illumination through the windows of the one room cottage Larry Gurlich had allowed his son to live in. Reynolds was packing to leave. He didnt have much to show for his near decade of thankless service; a few savings bonds, some cash and all the jewelry he had managed to steal from his fathers guests when the opportunity had presented itself. It was enough for a new start, he had contacts in Los Angeles; that city of pornographers and sorcerers and everything in-between. Reynolds knew they had befriended him because they thought he was a quick path to his father but they had come to appreciate the talents that were his and his alone. Hadnt he let them taste the flesh of ghosts and the substance of dreams? Hadnt he summoned creatures from the very Ruins of Creation for their amusement? Yes, there were more than enough people out there that would help him start over, and even more that would follow him. With a single suitcase packed Reynolds turned to go, his only regret was that he didnt have time to steal any of the classic cars his father had collected and left to gather dust in storage. Going somewhere? Audra DiMico asked. Lorelei Miller gave her a disbelieving look, I cant believe you said that.

It seemed appropriate. Can we get this over with so we can finish freeing all the animals? Judy Bauer cast a nervous glance towards the open cages of the Garden Of Duchesses. Reynolds stared at the three girls blocking the way out. He recognized one of them, she had almost cracked his ribs with a single kick. But the other two? He had no idea who they were, but they werent Girly Magazine material that was for damn sure. They had trouble written all over them- uninvited trouble. You cunts! he realized aloud, youre the ones that ruined everything. Audra nodded sadly, They always go right for the C-word dont they? Last refuge of a scoundrel, Judy agreed. The ax handle was still in reach, Reynolds grabbed it and waved it threateningly, Get out of my way. I would ask you why you did all this, Audra said, but I think the answer might be too pitiful to bear. Judy groaned, Can we just finish this? The girl that had kicked him in the gut was just watching him and whispering under her breath; it was unintelligible but Reynolds still didnt like the sound of it. Screaming like a madman he charged them, swinging the ax handle wildly. Instead of backing away Lorelei stepped up to him and kissed him hard on the mouth. The ax handle dropped to the floor, when the kiss broke Reynolds fell on top of it. He couldnt move, he could barely breathe. Lorelei wiped the blood from her lips already dreading the aftereffects

of the Nightshade Kiss but how could she complain in the face of what her friends had gone through on this night? Audra had only escaped with a hasty translocation but she had been too hasty and glimpsed the very Heart of the Maelstrom; something no woman should ever do. Judy had protected herself from one of the Nine Sisters with a powerful spell of her own but the cost had been moments off her natural lifespan; when your future is uncertain those moments can add up. As if there wasnt enough that would haunt them about this terrible night. You wont be able to move for a while, Lorelei said, if I had had more time I would have fixed it that youd never move again but I suppose that would be pointless. Somewhere a peacock was screeching in alarm, Judy made an anxious sound and fidgeted in place, Come on... The fire hasnt reached here yet, maybe it wont even reach here at all Lorelei explained, so youve got a chance. Thats something isnt it? Audra nodded, Were not monsters. So... I guess thats it, good luck. The three girls filed out of the cabin. Reynolds tried everything he knew, every invocation, every trick of the mind but he couldnt move. He wanted to scream and beg but he could barely keep one breath coming after the other. It wasn't long before he started to smell smoke.