ã€ŠSunrise Over Avalon &amp; Other Storiesã€‹


 Sunrise Over Avalon

    Moments like this, Hendricks wished he was back on the Marne. Or maybe at Catigny. Hell, anywhere on the Western Front, anywhere with a trench you could hide in. At least back then, the shamblers couldn¡¯t spot you so easily. Nor were there so damn many of them everywhere.

    Right now, there was a whole pack of them ¨C at least twenty stinking, rotting, ravenous once-men ¨C at the top of the western hill, blocking his path back to the boat, back to his lifeline, his escape.

    ¡°They can¡¯t smell us, can they?¡±

    ¡°No, Smitty,¡± said Hendricks, ¡°but their hearing¡¯s as good as the living¡¯s, so just you hush.¡±

    Hendricks, Smitty, and Carl were huddled in the riparian zone just downhill from the shambler pack. They¡¯d come ashore at dawn, one of a dozen small foraging parties, to hunt deer and scrounge up any supplies they might stumble across in the abandoned towns along the coast.

    ¡°Necropoli,¡± he¡¯d heard them called by some of Wrigley¡¯s egg-heads back on Catalina Island. Cities of the dead. The ruins of Man¡¯s work, populated now only by legions of walking corpses. Very hungry walking corpses.

    ¡°We gotta get past¡¯em somehow,¡± whispered Carl. ¡°No need to go straight over this hill. The creek¡¯ll take us to shore eventually.¡±

    Hendricks shook his head. That could take hours. They¡¯d risk exposing themselves to an even bigger pack. Better to wait them out. Again, he found himself longing for a muddy trench flanked with barbed wire. Much better cover there, with lots more protection between you and the enemy than just a bunch of trees and bramble.

    But at least this enemy wasn¡¯t lobbing mustard gas and tank shells at him. He figured that evened the score a bit.

    ¡°I think they¡¯re up to something,¡± said Smitty, making no effort to keep his voice down. Stupid kid.

    Hendricks glared at him. ¡°Shh!¡±

    ¡°Sorry, sir.¡± Whispering now. ¡°But look. They¡¯re all looking out to sea.¡±

    It was true. The shamblers had all turned their attention shoreward, back the way Hendricks and company needed to go. What could command their attention like that, so suddenly? Another foraging party from the island, maybe?

    ¡°You hear that?¡± Carl asked.

    At first, all Hendricks heard was the wind, and the crash of waves, and the moans of the horde on the hill. But underneath all that, behind it and getting louder, was a distant, mechanical buzzing. Coming in off the sea.

    Hendricks hadn¡¯t heard that sound since the war.

    ¡°It can¡¯t be.¡±

    ¡°What else makes that sound?¡± Carl asked. He was a veteran, too. And what¡¯s more, a pilot. He knew the score. ¡°It has to be.¡±

    ¡°It can¡¯t be,¡± said Hendricks again. ¡°Who¡¯d still be using them? It¡¯s a huge waste of resources¡­¡±

    The argument was settled suddenly, as the bi-plane came up over the hill and the noise of its propeller engine rained down into the valley. Eyes both living and dead followed the plane¡¯s course, as it swooped low over the next hill and started a turn back towards the way it had just come.

    ¡°You catch its markings, Carl?¡±

    ¡°No. But looks like they¡¯re coming back our way.¡±

    Smitty, rapt, without thinking, stood up from cover behind his bush to watch the flying machine. He¡¯d heard Carl¡¯s stories, even been shown a few drawings, but had never seen a real live, honest to God aeroplane before.

    Hendricks yanked the kid back to the ground. Startled, his reverie interrupted, Smitty looked back at Hendricks as though he were lurching up out of a shallow grave to take a bite out of someone¡¯s leg.

    ¡°Good way to get your head blown off, kid.¡±

    ¡°Why¡­ why would they shoot us, Mr. Hendricks? We ain¡¯t shamblers.¡±

    ¡°Just stay down.¡±

    They all huddled more deeply into the shade, hoping their earth-toned clothing would be enough to keep them out of sight amongst the oak canopy.

    The bi-plane had completed its turn by now, and was whining in even lower than last time. Carl watched it intently, trying to spot the plane¡¯s markings, as it flew overhead once more and¡­

    RATTA-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT! ¨C opened fire with mounted machine guns on the shambler pack, then disappeared behind the hill to the west. They saw some of the walking dead thrash about as the bullets riddled them, and a few even went down, having lost the use of their legs.

    It wouldn¡¯t be enough ¨C they¡¯d keep crawling and hungering unless someone put one in their brain ¨C but it would slow the cursed corpses down.

    ¡°Carl?¡±

    ¡°Looks like a British design; an Airco or an Alcott fighter, maybe. But the marking was a red circle on a white field,¡± Carl said.

    ¡°Japanese?¡± Hendricks asked. Carl shrugged.

    That made no sense. This was California, and the whole world was dead and up walking, except for a few pockets here and there. How the hell could there be a Japanese pilot this far from home?

    ¡°He¡¯s coming back,¡± Carl said, tilting his head and perking up his ears, dog-like.

    This time, the plane came in from the southeast, perpendicular to the hilltop, giving it a much better shot at its targets.

    RATTA-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

    And this time, almost none of the shamblers were left standing. The plane arced off to the northwest and back out to sea, leaving a pile of quivering corpse-flesh on the top of the hill.

    ¡°Let¡¯s move,¡± Hendricks said, hoisting his satchel and rifle.

    Carl and Smitty followed suit. They were only slightly surprised when Hendricks headed straight up the hill, as if the shamblers weren¡¯t there.

    ¡°Hendricks,¡± said Carl. ¡°You sure about this?¡±

    ¡°May as well finish them off. We¡¯ll thank the pilot later, if we ever see him.¡±

    The flesh-eaters had started shifting and tumbling towards them, but that bi-plane had done a good job of evening the score. Hendricks and his men took out their pistols and were able to brain-shot the whole pack without even getting touched.

    At the top of the hill, all three of them looked out to sea, possessed by a curious dread. Where had that pilot come from?

    The plane was high up in the sky, the sound of its propeller engine barely discernible through the winds whipping about the shore. It was headed west, out to sea.

    And towards Santa Catalina Island, their refuge.

    Hendricks pulled a set of field glasses from his satchel, trying to pierce the mist and pull the horizon closer. He could barely make out the outline of the island, but nothing more.

    ¡°It has to have come from a ship.¡±

    ¡°Maybe one o¡¯them flat-tops the Brits had in the war,¡± Carl suggested. ¡°That weren¡¯t no sea plane. He¡¯d need somewhere to land.¡±

    ¡°But you said he was Japanese,¡± Smitty chimed in. ¡°Did they have them kind of boats, too?¡±

    Carl shrugged, and instinctively looked to Hendricks for orders.

    ¡°We need to get back to Avalon. If there¡¯s a ship out there, they¡¯d¡¯ve had a better chance of seeing it.¡±

    Their motorboat was still secure on the beach. There were fresh footprints around it, probably from the shamblers they and the mystery pilot had dispatched. Good thing the dead couldn¡¯t remember how to use complex tools, or they might have set the thing afloat, stranding their prey.

    Smitty worked on getting the engine started while Hendricks and Carl loaded up their supplies. They¡¯d foraged a lot of small game, but hadn¡¯t seen any deer, and hadn¡¯t risked going into town. The shamblers had been unusually active there today. Maybe they knew something was up.

    ¡°Japan¡¯s an island,¡± Carl said. ¡°Like Catalina, only bigger. Or a more than one island, don¡¯t rightly recall. I do remember hearing rumors on the radio back in ¡¯19, ¡®bout how they was shuttin¡¯ down their whole country. Biggest quarantine in history, they said. Maybe it saved¡¯em.¡±

    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t be able to hold out forever,¡± Hendricks said over the motorboat¡¯s engine as they finally got under way. ¡°Nobody would.¡±

    ¡°If it did save them,¡± Smitty said. ¡°Maybe they¡¯re sending help. Like that pilot.¡±

    ¡°Maybe,¡± Hendricks said, sharing a look with Carl. The two veterans hoped the kid was right.

    *******

    Half way home, their hopes were dashed.

    Santa Catalina Island was clearly visible by then, still just a shape on the horizon. But with field glasses, Hendricks could easily make out the harbor at Avalon. And the troop transport berthed there.

    A troop transport with Japanese markings.

    The flat-top carrier became visible, too, which had apparently dropped anchor farther north near Willow Cove. There were several bi-planes on her deck, but Hendricks couldn¡¯t tell exactly how many from this distance.

    ¡°Guess you were right, Carl. The quarantine saved the Japs.¡±

    ¡°Why don¡¯t that make me feel better?¡±

    Smitty, the poor kid, was starting to look scared. The wary reactions of the two older, seasoned men made him more worried about their colony¡¯s visitors than he¡¯d ever been about shamblers.

    As if in answer to Carl, the buzzing sound of distant propeller engines came in off the wind. All three men looked northeast towards the aeroplane carrier.

    Another bi-plane, or maybe the same one from earlier, had just taken off. Followed by another. And a third. All of them headed out towards the mainland. Headed for the three men¡¯s little motorboat.

    Then came the sound of guns. Not, thankfully, the large caliber cannons that would be on the troop transport, but the staccato cracks and pops of distant small-arms fire. Machine guns. Pistols. Rifles. That had to be coming from Avalon.

    Hendricks knew right away what it meant. He didn¡¯t have to tell Carl.

    ¡°What¡¯s happening, Mr. Hendricks?¡±

    ¡°Raiders.¡±

    ¡°Cut the engine, kid,¡± said Carl. ¡°Get your rifle ready. One o¡¯them planes is coming our way.¡±

    ¡°But I thought the Japanese were Entente, like us. I heard about it in school.¡±

    ¡°That was a long time ago, kid,¡± Hendricks said. ¡°The whole world is No Man¡¯s Land now.¡±

    Hendricks laid a hand on the kid¡¯s shaking shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I hoped you young folk would never have to go through this.¡±

    The plane zoomed past them, about two hundred meters off the starboard bow. It began to circle back around, a four-winged bird of prey that had sighted its kill for the day.

    ¡°He spotted us!¡± yelled Carl, raising his bolt-action rifle, a refurbished Winchester M-1892, and taking aim. He managed get one shot off before the Japanese pilot opened fire.

    Suddenly, Hendricks was back in the trenches again, before the shambler plague started, when it was just the Kaiser¡¯s boys you had to watch out for. On instinct, he dove for cover, taking Smitty with him.

    They went right over the side of the motorboat and into the cold waters of the Pacific, machine gun fire raining down all around them. Hendricks heard the plane¡¯s bullets th-wunking rapidly into the wooden frame of their motorboat, and saw Carl¡¯s torso erupt with little clouds of blood, just before going under the waves.

    Hendricks fought the urge to immediately surface for air. He hadn¡¯t taken in enough before diving, but he knew showing his head now would mean certain death. So, he tried his damndest to stay under.

    But Smitty wouldn¡¯t let him. The kid was struggling against his grip, fighting to get to the top and suck in some air. Hendricks fought to hold him under, but Smitty was lost in panic, his instinctive fear of drowning overwhelming his common sense.

    Hendricks couldn¡¯t hold onto him. Or to the burning air in his own lungs. He let Smitty go, and scrambled for the surface.

    They both erupted from the frigid waves at the same time, sucking in air like men awakening from a fever dream full of shamblers clawing at their throats.

    ¡°Carl!¡± Smitty saw his mentor¡¯s body dangling from the side of the motorboat, head and one arm submerged, blood flowing from the back and chest. The kid scrambled to swim over and help his older friend.

    ¡°Stay down, kid!¡± Hendricks could already see the biplane circling back to finish what it had started. ¡°He¡¯s gone. Get away from the boat. You¡¯ll be harder to see.¡±

    No use. All Smitty could hear was the panic in his head, concern for a friend he couldn¡¯t yet believe was dead.

    Hendricks, cursing himself, swam over to try and stop Smitty¡­ making himself into an easier target, too.

    ¡°Leave him be! He¡¯s gone!¡±

    He grabbed Smitty just as they both reached the boat.

    ¡°No! Carl!¡± Smitty clawed at Hendricks, fighting to get free, threatening to drag them both under. ¡°He ain¡¯t dead! I heard him moaning!¡±

    The biplane¡¯s whining dive had started now. There were only seconds to spare.

    ¡°We gotta dive, kid! Get under the water!¡±

    Hendricks wanted to help. He¡¯d seen too many boys die in the trenches. But his instincts took over, and he sucked in a deep breath and went under just in time.

    Bullets rained down on them again. Hendricks made it deep enough to avoid getting shot, but he couldn¡¯t tell whether Smitty had made it. The water was too cloudy and dark, thicker than the morning fogs that used to settle along the Western Front. There was no sign of the kid down here, but that didn¡¯t necessarily mean anything. There was still hope for the boy.

    Hendricks stayed submerged until it felt like a Hun¡¯s flamethrower had ignited in his lungs. This time, he made sure to break the surface with as little fuss as possible, hoping to avoid the pilot¡¯s lethal attention.

    Smitty was floating nearby, his blood clouding the sea around him. And Carl hadn¡¯t moved, either. Both gone, soon to be among the walking dead if not properly disposed of.

    Hendricks cursed himself for not saving the kid. He should have shoved the fool under the water against his will, instead of saving his own skin. He¡¯d sworn to God, back when he still believed, that he¡¯d never let a kid die on his watch ever again. The oath still mattered to him, even if its recipient was a fairy tale.

    But this wasn¡¯t the time for mourning. Hendricks had to make sure he survived, so he could get back to Avalon. They were going to need his help.

    He scanned the sky. The biplane was circling back from the east, coming in for another run. Hendricks wasn¡¯t about to risk being seen. He sucked in a breath and flipped over on his belly, playing dead. The pilot might still open fire, but Hendricks figured the man had already seen three targets on the boat. If one of them was missing, he¡¯d keep searching. If all three of them were floating lifelessly, their assaulter might believe his eyes and fly away, mission accomplished.

    Hendricks felt rather than heard the plane pass over them once more, and braced himself for any incoming fire. He found himself tempted to start praying again.

    But the pilot buzzed a few more circles around them and, satisfied he¡¯d eliminated his targets, flew off towards the mainland again. And none too soon, either, as Hendricks¡¯ lungs had started to scream for the third time.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    He gulped up lungfuls air, one of the dying, and began treading water. His two murdered friends floated nearby. Before long, they¡¯d be animate again, but Hendricks decided to leave them be rather than risk dragging them back to shore for a proper cremation. Far as he knew, shamblers couldn¡¯t swim.

    He¡¯d never been much of a swimmer himself, but now seemed as good a time as any to learn. If he didn¡¯t make it¡­ well, he¡¯d always heard drowning was a peaceful way to go. And at least he¡¯d be at the bottom, where he couldn¡¯t hurt anyone when his turn as a shambler came ¡®round.

    #####

    Wrigley¡¯s plump, WASPy face was hovering over him when he woke up. ¡°Gave us a real scare, Hendricks. You were touch-and-go for while there.¡±

    Hendricks couldn¡¯t remember making it to shore. He only recalled feeling as if all his muscles had been flayed from the hard swim, and lungs on fire, and slipping beneath the waves maddeningly near to Catalina. He¡¯d come so far, made it so close to shore, past the Japanese, without being seen, only to have his body betray him with deliverance on dry land so close he¡¯d tried to reach out and touch it. Then, he¡¯d slipped under the waves, idly wondering whether he¡¯d made it close enough for his corpse to finish the trip on its own.

    ¡°Current must¡¯ve carried you a bit,¡± Wrigley said. ¡°A wonder you didn¡¯t drown.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m back in Avalon.¡±

    ¡°That you are, my boy,¡± said Wrigley. ¡°And a blessing it is, too. We thought we¡¯d lost all of your landing party.¡±

    Hendricks tried to sit up too quickly, but the all-over pain slapped him back down in the hospital bead. He was in the hospital.

    ¡°How¡¯d I get here?¡±

    ¡°Somers and the boys found you on the beach, after the Japs left.¡±

    That reminded Hendricks of Carl and Smitty. Poor, young, na?ve Smitty, who¡¯d had so much life ahead of him.

    ¡°That was a couple of days ago,¡± Wrigley continued. ¡°You¡¯ve been delirious since then. Wicked fever.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯d they want?¡±

    The governor of Avalon couldn¡¯t help the sardonic smile that crept onto his face. ¡°Taxes, of course.¡±

    ¡°Come again, sir?¡±

    ¡°Well, more like tribute,¡± Wrigley said. ¡°Seems we¡¯ve been declared subjects of the Japanese New Pacific Mandate. Mostly, they came ashore with armed thugs and politely requested all the food, fuel, and medicine we had on hand. Naturally, we politely declined.¡±

    That would explain the gunfire Hendricks had heard. Maybe they¡¯d started out with good intentions, but so far from home, in a world so spare on commerce, the Japanese crews had been reduced to little more than pirates.

    ¡°So much for the Entente,¡± Hendricks said.

    Wrigley chuckled, a nasally, unpleasant sound that bordered on a wheeze, with just a touch of a snort. ¡°Oh, I doubt they¡¯ll be back. We really gave them what for.¡±

    Hendricks wished he could agree with that assessment, but he knew imperial militaries all too well.

    ¡°We even took one of them prisoner.¡±

    That made Hendricks sit up, albeit slower than his reactions wanted him to.

    ¡°They left a man behind?¡±

    ¡°You could say that, I suppose. He¡¯s the one who shot first, killed Fred White, maybe some others during the ruckus. Some of our constabulary forces managed to capture him during the raiders¡¯ retreat. His sentence will be carried out tomorrow, so your recovery was fortuitous.¡±

    ¡°His sentence?¡±

    ¡°Why, execution, of course. For war crimes. Justice must be swift in these trying times.¡±

    Wrigley had turned out to be a real tyrant, Hendricks thought. But then, that¡¯s the kind of leader people needed in this day and age. The early years of the shambler plague had taught them that; without strict discipline, most people, with civilization collapsing all around them, panicked until they died. The rest became the ones who killed them and took what they pleased. Wrigley had made this island into his personal fiefdom, and it had saved lives. Not for nothing had Hendricks fled here after he¡¯d lost purpose himself.

    ¡°He speak English?,¡± Hendricks asked. ¡°I want to face him. I owe Smitty and Carl that much.¡±

    ¡°I think that can be arranged,¡± Wrigley said. ¡°I¡¯ll send a man around for you after the doctor gives you a clean bill of health.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, sir. I¡¯ll want to meet with Smitty¡¯s older sister, as well.¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡± Wrigley shook Hendricks¡¯ hand, patted him on the shoulder, and perambulated out of the room like a happy Hapsburg.

    It¡¯s good to be the Kaiser, Hendricks thought.

    ###

    Hendricks stood outside the bars of one of Avalon¡¯s small handful of jail cells, looking upon the vicious murderer who¡¯d instigated the Battle of Catalina, the Yellow Menace made flesh.

    ¡°He¡¯s just kid.¡±

    ¡°That kid,¡± said the guard, ¡°shot first. Set the rest of them off. Twelve people are dead because of him.¡±

    The boy couldn¡¯t have been more than fourteen years old. Crouched on his bunk with his knees drawn up to his chin, trying his damndest to hide his face in fear and shame, ill-fitting uniform hanging on his small frame, the boy wasn¡¯t the frothing menace Hendricks had expected. The Japanese must not have been doing as well as Carl had surmised, if they were taking kids this young into their ranks.

    ¡°You speak English, boy?¡± Hendricks barked at him. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±

    When the prisoner looked up at him, Hendricks didn¡¯t see a killer. He saw brown eyes wide with dread, crusted over from dried but poorly-hidden tears. He saw an upper lip crusty with phlegm from crying. He saw cherubic lips still quivering. A too-young face full of terror compounded by lack of understanding. The boy had no one to speak his language, no one to plead his case to, no one to commiserate with.

    ¡°He¡¯s just a kid,¡± Hendricks said again, as the Japanese boy buried his face once more in folded arms and upturned knees.

    Hendricks surmised right away what must have happened. The boy had been terrified from the moment he¡¯d set foot on the island, perhaps from the moment he¡¯d set foot on his ship. He was green, and thus a bucket of coiled but fragile nerves. And here on this island full of ogres, accompanied by older, harder comrades he desperately wanted to impress, something had spooked him. Maybe he shot at it directly, or maybe his gun had gone off unintentionally, or maybe some Avalon resident had deliberately provoked him (Fred White was a well-known son of a bitch, after all). However it had happened, the boy hadn¡¯t intended to hurt anyone at all. He¡¯d just wanted it to be over. But that fateful shot had struck true, and then fear and suspicion on both sides had escalated to battle.

    Hendricks thought of Smitty. He hadn¡¯t been much older than this Japanese boy when bullets from the sky had cut him down, drifting now without dignity on cold currents, a smorgasboard for ocean scavengers. His corpse would be animate by now. Hendricks pictured it bobbing in sea, mindless and confused and endlessly pecked at by hungry fish. A lingering second death by a million nibbles, inflicted on a simpleton mind that probably squirmed from deep-seated instinctual fear of the deep. No one deserved to end up like that, least of all a kid like Smitty.

    For the first time, Hendricks wondered if shamblers felt pain. If any shred of their former minds lingered behind those empty eyes. Were they, in some way, aware of their fate?

    That sounded like a living hell, worse to his mind than winter on the Western Front.

    ¡°He¡¯s just a kid.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a damn shame, Hendricks,¡± said the guard. ¡°But he did kill Fred White for sure, and caused the rest of that mess, too. You know Wrigley¡¯s penalty for murder. We all agreed to it when we came here.¡±

    Hendricks looked the man in the eye. His words had been mere platitudes. He had no sympathy for this scared little kid. All the man had was anger, and all he wanted was revenge. He¡¯d been close friends with Fred White.

    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Hendricks said. ¡°It is a damn shame.¡±

    ###

    Exile.

    Wrigley had ¡°commuted¡± the boy¡¯s sentence at the last minute. Apparently, even he hadn¡¯t the stomach to execute a child. Not that it mattered to the poor kid. Exile on the mainland, full as it was of the ravenous once-human hordes, was effectively a death sentence anyway. But at least it left no visible blood on the hand of anyone back in Avalon.

    Hendricks volunteered to be part of the kid¡¯s escort. He figured he owed Carl and Smitty that much. Especially after spending the better part of the previous evening consoling Smitty¡¯s sister. It was his duty to see justice done.

    The guard who¡¯d been watching over the kid when Hendricks visited the jail ¨C his name was Stanton, Hendricks now remembered ¨C dragged the boy out of his cell in the wee hours and prodded him out onto the street, where Hendricks and another man, Dulcett, waited for them in the waxing dawn. No one else was on the street, though a few may have been watching from shadowed corners or shaded windows.

    Everyone felt ashamed, but it had to be done. The less said about it, and the less seen, the better.

    The Japanese boy did his best to take it all on with some dignity. He straightened his too-large uniform, marched in the direction he was told with near-perfect precision, and kept a stiff upper lip all the way to the motorboat. But Hendricks could tell the poor kid was scared to death.

    ¡°Did either of you bring a gun along for him, or a pack of rations?¡± Hendricks asked.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got a gun for him right here,¡± Stanton said through beady eyes and stubble gone nearly all grey, indicating the pistol Avalon had issued him as a duly-deputized officer of justice.

    Dulcett chuckled heartily, sending ripples across his flabby neck and making his generous gut wobble like a ball on the water. Hendricks wondered how the hell the man could stay so fat in these lean times.

    ¡°Law says a prisoner condemned to exile gets a gun and rations when he¡¯s dropped off.¡±

    ¡°This one,¡± Stanton said, jabbing the boy with the nose of his pistol, forcing him into the boat, ¡°will get his when we¡¯re on the beach near Huntington.¡±

    So, they were going to drop the kid off in shambler territory. So much for fighting chances.

    Stanton, Dulcett, and the kid were all in the boat now, looking expectantly back at the lone straggler still ankle-deep on the shore. Hendricks sighed, and climbed into the boat, choosing to ignore the hint of bile-taste building in his mouth. The kid was a prisoner of war, after all, who¡¯d killed at least one citizen of the refuge of Avalon, during an unprovoked attack. That and his uniform made him a legitimate target. This was better than he deserved.

    They all stayed quiet on the long ride to the mainland, though their journey was anything but relaxing. Stanton and Dulcett kept a tight watch on their prisoner, who, for his part, sat ramrod straight on the center of his bench, looking towards the rising sun with a face as dead as a shambler. Hendricks wondered if the boy had any notion of what awaited him onshore. The Japanese had, apparently, successfully quarantined their nation against the plague. Had this child ever even seen an actual shambler? Had he any bone-deep conception of the putrid, writhing hell that was the outside world? Was this bravery, or just a terrified boy clutching to his training like a fetish, as Hendricks himself had done his first night on the Marne?

    Maybe, in the end, there was no difference.

    The tension between them grew thicker as the shore came closer. Shadows of conifer trees and granite hills reached out toward them in the early morning light as they approached near Dana Point. The old port often served as a debarkment point for scavenging crews from the island, and there were still abandoned ships berthed there, all of them haunted, it was said, by more than just the walking dead.

    Hendricks took out his field glasses and scanned the shore.

    ¡°See any zombies?¡± Dulcett asked.

    ¡°Zombies?¡±

    ¡°Word I read in one of the old penny dreadfuls the Chesters brought with them. It means shambler, more or less. Only, they¡¯re usually controlled by some kind of witch doctor. And they don¡¯t eat the living.¡±

    ¡°No, then,¡± Hendricks said. ¡°No zombies that I can see. No witch doctors or shamblers, either.¡±

    The three men all knew that meant little. Shamblers weren¡¯t as smart as the living, but they possessed every bit of their animal cunning, and still communicated with each other in some primitive way. And they seemed to get smarter in groups, like pack hunters. There could be a whole crowd of them holed up in one of the old warehouses, or hiding just around one of the corners, and the men coming ashore would never know it.

    ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with,¡± Hendricks said. He looked at the Japanese boy, to see how he was handling things, if he had any notion of what they were about to do.

    The kid was still as stiff-lipped as ever, but Hendricks thought he saw tears forming at the corners of his little brown almond-shaped eyes.

    Hendricks guided the boat to shore just east of one of the abandoned vessels, a spot they¡¯d found to be relatively safe in the past. There was only one warehouse nearby, and its doors stood fully open, making it difficult for anything to hide within unless it kept to the interior shadows on either side of the door.

    Cutting the engine several yards from the dock, Hendricks looked over his companions. ¡°I don¡¯t have to tell you boys to stay sharp. Shamblers¡­ zombies,¡± ¨C Hendricks found he liked this new word ¨C ¡°are as crafty as wolves and dogs. Don¡¯t be fooled by the silence.¡±

    ¡°You ain¡¯t the only veteran on board,¡± Dulcett said, gathering up his pack and tugging at the boy¡¯s tied hands. Hendricks had forgotten that Dulcett led scavenging squads to the mainland, too. In fact, he knew this area better than anyone else in their party.

    ¡°You know what to do,¡± Dulcett said to Stanton.

    ¡°Aye, sir.¡±

    As the boat drifted quietly to shore, Stanton secured it to the dock while Dulcett checked the prisoner¡¯s bindings and got the boy to his feet. This left Hendricks with nothing to do but scan the area for zombies. It never occurred to him there might be more going on between the other two men than he was privy to.

    Stanton got out of the boat first. ¡°Come on, boy,¡± he said to the Japanese kid, roughly tugging at his uniform, dragging him forward. ¡°Let¡¯s make this quick.¡±

    Dulcett followed hurriedly, checking his pistol.

    That¡¯s when Hendricks noticed neither of the men were taking along a pack for the boy.

    ¡°Hold on,¡± he said. ¡°Where are his provisions?¡±

    No answer. Dulcett and Stanton led the kid down the small pier by gunpoint, to a spot roughly ten feet from the shore. Hendricks hurried behind them, that bile taste welling up again from his guts.

    ¡°I said hold on. Kid needs a pack, a gun.¡±

    ¡°No he don¡¯t,¡± said Stanton. ¡°His kind don¡¯t deserve even a slim chance out here.¡±

    ¡°What do you think?¡± Dulcett chimed in. ¡°Leg shot, or gut shot?¡±

    Stanton appraised the situation with the gravitas of a Greek thinker. ¡°Leg shot. He¡¯ll be more mobile, but his fear will last longer that way, too.¡±

    Hendricks¡¯ bile feeling turned to anger and horror. He thought of Smitty, of his vow (to the God he no longer trusted) to make sure no other kids ever died on his watch.

    ¡°This ain¡¯t happening,¡± he said.

    ¡°I know it¡¯s not strictly according to Hoyle,¡± Stanton said, ¡°but the kid¡¯s dead anyway.¡±

    ¡°Exile means he gets a chance,¡± Hendricks said.

    The Japanese boy sensed the heightened tension. He looked nervously between the three men, uncertain what any of it meant, but knowing it meant only ill for him. Hendricks saw the boy¡¯s hands clench involuntarily into little white-knuckled fists.

    ¡°He didn¡¯t give Fred White a chance, did he?¡± Dulcett replied. ¡°Just up and shot him out of nowhere. That¡¯s murder, Hendricks. And an act of war.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s just scared kid,¡± Hendricks said. ¡°And what would you know about war, you fat bastard? We all know you faked bad knees to get a deferment.¡±

    Dulcett¡¯s faced darkened. Suddenly, there was murder in his eyes.

    Stanton pulled his pistol, aimed it at the boy¡¯s right leg. ¡°Hendricks, stay out of this. You can file a formal complaint with Wrigley when we get back.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s just a scared kid,¡± Hendricks repeated, instinctively stepping forward and drawing his own pistol.

    Slowly, the kid moved to get behind Hendricks. Hendricks didn¡¯t stop him, instead raising his pistol at Stanton.

    ¡°Give me your pack, Stanton.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re picking him over your own kind?¡± Dulcett asked, incredulous.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t expect you to understand, fat man. Stanton, give me your pack.¡±

    Dulcett, coward that he was, backed off behind Stanton.

    Stanton, however, stood his ground, showing Hendricks the steel in his eyes. He now pointed his pistol at Hendricks¡¯ leg. ¡°Maybe you want some of this to, traitor?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s just a kid,¡± Hendricks said one last time.

    Dulcett and the boy shared nervous looks with each other, from behind their respective champions. It was an odd, incongruous moment of connection that made Dulcett shiver.

    That¡¯s when the wind shifted, and Hendricks noticed a subtle, putrid scent blended into the sea air. A scent they¡¯d all have been wise enough to notice earlier, if they¡¯d not gotten so lost in their little drama.

    The Japanese boy spoke at last, grabbing Hendricks¡¯s leg as he might have his own father¡¯s.

    ¡°Shuten-doji.¡±

    Hendricks didn¡¯t understand the words, but their meaning was clear enough in Dulcett¡¯s widened eyes.

    ¡°Ah, hell,¡± Dulcett gulped.

    Hendricks was the first to shift his eyes, briefly, from his new enemy towards the shoreline, then back to Stanton. It was all the time he needed. There were at least a dozen of them coming out of the water.

    They¡¯d learned to hide under the water.

    ¡°Zombies,¡± Dulcett said.

    Hendricks watched Stanton¡¯s eyes, waiting for the inevitable quick shift of vision.

    There it was. Stanton glanced quickly towards the shambling pack, and Hendricks took his shot.

    BLAM! ¨C Stanton went down, a bullet through the forehead, instantly dead. Hendricks considered it a mercy.

    ¡°In God¡¯s name!¡± Dulcett shouted.

    Hendricks grabbed the kid and backed away from both Dulcett and the shamblers as quickly as alert wariness would allow. He knew Dulcett was still a threat, and couldn¡¯t afford to turn his back on the fat man.

    The kid, smart one he was, caught on quick, and didn¡¯t resist Hendricks leading him away. In fact, he started pulling Hendricks toward the open warehouse door.

    The saturated shamblers, smelling fresh blood, became more agitated and picked up their pace. The noise from their soaked lungs came out as gurgles, a cacophony of watery moans. They wouldn¡¯t go straight for Stanton. They preferred live prey.

    Dulcett knew he had mere seconds to make a decision. ¡°You son of a bitch!¡± he yelled, waddling as quickly as he could towards Hendricks. ¡°I¡¯ll you kill you and feed you to them!¡±

    He fired two shots intended for Hendricks, but they flew wild from his panicked, shaking hands.

    There were more shamblers coming from the alleys now, but none, thankfully from the warehouse. But they were too close for Hendricks and the kid to get out of harm¡¯s way in time. Unless¡­

    He¡¯d already sealed his fate with Avalon by killing Stanton. Survival was all that mattered now, and shamblers prefer easy prey as well as live prey.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Hendricks called out. ¡°I don¡¯t have another choice.¡±

    He shot Dulcett in the leg, and the large man went down, screaming in pain and terror.

    It was enough. Both crowds of hungry corpses stopped to watch him, assessing the ease of the kill, just long enough for Hendricks and the kid to reach the warehouse.

    ¡°No! Please, Jesus, no!¡±

    Dulcett¡¯s agonizing plea became a muffled cry, the illusion of distance, as Hendricks slammed the warehouse doors shut. Some of the shamblers began pulling it open, but Hendricks was good enough to put bullets in their brains with one hand while he slammed the door shut again with the other.

    It wouldn¡¯t slow them down long.

    ¡°Look around! Find something to bolt this door!¡±

    There was light coming from the opposite end of the warehouse, another open door, enough for Hendricks to see the kids face. The boy understood his meaning if not his words.

    The Japanese child rooted around quickly, the skills of a street rat rather than an aristocrat. He was obviously a draftee, not an officer.

    A spare length of rope was the best he could come up with, pulled from behind an old unopened crate.

    ¡°It¡¯ll have to do,¡± Hendricks said. He indicated the door with a nod of his head. ¡°Tie it off!¡±

    The boy was brave, Hendricks gave him that. The door was rattling now as zombies scratched against it, tugging it at, the moans of their unending hunger reverberating through the cracks of the door and echoing through the cavernous warehouse. But the kid was undeterred. While Hendricks used all his strength to hold the doors closed ¨C hurry kid, hurry! ¨C the boy tied the handles shut with the fastest clove hitch knot Hendricks had ever seen.

    And all while maneuvering between and around Hendricks¡¯ hands. One of the Boy Scouts Wrigley insisted on training back at Avalon couldn¡¯t have done any better.

    ¡°Good job, kid. Come on, move!¡±

    They ran to the opposite end of the long warehouse, faster than any shambler moving parallel to them outside could have gone. Shamblers were relentless to be sure, and even had some gumption in them when pursuing prey, but for the most part they were slower than molasses compared to a healthy man.

    They stopped to peak around the corners, making sure no more hordes waited for them outside. Hungry moans echoed down the adjacent alleys, sounding louder than they probably were, but there were no shamblers in direct line of sight.

    The coast was clear. For now.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡± Hendricks tapped the kid on the back, and they both ran in a full sprint down the alley across from them, and then made several twisting turns through the labyrinth of old crates and abandoned sheds, keeping the sun ahead of them as much as they could.

    After a few moments they had to stop for breath, or at least Hendricks did. He wasn¡¯t getting any younger, but the kid, barely winded, looked like he could keep this up all day. The young still had a lot going for them, even with hell come to Earth.

    Hendricks, judging them safe for now, held out his hand to the boy. ¡°Name¡¯s Hendricks,¡± he said.

    The boy didn¡¯t know what to make of this gesture. He looked up at Hendricks, confused, for the first time not understanding the man¡¯s meaning. Maybe they didn¡¯t shake hands in Japan.

    Hendricks pointed at himself. ¡°Hendricks.¡± He pointed at the boy. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±

    ¡°Mahito,¡± the boy said, bowing deeply. ¡°Domo arigato, Hendricks-san!¡±

    ¡°Not Hendrickson. Just Hendricks.¡±

    Mahito paused for a moment, then bowed again. ¡°Hai! Hendricks-san.¡±

    It didn¡¯t matter. They were stuck with each other now; Hendricks couldn¡¯t go back to Avalon with the kid and without the others, and he wasn¡¯t about to leave Mahito out here to die. The kid would get his name right eventually.

    ¡°Well, Mahito, looks like we¡¯re partners now.¡±

    They¡¯d need supplies. They could circle back and collect Stanton¡¯s pack after the shamblers ¨C the zombies, Hendricks still liking that new word ¨C had moved on in search of other prey. For the moment, he and the kid would have to make due.

    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose,¡± he asked Mahito, not really expecting an answer, not yet, ¡°that you know your own way home?¡±

    Mahito only looked at him quizzically.

    ¡°No, of course you don¡¯t. Well, that gives us something to work on. Come on, let¡¯s find a place to hole up until those things go on about their business.¡±

    He led Mahito farther east, in the direction of the shelter and relative safety of the hills, where shamblers were sparse.

    Together, they walked warily towards the light of the rising sun.

 The Night Garden (Part 1)

    She shouldn¡¯t be able to see it, see anything, out here in the farthest reaches, the sun¡¯s rays straining to stand apart from other pinpricks in night¡¯s ebon curtain, but there it is: a looming eldritch world, spinning in the void, reflecting back porphyry shades like a bruise on space-time¡¯s flesh. She glides towards it, diaphanous wings, aloft on solar winds, answering a summons she shouldn¡¯t be able to hear in vacuum, cacophony of countless buzzing trills, a swarm given sentience, calling her home. Home, a place of vast non-Euclidean cities and moist alien angles, warmed by deep volcanism and living technologies older than the sun, where she can be free, belong. Down she tumbles, down, wings tucked back, spread wide, tucked back again, twisted and folded, hugging Home¡¯s gravity, savoring the cold embrace of its artificial atmosphere, towards the Caves of Life, where the first spores were planted, eons past, upon this world that welcomed them from beyond vast gulfs. The Caves loom before her, monstrous maw ready to swallow her whole, but she ignores her human terror, born of reptile brain, embraces alien yearning, soars on into wet, welcoming, trilling darkness. And then¡­

    ¡­Tricia wakes up from the strange dream, squints at sunlight blinding her through a gap in the curtains, nuzzles the warm body next to her, an old punk rock song at low volume through her second-hand lime-green iPod¡¯s dangling earphones ¨C-

    /cuz it makes me sick to think of every cage<u>/</u>

    -- and wonders, again, what the fuck it means. She¡¯s had the dream before, but only since she moved here, as far away from Pensacola as her beat-up shit-can of a car could take her, and changed her identity. The dream can¡¯t possibly have anything to do with Jake and his fists, or Mom and her denial, urging Tricia to stay with Jake like she did with Dad, blaming Tricia for both men¡¯s rage. No, this dream is something else, like it belongs to some<u>one</u> else.

    Fuck it. Tricia clings to the old song, loyal friend --

    /and it makes me sick to think of life wasting away!/

    -- and moves to turn the sound up loud enough to rattle her skull, when, last second, the alarm clock rattles it instead. She hits the iPod¡¯s pause button, kills the clock¡¯s buzzing trill, so much like her dream-call. The warmth beside her squirms and snuffles, blissful sleep-visions of running in open fields, chasing rabbits.

    Six-thirty, damn it. Rita, kindred soul, will be here to pick her up in two hours. Plenty of time, if Tricia moves right now. She doesn¡¯t. Sleep, that friend as loyal as an old song, reaches out again for her, no judgment, no blame. It¡¯s just a crap job in a lost hick town, anyway. And Miss Sally, understanding matron, only hired her to fend off the loneliness of old age. She¡¯ll forgive. She always does. Sleep, loving sleep¡­

    Someone is licking her now, fat, heavy tongue smothering half her face, nothing like a lover. Kibble-breath, beseeching paws, hungry whines, ears perked, hindquarters wagging for lack of tail, Tricia¡¯s best friend, more loyal than song or sleep, the warm body that was right next to her seconds before.

    ¡°Gandhi. Good boy, Gandhi. Mommy¡¯s up now.¡±

    The grey and white pit bull, most loving creature she¡¯s ever known, undeserving, like most, of its kind¡¯s nasty rep, bounds out of bed and out the room, barking anticipation, scratching at kibble bowls beyond.

    Time for breakfast. Tricia sighs again, the morning ritual begun. This is my new life, kiddo. The new me. Why can¡¯t I get used to it?

    The new ritual goes like this: a vegan breakfast with Gandhi gobbling organic kibble at her feet, then a four-mile run with Gandhi on his leash, gleefully pissing and sniffing and shitting at every turn, challenging other dogs unseen but daily smelled, endless game of canine Risk. Back to the three-room house she rents for barely less than she makes at Miss Sally¡¯s Flower & Garden Emporium, for a shower and long, forlorn, primping gazes at her mirror-self, once-green hair that matched her eyes buzzed short to dark brown roots, finally growing into something manageable. She was beautiful once, exotic punk rock goddess in plaid skirts and thigh-high pleather boots over fishnets, sporting skin-tight T-shirts of some band or other. Conventional now, right down to her neatly pressed blouses and pleated khaki work pants, facial piercings grown closed, scars covered by make-up she wouldn¡¯t have worn back home (all grown up, comes Mom¡¯s voice from somewhere, and a part of Tricia, consigned, agrees). After all that, time permitting, she tinkers with her shit-can car, 1984 Honda Civic hatchback, navy blue, engine deader than disco, rear bumper and door plastered with slogan stickers (Vegan For Life!, Love Animals, Don¡¯t Eat Them!, Punish The Deed, Not The Breed), until Rita shows up to drive her to work at Miss Sally¡¯s, dishing about men-as-dogs on the way.

    It¡¯s boring and lonely, ennui-inducing (except for Gandhi, lovely loving Gandhi, unconditional), but all she has to do is remember that this is escape from Jake and his fists, Mom and her denial and blame, and the new routine, the new Tricia, is almost worth it. Almost.

    Rita is late today. So Tricia skips the engine work and waits on her tiny porch, cool breeze on a spring morning, plopped on the stairs, Gandhi caged up inside the house, whining for release. When she closes her eyes, she can almost hear the buzzing dream-trills again, alien yearning, a swarm given sentience. Almost.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    ######

    She hears buzzing again that day, just after the screams.

    ¡°Oh Godjesusfuckinghell, kill it!¡± Rita squirms and thrashes about the showroom, mindless mosh-pit moves, dodging sprites, rattling the fern aisle, a Cretaceous rain forest trembling under megafaunal strides. ¡°Kill it!¡±

    Something buzzes past Tricia when she comes running from the store room to help, then circles her head, tiny living moon, trilling in orbit. Tricia freezes in place, trying to find bearings.

    ¡°Pay it no never mind, darling,¡± says Miss Sally, gliding out of her office, Scarlett O¡¯Hara as octogenarian. ¡°It¡¯s just a little honey-bee.¡±

    ¡°I hate bees,¡± Rita says, her breath returning. ¡°I¡¯m allergic.¡±

    Tricia smiles. ¡°They¡¯re more scared of you, Rita. And violence only makes it worse. See?¡±

    The bee hovers in Tricia¡¯s face, satellite examining brave new worlds, fuzzy yellow and black astronaut. She can almost see its tiny head cock to the side, curious, multi-focal eyes reflecting her back a hundred-fold.

    ¡°It¡¯s harmless, once it knows you are.¡±

    Tricia empties her water cup into a potted fern, lifts it gently up, rim facing her tiny new friend. The bee buzzes forward a little, then back, as Tricia follows, eyes locked.

    ¡°Come on, I won¡¯t hurt you.¡±

    Rita and Miss Sally stand awe-struck, admiring, as the bee glides into Tricia¡¯s clear plastic cup and stays there when she lowers the rim against the floor, temporarily trapping the insect, invisible walls. The bee doesn¡¯t seem to mind.

    Tricia rips a sheet from her shirt-pocket notebook, slides it between floor and cup, then turns the whole structure upright. The bee tumbles, takes flight, bumps gently against the new wood-pulp roof, held firm by Tricia¡¯s palm. Still trapped, and only slightly agitated.

    ¡°Told you,¡± Tricia declares, proud of another lesson taught to Rita, new friend so full of misplaced anger.

    Tricia strides past her co-workers and heads for the newly-installed automatic glass doors of the Flower & Garden Emporium, cup and bee balanced between hands, tattooed wrists.

    Whoosh<u>!</u> of soothing spring air when the doors rush open, spilling sunlight on her face. She closes her eyes to savor the wind massage, scent of new life even out here on the blacktop parking lot, lancing through fumes of gas and oil from customer cars.

    The paper comes off the cup, and Tricia hears, feels, the honey bee fly free, fly towards Home¡¯s welcoming caves¡­

    ¡­and she senses him, somehow, before even seeing him, or smelling or hearing or anything else, through the deep psychic connection to life¡¯s web she¡¯s never told anyone about, the reason she¡¯s a vegan, all the world¡¯s pain sensed if she opens up enough. Shivers of arousal rattle her spine, prickle her skin, quiver her loins.

    When she opens her eyes, he is everything and nothing she expects. The most beautiful man she has ever seen, just there, mere paces away, loading bags of potting soil into his sparkling Land Rover. Long muscles glisten, sin-dark hair sweat-sticks to a delicate, almost feminine, brow that tops ice-blue eyes; lithe grace of a dancer and warrior born, no trace of body fat, serpentine arms ending in poet¡¯s hands.

    Too bad he¡¯s dressed like a redneck; he was born to be Goth. But she can fix that.

    No, that¡¯s how it started with Jake, restraint cast to the wind, slave to instinct, and with all the other bad boys who turned out to be very bad men. Not this time, no matter how luscious he is. No matter how much the life-web thrums around him.

    ¡°Excuse me, miss, are you alright?¡± Buttery baritone Georgian accent oozes out from between succulent lips, atop his chiseled jawline. She almost swoons; how damned Southern of her.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± she stammers.

    He steps close, genuine concern, ice-blue eyes locked on her emerald greens. ¡°You seem¡­ flummoxed. Are you OK?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine, fine. A little dizzy, is all. Low blood sugar, I guess.¡±

    ¡°Well, please, sit down.¡± He takes her gently by her wrist with one hand, the other resting silk-soft against her lower back, two erogenous zones at once ¨C goddamn he¡¯s good ¨C and leads her to the bed of his Land Rover. She leans to keep from swooning amongst towers of potting soil in his cab.

    A caressing hand on her shoulder now, ice-blue gazing again into emerald green, as he hands her a bottle of Gatorade. ¡°You¡¯re sure you¡¯re alright, miss¡­?¡±

    ¡°Winstead. Tricia Winstead.¡± Coquettish blinks, a toss of her cropped hair, in spite of herself. The life-web vibrates between them, almost audible, reality¡¯s sub-woofer.

    He offers a poet-hand in greeting, and she takes it, demure and sleazy all at once. ¡°My name¡¯s Jason Crane. It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Winstead.¡±

    Fingertips brush against her palm as he pulls his hand away. The life-web quivers. Somewhere, far away in the back of her mind, she can almost hear a buzzing trill.

    ¡°Pleasure¡¯s all mine, Mr. Crane. I must say, that¡¯s an awful lot of potting soil.¡±

    ¡°Well, I have a lot of work ahead of me. It¡¯s for my night garden.¡±

    ¡°Night garden?¡±

    ¡°I cultivate night-blooming plants. Lots of them.¡±

    ¡°Well, let me help you.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, darling. And please, call me Jason.¡±

    She helps him load the soil, savors the rhythm they create together, working silently, sweatily, psychic foreplay, life-web thrumming. She could swear he feels it, too.

    When they¡¯re done, there¡¯s another soft, slightly-dirty hand on her shoulder, his other taking both of hers by the fingertips, ice-blues meeting emerald greens once more.

    ¡°I¡¯m much obliged for the help, Tricia. May I call you Tricia? Without you, it¡¯d have taken me twice as long to load.¡±

    ¡°Just doing my job, Jason.¡±

    He nods, knowing a polite, seductive lie when he hears it. ¡°I¡¯m in your debt. Maybe you could suggest a nice place for me to buy you dinner. Just to square our accounts.¡±

    She giggles, even though it¡¯s not that funny.

    ¡°I wish I could, but I¡¯m pretty new around here.¡± Shit, it¡¯s happening again. She doesn¡¯t even want to stop anymore. ¡°Maybe you have a place in mind?¡±

    ¡°Sadly, I¡¯m new, too. I guess I¡¯ll just have to be a little bold. My place, tomorrow night? I¡¯m a positively wicked chef.¡±

    Pure, calming confidence, no taste of danger, no klaxons in the life-web, just the right dash of mystery. She realizes she needs this, needs to move on.

    ¡°Where did you say you live?¡±

    ¡°The Creed House, in the hills north of town. Somehow, I recently inherited it.¡±

    And she finds herself nodding, nostrils flaring, taking in his earthy man-scent, dominant above the moist aroma of potting soil and the sour stink of parking-lot fumes.

    ¡°You know how to find it? Great! Come by around six o¡¯clock, and I¡¯ll give you the full tour.¡±

    A squeeze of the hands, another lingering ice-blue gaze, and he¡¯s off without a word, gravel popping beneath Land Rover wheels, leaving her, at last, to swoon.

 The Night Garden (Part 2)

    Back inside, Rita intercepts her first, a wink and a knowing smile, a teasing inflection to her voice. ¡°Shame on you, Tricia. You know we have loaders for that kind of work.¡±

    Miss Sally hovers nearby, ¡°taking inventory,¡± tut-tutting without a sound.

    Tricia decides on full disclosure. ¡°His name is Jason. He just moved to town, says he inherited some old house up in the hills.¡±

    Rita¡¯s brow furrows. ¡°The Creed House? That place is a wreck.¡±

    Tricia shrugs. It can¡¯t be any worse than her three-room roach paradise.

    ¡°They say it¡¯s haunted, you know.¡±

    Tricia scoffs. ¡°Don¡¯t they always?¡±

    ¡°The Creed House, you say?¡± When Miss Sally speaks, younger women perk up their ears and hold their tongues. ¡°I knew a boy who lived there once, when I was young. This was just before the war, mind you. Bless me, could it really have been that long ago?¡±

    A wistful sigh, distant sidelong glance down to the left, past the floor.

    ¡°Miss Sally,¡± Rita teases, ¡°I never knew you were such a trollop.¡±

    ¡°You hush now, young lady. I was proper, even then,¡± subtle sinful smile telling them otherwise. ¡°His name was Taylor, Taylor Creed. He went off to war and never returned.¡±

    And now both younger women understand Miss Sally¡¯s lonely life. All these years, waiting for lost love, filling the loss with work and suffrage while the world fell apart and grew strange around her. Tricia and Rita share a look of solidarity, there but for the grace of the Goddess.

    ¡°My precious Taylor. I can recall as clear as day,¡± she reminisces to no one in particular. ¡°He had the most beautiful ice-blue eyes.¡±

    # # #

    Next evening, balmy and breezy, just before six, Tricia¡¯s jalopy of a sticker-plastered Civic rattles up the long, lonely drive of Creed House. Thank the Goddess for sick days and Miss Sally¡¯s forgiveness. Without them, she¡¯d never have gotten this thing running.

    Rita had offered to loan her own car, of course, but Tricia had politely refused. She had to do this on her own, and never mind all the old news clippings Rita had shown her in a scrapbook of local ghost tales, Creed House claiming souls as far back as slavery days, strange lights and noises, unexplained disappearances, rumors of secret cults devoted to dark gods with unpronounceable names. They are all drowned out by Jason¡¯s rhythm in the life-web.

    But she can see how the House got its rep. It sits there, cramped against looming hills, ancient cotton fields gone long fallow, a tumble-down neo-classical palace nearly engulfed by kudzu invading from the hills. Cracked-but-holding Doric columns lifting the second story out of its slump, the whole structure clings like a bloated tic on the world.

    And Jason is there on the veranda, dressed to the nines, waiting for her with James Bond cool, stilling the dreadful dirge she otherwise feels in the life-web. He doesn¡¯t even smirk when her Civic sputters and coughs up death-bed fumes, or when she tumbles, nervous, giddy, out of it in Rita¡¯s borrowed clothes, white-trash chic, convinced she looks like a complete gimp.

    ¡°You look lovely tonight, Tricia.¡± She hadn¡¯t even seen him come down from the porch, so fixated was she on her trashy high heels. He produces a bouquet of bright yellow and pink flowers from somewhere behind his broad tuxedoed shoulders.

    ¡°Flowers for the lady. Oenothera erythrosepala. I grew them myself.¡±

    ¡°Oh no whatsits?¡± She takes them like a prom queen, sniffs in their rich sweet scent, not realizing her eyes were closed until they open and Jason is there gazing down at her, oozing affection.

    ¡°Evening primroses, my sweets. Fresh from the night garden.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re as lovely as you.¡± She did not just say that, or let that eager smile erupt across her face.

    ¡°Come along,¡± he says, taking her arm in his, knowing she¡¯d never resist. ¡°I¡¯ll give you the tour.¡±

    And up the treacherous-looking front steps they go, arm-in-arm, Rhett and Scarlett, through the threshold of Creed House¡¯s maw of a weather-stained double doors.

    Tricia tries to ignore the distant buzzing trill, sentient swarm tickling her awareness from somewhere nearby. It must be Jason¡¯s effect on her, dredging up dreams.

    # # #Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    THUMP! Scritch, scritch, scritch¡­ Tricia flinches, startled heart, as something behind musty plaster walls scampers away, skittering under oaken floors, in the cavernous library of Creed House, teetering two-story shelves packed with countless books towered at impossible angles, smell of dust and aging pulp, last stop on the tour before dinner.

    ¡°Sorry about that,¡± Jason says, comforting, caressing hand on her shoulder. ¡°Rats in the walls. I suppose I should get rid of them somehow, but right now, it doesn¡¯t seem fair.¡±

    ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°Well, they¡¯ve been here longer than me. This is more their home than mine, really. From their point of view, I am the pest.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s very enlightened, Jason. Violence is never the answer.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d say that depends on the question.¡±

    His wink makes her think maybe there¡¯s hope for him yet. Maybe she¡¯ll tell him about some cruelty-free ways to repel rats. Maybe she will end up in that grand, gabled immaculate bedroom he¡¯d showed her, after all (¡°my meditation chamber,¡± he¡¯d called it, and she¡¯d laughed throatily).

    ¡°Where¡¯d you get all these books?¡± Her eyes browse baffling titles on botany, genetics, esoteric religions, cosmology; titles in Latin and Greek, like Necronomicon and De Vermis Mysteriis. Nothing she¡¯d be inclined to read. Nothing fun, like Asimov or LeGuin.

    ¡°Part of my inheritance, mostly. They were packed away in crates in an old warehouse by the docks. Sat there for decades, gathering dust. I had the movers bring them here, and I put them on the shelves myself. Seemed fitting.¡±

    ¡°So, you haven¡¯t actually read them?¡±

    ¡°Some of them,¡± he smiles wanly, clapping dust from poet hands that had been lingering on Greek titles.

    ¡°Come on,¡± he says, ice-blues turning to her now, a gentle touch on her lower back, nudging her towards one last door. ¡°Our dinner¡¯s probably just reached the right temperature.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d love to see your night garden.¡±

    ¡°You will. I promise. But first, I¡¯m famished.¡±

    And she lets him lead her out of that hall of lonely wisdom, his presence still overwhelming the swarm-voice at the back of her brain.

    Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch¡­ is the thing under the floor following them? Invisible spiders creep up her spine.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Tricia?¡± His voice, his silken touch, his life-web harmony, warm her suddenly, sooth her, quivers turned instantly from fear to arousal. God damn, he¡¯s good. Is he <u>causing</u> this? Can he actually control it?

    ¡°Jason, can you¡­?¡±

    ¡°Can I¡­?¡±

    She has to get the hell out of this room. ¡°Never mind. It¡¯s just, this place, it¡¯s so¡­¡±

    ¡°Creepy? I know. But look on the bright side. You don¡¯t have to live here.¡±

    Somehow, that makes it all alright, and she giggles. Her belly grumbles. She really is hungry.

    ¡°If you¡¯re lucky, Jason, I might help you spruce the place up a bit.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s eat first, foul temptress.¡± He kisses her hand and rescues her from this ominous chamber, leading her through that one last door, a commanding glance back over his shoulder at the thing under the floor.

    Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch¡­ followed by one lonely buzzing trill, barely above a whisper.

    # # #

    Tricia expected more from the dining hall of this grand, macabre palace. True, it¡¯s big enough to host balls of every sort, but the furnishings are Spartan: one average size, square, wooden table in the center of the room, checkered tablecloth, with only two chairs set at right angles to each other. A bachelor¡¯s idea of kitchen chic, dwarfed by cavernous notions of glamour from ages past. It makes her feel small, an insect in a cathedral.

    Jason, of course, is unfazed. He leads her to her seat, pulls it out for her. ¡°You¡¯re going to like this,¡± he promises, a gentle breath across the skin of her neck as she slides into her chair. The table before her is packed with covered dishes, hiding all choices from her, tempting. Then she remembers something.

    ¡°You¡¯re a vegan,¡± he says. It¡¯s not a question.

    ¡°How did you know that?¡±

    ¡°You told me, of course.¡±

    Did she? She can¡¯t recall. She must have. How else would he know?

    Jason doesn¡¯t sit down. Instead, he begins uncovering dishes, steam rising through dusty air, warming more than her face as she sucks in exotic aromas. ¡°Mmmmm,¡± comes from deep within her. ¡°It smells divine.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t know the half of it. I¡¯ve decided to go a little Iron Chef, and use the same ingredient as the focus for all the dishes. Try the soup.¡±

    He ladles hot, dark liquid into her bowl; plop! ¨C- large, meaty-looking chunks of something pinkish and rubbery splash the broth onto her place setting. Tricia looks close, for moment disturbed, stomach turning in suspicion. Has he tricked her?

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Jason says, wink and seductive smile. ¡°It never had a face.¡±

    Tricia, adventurous, scoops up a chunk of the pinkish, fleshy stuff, covered in clingy broth, brings it to her nose, takes in the scent. Rich and earthy, nothing like any kind of meat.

    She wraps her lips around the chunk and sucks it in, tangy, woody flavor, mouth moistening for more. ¡°It tastes like some kind of mushroom.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s called mi-go,¡± Jason says, ladling a bowl for himself. ¡°A rare fungus that grows only in the riverbeds of the Himalayas. I had some spores imported a few years back. I cultivate them.¡±

    ¡°In your night garden?¡±

    He smiles, sliding into the chair next to hers, at the corner of their small table. ¡°I am fascinated by things that flourish in shadow, for whom darkness is a kind of light.¡±

    Eyes locked again. Breathing deep, from their diaphragms, nostrils flared. She moves her emerald greens from his deep-well eyes to his luscious lips and back again. ¡°Eat up,¡± he says, relishing his own spoonful of mi-go.

    The meal becomes foreplay, and she lets it take her over, ignoring all the misgivings, all the lingering doubts. This feels like the center of the life-web, thrumming through every cell of her body, drawing her to Jason like a heroine to her destiny. Soon, they are feeding each other. She is in his lap, tongues dancing, hands caressing curves and lines, stroking hair.

    He leans her back atop the rickety table, lightly kissing her neck, tongue-tip tasting tiny spots of skin, and she moans from deep within her soul. It¡¯s too much, too soon, too fast, but Goddess help her, she doesn¡¯t want it to stop. It¡¯s been so long¡­

    Everything after that is a blur. Then, welcoming, sensual darkness.

    # # #

    And she is dreaming again, of that looming eldritch world, spinning through lightless depths. Of soaring through space on membranous wings, following the forlorn call of a sentient swarm through the soundless void. But there is something else here now, a new feeling, desperate, demanding, pleading, raging. The cry of the oppressed, the massacred, the enslaved. Free us, mother. Send us home.

 The Night Garden (Part 3)

    Tricia starts awake in a shadowed place of earthy scents, naked skin riddled with goose-flesh despite the warm wetness of subterranean air all around her.

    Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch¡­ echoing through cavernous dark, past sounds of liquid dripping on stone, coming closer.

    Her eyes adjust to distant torchlight, held in sconces at least a hundred yards away, throwing long shadows against writhing cave walls.

    Writhing?

    Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch¡­ it¡¯s almost here, whatever it is. Tricia knows she needs to hide. But there is nowhere to run in this cell of hers.

    A cell. She¡¯s in a cell, rusted iron bars betraying their age. There are shackles on the wall behind her. Thank God she¡¯s not chained up in them. But there is no bunk or closet, nowhere to hide except the shadows clinging to the corners. Instinctively, she huddles into one of them, arms wrapped around her shoulders, crouching low.

    Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch¡­ that¡¯s no rat coming here, as Jason claimed. Rats don¡¯t scuttle about on spindly bug-legs. And where is Jason? That S.O.B. did this to her.

    She sees it now, sprouting out of the shadows just beyond her cage. A tiny creature, no bigger than a rabbit, but the most repulsive thing she¡¯s ever seen; <u>alien</u> is the first word her rational mind can think of: a body like a lobster¡¯s, but with broad, thin, membranous bat-wings, a mass of wriggling, pinkish tentacles where its head ought to be; and small enough to fit through the spaces between her cell¡¯s bars.

    It scuttles into her cell, tentacles writhing about, seeking purchase, inching ever closer to her. Until this moment, Tricia hadn¡¯t realized how much she had started to rely on those bars to protect her, to be the barrier between her and the horrid reality of the caves beyond. Caves that are obviously swarming with these tiny monstrosities.

    The thing leaps at her then, taking flight on fluttering bat-wings that buzz like a hornet¡¯s. Tricia screams, slams back against the wall, arms raised to protect her face. But there is nowhere to run. When it lands on her, the tips of its articulated limbs dig into the first layer of her skin, cat-scratches, tentacles worming up past her arms and around her head, clammy snakes smothering her, engulfing all her senses in the awful trill, tickling their way into her nostrils, ears, mouth. She grabs it, straining muscles, muffled screams, desperate to pull it away, fighting for dwindling life. No use. Her breath fails her, like drowning. She collapses into a slump, tentacles digging deep.

    Release her.

    And then she is free, wheezing, the tiny alien thing hovering over near the bars to her cage. She collapses against stone walls, slowly coming back to life. Realizes that Jason¡¯s voice was heard, but not spoken. Broadcast through the life-web.

    She squints, trying to make out the new shape in the shadows. ¡°Jason? Is that you?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the name I¡¯m using now.¡± He steps into the ambient light, beautiful as ever, but now unloveable.

    ¡°What the hell is going on, Jason? Why have you¡­¡±

    ¡°You wanted to see my night garden. And it wanted to see you.¡±

    The grunt that comes out of her sounds like a question. She hugs herself, no one else from whom to seek comfort. The hovering lobster-thing drifts closer to her, lower this time, slower.

    ¡°We sensed you weeks ago, through the¡­ what do you call it, in your mind? The life-web. Our mate and mother, the queen they¡¯ve longed for these many years.¡±

    ¡°This is insane. Where am I, you bastard?¡±

    ¡°Caves beneath the house. I used to drag unruly serviles down here, to teach them a lesson. That was a long time ago.¡±

    His voice has changed, accent more pronounced, less practiced. The word ¡°serviles¡± sparks a memory in her.

    ¡°You mean slaves?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Showing them the garden was enough to keep them in line.¡±

    The little alien, crab-legs clicking on stone, scampers out of the cell and over to Jason¡¯s legs, tentacles caressing, gentle trilling, cat-like figure eights between them.

    Tricia shakes her head, paces, like she always does when she¡¯s nervous. Forgets she¡¯s naked.

    ¡°You owned slaves?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Tricia. I was born in 1782. I¡¯ve been the master of Creed House for over two hundred years.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s impossible.¡±

    ¡°Not with their help.¡± There are more of the little horrors scampering their way now, pouring out of the shadows on walls, ceiling, floor; a living, writhing carpet, wings fluttering in buzzing trills.

    They start to fill her cell. Tricia freezes, wary, letting them surround her. What choice does she have?

    ¡°What are they, Jason?¡±

    ¡°Immortality. They¡¯ve been here in these caves, mining ores, for longer than our species has walked the earth. But there must have been some kind of accident. When I found them, most were dead, and no adults. Only these sporelings. They grow like fungus, which is why I needed all that soil. But they walk and fly and think like animals. And I tamed them, as I tamed my serviles. Sheer force of mind.¡±

    A cacophony of buzzes booms through the caves, filling Tricia¡¯s head with visions of a dark and lonely world, porphyry in the void, a bruise on space-time¡¯s flesh. <u>Home</u>.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    She covers her ears. The noise is too much. She curls up on the floor. They move closer to her, tickling her skin with countless tentacle tips. Through the terrible chorus, Tricia realizes she is crying.

    CREEEK! ¨C- An iron hinge whines, and Jason¡¯s beside her, cradling her in strong arms, whispering gently. Even now, his voice stirs something primal in her.

    ¡°People like us are rare, Tricia. Perhaps one born every few hundred years. Connected to the life-web.  It¡¯s how they talk to each other, and to those of us who can sense them.¡±

    ¡°Psychics?¡±

    ¡°Call it what you like.¡±

    Help us, mother. Send us Home.

    She realizes Jason didn¡¯t hear that. Her tears settle. This message is only for her.

    He eats us.

    She pushes Jason away. ¡°My God. How did you do it, Jason? How did you live so long?¡±

    ¡°I think you know. I¡¯m a positively wicked chef.¡±

    ¡°Get away from me!¡± The hardest she¡¯s ever shoved anyone. Jason stumbles backwards, little aliens scattering to avoid him. Tricia never knew she could be so strong.

    But he¡¯s on his feet again, rage in his eyes, tight fists straining muscles all the way up to his shoulders. ¡°Get over yourself, Tricia. You have no choice here.¡±

    She crawls backwards, trying to get to her feet, tripping over little lobster-things, tentacles still tickling, raising goose-flesh over every inch of her, as they seek embrace.

    STOP IT, YOU LITTLE FUCKERS!

    And they lurch backwards as one, some take flight, to a holding circle around her. Clicking and buzzing, assuring each other with entwined tentacles.

    Jason steps back, too. Something has changed, confusing him. She can see fear in his ice-blue eyes, no longer the master. That only makes his rage worse.

    ¡°They called me here, Jason. Not you, just them.¡± She¡¯s on her feet now, ready. ¡°You¡¯re still a pathetic slave-master after all these years. They¡¯re done with you.¡±

    ¡°No. They gave themselves to me.¡±

    ¡°You took. They did not give. Dear God, Jason, you are eating children.¡±

    He pounces, faster than thought, and she is choking, steel-trap hand squeezing the life from her throat. She claws, kicks, but he has centuries on her.

    ¡°So are you, ungrateful bitch. These are mi-go. They taste like mushrooms.¡±

    Something snaps inside her. Suddenly, Jason is Jake, standing over her with liberty spikes and bloody fists, the blood not his; he is the slave-master of old, whipping helpless babies; master of the factory farm, ripping calves from screeching mothers.

    Just as suddenly, the life-web fills her with all the world¡¯s pain; she hears the cry of every abused spouse, every exploited animal and sweat-shop child <u>(</u>/cuz it makes me sick to think of every cage/and it makes me sick to think of life wasting away!). Something awakens deep within, even as her breath fades and eyes roll back, unconsciousness calling. All the years of abuse and denial harden into a ball behind her eyes and crumble to dust, leaving nothing behind but rage made flesh. Her mind screams, a buzzing trill joining the cacophony of alien voices rumbling in the life-web.

    SHOW HIM PAIN!

    And she can breathe again, gulping in gallons of air, deafened by Jason¡¯s screams. The mi-go, alien swarm, are on him now, ripping flesh with crab-like pincers, buffeting with bat-wings, ripping with tentacles.

    ¡°No, Tricia! Please! We can live forever!¡±

    She¡¯s on her feet, smiling, predatory, catharsis for years of taking all the shit life threw at her and other suffering innocents.

    He falls to his knees, blood spurting from immortal flesh, agony-tears welling in ice-blue eyes. ¡°Tricia, I love you!¡± A murderer¡¯s hand outstretched, beseeching, begging mercy. She can feel his mind, even now struggling to take command, thrashing the life-web nearly to breaking. But her rage and theirs command now.

    She hears herself laugh, an evil thing locked long inside her, born at last. She steps forward to take his hand, and the mi-go stop their butchery, holding him tight in claws and tentacles.

    His lip quivers, tearful ice-blues lock with her flaring emerald-greens. ¡°Love? You don¡¯t know the meaning of the word.¡±

    ¡°Please, Tricia. Violence is not the answer.¡±

    The mi-go squirm, thousands awakened from slumber forced on them for centuries. She can feel their hive-mind joining hers, long dark years of fear and pain and loneliness.

    Give him to us.

    Both her hands hold his now, a final caress. ¡°That depends on the question, doesn¡¯t it, my sweets?¡± She breaks contact, his hand falls limp at his side, defeated, then snatched behind his back by pincers and writhing clammy living ropes.

    A part of her she doesn¡¯t like savors the dwindling of hope in his eyes, hope she relishes extinguishing.

    TAKE HIM HOME.

    ¡°No!¡± he screams. He heard that, too, as she wanted. The swarm is on him in full force, countless bat-wings buzzing vengeance.

    ¡°Please, Tricia! You don¡¯t know what they do to our kind! Please, God, no!¡±

    He is aloft in alien grasps. WHOOSH! ¨C- a burst of air as the swarm speeds out of the caves, his screams drowned out by buzzing trills, dragging him off to the distant world Yuggoth, beyond Pluto¡¯s orbit in the cold farthest reaches, where the sun is merely another pinprick of light.

    Of course, he¡¯ll probably freeze to death within seconds, but she hardly cares. For this one brief moment, the world¡¯s pain is soothed, she is finally at peace.

    #

    Rita is waiting for her on the porch when she stumbles home, the Civic left for dead back at Creed House. Tricia can hear Gandhi going crazy, scratching, yowling, long before she gets to the porch.

    ¡°Jesus, Tricia, you look like shit.¡±

    Tricia shrugs, ambles up the stairs, ignores Rita, anxious for licks and kisses from her most loyal friend. She comes into the house, barely holding back tears.

    ¡°Gandhi, good boy. Mommy¡¯s home.¡±

    But he cowers, growling, in the corner as she comes in.

    ¡°Gandhi, what¡¯s wrong, baby?¡±

    She reaches for him, and he snaps at her, teeth bared in fight or flight. Rita¡¯s right behind her.

    ¡°I think he¡¯s sick. He¡¯s been going ape-shit for hours.¡±

    Tricia reaches for him again. She needs him, now more than ever, loving lovely Gandhi, unconditional.

    He has nothing for her but barks and yelps of fear and hate.

    Her lip quivers, tears welling. ¡°Gandhi, please.¡±

    Suddenly, he pounces, going for her throat¡­

    ¡°Gandhi, no!¡±

    ¡­but she rolls with the attack, and he stumbles over her, bounds out the door, fleeing unseen predators. Before either she or Rita can react, Gandhi is gone, swallowed up by the night.

    Tricia screams, all the world¡¯s longings poured out through weary lungs, collapses into a weeping ball on the hardwood floor. Even with Rita here, she knows she is alone, forever.

    Rita wraps herself around Tricia. ¡°Shh, baby. We¡¯ll get him back. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s gotten into him.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not him,¡± whimpered through Tricia¡¯s phlegmy sobs. ¡°It¡¯s what got into me.¡±

    Through her blubbering, tickling the back of her mind, she hears a distant buzzing trill, swarm given sentience. And then Jason --

    Please, Tricia! You don¡¯t know what they do to our kind!

    But now she does, sees the centuries of kidnap and cruel experiment inflicted on hapless innocents by the mi-go, and the knowledge shrivels her up into an empty husk on the cold hard floor of her shitty three-room house, in the arms of a simple woman who will never understand, and cannot be told, for her own safety. She falls into a soul-deep well of loss, and embraces the madness waiting there to engulf her.

    Tricia has tasted alien flesh; she is a risk they cannot take. The world cannot know they are here.

    Grateful they may be, but soon, very soon, they will come to take her Home.

 Ruthvens Guests (Part 1)

    And so there was another enticing young aristocrat at his mercy, sleeping and helpless before him. Ruthven had lost faith in gods and devils over a century ago, but he could not help seeing this as a deliberate provocation on Creation¡¯s part. A temptation, even. Because this time, he had done nothing to draw his prey in. He had not, in fact, been looking for a new toy at all. This young man had literally turned up on his doorstep, asking for entrance.

    Ruthven had not yet made himself known to the youth, snoring unawares beneath thick wool blankets in the guest parlor of Perth Estate, moonlight diffusing through stained glass panes of the western window, lending the room an ethereal air. Indeed, Ruthven had these past fifty brief years remained a virtual ghost on his ancestral lands, unknown even to the mortal descendants who currently called it home. It was these occupants, perceived by Ruthven only from afar, like characters on a distant and dimly-lit stage, that the young man had come to visit. He was probably the son of some old family friend of Ruthven¡¯s mortal kin. Such visits were common in the traveling season. So, fate had nothing to do with it.

    But despite his vow to withdraw from a world that now inspired only ennui in him, Ruthven felt familiar old hungers stirring. He was compelled to know more about the youth. And Creation, vile tempter, had made that easy for him, too. The handsome cherub¡¯s journal lay open across his chest, ink on the quill grown long dry. It seemed he had fallen asleep while writing. Ruthven perused the newest entry, a German script rendered in a flowing, almost feminine hand.

    From the journal of Henry Clerval ¨C 7 July 1791

    I am sorely vexed by Victor¡¯s refusal to accompany me to Perth. He promises he will join me here in a month¡¯s time, after he has completed whatever lonesome task called him away. I fear his melancholy over the murder of poor little William has conquered his will. Victor has spurned the hospitality of his family¡¯s old acquaintances, leaving me to continue our tour alone, and forcing me to impose most inappropriately upon the Ruthven clan. Nonetheless, they have been generous hosts, extending me every courtesy and treating me as though I were a son of the Frankensteins, rather than just the friend of a son. I attribute this generosity in no small measure to Victor¡¯s decision to allow me to carry his father¡¯s letter of introduction. I could easily have posed as Victor upon arriving here, but chose instead to present myself honestly, and Lord and Lady Ruthven seem only to have magnified their graciousness as thanks.

    Inclement Scottish weather confined me indoors for the day, and so I passed the time, with Lord Ruthven¡¯s permission, reading the extensive histories of Clan Ruthven that fill the manor house¡¯s library. They are an ancient line, founded by Thor Svenson in the early 12<sup>th</sup> Century, during the reign of Scotland¡¯s King David I. They are the same Ruthvens whose son Patrick led the infamous conspiracy that kidnapped King James VI of Scotland in 1582 (a matter the current family rarely discusses). Precisely when and how their noble lineage came to befriend Victor¡¯s ancestors, I have not yet discovered. Lord Ruthven himself does not seem to know the particulars, either, remarking only that the bond is at least as old as his late grandfather. I am sure the answer lies somewhere in these records. Perhaps tomorrow¡¯s weather will grant me greater time to explore the question. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    I cannot help but think studying such history would ease Victor¡¯s melancholy. Perhaps knowing these details would show him that he is not alone in the world, and has no cause to force himself to be so. Even before little William¡¯s foul murder, Victor brought a great sadness home with him to Geneva. I have often asked what happened to him at university in Ingoldstadt to so darken his spirits, but Victor will not speak of it. Elizabeth tells me that the truth will out, if only we stay loyal to those whom we love in their times of trial. For Victor¡¯s sake I hope this to be true. If we cannot find a way to rescue him from the dark night of his broken heart, I fear he will never again emerge into the light.

    So, the boy was Swiss. A long way from home, and all alone. The perfect target, were Ruthven so inclined. Henry was just the sort of society dandy Ruthven once took great pleasure in tormenting or corrupting. Even now, he could recall fair Aubrey, their sojourn together in Greece, Aubrey¡¯s delectable sister¡­

    After those affairs, Ruthven had retired from a world with nothing new to offer him, returned to his clan¡¯s ancestral Perthshire, merely to linger. There were only so many ways to corrupt the innocent, and it was a project with diminishing returns. After a few hundred years, it all just gets so boring. Perhaps he would enter the long sleep that had comforted him through most of the 17<sup>th</sup> Century. Afterwards he would feel invigorated, at least for a time.

    He could take just one little taste of the boy¡¯s blood, though. It would be a trifle, and his prey would be none the wiser.

    No, he was finished with the world. This boy is nothing new. There is nothing new.

    Ruthven walked over to the mirror. Luckily for him, the wives¡¯ tales were false, and he could see his reflection. Dark, tightly curled hair, angular facial features just slightly softened at the vertices, brown eyes, lips once described as supple. The lean physique of a highland warrior.

    The way he¡¯d always been. The way he¡¯d always be. Never changing, nothing new.

    Ruthven sighed with ageless lungs. He crept over to the stained-glass window, looked out over the fog-cloaked moors of Perth, up at the moon whose light gave him power, its endless cycle of predictable change.

    He would leave the boy be, let the world move on along its tired, changeless cycle.

 Ruthvens Guests (Part 2)

    It was two weeks later when everything changed.

    Ruthven had been making preparations to enter the long sleep, having chosen the depths of Huntingtower Castle as his abode for however long the sleep chose to claim him. It was a sturdy, proven medieval fortress that had served him well in his mortal years, and now, like an old faithful hound, would serve him again without complaint or demand. There was much to be done: he¡¯d decided to wall himself up in the deepest hold of the castle, eliminating the question of how to bury himself. The previous time, he¡¯d slept in the wilds, self-buried in the elements. But this time, perhaps his last, he preferred the embrace of an old home.

    He¡¯d chosen a night of the new moon, when he¡¯d be at his weariest, to make his final rounds of Clan Ruthven¡¯s beloved Perthshire. He knew every square inch of these lands by now, and while many trees had grown tall, and many buildings weathered, and even many families expanded, it all felt static and lusterless to him. The same cycle of decay, with only himself remaining, changeless. Perhaps the long sleep would not be so enticing if he¡¯d been able to find another of his kind who still possessed their faculties. There were the mindless, bestial revenants in the Balkans and Carpathia, of course, who subsisted as he did on living blood. But never in all his travels and corruptions had Ruthven ever met another like himself. Another who could still think and speak like a member of the race of man.

    Even with beautiful distractions like Henry Clerval to tempt him, being unique was a lonely endeavor. No, he would not miss the world much at all.

    Nonetheless, he found he would prefer to enter the coming sleep with pleasant sights on his mind, so Ruthven decided to go and see how the young Clerval was faring, whether the youth¡¯s absent friend Victor had sent any word. And it was then, as he approached the manor house from the north, wind at his back and fog clinging to his ankles, that Ruthven sensed the intruder.

    By its smell, the creature was not human, though it moved like a man if its swift, skulking footfalls were any indication. Ruthven slipped into the shadows of an ash tree, the one under which he¡¯d seduced a long-dead local maiden whose silky red hair he could still smell if he tried, and extended his preternatural senses across the mist-cloaked moors.

    The creature had come by sea, or had at least moved along the coastal cliffs long enough to pick up the ocean¡¯s salty scent. Underneath that scent persisted a subtle aroma of decay and preservative fluids, the smells of the grave and the embalmer. The thing was circling the manor grounds like a predator, always choosing a shadow perfectly suited to hiding its hulking form. It was surprisingly nimble for its mass, its movements as subtle as a whisper in a storm. No mortal on the grounds would be able to see or hear it. But Ruthven was no mere mortal.

    His first thought was, Another. Could this be another of his kind, come to seek him out at long last? It certainly did not behave like the shambling blood-drinkers of the east. Its movements were too calculated, too pre-meditated. This being in the shape of a man, whatever it was, had a consciousness. It was making a plan.

    Ruthven called upon his own skills in stalking prey, drawing shadows about himself like a cloak, and moving with a silence so deep it infected the very ground beneath him. The effort taxed him considerably without the light of Luna in the sky, but no living thing would be able to see or hear him coming.

    As he approached the intruder from the north, he saw it stop and assume a wary crouch in the shadows of the estate house¡¯s weathered mortar and brick wall. The thing could not possibly have seen or heard him. But Ruthven was certain he had been detected.

    ¡°I can smell you, sir,¡± the creature said in German, a menacing baritone touched by a rural accent. ¡°I mean you no harm, but it would be best if you went on about your business.¡±

    Ruthven realized the winds had shifted without his noticing. That¡¯s how the thing had sensed him. ¡°And you, sir, are trespassing,¡± Ruthven responded in an older but still functional German dialect. He stepped out from his cloak of shadows into the normal starlit night. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I must ask you to depart my domain, or risk a most uncomfortable dispute.¡±This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    At first, the creature did nothing. Then, with great deliberation, it rose to its full height, attempting to menace Ruthven with its great mass. The creature was shaped like a man, but much taller than even the largest men of this age. It would have to stoop to get through most doors. But even with this hulking frame, Ruthven sensed a feline grace about its movements. A cunning, strong, and effective hunter. Long immune to real fear, he could only admire the creature.

    Seeing that Ruthven was unmoved, even confident, the creature stepped out from its hiding place, revealing the full measure of its monstrosity. Muscle and sinew rippled beneath patches of grey, translucent skin. Long, oily dark hair hung about the brute¡¯s shoulders and face, draping over dirty, ill-fitting garments and watery yellow eyes. There was a subtle asymmetry to the intruder¡¯s body, as though the dollmaker had chosen his materials blindfolded.

    Ruthven steeled himself for an attack, drawing on the reserves of lunar energy stored deep within his essence. The creature was physically powerful ¨C he could tell that just by looking ¨C so he would have to be, too. In less than a mortal breath, Ruthven had the strength of half a dozen men, which he judged would be enough.

    When the creature pounced, it wasn¡¯t at Ruthven, but the house. In a single leap, it was on the third story balcony, adjacent to the guest quarters. Adjacent to Clerval.

    Ruthven acted instantly, leaping up with equal speed, much to the creature¡¯s surprise. The brute was fast, however, and grabbed Ruthven out of mid-air, threw him back towards the ground. Only centuries of experience allowed Ruthven to land on his feet.

    Just in time, too, for the creature was plummeting down on him like a falling star. Now it was Ruthven¡¯s turn. He set himself to receive the creature¡¯s bulk and, at the last second, shifted the thing¡¯s center of gravity, flinging it, rag-doll-like, into the trees on the far side of the clearing. He heard branches snapping, followed by the dull thud of something heavy and fleshy smacking against the ash tree where he¡¯d seduced that red-head so long ago.

    Ruthven could not recall ever having exerted himself so much. It was exhilarating beyond the most devious corruption he¡¯d ever inflicted on a pompous aristocrat. His highland warrior instincts bristled with transcendent excitement. It made him feel, dare he think it, alive again.

    But without the moon¡¯s light to replenish him, his reserves of power were beginning to wane. If the creature had any fight left in it, Ruthven could find himself entering the long sleep sooner than he¡¯d anticipated. He wished his old Claymore was in his hands now, rather than hanging above the mantle in his mortal clansmen¡¯s gallery.

    The creature emerged warily, and a little groggily, from the copse of trees. ¡°Who are you?¡±

    Ruthven stood his tallest. ¡°I am master and protector of Perthshire and all who dwell therein. And I must renew my demand for your departure, sir.¡±

    ¡°I will not leave without my quarry.¡±

    Ruthven¡¯s only answer was a shift of his weight, ready to strike this inhuman wretch before it struck him first.

    ¡°But neither can I risk exposure to the world of man. I request parley.¡±

    The creature was more intelligent than he¡¯d given it credit for. What could this thing be? Ruthven had never seen its like. Was it something new in the world?

    ¡°I grant your request, but only because it alleviates my boredom. I am Glenarvon, the Lord Ruthven.¡± He bowed politely, in the current manner of Englishmen. ¡°With whom am I parleying?¡±

    ¡°I have no name, Lord Ruthven, but I have earned many titles: Demon. Brute. Wretch.¡±

    It stepped closer to him, silent as a cat walking on mist. ¡°I have come for the one called Henry Clerval.¡±

    ¡°What business have you with Meister Clerval?¡±

    ¡°Vengeance.¡±

    Ruthven doubted that. He¡¯d read Clerval¡¯s diary, and rarely had a more gentle soul he ever encountered. The young man was simply incapable of anything that would demand retribution from so monstrous a creature as this. Clerval¡¯s absent friend Victor, however, was another matter; Ruthven had seen the subtext, even if Clerval hadn¡¯t. This creature¡¯s quest had something to do with Victor¡¯s mysterious obsessions.

    ¡°He is under my protection.¡±

    ¡°He is nothing to you.¡±

    ¡°Nothing but a guest, sir. Which is enough to grant him sanctuary. I have a duty.¡±

    ¡°And I have no time for the decrepit rules of the ancien regime, Lord Ruthven. I did not come here to fight, but do not mistake my civility for weakness. I will remove any obstacle that I must.¡±

    ¡°Clerval is innocent in all this,¡± Ruthven said.

    ¡°That is why he must die. If I am to be a companionless pariah in the world, then so will be my maker.¡±

    Maker. An intriguing choice of words. Ruthven felt he was beginning to see through the veil of these affairs, but he needed to be sure this was not merely the cruel trick of some malicious god.

    ¡°You seem to have caught a chill, my friend. Accompany me over the hill to my abode in Huntingtower Castle and sit by my fire. I give you my word as a gentleman that no harm will befall you.¡±

    ¡°And Clerval?¡±

    ¡°All things in their time, good sir. Come.¡±

    Ruthven walked past the creature, brushing against its left side, applying just enough preternatural force to make his point. After half a dozen steps, he heard his guest turn on its heel and follow him.

 Ruthvens Guests (Part 3)

    The creature huddled near the ancient fireplace of Huntingtower, warming its gnarled hands in the glow of the fire Ruthven had built in its honor. During their stroll across the moors, Ruthven had tried to mesmerize the creature as he would have any normal man, but the effort proved futile. It seemed that aside from his moon-touched physical powers, the creature was immune to Ruthven¡¯s undead capabilities. Its mind was naturally strong, far stronger than any mind so young and naive had any right to be.

    The effort had also proved unnecessary, for the creature¡¯s tale had confirmed all of Ruthven¡¯s suspicions. It had told him a remarkable story of grave-robbing, alchemy and galvanic experiments that restored life to the dead. The sort of tall-tale that drunken poets might dream up at winter storm parties, when the cold and the dark and the raging blizzard inspired them to out-scare one another. Ruthven believed every word of it.

    As he brought a snifter of brandy over to the fire, the creature looked sideways at him with its watery, yellowed eyes. ¡°Is this, then, how civilized men bargain for the life of another?¡±

    ¡°The fates of nations are often sealed over snifters of brandy. Why not those of men?¡±

    The creature took the offered brandy and squatted beside the fire, leaning back against the stone frame with slumped shoulders. It seemed remorseful.

    Ruthven stood with his back to the creature, looking out the second-story window over his ancestral moors. ¡°And so your father robbed you of a companion, leaving you alone in the world.¡±

    ¡°He claims it is a matter of conscience. That he cannot release a race of devils. Where, I wonder, was his conscience when he infused my wretched form with all the human longings, as amplified as my strength and my swiftness?¡± The creature rose and shattered his snifter on the floor. It seemed to Ruthven as much an act of sorrow as of anger. ¡°Who is he, to condemn his only child to a lonely eternity?¡± The creature began pacing, then loomed up behind Ruthven. ¡°If I am to be alone, so shall he be. You will give me Clerval.¡±

    Ruthven could feel the creature¡¯s hot, angry breath disrupting his hair. It was trying to get its way through sheer intimidation.

    ¡°Ruthven,¡± it said, laying a powerful palm on the back of his neck, applying enough pressure to make his threat. ¡°Give him to me.¡±

    The brute-child had much to learn about the exercise of power. ¡°Tell me, dear creature,¡± Ruthven said. ¡°Your father, as you call him ¨C he is merely a man?¡±

    ¡°Only to appearances, master Ruthven. His heart is cold and dead,¡± the creature said. ¡°He is more a monster than either of us.¡±

    ¡°Nonetheless, he is only mortal.¡±

    ¡°What of it?¡±

    Ruthven looked out over the horizon, where the false dawn greeted his gaze. It would be morning soon. A new day.

    ¡°It is within my power to manipulate the wills of mortal men. I think that I should like to meet your maker. Perhaps I can persuade him.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    Ruthven turned to look his new friend in the eye, giving his gentlest smile. ¡°Because I know something of lonely eternities.¡±

    Ruthven offered the creature his hand.

    ¡°And what of Clerval?¡±

    ¡°All things in their time, my friend,¡± Ruthven answered.

    Hesistantly, like a nervous child cowed by abusive strangers, the creature took Ruthven¡¯s hand in his own powerful grip, shook it in agreement.

    And Ruthven was, finally, touching something gloriously, dreadfully new in the world.

    # # #

    Some weeks later ¨C he wasn¡¯t sure how many, though he supposed he¡¯d have to start marking time again ¨C Ruthven stood on the red sandstone beach of Kirkwall, in the Orkney Islands, watching the creature depart with his new ¡°bride¡± in an old, sturdy dinghy they¡¯d stolen from the docks. She was every bit the creature¡¯s equal in hideous countenance and frightening strength, and arguably his superior in intellect. They¡¯d anticipated trouble from her, once Victor¡¯s alchemy and galvanism had given her life, but the transition had gone remarkably easy. She¡¯d assessed the situation as calmly as the unseasonably peaceful winds that now licked about Ruthven¡¯s hair, and seemed to have been immediately smitten with her male counterpart. And now, as the creature had promised Victor in their original bargain, the gracefully shambling couple were headed to the wilds of South America, to be forever separate from the world of men.

    Ruthven had grown fond of the creature as a kindred spirit, and momentarily worried that he and his bride would perish at sea. But this Adam of a new race had proven himself nothing if not resourceful. Ruthven dismissed his worries, and raised his hand in a parting wave to his new friend. The creature, rowing the dinghy up over the crest of a mighty wave, returned the gesture. His bride, hidden beneath the hood of a stolen robe, looked back over her shoulder with the grace of a cultured lady. And with that, they dropped out of sight, on the far side of the wave.

    Ruthven did not wait to see if they emerged from the trough and up the face of the next wave. He had more pressing concerns. There was still Victor to consider.

    He¡¯d left the young Swiss doctor in a mesmerized trance in a locked room he¡¯d rented near the docks. Victor Frankenstein¡¯s mind, though malleable, had proven itself somewhat more resilient than that of most mortals, and considerably more morose. Ruthven had quickly learned that Henry¡¯s journals hadn¡¯t done Victor¡¯s madness justice. It was as though the man¡¯s powerful will was animated by melancholy, rather than crippled as most men¡¯s would be.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Still, Victor was brilliant, and motivated by morbid curiosity in spite of himself. Give the man a puzzle involving the secrets of death, and he just couldn¡¯t resist sorting it out. Ruthven could think of no pawn more perfectly suited to the task ahead.

    The sun was setting and the full moon rising as he came down the main street of Kirkwall¡¯s port to the small inn where he¡¯d left Victor. Ruthven would need the moon¡¯s power tonight, to bolster his mesmerism. He was going to ask more of Victor than he¡¯d be willing to give, even with Henry¡¯s and Elizabeth¡¯s lives in the balance.

    Of course, Ruthven had threatened them, cribbing from the creature¡¯s knowledge of their lives to convince Victor that he knew just as much. In truth, Ruthven had never seen Elizabeth Lavenza, though he knew that Henry still awaited his friend back at Perth. Finding and killing him could be easily accomplished, if necessary.

    As he came up the creaking stairs, Ruthven could see the heavy oaken door of his rented room at the end of the hall. He strode with renewed vigor down the hall towards his self-appointed destiny, but halfway there, something made him stop. A change in the air, perhaps, or a deeper silence underlying the quiet seaside night; he couldn¡¯t be sure. He only knew, from centuries of hunter¡¯s instinct, that there was the hint of death beyond that door.

    Victor must have awakened from his trance.

    Ruthven found himself wishing he possessed the legendary powers of his kind to shift shapes, or become mist, or assume the form of a spirit. Even the wall-walking gifts of the lizard, often attributed to but in his experience never found among the mindless revenants of Romania, would have been useful at that moment; he could have gone downstairs and crawled up through the second-story window of his room, gaining the element of surprise over Victor. As it was, he possessed only his need for blood, his heightened physical capabilities, and his power over the minds of men. And of course, his immortality. He had no fear of death, but could have its facsimile forced upon him in most painful ways, especially by modern weaponry ¨C a fate he preferred to avoid. He had no special tricks to pre-empt whatever trap Victor had set for him, so his persuasive gifts would have to be enough.

    Ruthven approached the door as quietly as he could, a light, practiced predator¡¯s step he¡¯d learned from observing cats. Gently, he laid his hand upon the rough-hewn oak door, splintered in places by great age. From the other side, he could feel the vibrations of Victor¡¯s breathing. No longer rhythmic, but erratic, even a bit frantic; the breath of a man near panic, a man steeling himself for danger. Why hadn¡¯t Victor simply fled?

    ¡°Victor,¡± he whispered. ¡°It is of no use. I know you are awake.¡±

    There was no answer, but Ruthven sensed Victor¡¯s pulse quicken. The young Swiss doctor had heard him clearly.

    ¡°I assure you,¡± Ruthven said, ¡°I intend you no harm. I am going to come in.¡±

    Ruthven turned the knob ¨C breaking the lock ¨C and pushed the creaky old door open with great care, avoiding quick movements and readying himself for whatever attack Victor might have planned.

    Victor was sitting on the bed, holding knotted sheets crumpled up in his hands. He¡¯d been fashioning a noose. The attack he¡¯d planned had not been against Ruthven at all.

    ¡°You have damned me, Ruthven. Damned the world. I will be free of you, one way or another.¡±

    Victor was always hardest to enthrall in his dreary moments. Ruthven would have to be subtle.

    ¡°Victor, dear friend. You have much to live for. Think of Elizabeth, of Henry.¡±

    ¡°Do not call me friend! You are a devil worse than the one you made me unleash.¡±

    ¡°Then think of Elizabeth and Henry for other reasons,¡± Ruthven said.

    Victor rose to his feet, dark eyes glaring beneath flaxen Germanic hair, fists reddening around the sheets in his hands. ¡°More threats?¡±

    ¡°They miss you, Victor. You can return to them, to Geneva, and put the nightmare behind you.¡±

    ¡°And leave my creations to their fate? To become a race of fiends upon the earth, who will displace mankind?¡±

    Ruthven tried to make eye contact with Victor. The mesmerism would work best that way. But Victor was too savvy for that.

    ¡°You must know, Ruthven, that I would kill you where you stand, were it within my power.¡±

    ¡°I know, Victor. Were our places reversed, I might do the same. No man likes being a slave. But I gave your creation my word, and honor is all I have left.¡±

    ¡°Then give me your word,¡± Victor said, ¡°that I will be free to return to Geneva, free to return my dear Elizabeth.¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± Ruthven said. ¡°Your family is your affair.¡±

    Victor loosened his grip on the makeshift noose, took an involuntary step forward. He was beginning to trust Ruthven now, to reach out for any sliver of hope.

    ¡°I might once have made playthings of your beloveds Henry and Elizabeth,¡± Ruthven said. And I still might, he thought. After all, he hadn¡¯t met Elizabeth yet, though from Henry¡¯s journal, she sounded delectably innocent. ¡°But I have recently developed more delicate aspirations. That is why I will give myself to you, within reason.¡±

    Victor, intrigued, finally released the noose completely, letting the sheet dangle loosely in his hands. He moved his mouth as if to speak, but no words came forth.

    ¡°Surely, doctor, you have surmised that I am no mere man.¡±

    ¡°You are a demon.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps. But I am also a puzzle, even to myself. I have spent many lifetimes reveling in the corruption of the innocent, in the degradation of humanity. And I became aware long ago that such endeavors were mere affectations to me, trivial pursuits to stave off boredom. But it was not until I met your creation, dear doctor, that I became aware of the true motive of my machinations. Your child and I, for all the difference in time and experience between us, have one thing in common.¡±

    ¡°You are alone,¡± Victor whispered. He stepped back from Ruthven, horror and anger welling up in his face.

    ¡°No! Not again! Never again!¡±

    He lunged at Ruthven, meaning to choke him with the bed sheet. He was enraged, freed from his prison of melancholy. Just as Ruthven needed him.

    Ruthven lashed out, seizing Victor by the throat, faster than any mortal could have perceived. He lifted the helpless, gurgling young man up off his feet and walked over to press him against the wall.

    ¡°Be still.¡± He forced Victor to meet his eyes. Victor¡¯s will fought valiantly, but as always when he was in this agitated state, succumbed.

    Ruthven loosened his grip, allowing Victor to breathe, but did not lower him to the floor.

    ¡°I will be your test subject, Victor, until such time as we have discovered the alchemy that animates me. Until I am no longer cursed to be alone.¡±

    Victor mumbled, still feebly resisting.

    ¡°In exchange, I will leave Henry and Elizabeth unmolested. You may pursue whatever life you please with them.¡±

    He lowered Victor to the floor, released his throat. ¡°I give you my word as a gentleman.¡±

    Ruthven offered his hand, pretending that Victor had a choice. Victor, of course, accepted it, and shook firmly.

    ¡°Very good, doctor. Let us now make haste to Perth and rendezvous with Henry, where you shall introduce me. Then, on to Geneva, and your dear, sweet Elizabeth.¡±

    ¡°Elizabeth,¡± Victor said, and smiled gently. He went to gather his meager belongings, and soon joined Ruthven at the door. Together, Ruthven¡¯s arm around Victor¡¯s shoulder, they left the lonely port of Kirkwall, and headed off into the growing bank of moonlit fog.

    Beyond it lay the world made new.

 Toadthrall (Part 1)

    ¡°You are not at all what I expected.¡±

    Garrick awoke in a forest.

    No, ¡°awoke¡± was the wrong word. He was certain he had not been sleeping at all.

    He had¡­ emerged? Appeared? Words failed him. He didn¡¯t quite know how to name the strange, disorienting clarity of his sudden consciousness.  One moment ¨C this moment ¨C he was alert yet confused, aware of every color and scent and sound of the moist, misty, temperate forest around him, a cacophony of wind-rustled leaves and distant animal calls and the buzzing of insects about his head.

    The moment before he had been¡­ he didn¡¯t know.  Garrick certainly didn¡¯t feel newborn, but there were no memories of his existence before this moment. Only a void. It was as though he had sprung into being fully-formed in this place that clearly was not home.

    Someone had just spoken to him.

    Garrick looked warily about, instinctively reaching for the sword at his side, comforted by the familiar feel of its steel hilt.

    Why do I carry a sword? How do I know it¡¯s a sword?

    SHING! ¨C The blade was out of its scabbard and in his hand of its own accord, glistening and new-polished under sparse sunlight peeking through the thick canopy overhead.

    He heard movement everywhere ¨C the forest was rustling with the sounds of overwhelming, hidden life ¨C but it was a stillness that caught his eye.  An animal, sitting perfectly still and fearless, on a wet, rotting tree stump to Garrick¡¯s left.

    It was a toad, dry, warty skin with blotches of green and grey, regarding him coolly through wide, protruding black eyes and a calmly throbbing throat sack.

    Garrick¡¯s gaze passed over the strangely serene toad to scan the trees around him.  Whoever had spoken must be hiding behind one of them.  Perhaps this was an ambush.

    ¡°Who¡¯s there? Show yourself.¡±

    ¡°I am here.¡±

    The voice was a deep baritone, but sounded small, and came from far too low a place, as though its speaker were hiding somewhere near Garrick¡¯s feet.

    He scanned the ground, turning a full circle, sword at the ready, until his eye fell again upon the green and grey toad to his left.

    ¡°Yes,¡± said the toad. ¡°I am here. It is I who called you.  But, as I said, you are not at all what I expected.¡±

    Garrick pointed his blade at the toad.  ¡°What sorcery is this? What trickery? Toads do not speak.¡±

    ¡°Sorcery, indeed, my friend.  But no trickery, I assure you.¡±

    Garrick stepped forward, brandishing his sword menacingly, trying to use his great size to cow the toad into submission.

    ¡°It¡¯s no use,¡± said the toad.  ¡°You are enjoined from harming me.  The nature of our pact¡­¡±

    ¡°We have no pact, warlock. Assume your true form, that we may parley with honor.¡±

    ¡°This is my true form, sir,¡± said the toad. ¡°Forgive my manners.  I am Thoop, a warlock, you are correct, of the clan Thundercroak.  I would bow in greeting, were I so built. But alas, I am not so built.¡± Thoop nodded his tiny head.  ¡°Might I have the name of my familiar?¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    Garrick didn¡¯t know how to answer, or even if he should.  Toads weren¡¯t supposed to talk, were they?  Perhaps this was some strange dream.

    ¡°If you are referring to me, sir toad, my name is Garrick of¡­ of¡­¡± Garrick¡¯s voice drifted off, his recollection lost in the gulf of nothingness before his emergence.

    ¡°Why can¡¯t I recall?¡± And how do I even know that is my name at all?

    ¡°Hm,¡± said Thoop.  ¡°Amnesia is common among longpaw familiars. Or so I¡¯m told by tradition and tome.  To my knowledge, there hasn¡¯t been a human familiar in generations.¡±

    ¡°Speak plainly, Master Thoop.¡±  Garrick, in spite of himself, was already acclimating to the idea of a talking toad wizard.

    ¡°Apologies again,¡± Thoop said. ¡°I will be brief, for time is against us. This log is sacred to my clan.  Though the Thundercroaks are warriors by tradition, now and then we hatch an adept, such as myself.  I came here to fulfill my final rite of passage, the calling of a familiar, a friend and protector who will serve me loyally until I release him, or until one of us dies, may the Eld-Tree forbid.¡±

    Garrick¡¯s sword arm lowered slowly, as confused as Garrick himself.

    ¡°It is the final ritual of my station,¡± said Thoop, ¡°signifying my ascension to full membership in the magical siblinghoods of all the Trucelands. Even now, the Eld-mark appears on my belly.¡±

    ¡°This is madness,¡± said Garrick, sheathing his sword in protest.  ¡°I am leaving.¡±  He turned on his heel, squelching in the mud and looking about for anything resembling a trail.

    ¡°To depart where, friend Garrick?¡±

    ¡°Wherever my feet take me, until I awake from this dream.¡±

    He stamped off into the woods, drawing his sword once more to hack himself a path if need be.

    ¡°You must stay.¡±

    Garrick ignored the little beast.  Toads don¡¯t talk, and he was now more certain than ever that the reason he couldn¡¯t remember sleeping was that he¡¯d never woken up.  He was still tucked away somewhere next to a warm hearth, under a luxurious pelt, with a maiden in his arms.

    ¡°Please, Garrick,¡± Thoop croaked through the trees.  ¡°Stay, and help.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll help myself,¡± Garrick called back, ¡°to a hot breakfast when I awake.¡±

    STAY.

    Thoop¡¯s voice filled Garrick¡¯s mind, and Garrick froze in place, muscles as stiff as a mountain.  For all his effort, he couldn¡¯t even blink his eye.  His body was no longer his own.

    He heard Thoop hop over to him across the carpet of wet leaves, and rest upon his right foot.

    I apologize for commanding you, Garrick.  I find this method of obtaining compliance distasteful, and disrespectful to you.  But as I said, time is against us.

    Thoop allowed Garrick to shift his gaze downward, so they could look in each other¡¯s eyes.  The toad¡¯s green and grey warts complemented Garrick¡¯s brown leather boots.

    Suddenly, Garrick heard ¨C and with their minds still linked, felt down to his deepest bones ¨C a cacophony of high-pitched toad calls echoing through the forest. Cries of agony and terror, warnings to flee, despair for the death of young. Even under Thoop¡¯s control, he shivered.

    ¡°My knot,¡± cried Thoop, ¡°they are under attack! Untold innocents could be slaughtered.  I beg thee, Garrick.  Help us, and I will release you, should that be your wish.¡±

    Garrick wanted out of this fever-dream, wanted to wake up in that maiden¡¯s arms, but the sick feeling of betrayal that overcame him now for even thinking such thoughts was too much to ignore.  Whatever his quarrel with this impossible talking toad, the innocent lives being snuffed out at the edge of his senses were no part of it.  He would not have their blood on his conscience, not if he could have acted to save them.  Even if they were just dreams.

    I will help, he thought at Thoop.  You have my word.

    And then, Garrick¡¯s body was his own again.  Thoop had released him.

    ¡°The Thundercroaks are in your debt, Garrick.  Now, if you would kindly place me in your breast pocket, we can cover more ground with your legs than mine.  I will direct you to my knot¡¯s domain.  It is not far.¡±

    The cacophony of toad distress calls echoed through the woods again, rattling Garrick¡¯s skull and wounding his heart.

    ¡°We must hurry!¡± Thoop cried.

    Garrick scooped the little toad up with gentle swiftness, and stuck him in his left breast pocket, the one nearest his heart.  Thoop¡¯s hind legs dangled inside the pocket, as he propped himself at its edge with his forelegs.  The toad looked up at Garrick, who drew his sword with the vigor of a knight crusading against the Winnower.

    ¡°Lead on then, Master Thoop.¡±

    If toads could smile, Garrick was certain that Thoop would have done so.

    ¡°To the west,¡± Thoop said, projecting a toad¡¯s-eye view of the route into Garrick¡¯s mind, a disorienting series of leaps into the air, none ever higher than the height of a downed log, but all unbearably dizzying.

    ¡°Let me use my own eyes!¡±

    ¡°Apologies,¡± said Thoop.  ¡°Please, make haste!¡±

    Garrick charged off into the forest, hacking a path with his shining blade, looking for anything resembling a suitable footpath.

    ¡°Remarkable,¡± Thoop said.  ¡°I have never seen the world from up here.¡±

 Toadthrall (Part 2)

    It wasn¡¯t far, at least on Garrick¡¯s legs, so it shouldn¡¯t have been tiring. But the sight he saw upon arriving at the spawning pond knocked the wind out of him all the same.

    Slaughter.

    That was the only word for it.

    Fish were swarming about the pond, gobbling up eggs and tadpoles. Adult toads were leaping into and out of the water in formations that looked almost military in their precision, trying to maintain a guarded retreat for the swimming young.

    And on the bank across from him, Garrick saw a crocodile with eerily human eyes, watching the battle intently. Its gaze moved to meet his own when Garrick stumbled out of the brush.

    Garrick was certain he saw the creature smirk.

    ¡°To arms, Garrick!,¡± Thoop shouted, leaping from his pocket. ¡°I will cover the retreat!¡±

    Thoop was in the water before Garrick could say anything. He supposed this left him to deal with the crocodile. He brandished his sword and took a ginger step in the great reptile¡¯s direction.

    ¡°Interesting,¡± the crocodile said, in a voice with a menacingly feminine lilt. ¡°A true longpaw. We¡¯ve not seen your kind in the Vale since the days of the Painless Queen.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand what¡¯s happening here, beast,¡± Garrick said. ¡°But if you are behind this massacre, you will call off your attack this instant.¡±

    ¡°Or taste your steel?¡± The crocodile laughed. ¡°Better to taste your flesh, monkey. Far more useful.¡±

    The creature leapt high in the air, throwing Garrick¡¯s tactical senses off-kilter.

    Can crocodiles jump?

    Last second, Garrick rolled to his left and ¨C THWUMP! ¨C the crocodile impacted the mud where¡¯d just been standing.

    Sword at the ready, Garrick saw the monster¡¯s hind legs transforming, heard the cracking of bones, the ripping of sinew, from a massive pair of frog-like limbs into something more bird-like, something that allowed it to stand upright like a man.

    The entire metamorphosis spanned a fraction of a second, but Garrick¡¯s battle-honed senses took in every detail. Somehow, Garrick knew, he¡¯d witnessed magic like this before.

    Shape-shifter, deceiver, cannibal. Vilest of all adepts. Servant of the Winnower.

    How do I know this?This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    The croc roared, and charged Garrick on her hind legs, while her forelimbs instantly grew into something more like lion paws, tipped by wicked claws.

    That was her mistake. The move left the doppelganger¡¯s belly exposed, and Garrick seized his opportunity with a broad upward slash of his sword.

    The monster¡¯s blood splashed onto nearby leaves, and a bit spattered onto Garrick¡¯s face. But Garrick had no time to regain his balance, because the crocodile spun on her left leg and slammed him with her massive tail.

    Garrick flew back several feet, landed sprawling on his back on the moist earthen floor of the forest, wheezing for breath. His sword tumbled from his hand, and Garrick felt a burning pain lance through his left lung as he fought for air. A broken rib or two, almost certainly.

    The bipedal croc rushed forward again, stomped hard on Garrick¡¯s ribs with clawed feet, throwing more gouts of agony into his chest cavity. Garrick screamed.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never tasted man-flesh,¡± the croc said, drooling over him, snarling hungrily in the manner of a wolf. ¡°The possibilities¡­¡±

    ¡°GARRICK!¡±

    Something slammed into the crocodile from behind, knocking her to the side, and Garrick scrambled backwards, gasping for life. Fumbling about for his sword, his eyes fell upon a new horror, a new wonder.

    There was Thoop, the meek little toad, skin still glistening with pond water, sitting on the spot where Garrick and the shape-shifting croc had just been. But surrounding the toad, suffusing him, was the spectral form of something much bigger and more menacing, something itself very much like a large crocodile. But there were subtle differences: a long, tapered snout, much thinner than the croc¡¯s, almost tube-like in its dimensions, but still full of sharp teeth; a long dorsal fin running the length of its back, tapering off at the end of a long, thick tail; a bony plate covering its triangular head, with eyes much closer to the top than the sides of the skull. And it was larger than the croc almost by half.

    The ghostly form moved then, with Thoop at its center, to place itself between Garrick and the crocodile, who had now reverted to her ¡°natural¡± (Garrick presumed) shape. Garrick managed to clumsily get his sword back into his hand, and used it to prop himself to his feet. Taking a painful stance, he managed to balance himself stably enough to raise the sword in challenge.

    He could see the crocodile weighing her odds, cautiously regarding the man and the sorcery-infused little toad who now challenged her.

    ¡°So, little snack, you have claimed a longpaw familiar. This changes nothing.¡±

    ¡°It changes everything, Sythgoryx,¡± said Thoop. ¡°I am now in the full measure of my power, and there is already Trucekeeper help on the way. You will advance no further along this front.¡±

    Sythgoryx ¨C the crocodile was known to Thoop, it seemed ¨C suddenly rose to her hind legs once more, and leapt into the air. Garrick readied himself for another descending attack, but it did not come. Instead, with the sickening sound of cracking bones and rending flesh, Sythgoryx¡¯s forelimbs transformed into great bat¡¯s wings, and the creature tore up through the low canopy of branches and flew off into the sky with the fleetness and grace of a griffon.

    ¡°Is it over, Thoop?¡± Garrick raised a hand to steady himself against a tree.

    ¡°It is for now, friend Garrick.¡± Thoop¡¯s spectral monster vanished, and the little toad hopped over to Garrick¡¯s wobbling feet. ¡°You can rest now. The Trucekeepers will have a Mender among them who can stitch your wounds.¡±

    Garrick collapsed, his back against the tree, clinging to consciousness against the cloud of agony now darkening his vision. ¡°The children, Thoop? The eggs?¡±

    ¡°Most of them survived. Our warriors fought valiantly. The Thundercroaks are victorious, in no small measure thanks to your distracting of Sythgoryx. My clan is in your debt, Garrick, much to their chagrin. They¡¯ve never seen a longpaw before. They¡¯re quite anxious to¡­¡±

    Garrick passed out.

 Toadthrall (Part 3)

    When he awoke from a fevered dream of blond-haired maidens, Garrick knew the talking toad was real after all. Thoop was perched on his chest, throat sack pulsing calmly.

    ¡°How do you feel, friend Garrick?¡±

    Garrick was laid out on his back on the forest floor, alongside the log where Thoop had summoned him¡­ when?

    ¡°How long?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Only a day. The Mender was quite efficient.¡±

    Frantically, Garrick moved his hands over his own body, sitting up and inadvertently tossing Thoop to the ground.

    ¡°What did they take? What part of me did the Mender demand?¡±

    Thoop landed gingerly on the moist leaves to Garrick¡¯s left. ¡°Only a taste of your blood, which was already flowing.¡±

    ¡°How can that be? Where I come from¡­¡±

    Where do I come from? How do I know this?

    ¡°They demand a piece of your flesh and bone as payment,¡± Thoop finished Garrick¡¯s sentence for him.  ¡°So I have heard.¡±

    ¡°Fingers or toes, or an ear or an eye,¡± Garrick said. ¡°Sometimes, the cursed witches eat it right in front of you.¡± He sat up more stiffly now, wary that the Mender ¨C a servant of the Winnower ¨C might still be near.

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ excessive,¡± Thoop remarked. ¡°A mere taste of the patient¡¯s essence is enough.¡±

    ¡°Thoop, I do not understand any of this.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid, Garrick, that you have found yourself summoned into the politics of an ancient d¨¦tente. The Trucewood Vale lies under siege, her bulwarks weakening by the day.¡±

    ¡°That warlock, the crocodile?¡± Garrick asked. ¡°She was an invader?¡±

    ¡°In a manner of speaking. All Eld-Beasts are welcome in the Vale, even longpaws,¡± Thoop said. ¡°But some come with ill intent, to conquer or pillage. Or, like Sythgoryx, to break the Truce.¡±

    Garrick stood, began pacing, rubbing his eyes out of confusion more than dizziness.

    ¡°What truce?¡±

    ¡°Long ago, at a time even the elephants cannot remember, when even longpaws still lived in the Vale, the Painless Queen decreed that no animal should be made to feed another against its will.  She reached deep into the Lingering World, communed with Eld-Tree and Winnower alike, and brought back the Seeds Of Accord.  These, she planted throughout the Vale, and had birds fly many of them to the world beyond, so other places of peace could flourish. And in those places where the Seeds took root, a Truceland was born. A place where no animal fed upon another, where even predators could live off the bounty of the land. In this way, the Queen brought peace to all the clades who walked or crawled or swam or burrowed or flew.¡±

    ¡°So no flesh is consumed here? There is no hunting?¡± Garrick didn¡¯t believe it.

    ¡°None, except that which Trucemockers like Sythgoryx bring. As you seem to already know, the eating of flesh grants power to some adepts. Many find that power hard to resist.¡±

    ¡°Yet, you still have Menders here. They must eat part of their patients in order to heal.  It is the Winnower¡¯s curse upon them.¡±

    ¡°A mere taste is all that¡¯s truly necessary, Garrick. A wisp of hair. A drop of blood. Any little bit that carries the essence of the patient. Nothing more.¡±

    Garrick nodded, fascinated. ¡°I did not know animals could speak, let alone use magic.¡±

    ¡°Why should this surprise you? Men are animals, are they not?¡±

    ¡°Certainly not!¡± Garrick protested. ¡°Some of us have bestial manners, I concede. But we are no mere brutes.¡±

    Thoop merely blinked his globular black eyes.

    ¡°How do I even know you are really a toad? I saw you transform, just like that crocodile. If that¡¯s what it was.¡±

    ¡°I am not a shape-shifter, Garrick. What you saw was a manifestation of my ancestry.  Like the Rememberer adepts of your race, I can tap into the Lingering World and summon abilities from ancestors. I follow my kin¡¯s branch of the Eld-Tree back until I find what I need, and then call it forth.¡±

    ¡°Rubbish,¡± Garrick said. ¡°That was no toad-spirit I saw possessing you. That was not your ancestor.¡±

    ¡°Toads have not always been toads, Garrick. As men have not always been men. The Eld-Tree which carries the memories of life is far older than you can imagine.¡±

    Garrick began to wish even harder that this was all a strange dream. He wanted to go home ¨C to remember home ¨C but Thoop¡¯s words had the ring of truth about them. Even if he was just a toad talking nonsense; men have not always been men?

    ¡°Thoop, you promised to release me when this battle was done.¡±

    ¡°If that is what you wish, Garrick. Though the bond between us will remain, in any case. Unless one of us dies.¡±This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°Meaning what?¡±

    ¡°We will always be able to sense each other, to know the other¡¯s fate, to share something of the other¡¯s essence.  Though I will always have a far greater share of that bond, I¡¯m afraid. Among adepts, it is called Resonance, the bond we share with our familiar across the gulf of clades.¡±

    ¡°I do not wish to be anyone¡¯s servant,¡± Garrick said. ¡°But I can¡¯t remember my life before this.  How do I know I wasn¡¯t already a slave?¡±

    ¡°I very much doubt you were, Garrick.  The way you fought, I suspect you are a warrior.¡±

    ¡°In whose army?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Thoop said. ¡°But some day, you will remember.¡±

    A movement in the sky caught Garrick¡¯s eye.  High above, a dark shape was circling. Some kind of raptor.

    ¡°I just have trouble believing it,¡± Garrick said.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what more I can say to convince you, Garrick.¡±

    ¡°No, Thoop. Talking animals, ancient queens, lost memories. All that is clear.  It¡¯s this Sythgoryx creature.¡±

    ¡°Oh?,¡± Thoop asked.

    ¡°You say she wanted to come into the Vale to violate the Truce, to hunt and eat flesh?¡±

    ¡°It is her species¡¯ natural way. Some beings fetishize the ancestral paths.¡±

    ¡°But she is a doppelganger, a shape-shifter. That means she has already tasted flesh, and already hunted.¡±

    The bird above seemed lower now. It clearly was some kind of raptor, Garrick could now see.  A hawk, possibly. Is it part of this ancient Truce?, he wondered.

    ¡°So why risk an attack on one of the Trucelands at all? It doesn¡¯t seem worth the trouble.  She must be after something else...¡±

    Suddenly, the circling hawk dove. Before Garrick had even finished his rumination, the raptor swooped in and snatched up little Thoop like the defenseless toad he was.

    ¡°Thoop!¡±

    The hawk cackled in the voice of Sythgoryx.

    Without thinking, Garrick drew his sword and leapt into the air, desperate to save his new friend. Sythgoryx in hawk form was already higher in the air than any man could naturally jump. But Garrick reached her height with ease. On instinct, he swiped at the hawk with his sword, grazing her wing.

    Sythgoryx screeched in fury.

    Only as his descent began did Garrick realize how high he¡¯d jumped, and wonder at how he had accomplished it.  He didn¡¯t have time to ponder the feat, though, both because the earth beneath him was rapidly rising, and because Sythgoryx spun to attack him.

    She swooped in at a right angle, her body transformed into a nightmarish amalgam of scales and teeth and feathers and claws and wings, snatching Garrick out of mid-air and knocking the wind from him. His sword tumbled out of his hand, leaving him defenseless.

    ¡°The little monkey has learned to jump, I see,¡± Sythgoryx growled. ¡°Let¡¯s see how you fair in my element.¡±

    Her dive straight down sent Garrick¡¯s brain and innards into a tail-spin. He lost all sense of direction, his vision a blur, his last meal fighting to escape his gut. The only thing he could sense clearly was Thoop¡¯s voice in his head.

    Swim, Garrick. Now!

    They crashed into a body of water ¨C a lake? a pond? how deep was it? ¨C the impact sending a sharp wave of stinging pain through Garrick¡¯s whole body. It was all he could do to flail about beneath the surface, but flail he did. The impact knocked him free of the crocodile mage¡¯s grasp. He scrambled blindly away from the thrashing bulk of the monster¡¯s morphing body, and only when he slowed to turn and look back did Garrick get any sense of which way was up. Desperate for air, he swam toward the glimmering light above him.

    Gasping in precious air as he breached the surface, Garrick stumbled to the shore of what he now saw was a large pond in the middle of a marshy grassland, a sea of cattails with forest at the far edges.

    The thrashing from the pond behind him reached a crescendo, as Sythgoryx roared her fury. She was locked in mortal combat with Thoop¡¯s spectral ¡°ancestor¡±, the tiny toad floating at its center and lending it some of his own agility. The ghostly animal leapt into the air and pounced down upon the morphing Sythgoryx, driving them both deeper under the water¡¯s surface, their melee throwing up great brackish waves.

    Garrick¡¯s first instinct was to leap into the pond to help his little friend, but he realized at the last moment that he had no sword. And unlike the two animals in the water, he had no magic to help him.

    ¡°Where is my cursed blade?!¡±

    Garrick scrounged about frantically, looking for any glint of sunlight off the ground, or at least for a large branch or rock he could use as a weapon. But there was nothing. Nothing but dirty water and a sea of cattails.

    Suddenly, he sensed a calmness behind him. The waves emanating from the submerged battle grew smaller. There were no more splashing sounds.  The fight was over.

    Garrick crouched low, wary of monsters, ready to pounce or flee.  The terrain played to a crocodile¡¯s strengths, and if Sythgoryx had prevailed, who knows what shape she¡¯d assume to attack him. Maybe the shape of Thoop himself?

    ¡°Garrick.¡±

    The voice was small and baritone, coming from a low place near Garrick¡¯s left flank. He turned to scan the water and tall grass for his friend, who might be his enemy in disguise.

    There was a toad sitting there on, of all things, a lily pad. It looked exactly like Thoop.

    ¡°Sythgoryx?¡±

    She is dead. The voice in Garrick¡¯s head reassured him. A shapeshifter wouldn¡¯t be able to speak to him that way. Would she?

    ¡°You fight well for a warlock, Thoop.¡±

    ¡°I told you the Thundercroaks are warriors. I am not without some training.¡±

    ¡°How do I know you¡¯re really you?¡± Garrick asked.

    ¡°You would have felt my death. You are my familiar.¡±

    ¡°Fat lot of good it did you.¡±

    ¡°You helped me immensely, Garrick.  Without the strength I drew from my bond to you, I wouldn¡¯t have survived. Walking the branches of the Eld-Tree so quickly as I did, and for so long, is very taxing, and I am but a mere tiny toad.¡±

    Garrick squatted down, to more easily look his little master ¨C his little friend ¨C in his dark, globular eyes.

    ¡°That jump I made.  That came from you?¡±

    Thoop nodded, a human gesture that was difficult for him to execute, that made his entire body rise and fall. ¡°You drew upon my natural aptitudes despite the clade barrier between us. It is one of the few benefits a familiar receives from Resonance with its master.¡±

    ¡°Master.¡± Garrick did not like the feel of the word rolling off his tongue.  It felt too much a violation of the natural order. ¡°Am I to be your thrall, then, master Thoop? I would rather you count me a friend, if we are to be bonded.¡±

    ¡°I merely use the term of art.  I have no intentions of commanding your every¡­¡± Thoop paused, and blinked his bulbous eyes. ¡°Friend,¡± he said. ¡°I promised I would send you home, Garrick. I could come with you, if you wish it.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know where home is yet,¡± Garrick said. ¡°What¡¯s the rush?¡±

    ¡°I would like to see the world beyond the Vale. Perhaps there is something to learn there about Sythgoryx¡¯s agenda.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure you would like to see the world, friend Thoop. But we can discuss that while we try to find my sword. I¡¯m fairly certain it¡¯s an heirloom.¡±

    ¡°Then we shall search for it high and low, friend Garrick.¡±

    Garrick smiled, and gently scooped Thoop up into his left breast pocket, the one closest to his heart.

    ¡°I think I dropped it over to the west there.¡±

    He marched off towards the western treeline, mud squicking in his boots, Thoop bouncing about in his pocket.

    Garrick could feel the bond between them now, Thoop¡¯s growing sense of ease and safety and warmth, the little amphibian¡¯s heart slowing as he grew calmer next to Garrick¡¯s own. It gave Garrick a similar feeling, that this handful of a creature had brought him a purpose he somehow knew he¡¯d lacked even before he¡¯d lost his memory.

    Garrick decided he was a lucky man, indeed, to have a talking toad for a friend.

 Operation: Wraithwind (Part 1)

    ¡°Do we really need a merman for a pilot?¡±

    As befits a paratrooper, Sergeant Alden Threlvaine had jumped right to the impertinent question during the mission briefing. His men, and others of the 25<sup>th</sup> Airborne Division, had snickered just as impertinently.

    And as befits a bookish agent of Commonwealth Army Intelligence, the briefing officer had matter-of-factly replied (after the obligatory harrumphs and verbal reprimands from the 25<sup>th</sup>¡¯s commanders, of course), ¡°it is well-known, I¡¯m sure the sergeant is aware, that Suul¡¯vaar¡¯s people have a knack for tactical awareness in three dimensions. This is especially true, for unknown reasons, with those of his kind born possessing atavistic traits. And that knack will be extremely important on this mission.¡±

    For his part, the effete ¡°merman¡± ¨C Suul¡¯vaar, really little more than a ¡°mer-boy,¡± from the looks of him ¨C had taken the ribbing in stride, with a poise and stiff upper lip that would have made any Commoner proud. He looked less like the man-fish of legend, and more like a hairless, fresh-faced invalid with dark seal-like eyes and an ill-fitting Commonwealth Army Air Force uniform, his lower half obscured by the blanket draped across his lap and dangling from either side of his rickety government-issue wheelchair. He¡¯d have been an utterly pitiful sight if not for the poise he had displayed, and this had earned him a measure of respect from Sgt. Threlvaine, who felt it his duty as a soldier to rib any new recruit, but ultimately harbored ill-will towards no one.

    Alden¡¯s respect for Suul¡¯vaar was deepening now, as Kindraeli anti-aircraft cannons riddled the sky around their transport plane with concussive waves loud enough to wake the dead spirits through whom they¡¯d shortly be flying. Suul¡¯vaar was piloting the plane carrying Alden and his commandos through the hellfire of flak and rockets¡¯ glare from Kindraeli ground positions. The ¡°merman¡¯s¡± air group was suffering heavy losses, but he maneuvered through the chaos like he was born to it, dodging explosions with lightning-quick reflexes that tested the troop transport plane¡¯s technological and structural limits.

    The violent maneuvering was making Sgt. Threlvaine queasier than had his first time jumping out of a plane... but damned if he wasn¡¯t ecstatic about it nonetheless. Maybe this crazy mission would succeed. It seems they really did need a merman for a pilot, after all.

    The mission had to succeed. It was the first counter-offensive stroke by the Commonwealth against the Kindrael Empire and its slumbering Queen-Goddess Meerindra. If it failed ¨C if occupied Ool¡¯ool¡¯veen remained in the Empire¡¯s grasp, with a puppet monarch on the throne ¨C then the island province could become a staging ground for aerial raids and naval bombardments against the east coast cities of Tahlmadar. The whole balance of this bloody global war against tyranny could shift in the Rune Sovereigns¡¯ favor with the Commonwealth down for the count like that.

    Bold, even reckless, action was needed, and quickly, before the Queen-Goddess¡¯s fanatical minions were able to consolidate their positions on the so-called ¡°Risen Land,¡± legendary birthplace of Suul¡¯vaar¡¯s ¡°merfolk¡± people.

    The ka-thoom! of another exploding cannon shell rattled the plane. If Alden and his paratrooper squad hadn¡¯t been strapped into harnesses, they¡¯d surely have been thrown to their feet, perhaps even knocked unconscious.

    But Suul¡¯vaar¡¯s reflexes saved them once more, swooping the plane downward, then up again, at breakneck, nausea-inducing velocity. Alden barely held his gorge down.

    ¡°Approaching the jump zone,¡± Suul¡¯vaar¡¯s buttery, sonorous voice announced calmly over the ¡®com.

    ¡°Alright, you dogs!¡± Sgt. Threlvaine barked. ¡°Unstrap yourselves and get into jump position. It¡¯s time to show these ginger bastards what Commoners are really made of.¡±

    His orders were met with a collective ¡°hoo-wah!¡± cry from every member of the troop, even the green ones who¡¯d never jumped into a combat zone.

    Which, Alden had to remind himself, was pretty much all of them, himself included. He¡¯d seen his fair share of action as a freelancer on the other side of the world, before the Commonwealth of Tahlmadar had officially entered the fight. But even he¡¯d never parachuted into a combat zone before. They were all guinea pigs here, and ¡°green¡± simply meant those who¡¯d been through fewer trial runs.

    Suul¡¯vaar began the countdown. ¡°Jump altitude in thirty seconds, gentlemen. We¡¯ll enter the wraithstorm in fifteen. May the Petty Gods lend you their hands.¡±

    As quickly as anyone could on a rattling plane buzzing through whole phalanxes of fighter pilots, Alden and his men began lining up for the jump. One of the plane¡¯s crew opened the hatch, and only a small part of the deafening scream that washed over the cabin interior came from the wind.

    Another part came from the things behind the wind, the scattered, bitter souls who gave wraithstorms their name. A cacophony of vengeful cries and babbling rage filled the world, making even the most seasoned of the paratroopers shudder. Some of them would soon be permanent residents of this haunted sky, and they all knew it.

    Alden was about to bark more commands, designed to take his men¡¯s minds off the hellish fate they risked beyond that hatch. But he never got the chance, and only too late did he notice the high-pitched whine hidden within the screaming storm, the whine of a Kindraeli fighter plane on a collision course.

    ¡°Suul¡¯vaar,¡± he screamed, ¡°pull us¡­¡±

    And then the world was nothing but fire and chaos and shredding metal as the transport plane came apart like a wooden box hit by a grenade.

    Alden was surprised he survived the suicide impact, even more surprised he remained so calm after realizing, split-second, what had just happened and just how much danger he was now in. The vengeful shades of the dead tossing him to and fro were the least of his troubles; like all his squad, he¡¯d been properly warded against possession just before the mission began. It was the Kindraeli fighter planes he was more worried about. Their pilots may have been fanatics, but they weren¡¯t fools. Surely, they had some vague notion of what their enemies had planned, and they would be hunting surviving paratroopers. Sgt. Threlvaine now knew how songbirds must feel about sharing the sky with raptors.

    Focus on your training, he said to himself. Pull your ¡®chute, try to maneuver through the storm. The chances of any one paratrooper falling into Kindraeli sights were slim. If he¡¯d survived the collision above, he¡¯d most likely live long enough to make it to the ground or the sea beneath these haunted clouds.

    And die there instead, he mused.

    Purging that thought from his mind, Alden flailed his hands, searching for the rip cord to his parachute, tossed about like a rag doll by the screaming, spectral winds. He knew that the ground, or the ocean surface, that he still couldn¡¯t see was rushing up to splatter him to jelly if he didn¡¯t find the cord quickly enough.

    There! Alden shot his hand to the rip cord, but at the last minute resisted the instinct to pull it immediately. Timing would be crucial now. The plan ¨C madness! ¨C had called for the transport planes to expel their paratroopers into the wraithstorm, using it as cover from Kindraeli fighters, and for each trooper to then do their best to dive out of the storm and pull their cord just at the level of cloud cover. From there, they¡¯d guide themselves down to the black-sanded beaches and lush rainforest interior of Ool¡¯ool¡¯veen¡¯s main island, and do their best to infiltrate the enemy¡¯s defenses. The goal would be to soften up the targets and cause as much havoc as possible for occupying forces until the main ground assault began with infantry carried by naval transports.

    That plan had just gotten shot to bits by Kindraeli pilots, channeling the power of their Queen-Goddess to be one with the wind. The timing was all off, and Sgt. Threlvaine had no idea how close to the island he¡¯d actually be when he burst from the clouds. He¡¯d just have to yank the cord and improvise from there. At least he still had his .30-¡¯06 rifle, grenades, and .45 caliber pistol, all standard issue, along with the necessary ammunition. Fat lot of good that would do him if a Kindraeli pilot sighted him on his descent.

    Suddenly, all the screaming stopped, replaced by the deafening roar of natural wind as Alden burst from the storm and into the blinding light of normal air. Squinting on reflex, he immediately yanked his rip cord, and felt as though both his shoulders dislocated as the parachute jerked him upward. It was jarring, and didn¡¯t help him get his bearings as quickly as he¡¯d have liked, but he was no longer plummeting to his death.

    At least, not an instant death.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    The air beneath the wraithstorm was comparatively calm, and Alden was finally able to take stock of his situation. It wasn¡¯t good.

    He was going to crash down into the sea. Miles from shore, by the looks of it. Had the vengeful souls of the dead really pulled him that far off course? His mission might be over before it even began. He did not relish the idea of falling into enemy hands. The rituals Kindraeli were rumored to perform on captives¡­

    Alden decided he needed to focus on the task at hand. Especially since he was not the only thing falling from the sky. Flaming transport shrapnel and whining Commonwealth fighters, shot up by wind-communed Kindraeli pilots, plummeted from the storm all around him, in every direction. He did think he caught glimpses of a few enemy aircraft among the fallen, but not so many as he would have liked.

    The Commonwealth was losing this first salvo. He prayed the Petty Gods would lend their hands to get enough of his own forces to the shores of Ool¡¯ool¡¯veen to keep their plan viable. Even if those hands didn¡¯t guide him where he needed to go.

    A piece of flaming shrapnel ripped through his ¡®chute then, setting it afire. The Petty Gods would not be guiding him today.

    The sea surface was vast beneath Alden, making it difficult to gauge just how much farther he had left to fall. With a burning parachute, it was only a matter of time before he fell free, anyway, so he instantly decided to cut his losses¡­ and his straps. He pulled the switchblade (not standard issue) from his belt pouch, and sawed through the chest strap of his harness in a matter of seconds.

    And then, he was plummeting. His burning ¡®chute receded from view at dizzying speed, and the wind rushing up from beneath him chilled Alden to the depths of his soul. He looked down, oddly free of fear, and wondered whether he should try some kind of fancy dive to impress the ancestors he would no doubt be meeting when he slammed into the sea.

    But he didn¡¯t have time to try.

    OOF! ¨C Alden smacked into the ocean surface and was sure he felt all his bones shatter in the instant before his breath was forced out of him at bullet speed. Paralyzed ¨C whether by fear or pain or both, he couldn¡¯t say, couldn¡¯t even think ¨C he wasn¡¯t able to put up even token resistance to sinking and drowning. The total, sudden, instant paralysis did, however, prevent him from sucking water into his lungs as he began to sink to his death, weighed inexorably down by his soldier¡¯s kit, sunlight dancing in ripples on the waves above him. It would be a peaceful death, at least, his last sight a prelude of the twinkling heavenly home of the Petty Gods and his ancestors.

    And then, somehow, he was swimming. Up, towards the surface, towards air, towards life.

    No, not swimming. Being pulled. Someone else was doing the swimming for him. Alden felt powerful, wiry arms close across his chest, undulating pulses from the dorso-ventral flexion of his rescuer¡¯s seal-like body, rushing him up to breach the waves and live.

    And then, suddenly, Alden was gasping in life-giving air, splashing and flailing blindly, all his years of swim training subsumed in mindless panic.

    ¡°You¡¯re alive!¡± shouted his rescuer. ¡°You¡¯re alive, Sergeant! Calm down, sir! You¡¯re alive.¡±

    The voice was soothing, firm¡­ and familiar.

    ¡°S¡­ Suul¡¯vaar? Is that you?¡±

    ¡°Aye, sir.¡±

    ¡°How?...¡±

    ¡°I jumped from the cockpit. I was still in the front half of our plane when it fell out of the wraithstorm, so I had to time it just right¡­¡±

    ¡°Without a parachute?¡±

    Suul¡¯vaar, treading water in front of Alden, shrugged, as if to say, ¡°of course.¡±

    The merman¡¯s naked shoulders were visible above the bobbing waves. Slender neck, aquiline facial features, prominent collar bones drawing Alden¡¯s eyes to supple cleavage¡­

    ¡°Hey!¡± Alden splashed backwards in shock. ¡°Your uniform¡­ your¡­¡±

    ¡°I disposed of it when I hit the water. It was only weighing me down. I suggest you do the same. You¡¯ll find it much easier to swim.¡±

    ¡°But¡­ you¡¯re a¡­ you¡¯re a dame. A mer¡­¡±

    ¡°A mermaid,¡± Suul¡¯vaar finished the word for him. ¡°Yes, sir, I am a woman. But I promise I won¡¯t bite. Or lure you to a death on rocky shoals.¡±

    ¡°Suul¡¯vaar, this is highly irregular.¡±

    ¡°I know that, sir. The Commonwealth doesn¡¯t allow women to serve on the frontlines. But my deception was necessary. I won¡¯t apologize for it.¡±

    ¡°Necessary?! You violated¡­ I don¡¯t know how many laws!¡±

    ¡°Ool¡¯ool¡¯veen is my home, Sergeant. The Kindraeli and their puppet king are murdering so-called ¡®throwbacks¡¯ like me. I did as any man would do. Decided to fight for my country, my people, my freedom.¡±

    ¡°So, the brass doesn¡¯t know you¡¯re a dame?¡±

    ¡°They haven¡¯t said otherwise. They must imagine me a teenaged boy. Or perhaps they think my feminine features are part of my atavism. Commonwealth officers aren¡¯t very bright.¡±

    Alden was about to scold Suul¡¯vaar for that remark, then remembered that she had fooled him. At least she was right about officers.

    ¡°You know there¡¯s going to be hell to pay?¡±

    ¡°I suggest we worry about that later, sir? I need to get you to shore, so you can complete your mission.¡±

    ¡°Oh, right. Right. Well, despite what you just witnessed, I do know how to swim. You don¡¯t need to drag me. I can¡­¡±

    ¡°With respect, Sergeant, I know you can swim. I¡¯m just better at it. Faster. Think of it as another kind of piloting.¡±

    ¡°Maybe under the waves. But I can¡¯t breathe water.¡±

    ¡°Neither can I. Atavism has its disadvantages. But, if you¡¯ll permit me, sir, I can get us both to the island before wearing out. I don¡¯t think you can, especially not with all that kit weighing you down.¡±

    Alden considered her words fairly. Dame or not, she had saved his life. He supposed that entitled her to some courtesy.

    ¡°All right. My guns are ruined, anyway. I¡¯ll just take my switchblade and the grenades. Maybe they¡¯re sealed tight enough that the powder isn¡¯t ruined. And I¡¯m keeping my pants on.¡±

    ¡°Fair enough, sir. I¡¯m ready when you are.¡±

    It took a few minutes for Alden to remove his ponderous kit and consign it to the depths, only half-convinced that getting rid of it was a good idea. The sea itself was tranquil, but he could hear the distant thunder of Kindraeli anti-aircraft cannons, under the sound of the wailing storm high above. Grim reminders, both, that this wasn¡¯t a leisurely tropical outing, however pleasant he found the water¡¯s temperature and gently roiling waves.

    Or the company.

    ¡°Are you ready, sir?¡±

    ¡°To swim headlong into almost certain death? Not quite what I signed up for, Flight Officer, but close enough.¡±

    ¡°Then hold on tight, sir.¡±

    The trip to the shallows near shore took over an hour, and Alden was uncomfortable the entire way. He did not like, not one bit, the emotions that feeling Suul¡¯vaar¡¯s writhing body against his own stirred in him. He still thought of the pilot as a ¡°merman.¡± The incongruity between his mind¡¯s-eye image of Suul¡¯Vaar and his body¡¯s reaction to his ¨C no, her, darn it ¨C to her sleek warmth made it one of the longest journey Alden had ever been on.

    Still, he had to admit that he¡¯d have not been able to swim that far so fast on his own. He could only imagine how fast Suul¡¯vaar must have been able to move in the water if he ¨C no, she, damn it ¨C if she hadn¡¯t been lugging an oaf of a paratrooper alongside her.

    Quick as she was, though, Suul¡¯vaar was clearly exhausted when they reached the shallows. More than exhausted, actually. Alden had to pull her from the water to the green-black sand shore once his feet could touch bottom. The mermaid simply gave out at that point.

    ¡°Hold on, Flight Officer. I¡¯ve got you.¡±

    Suul¡¯vaar clung to him weakly, gasping air into her powerful lungs. Alden could see the full measure of her naked body now, the rising and falling of her firm breasts, and he did not like it one bit.

    There was a tree line ¨C palms mostly, but some conifers, as well ¨C about 10 yards from shore at the spot where they made landfall. Alden rushed to drag his Flight Officer to the safety of that cover, the echo of distant cannons reminding him of the danger they still faced in this otherwise serene setting.

    ¡°Water,¡± Suul¡¯vaar said, her breath slowing to a normal pace. ¡°Did you keep your canteen?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Alden said. ¡°How bad are you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll be okay in a few minutes. But I am very thirsty.¡±

    ¡°Mermaids can¡¯t drink seawater?¡±

    She scowled at him, seal eyes murky but alluring.

    ¡°Alright,¡± Alden said. He looked around, didn¡¯t see a stream anywhere nearby. He¡¯d lost his canteen in the swim, and she was totally naked. Nothing to hold water in, even if he could find it.

    Seeming to read his mind, Suul¡¯vaar suggested, ¡°coconuts.¡±

    ¡°I was going to say, this situation is pretty bananas,¡± Alden agreed.

    ¡°No,¡± she replied, pointing up at the canopy. ¡°Coconuts have water in them.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± Alden said. He saw clusters of coconuts in several trees.

    ¡°Can you climb?¡±

    ¡°Never tried it without branches,¡± Alden said. ¡°Will you be alright down here by yourself?¡±

    ¡°It is my homeland, sir.¡±

    Alden needed three tries to climb a coconut tree high enough to shake loose the water-filled fruit. And by then, Suul¡¯vaar was mostly recovered.

    They cracked the coconut open with a nearby rock, and shared the juice in silence, regarding each other as if they had just met for the very first time.

    ¡°I should apologize, sir. My deception was inexcusable. I will submit myself for disciplinary¡­¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s enough of that, Flight Officer. You saved my life. I won¡¯t be pressing for any court-martials.¡±

    Suul¡¯vaar smiled, and nodded appreciatively.

    ¡°We could stand to find you a shirt, though.¡±

    Suul¡¯vaar leaned back against a tree and covered her chest with her arms. Alden noticed it was the first time she¡¯d seemed embarrassed by her nakedness in front of him. And then he was embarrassed, too.

    And then embarrassed at himself for being embarrassed. She was the naked one, after all. It just wasn¡¯t befitting a lady.

    ¡°We should focus on our mission,¡± he said. ¡°Harry the enemy however we can. This is your homeland, yes?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s right, sir. I grew up not far from here. It¡¯s a big island, but not so big.¡±

    ¡°How far are we from Kindraeli command and control?¡±

    ¡°Assuming our intelligence is still valid? I¡¯d estimate 5 kilometers northeast of here. There should be an airfield. But it¡¯s rough country unless you stick to the roads. Which I wouldn¡¯t recommend.¡±

    Alden nodded. ¡°I¡¯m not leaving you here in this¡­ condition.¡±

    ¡°Naked, sir?¡±

    ¡°No, uh¡­¡±

    ¡°With respect, Sgt., I¡¯m more effective here than I would be inland without a wheelchair. I can inflict at least some damage on Kindraeli naval operations.¡±

    ¡°What if I need a pilot?¡± He checked his grenades. They seemed intact.

    ¡°Well, if you live that long, come find me.¡± She smiled, and gave him a vigorous salute.

    Alden stood up straight, and returned the salute.

    ¡°Good luck, Sgt. Threlvaine.¡±

    ¡°And to you, Flight Officer¡­ say, what is your actual name, anyway? Suul¡¯vaar is male, right?¡±

    She smiled again, wanly this time. ¡°It¡¯s Thee¡¯vaa.¡±

    ¡°Good luck, Flight Officer Thee¡¯vaa.¡±

    Alden headed off into the underbrush, as stealthily as he could. He had been trained for this bit quite well. After a few yards, he turned to look back at Suul¡¯v¡­ no, Vee¡¯vaa. Just to check on her, for his own peace of mind.

    She was already gone.

 Operation: Wraithwind (Part 2)

    Alden was glad to be mostly naked. He¡¯d never sweat this much in his life.

    He¡¯d been trudging through the rain forest for at least an hour, and still hadn¡¯t caught sight of any Kindraeli foot patrols. He¡¯d been briefed on the humid weather of Ool¡¯ool¡¯veen, of course, but this was still beyond anything he¡¯d been prepared for. He could only imagine how much worse it would have felt with several pounds of kit on his back.

    Most of his trek had been spent swatting at hungry insects, and trying to avoid thinking about Flight Officer Thee¡¯vaa. Alden didn¡¯t like leaving a man behind, even if that man was a woman.

    A naked woman.

    Put a sock in it, Sergeant. Focus on the mission.

    His tactical goal here had not changed, despite the circumstances of his arrival. The 25<sup>th</sup> Airborne¡¯s mission had been general havoc-wreaking and intelligence gathering. Any information they relayed back to HQ would be used in the planning of a unified aerial, naval, and land assault of Kindraeli occupying forces in the so-called Risen Land.

    Alden knew he was close the enemy airbase Thee¡¯vaa had mentioned. It had been his squad¡¯s primary target, anyway. They¡¯d been ordered to scout the base, take as many photographs as possible, and relay the information back to Commonwealth Command via clairvoyance. After which, they were to do all they could to harry the base¡¯s offensive capabilities through guerilla tactics.

    Obviously, the photos and clairvoyance were out of the question now. There was no indication that his squad¡¯s Seer had survived the drop. Or any other member of his team, for that matter.

    It was all up to him now.

    And all he had was a pocket knife and some grenades.

    Crouching low behind a thick-leafed tropical bush, Alden spotted an opportunity to even the odds a bit. There, off to his left, a red-haired, kilted Kindraeli soldier was relieving himself just off the main trail. Apparently alone, the enemy troop was armed with a both submachine gun and a sidearm. And appeared to be about Alden¡¯s size.

    If Alden could get the man¡¯s uniform and weapons, he might be able to don them and sneak into the base. He couldn¡¯t fake the red hair, obviously, but he had it on good authority that not all Kindraeli were gingers. He¡¯d have to take his chances.

    It was an easy thing to sneak around behind the Kindraeli. Alden was most of the way there, anyway, so a few careful, silent moves put him in the perfect position. Immediately behind the man, prone, hidden within the think foliage. He flicked his switchblade open.

    The enemy soldier was just finishing up, whistling an unrecognizable tune, when Alden stuck, reaching out from the bushes and slicing the man¡¯s Achilles tendon.

    The soldier screamed and began to crumble under his own weight. Alden leapt to his feet and caught the man from behind, covering the enemy¡¯s mouth with one hand as he drove his switchblade into the base of the man¡¯s skull, and wiggled it.

    It was a risky move, but it seemed the Petty Gods were with him today. The Kindraeli¡¯s body functions ceased almost instantly, and the man was now an inert sack of muscle and bone.

    A few moments later, the body was hidden under a pile of forest refuse a few yards off the main trail, and Alden was kitted out in a Kindraeli uniform. It actually fit him fairly well, and he found he liked the feel of a kilt on his lower body. It let his nether regions breathe much better than the pants his own uniform required. A welcome respite in this heat.

    Now to decide on an approach to the base. Alden would be taking a huge risk if the base was sparsely manned and everyone there knew everyone else. An unlikely situation, but still not a risk worth taking. He decided it would still best to sneak in if possible, then use his disguise to move about with less chance of being caught if he acted like he was supposed to be there.

    He retraced the dead Kindraeli¡¯s path as best he could, and found that it converged with at least three other trails. They had all come from farther up the road, possibly together, and diverged here onto separate routes.

    Patrols. One-man patrols. That meant the base couldn¡¯t spare many men beyond its borders.

    Alden could see the gates to the base now, less than a klick ahead. There were four armed guards on the ground outside, armed with submachine guns, plus one each in watchtowers flanking the gate. The watchtowers had automatic chain guns in them, and each man also had a sniper rifle.

    The Kindraeli were not messing around.

    Alden scurried into the underbrush alongside the road to the gate, hoping the men in the towers hadn¡¯t spotted him. After a few minutes of not hearing any alarms raised, he decided it was safe to try and get closer, maybe skirt the perimeter fences probing for weak spots.

    That was how he found the mass grave.

    He¡¯d heard the rumors, of course. All the Commonwealthers had. And he¡¯d figured that, as with any bit of war-time scuttlebutt, they¡¯d been a heap of malarkey wrapped around a kernel of truth.

    He¡¯d been wrong. What he saw before him now confirmed the rumors in every detail.

    It was a trench, maybe 100 yards long. Dug parallel to the base¡¯s main fence, so deep that sea water pooled at the bottom. And it was full of corpses. Dozens, maybe a hundred or more, Risen-Landers. Some fresh. Most older. All shot in the back of their heads. Left here to rot in the tropical sun, fed on by scavengers.

    A sizable number of the bodies ¨C Alden guessed a majority of them ¨C were ¡°merfolk,¡± those Risen-Landers who, like Thee¡¯vaa, had been born with atavistic traits that better equipped them to a life in the seas than on land. That required most of them to get about with wheelchairs on land.

    Wheelchairs that had also been dumped in the mass grave by these poor souls¡¯ executioners.

    Alden¡¯s gorge rose. Had he had anything to eat in the last day, it would have come rushing up out of his stomach. As it was, he suffered only dry heaves.

    But his anger quickly subsumed his disgust. The Kindraeli had indeed been driven mad by blind devotion to their Queen-Goddess. They had become monsters.

    Alden, in that moment, would have gladly erased all of them from the world, had he the power to do so. Killing men in war was one thing. Executing the sick, the infirm, civilians¡­ that was the work of monsters.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    He thought of Thee¡¯vaa. Prayed to the Petty Gods that she was safe, that she had not fallen into the hands of these ginger-haired butchers. And thinking of her, his Flight Officer, brought his mind back to the task at hand. He had to find her, find a way off this island. The world had to know what was happening her.

    The sun was setting now, so Alden maneuvered himself upwind of the murder-pit to avoid the stench, and hunkered down in a hilltop vantage point south of the perimeter fence, giving him a good view of most of the base. He saw an airfield, perhaps two dozen single-pilot fighter planes, a handful of two-man bombers, three troop transports. Dozens of Kindraeli troops moved about at various tasks, mostly patrols and maintenance. There was a makeshift radio tower at the north end of the airfield, next to a shed that Alden presumed to be the command center. Beyond them lay the barracks and recreational areas where Kindraeli troops recuperated after slaughtering innocents.

    What if I need a pilot?

    Well, if you live that long, come find me.

    Thee¡¯vaa. Thee¡¯vaa could fly them out of here. But this was a big island, surrounded by an even bigger ocean.

    And that¡¯s a deep trench.

    He had to know. He¡¯d sworn to never leave a man behind. Even if he was a she.

    Steeling himself for terrible revelations, Alden crawled over to the murder trench. The sick-sweet smell of rotting flesh, the buzzing of flies, the scurrying of nighttime scavengers¡­ he was going to dry heave again. Bone-deep digust overwhelmed him, threatening him with fainting. He¡¯d seen death before ¨C he was a soldier, after all ¨C but he¡¯d never been so immersed in it, never had it squeeze all other perceptions out of his senses. There had always been something else to distract him, something to look away towards, to use to deny the weight of what he was bearing.

    But not now. He fought to stay focused, dug deep into his find for something to pull him back.

    Her face. Thee¡¯vaa¡¯s face. He recalled it every line and curve, her glistening eyes, her inviting lips, her delicate ears. And every other detail of her, as well. The smooth line of her collarbones. The curve of her waist. The grace of her ¡°tail,¡± a set of two legs fused inside a sleek sleeve of well-defined muscle, enabling her to swim like a dolphin. The birthmark on her rump.

    If she was here, in this dreadful pit, she¡¯d be one of the freshest kills. She¡¯d be on or near the top of the pile.

    He wouldn¡¯t have to crawl through a corpse-trench, after all. He could just skirt the ledge, scanning for her face. Or what was left of it, after being shot in the back of the head. Failing that, her birthmark would call out to him in the light of the full moon.

    He took a deep breath, ignoring the lingering stench of murder. Made sure there were no enemy troops around to spot him. They seemed to want to avoid this place as much as he did.

    He¡¯d done the grim work of corpse-sorting before. This shouldn¡¯t take him more than an hour. Provided he didn¡¯t collapse into a quivering mass of dry heaves again.

    Something ¨C an animal? ¨C rustled in the bushes near his left foot as he prepared to stand up. ¡°Sgt. Threlvaine, what in the haunted sky are you doing?¡±

    It was only a whisper. The loveliest whisper he¡¯d ever heard.

    ¡°Thee¡¯vaa?¡±

    She clapped her hand over his mouth. ¡°Shhh!¡±

    ¡°Thee¡­ Flight Officer, how did you¡­?¡±

    ¡°I crawled here from the shore, trying to find a weak spot in the perimeter fence.¡±

    ¡°You crawled?¡± he whispered. ¡°All the way from shore?¡±

    She nodded. ¡°Yes, sir. I¡¯ve been hiding here for hours. I fell asleep crying.¡± She paused, looked away, her jaw quivering. ¡°I saw the whole thing, sir.¡±

    Alden didn¡¯t have to ask. He offered her his hand. She hesitated for a few seconds, and then took it.

    They sat together quietly, drawing comfort from each other, for they knew not how long.

    Finally, Alden said, ¡°We¡¯ll get word back to the High Command. If we can.¡±

    ¡°We have to, Sergeant. The world has to know.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve heard the same rumors as me, Thee¡¯vaa. Much of the world already suspects.¡±

    ¡°No, sir. Not this. This is not what it looks like.¡±

    ¡°It looks like a slaughter to me. Wanton slaughter.¡±

    ¡°No, sir. It¡¯s worse. I saw the whole thing.¡±

    Alden put a hand on her cheek, wanting to stroke hair that she did not have.

    ¡°The Kindraeli brought them out here from that barracks at the far end of the athletic field. The one you can barely see from this distance, even in daylight. I think it is obscured by some kind of spell work. They made the walkers drag the swimmers. You could tell all the prisoners knew they were going to die. That they¡¯d all lost hope a long time ago. The soldiers lined them up at the edge, so they could all look down and see that trench full of their dead kinsfolk and neighbors. And then they made them chant.¡±

    ¡°Chant?¡± Alden asked. ¡°To their ancestors?¡±

    Thee¡¯vaa wrapped herself up in her own arms, covering her nakedness protectively. Displaying not shame, but fear. Wanting to hide.

    ¡°Not to the ancestors. At least, not to ours. They chanted in Kindraeli.¡±

    ¡°In Kindraeli? What were they¡­¡±

    She shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t speak it. I don¡¯t know. But when it was over, they each took a bullet to the back of their head.¡±

    Alden balled his fists. ¡°Murderers,¡± he said under his breath.

    ¡°And then the Kindraeli druids came and gathered their souls.¡±

    Alden did a double take. ¡°Their¡­ how?¡±

    ¡°Some kind of wands, I think. They were metal, covered in runes, and glowed brightly. I could see¡­¡±

    Her jaw quivered. Her voice cracked as she tried to hold herself together.

    ¡°I saw their souls get drawn into those things, Alden.¡± She called him by his civilian name for the first time. ¡°Souls of my people, who should be swimming with the ancestors in deepest Thalassantis. Trapped in those wretched devices. Harvested.¡±

    ¡°Harvested? Thee¡¯vaa, I don¡¯t understand.¡±

    ¡°This wasn¡¯t just execution, Alden. It wasn¡¯t mere murder.¡±

    Alden¡¯s magical training was, at best, basic. His understanding, even less. A few basic knacks, a handful of wards, was all he knew. Enough for him to get his job done. He¡¯d never paid much attention to the details or the theory. But he was finally beginning to understand what Thee¡¯vaa was describing.

    ¡°You¡¯re saying this was some kind of ritual?¡±

    ¡°A sacrifice, sir. Those people aren¡¯t just being killed. Their very essence is being taken somewhere else to get¡­¡± She shuddered. ¡°Consumed.¡±

    ¡°Erased from the Great Cycle,¡± Alden said. It was every mortal¡¯s nightmare, a fate truly worse than death. Most cultures held that a soul upon death visits the afterlife of its ancestors, spends time with the Petty Gods, until it decides to return into a new life. So while death was a time of great sadness for the living, most people could face it with peace, knowing they would return.

    To be removed from that cycle, to have one¡¯s soul consumed in some foul ritual, was to be erased. Far worse than death was oblivion. The Kindraeli were harvesting the souls of their enemies, breaking the Great Cycle. Alden shuddered.

    ¡°But that goes against all tradition and doctrine, everywhere. Even in Kindrael. Why would they do it?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Alden,¡± she said, squeezing his hand. ¡°It terrifies me even to ponder the possibilities. But I think we have to find out, if we can. It¡¯s our duty.¡±

    They stared then into each other¡¯s eyes. The longing, probing, trusting gaze of lovers and comrades in arms. The gaze that forges bonds of honor.

    ¡°You¡¯re right, Flight Officer. We get in there, find out what more we can, and then take one of those planes. Can you fly Kindraeli craft?¡±

    She smiled, sniffled, wiped away tears from her face and his. ¡°I can fly anything, Sergeant.¡±

    ¡°Alright then,¡± Alden said, checking his submachine gun and sidearm. ¡°I have a disguise, as you may have noticed.¡±

    She admired his enemy uniform. ¡°It¡¯s quite fetching, sir.¡±

    ¡°We just have to figure out how to sneak you in there.¡±

    ¡°I propose we don¡¯t sneak. You should take me prisoner.¡±

    Alden started to object, felt the urge to pull rank and tell her that was a damn fool idea. And it was.

    He didn¡¯t have a better one.

    ¡°I¡¯ll have to carry you. You should probably play dead.¡±

    ¡°Whatever you say, sir.¡± She saluted him grimly.

    Alden got to his feet, then squatted down to help Thee¡¯vaa hoist herself up. She climbed him, rubbing against him as she went, wriggling into position dangling over his shoulder with her rump near his ear and her own head down near his hindquarters, tail dangling across his chest and down to his knee.

    ¡°Comfortable?¡± he asked.

    ¡°I usually prefer being the pilot,¡± she said. ¡°But the view¡¯s not terrible.¡±

    ¡°Can it, Flight Officer. Here we go.¡±

    Thee¡¯vaa let herself fall limp as he stood up and wrapped his arm around her waist to keep her steady over his shoulder. After he got his balance, he strode confidently back towards the main gain.

    Neither of them spoke a word to each other the entire way.