Sample chapter

Here’s the first chapter of The Last Pendragon.  The book should be available for sale sometime next week.

Let me know what you think.

I

I’d been running for too long already.  My breath came short, burning in my lungs and stabbing me just under the ribs on my left side.  I could hear them right behind me and see them on either side.  The part of my mind that never stopped analyzing and calculating my chances noticed that though I could feel the heat of the furry bodies around me, and though I could feel the breath of the wolf behind me, I should be feeling more than that—unless they were herding me somewhere.  Just as I reached this conclusion, I tripped on the uneven ground.  As exhausted as I was, there was no way I could have caught myself.  I clenched my teeth against the scream I would not grant those enjoying the chase as I started to fall.  I knew, at that moment, that I was going to die.

I was wrong—the two wolves on either side leaped in under my hands as I uselessly reached for something, anything, to keep me on my feet, and steadied me until I could regain my balance.  Another bit of data supporting my realization that they were taking me somewhere specific, I thought, as I sensed more of the pack close in around me.

The werewolf pack I’d angered surrounded me, chasing me into a small clearing that held a large slab of stone in the center like a dais.  The charcoal wolf, obviously the pack leader, lounged on the center of the stone.  One of the wolves behind me leaned against my legs, trying to force me down to my knees.  I refused to cooperate, locking my joints.  I was going to die.  I knew that.  But I was going to die on my feet.

The charcoal wolf barked.  It sounded like the command it obviously was; the wolf behind me whined and stopped leaning into the back of my legs. I glanced around the edge of the clearing, startled and beginning to wonder if I was dead yet or if I still had a chance.

“Woman, pay attention,” said the wolf in front of me.  Startled, I looked back to the dais.  The pack leader had shapeshifted from fur covered wolf back to naked human, and sat cross legged on the stone, leaning his elbows on his knees.  I resolutely stared at his face, ignoring his nudity.  Apparently, that amused him: he chuckled.  “You’ve given us good sport so far, but you’re starting to bore us.”

I shrugged, trying to catch my breath.  That was really hard to do—I was so thirsty that my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.  “What do you expect?” I panted, my voice thick.  “I’m only human.  I can’t run all night without either rest or water.”

The pack leader threw his head back and laughed.  The rest of the pack echoed his laughter in their howls.  “Well and bravely said, woman.  Very well.  You shall have your rest and your water. ”

“How long do I have?” I asked.

“Long enough to drink and catch your breath,” he replied.

“How will I know that my rest is over?”

He cocked his head and grinned.  It wasn’t friendly.  “You’ll know.  Don’t take too long.”

The wolf behind me gently took my wrist in his mouth, tugging me toward the left.  I shrugged and followed.  No reason not to, after all; if they were going to kill me, they were going to kill me.  Still, I rather thought that they wouldn’t go against their pack leader.

He led me to a large creek or a small river, one where the banks were low.  I suspected that this was the same creek I’d fallen in earlier when I’d lost my flashlight, but there was no telling whether it was upstream or downstream, or how far.  A stone path had been laid down to the edge of the water.  The wolf let go of my wrist, whining, and nudged me toward the water.  I didn’t need prompted again; I waded into the water until it reached my thighs, pulling the scrunchie out of my shoulder-length hair to let the air reach my sweaty scalp.

I fell to my knees in the middle of the creek, and ducked my head under the water, trying to cool off, then surfaced, flinging my hair out of my face.  I could feel the air rasping through my lungs, and fought to slow and steady my breathing.  To take rest as I could.  It had been a long run, and the night was only half over, if that.

I lowered my face to the water, drinking without regard for whatever microbes might or might not be living in the mountain stream.  I was too thirsty to care, and besides that, I wasn’t sure if I’d live long enough for dysentery to become an issue.  As I drank, I strained my ears to hear sounds of pursuit over the sound of the water flowing over the rocks in the stream bed.  Nothing yet.

I sat back on my heels, focusing harder on slowing my breathing and heartbeat, trying to quiet the pain in my side.  Before Dad had gotten so sick, I used to run.  I’d run a full marathon every year I’d been in college, but I wasn’t used to exercise like this anymore.  The exhaustion of muscles long disused might well mean my death if I couldn’t find the second wind I knew I had.

The crack of a dry branch and the sound of a large animal snuffling at the top of the bank what sounded like a few yards upstream let me know the reprieve they allowed me was almost over.  I lowered my face back down to the water for another drink before I staggered up and on my way.

I was still kicking myself over leaving Dad’s Smith & Wesson .44 magnum, despite the fact that it wasn’t an ideal camping gun.  I was really kicking myself for selling the camping guns.  I could have used one, a few hours ago—it might have bought me enough time to get to a road and flag someone down.

On the other hand, it might have also got me killed by the rest of the pack.

I really wished that I’d waited another week before hiking into the mountains to camp.  One more week would have had me here after the full moon had come and gone, and I would never have stumbled into the clearing where the werewolves were having their time of the month.

***

Hiking into the Blue Ridge Mountains was easier than hiking into the Rockies.  Dad and I had done both (among others), before he’d gotten sick.  I’d taken a deep breath of the crisp, clean, spring mountain air.  This was the first vacation I’d had in the more than ten years I took care of Dad while he was dying.  I planned to take several weeks and just camp up here, since I was between jobs.  I don’t know when the next job will come along, but I need to be rested from the last one before I start looking.  Thankfully, it’s not urgent.  Dad was smart: he made sure to buy long term care insurance, and deeded the house to me.  He hadn’t needed to sell it and move into a nursing *home, and after he passed on I was able to sell it for enough to live on until I find a new job.  Even if that takes a year.  Or five.

The ground leveled out as I reached the top of the thickly forested foothill. The trees gave way, thinning as the ground leveled out, and I looked around a small clearing that I’d hiked into.  Any road was more than three difficult miles away, due south.  My car was further, just a bit—the park’s parking was on the edge of the park, four miles away.  That suited me just fine.  I’ve been too much around people the last few months  Dad spent some time in the hospital, where it took a significant amount of bullying on my part to get the doctors and nurses to give a man who wasn’t rich the care that any dying human being deserved.  Though it was bad enough at first, it got worse once Dad had slipped into a coma three weeks before he passed.  I’d talked to myself a lot.  I’d talked to him, too, but I never knew if he heard me.  He slipped gently from that coma into his final rest. Then, everyone he’d ever known (that was still alive) came to the funeral, and each and every one had to pat my shoulder, pat my back, and tell me that they remembered me from when I was little.  One creepy old friend of Dad’s patted my butt, telling me I looked just like my mother.

I stepped into a beautiful, tiny, nearly perfectly circular clearing in the trees.  The ground, thickly padded with fallen leaves, was nearly level—perfect for building a fire ring and pitching a tent for an extended stay.  This looked like as far as I needed to get, at least for the night, so I slipped my hiking backpack off my shoulders.  I’d stay here, and decide whether or not to go on tomorrow.   It wouldn’t take long to set up camp: all I needed was a tent and a fire.  Oh, and someplace to keep the food where animals couldn’t get at it.  Unfortunately, it took the majority of the day to get to this spot, and I didn’t have much light left to find firewood with.  I shrugged.  “If I don’t start now, I won’t have a fire,” I muttered.

The sun sets fast, up in the mountains.  I had a good armload of dry deadfall gathered by the time it sank below the horizon, but not enough for the night.  I thought about it, and decided it would be a good idea to start a fire now, and finish finding dry, dead wood after I’d set it up.  I already had a fire pit prepared, the basic circle of bare earth surrounded by rocks, so it didn’t take long to lay a small fire.  The fire pit was about five feet in diameter, and the fire was really small—even though we’ve had a wet spring so far, it’s not a good idea to take chances.  I squatted in the dirt, watching the flames catch and grow, dancing in the twilight.

I must have lost track of time, because when I stood to finish finding enough wood to last the night, the full moon was rising above the mountain, looking huge amongst the trees.  I sighed, looking at the shadows under the spring foliage, and decided my flashlight wasn’t a bad idea.  I reached into my tent and grabbed it, turning to go in a direction I hadn’t gone yet.  I eyed the moon, the thin canopy of the small clearing, and the placement of my tent.  I hoped I’d be able to sleep; I’d forgotten the moon would be full.  I had no idea it would be this bright.

I clicked my flashlight on, then quickly flicked it back off.  The moon was bright enough that the shadows it cast and the shadows from my flashlight played hell with my depth perception.  “What the hell,” I muttered, stepping over the ring of stones on the other side of the fire from my tent, “I’ll have enough light.”

Deadfall was more plentiful on this side of the camp.  I scowled, scolding myself for forgetting my dad’s basic instructions on where to find the most wood: level ground, under heavier canopy.  Climb the trees during the daylight for more that hasn’t fallen yet.  I could almost hear Dad’s voice as I remembered.

I shouldn’t have let myself get distracted.  While I was busy listening to my memories, I tripped over a depression and stumbled into another small clearing.  I grabbed a tree to help me catch my balance, straightened and froze, staring into the eyes of a charcoal gray wolf as he looked up from the kill his pack feasted on.  Something about the pack didn’t seem right.  I frowned, trying to think of what drew my attention.  The charcoal wolf cocked his head, his ears laid back.  He looked at me almost like he was reading my mind, hearing me realize that no wolf pack shared prey so equally, or had individual wolves as big as these were.  His upper lip lifted in a silent snarl, and he sprang over the deer.  I stepped backwards, putting the tree between us, trying to move slowly enough he wouldn’t see me as prey.  As soon as the tree blocked me from his sight, I turned and ran back toward the campfire.  I couldn’t hear whether he chased or not, but did not look back until I made it to the fire.  I turned.

A naked man stood at the edge of my camp.  His eyes were the same as the charcoal wolf’s had been.  Long dark hair hung loose around his shoulders.  “Woman,” he said, his voice rough with anger.  “You have seen something this night that you never should have seen.  You have been somewhere this night you never should have been.  In this place, this night, you are other, and you trespass.  My wolves and I will give you until we are finished with the feed.  Then we chase.  If you make it to a road, you will live.  If not…”  He shrugged.

I stared, for a long moment, shocked speechless.  I could feel my brain trying to catch up, trying to make connections.  It just wasn’t working.  He stared back, then seemed to decide I wasn’t going to say anything.  He turned.  “Wait,” I said, throwing out a hand.  As if that would stop anything from happening.  “What are you talking about?”

He looked over his shoulder.  “This,” he said.  He sank toward the ground, moonlight and shadow twisting around him, blurring his outline.  I blinked, and the charcoal gray wolf blinked back.  He snarled silently, and stalked into the shadows.  Something in my brain clicked, and I stared for a moment, goose bumps crawling down my spine, arms, and legs.  I’d been face to face with a myth.

I took a deep breath, slowly let it back out, trying to convince my goose bumps to lay back down.  They, predictably, didn’t listen.  I looked up at the moon, paced around my camp, trying to convince myself that I’d been hallucinating.  It didn’t work.  I paced faster and faster, then turned abruptly and clicked on my flashlight, looking at the tree line.  A wolf stared back at me.  I don’t know how he managed, but he looked amused.  The moonlight shivered around him, while he rose to his hind legs, shifting into human form.  “Run, woman, run,” he taunted.  “If you just stay here, we’ll just kill you.”

I didn’t wait to watch him shift back.  I ran.  I flicked on my flashlight and started running down the way I’d come up, straight toward my car.  It had taken me four hours to hike up to the site I’d chosen to camp, so I didn’t know if I’d make it or not.  I just knew I had to try.

The light from the flashlight swung crazily, making me a little dizzy.  I knew that the werewolves would have an easier time tracking me with it on, but they’d also said they’d give me a head start.  I could not afford to sprain anything, not now; the flashlight would stay on.

The ground was uneven.  I ran as fast as I could while staying upright.  A couple of times, I slid down steep slopes on my butt, barely managing to stay in control.  I lost track of time as I ran, but I made it down the steep foothill much, much faster than I’d made it up.  I looked forward, setting myself to run on the gentler, nearly flat slope, down through the tree line, to where I’d left my car parked.  I built up to my top running speed, then abruptly tried to stop, skidding to a depression, and tumbling into a roll as my foot caught on the edge.  Several wolves sat, stood, and lay just inside the tree line.  I didn’t know if it was the werewolf pack or not, but I was willing to bet that it was.

I turned to parallel the tree line, and a half a dozen wolves paralleled me, keeping between me and safety.  They let me get to within sight of my car—within sight of the charcoal gray wolf sitting on my luggage rack, on my trunk.

“Shit,” I gasped.  The pack edged closer to me, several lifting their lips in snarls.  I turned, set myself to run back up the steep foothill, wondering if I could make it to the other side of the undeveloped area, to a road on the other side.

I wasn’t familiar with the part of the foothill I was running on, now, but I couldn’t afford to run slower.  I tried to run back across the side of the hill, back to the path I had taken up, but they were there.  I turned back to the unknown ground, running as fast as I could in the dark, bitterly aware I was being herded.  I picked up my speed, trying to pull ahead of them a little.  I knew damn well I wouldn’t be able to pull ahead of real wolves that were hungry, but this pack of werewolves wasn’t hungry.  I was hoping that they were bored enough to want good sport, and was determined to give it to them.  Maybe I’d survive, that way.  I glanced back over my shoulder; they were falling back a little.  I put on a little more speed, beginning to hope.

I dodged, ducked, climbed trees and doubled back.  I flicked off the flashlight and turned off of the path I’d run up, and back.  I didn’t try to get back to the other path—the pack had made it clear that they would not permit that.  I ran the other way, along the side of the hill, tripping where it merged with another hill.  I shoved myself back to my feet, wishing I had the breath to curse.   Sticks cracked and dead leaves rustled under my feet.  I heard a small stream, somewhere, but couldn’t tell where.  I didn’t want to turn on the flashlight, didn’t want to throw away whatever advantage I had gained by doubling back and changing direction.  I didn’t know that I’d gained any, but I couldn’t bear to think otherwise.

The ground abruptly gave way beneath my feet, and I fell.  I slid and rolled into a steep creek bed, splashing down hard into the knee-deep water, getting bruised on the stones.  I lost my grip on my flashlight, and lost it.  I scrambled up, wishing the full moon wasn’t full, but at the same time thankful for the light, now that I’d lost the flashlight.  No, on second thought, I wished the moon wasn’t full to begin with: then, I wouldn’t need to see to run.

I ran along the creek bottom, looking for a way to climb out.  In a way, the creek was a blessing: it would break my scent trail.  I wasn’t ready to bless it quite yet, though.  Both sides were too steep to climb, and I still had to find a way out.  I thought I could see one, not too far ahead.  A tree, its roots undermined by the flow of the water, had fallen into the creek.  Its trunk made a narrow, steep, but passable ramp up the soft, dirt bank.  I debated taking it: it was an obvious way out, and that might give them an idea on where to pick me up again.  Then again, I didn’t know when I’d find another way out.

***

The fat, full moon had passed its zenith a while back, and was halfway to the western horizon, telling me that I’d run for more than half the night.  I stumbled and fell, scrambled up, fell again.  The ground was uneven, and covered with leaf litter, sticks, branches, and rocks.  My stomach, lungs, and legs burned with effort—I’d run all the way through my second wind, and wasn’t sure if I had a third—but I could not stop.

A creek bed lay in my path.  I could smell the water, knew that it ran over moss-covered rocks in the bottom of a man-deep ravine.  This was the same creek that I’d fallen in earlier, where I’d lost the flashlight, and had had to wade downstream until I could find a way out that wasn’t too steep to climb.  Probably the same creek where I’d taken the one, single rest and water break that the pack allowed.  On the bright side, though, it had broken my trail the first time I’d fallen in.  I’d just not wanted to see it again, and I could not turn; they were too close behind me.  I reached the edge, feeling it crumble, feeling my thighs and calves burn as I launched myself through the air.  I didn’t quite make it, landing on my stomach on the ledge of the other bank.  I started to slide into the ravine, scrabbled across the ground for grass, roots, anything to pull myself the rest of the way up with.

A hand caught my wrist, hauled me up onto the bank.  I couldn’t see much of my rescuer in the dark under the trees.  The sky was clear and the moon still bright, but he stood in shadows.  At least, I thought it was a male, from the strength of the grip.   I couldn’t tell, though.  It was too dark to see the other who stood on two legs as more than a shadow.

The pack, silent in its chase, appeared on the other side of the ravine.  The leaders skidded to the very edge of the bank.  The second rank skidded into them, jostling them.   The charcoal gray one, the leader, fell in with a startled yelp and a splash.  They circled, noses in the air.  Clearly, they smelled my rescuer, as well as me, and were unsure. Only heaven knew why; they had no problem with killing one.  Another shouldn’t make a difference.   Their leader, in the creek bed, growled and grumbled with annoyance as he tried to get back onto the bank.  Without direction, they neither attacked nor retreated.

The charcoal wolf climbed out of the ravine, pulling itself onto the bank in front of my rescuer and me.  I shrank back, tried to run again, but my rescuer kept hold of my wrist.  I couldn’t budge him—or her—so was forced to stay.  I wasn’t sure any longer that my rescuer meant my rescue or my death.  I tried to still my sobbing breath, tried not to fear.  It was hard; I had been running since moonrise, waiting for the teeth on my ankle, my knees, the back of my neck.  I stood as still as I could manage, breathing hard and shaking, waiting for the deathblow.

The charcoal wolf rose up on his hind legs, shadows flowing around him and hiding him as he stood.  He stepped into the moonlight, his long black hair flowing loose past his shoulders, streaked with gray, his face lined.  “What are you doing here?” he asked, voice harsh with the effort of the change.  “Why have you interfered with our hunt?”

“You hunt the wrong prey,” my rescuer answered.  The voice, a smooth androgynous voice, held no anger, no inflection.

The leader of the pack frowned.  “She is not yours.”  The doubtful tone of voice turned the statement into almost a question.

“I never said she was.  However, nor is she yours to kill at your pleasure.”  There was no doubt, now.  About two things.  My rescuer was a man, and my rescuer really meant to rescue me.  I raised my chin, looking at him from the corner of my eyes.  If he wasn’t going to kill me, though, why hadn’t he let me go?

“She is other,” the pack leader said, puzzled.  “She should not be here.  She trespasses on our hunting grounds.  For tonight, she is ours to kill, or ours to let live.”  He chuckled, low in his throat.  It sounded more like a wolf’s pants than the sounds a man should make.  “She’s given us good sport.  I had almost decided to let her live.”

“She will live.  At least tonight.”  My rescuer stepped between me and the pack leader, into the moonlight.  I stared, trying to get a good look at him, but moonlight and shadows wavered around him, blurring any definite impressions.

The pack leader shrugged.  “So you say.  But what about tomorrow night?”

“That is not your business.”  I thought I could make out broad shoulders, very pale skin and hair.  I could see nothing else clearly, except for his fists, clenching and unclenching as if he was exerting an enormous amount of self-control.

The pack leader shrugged again, turned, and sank back into his four-legged form.  I backed away from him as he loped a short distance away from the ravine, turned, and took a running leap to land neatly on the other side.  The pack melted back into the shadows and vanished.

“Thank you.”  After his answer to the leader of the wolf pack, I wasn’t sure whether I was saved or not.   I refused to think about it.  I was alive, and that counted for something.  As long as I was alive, there was a good—very good—chance I could get out of this.  If I just kept my wits.

My rescuer turned and looked at me.  Though the moon shone full on his face, his features were still indistinguishable.  “For what?” he asked.

“Saving my life.”  The night’s effort hit me all at once.  I leaned against the tree next to me, my vision tunneling out.  The last thing I saw was him, as he leaned in close, reaching out to catch me as I fell.

New story

I’m planning on completely re-structuring, adding to, and remaking this into a novel.  The finished version will be completely different from this short story.

Enjoy!

True Believer

He had been running for a long time.  He didn’t know why anymore; all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep.  He knew he couldn’t, nor could he slow to look for something to eat or drink.  Whatever was behind him was catching up.

*

“Hello, Jonah,” the leggy blonde said as she sprawled in the chair beside him in the student union.  Her voice was the deep, husky contralto of his fantasies.

He looked up from the exams he was grading, and frowned.   Her golden hair was fashionably tousled, her full, black skirt fashionably short.  Her red, scoop-neck baby tee, and the cleavage it exposed, competed for attention with a heart-shaped face with high, sharply defined cheekbones, enormous, dark eyes, and full, pouting lips.  He tried to remember if he’d met her before, and if so, where.  After a few heartbeats, he decided he didn’t.  “I don’t know you.  Do I?”

“Not yet.”  She winked.  “Maybe you will after tonight.”

He blinked.  “Are you propositioning me?”

“Yes.  Are you interested?”

“I don’t know you.”  He started shuffling his students’ exams together with hands that trembled.  He was so tempted he could taste it.  “And I’m married.”

“I know that.  I know your wife.  I know your wife doesn’t even attempt to satisfy you anymore.  I know your wife is leaving you right now.  As we speak.”  The blonde crossed her long, long legs, staring into Jonah’s eyes.  She licked her lips and leaned towards him.  “Are you sure you don’t want to know me?”

Jonah stared down at the exams in his shaking sweating hands, and shook his head.  Given the problems that they’d been having lately, he wouldn’t be surprised if this woman was telling the truth.  He didn’t think so, but he wouldn’t rule it out until he got home.  He stood to leave.  “Until I know differently, I’m a married man.  If I get home and find my wife—and all of her belongings—gone, I might regret this.  Maybe.  Someday.  If she hasn’t left me, I never will.  Regret this.”

She shrugged, which did interesting things to her chest.  She didn’t seem to be wearing a bra.  “Your loss.  You’ll see me again.”

Jonah shuffled his students’ exams around to free his right hand.  He offered it for her to shake.  “I didn’t catch your name.”

She didn’t shake his hand; she leaned forward and pressed it to her cheek.  “You can call me Ash.”

He jerked his hand away as if she’d burned him.  “Goodbye, Ash.”

When he looked back, she sprawled provocatively on one of the couches—one leg stretched along the seat, the other foot dangling over the floor, propped up on her elbows—watching him walk away.  From where he was standing, there by the door, he could see that her hair color was natural.

*

He didn’t remember, now, how long he’d been running.  He didn’t know what he was running from.  He’d been running long past a second, or even third, wind, and the stitch in his side was nearly doubling him over.  He was so thirsty that he couldn’t even pant anymore.  Soon, whether he wanted to or not, he’d have to stop.

*

Jonah pulled up in front of the home he and his wife just finished paying for.  He noticed that his wife’s car was still there.  The woman—Ash—apparently hadn’t known what she was talking about.  His wife wasn’t leaving him.  He smiled, glad he hadn’t given into temptation this time, either.

He pulled into the driveway next to his wife’s car.  Like always.  Like always, he thought about having a garage built to shelter their cars from the elements.  But, like always, he found an excuse not to.  Today’s excuse was that it had rained and washed both cars the night before, though his was dusty again from parking on campus next to the main drive through campus.

He put the car in park and opened the door, reaching for his satchel with his right hand while fumbling the keys with his left to find the key to his front door.  With the recent crime spree around the professors’ homes, he’d told his wife to keep the doors locked, whether she was home or not.  He jogged up the steps and tripped over the top one, just like always, and dropped his keys.  He reached down and picked them up by the house key, just like always, and fitted it into the lock.  The tumblers disengaged and he pushed the front door open.  The comfort of routine helped ease away the last of the tension in his shoulders and trembling in his hands.

“Honey, I’m home,” he called, setting his satchel on the front table.  She didn’t answer, but he wasn’t really concerned.  He usually had to go to her.  He shrugged out of his favorite gray tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches and laid it on the table with his satchel for pickup in the morning, just before he left.

“Honey?” he called, walking into the living room.  She wasn’t there.  He loosened his tie and went on into the kitchen.  He draped the navy and red tie over the back of the nearest chair in the breakfast nook, and went through into the dining room.  He stopped short.

On the table, the mahogany slab trestle table, was his wife.  She was spread eagled, pinned to the table by four of their set of six solid stainless steel steak knives.  She’d been raped; he could see that from where he stood.  It looked like she’d bled out from her wrists and ankles; he couldn’t see anything else that could have killed her.  And there was a lot of blood.  Her blood ran off the edges of the table, pooled on the floor, ran across the polished hardwood to where he stood.  He was standing in her blood.

Jonah backed away, slapping his hand over his mouth.  He gagged, turned away, and vomited onto the threshold between the kitchen and dining room.  He hadn’t had anything to eat that day, so it was mostly bile and liquid, running back to mingle with the blood pool.  He stepped over the puddle he’d made and staggered to the phone in the kitchen.  He dialed 911.

*

He didn’t know how much longer he could keep running.  It was getting harder and harder to stay on his feet.  The ground was starting to slope and dip, but he couldn’t see it.  He couldn’t see much, now.  His vision had narrowed until it was like looking through paper towel tubes taped to his face.  What he could see he couldn’t see clearly.  Fatigue blurred the narrow field of vision.  Eventually, he’d be running completely blind.

*

Jonah had been in the station for hours.  Or days.  Or maybe only minutes.  He didn’t know.  He couldn’t think.  He didn’t really even see the standard black and white tile floor he was staring through; instead, he saw his wife, sprawled over the dining table (which was now in the crime lab instead of in their dining room).

“Professor Smith?”

A man’s voice, hoarse with decades of cigarettes, pulled him out of his reverie.  Jonah dragged his eyes up from the tiles.  “Yes?”  He didn’t know how his voice could sound so normal under the circumstances.  His wife was dead, in the most horrible way he could imagine.  His eyes were so dry they burned, so dry he couldn’t see properly.  He blinked, and the plain clothes officer came into focus.  The officer bulged out of a brown suit that needed the waist let out, with a matching coffee stain on the end of a chartreuse tie.

“I’m Officer Brown.”

Jonah stared up at him for a moment before understanding sank in.  “Officer.  My wife is dead.”

Brown took a deep breath and sighed, straining the buttons on his shirt and making Jonah glad that the suit’s jacket wasn’t buttoned.  He sat down on the bench in the hall, next to Jonah, but about an arms’ length away.  “I know that, Professor.  I was wondering what you could tell me.”

“I don’t know.  My wife is dead.  I told her to keep the doors locked.”  Jonah dropped his gaze back to the tile he’d been staring through when the officer had walked up to him.

“The only door unlocked was the one you came in through, Professor.  What can you tell me about your day?  Were there any suspicious characters in your neighborhood when you left this morning?”

“I didn’t see anyone strange.  I never see anyone but early morning joggers.  I go to my office for early hours so that I can come home early.  My wife likes it that way.  Liked it that way.”  Jonah took a deep breath, let it out through his teeth.  He didn’t see the tile floor.  He saw the mahogany slab, with his wife.  “She’s dead.”

“Yes, Professor.”  Familiar scratching sounds told Jonah that the officer was recording the interview on a piece of paper.  “What about when you came home?  Was there anything different?”

“Not that I noticed.  I even tripped on the top step.  The indoor/outdoor carpet on the porch is loose, and I always trip there and drop my keys.  My work goes on the table, with my jacket, the tie goes over the back of the nearest chair in the breakfast nook, my shoes go under the sideboard in the dining room.”  Jonah stopped, gagged.  The pool of blood replaced the tile, the mahogany slab.  That was where the day went wrong.  “Not today.”

“So you didn’t notice anything different?”

“I very rarely notice anything different.”  He tried to smile.  He knew it was a failure even though he didn’t have a mirror.  “Helen always said I didn’t notice anything that wasn’t in a book.”

“In a book? That’s right, you’re a professor.  What do you research?”

“Ancient religions.”  Jonah let the failed attempt at a smile join his gaze on the floor.  He sighed.  “I tried to be a good husband.  I loved my wife.  I never cheated on her, no matter how many chances I got, or who offered.  She said it wasn’t enough, told me she hated competing with my research.  She felt cheated, even though she had plenty of time to back out before we got married.  I told her while we were dating that I probably wouldn’t ever change.”  His eyes burned.  There were no tears to sooth the pain.

“Tell me about your day today.”  Jonah looked up at the officer, frowned.  Brown offered him what seemed like a genuinely sympathetic half-smile, and shrugged.  His pencil stayed poised above his notepad, ready to take down anything Jonah offered.  “You may have noticed something that you didn’t consciously think of.  I want as much detail as you can give me.”

“I can do that.  But this may take a while.”

“We’ve got all the time in the world.”

As Jonah predicted, the interview took hours.  He liked his days structured.  Every minute was accounted for, from how long he generally took over coffee, to when and what he taught, to office hours, to meals to research.  He told the officer everything he could remember, even the students he’d caught trying to cheat on the exam that morning.  He went through his day, minute by minute, from the time he left home until the time he returned.    He mentioned the girl—Ash.  It seemed irrelevant, but Jonah wanted to be thorough.  Brown didn’t comment one way or the other.  Brown wanted to know what Jonah had done the day before, and the day before that.  Wanted to know what he was researching, when and where he did his research, and how long he took each day.  Jonah answered questions like a machine, unthinking.  Honest.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Professor Smith.  Where can we reach you?”

“Can I go home?”  Jonah was so tired his eyes were sticky.  When he closed them, they didn’t want to open.  But he didn’t want to close them, either; when he did, the image of his wife as he saw her when he first stepped into the dining room, burned into his retina, was there to meet him, promising him nightmares worse than any he’d ever had.

“We’d rather you didn’t.  Can we drop you at a hotel?”  Officer Brown seemed genuinely sympathetic, but that could be just the training.  Jonah wasn’t sure he’d notice the difference at the best of times.

Jonah rubbed his forehead, trying to think.  His head felt like it was packed with cotton batting, and he couldn’t stop staring at his wedding band.  “I need the satchel on the front table—thank God I don’t have to have those tests graded until the day after tomorrow at the earliest.  Clean pants, a clean tie, and my jacket.  Underwear and socks.  Shoes.  I teach tomorrow at eight and ten, and I have office hours from ten until noon.  Usually I’d be home by a quarter after, but I probably will just stay at the office tomorrow.  I’ll need my car, too.  How long will I have to stay at the hotel?”

Brown reached across the distance between them, squeezed Jonah’s shoulder.  “I’ll have someone escort you to your house so that you can pick up some things for a few days in the hotel.”

Jonah jumped.  He’d been thinking; he hadn’t realized he’d spoken his thoughts.  “Thank you, Officer Brown.”

*

He clutched his side, now.  His run was more of a fast stagger.  His eyes were fixed on the ground right in front of his feet.  He couldn’t see very far, now.  He was too tired.  He could barely see his feet.  He stumbled, kept running.

*

Jonah parked in the lot of the Ramada, thankful that the police had let him pack enough for the duration of the investigation.  After that was over, he planned to have some professional movers pack his books and the rest of his clothes, and sell the house.  Everything there would remind him of Helen.  He didn’t think he could stand that.

He stepped out of his car, reached back and took his suitcase from the back seat, grabbing his satchel with the other hand.  He still had a baker’s dozen of exams to grade, and it was still long before midnight.  He spent a couple of minutes memorizing the license plate number so that he wouldn’t have to come back out—and so he wouldn’t have to think about what he’d left behind.

The man behind the desk looked up with a professionally friendly smile.  “Will you be staying with us tonight, sir?”

Jonah nodded.  “I’ll be staying here for a month at least,” he said.

“Very good, sir.  If you’d fill these out?”

Jonah took the forms, raced through them.  The license plate number went down first, so he wouldn’t have to worry about forgetting it.  The rest was easy, especially since he was using a credit card.  The clerk handed him a key card, told him his room number, already turning to the person behind him.  He picked up his suitcase and turned.  As he turned, his gaze swept the lobby.  He dropped his satchel.

Ash was waiting by the door.

*

He knew it was inevitable.  His vision was so blurred he couldn’t see his feet clearly anymore, much less what was in front of them.  His run had become a stagger.  His legs shook, his breath came hard.  The stitch in his side was more like an awl boring a hole in him for something larger than thread.  He couldn’t go much farther and he knew it.  It was inevitable.  He stumbled.  Fell. 

*

“Ash?” he asked.  He staggered a little as he stepped away from the desk.  He told himself it was only because his suitcase was heavy, and he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast.  He always waited for lunch until after he got home.  It was long past the time that he’d have had dinner, on any other day.  Really, though, he knew it was something else.  He wouldn’t let himself think about what else it could be.  It had to be hunger.  Had to be.  He stopped, next to the door.  Next to her.

She smiled.  “You remembered me.”

He didn’t see how he could possibly forget her.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was regretting having turned her down earlier.  And somewhere else in the back of his mind, the part that remembered what she’d said earlier wondered if she had been involved in rearranging his life.  “You said my wife was leaving me.”

“Do you want to talk about this out here?”  She reached out and tucked her hand through the elbow of the arm he carried his satchel with.  “Why don’t you invite me up to your room?”

He thought about it.  His wife was lying on the medical examiner’s table.  He felt bad for even contemplating inviting this woman up to his room.  But it couldn’t hurt anything—now.  Vows only held until death.  “This way.”

*

He landed on his knees.  Hard.  His breath sobbed in and out of his lungs.  The thing behind him was catching up.  He pushed himself to his feet.  He’d be damned if he’d just lie there and wait for the beast chasing him to catch up.  He lurched into a staggering parody of a run.  He was so exhausted it was the best he could do.  He wished he could have some water.  He couldn’t stop, though.  Even falling took too much time.  He could hear a woman’s deep, husky chuckle behind him.  He had to keep going.  He forced himself to pick up speed.

*

Ash took Jonah’s key card and opened the door for him.  He stepped through and dropped his suitcase on the floor.  His satchel full of the student exams that he still had to grade he set on the table.  Ash closed the door, stepped into his arms and kissed him.

At first, Jonah froze with surprise.  Then, he wrapped his arms around her, cradling the back of her head in his hand, kissed her back.  He intended for it to be a short kiss, but allowed the kiss to go on for longer than he initially planned.  It felt good to have a woman in his arms, to kiss a woman who kissed him back with passion.  It had been so long since his wife had kissed him like that that he couldn’t remember how long it had been.  But, he had to know.  He gently disengaged.  “You said my wife was leaving me.”

Ash smiled up into his face.  Her eyes were so dark that they seemed like bottomless pools.  “So she was.  She’s gone, isn’t she?”

Jonah pulled away, decided he needed to unpack.  Right now.  He turned away, lifting his suitcase onto the bed.  He flipped the latches open, lifted out a stack of clean underwear, set it on the bed, reached for his socks.  Stopped.  Clenched his hands. He didn’t want her to know that he was starting to shake.  He could feel her, feel her warmth, smell her scent.  His awareness of her suddenly hit him, and he straightened, readjusted himself.  He cursed himself under his breath.  His wife was dead, but so recently that he hadn’t fully comprehended it yet.  “What have you done?”

“I’ve freed you, Jonah.”  Her deep, husky chuckle rubbed him like velvet.  “Didn’t you want to be free to worship at another altar?”

*

He staggered to a stop.  He couldn’t run anymore.  He had nothing left.  Nothing but defiance.  He turned and glared into the pitchy blackness behind him.  He couldn’t see anything, but he knew it was there.  “I don’t believe in you!” he screamed.  His tongue felt thick, stuck to the roof of his mouth.  His voice was almost gone from the lack of moisture in his throat.

*

Jonah choked, cleared his throat.  He picked up a pair of his socks—his wife had folded those for him the last time she’d done laundry.  He’d hated doing laundry, and had been gone, that night, researching.  His research had certainly paid off.  He’d found another reference insinuating that the worship of Ashtoreth had been linked to the Jewish myths of Lilith.  “Worship at another altar.  You mean you killed her.”

“Yes.”  She stepped closer, slipped her arms around him from behind.

He leaned into her arms.  He couldn’t help himself.  He caught what he was doing, and stepped away, to put his socks and underwear into one of the drawers.  Really, he just wanted to be a little farther from her.  “You couldn’t have.  My wife was raped.”

Ash laughed.  Her deep, husky chuckle wasn’t like velvet anymore.  “I know.  I did that, too.”

Jonah swallowed.  His wife’s head had been at the far end of the table, her feet toward him, pinned with her legs spread.  He’d seen the semen, still wet between her thighs, pooling on the table beneath her.  “You couldn’t have.  It was a man that raped her.”

“Yes.”  Ash pulled a chair around so that she could watch him unpack.  Waiting.  “Let me tell you how she died.  I entered your house just after you left.”

He sank down onto the edge of the bed.  “The doors were locked.”

“Hush.  I didn’t come in through the doors.  Your wife was still in bed.  I went upstairs, and brought her down.  She struggled, but I’m stronger.  I took her through the kitchen so that I could get the rest of the set of those nice stainless steel knives that you used on your steak last night while you read your research.  While you wished for simpler times, like the ones you read about.  While you wished you could do to your wife what I did in your image.”

A finger of ice traced Jonah’s spine, made him sit up straighter to hide the shudder.  “In my image.  What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your wife died thinking that the one that pinned her to the table and raped her was you.  It was your face above her, your voice that mocked her, your hand that slapped her when she screamed.  It was your penis that violated her.”  Ash’s smile was no longer sexy; her dark, deep eyes burning pits rather than bottomless pools.

“How?” he whispered.

“Don’t tell me that you’re still in denial about who I am,” she whispered.  “I thought my first worshiper in this century would be wiser than that.  You’ve certainly done enough searching for me that you shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve found me.”

Ashtoreth.  “You—”   He choked, tried again.  “You don’t exist. You were the attempt of a primitive people to explain a hostile environment.”

“Oh, but I do exist,” she purred.  “I exist under many names, in many forms.  I am that which would destroy mankind.  I am that which nihilists worship.  I am that which the so-called Christ tried to defeat in one of your greatest religions.  I am that which Mohammed fought against while he was forming his religion.  The Israelites fell into my worship many times, and fought against me when they didn’t worship me.  You’ve searched for me for a long time, long enough that your will gave me shape.  Gave me power.”

“I don’t believe in you,” he whispered.

*

Two pinpoints of darker darkness appeared in front of him.  The inky blackness swirled, revealing a many-breasted, deformed humanoid figure.  He forced himself to straighten, his breath sobbing in and out of his lungs.  “I don’t believe in you,” he whispered, watching the thing solidify into the demon he’d been searching for.

“That’s all right,” she said in a husky contralto, reaching out and laying a burning, taloned hand on his shoulder.  “I believe in me enough for the both of us.”

A Meeting of Strangers

This story doesn’t fit in my Modern Gods world, but it’s a fun one.  I wrote it in high school, if that tells you anything about my psyche.  So, without further ado…

It was a cold, December evening.  The sky loomed overhead, gray, overcast, and heavy with a snow that refused to fall.  The devil shivered and grumbled on horseback.  He topped a small rise, brightening as he saw a lone cowboy huddled miserably over a small, smoking campfire.

The devil grinned, taking on the guise of a rich Easterner.  He rode up to the fire, dismounted, and turned to face the cowboy.  “How do, cowboy,” he said pleasantly.

The cowboy tipped his hat back and looked up at the stranger from under the wide brim.  He was gaunt, hollow-eyed, and skeletal.  Except for his burning gray eyes, he looked like he’d been dead for a couple of days.  It was a shock to hear the pleasant, gravelly voice with which he spoke.  “Howdy yerself, stranger.  Set down.”

“Thank you,” the devil replied.  “Don’t mind if I do.  You got anything to eat?”

The cowboy shook his head once, his gaze never leaving the stranger’s.  “Nope.”

The devil, disconcerted, asked, “Well, are you hungry?”

“Yep,” the cowboy answered.

The devil hurriedly left the fire for his saddlebags.  Something about this starved cowboy seemed vaguely—not wrong, just—not right, and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.  “You’d better be watching this, Claudias,” he whispered into the evening’s chill breeze.

“I am, master,” the wind moaned.

Returning to the fire, the devil put some leftovers on to heat.  “Cold night, ain’t it, cowboy?” he remarked.

“Yep,” he replied softly.

Unnerved, the devil prattled on.  “Don’t talk much, do you?”

“Nope,” came the short reply.

The devil finally realized what seemed so wrong.  This gaunt, half-starved cowboy was somehow making him, the Lord of Hell, nervous.  He looked up from the beans and salt pork over the fire and forced himself to meet the cowboy’s gray eyes.  “What’s your name, cowboy?”

“Depends,” the cowboy grunted, upper lip curling in a silent snarl.

The devil dropped his eyes back to the beans.  “On what?”

“On why you want to know,” the cowboy replied, low voiced.

Silence fell over the small camp.  The beans finally warmed to a palatable temperature, so Old Nick dished them up and handed a plate to the cowboy.  A rare smile accompanied the cowboy’s few words, “Much obliged, stranger.”

They ate in silence.  The cowboy finally turned from the Easterner and lay down, pulling his hat down to cover his face.  The devil smiled and whispered a single word.  Time crawled to a standstill, and with a sigh of relief, the devil dropped his disguise.

“Where are you, Claudias?” he called into the evening breeze.

A minor demon appeared before his disguised master.  “I’m here, master,” he answered.

“Did you learn anything?” the devil asked.

Claudias hung his hideous head.  “No, master.  He doesn’t say enough.”

The monarch of hell stroked his chin thoughtfully.  “I wonder who he is.”

Claudias sidled closer.  “Master, maybe we would learn more if he knew who you really are,” he suggested, cringing away from the expected blow.

The devil raised a hand to backhand the little demon, then stopped to actually consider the suggestion.  “Maybe you’re right,” he said thoughtfully, lowering his hand.  “I’ll try it.  Disappear, you ugly little son of a gun.”

Claudias wilted in relief and faded into invisibility. Satan whispered softly, and time unfroze.  He pointed a misshapen forefinger at the cowboy and grinned wickedly.

The cowboy moaned and began to thrash around.  He sat bolt upright, screaming wildly.  Still panting, he looked around.  All was the same as it had been when he’d gone to sleep except for one thing: the devil now sat where the stranger had been sitting before.  “Who the hell are you?” he snarled, vicious in his fear.

The devil shrugged.  “Which name do you want me to use?  I have a thousand.”

The cowboy his hard at the stranger at his fire.  “Just tell me one,” he replied, deadly cold.

Satan shuddered, bothered by the complete lack of fear on the cowboy’s part.  “Well, most of your kind call me Old Nick or Old Scratch,” he replied weakly.

The cowboy smiled grimly, and looked down to roll a cigarette.  Time again came to a screeching halt, this time without the devil’s command.  Startled, he glanced around, and found Claudias groveling on the ground at his feet.

“What is it, Claudias?” he asked impatiently.

“Master, beware!  You don’t want his soul,” the little demon exclaimed.

Irritated, Satan kicked the imp lying prostrate at his feet.  “I need every soul I can get.  Why shouldn’t I try for his?”

The small demon cringed away from his master’s cloven foot.  “He doesn’t have one, my lord.”

“Don’t be absurd,” the fallen angel snapped.  “Every human has a soul.”

Claudias began to fade, and raised his face to his dark master before he was gone completely.  “Ask him again who he is, master.  You’ll see.”

As soon as the little demon was invisible, time thawed from its standstill to its normal flow.  The cowboy finished rolling his cigarette, lifted a small, burning twig from the edge of the fire, cupped his other hand around the freshly rolled cigarette to shield the fragile flame from the sharp, cold wind.  His hungry, haunted eyes reflected the dancing flames.  He took a deep drag, exhaling rudely in the devil’s direction.

Finally, after a long, uncomfortable silence, the devil burst out, “Who are you?”

The cowboy, speaking around the butt of the cigarette, replied, “Why d’ya wanna know?”

The devil waved a hand impatiently, fanning away the tobacco smoke that the cowboy kept directing toward him.  “I’m behind.  I need to gather in more lost souls.”

The cowboy smiled grimly.  “You don’t want me.”

“And why wouldn’t I?” the devil persisted.

The cowboy looked away and leaned back, pulling his hat back down.  Flipping the cigarette but away into the fire, his smile widened, though it still didn’t reach what the devil could see of his eyes. “Because I’m still hungry. I was here long before you were, and I’ll be here long after you’re nothin’ but a story that mothers use to scare their children.  I reckon I’ll be seein’ you before long, in the scheme of things.”

The devil turned to stare into the fire.  From time to time, he glanced at the neutral force of nature embodied seated beside him, thinking of the delicious irony that Fate had set up in this meeting.

Lucifer and Death both sat in silence, watching the fire die down to embers, watching the warm embers fade into cold ashes.  As full dark settled, both vanished into the night, leaving only the ashes of the now-dead fire.