Kazimir reveled in power that exceeded expectation. Mind-control of the dragon he found in the mountains empowered him over nature itself. He now possessed the ability to destroy what is, in order to recreate that which could be. He was a god!
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Whilst applying fresh caulk to the hull of the first-class whaler, Penroyal heard a walloping thump.
Not a bump, nor a splat, plop, or slosh. A thump. In his experience, that meant only one thing.
“Ye put down that rum, John Clarence,”
No one sees the feeders at first.
They gather where something has just ended: a breakup outside a subway, a man staring too long at a message that begins with we regret to inform you. The air bends, and something thin slips into the space where
If there was one thing that Iris City had in surplus, it was abandoned buildings. In his Icebird guise, Houston Haas circled over a block full of them, trying to localize the lady’s cries for help. At last, he pinpointed a rusting building that had once been a warehouse, surrounded by a graveyard of other similarly decrepit structures.
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Although she’d finished smoothing soil over her seeds and was growing wetter by the second, Gerda was in no hurry to leave her garden. She savored the rain. Too little had fallen the year before, resulting in meager fare ever since.
I’m lucky to have that much. She smiled. Well, I do have a good luck charm.
The floorboards of the psychiatric facility creaked beneath my feet as I followed Dr. Kelvin down the hall. All the other residents either stared at me or looked through me like I wasn’t there. I wasn’t sure which was creepier.
“Does she still
“Oh, ho! What have we here? Off to war, squirrel?” King Oswain chuckled. The monarch, clad in a purple velvet tunic, elaborately embroidered breeches, and boots of the finest leather, slowed his stallion to a walk on the sunlight-dappled forest path. As he circled
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Queen Majorie’s coronation ball had been meticulously planned, down to the minute. Except for the kidnapping.
Marjorie was sprawled in the middle of the ballroom floor, her sapphire blue coronation gown puddled around her. The rest of her guests sat around the perimeter, held in place by the threat of circling black-cloaked figures.
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Sara centers the crosshairs on the blonde’s skull. The unsuspecting woman wearing a blue sundress drinks from a teacup, her face shadowed by the café table’s umbrella.
A hundred yards away, hunkered atop the roof of an abandoned warehouse, Sara finesses the scope’s elevation and windage with a smooth efficiency earned by months of practice. Below, the city produces an occasional pedestrian and passing vehicle while the empty boulevard remains trapped in the simmering quiet before the morning rush. Within the next five minutes, a train will roar past on a bridge overlooking the café, masking the rifle’s echoing boom. Sara will disassemble her weapon and flee the scene before the train’s ambiance decays across the unsuspecting neighborhood.
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Everyone knows how the stories go.
The princess imprisoned by a dragon. Then the knight comes and fights the dragon with his mighty lance and rescues the lady.
It’s a good story to tell around the hearth on a winter’s night.
There’s only one trouble with it, and I see that now:
Red belongs to the Strongman. It’s the color of passion and rage, of birth and death—things he alone controls—and to wear it outside his city is to beckon the bloodwatchers’ blades.
Yet my sister and I pass through a field
“It isn’t finished. It isn’t finished,” the girl mumbled almost hysterically. The glow of her eyes reflected on the screen. Red irises focusing intensely on the device.
“Scarlata,” a male voice sounded behind her.
She remained fixed on her task.
“There’s nothing you
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