My brother and I have labored since dawn under the Colorado sky, hacking away at a rock face in a luckless search for silver. Growing numbers of werewolves back East have made that metal more precious than gold. Frustrated, we eat a meager
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With a deep breath, Avery squared his shoulders and entered the fray.
The Highfaye Ball attracted every well-born high elf and faye-blood lady in the city. Each with the single-minded purpose of ensnaring the wealthiest, most eligible bachelor of the season. Half-bloods like Avery need not apply.
“Really, Peter? You’d die for a song?”
My younger brother’s words echo in my ears as I reach for another sheet of music—the prelude to today’s final hymn. The knot in my stomach has nothing to do with the fact that I skipped
My neighborhood can be mean, and some might say I’m the meanest around, but I only do what I do to keep the riffraff in line. And, yeah, maybe I enjoy it a little.
One evening in late winter, with the pavement still slick from slushy snow and the
My name is Gaspard Jerome Masson, and I have one regret.
The last word smudged beneath the old man’s trembling hand. He drew a breath, then continued writing.
Her name was Marie.
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June 6, 1944
Rennes, France
“Gaspard! They’re coming!”
Gaspard shot up from his seat. Marie burst through the door of his small apartment
I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so cold. The temperature outside was part of it, of course. So was our agreement to burn only one piece of coal at a time. Coal wasn’t cheap, and it was only December 24th, with many
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Marley was dead. Each nail in his coffin bore witness to that.
It was a dreary affair, his funeral. There were no mourners—practically no living souls save the minister, two grave diggers, and Scrooge. Yes, Scrooge. Covetous old sinner! Preoccupied solely with why
Beauty is as essential as breath to me. Art is my bread and meat. I sought a painting of a beautiful young girl in an oval frame titled Death in Life. A feat of artistry so a realistic that legend held it had drained the vitality from the subject herself.
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Dorius swaggered into the arena as the crowd roared.
The Praeco shouted, “The fourth gladiator in this final combat of our games is the Emperor’s champion! Visiting us in Hispania from distant Rome, victor of sixty battles against men and beasts, I give you Dorius Gratius!”
Dorius raised his short sword in salute.
Dorian surveyed the parlor, silently classifying people—beautiful or ordinary. As he stood in the entryway, he knew all eyes would be gazing in his direction. He was an elegant specimen of a man, blond with piercing blue eyes, porcelain, sculpted features, and a tall, chiseled form. No one could compare to his beauty.
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“Do you mean to tell me that Henry Wotton of all people invited an American peasant to one of his parties?” Dorian Gray wrinkled his flawless nose.
Gazing with admiration at the dark-haired woman in navy-blue silk chatting with Lord Henry, Basil Hallward shook his head. “Caroline Brooks is scarcely a peasant, Dorian.
It was midnight when I reached my flat. I’d left Henry Wotton’s party early, fatigued by tedious debate over whether a heavier-than-air flying machine was possible, sparked by recent reports from the United States. As I stepped through the door, an intruder flung me against the wall, pinning me there with a powerful forearm.
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