“What makes it work?” I asked, leaning back in my chair.
“We don’t really know,” Dr. Tine shrugged. “Some energy source that we haven’t been able to figure out. Our scientists who worked in the lab with the last one ended up getting sick, and some of them died within months. Nasty stuff.
Something was killing the chickens. Outside the window, in the coop, their squawks broke the silent Kentucky night beyond the homestead’s walls—chaotic bursts of fear and agony.
A boy of fifteen, Roland Chadwick sprang out of bed while his younger brother and sister gazed at him wide-eyed from the mattress the three of them shared
The moon bathed the graveyard in silver light, reflecting off the polished marble of younger headstones. The older markers seemed to hide from the light, becoming one with the shadows around them. At least that’s what Cassie told herself as she tripped over the second one of the evening. Cursing under her breath
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Our world is captured by the Fears—the wraiths of mankind. They haunt us and hunt us, because we are the Children of the Promise. The last hope for the human race.
Which is why I’m leaning against the side of a building in the heat of the sun, watching people
“Licenses, please.”
“Sure thing, Warden.” The hunter brushed back her curly red hair and leaned her rifle against a nearby pine. She patted the front of her camouflage vest, searching, turned out her empty pockets, and glanced at her burly partner.
The male hunter stuck up a finger. “Hey, maybe they never gave
Freezing rain slicked the sidewalk and dripped from the remaining bulbs around the dark marquee. I sighed, my breath frosting in the air. Really, an abandoned movie theater? Some people have no sense of subtlety.
I ducked through the broken door, boots crunching on shattered glass, and followed
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Genies don’t like to be called monsters. We monster hunters like to disagree.
Sure, they’re beautiful. Sure, they’ll give you three wishes. But you have to catch them first—before they mess with your head, or turn invisible, or shapeshift into a scorpion so that you don’t want to catch them.
The mud hut was thatched with grass that stuck out like my hair in the morning. Its only difference from the other huts was the paper nailed to the door. I had to squint to read the orange gel pen writing: Archibald Waverly.
I knocked.
An old man with tufts of white hair
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