WARNING: CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. What you see above is the culmination of eight months of work. Planning for the rebirth of Havok. Vision casting. Implementation. Hard work by our authors, editors, and support staff. Input from readers. Investment by our fantastic featured authors James Scott Bell, David Farland, Robert Liparulo,
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I was surrounded. There, atop the ruins of what was once a great symbol of power, I lifted my hands in surrender.
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“Thank you for calling NewU Life Agency, where your dream life is only a phone call away. This is Zoran.How may I be of assistance?” The demon stifled a yawn with a clawed hand.
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I have started to turn.
The others haven’t noticed. The rot, the size of a cigar burn, is on my right wrist. I’m wearing short sleeves, so I can’t hide it. I keep my arm turned over and favor my left, flipping switches, preparing for take-off. It won’t do to have a pilot who’s infected.
“Nobody believes in evil anymore.” She sighed a long, laborious sigh.
I wanted to prove her wrong. I wanted to go right out and commit the most heinous act I could think of. But I couldn’t. Things just didn’t work that way anymore.
“Come on Lianna, I got you.” I gripped her hand as I led her down the boulders. We descended toward a deserted cove surrounded by white cliffs where glistening sand beckoned us to play among the turquoise waves. Wearing flip-flops, Lianna hadn’t planned to do any rock climbing on this trip, but she rose to the challenge with a grin and her teasing line, “I’d follow you anywhere, Bo.”
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He wants to dig up the body.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper to my father beneath the light of the moon.
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The man stood on my front step, white suit hanging over his unnaturally tall, thin frame, my morning paper in his hand. I pulled my bathrobe tighter and blearily glanced from his rainbow wig to my paper as I processed his greeting.
“So… you said you’re the grim reaper?”
Death didn’t chase him. It surrounded him. It was just dormant for the next twenty minutes.
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If I’d been smart, I never would have taken that dame’s job. Never should have left the office.
With the afternoon sun blazing down, I watched from my window as Mrs. Malloy strode down the street with her blond hair caught up in a net, a knit cardigan over her shoulders, and plaid skirt skimming her knees.
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They couldn’t execute my second son because I couldn’t conceive him.
I burned for a second son. I burned like my first son had burned on his pyre: head tilted towards the sky, mouth open and gasping for air, neck tendons standing out like cords as the fire licked his skin and devoured his heart.
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Behind me, the aviary had grown unnaturally quiet. Scores of black orbish eyes peeped between the bars of their spacious cages—all looking at me.
When Mystic Critters hired me, they’d warned me that phoenixes are sentient. They’d failed to add that they are shameless eavesdroppers and malicious gossips.
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