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We're currently doing narrative points of view for Prose Fundamentals and we were set a mini task for next week's lecture. First we were given this:

There are only five passengers on the bus. Thomas is trying to read; distracted by a small boy who runs up and down the aisle, giggling so much that spit covers his chin. The boy's mother shouts 'Billy! Billy! Sit your arse here!' as the bus lurches round a corner and the old man turns, studying the mother through thick glasses, before righting his shopping bags and settling again. The bus stops at traffic lights and Thomas folds his book, resting his chin on the seat in front. 'Good boy,' says the mother, 'Sit down. Sit down I says! Good boy. Here,' she says, passing the boy something Thomas cannot see. The bus is shuddering and Thomas sits upright, tasting the sour metal smell on his hands. He notices that the old man has also sat upright, staring intently at something outside. Then a horn beeps from behind and the driver curses and the bus swings into traffic. Thomas turns, pretending to check who has beeped but actually glancing at the girl who sits cross-legged on the back seat. He has been aware of her all journey - the crackle of her headphones; the smell of a perfume he cannot name. He thinks, perhaps, she smiles.

Then we had to pull prompts out of hat. Most of them were along the lines of Describe the scene in the first-person from the point of view of Thomas or Describe the scene in third person with limited omniscience focused on the mother. I managed to pull out 'Perspective of the "old man". First person. Past tense. Monologue told twenty years later.' Trust me to pick an easy one...

I'll never forget the last time I saw her. We would always meet for a cup of tea and a scone in the High Street at about ten o'clock. We'd been meeting like that for about three years, ever since I first moved to the area. We just happened upon each other one day. I was worried when she didn't show up that day. I remember thinking, I wonder where she is. I couldn't enjoy my tea and scone.

There were only a handful of people on the bus home. There were only ever a handful of people on the bus home. No one ever talked to each other in those days; not like when I was a boy. Everybody knew everybody. Not like now an'all. Everybody has to know everybody. Them bloody cards.

There was a woman shouting and swearing at her little boy. Horrible little thing, he was; running up and down, bothering everybody. She gave him some bloody chocolate just for sitting down. Only got something like that at Christmas when I was his age!

The bus driver was in a hurry as well. Nearly lost my groceries all over the floor. I'm surprised he even bothered to stop at the lights.

Anyway...that's when I saw her being put in the back of the ambulance.

I stopped off at the cafe a few times after that. Well, truth be told, I think I was back there every day for a couple of months.

Then I'd just pop in every now and then, y'know, just in case.

Eventually I just stopped going.

Inspired by Thomas Jones Barker's "The Bride of Death"

We have spent so long preparing for this night. We vowed that nothing would get in the way; that we would not be denied our ceremony.

She looks so beautiful in her gown; its simple beauty reflecting her own. White satin made almost crystalline in the moonlight. A full, glorious summer moon that turns her skin to porcelain. Her golden hair frames the personification of purity. A wondrous vision marred only by the slight gape of her pale lips and the strained, shallow rise and fall of her bosom. Her heart races with anticipation, as mine struggles even to crawl.

Calm yourself, my love. Soon it will be past.

My hand quivers feebly as I take up hers. It is cold to the touch, but her slender fingers grip strongly, as if she fears to ever let go. I feel like I should close the window, but she does so love the fresh ocean air.

In her other hand she holds her humble bouquet: Forget-me-nots that I picked for her that morning. I even made a small crown of them for her to wear.

It lies broken now, on her pillow.

She gently closes her mouth and draws in a long, deep breath that seems to fill her with life. And then she opens her eyes and, for a moment, my heart soars. She looks from me to my ever faithful companion and she smiles. She could always find peace in his big, soulful eyes. She said he would be my best man. And, indeed, a better friend I never knew.

Her smile fades and she closes her eyes.

I can hear distant church bells sing in chorus to the tide.

And my best friend howls his death lament, as The Reaper takes his bride.

This is yet another part of my fantasy novel/series (haven't decided which it's going to be yet). I've already posted the openings to Varrin and Rain's stories. This one takes place immediately after the former, which I've now finished, but is a little long to post here...

Lava bled from the mountain as if a blade had pierced its heart. The flow cut a swathe through the rock face, coursing in a slow stream down to the lush pastures at the mountain’s base, scorching grass and felling trees.

On the bank of the river of molten rock, something moved. Something completely blackened; charred. A figure. Nothing more than a shadow. Its movement slight; almost imperceptible.

Again it moved. Clearer this time. A hand twitching, clenching into a fist then opening wide. The black crust around the hand cracked, revealing smooth, pale skin. The head raised slowly and more crust crumbled away from long black hair. The body rolled over, revealing the unblemished face of a young girl.

Shalandra’s eyes flickered open, flared briefly, then returned to their natural state. She breathed deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth, stretching as if waking from a good night’s sleep. Gradually, she became aware of being covered in the crust. She brushed it away, confused as to where she was, what had happened and why she was otherwise naked. She looked down towards her feet and noticed her legs were submerged, up to the knee, in the lava flow!

Shalandra scrambled back in shock, dragging from the lava what she thought would be nothing more than stumps; fully expecting her legs to have been burned away. But there they were, perfectly in tact. She stared at her feet for a long time, the still-molten rock dripping from her toes and fizzing on the dew-soaked grass. She lay back, closed her eyes and struggled hard to remember what had happened…



1.

The atmosphere throughout the castle had been strange since the day Shalandra had challenged that boy on the battlements. She was right in her assumption he was a thief who had stolen something from her father; something he treasured dearly. Shalandra cursed herself for failing to stop the boy, although Morialle assured her it was for the best. “Don’t let his tender years fool you. He would have thought nothing of taking your life if it would have aided his escape.”

Shalandra scoffed at the idea that this boy could be any match against her swordsmanship, but then she remembered his remarkable movement; nimble and swift. Plus he had escaped her father’s grasp. Something many had tried and failed to do.

All the same, whatever the boy had stolen, it didn’t explain the uncomfortable mood. Even Morialle was acting strange, as if the boy’s escape was merely a portent of more to come.

A week passed before Shalandra confronted her former tutor. “Morialle, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean, child?” Morialle asked as if he was trying, but failing to sound genuinely interested.

“That for a start. All week everyone around here has been acting like they’ve had something on their mind other than what they were doing. You’re not really listening to me, you’re just hearing me while your mind is thinking about whatever it is that has everyone on edge.”

Morialle seemed to suddenly focus and sighed deeply as he looked into the child’s eyes. “Shalandra, you know I love you and I would never purposefully keep anything from you, unless it were absolutely necessary to do so.” There was a clear shift in Morialle’s pitch that took Shalandra aback. “Your father and I have a lot of work to do, so please, practice your sword, keep to your studies and leave us be for the time being.”

The girl nodded and said she understood, though Morialle had already turned away and started silently mouthing something.

She was receiving the same treatment from every guard and staff member she spoke to and it was beginning to get on her nerves. Another week went by before Shalandra finally confronted her father. She was surprised to find him in his chambers, leafing through old sketches of her mother, one hand twitching nervously.

“Father?”

Jarn looked up in shock and dropped the pictures. “What is it, Shalandra?” he asked curtly.

“I’m sorry,” Shalandra said quickly, backing out of the door. “It can wait.”

“No,” Jarn said, his voice softened. “I’m sorry, Shalandra. Please, come in.”

Shalandra entered the room cautiously and sat on the bed next to her father. Jarn picked up the pictures and began searching through them again.

“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?” he said, stopping at a portrait of her mother.

“I don’t remember,” Shalandra said.

“Yes you do. And I know you miss her more than you let on. She may have betrayed us, Shalandra, but she was still your mother, and my wife. It is our love for her that makes her betrayal all the more difficult to bear.”

Shalandra looked more carefully at the portrait. She didn’t look a lot like her mother, but there were unmistakable similarities, most notably the eyes. Whatever either of them was feeling - however angry or upset they became - there was a softness to their deep brown eyes that belied any negative emotion. Shalandra considered it a nuisance, but her father assured her it was a blessing.

“Now,” he said, setting the pictures aside, “what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Shalandra took a deep breath. “What’s going on?” she asked sharply, and immediately cursed her tone. She was going for firm, but respectful.

Jarn’s smile grew and he pulled his daughter close. “Have you ever heard the story of the Karak Star?”

“I don’t…think so. Wasn’t Karak one of the dragon lords?”

“Actually, he was the son of one of the lords; Kraice. Kraice was lord of the Southern continent. One day an emerald star fell from the sky and almost tore his land apart, creating the chasm of the Triumph. The star held great power that Kraice believed could give him rule over all four kingdoms. With it he invaded the Western continent, where he faced the lord Trayal. It is said that the great lords fought hand-to-hand for over a decade and, while Trayal grew weary from the fight, Kraice’s power grew with that of the star for every drop of blood that was spilled.

“In the end, Trayal knew he would have to sacrifice himself in order to stop Kraice and he split apart the mountains of Carviann and dragged the treacherous lord into the eternal pit.

“Their master felled, Kraice’s army fled, but not before Kraice’s son, Karak, took up the star and vowed the Western kingdom would fall.

“Karak brought together his wisest mystics and had them devise him a ritual with which he could get his revenge. And so, on the century’s anniversary of the battle of Carviann, Karak returned to the great mountain range, having become one with the star.”

Shalandra stared up at her father, enthralled by the tale. “How did he join with it?”

Jarn laughed. “I wish I knew. Remember, Shalandra, this is all legend, but one thing is certain; the star with which Karak joined is real.”

“Then what happened to it? Does Karak still have it?”

Jarn took a deep breath and distant look cam over him. “Karak went to war against Trayal’s kingdom. The result was the massacre of over two-thirds of Trayal’s subjects. Among the survivors, however, were brother and sister Tyramol and Triani; the children of Trayal. Together they journeyed to the Mouth of the Earth to pray for the power to stop Karak. The Earth heard their prayer and granted unto them the powers of its life and its fury.”

“The Earth’s life and…fury?”

Jarn nodded. “Triani, the elder of the two, was granted the power of fire, which courses through the Earth’s veins. And to her younger brother, Tyramol, was granted the power of lightning; the embodiment of the Earth’s rage. With these powers they challenged Karak and, after a bitter struggle, he was finally stopped.

“Unable to destroy the star, Triani and Tyramol instead split it in two and disappeared, never to be heard from again. At least, not until a century ago when a young soldier by the name of Talund, along with his platoon and their power-hungry general, happened across a cave in the Carviann range and discovered Tyramol’s half of the star. Ever since then, Talund has kept that sacred shard hidden in his palace in Trayal Peak; the shard that that boy stole.”

Shalandra frowned. “But I though he’d stolen something from you, not from this Talund.”

“I tried to warn him. I told him the shard wasn’t safe with him, but he wouldn’t listen. So now I must secure the other half of the star and ensure no one else can abuse its power.”

*

Over the following month, the palace became increasingly chaotic. Morialle brought in scholars and historians from the surrounding towns and would lock himself away with them for days while they poured over maps and manuscripts covered in runes and symbols and illegible scrawling written as if by a dying hand.

The palace guard had been doubled and several scouting parties had been sent out to find even more soldiers and mercenaries to bolster the troop numbers.

An expedition party had been formed from soldiers and volunteers, and two cartographers spent an entire week tutoring them on the savage lands in the shadow of the Katta mountains, which separated the eastern and northern continents.

And, in his sacred chambers in the highest spire of the of the palace, Jarn Cal’Unne Velcine meditated.

*

Shalandra felt more comfortable now that she had an idea of what was going on (though she couldn’t get rid of the nagging feeling in the back of her mind that something was amiss), but she hated to be left out of the preparations. Her father had been away from the palace all-too regularly in the past year and she did miss him desperately. This next expedition was looking likely to be a long one.

Well, she thought to herself one sleepless night, as she listened to one of the volunteer groups out in the courtyard, excitedly discussing the coming journey, you’re not simply leaving me behind this time…

*

The day of the expedition arrived. All across the region of Serrit-Pryde celebrations were being held in honour of those about to set out. It wasn’t widely known why these men and women were heading across the sea to venture through treacherous lands, but no-one doubted it was for the good of the region; perhaps even the world.

On the steps of the Palace of the High Sorcerer, Jarn addressed a ten-thousand strong crowd, with his daughter at his side and his most trusted advisor watching over proceedings.

“My people,” he began in thunderous tone, “my eternal gratitude to you for supporting my men - your husbands, sons and fathers; wives, daughters and mothers - as we venture out towards unknown lands. Your faith in a cause you know so little about demonstrates your faith in me and, for this, I am in your debt. I promise you all that the power I bring back to our kingdom will ensure our safety and prosperity for centuries to come!”

Screaming the last, the crowd exulted with a roar and riotous applause. Jarn raised his arms high and bowed to his people before leaning down to kiss his daughter.

“I promise I’ll be back before you know it,” he whispered.

“I’ll be fine, father,” Shalandra replied coyly. “Take care.”

Jarn affectionately touched his forehead to hers for a moment, then turned to Morialle. “It is time.”

“Yes, my lord,” Morialle replied with a bow.

With a slight gesture of his hand, the town gates opened and the party of over five-hundred men and women followed the high sorcerer out onto the plains of Serrit-Pryde and down towards the coast.

With all eyes turned to the expedition, Shalandra slipped unnoticed back inside the palace. She quickly climbed eight flights of stairs to her room - a sprint she’d been practicing constantly for the last week - gathered up a small bundle of belongings along with her sword and a length of rope, and ran to the roof. She tied off the rope and waited for just the right moment, when her father was well off into the distance and the back-end of the army was beginning to emerge from the gate, then vaulted over the edge and half climbed; half slid down to the ground. From there it was easy to sneak into one of the food wagons, where she made herself comfortable. This would likely be her quarters for the majority of the journey.

This came up in a conversation over on pd's blog. It's a scene from my first novel (in its original form).

Quick bit of background: There are two types of vampire in my story; pure (born vampires) and impure (humans turned into vampires) ala Blade. Pure vampires can move around during the day, but are weekend by the sun (ala Dracula), whereas impure vampires are torched by it (ala Buffy...and pretty much everything else). This scene features one of each.

The air was filled with the gentle atmosphere of the music; the music given form in her movement as she danced. She swayed and drifted on the ripple of each note; embracing it and letting it carry her over to the bed.

Her lover sat, watching her as she moved; swaying as she swayed. The dull light creeping in through the covered window cast a soft beam across his pale skin, highlighting the muscles of his torso; deep and solid, yet so fragile to the touch.

She knelt at the foot of the bed, gazing at him; hunger and lust burning deep in her eyes, mirroring his own. Her gaze fell, tracing the curve of his chest and his tight stomach until her eyes came upon the thin line of light from the morning sun. A shudder ran through her body, both of fear and excitement.

She slowly reached out with her hand, passing it into the light. She moaned as it burned her skin, yet she wanted to touch. Her palm spread across his stomach as smoke rose from her hand.

He could feel the heat through her skin, and now through his. He clutched her hand tightly, suddenly, causing her to gasp at both the shock and the sting. A soft growl rose from his throat as he lunged at her, pulling her into him, throwing her down into the bed a hair’s breadth from where the light shone.

Her heart fluttered as he tested her trust in him. He licked her reddened flesh, cooling it with his tongue, slipping his fingers through hers and pinning her hand just outside the sun’s threatening beam. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Her free hand gripped the pillow by her head as she fought the instinct to free herself from him.

He rose one of her long, slender legs up to his face, ran his tongue up the back of her calf and down again, to the inside of her thigh and over the thin silk layer of her panties.

She moaned again, a quiet growl accenting the sound of her pleasure. She felt her body tightening, shivering as he released her arm and moved his hand to the small of her back.

His tongue moved to her other leg and she quivered at the brush of his lips.

And then he stopped. She opened her eyes to see him on his knees between her legs. His chest heaved under the weight of his breath. His mouth was held open by the length of his fangs. His black eyes pierced hers.

Her silk slip was torn away as if nothing more than lace, revealing her pale, slender body. He ran the razor sharp nail of one finger down the centre of her chest and along the contour of her small breasts. He stroked her flat, shuddering stomach, slowly, carefully, before he quickly swept his hand away, tarring the silk of her underwear; tossing the panties aside.

She groaned loudly as he raised her leg with one hand, pulled her hair back sharply with the other. His entry was deep and smooth. Her nails tore into the pillow and sheet on which she lay. She fought to hold open her eyes, fixing them to his; the blackness so deep as to be hypnotic to them both.

She arched her back and hooked her free leg round his waist, urging him, drawing him deeper. He swelled inside her as she became tighter around him.

His pace grew and grew as moaning turned to groaning; to snarls and growls.

Their mouths locked together. His tongue found hers, drawing it back into his mouth. He pierced her tongue with his fangs before allowing her to do the same. They tasted of each other’s breath and of each other’s blood.

They moaned in chorus. Their hearts raced with the pace of their act; each beat felt throughout their entire bodies as if it were one pulse flowing through them.

Her scream embraced his roar as they formed into a single, echoing sound. Their bodies froze; their breathing and their hearts stopped…

They pried open their eyes and starred at each other through the haze for a long moment. He moved in to kiss her and she reached up to meet him, but he suddenly vanished from her eyes. He was dragged swiftly away from her, thrown through the air and through the window. Sunlight filled the room and she dove to the shade behind the bed.

Born out of Creative Writing exercise on Characterisation

“I’ve changed my mind - dare!”

“No chance, Irene. We said at the beginning, no changing your mind just because you don’t like the question.”

Irene sagged in her seat, feigning a huff, and stared despondently into her cappuccino. She hated Truth or Dare, not because it was a childish drinking game, but because she knew, one of these days, if one of her friends stayed sober enough, the question would finally be asked.

She should have realised when she first got her own office that it was a bad idea to put her mid-initial on the door, but it looked so much more executive; ‘Irene P. Storey’.

“Well,” she said reluctantly, “alright. But I swear, first one to laugh spends the rest of the night with a tissue up their nose, soaking up the blood.”

The chuckle that rang around the group was noticeably muted. Irene had never struck out in anger, but none of her friends liked the idea of her making them an exception.

Irene took a deep breath, knocked back the last of her cappuccino like a shot of Dutch courage and said quickly, “Polaris.”

There was a long moment of silence. Terry and James bit their lower lips, tears welled in Rosie’s eyes and Stan and Charlene locked their jaws tight. Irene cast a sharp eye over the lot of them, expecting the worst. All it took was a quick, uncontrollable snort from Stan to open up the floodgate, and the whole table erupted with laughter. There was nothing particularly funny about the name itself, but it seemed so out of place on the burley young woman from the up-tight, middle-class family. What no-one but Irene new was her parents had had a hippy period during the 70s, when they spent the bulk of their time dancing in fields and worshiping the north star.

Terry was the first to speak. “Like the golf resort?” The look he received in return made him immediately wish he could crawl inside his own pocket.

Irene stood and went to the bar, trying to hold back her annoyance and embarrassment. She hadn’t noticed the three men at the bar listening in on the conversation.

“So, you a hippy, or what?” one of them said with a proud grin. His friends laughed.

Irene turned to him slowly. “You know, you’re not nearly as funny as your beer makes you think you are.”

The three men laughed again and the nearest threw his arm across Irene’s shoulders. “Aw, come on, Poly…” That sentence would remain unfinished for an entire month, until the wire frame holding his jaw together could finally be removed.

His friends immediately, and unadvisedly, reacted. One caught his sinking friend as the other stepped around them and made a grab for Irene. A sharp right unsteadied him and brought up his hands up, exposing his ribs to a left body hook. The instant he reacted and his right arm fell to his side, the best left cross in the national women’s light-heavy weight boxing division turn out the lights.

Blinded by shock and anger, the last of three men still conscious discarded his fallen friend and raged, “You broke his jaw, you fat…!”

*

Twenty minutes later, as the third ambulance pulled away, Irene was finishing up her statement to a handsome and pleasantly sympathetic policeman.

“Best left in your weight division?” he said, admiringly. He was young and fresh-faced, but burley. Irene could tell he was a man who could handle himself and he was definitely attracted to a woman who could the same.

“So I’m told,” she said with faux modesty, fluttering her eyebrows and flashing her perfect teeth. “Maybe you could come and see it some time?”

The policeman grinned. “I’d like that.”

Irene giggled girlishly and inwardly admonished herself for pushing her act a bit too far. “So, umm, what happens now?” she asked carefully.

The policeman seemed a little lost for a moment. “Oh! Well, I’ve got enough actual drunken brawls to deal with tonight and I reckon I can trust you to come down to the station in the morning to finish up the paperwork.”

“Oh, you are sweet.”

The policeman sighed and shrugged sheepishly. “It’s a curse, I know.”

Irene said goodbye to her policeman like a smitten schoolgirl before returning to her friends who’d been watching the whole scene, desperate not to laugh.

“Slut,” Rosie chuckled.

“Bite me,” Irene replied with a grin.

My head’s wet… That was the first thought that occurred to me when I woke up. I could feel cold liquid trickling down my cheeks and my forehead. I slowly pried open my eyes and was slightly confused to find it wasn’t raining. More confusing, however, was my position; lying on the dew-soaked grass, looking up at the sky, with a rock digging into my back.

Above me, the craggy face of the quarry wall stretched beyond my focus, cut off at a fuzzy, oddly inverted horizon. I felt dizzy and had to rest my eyes.

A moment later - at least, it seemed like a moment later - I saw my friend, Sean, running towards me, crying. Ahead of him was his mam, looking red and flustered and mouthing something illegible. I tried to get up off the uncomfortable rock and damp grass, but she quickly and firmly pushed me back down and insisted I didn’t move. “Angela, why’s my had wet?” I asked, but she didn’t seem to hear me.

Suddenly there was a policeman in front of me - visible as little more than a florescent blur against the grey sky - talking on his radio. “About twenty-foot,” he said. I think there was more, but I couldn’t quite make it out.

“Ooh, that’ll be nice, won’t it?” said Angela. “You might be going in the helicopter.”

I think the policeman said something about wind and horses, but my hearing kept fading in and out, as if I was bobbing in the ocean. There were muffled voices and blurry faces all around me. I was uncomfortable, my head was still wet and I was beginning to shiver from the cold. As appealing as a helicopter ride is to any nine year-old, I really just wanted to go to sleep.

When I woke up again, my mam was running towards the party. I waved and said, “Hiya, mam,” but she was a little too excited to hear me. In the distance an ambulance was cautiously making its way down a grassy hill. I should’ve came down that way, I thought…or maybe said. I’m not sure which.

At least I was feeling more comfortable. The pointy rock had turned into a soft stretcher and the dull sky had been replaced by a shiny white ceiling. There were a few new faces around me - none of which I recognised - and a loud squealing in my ears, like an emergency siren. It took me a little while to realise I’d somehow ended up in the ambulance, but I wasn’t awake long enough to enjoy the ride, or find out why my wrist was suddenly hurting.

The next few hours went by in a haze of boring waiting rooms and uncomfortable x-ray benches, all reeking of stale blood and cheap disinfectant. I was surrounded by doctors and nurses sporting beatific smiles and commenting on how lucky I was. I didn’t feel very lucky. I felt tired and sore and in need of my bed. I brightened a little when someone started wrapping cold, gooey stuff around my aching wrist, but the exhaustion soon persisted. I apparently made it to the car under my own steam, but all I remember between the hospital and the welcome relief of my bed is the terrible discomfort of hitting a speed-bump in my mam’s old Mini.

The next morning, events of the previous day struck me with sharp clarity. I’d gone to Sean’s house straight from school. We had dinner then went out to kick a ball around in a nearby field until it began to get dark. Full of the joys of the weekend, we raced home along the edge of the old quarry. That’s when I slipped. I had a vague recollection of grabbing something - a branch or a root - on the way down, but it didn’t hold. Then nothing.

It was probably a good thing I’d spent the rest of that evening in a state of shock. If the pain I felt the next morning was merely an after-effect, I was happier not knowing how I’d have felt had I been fully conscious. The morning after the night before?

Strangely, that day was ten-times worse than the previous. I was taken back to the hospital for a few tests and a fresh x-ray and for a proper cast to be put on my fractured wrist (the one I already wore was apparently preliminary). There were a few phone calls and visits from family and friends later in the day, but my head was spinning from weariness and pain-killers.

The following Monday my story appeared in the local rag. Of course, in true Echo fashion, the article was a muddle of fact and hearsay. To paraphrase:

“On Friday night, 10 year-old Michael Brockbanks of Sunderland fell 40ft from Claxheugh Rock on the bank of the Wear, breaking his arm and his leg. A police spokesman said, ‘Michael was fortunate not to have fallen from the top of the cliff, and if he’d have landed on nearby rocks, his injuries could have been much worse’…”

I wouldn’t be ten for another six months, the cliff I fell from is nowhere near the Wear, I did land on a heap of rocks and my injuries weren’t as bad as they made out. Local journalism at its finest.

It seems, however, my own response was equally inconsistent. The expectation was that the experience would make me timid, careful, possibly even afraid of heights. “Bet you won’t be going near any ladders for a while,” my dad joked. In truth, I’ve since had a love for heights, and leaping from them whenever the opportunity arises. It’s strange the way things work out.

I was fifteen years old when I became cold. It was a Friday night and my mind was full of the usual things that kept me awake at night: simple homework that wasn’t due for another few days; financial drought; not knowing what to do with my weekend; not wanting to return to school when it was done. Strange things to stress about on a Friday night, but things my mind simply wouldn’t let go of. Things that would often keep me awake ‘til 1am and wake me again at four. Things I was determined to let go of; to ignore; to suppress.

And so, that’s exactly what I did. Sat in bed on a Friday night, by the light of my TV playing away to itself, I suppressed everything.

When Monday came, all was the same. The homework was due, I had naught but my lunch money on me and the names continued as they always did, but I didn’t care. My friends and I rambled away about our weekends and whatever TV show was the main topic of conversation for that month, and I laughed and joked and played along as I always had, but I didn’t care.

At first, there was no repercussion at all, but as time went on and the GCSEs drew near, I approached them as I did everything else in my life; on autopilot, with only a distant awareness of their importance. My A-levels I chose because others were choosing them. I failed. I accepted a university course that held absolutely no interest for me, simply because it was offered. I even moved away from home for the first time, with absolutely no sense of the significance of such a change.

However, a significant change it was. For the first time in years something began to seep through. Slowly at first: brief glimpses of emotion that caught me off guard, but quickly sank away; genuine enjoyment as opposed to the faux smile I presented to those closest to me; even my first real crush (beyond the usual boyhood fantasies). None of these things lasted, but when they hit, they hit hard.

Then, without warning, something hit that simply could not be suppressed. That single bolt of emotion that hits harder than any other, cracking the shell and releasing everything. Five years worth of suppressed emotion is not an easy thing to deal with.

Suddenly I was wide open. In the blink of an eye, I went from feeling nothing to feeling everything, ten-fold. For a while, it was a fantastic feeling. My friends were no longer just the people I orbited; I truly cared for them. I started to enjoy the freedom of being away from home. I started to enjoy nights out, chatting endlessly about whatever topics come up when drunk, and dancing madly when we hit the clubs.

But there was a flip-side. I was never simply happy; I was elated. I was never simply angry; I was enraged.

Very quickly, it all became too much. I couldn’t continue with the course, which frightened me. Without the loan, I couldn’t afford rent. I tried to get a job, but I had no idea where to place myself. Finally I had to return home, away from the friends I had made; the friends who meant so much. Unemployed, broke and lonely, I eventually fell to depression. At my lowest point I would sit my room, wrapped in my blanket, drinking coffee and vegetating in front of daytime television.

Fortunately, circumstances intervened and I found myself meeting with a careers’ councillor. Given my questioning nature and analytical mind (as he perceived it), he suggested some form of research. It was something I had never considered, but I looked at my options and came across a foundation year back at my old university. Above all else, I saw it as an opportunity to be close to my friends.

The course was again a poor choice. I again found myself broke and I again found myself forced to move back home, but it was while at university for the second time that I started writing. And it was midway through my first novel that I finally realised what I wanted to do with my life.

Unfortunately, when broke and unemployed, writing isn’t an ideal career choice. For two years I shuffled between remedial jobs and unemployment, never feeling settled, always distracted by thoughts of my friends, my loneliness and my desperate need to write down the never ending stream of stories running through my head.

But, despite everything, 2005 started well. Two of my friends were due back from a ‘round-the-world trip. I’d made another online who, in spite of her living in Cambridge, I was becoming very close to. I even made it to London to visit an old friend there working towards a Masters in reproductive health. I was slowly becoming aware of a change; as if, for the first time since I was a child, I was finding some form of contentment within myself.

That summer, my mother died of cancer.

A terminal disease is a peculiar thing. Unlike any other, the outcome is a certainty, no matter what words of hope or comfort a doctor might offer. Many people will tell you to remain positive - that there’s always a chance - but that does nothing to silence the voice in the back of your mind, telling you how it will end. When that day did finally come, the grief - the pain - was numbed somewhat by the unusual sense of relief that it was finally over with; relief that she hadn’t had to suffer for long.

My dad told people I was stolid throughout. How else could I be? I had my private moments, of course, but what good would I do the rest of the family by breaking down in front of them.

Over the next few months, I slowly got used to her not being around. It was a trying and tiring time, but one I got through with the help of my friends.

Then, towards the end of the year, the tables were turned. It was a bizarre experience to go so soon from being comforted by a friend, to having to comfort them. They asked me if it ever got easier; if the pain ever actually went away.

All I could say was not to wait for the pain to go away, rather to accept it - to embrace it - and as time went on, it would be easier to deal with. I honestly couldn’t tell her whether or not the time would come that it would end.

2005 was a difficult year - I lost more than I gained - but as I entered 2006, I knew for the first time in my life who I was.

Sat upon my bed, forlorn
Scribing of things come and gone
From solemn dusk through early dawn
While mist encroaches on me

I remember all that brought me here
To this place, centre of my fear
Forces my brow to crease and eye to tear
My heart spurs me on to flee

But ‘tis my punishment to be here sat
My uncontrolled rage that sealed at last
A fate, a curse of my past
Nevermore to let me sleep

I snapped and all control was lost
I slapped her and over table tossed
I punched and kicked till she was dust
Decaying there before me

And in this hell myself I find
To this bed I’m now confined
To trace in blood words from my mind
Never again to be free

And the mist rises higher, passes through my lips
And graces my shivering fingertips
Filling my soul till it is finally ripped
And all I once was, taken from me

In this padded cell I am left to rot
A single barred window and piss-stained cot
All that was me now shattered and lost
Gone with my once beloved Sophie

A river divides us
Nothing more
A river between our bodies
Swirling with forgotten souls

Calm are the waters
Not a ripple breaks the surface
Nor wave rocks the bank
No predators to attack
No current to sweep me away
Distance seems the only barrier

For years I’ve waded in those waters
Venturing ever deeper
Unafraid of being pulled under
For years I’ve wondered
What it would be like
To drift upon the surface
Trusting in the tide to take me to you
As it took you so long ago

Many are haunted by the boatman’s lipless smile
As he carries them away on their final journey
From which never to return
Many would do all they could
Never to leave this shore
To stay forever; immortal
Afraid of what might greet them on the other side

But I am ready for my journey
I know what will greet me
When finally I set sail

I long to lay in your arms
To hear your voice
To look into your eyes
To feel our hearts beating again as one

At last the boatman calls my name
And beckons me unto his charge
Through the mist I see your smile
On the breeze I hear your voice
And with this last draw of my blade
I fall into your embrace

Sat here in a smoky bar
In the twilight of another day
The whiskey in this muggy jar
Keeps on calling out my name

“Another, barman, please?” I ask
Before I down my drink in one
I see his brow furrow as he fills my glass
But I’ll polish off more before I’m done

I raise my glass to toast your health
The barman’s, his cat’s and that of the day
Then I swallow one more and slam my glass down
And feel my aching head sway

Night time comes and darkness falls
Twilight lost out to the moon
“One for the road,” to the barman I cry
“It shall be my bedtime soon”

So I drink and I belch and I stand and I sway
And I slur “I don’t feel quite right”
But I know all will be well when I see your smile
And hold you close to me tonight

But then outside the bar, to the clear night I stare
The stars are on the move, I think…
And suddenly morning seeps in and my head seems to scream
“Oh bugger! Another night in the clink”

And so homeward bound, haggard and fuzzy
I feel almost in need of a hearse
And I pass by that same bar and imagine your frown
And hope there’s change for Dutch courage in my purse…

I’ve never known the world to be so silent; so dark. As if all had suddenly come to a dead stop: a stillness so encompassing as to even halt the light.

Air sits in my lungs waiting to be exhaled. Blood fills my veins yet refuses to flow. Thoughts that had for so long coursed through my mind, sleep peacefully; quietly.

I try to look around, but there’s simply nothing to see, not so much as the shape of an object hiding in the darkness.

Where am I? What is this place? How did I get here? Even these questions are lost as soon as they’re asked.

“We hoped in time there would be something.”

Who said that?! Said what…? Was something said…?

Silence again. And now warmth. So much warmth. Like being tucked into bed by a doting parent. A kiss on the forehead; soft as if in fear of halting the passage to sleep.

“It’s been so long… Too long.”

So sad that voice. So full of regret, of pain. But how could pain be felt here? There’s nothing to hurt; nothing to wound; no cause for sadness...

“We’d held so much hope.”

...or for tears. Don’t cry.

But I recognise that crying! I’ve heard it before. A long time ago. When I first arrived here…wherever here is.

I’m lying down. I feel it now. Not just that! I can feel my heart beating! Feel the air in my lungs! Hear the thoughts in my head…

“You are absolutely sure this is what you want?

…I can even hear that voice!

“Yes…we’re sure.”

And that one! I recognise that one! My mother. Why does she sound so sad? Is something wrong? But I can hear again! And I can feel… After so long I can feel.

“Goodbye… My darling son.”

‘Goodbye’? Why goodbye? Where are you going, mum? Where have the sounds gone? The voices? The thoughts?

All’s still again. What was all that? Where am I now?

I try to look around, but there’s simply nothing to see, not so much as the shape of an object hiding in the darkness.

Air sits in my lungs waiting to be exhaled. Blood fills my veins, yet refuses to flow. Thoughts that had for so long coursed through my mind, sleep peacefully; quietly.

I’ve never known the world to be so silent; so dark. As if all has suddenly come to a dead stop: a stillness so encompassing as to even halt the light.

The still waters of Victoria Harbour were brought eerily to life by the burning skies above Hong Kong. It was the last of the great cities to fall and, if not so tragic, she’d have sworn it was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen.

Her whole body quivered, not at the destruction she now witnessed, but at the consequences she knew they would each have to face.

“What have we done?” Her voice was little more than a horse whisper; her throat dry from the overwhelming emotion wracking her body.

Her lover’s arms wrapped tightly around her slight frame and he spoke so softly to her she could have felt at peace, if only she could close her eyes. “We cannot be held accountable for the prejudices of our people.”

She lifted her head from his chest and looked into his shimmering, steely-blue eyes. “No, but we must pay the price for it.”

He said nothing and just stared into her dark almond eyes, so vibrant and full of wonder compared to those of his own species. In fact, compared to any he’d seen throughout his travels and his innumerable encounters with the innumerable species of the galaxy.

In only two centuries he’d ridden the crest of a thousand stars and visited hundreds of planets. He’d formed pacts with kings, studied alongside minds of infinite wisdom, watched a solar system die and a new one born. And yet, nothing he’d experienced could compare to those stunning almond eyes. They at once encapsulated beauty, passion, wisdom, love…and deep sorrow.

She ran her hand gently through his long white hair, which reacted to her touch by darkening ever so slightly. His breath shuddered as the sensation coursed through his body.

His cool breath on her lips was pure ecstasy and his powerful heartbeat filled her chest.

They kissed deeply and, if only for that brief moment, it was all over. The death; the destruction…the war. It was as if none of it had ever happened.

But all too soon, the grim reality pierced both of their hearts as their lips parted for the final time.

He would ask her to go with him if he thought for a moment she would betray her people. She would ask him to stay if she thought he could abandon his duty.

Instead, all they could do was gaze into each other’s eyes as the transport beam took him and carried him up to his ship, still and silent on the edge of the atmosphere.

She couldn’t turn away from the dreadnaught, not even when she answered her communicator.

“Commander? They’re primed and ready.”

“Fire,” she said without a moment’s hesitation.

Behind her, three enormous cannon barrels - as large as the skyscrapers of old - rose from the depths of the harbour and locked onto the alien dreadnaught.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she closed her eyes.

But the cannons did not fire, instead erupting in a ball of white flame that swept over the island like a tidal wave.

*

“I’m sorry,” he said as he opened his eyes.

For a moment he couldn’t take his finger from the trigger, until his captain’s voice was raised.

“Gunner?”

“Yes ma’am…

“Attention all ships. Final wave in three…

“Two…

“One…”

I feel strangely grateful of the sodden ground: the thick mud covering many of the wounds of each beleaguered corpse; soaking the blood deep down. I am neither drawn by the scent nor tempted by the sight. I think nothing of feeding from the carrion of my brother’s assault.

Why would they not listen? Why did it have to go so far? ‘Whore of Satan! Bitch of the devil!’ they screamed and screamed at me. Why? What did I do to them?

Perhaps Gabriel was right. Perhaps we are not to coexist. “We are so much greater than they could ever imagine becoming.”

No. I refuse to believe that. If only he could see them as I do. If only he could see their weakness and their mortality are the very things that make them great. Feeble as they may be, they are at once capable of atrocities of which even my brother could not conceive, and acts of such beautiful self-sacrifice as to make their god weep.

If only I had had the chance to explain this to them.

“You honestly believe it will make a difference?”

“It may, or it may not. But you must let me try!”

The heartbeat in which he came to his decision seemed to stretch to a lifetime. He looked down at me knelt in the dirt before him. In his eyes his compassion for me shone. But beyond that, deep within his soul, I could see nothing but contempt.

I tried to stop him. I cried his name, begged him to stop.

But he refused. His contempt served to fuel his bloodlust. One by one he struck them down: swift; meticulous; brutal. Each scream, each cry and plea for mercy only enraged him further.

The last of them fell as the first cry still shook the village.

“Please! Please Gabriel!”

My voice was lost to him now. I have heard my brother refer to them as cattle, and as such he slaughtered entire families. He was to be satiated and I was to be cursed with the vision of so much life simply stripped away.

It has been a year since I came into my power, and yet, at this moment I feel weaker than ever before in my short life.

“Tell me Josephine, would they have so wept for you?”

You could never understand, Gabriel. I see that now.

And in this moment my heart is torn asunder for I know, one day I shall be forced to destroy my own brother.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m having a really bad week.”

Strange as it may sound, I think a part of me actually expected him to respond.

I take another draw on my cigarette as I reflect on how bad a week it has been, but I can’t think of anything specific. I was just in a slump; one of those down moods where nothing in particular is wrong, but nothing seems quite right. Apparently, my kind are prone to such moods. The depressed genius: A sorry cliché.

Work was light; money was thin; my cigarillo case was now empty. Little things, I suppose, but it’s those little things that make me question the worth of it all.

Even as a kid it was no different. Pending homework; petty name-calling; missing last night’s Red Dwarf. Any one of them was enough to keep me awake through the night. If not for alcohol and nicotine, I’d probably still be an insomniac.

Not that I class a dead body sprawled across my bed as a ‘little thing’, but it’s certainly representative of my state of mind.

“Don’t get me wrong, I can see you’ve had a bad night, but at least you’re not wide awake at 3am.”

I finish off my cigarette just as the familiar flashing blue lights fill my bedroom. I wonder if they’d class this as smoking in the workplace… As if I didn’t already have enough to answer for.

“This is the police! Please remain calm. We are coming in!” A moment later a nervous pair of eyes peer into my room.

“I did hope the open door would be invitation enough that you wouldn’t have to announce yourselves to the entire building.”

Sgt. Colin Ambrose spies the body in the dim light and hangs up his gun. “Jesus, Rayne, did you have to.”

I give a non-committal shrug. “The knife’s his. He was rather insistent on me having it, but I had to forcibly decline.”

“So we’ll not find your prints on it, or find one missing from your rack?” I shake my head. “Fair enough,” says Ambrose. I’m not sure if he genuinely accepts my story or if he just wants to get out of here. “I’m still going to have to take you down to the station to make an official statement.”

“Yeah. Thought you might.”

I stand and stretch and my joints creak.

Ambrose looks me up and down and cocks a suspicious eyebrow. “You always sleep fully clothed?”

I nod towards the table behind him and he finds my pyjama pants already sealed up in a zip bag. “I hate those plastic overalls you lot give out.”

*

The next two hours pass dreamily by as I recite the same statement three times for three different detectives, all investigating a spate of robberies in the area. There seemed to be no connection between the victims and descriptions of the perpetrators differed greatly, but the modus operandi remained the same: Between 2am and 3am; in and out through an open window; not a single print, hair or fibre left at the scene; just enough taken to be carried by one person.

Until now no one had confronted the burglar. Considering how mine reacted, that’s probably for the best.

The door to the interrogation room opens and yet another detective enters, sipping coffee and carrying a case-file.

“Wow, they even dragged the boss out of bed for this?”

Regional Commander Bernhard throws the file down on the desk and takes a seat opposite me. “No rest for the wicked, right Aaron?”

“We’re not wicked, Johnny, we’re just bitter old men.”

“You’re thirty-two.”

“Yes, well, right now I feel old.”

“Hmm,” Bernhard says with a nod. “You want a drink before we get back into this?”

“Thank you, no. I’ve tasted the coffee in this place, remember?”

“You get used to it after a few years.”

“I never did.”

“No. But then, you weren’t exactly here long enough, were you?”

“It wasn’t the fault of the beverages, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Bernhard almost laughs. He really is tired, I think. He leans back in his chair with a deep sigh, looking me dead in the eye. “So, you gonna fill in the blanks for me?”

“Blanks?”

He leans forward, opens the file and reads; “‘I woke up and saw the burglar. He lunged at me, brandishing a knife. I parried and the blade ended up in his chest.’”

“Pretty concise, if you ask me.”

“Aha… A seventeen year-old kid lunges at you with a knife and you almost break his wrist plunging the thing into his chest.”

I clear my throat and lean forward on the table, folding my arms in front of me. “What are you trying to say, John?”

John reflects my pose and makes an extra effort to speak as clearly as possible. “The last time someone attacked you with a knife, you took it off him and put it back in his pocket before you beat him unconscious.”

“You think I overreacted?”

He takes a deep breath and turns his eyes down to the table. “I think there isn’t a court in the land that will see this as anything more than self-defence…but they don’t know you like I do, Aaron.”

I nod. “Yes, I nearly broke his wrist. I twisted his arm as far as I could and still he wouldn’t let go of the knife. I tried to force his arm up for a little extra leverage and at the same time, he dropped his weight on me…

“I didn’t know he was just a kid,” I add, as if it will give some kind of reassurance.

“Then why didn’t you just say that?”

“I never used to have to explain myself to you, John.”

“You never worried me like this before, Aaron. Just tell me: you did try to disarm him didn’t you? You did everything you could not to kill him?”

I look Commander Bernhard dead in the eye again and try to give an automatic response, but the words won’t come…

Bernhard closes his eyes and stretches his neck left and right. “Get yourself booked into a hotel, Aaron. Do what you have to do to sleep until tomorrow morning and we’ll see if you can give me a straight answer then.”

*

Dawn has broken by the time I get out of the station. It’s early for a phone call, but I’m keen to get started.

“Juliet?”

“Romeo?” the voice at the other end replies sleepily.

I manage to crack a smile. “Sorry, he’s probably still sleeping.”

“So was I,” Juliet says through a yawn. “What time is it?”

“It’s about dawn-ish. Listen, I need you to do a press check for me?”

“At dawn-ish?”

“Have breakfast first, then meet me at the office.”

“Yeah, yeah. What am I checking for?”

“There’ve been a bunch of burglaries recently. I want to know if there’s an official line on some kind of link yet.”

“Fine, I’ll have a look.”

“Thanks. Oh, and Juliet?”

“What?”

“Who’s this Romeo?”

“Piss off, Aaron.”

“Yes boss,” I say with a grin and Juliet hangs up without a reply.

I breathe the cool, morning air and feel it clearing my lungs and lightening the load on the back of my head. I already know it’s going to be a long day.

Animals scattered and small trees fell as Wall thundered through the forest. Not once did the orc dare glance over his shoulder. It was enough that he could feel his pursuer gaining on him. With every step he anticipated a hand clutching his arm or a blade piercing his spine.

Wall’s heart sank when he reached the ravine. This was it. He could jump, laying his life in the hands of the fates, or he could make his stand. Fearful though he was, Wall was an orc nonetheless, and there was little in this world more dangerous than a cornered orc. He found an old tree with particularly thick roots and rived the largest from the earth. He held his makeshift club behind him, ready to swing, and he waited…

*

They had made camp in a small clearing, surrounded by dense woodland. They tied up the horses, made a fire and sat, swigging ale and lauding over the day’s bounty.

Wall and Grit had had more profitable days, but this one had been no less satisfying, despite their meagre haul. The strange human with the white streaks in his dark hair was skilled and unusually strong for one of his stature, and the two thieves took great pride in besting him. His bow was unusual, but basic and his boots and robe were nothing special, but it would all bring a respectable price.

The orcs were laughing and singing and heavily into their merriment when a rock struck Grit on the side of the head. The pair looked at the rock, then to the deep shadows of the wood. The white-haired human appeared suddenly, collided hard with Grit and was gone again before either orc could react.

Wall watched his friend struggle to keep his balance, then fall backwards into the fire. Grit screamed and rolled around frantically, trying to put out the flames.

Wall reached for his club, but found it missing. He scanned the campsite confused. Grit hurriedly got back to his feet and readied himself for another assault.

For a long time all was silent but for the crackle of the fire. The orcs breathed a cautious sigh of relief, accented by a loud thud. Grit slumped to the ground, unconscious. Wall looked around frantically, but saw and heard nothing. It took only a second to make the decision to run.

*

Wall’s breathing had shallowed. Silence had descended on him once more and he’d lost track of how long he’d stood in readiness. He couldn’t see more than a few feet into the woods and his eyes were beginning to play tricks on him. The slightest movement in the shadows filled him with dread. It was more than he could stand.

Wall cast his club aside and chose to take his chances in the ravine.

*

Grit opened his eyes to a black sky punctured by coloured spots. It took him a few moments to focus. He then sat bolt upright in shock as the memory filtered in.

“Glad to have you back with us.”

Grit turned sharply to see the white-haired human casually putting on his boots. He’d already retrieved his sword.

“Where is Wall?” Grit asked, expecting the worst.

The human shrugged. “He ran off right after you fell asleep.”

“Who is you?”

“I is Rain,” the human answered with a mocking smile. “And I is not pleased you stole from me.”

“Is what Grit does,” the orc protested, feebly. “Grit and Wall is thieves.”

“Grit and Wall is not very good thieves.” Rain drew his sword and walked slowly towards the orc with a wicked glint in his eye. “Grit and Wall should find a new career before Grit and Wall steal from someone less forgiving than Rain.”

Grit’s eyes crossed as the point of the sword touched his nose. All he could do was nod, carefully.

“Now, if Grit would be so kind as to provide me with food and ale, I will be on my way.”

The orc adopted his friendliest grin. “Grit have fine clubs if Rain would like?”

“Thank you, no,” Rain said, glancing over his shoulder, “but you could untether that fine-looking unicorn for me.”

The town of Peakview glistened in the dawn sun. The night’s storm had washed the cobbled streets clean, giving the street cleaners a much-appreciated morning off. The greengrocer put out his fruit and vegetables while bakers and butchers opened their doors, releasing the inviting scent of their produce into the morning air. Children crowded the streets with their parents left behind in their doorways, waving them on their way to the school-house before setting off for their daily earnings, or to prepare for the coming festivities.

Rising above it all, Trayal Peak; a snow-capped mountain named for the mythical dragon lord who was said to have ruled over the region long before the human settlers arrived. Legend told of a great battle fought between the mightiest clans of the species resulting in the leaders of both armies falling on this very mountain range. Few believed in the legend anymore, but the Festival of the Dragon War was a joyous celebration none were willing to let go of.

High up on the peak, two small figures, wrapped in heavy wools and thick cloaks, huddled in the shade of an outcrop until a vicious blast of frozen air passed them by. In time one turned to the other and nodded, and the two companions darted from the outcrop and headed further on down the narrow trail at speed.

The shorter and more slender of the two thrust a grapple into the cliff-face, veered off the trail and danced over the jagged rocks and sizable drops that made the route almost impassable, trailing a thin line of rope behind him.

The larger of the two skidded to a halt and took hold of the rope. He watched as his companion made it easily to the next path before following slowly and with utmost care. On reaching his companion’s side, he gave the rope a firm tug and reeled in the grapple.

“The watcher?” asked the slower companion.

His nimble friend looked towards the next peak in the range, some two miles to the east. “Asleep,” he replied simply.

“Good. Then on we go.”

“He looks very warm and cosy.”

“Don’t start, Varin. How was I supposed to know it would be this cold up here?”

“Basic physics, Marcus,” Varin said, still looking longingly at the guard sleeping comfortably at his post on the easterly mountain. “If you had told me we would be scaling the highest peak in the realm, I would have told Cal’Unne to plant his most precious shard in his most precious crevasse.”

Marcus sighed. “Look, the palace is only another three-hundred or-so metres down. The longer we stand here arguing, the closer we get to frostbite. So, shall we?”

Varin turned to Marcus, slightly annoyed that the bandanna he wore to protect his nose from the cold was hiding his expression.

“After you,” he said, gesturing on down the trail, adding to himself, Perhaps we shall get lucky, be caught and thrown into a toasty little dungeon.

A short time later, the two companions stood on the southernmost spire of the palace. Varin stared over the edge, less interested in the palace itself than the clouds below.

“You are certain this will work? That window looks closed and heavy to me.”

“It opens inwards. Would you have some faith? How many times have we practiced this?”

“How many times did we practice the last one? ‘Flawless’ you said.”

“It was flawless.”

“It almost killed me!”

“Aha! That’s the operative word isn’t it - ‘almost’.”

“Marcus, I broke my arm.”

“Details, Varin. We pulled it off… Okay, you pulled it off. But this will be better, I promise. I’m older and, more importantly, wiser now. You seem to be forgetting I was only nine years old last time.”

“It was eight months ago!”

“Exactly. I promise you, Varin, I have left nothing to chance this time…

“Besides, if we don’t do it, we don’t eat.”

“Fine. But if you missed anything, you will be the one doing the jump next time!”

Before Marcus could utter a word of protestation, Varin slammed the grapple into the stone of the spire and vaulted over the edge.

*

Silence seemed to echo through the expansive halls of Trayal Palace. Bethany Woodstock enjoyed listening to the silence, so dense as to feel almost tangible. Her body moved only with her measured breaths, the rest content to laze against the wall by one of the long, elaborate tapestries decorating the hall.

The tapestries were the only real colour in the stone and wood hall. Each depicted a different scene in the history of Peakview. For such a small town it had an extensive history. Most, like the battle between the dragons, remembered only as fanciful legend, but some too fantastic in truth to be disjointed by fancy.

Bethany had worked many guard posts, but this was by far her favourite. The palace was so inaccessible even the most hardened, marauding tribe of barbarians were willing to pass up the rumoured riches held within its walls in favour of a few petty food-thefts in the village to see them good as they charged over the range.

Both the palace and the village below were for those far more content with existing rather than actual living. In the two years Bethany had guarded the palace’s south wing, nothing so much as a breaking window had led to her doing any actual work.

Hence, much to her embarrassment, she screamed when she heard the smashing glass.

*

Marcus winced at the sound of the breaking glass.

“Silent,” he grumbled. “All he has to do is be silent! Here I am, stuck out in the cold and he’s down there causing a ruckus and ruining a perfectly calculated plan!”

With a sigh and a disappointed shake of his head, Marcus turned to the large, heavily bolted door into the spire. “These things are always so cumbersome.” He removed his gloves, breathed a few warming breaths onto his fingertips and rubbed his hands together.

*

“‘I have left nothing to chance this time…’” Varin moaned as he brushed broken glass from his cloak. Next time, Marcus, you won’t have to jump!

Behind a door to Varin’s side, footsteps came quickly. He looked around at the wide corridor for a place to hide, but there was nothing between him and the doors at either end, both of which too far to get to in time.

The door flew open and Bethany dashed through brandishing her sword. She quickly glanced left and right, but found nothing but the broken windowpane. She stared at the empty window for a few moments, wondering what could have caused it to break. She had heard of wayward birds flying into windows if they were blown off course and disorientated by a strong wind, but where was its body? Perhaps it survived and merely flew back out of the window.

Bethany shrugged. “Whatever it was, I’m not cleaning it up.” The guard sheathed her sword and walked back through the door.

The instant before it was fully closed, Varin dropped from the top of it. He pressed his ear to the door to listen for fading footsteps. Instead, the wood splintered an inch from his nose and three-feet of sharp steal appeared before him. The door was pushed open wide and Varin found himself pinned between it and the wall.

Bethany peeked around the door and smiled at Varin. “Hello there, little one. Can I help you?”

“Um, no. Thank you. I was just…looking for the privy. If you’ll excuse me…”

Before the guard could respond, Varin ducked beneath her blade and slid out from behind the door. Bethany withdrew her sword from the wood and pointed the tip to the shadow beneath the hood.

“Nimble little hobbit, aren’t you,” she said.

“You have no idea,” Varin replied. He leaned back, drawing the guard into lunging forwards, twisted to one side and sprang up onto the blade, weighing it down into the stone floor.

Bethany was dragged to her knees and looked up in astonishment at the small, slender figure, balancing on the edge of her sword. Varin drew back his hood and lowered the bandanna, revealing long, white hair, framing a gentle, child’s face, enormous brown eyes and pointed ears.

Smiling softly, he said, “And please do not call me a hobbit. Note the proportionate feet.”

With that, the young elf skipped off the blade and swept through the door, slamming it closed and barring it from his side.

Bethany dragged her sword from the floor, sliced through the door and followed at a pace.

*

The door into the spire slammed shut and Marcus shivered. He was only halfway through picking the lock when the wind rose and the temperature dropped. His hands were numb.

After a few minutes, when he felt the ice around his lungs thaw, he crept down the spiral stairs. At the bottom of the staircase was another locked door, but without the cold to hinder him, Marcus made short work of picking the lock.

He slipped his picks back into his cloak and peered into the corridor. The only sign of Varin was the broken glass. Otherwise there was silence.

Suddenly he heard raised voices and footsteps heading his way at speed. He ducked back through the door and closed it just enough so he could still peek through a slim crack.

*

Two more guards had joined the chase. Capturing the young elf was like trying to catch a startled chicken. His natural speed and agility coupled with his small frame meant there wasn’t a corner or pincer he couldn’t slip out of, diving through legs, dancing along walls, sliding under tables and chairs when the chase passed through a dining room.

But Varin was getting anxious. If he ever hoped to escape the palace, he would first have to lose his pursuers. And there was the matter of the shard.

Eventually, Varin managed to guide the pursuit back to the corridor where the whole thing had began. He grabbed a shard of glass from the floor and leapt through the window.

The three guards were barely able to stop themselves following him out. They watched on, astonished as the elf ran down the palace’s outer wall, the shard scraping along the stone acting as the only thing stopping him leaving the wall and plummeting thousands of feet to his death. He quickly reached another window a few floors down and scrambled inside. The guards could only look at each other in bewilderment.

Varin stood perfectly still on the solid floor for a moment, unable to breathe. He looked at the shard of glass in his hand, then out of the window and down at the town far, far below.

“That was incredibly stupid,” he told himself carefully. “Do not do it again.”

The young elf blinked his large eyes sharply and took in his surroundings, absently slipping the shard of glass into a pocket in his cloak. He was in what appeared to be another dining room, with a long table in the centre surrounded by two-dozen high-backed chairs. He’d entered through the room’s only window and made a firm decision to leave by the door at the opposite end of the table.

*

Marcus had watched with equal astonishment to the guards when his friend leapt through the window. When the guards left with no small sense of trepidation to continue their pursuit, Marcus emerged from his hiding place and looked through the window. Varin had often shown some incredible feats of agility, but that was something else!

But the boy-thief didn’t dwell on his friend’s abilities long. There was money to be made!

Southampton, NY - December 19th

Gabriel Callaghan
I allow the old man a single tear and feel it freeze on my cheek. Grief isn’t exactly a part of my emotional repertoire, but I suppose I owe him something.

The skies are black over my grandfather’s Southampton estate, spilling snow on the small gathering of mourners. It was all I could do not to smile as they stepped out of their plush cars into the deep drift. Not a shoe on the foot of any of them will be worth less than a thousand dollars. They all shudder beneath a ceiling of black umbrellas, encircling a shivering priest, delivering his service by a large, marble plaque.



The numeral sends a shiver down my spine. The old man said it gave him a sense of peerage, as if he was honouring the Gabriel Callaghans that had come before him. Personally, it makes me feel like the next item on a production line. I’ve never been much for tradition.

“What’s with the priest?” I ask aloud. I can feel Josephine’s eyes bore into the side of my head, but I also sense the smile she’s struggling to keep from her lips.

“You know your grandfather,” she says under her breath. “He loved the pomp and ceremony.”

For Josephine’s benefit, I lower my voice to her level. “Well, he’d better hurry up. He’s making me hungry.”

“Behave yourself, Gabriel.”

“…ashes to ashes; dust to dust.” The priest closes his sermon and there’s a hushed ‘Amen’ from some of the mourners.

Josephine steps forward with the urn containing my grandfather’s ashes. She glides effortlessly over the snow until she reaches the edge of the grounds overlooking the sea. She utters a few words - unheard by most in attendance - and casts the ashes to the breeze.

“Weren’t you gonna put that on the plaque?”

Josephine’s daughter, Zara, is looking up at me, beaming. “Something like that.”

“So, what happened?”

“Your mother thought it wasn’t appropriate.”

I turn sharply to one of the lawyers in attendance who has the audacity to shush us and growl, “Bite me.” Suddenly he’s very interested in his own shoes.

“Decided what you’re gonna say at the wake yet?” Zara asks, ignoring the little confrontation.

I shrug. “Probably the same thing I was going to put on the plaque.”

*

New York, NY

Sgt. Sean Powell
It’s the most wonderful time of the year…and the entire city is daubed in the usual festive regalia. Every single building is covered with enough tinsel and flashing lights to decorate a national park. Countless kids are dragging their weary parents up and down Madison Avenue, desperate for a Santa’s Grotto without a mile-long line. Business-suited men and women are pouring in and out of bars, pimps and prostitutes are counting their holiday tips, there’s a pair of bums on the corner of East 67th and Madison, sharing a seasonal bottle of turpentine, The boys of the NYPD choir are still singing ‘Galway Bay’ and the bells are ringing out for Christmas Day.

Though, I could frankly do without hearing that song again till next year. I don’t care if it is a classic; three times a day for two weeks straight does nothing for my appreciation of it.

5th Avenue is eerily quiet. It’s only seven-thirty and this part of town would usually be overflowing with people. Right now, it’s dead. Okay, so the fact that the snow hasn’t let up all day might have put some people off, but I’d still expect to see more than a young couple and a street vendor.

I was driving home when the call came in from a guard at the Guggenheim. Apparently a fight broke out in one of the exhibits. Everyone’s a critic.

“Powell to dispatch; you still awake Steph?”

“Dispatch to eight-tango-seven; what have you been told about informality over the police-band?”

“Come on, Steph, when have you ever known me to be formal?”

The dispatcher makes sure I hear her sigh at the other end of the radio. “How’s it looking, Sean?”

I reach the building’s entrance and peer inside. “I just got here, but it’s looking pretty quiet. No sign of anyone in the main atrium.”

“Copy that, Sean. You got Nichols and Armstrong en route.”

“Copy that, Steph. I’m going to see what I can see. Eight-tango-seven, out.”

As I walk through the deserted atrium, a cold feeling creeps up my spine. It is way too quiet. No signs of a fight, a guard or even a museum goer. It’s only been a few minutes since the call came in and it’s very unlikely the guards would have cleared the building in that time.

My heart stops and I instinctively draw my gun at the sound of a crash overhead.

*

Gabriel
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata drifts through my grandfather’s grand mansion. I’m in the mood to play some swing, but it wouldn’t really suit the atmosphere of the wake.

Down in one of the dining halls, I can hear the guests arguing over how much of the house is rightfully theirs and asking where the boy with the drinks is. Already I can’t wait to get back to my apartment in the city.

Zara is sprawled over the piano like some lounge singer from the 1920s; the glass of whiskey on the lid and the cigarette dangling out of my mouth finishing the scene off nicely. I half expect her to start singing when she rolls over and asks what her mom’s doing.

“People watching,” I tell her. “At least, she was. Now she’s about to walk through the door.”

On cue, Josephine enters the music room and glides across the floor to bathe in the moonlight coming through the large window.

“Watched enough people?” Zara asks.

“Those people bore me,” Josephine says.

“Grandfather’s people,” I add.

Josephine visibly shrinks at the mention of her brother. I go to her and lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“I’m okay, Gabriel. It had to be done.”

“I know. But you shouldn’t have been the one to do it.”

“Who else could have?”

It’s a rhetorical question and I simply nod in agreement.

Suddenly her head snaps up and her eyes glaze over.

“What is it?” I ask.

“…Blood.”

*

Sean
Sean, what the hell are you doing?! I’m already halfway up the rotunda when the thought hits me. There’s loud crashing and grunts and growls and snarls coming from overhead, as if a pair of wild animals are in some sort of death struggle. I know Nichols and Armstrong will be here any minute and yet here I am, wandering towards the sound, my gun rattling in my shaking hand.

I slip on something and just manage to catch the handrail, saving me from a clumsy fall into whatever it is coating the floor.

Blood.

I move up against the wall and slowly make my way around the bend. There are three bodies lying on the walkway; two women with their throats slit and a guard with a broken neck. I don’t need to check for a pulse to see they’re already dead.

I’m about to call it in when a man bursts from one of the exhibition rooms, slams hard into the side of the rotunda and immediately springs to his feet and dashes back the way he came.

Very cautiously I peek around the corner. More bodies litter the floor, amidst torn paintings and smashed statues. In the centre of the room, two men are tearing each other apart. One is tall and lean and dressed in a shredded business suit. The other is shorter and stockier and dressed in dark pants and a black shirt, ripped open to reveal his cut-up torso.

Both men are spilling blood, but neither looks to be letting up their assault on the other.

The taller man lashes out with a vicious elbow that drops his opponent to his knees. The shorter man is back up quickly, clawing at the other’s face. There’s a cry of pain and spurt of blood and the taller man is down, clutching his eye.

The shorter man snarls triumphantly, snaps the other’s neck and sinks his teeth into his throat…

All I can do is stand and stare. My eyes are taking in everything that’s going on, but mind is believing none of it.

Armstrong’s voice breaks on my radio. “Hey, Powell, you around?”

I clamp my hand over the speaker, but the winner of the fight is already staring at me, grinning; his teeth coated in blood; his eyes…his eyes black as oil.

*

Lt. Jeremy Malone
The exhibition had something to do with religious extremism down the ages, and all the psychotic indulgences that went with it. I’m no art critic, but I’d say the demolition of the exhibit has done a lot to improve its charm.

“What kind of nut-job comes up with this stuff?”

“What was that, lieutenant?” The young sergeant who led me to the scene is clearly more interested in his notes than anything I’m saying.

“Nothing. Carry on.”

“Yes sir.

“According to the museum rep., the exhibit was put together by a Leon Carver. Apparently he’s some kind of recluse.”

“Yeah, no shit. You got an address?”

“Yes sir. He’s got a studio apartment a few blocks from here.”

“And?”

“And what, sir?”

Of course. I was promoted six months ago and still can’t get used to the idea that nothing happens beyond the crime-scene till I turn up. “Take your note book and another sergeant and go see if he’s home.”

“You think he had something to do with this?”

“Not likely, but he is connected to the scene. Just see if he’s home, find out where he’s been in the last few hours and let him know what’s going on.

“But,” I add as the sergeant’s heading away, “keep the details thin, okay?”

He slowly nods. “Yes sir.”

With a sigh I turn my attention back to the floor. I knew from the expressions on the three officers’ faces when I arrived that it wasn’t going to be pretty. Nichols and Armstrong were staring into their coffees as if they wanted to dive into the cups, but it was Powell - wide-eyed and white as a sheet - who really put me on edge.

Seventeen dead. A fucking nightmare. Even the coroner and the lab boys had to steel themselves before getting to work. I’m about to ask the coroner his opinion of the scene when I notice a woman crouched by one of the fallen statues, sniffing at it intently.

“Um, excuse me.” She ignores me. “Excuse[/]i me… Hey, [I]lady.”

The woman looks up at me and I have to catch my breath. She’s stunning. Beautiful, striking features, flawless, porcelain skin and deep brown eyes that make me feel like a giddy fifteen year-old. She flashes me a perfect set of teeth and stands to reveal a tall, lean, yet curvaceous figure.

“I’m sorry, detective,” she says with a voice that turns my knees to jell-o. “I was distracted.”

I quickly clear my throat and compose myself. “This is a crime scene. Are you supposed to be here?”

“No, not really.”

I blink. “…Oh. Then could you please leave?”

Her smile softens and she gives me a respectful bow. “My apologies, Lieutenant Malone. I did not mean to intrude.”

And with that, she’s gone, leaving me staring after her, baffled. It takes me a little while to realise I didn’t introduce myself…

*

Josephine Callaghan
This whole situation has me troubled. It has been a very long time since I have heard of two of our kind fighting in this way, and then it resulted in a catastrophic conflict.

I have seen where you fell, Mr. Carver, now if you would be so kind as to tell me who felled you…?

His scent is all around this place, but there is something unusual; something…not right about him.

Very well. If you refuse to talk to me, then perhaps the nervous young sergeant can help…after he has had a good night’s sleep.