Holiday Break

I have been laboring under the delusion that I’d get some writing done during the holiday season. However, like last year, everything falls by the wayside, swept away by the yuletide. As such, I think that in the future, I will just take the month of December off from my literary labors.

As such, everything is to be continued until next year.

I hope you all have had a wonderful holiday, and that the New Year is a fruitful one.

~H

The Krampus

Krampus

The good children rest,

All snuggled in bed

While the bad ones are

Beaten by Krampus instead.

*

He stalks the long night

With his chains all a-rattle

Shepherding sinners

Like blubbery cattle

*

He birches the naughty,

But spares the good

On his yearly travel

Through your neighborhood

*

When Saint Nicholas knocks,

The good children will sing,

He’ll smile and nod

And give them some thing

*

But if they are bad.

The Krampus arrives,

And it is into his sack

For the rest of their lives.

*

So beware of the Krampus!

Don’t do bad things.

Take it from me:

His hazel rod stings.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 6)

Mr. Kane sat at a flimsy table, uncomfortably clothed in a three piece suit. The plastic chair was making his back ache, and Professor Langley still had enough wind in him to drive a storm across the ocean. He was giving a labyrinthine answer to a direct question: “How has the British government’s licensing procedure changed over the last decade, and how has it affected independent investigators.” Kane’s answer was simple.

“They have tied the hands of well meaning investigators and opened the door for charlatans that run pyramid schemes disguised as ‘Supernatural Suppression Societies’. It has been a load of shit, and it won’t get better.” The crowd reacted poorly to most of Kane’s answers, and he didn’t care. Their discontented rumblings just meant that he was telling the truth.

Kane closed his dark, abyssal eyes. Folks put make-up on the dead ‘cause they want to pretend that they’re still fine. Just sleeping. The way I see it, people hate the truth. The truth is not a pretty girl with a swan neck. Even if it was, she’d have strangling marks on that nice neck. No, the truth is a gorgon with a bulging tongue and dead eyes. Kane opened his eyes and studied the others on his panel.

They were a sad lot, mostly fat and retired. Old Allard sat on the far end of the table, dozing lightly, lost in a cloud of dreams. Next to him was the faded flower that used to be called Violet Rose. Nowadays, no one really bothered calling her anything.

The Professor was the youngest of them and even he had more wrinkles than a baby Shar Pei. His frantic gestures and grand words were most of what was left of a once brilliant mind that had all ready started to atrophy. That could easily be August in thirty years.

 
He turned his eyes on himself, seeing a man that looked like a tiger in a zoo. Proud, vital, and out of his element. He suit was tight; the wool was making his flesh crawl. His mouth was dry. He smelled the stink of humanity all around him. His tanned hand tensed into a fist as he began to feel anxious. He stroked the revolver at his side and it reassured him.

He scanned the audience, some of whom were falling asleep as the Professor lectured the crowd on the finer points of form 27-1-AB/9002, which allowed a private supernatural investigator access to Her Majesty’s private library. He lauded it like the Second Coming, despite there being no occult books of interest in Her Majesty’s library that weren’t all ready available to even Tom, Mabel, and Jackson.

His eyes moved to his silver pocket watch. He ran his thumb on the embossed wolves that cavorted on the circumference of the lid. Popping open the watch, he read the time, and groaned when he realized he had another hour to spend in the convention hall.

“Elijah Kane, Sir?” asked a waif-like girl dressed in an old-fashioned suit with a high collar. “What do you feel about the treatment of Elves in America compared to the treatment of Elves in France?” Kane drew his full attention to the girl, and looked deep into her golden eyes. She warily backed away like a person would back away from a rabid dog.

“I think that the treatment of Elves in America is despicable. Holding them and breeding them like endangered species is wrong. It is nothing short of eugenics. Their laboratory lives are wasted, particularly since captive Elves life about a quarter of their natural lifespan. In France, they are at least allowed to die out like the obsolete species they are.” Kane spoke doggedly, his tone indomitable.

“You can’t mean that,” said Violet, stirring weakly from her seat. “A people are judged by their acts, especially their acts towards the least of its members. Elves have given much to French culture, and allowing their species to die is an unallowable and unforgivable sin.”

“Yes, I agree with Miss. Rose…” said the Professor before Kane interrupted him.

“The sin is the one being committed in America! They are genetically altering the Elves through their experiments. When the day that Elves in America are free comes, their species will be indistinct from humanity,” argued Kane vehemently.

“See here Kane, we…” said the Professor before Violet Rose interrupted him.

“But isn’t that what you want? A society free of supernaturals? No more werewolves, no more vampires. Why are the Elves free from your wrath?” Violet’s neck was turning pink with anger.

“Vampires are a blight. Werewolves are a blight. Elves are the best of all of us. Most are incapable of evil. Show me a vampire that doesn’t harm society, and I’ll show you a vampire that has hidden his past.” The hall fell silent; the only sound in the quiet was Allard’s soft snoring.

“I suppose we must agree to disagree then?” said the Professor as he folded his hands over his stomach. Both Kane and Rose glared at the Professor. The girl in the audience sat, her head dipped shamefully. With difficulty, the panel discussion went on, but the audience seemed to lose its enthusiasm. When the audience broke apart, Kane was left sitting on the stage with Violet Rose.

“That was low, Vi,” grumbled Kane. “What do you think Sasha would say if she was still here?”

“She’d say that her husband’s a damn fool that’s trying to purify the world with fire, even if innocents need to die.” replied Violet.

“Everyone needs to die sometime,” retorted Kane weakly, “Even Allard, someday.”

“These are lives, Eli. These are real people with real contributions to society. Even now, medical research is being done on vampire blood and its disease fighting ability. Have you heard about Bukowski’s New Treatment? He has developed a comprehensive program designed to rehabilitate criminal vampires and help them reintegrate into society. His work with Sebottendorff has been miraculous.”

“Claus Von Sebottendorff? As a man he was a monster, and as a vampire he is a fiend.”

“Even so, if life can be preserved, even unlife, it is worth it. Our time here is precious. You of all people know that.” Violet Rose took Kane’s hand and held it with each of her own.

“Which is why they must die. No matter how many treatments there are, no matter what research will be done, at the end of the day a duck is a duck.” retorted Kane, pulling away from the fragile looking woman.

“And what does Rebecca think of this attitude?” asked Violet.

“She agrees. The government took her ten years ago, just before she finished college. Seems like half-Elf is enough to get you taken into a program. Of course, you didn’t know that, did you Vi?” Kane’s words were acrid.

“I’m sorry Eli! I didn’t know,” apologized Violet frantically.

“At least they let me see her once a week. She’s doing well in that damned commune. If you’ll let me go, I have business to attend to. Just ’cause I’m on the old fogies panel, it doesn’t mean I’m retired.”

“Eli, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, you sure are.” Kane pushed past her brashly.

“Elijah Kane, don’t be a damned fool!”

“What do you want me to do?” raved Kane, “I tried to walk the narrow, but my balance got bad. Now all I have is revenge.”

“Don’t leave like this Eli. I know you are better than this.” Violet Rose ordered, despite being dwarfed by Kane.

“Good bye Vi. Good bye and good luck. Tell Charles I said hi.” Kane began to walk away. He felt Violet’s eyes boring into his back. She was watching him, probably crying.

“He’s dead Kane. Just like you’ll be if you keep on this maniac path.” Violet’s voice wavered as she called out. “And don’t think you can fight your way out of Hell.”

Kane hesitated for just a moment before he disappeared in the crowd.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 5)

9

Sigrid was a tall, Norwegian beauty. Her shoulders were narrow, her legs long, and her posture rigid as a runway model. Draped in high-end, well tailored clothes, no one would suspect that she seldom had anyone to impress. Most days, she worked in her pajamas while lounging in her sparse apartment in Vardø. Her small group of friends included a smattering of artists and radar technicians; people that wouldn’t care that she could read a sentence and be able to devise everything about the person who wrote it.

The IGPS categorized her as a Bibliomancer, though she hardly considered herself kin or kith to those strange fortunetellers that used books to forecast the future. She knew that she was much more than a garden variety con-artist that spouted vague statements and claimed they were visions from beyond.

She walked down the Champs-Elysees, peering at the tall, colorful window displays of Louis-Vuitton, and considered stopping in. She had plenty of Euros on hand, and a lot more in the bank. She had a reputation for honest work; she had managed to salvage ancient spells from the hands of Islamic extremists and transcribed Atlantian texts, but it was her illicit doings which lined her pockets. Black mail came as second nature to someone that found secrets as easily as she did.

She considered the shabby satchel that hung limply over her shoulder. It went with her ensemble as well as paint splatters went with fur. It looked worn and worthless, but it held a priceless treasure: The Vampire Folio.

At a glance, it was a simple document about vampire attacks during the Middle Ages, but it was truly much more than that. It secretly held the names of many powerful vampires, several of whom would be willing to pay handsomely to keep their lives and ages hidden.

Most world governments had long placed restraints on vampire society. Each vampire was required to register with the government. Every hundred years or so, they were required to change identities, often losing their lifetime of accumulated wealth. Seeing as a vampire didn’t worry about many mortal expenses, it wouldn’t take much for them to amass gigantic estates. In order to keep the mortal economy moving, it was prudent to keep wealth moving from the hands of vampires, where it would normally stagnate.

With the names of a few choice vampires, Sigrid would be able to amass a gigantic estate of her own. First, she would need to let her targets know what she had, and that she was not one to be trifled with. However, she needed powerful allies in order to bring her scheme to fruition.

Sadly avoiding the entry to Louis-Vuitton, she kept her eyes facing forward. There would be time for fashion later; she had the most important meeting of her life awaiting her in the Metro station across from the Arc de Triumphe. As she carefully crossed the street, she eyed Emperor Napoleon’s monument with its trumpeting, triumphant angels. Soon, the angels would trumpet for her success.

She made her way underground, leaving the light of day at the top of an incredibly long flight of stairs that seemed to lead up to Heaven and down to Hell. She slowed her stride, glancing swiftly from side to side, visually sweeping the narrow tunnel. She could hear the sound of a guitar in the distance, but it drew closer. The playing was melancholic and hypnotic as the chords progressed from D to E flat, then to A. It sounded familiar, and it sounded evil.

“You are her then?” asked a man draped in a long, black shroud. His pallid fingers strummed his guitar dexterously. His hands continued, as though possessed of an intelligence of their own, as he spoke. “You are her, and I am him. Let us see the book then.”

“What is the word?” she asked.

“Word?” he asked, “There is no word. She told me of no word. Who are you? Perhaps you are not who I was expecting.” A fanged smile never left his face.

“There is no word. None, save Tabitha. She sent us to meet each other.” Sigrid pulled the Vampire Folio from the satchel. “She said that once I was done with it that it was to go to Camille and leave it with him.”

“Lucky for you that I am he.” His playing stopped abruptly. “The Gypsy chose well when she picked you. You are punctual.” He adjusted his guitar on his gaunt frame, letting it hang by his side. “If you will put it in your bag, I will take it away.”

“First, I need answers. I need to know why you are my contact instead of Quaashie. He and I have a past. You aren’t a player in this.” Her tone was sharp and accusatory.

“Quaashie is dead. Gunned down by an American. We will have revenge on him soon. Do you have news about the witch and her man?”

“They survived the night. I’m meeting with August this afternoon,” she smiled grimly, “Ironically, it was my guarantee of safety. If I don’t meet him at the cathedral by four, he’ll have no trouble finding where I am.”

“Using the enemy to protect you from an ally? Are you sure you aren’t a vampire?” asked Camille, amused.

“No, but I learned from one,” replied Sigrid, “and he will pay for what he did.”

To Part 6

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Look.

Over there.

On the right.

You can get informed when I post new entries.

I know you want to…

~H

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 4)

7

August kneeled on the floor, his pallid chest and back covered with whorls and symbols that Minerva painted on him with ketchup from the hotel’s kitchen. She glanced back and forth at the computer screen, transcribing the image that Tobias had sent from America. As Minerva smeared a wide line of ketchup under the helix of August’s ear, August jerked away, repulsed by the sensation.

“Do you have to put it there?” he asked, feeling cranky and sounding irritable.

“Yes. You don’t want to end up like the monk Hoichi, do you?” responded Minerva pleasantly. When he saw her smile, August couldn’t help but feel that she was enjoying torturing him.

“No. I’d like to keep my ears, thank you. Then again, this isn’t quite the same.” August concentrated on the rising moon that was looming in the window, ignoring the sensation of Minerva’s delicate touches along the nape of his neck. He was glad that Tobias was awake to receive their call, and that he proposed a solution so swiftly. Now, August was hoping that the solution would work.

“It is similar enough. The symbols will provide the same protective properties, coupled with a strong, repulsive force that will push the Hex imp away,” explained Minerva. “When the imp is driven off, you will be invisible to it. Unable to fulfill its purpose, the Hex imp will run off. If we follow it, the beastie should lead us right to the person that set it on you.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” asked August meekly.

“Then you will smell like tomatoes. It seems like a worthwhile risk.” A ketchup bottle burped up the last of its contents, and the ritual was complete. August clasped his hands together, then separated them, bending his fingers into the Karana Mudra. He could feel the imp’s tail tighten like an anaconda around his neck. Soon, he found himself struggling for breath. He could hear Minerva’s reassurances, but they seemed to be receding into the blackness that was overtaking him.

“Keep your focus!” He could hear Minerva shouting from very far away. “Breathe in!” she said, and the breath alluded him. His head began to pound, and he felt panic rising in his blood. He fought the urge to stand, using every ounce of his will to remain kneeling.

Suddenly, his breath poured into his lungs. The imp had finally been driven off by the ritual.

“Keep still. It is nearly over,” said Minerva. “It is visible; keep still.” August did what he was told, happy to breathe freely. “It is going for the door,” said Minerva excitedly, “Let’s go.”

8

Just before sunrise, August and Minerva left the hotel. August, wearing a shirt over his ketchup stained skin stalked ahead of Minerva, following the rat-like scurrying of the Hex Imp. On an ornate bridge spanning the Seine, August and Minerva watched as the diminutive creature crawled towards a tent that was standing under the next bridge.

“They have enough bridges, don’t you think?” mused August, feeling exhilarated just to be alive and on the offensive. “Enough bridges and enough water and enough imps. Twice! Twice I nearly suffocated. If we go to any opera houses, I’ll need to keep my hand level with my neck.”

“I don’t know if you need to worry about a Punjab lasso in the shadows just now,” said Minerva, “It is going to be a bright, sunny day, and I don’t see a deformed genius in sight.”

The flap of the tent opened, and the imp scuttled inside. Moments later, August could see the girl clearly when she left the tent, walking determinedly towards the Champs de Mars and hotel where he and Minerva were staying. He wondered what the Hex Imp told her; he knew the imp wouldn’t be able to communicate what the ritual was, as they were incapable of speech. With purposeful strides, she walked along the level, wide street, and August wondered if she was going to try to finish what she started.

“We’ll need to stay a good distance away,” warned Minerva. “We don’t want to arouse any suspicion. Besides, if something happened, we don’t have many courses of action. We’re respected back home, but we have no jurisdiction here at all.”

“Maybe we should find someone that does?” offered August as he walked, trying to seem as casual as a man could with ketchup painstakingly painted on his face.

“The police don’t work with the paranormal at all, aside from keeping the most dangerous elements hidden. It wouldn’t do their tourist trade any good if they let the public know that they have the largest population of witches and third largest population of vampires in the world.” As Minerva spoke, August felt the puzzle pieces fall into place. While they were chasing the Hex Imp and shadowing the witch, they left their hotel room empty. In their rush, they didn’t notice that they left their room’s door ajar. Realizing that the Vampire Folio was protected only by a few illusions, a ward or two, and a safe door, August quickened his pace. He hadn’t told anyone except Minerva and Tobias that he had brought the folio to Paris with him. That’s when he remembered the third person who knew the Vampire Folio was in Paris: Sigrid Koenig.

To Part 5

More Photo Fun

I have been slowly getting back into photography. Recently, my wife dyed her hair pink (with some help from me). I took some photos yesterday, and this afternoon, we went out for a picnic and I took some more pictures. I feel that the contrast between the pink of her hair and turquoise of her scarf is particularly striking.

 

New Post Day is Moving

New posts will now be found on Wednesday rather than on Saturday. This is partially because I tend to be busy on the weekends, and as such forget to post. I know, I know, I could just set my post to publish automatically, but where’s the fun in that?

So, Wednesday = New Posts

This Wednesday = New August and Minerva

~H

 

The Last Glimpse

When he was eighteen, Liam entered the National Service and risked his life in the muddy trenches of the West. After a decade witnessing the horror of war, he returned home and put the past behind him. He locked his uniform in a chest that he kept at the foot of his bed. Some nights, he thought he could hear it stirring, crawling in its box. On those nights, he wondered why he didn’t die in the war. He had escaped the grim battlefield without a single wound. While so many others were killed or mangled, Liam left the war without any physical scars. However, his mental wound was as deep as any bayonet’s thrust. He became obsessed about his fate, and his obsession led him to the alley where Santiago’s illicit business thrived.

The alleyway was dark as ink and wound about itself in a maze of twists and turns. On either hand, towering brick monoliths held scores of sleepers who dreamed more peacefully than Liam had in the past twenty years. In the dark corners, he was certain that eyes watched him. Walking with more care than he had in all of his forty-eight winters, Liam gripped the trench spike that he always kept hidden in the pocket of his moleskin overcoat. It provided him with all the comfort of a best friend.

The alley abruptly came to a dead end after a sharp right angle. A door carved with strange symbols stood ominously in the plain brick wall. By rights, it would be the rear entrance to a building, but the wizard Santiago’s curio store had no front entrance; all of the wizard’s dealings were secretive and unfit for daylight. Knocking softly on the door, Liam glanced behind himself, just to be certain that no one was following. The door swung open, revealing Santiago. He was a short, mole-like man with a pinched nose and tiny eyes that were warped by thick spectacles.

“You are late,” said Santiago, his tan face a mass of deep wrinkles that were exaggerated by his squinting and frowning. “A man who is not punctual is barely a man. You kept me waiting, and have wasted my time, what precious little I have.”

“I’m sorry,” apologized Liam. His ears burned with embarrassment as he bowed his head remorsefully. “I didn’t expect the walk to be quite so long.”

“Life is too precious a thing to waste so frivolously. Nothing you say can give back what you have taken from me. There’s little use for apologies and pretty words when the reaper is rapping on the door.” said Santiago, clenching an ornate pipe between his teeth. The billows of smoke it expelled had an exotic, spicy, fruity aroma.

“I don’t wish to delay you any more than I have,” replied Liam resignedly. He took a step into the curio shop; it was a dusty place filled with useless antiquities and expensive baubles. In a corner, a huge mirror stood ominously; a camera mounted on a tripod stood before it, reflected crisply in the meticulously cleaned mirror.

“I have your letter of introduction here,” said Santiago, pulling a crumpled letter from the pocket of his short, velvet waist coat. “Your friend speaks very highly of you. A veteran of the War, an upstanding citizen, and all the things the Government could ask a man to be. Yet, you come to me. I am an Enemy of the State, you know.”

“I know that,” said Liam, his eyes shifting and examining the windowless walls. “They say you can foretell the future and divine a man’s fate. I need to know what mine is.”

Santiago waddled towards the camera, and invited Liam to stand before it.

“This camera is a rare thing, and an antique. It is the secret of my power.” Santiago’s eyes gleamed with passion as he patted the top of the camera as though it were an obedient dog. “When I photograph a subject standing in front of a mirror with the camera, upon the development of the film, you will see a faint reflection of the subject’s coming fate. However, it is a fickle device. Since the future is a malleable thing, the photograph may need interpretation. If a pregnant woman were the subject, it could show the child that the woman will bear, or maybe the death that awaits her offspring in eighty years.

“The more I know of you, the more accurate my interpretation can be. Also, if you can articulate your question a bit more,” said Santiago as he buffed the camera’s lens.

“There isn’t much to tell.” Liam stroked his trench spike with his thumb nervously. “I was a soldier in the War, like the letter said. I spent ten years in that place. It was unending slaughter and violence, like Valhalla, but without feasts and without immortality.” Liam began to sweat as he thought about the time he never spoke of.

“It was always damp and wet; on the best days the water was ankle deep in the trenches. On the worst, you could drown. Blood mixed freely with the water and mud, turning everything red and rust. At the least, I should have contracted immersion foot syndrome. Yet, as the days went by and the War went on, I remained free of illness.” Mopping his brow with his sleeve, Liam felt himself being drawn back into his memories.

“One day, I noticed that I didn’t recognize any of the faces of my comrades. My entire squad had died in the course of subsequent battles and had been slowly replaced. Soon, I wouldn’t recognize anyone in my battalion. I got cocky, thinking I was immortal. I lead a squad out of a trench and across No Man’s Land and took over one of the Enemy’s machine gun nests. When I returned, my C.O. told me that everyone in the squad was gunned down as soon as they went over the top of our trench. I took the nest alone after running 30 or 40 yards through heavy machine gun fire.”

“You are a very lucky man,” Santiago said, breaking Liam‘s intense recollections.

“When I got home, I was convinced that it was more than luck. I was invulnerable on the battlefield. Where so many others left their lives in the mud, I had thrived. I felt that God had put me here for a reason, that He protected me in the War so that I could do something great for society. I tried getting into a career within the Government, but I lacked the talent for politics. I settled for a life selling and writing the news.” Liam felt relief after he told Santiago his story. He had never told anyone else about his feelings, much less about his time in the War.

“So you want to know the purpose of your life, and hope that I can divine it for you?” asked Santiago with a tone of certainty that propelled Liam in front of the camera.

“Should I pose a certain way?” asked Liam as he sheepishly stood before the cyclopean machine. The camera stared at him with emotionless objectivity. A shiver or excitement rippled through Liam’s flesh as he gazed into the unblinking eye of the machine that was about to reveal all of the secrets of his future. Santiago stood behind the camera and gazed through its viewfinder. Shaking his head, he left and returned with a lamp on a stand. The old man moved slowly, shining the lamp blindingly in Liam’s eyes.

“Look forward,” announced Santiago as he moved behind the camera again. Liam looked deep into the camera’s lens, and he felt a strange, tugging sensation. It was as though the camera was pulling part of himself into it. Suddenly, he felt as though all the breath was being taken from his lungs. Unable to inhale, Liam began to panic.

“Keep looking forward. It is almost over,” instructed Santiago. Darkness began to creep into the edges of Liam’s vision, then, suddenly, his lungs filled with air again. Gulping in breath after breath, Liam could feel each cell in his body happily accepting the oxygen.

“It will take a few moments for me to develop. Please sit and wait,” said Santiago professionally.

Alone in the shop, Liam found it difficult to subdue his excitement. He looked at rows of crystal trinkets and stacks of dusty milk glass, but nothing could hold his attention. He would finally find out what his destiny was.

When Santiago returned, he was holding a thin, iron plate. On it was an image of Liam. A bright light glistened off of the mirror behind him; in that light, tiny shadows seemed to form vague images. Liam squinted, trying to see what the images were.

“They are nothing to the untrained eye. Just lines and blobs.” Santiago pointed at the shadows. “These say that death is close to you. Your life will be cut short. The others here show that it will be a violent death.”

“When?!” demanded Liam, “Why? How?”

“Soon. Because it is your destiny. With an old knife,” answered Santiago without compassion or tact. “The knife will push through your ribs and puncture your lung. A second stab will catch an artery. You will die in a gurgling heap.”

“Will it be to save someone?” asked Liam hopefully.

“No.” Santiago replied.

“No? No?!” bellowed Liam, rage flowing through his blood like a virus. “You are telling me that I lived through that Hell for no reason greater than to be stabbed to death? That is a lie. Life doesn’t work that way. There is reason and order; if fate is real, then there is a purpose to everything, isn’t there? If fate is an illusion, then what you have done here is a lie. Either way, you are doing this again and you are doing it right.” Liam grasped the trench spike in his hand and strode in front of the camera. “Take the picture again, and do it correctly!” he demanded.

“No,” said Santiago. “It will be no different. Your death is too close.”

“What do you mean?” asked Liam, redness creeping up his neck. His muscles quivered with excitement, ready for action, ready to kill.

“You are past the point where your fate can be changed,” said Santiago.

Furious, Liam rushed at Santiago, pushing the camera over as he lunged forward. Santiago retreated swiftly, but Liam was faster. With the trench spike in his right hand, he caught Santiago by the lapel with his left hand. Santiago grinned manically at Liam. His knife flashed faster than a blink. Liam lurched over, blood pouring from his neck and chest.

“Now, if you were a more patient man, you could have lived a long and happy life. Instead, you have done nothing but waste my time and yours. Go to sleep, little soldier,” said Santiago, cleaning the thin, pointed blade of his knife on Liam’s clothes.

Late Post

This week’s post will be appearing on Sunday, due to Halloween.

~H