Sparkle In The Moonlight

Anton Dubrolevic sighed softly as he stared through the starlight scope at the sprawling factory complex below. The scope was mounted on a very high-tech sniper rifle. It was silenced so that even within five feet its report would be inaudible. He fervently hoped it would be unnecessary for him to test that tonight.

He knew Liana well. He knew firsthand how capable and how deadly she could be. Still, was even SHE capable of neutralizing ten heavily-armed sentries without being discovered? He felt a twinge of guilt that he harbored very serious doubts of her success.

He shifted his body to focus on the northwest tower. That should be where Liana started her clandestine assault. IF she stuck to his plans. Her ability to do as she was told was always in question. He had no way of knowing for sure, but seriously wondered if Insubordination was her middle name. It would be fitting.

There! Had he not known where to look he would have missed her. He watched her scamper up the tower ladder. The sentry remained unaware of her. He watched as a black shadow slipped up behind him. A quick flurry of movement and he slid out of sight in the tower. Seconds later, he watched as Liana hoisted his body back upright. She propped him somehow so that he still appeared to be at his post.

She turned to look at the exact spot where Anton lay and waved. His earwig crackled as she giggled, "That's one down and only nine to go. Too much fun, old man."

"Focus, Liana, focus!", Anton hissed.

"Oh fine, you fussbudget. Gimme about...oh...15 minutes and then I'll have a hole in the fence for you to infiltrate through. Liana out."

He tracked her as she slithered back down the ladder and out of his line of sight. He truly hoped that the Brotherhood's intel was wrong but knew that to be unlikely. As the organized resistance group of vampire hunters, their resources were considerable.

The Ruling Council had been beyond livid over the incident with the Dutch ferry some weeks before. They raged that 117 innocent casualties to stop ONE Renfield was intolerable. Anton and Liana had been placed on a short leash and well-advised of the consequences should they strain that leash.

Tonight was to be a test of their abilities to both comply and to complete a mission with a positive outcome and negative collateral damage. When he learned what the Brotherhood expected, his initial reaction had been to soundly refuse. It was a suicide mission at best. Their target was to be Milosz Krepic, the infamous Butcher of Bathgate!

Anton knew Krepic on both a personal and a professional basis. Long before the Vampire Apocalypse, Anton had collaborated with Milosz on any number of projects. To think back on those days left Anton queasy.

While it was true that Krepic was perhaps one of the most brilliant geneticists ever, it was also sadly true that he was as crazy as a shithouse rat! Quite simply, Krepic was scientifically amoral. He would cut any corner, subvert any protocol and conduct any work necessary to advance his research with no care whatsoever.

If his moral bankruptcy were in question, it was proven beyond question when he volunteered his services to the vampire hordes. He offered to devote his considerable talents to the enhancement of their soldiers in exchange for unknown rewards.

The Blood Gods had readily accepted. They had set Krepic up with the ultimate laboratory in the abandoned Bathgate tractor works. Reinforced and heavily fortified, it was an impregnable bastion of evil. Seven of the Brotherhood's strike teams had failed to breach it with disasterous and bloody results. Thus it was decided that Anton and Liana would be the two hapless mice chosen to extract this thorn from the Brotherhood's wounded paw. The Council believed a far smaller force with unique talents would succeed where brute force had failed.

Anton snapped back to the present as his earwig activated again. "Okay, and that is ten. Best shag your ass down to the south fenceline and I'll meet up with you there."

He rolled to his feet, abandoning the sniper rifle as superfluous. For what lay ahead, Anton would rely on his custom stake launcher and other close quarters weaponry. He had also cobbled together some nasty little surprises he hoped would not prove necessary.

Brotherhood sources maintained Krepic was solely responsible for the most recent threat to humanity. Dubbed "Uber Vamps", only two had, so far, been encountered. Their size, strength, speed and ferocity were all on a level far, far beyond anything previously known.

Neither had ceased attacking and killing until they were totally obliterated by exceptionally heavy weapons fire and explosives. They had both proven to be near immune to all of the best time-tested weaponry. Silver, ashwood, rowan...nothing seemed to affect them. This was a threat impossible to ignore. Krepic MUST be taken out tonight. Of course, any Uber Vamps must be negated as well.

Well, no sense borrowing trouble. Krepic would provide little real threat without his security force. There was no reason to think there were ANY enhanced vampires at the site. There was only one way to find out. Adjusting his gear, he clambered down the embankment and was at Liana's side in no time at all.

He scanned the woman visually and noted no signs that she had sustained any injury whatsoever in taking out ten highly-trained mercs. He never ceased to be amazed by her.

Her black jumpsuit bore patches of sticky wetness he chose not to dwell on. Her mane of scarlet hair was concealed by a black balaclava.

"About time, grandpa. Let's do this thing eh?" She turned and surged toward the building they had identified as the main lab. Anton struggled to keep up with her. Arriving at the door, he disabled the electronic keypad lock and eased the door open.

Liana slid through with him close behind. The large warehouse was dimly lit and filled with a strong chemical odor. Some hundred feet ahead was another door. From beyond it were heard faint strains of classical violin music.

Liana pressed her lips to Anton's ear and whispered, "Damn! His taste in music sucks as bad as his choice of bosses."

Anton pulled back and made a chopping motion near his throat. Now was NOT the time for jocularity. He made a stabbing gesture with his hand towards the doorway ahead. With a jaunty thumbs-up, Liana headed that way.

Reaching the door, they noted it had no lock and, upon inspection, did not seem to be wired or alarmed. Shrugging, Anton reached for the knob and pushed the door open. He and Liana were greeted by a thin, reedy voice.

"Do come in you two. Come, come. Enough skulking about for one night. Anton, please do tell that ravishing young woman to NOT attempt anything spectacular. As a precautionary measure, this entire building is wired to blow anything back to its composite atoms with VERY little effort. In my hand is a deadman's switch which it would be most unfortunate should I drop. So, get in here NOW!!"

The pair entered, unsure what to expect. It smelled horribly and was a total mess. Krevic was barely discernible amidst the clutter.

Anton stared at him aghast. While Milosz had never been what one might consider handsome, the years had been especially unkind to him. He was grotesquely overweight and quite unkempt. Only inches over five feet tall, his skin had an unhealthy pallor and his hair was a greasy mass of bristles. His clothes were filthy and covered in substances Anton did not care to speculate as to the origins of. Clutched in one pudgy fist was the detonator, in the other, off all things, an enormous sandwich.

As if they were beneath his attention, Krevic took a mouthful of the sandwich, chewing sloppily. As he swallowed, the borborygmus from his distended gut roiled like thunder through the air. He belched loudly, also releasing a noxious, greasy fart.

He bowed grandly as if he had just finished conducting the Philharmonic. "My apologies to you both. The excitement of this evening's carnage has left me somewhat intestinally...challenged."


"Soo, THIS is your finished product Anton? I admit she disposed of my guards quite efficiently. My masters shall be MOST displeased with you. I feel certain, though, that your slow, agonizing deaths shall assuage their moods. Now, drop your weapons...slowly."

As Anton bent to set his launcher down, Liana chose to make her move. More quickly than either man could see, an 18-inch blade sprouted from nowhere to her hand. With unerring accuracy, she hurled it at Krevic. The blade struck the crook of his elbow with explosive force, passing through flesh and bone and pinning the arm to the wall behind it.
He emitted a keening wail of pain and shock.

The hand holding the detonator clenched as muscles protested. In an eyeblink, Liana snatched the device from his failing grasp. She snapped the antenna off, rendering it useless.

Though nowhere near as fast as she, Anton reacted quickly. With a tight tuck and roll, he snatched up the stake launcher and fired. Whether by happenstance or design, the stake rocketed across the room and directly into Krevic's gaping maw.

His head snapped backwards, striking the stone wall with killing finality. It supported Krevic's lifeless body, protruding out of his sagging jaws like an obscene second tongue. Anton met Liana's shocked gaze with one barely less shocked.

After what seemed like an eternity, they returned to the then and now. Liana was wearing a grin so wide it nearly curled around the back of her head.

"NICE shot, old timer! You get what we need of this tech shit and I'll scope the place for vamps."

They each went to their specialties and were out of the complex minutes later. Thankfully, Krepic had no enhanced vampires on site. His papers might shed some light on their whereabouts. To put an end to this localized obscenity, a burst of Liana's trademark "sparkle" ignited the emplaced explosives to spectacular effect.

As they walked to their vehicle, Liana hooked her arm through Anton's. "I think I owe you a beer for that Hail Mary shot tonight. That rocked!!"

With a chuckle, Anton replied, "For once, I ACTUALLY agree with you."

Josiah Teague: Territorial Agent, Pt III

Teague felt rather than saw the Vamps close ranks behind him. He was off of his horse and standing amongst them. This was it. He was fully commited now. If things went badly, they would swarm him and he would die. He would be no match for their superior speed and strength. Best get on with it then.

He was careful to keep his carriage tall and straight. His eyes darted to the left and right, surveying the tribe members. As he had seen from above, they were mostly oldsters, women, and the young. Nearing the Vamp chief, he finally saw the warriors. There were scarcely a dozen of them. Their muscles were bunched, their crimson eyes wary. He was very careful to present them no threat. They seemed ready to attack with the least bit of provocation.

He stopped three paces in front of the Vamp chief and assumed their Posture of Submission. This involved extending his arms, palm up and bent downward at the wrist. He was figuratively offering his blood to the clans. He also bent low at the waist, his head down to expose the back of his neck. He was figuratively offering his head to the clans. He held the position nervously but resolutely.

As ceremony required, the chief let Teague stand thusly but for perhaps a bit longer than was customary. With a loud clack of his jaws, the chief finally acknoweldged the gesture and signalled that Teague was free to stand. He did, careful to keep his eyes locked with the chief's gaze.

Teague steeled himself for the next challenge, the ritual greetings. Before becoming an agent, he had assumed, like most people, that the Vamps had some sort of spoken language. Of course, they did but it was seldom used. Vamps shared a mental link, a form of telepathy, that they used amongst themselves. The spoken language was used only with Outsiders.

That spoken language was simply not intended to be spoken by anyone who did not have Vamp physiology. The hissing, spitting and low, gutteral growls were painful, at best, for humans to make. By the terms of the Vamp-Human treaty, Vamps were required to learn and use the human language.

Teague was barely surprised to learn that NONE of his predecessors had bothered to access the Bureau database of Vamp language training. Once he had accessed the recordings and heard what comprised Vamp, Teague didn't relish the thought of learning to do it but he had no choice. Given the depredations the Lost Valley Vamps had endured under the "guidance" of previous agents, Teague owed it to them to try.

He hoped all of his efforts and all of the abraded throat pain would prove worthwhile. It was just possible it might convince these Vamps that he meant to be the architect of change on their behalf. It might be the first step to ending half a century of wrongs. It was time to find out.

Inclining his head in a brief nod, Teague spoke the words he had rehearsed so often. "Teague, Josiah am I. Territorial Agent yours am I. Speak for you to the Humans will I. Labor for your fair treatment and betterment will I. Pledge my blood and honor on your behalf do I. Thus speak I, Teague Josiah, Agent Territorial."

His greeting concluded, he awaited the ritual response from the chief. It was hardly what he expected.

The chief looked him up and down critically before speaking. "Throat Render am I. Chief and Elder of these the remnants of Clans Long Fang and Night Wing am I. Trust or believe you I do not. Speak for YOURSELF will you to the Humans. Labor for YOUR betterment will you. Your blood is thin and weak and your honor is as without substance as are our dreams that we will ever rule these lands again as was our right. Thus speak I, Throat Render, Chief."

Teague struggled mightily to keep his features calm and reserved. He had not expected a warm or even complimentary greeting, but THIS?!? By Vamp traditions, it was absolutely forbidden to denigrate or insult an emissary in this manner! He reckoned the chief had no reason to believe Teague would behave in any manner other than what they had already experienced from humans. Still, it was pretty damned ballsy of the old boy to throw caution to the wind and speak his mind so openly.

Teague dreaded what must come next but he was left with no choice. To allow such an affront to go unanswered was simply not possible. To do so would be seen as a sign of weakness and would irreparably damage his position as an agent. He MUST assert his authority.

He spoke in a slow, measured tones. "Throat Render, Chief...I, Teague Josiah, Agent Territorial do offer challenge to personal combat. Your presumptions are without basis and your insults without provocation. Combat is offered. How say you, oldster?" He balled his hands into fists and assumed a martial arts stance.

"Is your life so worthless to you, little human, that you cast it aside so readily? Know you that I have seen the passing over over 250 winters. Yet still have I the power to take the blood of the Great Fish Eater whenever I wish. Your beating heart will I tear from your puny chest and feed on it I will tonight."

Teague's mind raced to comprehend the chief's words. What the blazes was a Great Fish Eater? With a sickening feeling, he recalled the term from the language lessons. Shit! The old Vamp was claiming he could take down and feed on a freakin' grizzly bear!! He sure as hell hoped the chief was bluffing. Time to find out.

"Hear MY words Vamp! It is not that my life is worthless. It is that my word and my honor are beyond price. Old, wise and strong you may be, but perhaps not so wise after all. To dismiss me so easily will be your undoing. Feast on MY heart you shall never do ever. But perhaps I shall decorate the walls of my lodge with your wrinkly gray head when our fight is done. Such would both amuse and disgust me."

Uneasy silence stretched on as Throat Render mulled over Teague's response. With a sudden movement, nearly too fast for Teague's eyes to follow, the old chief fell to his knees. He beat the hard-packed earth with his heavy fists and threw his head back with a deafening roar. Teague realized that it was the Vamp equivelant of laughter.

Throat Render finally rose to his feet, chest bellowing with the great breaths he took. With a wide Vamp grin, he eyed Teague again.

Josiah was unprepared for the low melodic baritone voice that he felt, as much as heard, in his head. The Vamp was speaking telepathically to him.

*Damn Human! Perhaps there IS more to what you say than I give you credit for. It is at least worth finding out. Be welcome in my lodge Teague Josiah. Your safety I guarantee and my hospitality I offer. Join me.*

Teague failed entirely in his efforts to appear unaffected by the mental message.

"That would be mighty nice Throat Render. I have gifts for you and yours in my saddle bags. Let me just get those and we can have us a sit down."

The chief nodded his assent and, as Teague walked over to his horse, he couldn't resist a slight grin. NOW they were getting somewhere.

Bad Day Gone Good

It was one of those raw-boned October days in the midwest. The sky was a leaden gray and the temperature hovered somewhere down near freezing. Rain had been falling fitfully all day, sometimes harder but never stopping. A biting breeze blew the raindrops this way and that without cease.

Graham trudged down the street dejectedly. Trudged, because his POS car was sitting, dead as a stump, in his driveway. He sometimes thought that a scabarous coating of rust and a whole lot of congealed engine fluids were the only things holding the damned thing together.

As was often the case, he had put in a call and made arrangements to get the old beast running again. He had the money but it was money that could have been better spent elsewhere. Lord knows there were no shortage of folks out there with a claim on Graham's meager earnings. The wolf wasn't quite huffing and puffing the door down yet, but every day was a challenge keeping him at bay.

Graham cursed bitterly as his foot slipped on a sodden mass of leaf mold, nearly falling flat on his ass. Add a broken bone to the list of things he really did NOT need to deal with. His boots were worn and scuffed but still had decent tread in most cases. They were at least keeping his feet warm and dry.

Graham hunched his shoulders in his too-thin coat, glad that some part of him, at least, was warm and dry. If the baby hadn't needed milk, Graham would sure as hell not be out for a stroll on a day such as this. If nothing else, the mini-mart would offer him the chance to pick up some beer and a pack of smokes.

A stray breeze blew rain in Graham's flushed face and focused his thoughts nicely. It was only another couple of blocks and he would be there. Then he could look forward to the prospect of an unpleasant walk back home. As cold as it was, he knew his hands would not appreciate the walk. He ducked his head and forged on.

A long-dormant sixth sense suddenly prickled the hairs on the back of Graham's neck. He spun about, instinctively dropping into a defensive crouch. He smelled the threat before he saw the man, but there he was.

He had slipped out from behind a tall stand of hedges and was directly behind Graham just that neatly. Graham swore to himself, realizing that he must have walked right past the guy without the slightest inkling that the man was even there. Damn, he was getting old...old and sloppy.

The man was a few inches taller than Graham and maybe thirty pounds heavier but not all THAT threatening otherwise. He was looking rough, really rough, and fading fast. His skin was saggy and pale under a thick mask of dirt and whiskers. His eyes were red, sunken and a bit wild. His lips were pulled back thinly around the broken stubs of teeth in sore need of dental services.

Graham was hardly dressed GQ in his steel-toed work boots, jeans and a faded polo under his hooded coat but this fellow looked a hell of a lot worse off. His feet were mostly covered by grayish sneakers...no socks. His pants were of an indeterminate dark color under a crust of mud, grease and other substances. He wore an old army trenchcoat, belted with a length of fraying cord and, it seemed, no shirt underneath. His long, greasy hair straggled out from beneath a shapeless dark stocking cap. Yeah, looking in dire need of a VERY extreme makeover. He did have one compelling feature though.

Clutched in his grubby right hand was a pistol. It was an ugly, short-barreled automatic. The hand holding it was trembling but still more than steady enough to cause Graham concern.

Graham forced himself to hold the man's gaze. He heard a voice from his distant past harping on that a man's eyes would telegraph his intent more accurately than watching his hands would. It had been too long ago for Graham to recall if that had been good advice or not. It didn't seem a bad idea at the moment.

The man's voice was low, raspy and strained. "Easy there dude. Gimme your money, your watch and your rings and I won't have to use this thing." His head bobbed downward in the general direction of his gun before fixing Graham's gaze.

Graham cocked his head to the side, one eyebrow arched upward. "Uhh no. No, that is NOT gonna happen today, chief."

His assailant was caught off guard. "I don't think you got me, asshole. You must got a lotta money on ya to make you argue with me but I WILL shoot your ass. Now...give it up!!"

Graham straightend up slowly, his hands open and placating. "Oh no. I DO understand you. I am just NOT in the mood today...asshole. I got like eight bucks cash and a debit card that even I don't remember the PIN to most of the time. I just don't have the slightest intention of giving it to you. So, if you wanna shoot me, get on with it or I got better places to be."
The man seemed to be considering actually shooting Graham when something he had no clue of took place.

Somewhere from the deep recesses of his memory, Graham recalled himself as a far different man than he was now. He had been younger...buffer...and fearless to a fault. He had been young with no wife, no kids, no bills and no responsibilities. He had lived for the day and been ready to die at the drop of a hat. That Graham struggled up out of his monkey hind-brain and took control of him.

Standing just beyond his arm's reach was a threat. His left hand clenched into a fist and shot out and up. The back of his hand struck the man squarely in the face...hard and sudden. As the man cried out with surprise, his hands went instinctively toward his broken nose.

Graham stepped in and clamped onto the attacker's right wrist. He bent and spun, bringing the arm down and barring it as the elbow of his free hand crashed into the man's temple. The attacker crumpled to his knees, still conscious but only barely so.

Graham held the imprisoned arm outward and stepped over it. He dropped to his back and pulled, dislocating the guy's shoulder with a sickening pop. He rolled over the man's now-useless limb and knelt with both knees on his shoulder blades. He held both fists together and hammered them down with murderous force on the back of his attacker's head. Graham heard bone crunch and the man went lifelessly limp. It was over as quickly as it had begun.

Graham was breathing more heavily than he had imagined possible. His hands were shaking and his legs seemed unwilling to hold him up. His head swivelled left and right looking for any signs of anyone. The narrow street was as empty of traffic of any sort as it had been minutes before.

Acting more from instinct than plan, Graham rifled the pockets of the man. He came out with a jumble of items...a fistful of wet currency, a battered cell phone, three pocket knives of varying sizes, a pack of Camels and a dented Zippo. He transferred the items to his pockets.

He reached under the body and retrieved the handgun. He popped the magazine and locked the slide open. He retrieved the magazine and the ejected round. Damn! It HAD been loaded! Both gun and magazine were stowed away.

Graham knew he needed to get gone and fast. With an absent-minded kick to the corpse's ribs he started walking in the direction of the mini-mart. His breathing had calmed and his adrenaline rush was fading. As he walked on, Graham lit one of the Camels and sucked in the harsh smoke gratefully.

Puffing in time with his footsteps, he wondered if pawning the gun would cover the cost of the parts to fix his ride. Maybe this day wasn't going to turn out so bad after all.

A Latinum Library Review: What Happens In Vegas, Dies In Vegas

5 of 5 Stars A Worthy Successor Indeed

For ten years Kal Hakala WAS the Bureau of Supernatural Investigations' (BSI) top man, the longest surviving agent in its blood-soaked history. Now, he has left the Bureau behind to pursue the vengeance that led him to become an agent in the first place.

Kal assembles a dream team that includes some of the Bureau's best and most lethal field agents, past and present. Each has an agenda of their own but shares one common goal - backing Kal to the hilt in whatever play he makes.

That play begins with the need to require an artifact to power the super Tesla coil required to eliminate the uber-being that killed Kal's sister. Despite their best efforts, the team misses on their first try and must find a new artifact...somewhere.

Somewhere proves to be in the seedy world of Las Vegas' underground fighting circles. What begins as a dicey but do-able mission, quickly heads south of the border when Kal and company stumble upon something far more insidious than some unsanctioned prize fighting.

Now they must wage war across time and space in a desperate attempt to save the very fabric of the universe itself from unravelling. Kal and his team have NEVER, in their darkest nightmares, EVER faced an evil this malignant or this determined. It will take every weapon in their arsenal, every trick in the bag and a whole lot of just plain luck to snatch victory from the jaws of certain doom this time.
____________________________________

Near the end of my review of Mark Stone's debut novel, Things To Do In Denver When You're Un-Dead, I made the point that it left me "salivating for the forthcoming sequel". I am quite pleased to say that all of my salivation was not in vain.

From the very first page, Mark serves up a bountiful buffet of machismo, magic and mayhem that will sate the appetite of even the most discerning literary gourmand. Rich, savory and flavorful, the story will compel you to shovel it in by the forkful leaving you as fat, bloated and happy as only the best-prepared novels can.

Mark leads off with a combat sequence that strikes his readers with all of the subtlety of a sock full of sand. Rest assured that there is a definite method to this initial burst of madness. It reminds us that, in the world of battling Supernaturals, there is no such thing as a "normal" day. It remains every bit as bloody and brutal as we have come to expect. It also serves to introduce us to the thoroughly captivating ensemble cast of characters that comprise Kal's newly-assembled team.

Returning to fight at Kal's side, and often watching his back, is the redoubtable Canton Alsate. The acerbic Mescalero Apache is, perhaps, Kal's best and only acknowledged friend. Though still a "man on the inside" of the Bureau, friendship and a strong sense of what MUST be done, lead Canton to chuck it all and join Kal. In his trademark style the consequences of Canton's decision are a secondary concern to him at best. As Kal's mentor in all things blade-related, Canton provides a very nice blend of lethality, comedy and continuity to the story.

Returning as well, is the enigmatic cyber-spirit Ghost. Not unlike Canton, Ghost still serves the Bureau but he, too, finds his loyalty is divided. Kal's intimate knowledge of Ghost's origins binds them inseparably together. With this book we are introduced to a much more... evolved Ghost. As electronically adept as ever, we are also shown a Ghost capable of love, of fear, and yes...even failure. Ghost's electro-angst lends a whole new dimension to this already likeable character.

New to the story is Diana Pennington aka Winch. A former member of Kal's team, she has left the Bureau for an unsatisfying retirement managing her own gym. As Canton's on again/off again love interest and a card-carrying member of the Kalevi Hakala Fan Club, she signs on with no other enticement necessary. A sniper of phenomenal skill, Winch's cool, detached manner of reaching out to touch her targets with unerring accuracy lends an air of stability and common sense to the team.

Rounding out the roster is Rebecca McTavish aka Mouth. With the mouth of a sailor and the body of a porn actress, she is the Queen of Hand-to-Hand Suffering. The torch she carries for Kal never interferes, for long, with her dedication to tearing Supernaturals, or bad guys of any sort, limb from limb. Her unarmed combat skills and her absolutely steel inner core prove invaluable to the team time and time again.

With players this awesome, the inevitability of a damned good story is unavoidable. Mark pads his odds of that eventuality by flexing his writing skills in a very, very impressive manner. He employs a literary device that many new authors try, but does so with a precision and level of expertise that makes for a much more enjoyable read.

As the story heads onward, the viewpoint shifts from Kal to each of the other human team members on a chapter by chapter basis. The differing "voices" as well as the ability to "see" inside the heads of each of the characters fleshes things out in a way that no single aspect could.

As regards the plot of the book, I fear I shall have to leave you with the synopsis and little else. It is a yarn so intricate, so unique and, at times, so barely conceivable that any serious attempt to explain it would fail. Add to that the plot twists, cast of evil villains and varied locales, both in time and space, and spoilers would be unavoidable. I don't wish to diminish anyone's enjoyment by letting slip what comes to pass. It just wouldn't be fair (or as much fun). I WILL let this zinger out: Kal does finally have his day of reckoning with a certain Class V Supernatural.

Suffice to say, there is more than enough physical/magical combat, intrigue, suspense, and excitement that no reader could possibly feel slighted when all is read and done. It is a cracking good yarn from first to final page, no question.

In summary, with this book, Mark has cemented himself solidly into the position of Master in my self-created niche of Paranormal Suspense Thriller writing. His command of his art grows exponentially with each work of his that I read. Mark informs me that there are already, at least, two more books on the horizon. I have absolutely, unequivocally NO doubts whatsoever that, as gripping as this and his debut novel have been, the best work of Mark Everett Stone is yet to come. Two very enthusiastic thumbs up for a job well and properly done.

Tears For Devotion Lost

Winter...1523...the Diet of Worms seemed so very long ago to Antonias now. He'd been with Luther since the beginning. His breath was like steam in the winter air as he slipped into the night.

Though he styled himself devout, the all-consuming rage Charles had displayed was disconcerting. It seemed to Antonias the Diet was merely foreplay for the planned destruction of Antonias' friend and mentor.

For two years the mercenaries had hounded them. The shimmer of gold outshone the light of Truth to such men. As he fled, Antonias wept that he had no more devotion to give.

Love Long Lost

The wind blows cold through the barren land tonight. Colder still is my heart, rendered frozen and unfeeling from the loss of her.

Though time passes onward, my all-consuming love for her does not pass away. It ensnares my mind and ensorcells my dreams. Without her, I am an empty vessel...a broken vase holding only the dried sticks of despair.

The scarlet flower in my hand mocks me. It was her favorite and thus mine as well. I cast the petals onto the slowly flowing waters and hope the currents wend them to wherever her soul may reside now.

Sparkle By The Sea

The silver Peugeot 908 shot through the center of town at speeds far beyond safe. Anton's hand clutched at the armrest so tightly his knuckles were a bloodless white. With a loud squeal of rubber, the vehicle surged around the corner and onto Clayton Street.

Liana did not diminish her acceleration a bit though the traffic had increased considerably. Anton's heart surged up into his throat as he saw the traffic signal ahead of them change. Liana evinced no intent to stop and, in fact, did not.

With a jink of the wheel she narrowly avoided clipping the hapless woman who was just stepping off the curb. Liana's feral grin widened as she zipped around the articulated lorry crossing her path. Now THAT was fun, she thought.

Anton had had enough of her antics. "Liana!!", he roared, "How many times must I remind you?!? Not everyone has your enhanced reflexes. We need to be heading east. EAST, damn you! The ferry landing is east of town!"

Liana was undaunted. "Not my fault if she would have gotten splattered. Teach her to pay more attention to her surroundings, eh?
East it is then. Why didn't you say so? You said you knew your way around this maze...not me."

Anton sighed, "I SAID I was here on holiday...some 40 years ago! That was when this death machine you are driving was still a blueprint. Newcastle now is scarce the Newcastle I remember. But the ferries still use the same quay I'm sure."

She grunted by way of acknowledgment and drove on. A quick glance at the dashboard clock showed her 17 minutes remained. She would NOT let that slippery little bastard escape again!

As if he could read her mind, her mentor turned a bit to face her. She looked as wild and frenetic to him as always. She had not, and possibly never would, learned to pace herself. Every clue, every scrap of data, every hunt sent her into a manic state. He took much of the blame for that.

Genetically enhanced by HIS compound, she was an even more outstanding physical specimen than she had been before the Vampire Apocalypse. That had been 11 years ago and her resolve still held just as strongly.

She had fled with him on the eve of the war and travelled with him ever since. They were a team of two fighting their own personal war with their own objectives. Anton believed the key to neutralizing the Vampire Menace was to collapse their infrastructure.

As powerful as they were, even an army of vampires required strategic, tactical and logistical support. Those were the links that he and Liana sought to disrupt, dissolve and destroy.

Of all the targets the pair had hunted, they shared a common, especially virulent, hatred for Renfields. The human servitors of the vampires, these Renfields betrayed their own species to curry favor with their undead masters. There could be no greater affront than to offer up your own kind as food.

They dogged the trail of, perhaps, THE most infamous Renfield in all of Europe, August Le Clerque. He had been tracked in dozens of locations in as many countries and had always evaded Anton & Liana's best efforts to end his service. Today would be different.

Their intelligence indicated he was leaving his base of operations in Newcastle for the anonimity to be found in Amsterdam. A city renowned for its flourishing underground culture, allowing Le Clerque to reach there was unthinkable.

The ferry was to sail at noon, only 7 minutes away. Liana pushed the powerful diesel engine to its utmost. He would NOT sail away while she yet breathed.

"Liana...slow down! We are nearly there. We will have time. You MUST slow down so we can locate the boat we need."

Reluctantly, she geared down as they reached the docks. The Nederlandischer was there somewhere. Only three of the slips were occupied. They saw people swarming aboard the center ferry as the mooring lines were cast off. The sturdy vessel chugged slowly toward open water.

"Damn it!!", Anton hissed, "To have been SO close and yet again..." His voice trailed off bitterly.

Liana screeched to a halt directly astern of the departing craft. "The hell you say old man!!" She slid out the car door, moving almost too quickly for Anton to see. She stopped at the edge of the dock. Her arms were held stiffly at her sides, palms down. Her chin bent to her chest as if she were praying.

Realizing her intent, Anton clambered out, screaming, "For Gods sake, Liana! Stop!! You can NOT do this. Liana!! STOP!!!" He knew she would not.

With a primal shout of rage, she threw her head back and looked blindly skyward. Her arms shot up and forward, her palms met and her elbows locked.

A tremendous ball of coruscating blue energy lanced outward away from her, shooting directly toward the departing ferry. It struck amidships, just above the waterline and detonated in the confined interior of the boat.

The explosion belched flames into the air as the energy expended itself. Within seconds, the holed bulk of the Nederlandischer slid beneath the waves. There were no indications of survivors.

Anton caught Liana as she sagged to her knees on the rough wooden planking. He gently rolled her onto her back and began to check her vitals. She was conscious...barely. A thin trickle of blood came from her nose and her lower lip was bitten through.

"Girl...Liana...stay with me! Ohmigod, the loss. What have you DONE girl?!? How could you DO that?" His voice was rasping and strained.

She coughed...turned her head and spat blood. Weakly she whispered, "I...did...what needed done. There were none on that damned vessel to be saved. It was too late for them. I gave them such peace as was within my power to give. For that, I will NOT apologize, old man!"

Anton cradled her to him, slowly rocking. By the sea, unheard over the lapping water and the cries of the birds, the hunters wept for what expediency required of them that day.

The Conflict Unresolved

He stood on the mountain top and waited. The sun was just rising in the east and a cold wind blew. His long, dark hair was loose and blew around his face like an ebon cloud. It had been too long since he had walked the earth. He hadn't realized how much he had missed it.

He so seldom took human form anymore. With all those available to do his biddng it was rarely necessary. He found it ironic that belief in him swelled ever more and more without any overt action on his part. The media, the books, the films seemed to delight in making him their subject.

It disturbed him that they portrayed him as some red-skinned...creature...with a ridiculous tail and horns. A goat-footed beast who drank blood and craved human sacrifices? Had they READ the Book? Did they know nothing of their history? It was absurd and insulting to him in ways he was unable to explain.

Michael was late. They were to both be here at the sun's rising. In spite of all of the conflict and Michael's refusal to side with him, he was still fond of his brother. Fond enough that he smiled, remembering that Michael was perpetually late. It seemed an unusual failing in one in whom He placed so much trust. It seemed His infinite ability to forgive weakness was as capricious as it always had been.

Lucifer would wait...must wait for Michael and the news he would bring. It was too important, too momentous for impatience to be indulged. Lucifer MUST have an answer...must know. Nothing else was tolerable.

He was drawn from his thoughts by the arrival of Michael. He came from thin air to striding purposefully towards his goal. As was his wont, he took the form of a tall, well-built man. His silver armor glinted in the sun casting sparkles across his pale skin and his close-cut blond hair gleamed. Forever the showman, Lucifer noted.

While he still felt great fondness for the arch-angel, he could not resist the urge to bait him. Michael had always been such a prig.

"While neither of us may age, dear brother, it does not excuse wanton sloth on your part."

A frown marred Michael's perfect features and his mouth formed a moeu of disfavor. "Leave off, brother. I was detained about our Master's busines."

Lucifer's left brow arched up and a wry smile came to his mouth. "In point of fact, not OUR master. And am I the only one who finds irony in this? While I am saddled with the epithet 'Father of Lies', so many, many untruths are spoken in which I had no part. YOUR Master should be disappointed in his servants."

Michael stopped some feet away, ignoring the obvious taunts. "I am here now. That is what matters, is it not? I can just as easily find need to be elsewhere."

The effect on his brother caught Michael at a loss. The bravado and bluster melted like slush in the spring. His shoulders slumped and he looked unwell.

"No. Do not go, Michael. I spoke in jest and perhaps poor jest at that. It is just...I meant...I must know! Have you spoken to Him brother?"

It was the angel's turn to take the upper hand and a broad smile curved his lips. "But, of course I have spoken to him, my brother. I speak to him many times a day. I assume you intend to ask, have I spoken to him of your concerns?"

Lucifer bristled and flames danced in his dark eyes. "It is your time to leave off Michael! We stand on ground of MY domain and I will NOT be mocked! This is of too much import to be so dealt with. Now you will TELL me what I wish to know."

Michael made a dismissive gesture. "You have no power over me. But you do speak right that what we discuss is of great consequence. Therefore I tell you this. The Lord, our God, instructs me to say that his counsels are His own and his intents not subject to your query. You shall continue in your role and He in His until the fullness of days shall come to pass. Upon that day shall all be resolved between you, but that day is not now nor will it be until He shall deem it to be. Thus spake The Lord, our God."

"NOOO!!!", Lucifer screamed in abject disbelief, "This can NOT be! Almighty, my ass! He has abdicated his right to be called such. I refuse to believe that He cares so little about these his creations. It defies all logic. Did you say to Him all that I requested of you?? I can not see how you would gain by altering my words but alter them you MUST have!"

Michael raised his palms in a gesture of placation. "I spoke your words to him completely. As He sees and knows all, He did not need my intervention on your behalf. He knows what He does, brother."

"DOES He?!? If He does then He must know that He HAS to intervene. For ten millenia, I have abided by the terms of our compact. But enough! Every year millions, MILLIONS of souls are given over to my care. My burden grows larger and heavier than He can possibly understand. They come and come and come. I have no need to entice or trick or cajole! They freely give themselves over to the covert and overt commission of the most vile perversions of His laws. This can NOT be allowed to go on."

"Oh He knows, brother, He knows. The loss of each and every one of those souls pains him so very much more than words can express. He knows."

"Then, surely, He must commit. He must end his voyeurism and rise up to action. He must take them in hand. He must MAKE them obey Him. He must USE as much of his vaunted power as is needed to take back their destinies. To do any less is...unfitting...of a supposedly loving and benevolent father."

"This He will not do and you know it. Free will...choice...stands as one of the unshakeable cornerstones of His plans for Mankind. He can no more MAKE them bend the knee to Him than He could compel you to serve him in the capacity of that He intended for you to be. This he can not and WILL not EVER do. You must realize this."

"THIS is what I realize and THIS will you tell your Master", he spat the last word like unto an obscenity, "You must tell Him that, while He chooses to embrace apathy and inactivity, I will NOT. I choose to re-double my efforts. I will foment blood and fire...death and destruction. I will foster hatred and greed and intolerance and any other debilitating emotion these petty beings are capable of expressing. I will make of His world a charnel house. I will make the hideous reality of it far, FAR beyond the worst Chtonic horrors of those foolish Greek sodomites! I will lay to waste His temples, inspire His children to curse and revile Him in their misery. If it is free will He so treasures, I shall exercise MY free will to mock and profane His tenets to my final breath. I will make ALL that He has created putrid, vomitous offal and by my oath, I will MAKE Him act or I will laugh as He watches it all turned to ashes and dust by the strength of MY hand. If He truly WISHES me to be the 'Architect of Suffering', then such unimaginably EVIL blueprints will I craft. THIS you may tell that dodderer. Thus shall enmity ALWAYS exist between us and with my final breath, STILL shall I curse His name!!!"

With a tremendous gout of flame and a clap of thunder so monstrous that the very rocks broke asunder, Lucifer was gone. Michael remained where he had stood.

On the smooth features of Michael, Commander of the Armies of God, Arch-Angel and Prince of Angels, there appeared a single, glistening tear. He wept not for the fate of Man but for the his beloved brother, once the Lightbringer and Scion of the Lord, and for all that he had lost. For deep inside of Lucifer, Michael KNEW still beat the heart of an angel.

A Truly Determined Man

He sat in his ramshackle dwelling and fought to quell the shivering. He was tired, so very tired. He chewed his morning repast slowly, savoring each meager bite. His hunger was poorly sated and he feared it would only grow worse unless he acted. There was no choice. He must venture out today and search for that which would sustain him for another day before the weakness seeped any deeper into his bones.

He wondered, not for the first time, why he did not just simply lie down and let the cold and hunger triumph over his will. Without her...without his precious young ones, what was the point. The aching of his battered body was as nothing compared to the sickness that burrowed ever deeper into his heart and his soul as well.

He did not blame her for what she had done, but that made it no easier for him to accept. He had watched the love in her eyes dim a little more each day. Her smiles for him were more forced, her laughter more seldom. Finally, towards the end, he could barely meet her gaze for her apathy and contempt for him were beyond hiding any longer.

He had returned one day to find her and the children gone. She left no note or explanation. In truth, there was nothing left to say. The empty closets, the empty pantry, spoke all that needed to be known. She...they...had left him, with no reason to suspect they would ever return. The uncertainty inherent in leaving was preferable, it seemed, to the stark reality of remaining there even one more day. No, he did not blame her but neither could he ever truly forgive her.

Unbidden, the tears stung his eyes. Inexorably he descended into a pit of self-loathing, despair and utter despondency. With each passing hour, each passing day, that pit grew just a little bit deeper and ever so much more difficult for him to dredge himself back up out of.

As had became the norm of late, only an inner spark of anger empowered him to go on. White-hot, the rage bubbled up and out like so much lava from a long-dormant fissure. What was he to have done differently? Had he not labored as long and as hard as he could to provide for them? Did he ever flag in his determination to better their situation?

He had given every last bit of his strength, his devotion, his resolve to the preservation of his family. That she had betrayed him, given up on him, taken what hope and joy remained to him was not in contention. Her inability to believe in him and his assurances was HER flaw...not his!

The anger took a very long time to pass. A strong gust of cold wind blew in through a chink in the wall and seized his attention. Blinking and rubbing at his reddened eyes, he drew in deep breaths of the frigid air. He was surprised to see how high in the sky the pale sun had risen.

With a huff of air and a strong surge of his muscles, he rose to his feet. He would not surrender. He would persevere. What he had lost, all that had been taken from him no longer mattered. What did matter was that another day had dawned in a cold, harsh world. He must harden his heart and become as cold and as harsh as the reality around him required.

After all, he was a man. He would...no, he MUST do as the men of his people had always done. He must fight and claw and scrape to TAKE what he needed from an unfriendly world. To do any less would be to desecrate the spirits of his forebears, of his brethren, of squirrels everywhere!!

With a near-manic burst of laughter, he scampered out of the hollow tree and across the crackling autumn leaves. Whatever indignities the world was determined to place in his path, they were not beyond the resolve of a truly determined man to conquer.

Josiah Teague: Territorial Agent, Pt II

Teague rode down into the valley, holding his horse to a very slow walk. He did this with two objectives in mind.

Firstly, everything he knew or had heard about reservation vamps indicated they spooked easily. Vamps were, by inclination, nomadic creatures. They were not a gregarious species either. Though organized into clans, their basic social unit was the pack. Each clan consisted of numerous, small semi-autonomous packs that seldom interacted one with another. Thus, being confined to a relatively small space and forced into undesired proximity to others of their kind made them...easily exciteable.

This understanding of their social structure had been learned through a series of bloody, brutal misunderstandings. Josiah Teague was not an excessively cautious man but he had no desire to find himself with either the option of being torn limb from limb or being forced to put down needlessly-enraged vamp natives. Not only would it be a polarizing affront to his superiors, it would fan the flames of a growing anti-Vamp sentiment sweeping unchecked across the land. Peaceful co-existence in the Territories had always been problematic and it boded to only become moreso if matters were not handled with extreme caution.

Secondly, proceeding slowly gave him time to decide what to do regarding the apparent manipulation of the archival data in the Bureau databases regarding the Lost Valley Reservation. It was a disturbingly limited record. Teague had been quite surprised to learn that the reservation had been established near the end of Tenmonth in 2125. This was now Thirdmonth, 2170.

The archives contained less than two terabytes of data...for a period of 45 years?!?
Teague was surprised to see that the file had been heavily redacted. BPA archival records were NEVER censored! Territorial Agents had both broad power aligned with a sacred responsibility to document anything and everything they felt was germane to BFA operations. By tradition and by treaty, agents were expressly prohibited from omitting, concealing or altering ANY data. Anything with the potential to impact the Bureau or the Vamps, for either good or ill, was to be a matter of public record. Such was not what had happened here. This was...unthinkable!

From the beginning entry to the final entry done by his predecessor, it was undeniable that the information had been doctored. Entire years of data were reduced to mere paragraphs. Hundreds of records of welfare inspections, thousands of supply requisitions, all were...missing?...omitted?...gone?!?

Teague had spent a long time wondering what his response should be. Protocols in cases such as this (were there any?) did exist. His first stop should be the Territorial Bureau Chief. That was not viable. Alteration of records on THIS scale could never happen without a Chief being aware. So, Governor Halgarn? Teague was unsure. It was even less likely that Halgarn was not aware? It was insoluble without further research.

Josiah had one option he was nearly certain would resolve the (obvious) inconsistencies. A practice that had fallen out of favor as tech progressed was the way. BPA agents had kept handwritten field journals. Teague would get them from the crypts and reconstruct the records.

He did just that and settled in to the herculean task. Within hours, he stopped. He stumbled upon something too glaring...too...too...odious to be a simple omission. It was in the journal of Buckwald "Bucky" Beaverton, the very first Territorial Agent assigned to the Lost Valley Vamps.

Beaverton had performed the first comprehensive census of the reservation vamps. His tallies indicated a total of 437 vamps. The lists were organized by clan for the Long Fang, Night Wing AND Silver Skull clans. Silver Skull clan?!? No...there were only TWO clans in Lost Valley, NOT...Ohmigod!!!

The existence of the remnants of an entire CLAN had been erased. What could this mean? Where could (he checked) 207 vamps have gone to beyond Bureau control? This was beyond tampering. This was systematic extinction. Inconceivable...but indisputable.

Teague had kept his mouth shut and had rode out two days later. He had taken the time on route to weigh his options. What he had arrived at first chilled him to his core. Then, as time passed he realized it was the only course he could pursue to set things to rights.

His Bureau training was the answer. From day one, it was preached that not just anyone could BE a Territorial Agent. To be an agent meant to forego one's private agenda and act for the betterment and protection of BOTH species beyond all other concerns.

He was Humanity's agent to the Vamps but, more importantly, he was the Vamps only voice TO Humanity. He was THEIR agent...THEIR defender...THEIR champion. He must right the wrongs. He must restore their honor. He must do the right thing for them. It was his job, his burden, his destiny.

He must gain the trust of a species who had no reason to trust ANY human. He must make them understand that they had both been wronged. He must cast aside his own petty ambitions and serve the needs of the Vamp people.

As he reached the valley floor, he reined in his mount and stopped. Keeping his hands open and clear of his weapons, he slid from the horse's back and landed, nimbly, on the hard earth. Raising his hands in the ritual greeting, he began the healing process.

Sins of the Past

For over three decades, Aleksandr Trelescu had served as president and CEO of Sapphire Industries. But today he wasn't feeling especially presidential.

The voice on the telephone had been electronically altered but, nevertheless, the phrasing was unmistakeable. The thick Slavic accent impossible to fully mask.

It was her. She was alive! His heart beat a staccato tattoo within his chest at that realization. He had believed her dead. He would never have left Rumania had he known otherwise.

The call was brief, the message clear. Death was coming for him...soon. He wept shamelessly for the follies of his youth.

The Origins of Sparkle

He had not left her side in over 18 hours. He would not leave her side until either the fever broke or her body failed. The odds of either outcome were too close for him to gauge even at this juncture. She was strong but he knew, all to well, that even the strongest had their breaking point.

Anton Dubrolevic held scant hope that Subject #19 would fare any better than her predecessors. He had warned The Brotherhood that the process was not ready for human testing. They insisted that the Vampire Armageddon could not be allowed. Extreme measures were dictated.

Anton could conceive of no measure more extreme than using adolescent humans as laboratory animals. He and his team had been pressed into service two years prior and had labored ceaselessly to perfect the process in time.

It was now only two months until mankind would march into the 23rd century. It would be the century that marked the end of humanity. It would be the Century of the Vampire Armageddon.

No one had taken seriously that such a thing could be possible. Vampires were the stuff of Slavic legends and teen films. Certainly they were not, could not be real. As evolved as humans had become, they had not evolved beyond the potential to be horribly, immeasurably wrong.

The news outlets had initially aired the recorded message as either News of the Weird or as a publicity stunt for some unknown product. All too soon the entire world came to know that it was neither of those things.

The first six-minute missive came to be known as The Ultimatum. It was the most-viewed footage in all of the history of such. The video component consisted entirely of various perspective views of Hell's Tower, the command center of the Vampire Armageddon.

The screen seemed to drip and ooze with random splatterings of blood. Visible through this was an edifice that was impressive in its obscenity. It clawed its way upward like a visible representation of Hell itself. In basic form it was the antithesis of everything good and holy, mocking such with its superficial resemblance to a church tower.

Super-imposed over the demonic spire were three-dimensional holographic projections of...creatures. Vile, human-form beings that were, most assuredly NOT human. Fanged monsters with the pointed ears of bats cavorted across the scene. Brandishing clawed talons, they leered and licked their lips. Their lurid, glowing eyes seemed to be staring out from the Pits, beckoning to others to join them in their damnation.

The audio component was, if conceivable, even more perverse. Identifying themselves as The Blood Gods, they delivered mankind an Ultimatum. For too long had vampires remained the forgotten fodder of tales. The time had come for their elevation to rulers of cattle rather than their cinema entertainers.

Thus, Vampirekind had made use of science and technology to make themselves the ideal predator. No longer were they relegated to night...to the shadows. Now could they walk the earth at will and assert their superiority. Humanity would be given until New Years Day, 2200 to capitulate.

Those that submitted willingly to vampiric rule would be accorded unspecified rewards and preferential treatment. Those who chose to resist would be dealt with by the harshest of measures. The choice therefore was: submit or die with a non-negotiable deadline.

While the rank and file debated the recording's meaning, governemnts had no choice but to consider it a threat.
The Coalition of Man was the first response.

Socio-political, ideological, economic rivalries were set aside to formulate a response to The Ultimatum. Given the disparity of Coalition members, it is noteworthy that the consensus opinion was to neutralize the Vampire Menace with overwhelming strategic force.

This proved entirely beyond consideration. Satellite imagery and confirmed the existence and extent of the Hell's Tower complex. This data indicated geothermal taps as the source of required power for the installation. They were unequivocal that the force required to destroy the target would result in an extinction-level seismic incident.

The next Coalition response was Project Spectrum. A surgical strike force would be formed instead. The selectees would combine the best combination of physical prowess, mental accuity and emotional stability. The collective criteria or Spectrum would decide. The assembled force would then be honed to maximum efficacy and targeted against the Vampire command structure.

Anton became part of the final response. He had published a theoretical treatise entitled: Benefits of Self-Propagating Amino-Replicated Kinesthetic Lymphatic Enhancement or S.P.A.R.K.L.E. It was exceptionally technical but theorized a process whereby a subject could be genetically enhanced to far exceed their nascent abilities.

Kinesthetic enhancement would grant subjects increased ability to determine their body position, movement and balance. It would enable levels of physical ability previously unattainable.

Lymphatic enhancement would grant subjects an improved immunity to disease, resistance to toxins/contaminants and healthier tissue generation. Lifespan and system heartiness would be unparalleled in human experience.

The potential benefits to mankind were truly impressive. When approached by Coalition scientists, Anton was quite insistent that, while the research showed great promise, it remained years away from practical application. Now, 22 months and 18 dead volunteers later, Anton hated himself for not having stood by his principles. He had sacrificed his immortal soul on the altar of good intentions.

All of it would end, one way or another, tonight. He had given too much of himself to this experiment. If Subject #19 did not pull through, he would leave this room and never return. No more volunteers would die for his research. If, Fates be praised, she did survive then he would take her with him.

He knew the Coalition would exploit his enhancements of her beyond her ability to survive. She did not deserve such a death sentence, essentially administered by him via his genetic tampering.

At 02:17 AM, Subject #19 regained consciousness. Anton pled his case with her and she agreed they would leave together. As they navigated darkened corridors, Anton had no idea what lay in store for him or Subject #19. No, not Subject #19...Liana. He must begin thinking of her now as Liana.

Hanover & Kent: Spirit of Competition

Cornelius Hanover ducked as a vase crashed into the spot his head had occupied seconds before.

"Okay Kent, that's it! I don't care if this guy knows where the entire Buster Feldnick collector's set is! He lobs one more damned pot at me I'm gonna -"

"Gonna what, Hanover? I warned you he might NOT be in the best of moods. Trust me, getting murdered will do that to you. And please TRY not to be such an ass. I told you a dozen times it's 'boustrophedonic'. Read a book some time. Now hush. I'm working."


The professor had been authenticating some ancient rango-rango text found in an Egyptian tomb. Apparently, that was a big enough deal to get him murdered and the book stolen. The University offered Hanover $50,000 to find it...no questions asked. Yeah, a big deal.

Adrian Kent finally spoke. "You aren't gonna like this, but we made an...arrangement.
He's agreed to tell me who killed him...if I beat him at a game of chess."

"CHESS?!?"

"Cornelius, he's confused and really pissed. This was the only way. Don't freak. I think I can take him."

Before Hanover could protest, a board and pieces set themselves in place. Cornelius watched in stunned silence, realizing he didn't even know what color Kent was playing.

With a loud clunk, the black king toppled sideways. As if on cue, every object in the lab was airborn, whizzing madly to and fro.

Kent whooped, "Got it! But boy, if you thought he was pissed BEFORE..."

Ducking and dodging, Hanover made a run for the door.

Tricks For All

He sat in his sagging armchair and ate soup. It was a thin, tasteless affair reconstituted from a can. Cranston didn't really much care what he ate, it was more a ritual than anything to be savored.

He spooned more of it in, dribbling it down his whiskery chin. His house was small, old and shabby much like its occupant. Cranston didn't care, it suited his needs. His ancient TV got poor reception, but his custom was to watch the local news as he ate.

The screen lit up with computer graphics as the blonde bimbo anchor spoke, "Remember tonight between 7 and 9 is the designated hours for trick or treating here in Central City. Be prepared with plenty of tasty treats for all those adorable little ghosts and goblins."

Cranston swore to himself. Was it THAT time of year again?!? He was single, never married and had no freakin' use for a bunch of grubby little bastards intent on getting something for nothing. Damn, he hated kids! Well they were shit out of luck at HIS house. He wasn't about to spend his meager pension on sugary junk for the worthless little scum.

Totally put off his feed, he stumped to the kitchen and deposited his bowl into a sinkful of unwashed dishes. He caught sight of the kitchen clock and swore again. Little pricks would be around any minute! Time enough to get ready for them though.

Slowly bending his creaky old body, he snagged the handle of a bucket and stood back up. Clunking it down in the crowded sink, he filled it almost full with cold water. Cane in one hand and bucket in the other, he tottered carefully to his front door.

With great care, he placed the bucket on the floor. Grinning to himself, he actually hoped there were some kids stupid enough to ignore the prominent "NO TRESPASSING" sign and knock on HIS door. He would have something special just for them.

He went back to his old chair and plopped down to watch an old movie. Time passed and, in spite of his planned prank, he was relieved not to be disturbed by hordes of costumed children. Only half an hour to go, he noted grimly.

It was if Fate had read his mind and decided to play a joke of Its own on him. He heard the giggling first, then the tread of small feet on the warped boards of his front porch. Sunavabitch!, he swore. Close but no cigar.

He heard a small fist rap on the door and hauled himself to his feet with a grunt. Well, at least the bucket wouldn't go to waste, he grumbled. At the door, he saw three figures through the thin curtain. He opened the door slowly.

He saw two children, a boy and girl, barely as tall as his waist. She was dressed in a pink frilly dress with a plastic crown and a cheap-looking cardboard wand with a crude glittery star affixed to it. The boy wore scruffy, ripped clothing and his face was smeared with greasy greenish make-up and fake blood. Behind them, a girl of perhaps 12 was standing. In ripped jeans and a tattered leather vest, her hair was spiked and teased into a wild mane. She wore exaggerated eye shadow and day-glo red lipstick. Cranston stared at them suspiciously.

The "princess" broke the silence with a sweet little voice that cracked as she asked, "Trick or Treat?"

Cranston grinned evilly as he took a firm grip on the handle of the brimming bucket. His voice was deceptively mild as he spoke. "Oh I guess I would have to go with...TRICK!!" As he roared the word, he swung the door wide open. With a swinging arc, he slewed the bucket around to drench the unsuspecting children.

The younger two were completely unprepared and were soaked, head to toe, in the deluge of cold water. The older girl dodged nimbly aside, but still got wet all down her side and on one leg. Cranston hooted with laughter as the youngsters shrieked with alarm and burst into tears. The older girl muttered and growled.

As he cackled with glee, the "punk" girl stepped forward, sweeping the others behind her protectively. She leaned forward towards Cranston.

"Waaay uncool old man! They're just a coupla kids! If ya don't wanna give nothin' out then FINE! But you need to get your head outta your ass and lighten up, ya senile old fuck!!"

Cranston reeled back under her verbal assault before regaining his composure. He snapped back, "And you need to get these whiny little urchins and your smart mouth off my porch before I give you my cane upside your thick little heads! Now scram!!"

"I hope Halloween has a trick for YOU before this night is over you...you...asshole!" With a hand gesture as old as time itself, the girl put an arm around either of the children and led them away into the night.

Cranston waited until he was sure they were off his property before slamming the door. He laughed again, seeing their horrified faces as the water flew. As he turned toward the kitchen, the toe of his left shoe slipped in a patch of spilled water.

With a startled yelp, his leg flew out from under him and he fell face-forward onto the dirty hardwood floor. The point of his chin struck with crushing force and bone shattered. His jaw popped from its socket with a sick sucking sound. As the weight of his body settled, the exposed bone drove relentlessly through his soft palette and lodged deeply into his brain.

Cranston's feet drummed the floor with an erratic rhythm before they stilled and he lay dead on the floor. It was certainly no treat for the hapless postman who discovered the old man's dead body the next morning.

In The Cold and Dark

It is now but an hour before it will be dark enough for them. With each passing day, the winds blowing down from the hills are colder with the unmistakeable kiss of winter. The chill that settles into our hearts is more unshakeable than that in our bodies. All hope of aid is gone.

Waldren and the men who rode to Castletown have not returned. Granted, it is a hard two days' ride each way, but they have been gone now for six. It is clear, to us, that they did not travel either far enough or fast enough before stopping to rest. It is not an error they need fear making again. If they return here now, it will be as part of the menace. That much we know.

At first, there were but a few dozen of them. Their skin as grey and hard as stone, they came at us. Their eyes were dull and glassy with no spark of life behind them. Their breath misted in the night air and stank of things long dead. They were the harbingers of death and so that was fitting.

They came at first full dark, without warning and without any restraint. They tore apart the pens and barns and dragged away the livestock. They vanished into the black of the forest without hesitation or stealth. None dared follow them that night. Looking back now, it seems unlikely it would have helped if we had.

With each night, they returned, more numerous and more voracious. We fought them, for we are a hearty people and proud. Those who seek grudge with us find it met in kind. We do not fear easily or submit at all. We defend that which is ours as we must. Fought them we did...and lost.

Their cold flesh notched blades and dulled axes. Be it our most fell weapons or our most common farm tools, they took no damage and felt no pain. Their stony fingers rent our flesh. Their frozen fists and feet cracked bone and crushed out life. Fire was proof against them but only halted them when they burned so long that naught of them remained.

They were the dead and we were helpless before them. As each morning dawned, they returned to the blackness of the forest. Our streets and green were slick with blood and worse. They left none of their number behind and dragged off our people to become theirs.

The true horror began then. Each night as they came we found ourselves fighting off our fathers, our daughters, our brothers and friends. Our resources and our wills were strained. With each sunrise, we that remained found ourselves with fewer options and less hope. The unassailable bastion of our resolve crumbled slowly but inexorably away to dust.

We forsake the comforts of our hearths and homes to gather in the square. A scant thirty of us remain and we have accepted that we will die tonight. Hands are held, last embraces given and final prayers are whispered softly.

The hoot of a mournful owl floats on the breeze towards us. A creak of leather and a clink of steel sounds closer by. The dead are coming and we, the living who remain, will join with them tonight. In the cold and dark we will become both cold and dark as well.

Laundry Day

Aces Sheheen sat in his office at the Bricklayers' Labor Hall and fumed. How dare that weasly fuck infer HE was dirty?!?

Thirty years solidifying his power base...no pissant political appointee was gonna dick that up. Opening his safe, he took out a very specialized telephone book.

He came to a page with the innocuous heading of "Laundry". Perfect, since he needed this little shitstain on the undershorts of life gone.

"Paulie? A.D.A. thinks he got the horseradish to fuck with me!! Put him under the turf at Brawley Field by sunset...near the cheap seats!"

One stain...gone.

Josiah Teague: Territorial Agent

Josiah Teague had ridden nearly half a day from Settlement 241 before he first saw the signs. He had been an expert tracker for enough years that they practically spoke to him. A scuff here, crushed grasses, familiar scents all set him on guard. The reservation was nearby...very close now.

Teague patted his horse's neck as he started up the last hill. The silver of his Bureau of Paranormal Affairs (BPA) badge gleamed in the burgeoning sunlight. Such a new ornament on such an old tree, he grinned. He doubted it would much impress the Vamps, but perhaps his Mark X Peacekeeper weaponry would take up the slack.

He crested the low hill and looked down into the valley. The land formed a natural bowl, both cradling and confining those that called it home. The Bureau registered them as the remnants of the Long Fang and Night Terror clans.

They had once been two of the largest and most powerful clans of the Free Vampire Nations...once. Now, they were a pitiful band of rag-tags surviving on the meager largesse of the Bureau. He saw few of their young and almost none of the warrior class. They were every bit the beaten, bedraggled refugees they appeared to be. They were the embittered losers of an inter-species war of extinction of a scope unknown in all of recorded history.

They were going about the morning rituals of their kind with little interest in Teague. For his part, Teague was fascinated to see them in their "wild" state. They bore little resemblance to the fantastic creatures of the newsvids he watched as a boy.

They were NOT the seven foot tall, hulking undead menace. They did not drip blood from their wickedly cruel fangs and claws, as they glutted their unnatural appetites on the husks of human babies. They looked, in point of fact, old and sick and tired. THESE was the dreaded predators of the frontier?? Teague found it hard to envision.

He sat his horse and waited for the natives to make the first overture. Governor Halgarn had met with him personally the day before he rode out. The governor wanted to insure his newest Territorial Agent understood how things worked. The bloodsuckers (Teague grimaced at the pejorative vernacular used) were down and out and would STAY that way.

Halgarn cared not a whit for the health or welfare of the inhabitants of Lost Valley Reservation. What he DID care about was the peace and prosperity of the wealthy human ranchers of the territory. What he cared about was the potential for political advancement that an uneventful term as territorial governor promised.

Teague understood exactly how helpful or how destructive a man with power and plans could be. He assured the governor he would use every means the BPA allowed to maintain a state of good order and discipline on the reservation. Halgarn assured Teague that no other state would be accepted nor tolerated.
As the sun rose higher, one of the females caught sight of Teague. She gestured and said something in the odd speech of the Vamps. The natives dropped whatever and assembled into a loose pack. No weapons were visible to Teague.

A tall being with shoulder-length gray hair stepped from the central lodge tent. He was still muscular and fit and his exposed chest and arms were heavily scarred. He shielded his eyes and gazed up the trail at Teague. Even from this distance, the agent felt the oldster's eyes boring in to him. He shifted in his saddle.

The old vampire slowly raised one arm and made a beckoning motion to Teague. Show time, the agent murmured, as he rode slowly down to the valley floor and his new career began.

The Best Laid Plans

Tanaka stood amidst the smoldering rubble of the Puakoahanaliakua Banquet Hall.

"HOW did this happen again?"

"Pooka and me just figured fire juggling would offer the haoles an authentic, uniquely Polynesian experience here. And -"

"Three points, David. Firstly, we call Pooka the village idiot for reasons. Secondly, YOU are a haole. You grew up in Toledo! Thirdly, burning my business to the ground is NOT a uniquely Polynesian experience!!"

"Hey, it's WAY harder than it looks. Besides, Pooka set the drapes on fire, NOT me!"

A flabbergasted Tanaka roared, "You did this INSIDE the hall?!?"

"Did I forget that part before?"

More Than Just Sparkle

It was the type of chill, foggy night that tourists pictured when they thought of London. The moon peeked through wind-swept clouds, providing scant illumination in the night. What the night did provide, in abundance, were shadows. Levesque would need each and every one of them if he were to survive.

The accursed pair had been nipping at his heels for over a week now. They had proven relentless and bothersome beyond belief. Two days prior, they had assaulted his manor house. It rankled him that he had been left with no choice but to flee. It was...undignified.

As a scion of one of Britain's oldest vampiric clans, he was accustomed to being treated with deference and respect. The attack on his home could only mean he had been betrayed by others of his kind. Such an affront was inexcusable and would be dealt with most harshly, he vowed.

He shook his head vigorously. Now was not the time for vengeance. It was the time to draw on the feral instincts that had been so vital to Levesque at one time. He was ashamed to admit he had grown complacent, but he had. Lions do not fear the gazelle nor do rabbits harry the hounds. The presumption of these cattle was ridiculous!

Levesque ghosted through the alleys and narrow lanes with little discrimination. He had hoped his pursuers to be unfamiliar with London and been sorely disappointed. It was taking all he had to merely stay ahead of them. The financial district loomed ahead offering less cover and better lit streets.

As he rounded a large edifice, his confidence dropped. This was all wrong. There were too many street lamps...too little ground clutter. He was as exposed as a fly on a plate of glass. Levesque strained his senses, questing for the location of the hunters. He scented, heard their determined steps closing in on him.

Levesque sought escape. Two days without feeding had left him depleted and weakened. He was unwilling to concede that he had grown soft. None of his kind could be at their best given such circumstances. Escape meant survival, so escape it must be.

His gaze swept left to right, seeking refuge. As he began to doubt any existed, he spied his salvation. The small, illuminated sign read "Canary Wharf Station". Of course! It was perfect. The tube station would be deserted, leaving no witnesses for the duo to question.

His thoughts whirled. Cool logic conquered primal instinct. His plan would require exquisite timing in order to succeed, but it DID offer success as an option. That was more than the previous two days had offered. Levesque tensed his muscles, waiting. The scuff of a boot heel on cobbles told him he would not need to wait long. They were practically on top of him.

His gambit was deceptively simple but not without risk. He wanted, NEEDED for the chasers to see him going down the iron steps to the platform. There resided the risk. If they could see him, they were in a position to engage him. He knew the wild-haired female carried a crossbow. He was unfamiliar with the weapon her male companion had but it promised lethality. It seemed akin to a shotgun but fired wooden stakes with both blinding speed and crushing force. Levesque feared such brutal instruments.

He consoled himself that a vampire of his age and lineage was capable of moving far faster than mortal reflexes could compensate for. The risk was minimal and, sadly, unavoidable. As long as Levesque reached the underground platform, he would lose them once and for all.

For once they, too, were on the platform, the scent of their prey would vanish. They would assume he had fled down the tunnel to lose them in the inky blackness. Unable to clarify which direction he had gone, they would be forced to split up or risk losing him. Therein lay the beauty of Levesque's ploy.

In truth, he had no intention of grubbing about in the dank tunnels. Once they committed themselves to their respective directions, he would slip from behind one of the stone columns and right back up the stairs. By the time they realized the subterfuge and regrouped, he would be long gone and free to feed. Nourished, he could make short work of the two.

Furtive whispers on the wind alerted Levesque. It was time. He surged from behind a planter, paused to insure he had been sighted. He turned on his heels and sprinted for the steps. His form blurred so quickly was he moving.

Relieved of the necessity for stealth, the humans thudded after him. With a hiss of compressed air, a stake as thick as a woman's wrist zipped past Levesque's ear. Two quarrels joined the fusilade, one smacking into his shoulder Levesque strangled a cry as the flesh around the wound sizzled. The bitch was dosing her missiles with garlic! He sped on, ignoring the agony that suffused him.

Barely two hundred yards ahead of the pursuit, he fairly flew down the narrow stars, stumbling as he landed. He ducked behind the third column and stopped. Willing himself to be calm, he waited...waited.

He heard the humans reach the platform, the old man barking harsh commands in some language. Nearly a minute passed with no hint that either of them was entering the tunnels. Levesque dared not break cover to check on them. Patience, he told himself, patience.

With a loud crack, deafening in the confined space, something struck the column he hid behind. They knew he was there! No, wait...it was a hunting trick as old as hunting itself. As two more stakes whirred out to strike different locations nowhere him, Levesque smiled.

The old fool was good. Suspecting a trap, he was attempting to flush his prey from hiding. Levesque stood his ground silently. When no further projectiles came down the platform, the next sound he expected to hear would be boot heels on the loose stone of the tunnels.

The last sound and sight that Antoine Fortescue Levesque, Prince of Vampiria Britannica, experienced was quite unique. He heard the bolt gun hiss loudly. The stake struck the wall ten feet short of him and off to the left.

Only his enhanced senses allowed him to perceive what happened next. The projectile caromed off the wall, its velocity barely diminished. It flew soundlessly on its new trajectory, neatly transecting his neck left to right. He crumpled in place, eyes wide with shock.

He was too stunned to react as he was rolled onto his back and skewered through the heart by the male hunter.

Liana, her red hair blowing about her like a scarlet halo, stood guard as Anton finished off the bloodsucker. What a hunt! She stood at ease, hip cocked to the side, her crossbow resting lightly there.

"Old man", she grinned, "If you try to tell me you hit that shot by anything other than sheer luck, I promise I will sick up all over your new boots."

Anton frowned as his skill and experience were called into question by his young protege. He held the face as long as he could before offering her a wry smile.

"I keep telling you and you just do NOT listen youngster. There is far more to this bloody business than just 'sparkle'. Sometimes...only sometimes mind you...sheer luck plays its part too. Now let's get this mess cleaned up."

As they bent to the task at hand, neither of the two dared to consider just how good a team they made together. Some things just had no place being said. Their grins said it all.

Hanover & Kent: Control Issues

When you're dead, you tend to have a LOT of spare time on your hands. You don't have drycleaning to pick up. NYNEX won't be disconnecting anything you much need anymore. Not only do you not need to make time to fill up the cupboards, you don't even have cupboards anymore. All in all, Kent reflected, it wasn't half bad a deal most days.

In the eight years since he joined the dead, Adrian Kent had spent a lot more time at Shea Stadium than he got to as one of the living. Ticket prices were no longer a concern when you could be right behind third base, literally, for a game. The Mets still had a lousy bullpen though. Being dead didn't make ALL your problems go away.

There was a game at 2:30 today that he had every intention of catching. They had some new kid named Rivera or Rinaldo or some such just up from the farm club pitching his debut game in the Bigs. Kent figured it would be fun to see one way or another. He sometimes confused Hanover trying to explain that he hadn't really appreciated how much fun life could be until he wasn't alive any more.

Thinking of his partner focused Adrian back on his current dilemma. Hanover, aye, there's the rub. Given his current disembodied status, he didn't exactly NEED Cornelius' permission to do whatever he wanted to. But, he still had more than enough respect and, yes, love for the big galoot that he didn't go out of his way to try to annoy him. Taking in a game today was quite liable to do that.

Cornelius Hanover was carrying on a very animated conversation with someone. Kent never ceased to be amazed by the sheer depth and versatility of his partner's stock of obscenities. Playing a hunch, Adrian assumed Hanover was having less than spectacular luck with his ongoing efforts to get one, heck ANY, of their clients to settle up their tab.

Hanover slammed the telephone receiver down so hard that Kent was surprised that it was still in one piece. His clenched jaw and that throbbing vein in his forehead signalled Adrian that this was NOT the time to traipse out his running gag on Cornelius. Some years back, he had suggested to his partner that maybe they were SO discreet that clients simply had a hard time finding them again to settle up. Hanover had done a coffee spit-take befitting of comedy legends long passed. Nope, not today.

As Hanover struggled to contain himself, Kent did a quick time check and realized he was really under the gun. With barely two hours to game time, he would have to calm Hanover's homicidal mindset AND get him to accept Kent skipping out on the rest of the work day...tall order.

While traffic and ticket lines were no longer obstacles to him, Kent always liked to get to the ballpark with plenty of time to spare. It took awhile, sometimes, to find the right mark. He preferred big guys who didn't look too bright. If they had a few food stains on their shirt it was a plus. Such were easy for him to ghost.

Adrian Kent had one guilty pleasure that he indulged on game days. During the seventh inning stretch, he would ghost some unsuspecting mook and enjoy a couple of chili cheese dogs and a big gulp beer. Heaven forbid Hanover ever learned about it, given how much grief Kent gave him about his atrocious eating habits. Well, small chance he would.

Kent considered his options carefully. Hanover was a tough nut to crack. What settled him down one day was as liable to send him off on an all-day tirade the next time. Kent scanned the cramped office for an idea. Ahh...got it! He settled on the battered coffee maker with the vile brew Hanover so loved perking away.

*Hey, Hanover...buddy...pal? You look a little stressed, my man. How about a nice, hot refill on your coffee? Just the ticket to mellow you out. What say, eh?*

Hanover looked up blankly. "Huh? Oh. Yeah Adrian, thanks. That would be great."

*I am on it, buddy.*

As Hanover was leaning back in his chair, he suddenly sat straight up. His eyes shot wide open and his big hands shot out to cradle his coffee mug. He moved surprisingly fast for a man of his size.

"OH HELL NO!! NOT my 1968 Mets commemorative mug you don't!! I swear to God, Adrian, if you move this mug even a fraction of a millimeter I will NEVER let you off the hook. I swear I will leave the radio on gangster rap EVERY...SINGLE...NIGHT for...for..well...FOREVER!!!

Kent had anticipated some resistance to his idea, but this was ridiculous. He'd been practicing every night for a week.

*Relax, Cornelius. Do you think I would offer if I didn't have my control issues resolved?*

"Control issues?!? It's been raining chess pawns and pocket change in here for weeks. And what about THAT?" Hanover pointed to a spot in the corner of the room. Imbedded into the wall to half of its length was an old-style fountain pen.

If he'd still had a face, Kent would have blushed from shame. *I told you that for the disembodied to move solid objects is tricky. It requires a LOT of concentration. It requires shifting energy across....well, okay, it's kinda hard to explain. But I promise you I got it licked. Come on, Hanover, don't you trust me? Here...watch this.*

Hanover's meaty hands enfolded the mug with gentle but unflinching care. He need not have worried. He watched as the desk stapler rose, did a slow circuit of the room and settled back in place. Ditto for the ashtray, two magazines and a stack of file folders. All of the items were back in their places, unruffled, when Adrian completed his demonstration.

*See, Hanover? I told you I've been practicing. What do you think I DO all night?*

"Uhh...I usually try NOT to think about that buddy? I'm sorry I doubted you. I gotta admit that is pretty freakin' impressive."

*Now...about that coffee?*

"Oh. Sure. But I am warning you Adrian..." Hanover's voice trailed off mid-threat, but his hands did, reluctantly, release the mug. He watched in mute silence as it slowly lifted off of the desktop.

Adrian focused all of his control on the task at hand, so to speak. It was proving far more difficult than he had expected. The ceramic solidity of the mug was at odds with the fluid viscosity of the cold coffee within it. If he had still had a forehead, Adrian imagined that it would have been beaded with sweat. He struggled against forces that he only instinctively understood to control the object.

Hanover tracked the slow progress of his beloved cup, blissfully unaware of how tenuous Adrian's psychic grasp truly was. He was horrified when the mug stopped halfway to its destination. It hovered in place for, what seemed, an eternity. The mug suddenly dropped toward the floor before halting scant inches above it.

Hanover sprang to his feet and barked, "Dammit Adrian! I warned you -"

Adrian Kent was so intent on his ghostly grip that Hanover's outburst caught him entirely unawares. With an inaudible snap, he completely lost any semblance of control over his ability to move objects.

Released from the forces holding it, the heavy mug shot across the room as if expelled from a cannon. The resounding crash as it collided with the glass panel in the office door was deafening in the enclosed space.

Hanover was rooted in place. His eyes were unblinkingly wide open and his mouth hung open in shock as he stared at the doorway.

Kent regained his composure far sooner than Hanover although he did a disembodied double take of the damage he had caused. With a burst of will, Kent soared out of the office in the general direction of Shea Stadium.

As he coasted on the warm breeze, Adrian Kent had absolutely NO doubts whatsoever that Cornelius Hanover would still be there waiting for him when he returned at sunset. Well, Kent consoled himself, no reason the WHOLE day should be ruined. The game ought to be a great one!