“Welcome home, Master Macgregor. The name’s Madeline Ramsey, manager o’ this fine establishment.”
Angus was greeted by a short, plump, middle-aged woman with kind brown eyes and hair the colour of fire. As she shook his hand, she regarded Angus with an openness he hadn’t anticipated. Given the circumstances which surrounded his presence at Clan Gregor Castle, he’d half expected to be treated as an interloper.
“Nice to meet you, Madeline.” Pain surged in the back of his throat, but he managed to swallow it down. The only reason he was there was because he’d lost people near and dear to him. He’d have given anything for the situation to be different.
Angus dragged his suitcase behind him and set it down in the middle of the large foyer, taking in his surroundings while he fought a looming yawn. The flight halfway around the world had been long and uncomfortable, but the excitement of inheriting an actual Scottish castle had kept him more than wide awake.
Certain the second his head hit the pillow he wouldn’t surface for several long hours, perhaps days, the plan was to enjoy every moment he could before jetlag took hold. Angus Macgregor had never ventured this far from his family home in eastern Sydney before. Since discovering his uncle, William Macgregor III, had passed the week previous, his mundane existence had become an absolute whirlwind.
“Only if you call me Angus.” He winked at Maddie, and she giggled in a light, lilting manner.
“Right enough, Angus.” Her laughter subsided, leaving behind a broad, toothy grin. Angus couldn’t stop himself from smiling back. “Now, why don’t we see ye to yer accommodations and leave the grand tour till morning? Ye must be pure done in after such a long flight.”
“That’d be great.” Angus would never grow tired of the way people spoke in this part of the world, his twangy Australian accent grating compared to the thick Scottish brogue he’d been listening to since touching down in Glasgow. It was something he’d missed hearing on a daily basis these past few months.
Priddy's Tale by Harper Fox
His arms were empty, the rippling surface vacant. He whipped round, losing his footing, submerging under the weight of his soaked jeans. That was all right—he needed some ballast, something to keep him down here while he searched, because he was damned if he was going to let the sea snatch Merou now. He kicked off his shoes and dived.
The water was so dark! He lost his bearings instantly. Something was swirling around him, a heavy current or one of the vortices that occasionally formed as the tide combed the ocean back through the Hell’s Teeth barricade. Priddy tumbled through it, blind, casting hopelessly around him for a floating limb, a handful of hair. “Merou,” he yelled, wasting his last breath on the cry. Silver bubbles, soundless, shimmering away into the abyss...
Something bumped against him. He had a DNA-deep west Cornishman’s terror of sharks, and he lashed out wildly. If it was a mako or a white, you stood a chance—a very remote one—if you could catch the bastard a hard enough thump on the nose. Christ, though—this felt more like a serpent, one of the giant eels that got caught in the nets and passed into infamy as grandfather stories, tales around a beach fire on Golowan night. A coil of it slipped around Priddy’s waist and clamped tight. Bubbles and foam rushed past him and he broke surface with a breaching dolphin’s force. Whatever had caught him just as suddenly let him go. On reflex he started to swim, coughing and trying to clear his vision. There were the stars and the bright heavens, bisected like Merou’s unmarred belly with the silvery brush of the galactic rim.
Merou was swimming beside him. Priddy sucked an astonished breath and went under again. Again something caught him—coiled around him—raised him with supple, irresistible force. Not Merou, who was calmly treading water, smiling incandescently. “All right there, then, blue-eyes?”
“Merou!” Priddy threw his arms around him, not caring if he drowned them both. Merou burst into laughter, not a bit inconvenienced by the attack: seized him joyously in return. Priddy’s world turned upside-down once more, the Milky Way swooping down into the depths and the glitter-filled water soaring to the zenith. The eel, the serpent, was rolling him over and over, laughing all the time, and Priddy couldn’t be afraid, because... “It’s you,” he cried out, the next time he could breathe. “You’re back. You’re alive. It’s you holding me, isn’t it, with your... with your...”
“With my tail,” Merou finished for him, taking pity. “Keep still, wriggly landling, or I’ll scratch you up. The scales are very sharp when they first grow back.”
“Oh, man, what the fuck are you talking about? I’ve lost it, haven’t I? This is a fucking dream.”
“Feeling is believing, my handsome. Let go your stranglehold on my neck. Go on! I won’t bite.”
Heaving great lungfuls of air, Priddy forced himself to unlock one hand and slide it down Merou’s back. The skin was warm as sin and toast, normal enough if normal meant bloody perfect, all the way down the groove of his spine to his waist, and then to the opening crease of his arse, which began right on time but then... “Shit!” Priddy snatched his hand back. “You’ve got scales. You really have got a tail.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. And you’re sitting on part of it, so don’t freak out too far.”
Priddy gave a barking caw of laughter. Keeping one arm hooked safely around Merou’s neck—the top end of him, the part that still made sense—he tried again, and this time dared to feel the great muscled curve that had swept behind the back of his thighs and was supporting him there. “How are you... How are you holding us still in the water like this?”
“Great big fluke on the end. Whale-style, not fish-style, perpendicular to my tailbone and totally flexible. Treading water, you could call it, only...”
“Only you don’t have feet. Oh, God. Oh, God.”
“Calm down, you infant. Even Jacques Cousteau wasn’t as overwrought as this.”
“You really did know him? So—wait...” Priddy tried to catch his breath and bring his voice down an octave or so. “What does that make you—immortal, as well as a mermaid?”
“Not immortal, no. I’d have died tonight if not for you. A change on land is one of the few ways to kill us. And... there’s nothing maidenly about me, as you’ll find out soon enough.”
Priddy shivered hotly. “Sorry. I scarcely dare ask what’s become of John Thomas.”
“Oh, he’s in there. Just tucked away behind an armoured wall of muscle and scales, like any sensible penis ought to be. Can you please pay attention? This has to be done in the proper, formal way.”
“What has?”
“Just a short ceremony. Landlings can’t be allowed to know about us, you see, not unless they’ve done us a great service.”
“But... doesn’t my dad know about you now?”
“Not at all. I’m just a drunken vision that will haunt him the rest of his life. But you, Jem Priddy... Wait. What’s Jem short for, when it’s a boy?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes, it is. You’d better tell me, or you’ll go down in the annals as Jemima.”
“Jeremy, then,” Priddy growled. “And don’t ever call me that. What annals?”
“Never mind now.” Merou cleared his throat and raised his voice, as if something in the water or the diamond-blazing sky was bearing witness. “Jeremy Priddy, you have done a favour for a spirit of the sea. In consideration of such, I can now, by the powers of the Mer in Lyonesse, grant you a wish.”
Priddy settled more comfortably on the great coil of tail. He’d been cold for a while, but now he too was sin-toasty warm. Maybe he was drowning, or in end-stage hypothermia, and somebody else’s life was flashing in front of him. “An actual wish?”
“Yes. Just like in a fairytale, or...” The tail gave a teasing jounce beneath him. “...or when you were a little lad on Santa’s knee in Trago. Come on—make it a good one. You saved my life.”
“Technically I saved it twice. Once just now, and the other day—”
“Crikey, did you bargain with Santa like this? That one doesn’t count. I only needed saving then because you turned me into a biped.”
“I did? How is that supposed to have happened?”
“I tried to tell you at the time. You touched me. If a landling lays a hand on us, and if we like the hand enough, we can change. Sometimes,” he said ruefully, tightening his grasp round Priddy’s waist, “we like it so much, we don’t get any choice.”
“I’m sorry.” Priddy didn’t mean it: he was overwhelmed with pride, to have been the catalyst for such a transformation. “It didn’t seem to hurt you then, though. Not much, anyway.”
“It’s fine if it happens in the sea. It just feels like being... unzipped, or zipped up again, if I’m going the other way. Did you think of your wish yet? Would you like a speedboat? Your father’s heart, liver and lungs served up to you on a silver plate?”
“Jesus, Merou.” Priddy pulled a face, but the thought of old Vigo’s entrails didn’t really disturb him. What scared him was the power of his wish. I wish you’d stay with me forever, with your magic and your laughter, and your sweetness that makes everything else I’ve discovered in this world so far seem hollow and bitter and dry. But that wish wasn’t fair. It involved someone else, and what if Merou didn’t want to stay? If by some insane chance all of this was real, and the wish had binding force, he’d be trapped.
Priddy could only ask for something for himself. “I wish,” he said faintly, leaning his brow against Merou’s, “that I’d never taken those damn pills.”
Merou became very still. Somewhere in the waters below, the great fluke was sculling, place-holding them against the tide, but he stopped stroking Priddy’s hair and tipped his head a little, as if listening. “Ah,” he said regretfully after a moment. “Can’t be done. Would involve swimming in time with an unqualified person, and the inevitable paradox. If you hadn’t taken the pills, you’d never have ended up here, so we’d never have met, and I couldn’t be here granting your wish, or trying to. You see?”
“I do, but so far you’re a pretty crap Santa, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
A Brush with Darkness by Erastes
Florence, 1875
Now I think back on it all, it's ironic and yet so very apposite how I always associate him with light. It seems impossible to think of him in any other way but surrounded by a bright halo of iridescence—the bright yellow glare of candles, or the greener glow of the gas lamps. Light shrouds him, an impossibility he manages to achieve. Perhaps the light is jealous of him, or perhaps it misses him and clings to him where it can. Like a lover, or a second skin. A never-ceasing wonder to someone like me, who lives his life through every hint of light and shade. Even in the dark he is never entirely obscured but seems to shimmer with a phosphorescence all his own. Even his very name means light.
There was no wonder, and little enough light, in the alley at the back of the Pitti Palace. This story probably began there, although it is always hard to decide that kind of thing when one is in the eye of the storm.
I'd been prowling the streets of Florence late at night. Even a newcomer to the city such as myself knew it wasn't a sensible thing to do in some areas, even in daylight, but my muse had deserted me and I was driven to it by desperation. If I didn't paint, my patron—the unctuous and two-faced Signor Bettano—would soon think twice about supporting me and my family.
The shadows on the walls of my bedroom, so often an inspiration in their shrouded beauty, were nothing but the flickerings of the candle flame and the promise of little else. They failed me when I needed them—they gave me neither inspiration nor joy. So I dressed in the dark and slipped down the creaking staircase in stockinged feet, shoes in hand. Past Bettano's rooms and out in the musty cool of the Florentine night, charcoal in pockets, a sketch pad optimistically tucked beneath my arm.
I knew little of my surroundings. The city was unfamiliar to me, but as I slid into the stream of the night—joining a small drift of others who, for their own reasons, also found solace in the shadows—I felt a peace that had recently eluded me, shut away in the top of my patron's house.
I moved aimlessly by the Arno. The river poured by, black and swift. The moss-dank stones of the river's path were cool, slippery and slick to my touch, like drowned flesh beneath my hands. For an hour or more, I sat on the muddy edge of the empty riverbank, getting myself chilled in the process, watching the yellow moon rise above the black edges of the city. Pregnant and gibbous, she cast her sickly reflection in the water beneath.
But nothing spurred me to take my charcoal in hand, and even under the bright light of the moon, I did not feel moved to commit anything to paper. I saw nothing to inspire me. For all the glamour of my relocation from Fiesole to Florence, for all the excitement I'd felt—and yes, some trepidation too—at leaving my family behind to restore our fortunes in the city, I saw only water, light and stone. And that was nothing I couldn't have seen at home, despite the buildings that towered over the river and me.
The moon had moved above the buildings and was perched overhead, hanging like a huge yellow apple on a tree I couldn't see. I was considering walking back to my rooms and drinking the remainder of my wine in an attempt to sleep when I heard a scream and voices raised in consternation. The human reaction is to run towards these cries of distress, it seems—however unwise—and without a thought I found myself running along the bank, up the narrow cobbled streets, towards the inhuman cries.
Wild Retaliation by Ethan Stone
Chapter One
WHAT A way to wake up—checking out a dead body.
The nude corpse of a young man reclined against the trunk of a tree, its head lolling to the right. Legs spread wide, stomach ripped open with guts spilling out. Flies were buzzing around the wound, and the stench was horrendous.
I tried to breathe through my mouth as I got up close, wishing I was still in bed. I’d been in the middle of a very nice dream when my officer called to tell me a dead body had been found. I would’ve chewed Brewster’s ass for ringing me at five in the morning for anything less. He once woke me because he didn’t know how to replace the ink in the fax machine. Brewster’s a good cop, despite not always being the smartest.
Figured the body was on the Tillamook Trail, one of the most popular tourist destinations, just as the season was beginning. Most of the year, Seaside, Oregon, had a population of about six thousand; during the summer it swelled to thirty thousand or more.
Brewster had warned me it was bad, but I figured he was exaggerating. Turned out he wasn’t.
“Pretty gruesome, isn’t it, Chief?” Brewster stood a few feet behind me, a hand covering his mouth.
Gruesome was an understatement. And he didn’t know the half of it. I’d been prepared for something bad when my normally calm and collected officer insisted I get there right away. But I hadn’t been prepared for it to remind me of something I thought I’d put behind me.
It wasn’t just what I saw that disturbed me, but rather what I didn’t see.
“Where’s the left arm?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer but prayed I was wrong.
“It’s missing. We’ve searched.”
So much for prayers being answered. Thanks a lot, Mother Earth.
“Any sign of his clothes?” I asked.
“Negative.”
Of course not.
“What the hell happened here, Chief?” Brewster asked. “Some kind of animal attack? I can’t imagine a person being able to do this.”
I ran a hand through my hair. I knew there was an option other than human or animal. Brewster didn’t know about shifters—very few regular folk did. “Scour the area for any other body parts. Then haul everything back to the medical examiner’s office so Doc Northrup can take a gander. Pick up everything in the area. Every piece of trash and every loose leaf, even if you don’t think it’s important. Also look for any footprints or animal tracks. Make plaster casts of any that you find.”
“You got it, Chief.”
I caught another scent—something other than the rotting corpse. It was a strong smell that burned my nostrils. The nearer to the body I was, the stronger the odor.
“Do you smell anything odd?” I asked. “And I don’t mean the body.”
He inhaled and squinted his eyes. “Now that you mention it, I do. It’s kind of familiar.”
Yeah, it was familiar. I patted my duty belt and one of the items I always carried—OC spray, better known as pepper spray. I pulled out the canister and showed it to Brewster. “Like this?”
He snapped his fingers. “Yup, that’s it. Do you think the killer used it to subdue him?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “He’s been dead a couple hours at least. The smell would’ve worn off by now. I’d say the body was doused in the pepper spray very recently, probably when it was dumped.”
“But why?”
I ignored the question, though I had a suspicion the murderer was a shifter and knew I was the chief of police. Using the pepper spray would’ve masked his scent, preventing me from identifying him.
“Let’s keep the press out of this, for now at least.”
The Seaside Signal wasn’t a national newspaper, but Trevor English, the sole reporter, could be tenacious. I did my best to avoid him, mainly because we’d hooked up several times. Basically, anytime we saw each other, we’d end up in bed. I had fun with Trevor, but he wanted more than an occasional booty call, and I… didn’t. I wasn’t interested in a relationship, and I worried continuing to see him would give him hope that didn’t exist.
I especially didn’t want pictures of the scene out in the public. It wouldn’t be long until the similarities between this death and ones in the past were linked—mainly the missing arm and lack of clothes. I needed to delay that for as long as possible. If Trevor did hear about the body, I could claim I needed time to identify the victim and contact the family. I didn’t recognize the young man, so that probably meant he was a tourist.
“Who discovered the body?”
“Lucille DeMatteo,” Brewster replied. “She’s sitting in my cruiser right now. I took her statement, but I figured you might want to talk to her too.”
“Good thinking. I’ll give her a ride back into town. Let me know when you get back with the body.”
“Yes, sir.”
I strolled over to Lucille, a middle-aged woman who’d recently lost a ton of weight. She’d been tipping the scales at almost four hundred pounds but had a come-to-Jesus moment when she almost died of a stroke. Lucille was down to around two fifty now, thanks to a proper diet and lots of exercise, which included jogging the local trails.
“Lucille, how are you?” I asked. She got out of the car when she saw me approaching, and I opened my arms so she could walk into my hug.
“It was horrible, John.”
I patted her back and made soothing noises. “Can you tell me what happened?”
She stepped back and wiped the tears from her face. “I was jogging, and the smell hit me when I came by. I thought it was just a dead animal, and I was going to tell someone at animal control, so I went in for a closer look. I lost it when I saw him. Oh my God, John, his guts were… they were everywhere.”
Lucille started bawling again, so I comforted her until she was under control.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I called you guys right away. I’m sorry, but I vomited on the trail. I tried to get away from the body so I didn’t mess up your scene more than I did.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I said. “Did you recognize him?”
She shook her head. “Probably not a local.”
I asked her a few more questions and figured she hadn’t noticed the left arm was missing.
“You’ll call us if you think of anything else, right?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Can I give you a ride home?”
“Actually, my car is down at the first parking lot. Could you take me there?”
“Of course.” We strode to my jeep, and I opened the passenger-side door for her.
I drove down to the first of three parking lots and dropped her off near her vehicle. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to anyone about what you saw here.”
“Certainly,” she responded, though I wasn’t filled with confidence. Lucille was a bit of a gossip, but at least I could count on the missing left arm staying a secret.
On the way back into town, I turned onto Twenty-Fourth Avenue instead of staying on Highway 101 until it became North Roosevelt, which would’ve taken me to the police station. My new destination was just a few blocks up—Seaside Pet Clinic.
Most people would’ve guessed the place would be closed at six in the morning, especially since it didn’t officially open for another two hours, but I knew better. The owner, Jasper Bannerman, was always up early taking care of animals.
I knocked on the door and waited a minute for Jasper to answer. He grinned when he saw me.
“What’s up, DJ?”
“Dammit, Jasper, how many times have I told you I despise being called that?” David John “DJ” Dakota Junior. Growing up, I hadn’t minded the nickname. I loved and respected my father then. Now I hated being reminded of my relationship to the man. Most people referred to me by my title or by my first or last name. It was folks like Jasper, who had been close to me most of my life, who slipped and used DJ.
“Sorry, John,” he snickered. “Come in.”
I followed Jasper in as he headed to the back of the building where he kept the animals he was caring for. Many were strays or abandoned pets with no homes. The man never could turn away an animal in need. As we walked, I rubbed the left side of my torso. Underneath the thick cotton shirt was a scar.
It always itched when I thought of my father.
“Give me a minute to take care of this kitten.” He lifted a small black-and-white fur ball that couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old. “Mama cat got killed. This guy was the only survivor.” He grabbed an eyedropper and pried it into the animal’s mouth.
While he did that, I leaned against the counter and took the opportunity to check out my old friend—who had also been the first guy I ever slept with. Jasper was tall and lanky. Too skinny for my tastes, just as I was too hairy for him. He mainly wore medical scrubs and kept his dark hair long and messy. Also not my style. When we were sixteen, things like that hadn’t mattered. We’d only been friends with benefits, never anything more, and nowadays we were simply very good buddies.
When he was finished with the kitten, he put it back in the cage, then hopped up on the counter and asked, “What can I do for you? I assume this isn’t a personal visit.”
“Have there been any reports of shifters new to the area?” I inquired. “Maybe some tourists? Or someone who moved away and is back?”
“I haven’t heard anything.” Jasper was more than simply the town vet. He was also the unofficial shifter registry.
The killer didn’t have to be someone new in town or a returnee, but chances were it was. He knew about shifters and was most likely aware of the murders that took place nine years ago.
“Do me a favor and keep an eye out.”
“Why? Did something happen?”
I paused and rubbed my forehead. “Someone was killed. He was ripped apart. It might be a regular animal, or it might not. His left arm is missing.”
His eyes widened. “Just like all those years ago. How many has it been?”
“Nine,” I answered.
Jasper was one of the few humans who knew the whole truth about those murders and the only one who’d been able to comfort me back then.
“Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything. You know you can depend on me.”
I nodded. “I have a feeling this is going to be a shitstorm. I need all the information I can get.”
“I’ll call you the minute I hear anything.”
“Thanks,” I said. “As much as I’d like to hang out and chat, I better get to the office so I can get a handle on this thing.”
He hopped down, came over to me, and gave me a friendly embrace.
A few minutes later, back in my car, my hands began trembling. Everything hit me at once. The sight of the dead young man and the memories it brought back. Nine years before, a young male tourist had been eviscerated and his left arm torn off. Unfortunately, that had been the first of a string of murders that had ended horrifically. I hoped this murder wasn’t connected. I prayed it was just a random coincidence, but deep down I knew that wasn’t the case.
Wicked Gentlemen by Ginn Hale
Chapter One
Night
The night was already in tatters. Gas streetlamps chewed at the darkness. Candles cast dull halos through the dirty windows of the tenements across the street. Heavy purple clouds pumped up from smoke stacks and hung against the sky like ugly patches on a black velvet curtain. A few fireflies blinked from what corners of blackness remained.
A pair of them invaded the darkness of my rooms. I watched them flicker, darting through their insectile courtship. They swooped past my face, circled, and then alighted inside the fold of my shirtsleeve.
They crept close to one another, brilliant desire flashing through their tiny bodies. Their antennae touched and quivered. The female firefly reached out and stroked the male. He rushed into her embrace. Holding him close, she crushed her powerful mandibles through his head. Their flickering bodies blinked in perfect unison as she devoured him.
Some romances end more badly than others.
I had to admire the firefly for her neatness. She ate every scrap of evidence and then lounged on my sleeve with an innocent ease that could have fooled an Inquisitor. At last, I flicked her off my arm and rolled up my sleeve. I had my own ruinous affair to cultivate.
Hundreds of small scars cut across the thin muscles of my bare arm. They wound up from my wrists, marking inch after inch of my body with mechanical precision. The scar tissue was as pale as the rest of my skin, but shinier and slightly sunken, like delicate embossing. The scars had faded enough over the years that, given enough darkness or drink, a man might not notice the holy verses carved into my body.
Only the flesh on the inside of my elbow stood out. The white skin and underlying blue veins were buried under a patchwork of bruises and red needle marks. The deep shadows of night could not disguise my ugliness, but beauty was hardly the point. I wanted to be undone, swallowed whole and dissipated into a thoughtless existence. I did not long to be lost in God or Glory; I just wished to be lost.
It hurt when I pushed the needle in through a half-healed scab. But the pain was momentary and it hurt less than going without the ophorium. A feeling like warmth and honey gushed through me. It spilled through my veins, flooded the black chambers of my heart, and slowly burned me away from the inside out. My arms drooped down against the armrests of my chair. The syringe and needle fell to the floor, and I closed my eyes.
For a moment I felt so warm and sweet that I could have been a different person.
I opened my eyes and watched the sky swirling outside my window. Violet ribbons and indigo wind tinted the darkness. Tiny bats swept between black chimneys. Heavy odors of magnolia and rose mingled with the scent of raw sausages. The smell reminded me of the Gold Street whores and those thick perfumes they poured over their sour bodies.
I waited to see what this summer night would bring me.
More often than not, I waited in vain. Still, there were those rare evenings when men came to me. Each had his own kind of desperation. Each had a reason for wanting to draw close to a devil from Hells Below. Some were sweet and sincere; others just couldn’t do any worse. It made no difference to me, so long as they could pay.
“Thank God you’re here!”
“The name’s Kimberly O'Connell. I’m the paralegal around here.”
“Sorry about him, by the way.” Kimberly knocked, before lowering her voice to a faint whisper, and adding, “I had no idea he was going to answer the phone when I went to make his coffee. He usually lets the machine pick up, but I didn’t think to switch it on since I was only going to be gone a few minutes.”
“Thank God you’re here!”
“The name’s Kimberly O'Connell. I’m the paralegal around here.”
“Sorry about him, by the way.” Kimberly knocked, before lowering her voice to a faint whisper, and adding, “I had no idea he was going to answer the phone when I went to make his coffee. He usually lets the machine pick up, but I didn’t think to switch it on since I was only going to be gone a few minutes.”
