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    Pagan
    Pagan
    Pagan
    Ebook424 pages6 hours

    Pagan

    By Zimbell House Publishing, Edward Ahern, Adam L. Bealby and

    ()

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    About this ebook

    PAGAN features the novella, The Wiglaf Tales, by E.W. Farnsworth; along with fourteen short stories from some of our new domestic and international writers.


    Zimbell House Publishing is committed to helping writers become quality authors.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZimbell House Publishing
    Release dateJul 14, 2015
    ISBN9781942818472
    Pagan
    Author

    Zimbell House Publishing

    Zimbell House Publishing is dedicated to promoting new writers. To enable us to do this, we create themed anthologies and send out a call for submissions. These calls are updated monthly, typically we have at least four months worth on our website at any given time. To see what we are working on next, please paste this link into your browser and save it to your bookmarks: http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/contest-submissions/ All submissions are vetted by our acquisitions team. By developing these anthologies, we can promote new writers to readers across the globe. We hope we've helped you find a new favorite to follow! Are you interested in helping a particular writer's career? Write a review and mention them by name. You can post reviews on our website, or through any retailer you purchased from.  Interested in becoming a published author? Check out our website for a look behind the scenes of what it takes to bring a manuscript to a published book. http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/publishing-services/process-behind-scenes/ We hope to hear from you soon.

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      Book preview

      Pagan - Zimbell House Publishing

      This book is a work of fiction.  Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.  All characters appearing in this work are the product of the individual author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher.

      For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below:

      Attention: Permissions Coordinator,

      Zimbell House Publishing, LLC

      PO Box 1172

      Union Lake, Michigan 48387

      mailto:info@ZimbellHousePublishing.com

      © 2015 Zimbell House Publishing

      Published in the United States by Zimbell House Publishing

      http://www.ZimbellHousePublishing.com

      All Rights Reserved

      Paperback Print ISBN: 9781942818229

      Digital ISBN: 9781942818472

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2015910785

      First Edition: July 2015

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

      Acknowledgements

      Zimbell House Publishing would like to thank all of the writers that submitted their work for this anthology.  We are pleased to feature the novella, The Wiglaf Tales, by E. W. Farnsworth, along with fourteen unique short stories from both domestic and international voices to tempt you.

      We would also like to thank all of those on our Zimbell House team that worked so diligently to bring this collection to press.

      Cast Away

      Jeremiah Murphy

      Samhain had passed , the circles had been lifted, the veil was closed, and all the ghosts had gone home.  All the ghosts except for one, that is.

      It went unnoticed by Nestor Torres, who sat back in his lawn chair and gazed into the clear sky of Washington County, Arkansas, in the earliest hours of November.  That, he sighed, was a good ritual.

      It also went unnoticed by Sofia Barros Torres, who reached over from her seat and laced her fingers through his.  Was a good ritual?  We have one more...something we need to do to finish.  Or a few somethings, depending on how tired you are.

      Nestor smirked.  Did you honestly believe I’d forget that part?  Especially when there’s that certain piece of...spell work you do so incredibly well. He bit his lip in anticipation.

      With a grin and a giggle, she caressed his cheek.  So, darling, are you a good witch or a bad witch tonight?

      I’m going to be such a bad witch to you. 

      They kissed deeply and passionately, pausing only to set their plastic wine glasses on the dirt at their feet.

      Oh, that is really gross, snorted thirteen-year-old Sebastian Torres from the other side of the campfire.  He also hadn’t noticed the ghost.

      The only one who did notice was fifteen-year-old Rafaela, although she couldn’t quite name the chill that scurried up her spine, leaving goose bumps and tiny raised hairs in its wake.  She frowned and looked over her shoulder.

      Her brother touched her arm.  Everything cool?

      She blinked and returned her attention to her family.  Yeah.

      I mean it, he repeated, Everything.  Cool?

      She yanked herself away from him.  Everything is cool.  Stop it.

      Because ...

      Stop it!

      He held up his hands.  Hey, I’m not the one with the problem.

      Her lip curled.  You sure about that?

      Their parents came up for air, and Sofia announced, We’re going to our tent to...complete the ritual.

      So gross, Sebastian muttered.

      Hey! she barked.  Do you want us to have a good harvest this year or not?

      Nestor snickered.

      Darling?  What’s so funny about a good harvest?

      Plowing.

      She slapped his arm.  You are such a—

      A bad witch?

      Oh, yes. She said to their children, I need you two to pick up.  And it’s important you wrap up the rest of the food, so the bears don’t get to it.

      I don’t think there're bears in the Ozarks, Sebastian replied, but it was too late.  His parents had already shed their heavy fleeces and were crawling into their tent.

      But just before they zipped the flap behind them, Nestor peeked his head out and added, Don’t listen to your brother, Angel.  You don’t have a problem.

      You sure about that? Rafaela mumbled.  Thank you, she replied louder.

      So, Sebastian groaned, so gross.

      You know that’s where you come from, right? his sister reminded him.

      So gross.

      She shivered again, and this time she was pretty sure it had something to do with the protection ward around the camp.  She tried to ignore it.  From somewhere in the woods, a tree branch snapped.  She tried to ignore that too.

      To witches like her and her entire extended family, the thirty-first of October was like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and New Year’s combined.  This meant feasting, but it also meant leftovers.  Sebastian helped himself to more of the pumpkin, the apple, and the pecan pie while they cleaned, until all the food was returned to the coolers, all the candles were blown out, and all the remaining incense was boxed up.  And finally, in the time it took Rafaela to retire to her tent and change into her comfy pink flannel pajamas, Sebastian’s snores had already begun to rattle the ground. 

      This was not what kept her awake.

      Putting aside the tingle that kept crawling all over her skin, the forest itself conspired against her by smashing its trees and crushing its bushes.  Come to think of it, where were the crickets and the birds?  She’d ask why the rest of her family hadn’t noticed any of this, but her parents were distracted by each other, and her brother may as well have been dead. 

      The circle would keep them safe.  It was, in fact, powerful enough that even natural creatures would be dissuaded from strolling into the campsite.

      Anxiously, she fussed with her pixie cut and took a moment to envy her family, whom all sported dark, lustrous, sexy manes fit for a shampoo commercial.  Her father, in particular, had been blessed with black curls so gorgeous and manageable that he kept it grown out; even though he was forty and, in theory, should have looked ridiculous. 

      Rafaela had inherited his color and texture, but since the age of eleven, she’d also been cursed with silver streaks that somehow defied every dye or bleach thrown at them.  She understood why it did this—it was the same reason she took a handful of pills every morning and consulted with a mental-health professional on Mondays and Thursdays.  Regardless, the gray made her stand out, and that was the worst thing a girl in high school should have to do.

      Even the thought of her hair depressed her.  Awesome, Rafaela.  Just awesome.

      Still, she’d successfully distracted herself from the drama outside, and drowsiness overtook her.

      ❖❖

      After spitting over the side of the Tilly Willy Bridge, Roy tossed his empty beer can into a plastic bag.  He tipped his once red ball cap to adjust the hair underneath, shoved his hands into his plaid parka, and turned to the man beside him.  Didn’t you tell me this place was haunted?

      A raggedy paperback was waved in Roy’s face, and the person doing the waving replied, That’s what it says in here.

      You want to tell me why I don’t see no ghosts, Joe?

      What are you asking me for?

      Because you’re the expert, Joe, Roy replied.  Because you’re the one who read something on the dang Internet and talked me into spending my Halloween on this dang bridge when I can be doing something else.

      Joe handed him a fresh beer.  Yeah?  Like what, you say?

      Like drinking.

      But...never mind.  He let it go and slipped the book into the pocket of his nearly identical parka.

      Tell me more, Roy demanded.

      Sighing, Joe pulled the book back out and thumbed to a dog-eared page.  Says here that sometimes a woman in white can be seen wandering the banks of the West Fork White River.

      I don’t see no woman in white wandering the banks of the river, Joe.

      It also says that cars on the bridge with fogged-up windows get mysterious handprints all over the glass. He snapped his fingers.  Maybe we should try that one!

      Roy studied the cab of their pickup and returned his attention to his friend.  And how do you propose that we fog up them windows, Joe?

      Joe adjusted his once-green ball cap and coughed.

      ❖❖

      A sharp chill—a lot like an ice-cream headache—screamed through Rafaela’s temples.  She kept herself from crying out, but only barely.  It faded after a moment, and she unzipped her sleeping bag so she could sit up.  Almost immediately, the pain struck again, forcing her back onto the ground.  She braced herself for a third attack, so when it struck, it didn’t cripple her concentration quite so much.  Maybe she could focus and work out what had been happening since midnight. 

      She emerged from her tent into an empty campsite.  Why wasn’t anyone else reacting?  Was it physical and not mystical?  Was it something only she felt?  Was she going to have to return to the hospital?

      Her brother answered the question by grunting in sync with her headaches, which still weren’t enough to loosen sleep’s grip on him. 

      Boys...

      And then there were her parents—rustles from their tent hinted that exhaustion from their...ritual... had robbed them of their ability to awaken.

      So she wasn’t crazy, but still she had to deal with this alone. 

      She studied the tree line of the nearby woods and spotted a hole that had been punched through them, into the clearing where her family rested.

      She whispered, That’s unsettling.

      Even more unsettling were the indentations in the soil on the border of the circle of protection.  They were not quite footprints; they were more like someone really strong had stomped on the ground in the midst of a temper tantrum.  It occurred to her a second later that she stood right in front of those not-quite footprints.  However, after she gasped and sprang backward, she noticed that the headaches had gone away.

      Evidently, that...thing had gotten bored and left.  Proving her right, some kind of force burst its way back into the forest, shoving brush aside with almost nuclear force.  What the hell is that? she asked herself.  Invisible Bigfoot? Okay, that was a dumb question.  Bigfoot didn’t exist.  Probably.  Maybe.  She’d have to ask her father.

      She focused on her education in folk zoology.  Non-corporeal?  Check.  Unseen?  Check.  Angry?  Check.  Tried to kill us?  Check.  That sounded to her like a classic wraith.

      She grinned eagerly.  Of all the supernatural creatures to which her family had exposed her, a wraith was not one of them.  This flared up her curiosity so much that her foot had crossed over onto unprotected ground before she even realized what she was doing.

      When she did, she paused.

      The only reason she’d been allowed to leave the hospital last year was because she and her parents had set up a number of very strict rules.  They weren’t meant to be controlling, but rather to ease her into a world that lacked the routines and regulations she’d grown accustomed to over the years she’d lived apart from it.  And so, while her parents never specifically told her not to pursue dangerous beings through unfamiliar territory, this was very clearly implied.

      But come on! What did they expect?

      She dashed across the clearing and into the woods.  Following the wraith wasn’t difficult at all, given that its destruction could have been mistaken for that of a small tornado.  It led her to the banks of a medium-sized river, where the trail stopped.  So where did you go? Ghosts, especially those made primarily of rage, can’t cross running water.

      The squint of confusion in her eyes widened when the implication set in.  Oh, crap, she moaned.

      The ground before exploded into a cloud of pebbles and sand, knocking her off her feet.  She scrambled away, just in time for the ground to explode again.  Oh, crap, she moaned again when she understood that despite the air being frigid enough to turn her breath into fog, there was only one way out of this; she threw herself into the water. 

      ❖❖

      Roy returned the pickup to its original spot and hopped out to join his friend, who mournfully watched the river mosey on by. 

      So I guess that’s it, Joe sighed.  I guess there really are no ghosts here.  I guess you were right.

      I hate to say I told you so...

      He rolled his eyes.  But you’re gonna.

      No, I’m not, Joe, Roy declared.  Because I hate to say it.

      The look they exchanged was as close to an apology as either was going to get.

      What do you think, Joe? asked Roy.  Sit around and drink some more, or go someplace else and drink some more?

      Why don’t we get the input of the third member of our party? suggested Joe.

      Good idea. Roy smiled.  Ain’t like there’s been any two cents coming from there all night.

      With a chuckle, Joe shouted in the direction of their fire pit.  Arnold! What do you think?  Drink here or drink someplace else? After a moment without a response, Joe yelled again, Arnold? Again, nothing.

      The pair rushed off the bridge to the site of their truck, cooler, and fire, calling out, but to no avail.

      This ain’t good, muttered Roy.

      You think?

      Roy shrank under Joe’s scowl.  How was I supposed to know Arnold was going to wander off like this?

      Because that’s what Arnold does, Roy, he sneered.  You know that! I asked you to keep an eye out!

      Why is that my job, Joe?  Arnold’s with you.

      Because I was reading a book to you...and other stuff.  Remember?

      Well, I was being read to...and other stuff.  Remember?

      They shared a moment of quiet panic. 

      Joe cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted into the woods.  Come on back, Arnold! Please!

      Roy leaned over to him and asked, You ever think about getting a leash?

      ❖❖

      Rafaela crawled out of the water and onto a sandbar, where she scolded herself through chattering teeth, Follow the wraith, Rafaela.  You’ve never seen a wraith before, Rafaela.  It’ll be fun, Rafaela.

      This was not fun. 

      You can’t see a wraith, Rafaela, she added.  Wraiths are invisible, Rafaela.

      The good news was that she was safe for the moment.  The bad news was that, invisible or not, that particular wraith was definitely there, pacing back and forth, kicking up the banks of the river, and blocking her path to the warmth of her sleeping bag.

      She had two choices before her; she could swim to the opposite side and try to find a way back to her parents—who would almost certainly kill her, or she could die of exposure.  Hypothermia or filicide?  She couldn’t decide which would hurt less.

      She’d been leaning toward the former when her internal debate was interrupted by the yapping of a small dog.  She focused on the sound, which had burst forth from a Yorkshire Terrier, a breed that was almost unrecognizable without a debutante attached to it.

      The ghost stopped moving.

      Oh, crap, she moaned yet again.

      Sure enough, the ghost turned its attention to the dog.

      Rafaela sighed and waved her hands over her body, paying special attention to her drenched clothes and hair.  I cleanse and consecrate thee in the name of the divine goddess, may you heal, cleanse, and purify all you touch.  So mote it be. It wouldn’t last long as Holy Water, but it would do for now. 

      She tore out of the river and dove toward the area most disturbed by the wraith’s charge and struck something, for sure.  This felt pretty strange, but in an awesome way.  There was a kind of ice-cold surface tension that shattered against her body, like a belly flop into a swimming pool.

      The ghost recoiled, and she rebounded off of it.  This was okay because she’d been expecting to hit the ground somehow, so she’d braced herself to roll to her feet, no matter how she landed.  The only thing she couldn’t count on was the reaction of the wraith.  She hoped for confusion, because, as far as she knew, no one had ever attempted a Holy-Water tackle before.

      She couldn’t wait to tell her father she was a magical innovator.  He’d be so proud of her.  And then he’d murder her.

      Grabbing the Yorkie, she sprinted aimlessly as far as possible from the now even-madder ghost. 

      Are you freaking stupid? she asked the squirming creature in her arms.  Of course you’re freaking stupid.  You’re a dog. After a few minutes, she slowed her pace and tried to catch her breath.  We’re both going to die now.  I hope you’re happy, she wheezed.  Of course you’re happy.  You’re a dog.

      It yipped joyfully and wagged its tail.

      Arnold! a man yelled from not too far away.  Arnold!  Come on, now!

      I’m hoping you’re Arnold, she told it and headed in that direction.

      The destruction in the ghost’s wake drew closer.

      She soon spotted a glare followed shortly by its source: the kind of very large pickup endemic to this region of the United States, parked by a stone bridge that spanned the river.  Sprouting up next to the truck were two white guys, covered in plaid parkas and camouflage pants, indistinguishable except for their baseball caps—one a brown that used to be red, the other a brown that used to be green.  In unison, they spun around with identical grins as soon as they heard Rafaela stumbling into the clearing.

      She handed Arnold over to the first available pair of hands and panted, You named your girl dog Arnold?

      Yep, replied the one in the once-green hat, she’s named after—

      Wow, she interrupted, cool story.  You need to leave.

      What? asked the one in the once red hat.

      Go! she shouted.

      Listen, the one in the once red hat drawled, if you think we’re going to let some freaky little girl in PJs—

      He stopped talking when their fire pit spontaneously exploded as if had been stomped upon.

      What? repeated the one in the once red hat.

      Whatever invisible thing had crushed their fire lifted up their beer cooler.

      See, Roy, whispered the one in the once-green hat, they always said the bridge was haunted, but—

      The cooler slammed into his stomach.

      Joe! cried the one named Roy.

      I told you to take off! Rafaela reminded them.

      Now convinced of the urgency, Roy yanked Joe to his feet, collected Arnold, shoved them both into the pickup, jumped into the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

      Rafaela sputtered for a moment as she watched them peel out onto the bridge.  She found her words, along with her middle fingers, both of which she flung in their direction.  Thanks for the ride, rednecks! Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she resigned herself to being crushed to death by the vengeful spirit. 

      Surprisingly, it swooped past her.  A moment later, the truck began to rev desperately as if it were stuck in the mud.  This, it turned out, was because its back axle was being hoisted up, and it was pretty obvious by what.

      She ran toward it, concentrating on the language and hand gestures she wished she’d paid better attention to during her weekend tutoring sessions.  Espíritoirritado! she improvised.  Solte-os!

      It obeyed her command.  With a crash and a bounce, the men skidded off to safety.

      ‘Thanks for saving our lives, freaky little girl in PJs!’ Oh, don’t mention it, assh—

      An unseen hand slammed into her chest, knocking her over the edge of the bridge and into the river.  After blacking out for a moment, she recovered and surfaced by virtue of sheer panic.  She paddled to the closest bank and forced herself to her feet, which was a particular challenge, given that the bones in her left forearm appeared to be broken.

      At this point, the best she could hope for was that she’d chosen the safe side of the river, where she could rest until the sun came up, and then hobble back to her family; at least this way she’d have a chance to think about her life before her mother and father ended it.  The worst she could hope for was having chosen the wrong bank and getting killed right away.

      Naturally it was the second one.

      She held up her still-functional hand in surrender.  Wait, she gasped, we can talk about this!

      The air stirred violently.

      I said, Espere! she bellowed.

      It paused as long as the spell would hold it.

      I know the legend of Tilly Willy Bridge, she told it, which, you have to admit, is the goofiest name of a haunted place, ever.  A family died when the father was distracted by his kids in the backseat and drove the car into the river.  Since then, the area is haunted by ghostly apparitions.  How am I doing so far?

      There was no response, but honestly, she wasn’t sure what she expected.

      And now there is a vengeful spirit wrecking the area, and I’d bet my good arm you’re wrapped up in that accident.  Am I right?

      The sand began to shake.

      She talked faster.  So that begs the question, which one are you?  The wife whose trust in her husband was violated by his carelessness?  The children who never had a chance at life? She shook her head.  No, you’re the driver, aren’t you?

      The wind shifted.

      I knew it! She grinned and then cleared her throat solemnly.  Self-loathing is the only hatred powerful enough to create... She waved her right hand at the space she hoped was still occupied by the frozen wraith.  ...this.  I get it.  I spent four years in an insane asylum, wallowing in my failures.  But seriously, all you’re doing is taking it out on everything that isn’t yourself.  I get that too.  But crap happens.  You need to get over it before somebody gets hurt.  She looked down at her arm.  Gets hurt worse, I mean.

      A groan seeped out of the woods.

      There’s a woman in white searching the river for something, she concluded.  Maybe it’s you.  Go find her.  Please.

      The air went still.

      She exhaled and dropped to her bruised knees.  Sure, she had a lot of explaining to do, but she’d just banished her first supernatural creature.  That was pretty cool. 

      From behind her, someone clapped slowly. 

      Exhausted, she turned her head and moaned one final time, Oh, crap.

      Angel, her father said, his voice low and terrifyingly even, start talking.

      To him, she asked, How long have you been watching?

      Not long, he told her.  Since you fell off the bridge.

      Daddy! she snapped.

      Don’t use that tone with me! he snapped back.  Not after you sneak off in the middle of the night and scare your mother and brother half to death.

      My arm’s broken!

      He winced.  Ouch, really?

      Now that the excitement was wearing off, so was the adrenaline, allowing the pain to creep in.

      Nobody ever gets hurt like that in the movies, he added.

      Why didn’t you help me? she whined.  I could have drowned!  Or been squished to death!

      I would have, he replied, but you were getting through to it, and if I came tromping in, it could have gotten really ugly.

      Trust me, Daddy, it got real ugly without you.

      From what I saw, you took care of it by yourself.

      I was lucky, she whispered. 

      You were clever, he said as he knelt down in front of her and looked her in the eye.  And brave.  And a little bit crazy.

      Do I have to go back to the hospital now?

      Why in the name of the gods would I send you back there?

      Because you said I was crazy.

      You’re never going to stop being crazy, Angel, and that’s okay. He wiped a tear from her cheek.  And I’m so very proud of you.

      She sniffed and smiled.

      Let’s get you to the emergency room.

      Thanks, Daddy.

      And you’re grounded.

      Fire of Dead Gods

      Matthew Wilson

      Mom said Pagans were evil, but that didn’t explain why she didn’t call the police when they kidnapped her eldest son.

      I’ll hear no more about it, mom screeched when Robert asked again why she didn’t get help, surely she wasn’t scared of their phony magic.  Surely, she loved her son.  For his worrying, Robert was sent to his room with mom’s promise that Zach was forever gone, as good as dead, but for Robert, good was as great as saved.

      He waited till midnight when he thought Mom would be asleep in her room but when he sneaked downstairs, he heard her weeping in bed.  Robert’s heart lurched, and all his soul wished to sooth her, but Zach was out there in the cold, his only brother who’d kept away the bullies.  If Mom wouldn’t lift a finger to save him, then for the first time in his life, Robert would do something for himself.

      Mom didn’t allow guns in the house, but Robert felt satisfied with a knife from the kitchen drawer.  He didn’t even pass two streets before he smelt the fire perfumed with magic – he knew where evil such as Pagans danced.

      ❖❖

      No one came to the woods at night; mothers used scare tactics to keep their kin from this awful place of yellow-eyed owls feasting on little vermin.  Of course, the Pagans would get children who didn’t brush their teeth or do their chores.  Mom had told Robert that only bad boys came here, and he trembled—would the Pagans kidnap him as they had his brother?

      The fat moon burned low through the ebony clouds and lent all shadows teeth as Robert slid his feet across the dewy grass rather than risk raising them completely and bringing them down on brittle branches.

      The ceremony had already begun when he reached the clearing.  Seven robed men raised their hands and swore allegiance to the beauty of the goddess moon.  A great pyre crackled beside them, spitting flittering orange embers upward like a good night kiss toward the heavens.

      Robert made a little surprised, Ah, sound when he saw a figure stood sentry-like next to a tree.  Zach had moaned for weeks for Mom to buy his green Zachet – a favorite since its bad boy image had earned him his first kiss.

      Carefully, Robert inched toward his brother; the poor guy must be so scared, he reasoned, out here alone, ready to be thrown onto the fire in some sickening sacrifice that Mom said these weirdos were into.

      Robert blinked when he got closer and wondered why no rope connected Zach to the tree – his brother wasn’t preoccupied with fear as he supposed but wrestling with pre-match nerves by smoking.

      Zach? Robert hissed from the trees.

      Rob?  What are you doing here?

      Robert looked at his brother and then at the tree as if he was missing part of an easy jigsaw.  Where’s the rope?  Prisoners were always tied up.

      I’m here to save you, Robert said, jabbing the night with his small knife as if keen to warn the monsters here that he posed a danger.

      You damn fool, Zach said fondly.  You’ve been listening to Mom’s lies.  It’s me that’s here to save you.

      Robert moved his mouth to form words and hit the ground like a miser on a penny when one of the dancing Pagans stopped to catch his breath and told his best friend Zach to hurry. 

      The enemy was coming.

      Robert trembled like a wet dog, had he been spotted?

      Zach, what’s going –

      Zach zipped his lip in the low light, and Robert took the hint.  I’ll be right there.

      I’m serious, man.  Hurry! Yelled the other Pagan and started a fresh lullaby to wear away the shadows that seemed to grow around the edge of the flames.

      Zach spat out his cigarette, not wishing to lend his brother bad habits.  Rob, you have to go home.

      But I’m here to save you – Robert said again like an actor set on his script, why was his brother not following the heroic storyline that Robert had planned in his head.  Why was he putting on those Pagan robes?

      And I appreciate that, Rob, but you’re a child and shouldn’t be here.  The dead god will be here soon, and my friends and I have to stop him.  Twice a century, he tries to break through to our world and last time the world was lucky that Dad used his spells to –

      No, Dad wasn’t a Pagan.  Mom says they’re evil, Robert wept.  Why was his brother telling lies?

      Rob, take your hands from off your ears and go home.  I’ll explain later, Mom didn’t want me to follow in Dad’s footsteps, but –

      Zach! Someone screamed, and Robert felt his last meal go cold in his guts when a fang filled mouth formed inside the large fire.  The yellow spitting embers grew arms and started to rise.  Zach, he’s waking up, we need all our power.

      The air filled with thunder and Zach pulled pages out of his tattered robes and quickly scanned his eyes down the page like an actor rehearsing at the last possible moment.  Mom had gone insane with rage and thrown him out when she’d found them under his bed, why didn’t he have dirty magazines like other teenagers his age?

      Mom didn’t care that it was for the world, what about her good name?  She’d been mocked for years when Dad spoke of monsters coming into the world to feed on the dead and make slaves of the living.

      Dad had long ago drank himself to death with worry that Mom mistook for shame and she refused to go through it again, if Zach wished to be a Pagan, then he could starve on the streets–she still had Robert to be a good and grateful son.

      Zach had practiced his song endlessly, but now a ghastly face birthed from the fire, his tongue forgot the words and refused to follow his instructions.  Robert had to point the way home.  L, l—leave, he spluttered.

      Zach!

      I’m coming, damn.

      The monsters copper colored eyed burned as he woke with a snort, making the sky tear in his fury as he struggled to work his way through time and space and come as easily to this world as he had thousands of years ago and made a throne of bones with the humans who’d refused to serve him.

      He’d made a great home of Atlantis before these bothersome Pagans had gotten in his way and removed his greatness from history.

      What is this music? asked the demon, blinking his bloody eyes and snorted when he saw the seven men around his prison, last time they had been so considerate as to consider him worthy of eight jailers.  Not more bloody Pagans, Argo moaned, standing to his full height, steaming hooves tearing at the burning grass,

      Zach! the lead Pagan screamed, knowing the circle was not sufficient with only seven good souls.  He could hear Zach running forward, reciting his song to cast the demon back to the dark but lord Argo was tired of being trapped like some damn genie in that pit and spread his glorious wings.

      It’s good to be alive, he sang back at the newbies.  This must have been their first ceremony.  Can’t you fools count? he asked and thirsty for blood after the long confinement, headed forward to feed.

      ❖❖

      Robert couldn’t move, his brother had always been so kind and had never yelled at him before.  He’d only come to help.  Uselessly, he looked down at the knife in his trembling hand and thought it a joke that he’d ever thought he could do anything with it.

      Zach threw back his hood and quoted the good words.  Hallacon, nectus –

      Shaddup, Argo said, driving his fists into Zach’s guts and didn’t tear out his meaty intestines like the last guy only through the thickness of his favorite green Zachet–Argo hadn’t just traveled twenty-five light years from a dead moon to hear these Pagans damn music.  You will not keep me from my throne this time.

      Argo turned his head, his bull-like antlers gleamed black blood in the moonlight, and he laughed as he aimed them at the only Pagan still alive.  Your skull will make a fine head rest for my new–ah!

      Argo threw his head up and screamed at the silent, uninteresting stars as something punched into his back, short and sharp between his third and fourth malformed rib.  Dazed, he looked down and squinted hate at the boy who had stuck a knife into his back.  You cheeky bastard, Argo complained, used to being bested by an older creed of hero.

      Robert flew briefly as Argo shrugged his massive brown shoulders as if displacing a lepers coat and his legs lost all gas when he hit the ground at a funny angle and only the adrenaline coursing through

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