Alice smiled again, grimly this time. She lived in the country and that meant she could shoot a gun. That was one of the main reasons she had liked living in the country in the first place. At least Edward had had enough sense to buy them some land to go along with their house. With ten acres of woods, she should not have any trouble finding a place to hide a couple of her neighbor's dead dogs.

She crossed her living room to the closet by the front door and opened it. There in the back she saw what she was looking for. A tall gun case stood hidden behind coats and Edward's golf clubs. One of these days, she needed to remember to take them into town and sell them. She had always hated golf.

She picked up the gun case and unzipped it. A heavy double-barrel emerged from the case in her hand; the receiver and barrels were finely engraved with a hunter and his dogs out shooting birds. She thought it would have been a much nicer engraving if it had been an old woman shooting her neighbor's dogs, but n.o.body ever listened to her.

On the stock, right under where her chin went, was a band that wrapped around, held in place by elastic straps, and it held shotgun sh.e.l.ls. She broke open the gun, checked the barrels for any obstructions, and then slid two sh.e.l.ls in. As she loaded the gun, she made sure the sh.e.l.ls had two zeros side by side. She did not want to end up using squirrel shot tonight, she thought to herself with a laugh.

By the door she flicked the wall switch and the light in the front room went out. Outside the window she could see her front yard, lit up by the bright pole light at the end of her house. She had to make Edward get that, too. He said he thought a flashlight was good enough for getting around outside at night.

The howls came again, and this time they were right out in front of her house. She could hear the dogs moving through the brush now. From the sound of it, she knew the Keegals had to have gotten some new dogs, some really big new ones.

Alice quietly went to her front door, opened it carefully, and stepped out into the cool evening air. Her eyes followed the sound through the trees in front of her as she raised the shotgun to her shoulder. With the gun in place, she braced herself with the wall of the house behind her and she waited. Suddenly the dog in the woods quit moving.

Alice lifted her head, looking down the barrels out into the woods when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She saw a dog coming at her mid-leap as it flew through the air. She whirled, faster than even she thought she could, and pulled both triggers at once.

The roar of the blast from both barrels filled the night. Alice heard the dog yelp as the kick from the shotgun knocked her off her feet and sent her sailing across the porch backward. She realized when she turned, the house was not there to block her any longer. Trying to brace for impact, Alice felt her feet hit the ground, dragging along as the rest of her body dropped down to join them. The wind was knocked out of her, but she did not hear any pops, so she did not think anything had broken.

Lying on her back, Alice wondered if the stars she was watching were really in the sky or if they were in her mind instead. She tried to sit up, moaning in pain, worried about where the wounded dog had gone. Before she could even move two inches, she heard paws on the porch. When she looked up, she saw two yellow eyes staring down at her. She thought they looked like two yellow p.i.s.s holes in dirty snow, but she was amazed at how big the teeth were when the dog opened its jaws wide, closing them around her face.

Officer Ronnie Johnson drove down the county road as slow as he could. The call had come in just a few minutes before that he needed to head over to Mrs. Dreyton's place because of some dogs howling. He knew he was in for a good hour-long argument about why he could not shoot her neighbor's dogs and he was not overjoyed with the idea.

With his headlights off, he went as slow as he could, and he could already see her driveway in the moonlight. He looked up, craning his neck so he could see the silver disc floating high in the sky above him. He thought he would rather be up there, with all of the risks of s.p.a.ce travel, knowing he had a better than good chance of dying and never seeing home again, than arguing with that d.a.m.ned Dreyton woman. He worked nights because they were easy. At least they had been until Mrs. Dreyton's husband died. He remembered the old man was supposed to have had a heart attack. Officer Johnson knew that it was not a heart attack that had killed the old man. The old woman had b.i.t.c.hed him to death.

Pulling on the headlight switch, all the while hoping the old bat was not up there watching him from her front room window, Ronnie turned into the drive. As soon as the headlights washed over the porch, Ronnie saw two of the biggest dogs he had ever seen in his life take off running. He thought they had been eating at something.

When he shined his spotlight on the porch and realized they had been eating Mrs. Dreyton, he radioed in for backup. His eyes never left the old woman, her shotgun lying there beside her, her mangled body covered in blood. He thought the dogs had carried off pieces of her when they had run. Ronnie locked the doors of his squad car and hoped he would hear sirens soon. Far away in the woods, he could still hear the howling.

Melanie woke up; the morning sun was bright in the sky over her, and she winced when she moved. She knew she had to be more careful when the change came upon her, because even she was not invincible, although when she was changed she was nearly so. She looked at her stomach, the fresh scars from last night's bullet wounds still bright and pink on her now-human skin. She hoped they faded soon because summer was almost here and they would play h.e.l.l with her bikini and tan lines.

She remembered eating the old woman, but she did not feel bad. After all, the woman had shot her. Then she remembered the man lying beside her. She looked at him, still asleep, and she thought he looked quite handsome lying there considering the night they had had. When he woke up, she would have to find out his name and she hoped he would stay with her a while. It was lonely sometimes being a werewolf, but this was a new day and anything could happen.

About Larry Green.

Larry Green is an aspiring writer and the editor of Death Head Grin magazine when he is not taking care of his day job, which is painting houses. He lives with his three dogs that are not werewolves in Northwest Arkansas where he has written off and on for most of his life, but has never pursued it seriously until recently. He has always been a fan of anything horror, growing up reading anything he could find from Stephen King to Edgar Allen Poe, and watching movies like Jaws in the backseat at the drive-in when he was supposed to be asleep, which made him terrified of the bathroom at night when he was five.

http://www.deathheadgrin.com.

RED KING.

by Jessica Handly.

It was quiet, dark, serene. The night had enclosed me like the leather of a glove. So soft, so warm. I could smell the ocean all around me, could feel the waves lapping at my feet.

I opened my eyes. The mist had rolled in out of nowhere. I listened as the soft gong of a distant bell echoed harmlessly from the lighthouse. The darkness was pierced by its yellow light, warning c.u.mbersome ships of the rocks. In a flash, the light pa.s.sed over my head and was gone.

The ocean wind blew my hair back from my body and ran gently through my clothes. I raised my hands and face to the dark, starlit sky, arching my back, letting the sounds of the ocean fill my senses like it had never done before. I was in love with the Provincetown night. I felt free and without a care. I wasn't even hungry like he had said I would be.

I began to walk forward into the water, but a hand, strong and powerful, clamped down onto my shoulder. He whipped me around to him, and in the matter of seconds that it occurred, I took in his whole attire. Just the same as always; crimson hair, curling wildly around his face and neck, green eyes like a cat just a bit too far apart on his face. His lips were as fiery red as his hair, his complexion so very pale, like a bleached bone. He had said it was all due to his age, so very old that he was. He wore an old green sweater and faded blue jeans, knees ripped, work boots soaked with wet sand.

I wanted to ask why he had done what he did, why he had chased me around for so long. He hadn't even told me his name, not once throughout these long years. He was pouting now, mouth frowning, eyes narrowed. Now I couldn't ask what I so longed to, for his presence near to me had always made me feel small and unnecessary, just this thing whose existence didn't even matter.

He raised his hand, touched my cheek. It was cold against my skin. "What is it? Why did you leave the house?"

I tried to find the voice to answer him, but as usual I looked away, shivering. His pure power intimidated me, frightened me.

He stood silently behind me for a moment, not touching me, but then awkwardly, his hands raised up to hold me. Now, this was something he had never done before, had never even attempted to do. He didn't really know what to do with me, I soon realized, as he just stood there with his hands resting lightly on my hips. I stared out into the darkened sea, watching the waves crash against the sh.o.r.e.

He pulled me against him slowly, hesitantly, turning me gently. "Katia," he whispered my name. I looked up at him, lost in his eyes, as his hands grasped me by the back of the neck, head lowering, gently kissing me now. His nervousness gave me this human gesture, this one and only long-awaited kiss. I held him tight against me.

"Who are you?" I asked, resting my head against his chest. When he didn't answer, I pulled away slightly, gazing up at his wild hair, his gleaming eyes. I reached out and touched his cheek, watching as he smiled now, his face so smooth and so very pale. I touched his lips, the smile continued. I ran my hands down over his arms. He was so very old. I was so young. Why had he chosen me?

A slight nod. His hand reached out and found mine. "Don't be afraid."

My heart was thudding painfully in my chest, but I denied it. "I'm not."

Another grin. Cool long fingers twining into my hair, drawing me closer. "If I'm not to be afraid of you, Katia, you mustn't be so of me."

I had barely the time to nod as his lips descended upon me again, kissing my mouth, my neck, my face. He held me tightly, afraid to let go, sighing my name on the breeze. "Katia."

Darkness, blessed darkness. The warmth of flannel blankets around my body, I had dreamed of his arms around me. Where was I? How long had I been out? My mind drifted backward, to the dark compartment of the lighthouse, to the sun rising around us and the fear of annihilation. To his arms around me, holding me, calming me. When the sun had risen outside of our sanctuary, we were safe together.

Chills spread over me, and I ducked under the blanket against him as his hands ran gently over my hair. Focus, and the world is at your command. Who had said that to me? Did he? Mother? Father? Oh, it was too long ago, much too far away. I hugged him tightly and let the years slip away, the memories flashing into my mind like yellowed pictures from an alb.u.m.

Mother and Father had known from the start who and what he was, had promised me they would let me know him on my twentieth birthday. Yet I had always known him at a distance, growing up with him around. He was one of my parents' friends to me, no more, no less. I remember him coming into my house after dinner, striding into our dining room with his hands in his pockets. I remember sitting on his lap, his eyes gazing into mine, and how he'd frighten me and I'd cry, begging Mother to make him go away. Like a nightmare thing, his face and voice invaded my childhood dreams.

When I was fifteen, my parents died in a freak car accident, leaving me the sole survivor with no known living relatives. The friend of my parents whom I so detested now became known to me as Guardian. He came to live at my house, although I rarely saw him. When I did, it was sudden. Fleeting and gone in a moment. He was a flash of red with glittering green eyes in the darkness. Ever watchful, he waited patiently. I became suspicious of him, as teenagers are wont to do, filled my room with vampire novels. His actions were doc.u.mented in there. The way he moved, acted, and constantly watched.

He'd follow me to work, watch me as I went to bed, stand over me as I slept. Sometimes he'd come into the house when I was doing the most mundane of ch.o.r.es, loading the dishwasher, and he'd just stand there, looking so odd, so barely held back, it would infuriate me. I'd scream at him and throw things, and he'd catch them easily, whispering, "Relax, Katia."

Then he began to want me to make him dinner, every night. I did, but he never ate it, simply watched me eat, sipping his red wine. I demanded money from him, more and more, bought my first car at sixteen. And then, I was never at home. I didn't see him for months until one night, at a stop sign no less, he simply opened the door and sat down beside me.

"Drive," he ordered and too shocked to do anything else, I did, driving until I ran out of gas. He watched me the entire time, staring through my body, my mind, into my soul, until I screamed at him to stop. When we ran out of gas, he bought more and drove us home. I stared silently out the window.

At eighteen, I graduated high school. And that's when I confronted him.

"What can I call you?"

He seemed to contemplate it for a moment. "My people called me Ruadri...Red King. But you can call me Rory Danann."

"Rory Danann?" I repeated, then I told Danann that I wanted to go to college; a long hard fight ensued. He spoke to me more than he ever had, saying all kinds of nonsense, that he owed it to my parents to keep me alive. I accused him of wanting to keep me home for other reasons.

"You want me so much and yet you can't stand to look at me!" I yelled as he turned away from me. "You're a coward! You watch me from the shadows, never once taking what you want, and I know how much you want it!"

He turned to me, restraint etched in his face. "Katia, you have no idea what I want."

I laughed at him. "Don't I? I've known it for years. You want it so badly you can taste it, but you won't take it. Why?"

"You don't want me to want you like this," he said, his face exasperated, tightly drawn, the green eyes gleaming.

"Maybe I do," I said, walking up to him, angered as he sighed, turned away. "But wait. How could I be so stupid? You have to see it to want it, don't you?" I reached for my purse, digging until I found what I was searching for. My pocketknife. I flicked it open, and at the sharp snap, his head swiveled to look at me. Before he could say another word, I forced it down on the flesh of my right arm, cutting lengthwise until the blood ran fast. I dropped it on the ground then, falling to my knees, watching in pain as the blood bubbled up and onto the carpet, as red as his hair, his lips.

A sharp intake of breath came from him then. I looked up; he was now kneeling on the floor beside me. "Katia..." He didn't finish his sentence.

"It's what you want!" I was crying, offering it to him. "It's what you are, isn't it?"

He pushed me down until I was lying flat on the ground. My head hit the floor, knocked me dizzy. His cold hands encircled my arm, forcing the blood up faster, and I couldn't breathe, couldn't believe what I was seeing now. Flecks of red were surfacing deep inside his eyes, swirling up, covering them totally, blood red, glazing over, staring at nothing but the blood. His mouth, already opened and gasping, now revealed to me: two canine teeth lengthening, becoming fangs. I whimpered as his head lowered to my arm, and his soft mouth covered the cut. I felt the fangs lying against my skin, not puncturing, but yes, they were there. I swooned, lost a lot of blood all into his mouth, and then I pa.s.sed out.

When I came to, hours later, I was lying on my bed, my arm bandaged, and he was gone. A note on my bureau read, "I am so sorry. Go to college."

Three days later, I packed a bag, drove out to Cape Cod, and enrolled into Community College.

But my escape was lonely and desolate. Alone, I felt as though I had been orphaned twice. I couldn't seem to make friends; it was as though my cla.s.smates instinctively knew that I was destined for something none of them could understand.

Two years later he found me, and seduced me by sheer words rather than anything physical. He whispered promises of eternal life, of love and hope and power. I gave in. I went to him. I held onto him as he drank from me. His hands never touched me. As I took that life-giving blood from his pale throat, it was all my choice. I held him, and the blood was so very good. Now, I was really home. I belonged to him.

When I killed that old man the next night, I'd felt no remorse. I belonged entirely to him, my Guardian, my Danann. I'd surrendered as I should have years ago. I poked my head out of the covers, my chin resting on my hands, and on his chest. I felt safe now, with him. Comfortable. Why? Because now I'm just like him.

"Danann, do you love me?"

Shadows on his face, pa.s.sing, and a look of pure innocence that was a lie. Soft smile like the touch of a feather. Like the touch of his pale, silken skin. Strong arms lifting me, pulling me close and over him. I thought of lavender sunsets, swans, cascading waterfalls in the darkness, and his soft, embracing touch. "Katia, I love you as much as I am capable of loving."

I didn't know how to a.n.a.lyze his answer, but then his lips came to mine, mastery in that. The taste of his mouth was exquisite power. The red of his hair, his lips, his blood, his warmth. And I realized it wasn't anything to do with a.n.a.lyzing facts; this was all about emotion.

Existence was good with Danann by my side. As we walked down the Provincetown streets in the darkness, he told me tales of Vikings and Magic, of Necromancers and Fair Folk, of times long past. He held my hand tight within his.

"I will never leave you," I told him, turning to embrace him there, in the middle of the street, not caring who saw us.

"Katia, you make me remember life." The wind blew up around us as he kissed me, scalding my face with stolen warmth which was not his own.

"I love you," I whispered, giving myself to him totally, surrendering without a care.

We returned to the lighthouse, nestling ourselves inside its protective hold. We curled up together, and I told him we were two misfits defying all time and reality.

"But if I'm with you, who cares what reality is?" I said.

"Dear little Katia, I'm so very sorry," he said, addressing me as though I were still a child.

"Danann, it's alright. I understand everything now. What you've done is given me the means to love you, just as I was meant to do. There is so much time to spend."

About Jessica Handly.

Jessica Handly was raised on tales of the old country. As a youth, her imagination soared from the crypts of Sicily to the banshees of Galway Bay. Trips as a youth to Vermont helped spark an early interest in vampire lore. A love of cla.s.sical music contributed to her creative process early on. Jessica eventually traveled abroad to places mentioned in her novels, such as France, Ireland, Italy, England and Scotland.

Jessica is hard at work, teaching cla.s.ses, writing, and courting publishers for a new novel currently t.i.tled The Halfling. Jessica previously wrote "The Dream Series" novels under the name Jessica Barone: Eternal Night, The Requiem, and The Legendary. She holds a Master's of Arts in Liberal Arts, has worked as a professional writing tutor, held seminars on writer's block, led fiction writing and journalism clubs, and has served as a reviewer and volunteer tutor for other authors. She feels her greatest achievement is that she has inspired young authors to read and write.

http://jessicahandly-writer.tripod.com.

YOU SAID ALWAYS AND FOREVER.

by Richard Hill.

When she opened her eyes and looked out of the window, Jane thought that she and the cottage were sinking, that she was still lost in a maze of her dreams. Only when she was fully awake did she realize that the wind from the moors was driving the thick snowflakes upwards; that like so much of her life, it was an illusion. She felt for a moment as if she were inside a gla.s.s paperweight, like the one her grandmother had kept on her mantelpiece, that some giant hand had shaken her world, sending the fat feathery snowflakes swirling around the cottage, turning the tiny bedroom brighter and lighter than it had ever been, filled with the cold light of the white world outside.

For a moment Jane felt a flicker of happiness, snug in the warmth of her bed, before it was drowned in the familiar ache of her loneliness. She wondered what Mike was doing. She thought of him every morning when she woke to the emptiness of the cottage and the endless emptiness of the moors and the world beyond. He would be holding that woman in his arms the way he had once held her. With tears p.r.i.c.kling against her eyes, Jane pulled herself out of bed. Even with the heating at its highest the cold tightened her skin after the warmth of the bed, and she worried again about the oil running out, or the electricity failing, and the sadness rose in her again. Why had he left her like this, alone and helpless, not knowing what to do? She had a child's fear of being abandoned and lost, of freezing to death, alone and unnoticed. Mike was still her husband, her next of kin, wasn't he? They would call him to identify her. Perhaps then he would realize what he had done to her.

Jane stepped into the bathroom and stared at the pale face in the mirror.

"Got to get on!" Her voice sounded too loud in the silent cottage. "Still talking to yourself, I see. Or should it be hearing?"

Mike had turned her into a cliche, the deserted wife left talking to herself, the wronged woman, the fool, the cuckold.

"Can you be a female cuckold?" She stared at her reflection, running the taps, waiting for the water to run warm.

"Oh Christ!" She began to cry, sponging away her tears, toweling away at her sorrow. She pulled a stiff upper lip at her reflection and went back into the bedroom. Looking down at the crumpled clothes thrown onto the floor, she decided not to get dressed. If she spent the day wearing a bathrobe, who was there to know or to care? She was snowed in, the roads around her were blocked, and there was no sign of the snowfall ever ending. She had plenty of supplies and she had enough work to do putting the next edition of her online zine 'Frightful' to bed. Her only fear was that if it snowed for long enough, it might cut off the electricity to the cottage.

Jane still half-expected Mike to return, to hear the solid slamming of the car door and his voice shouting from the hall, but she knew that her hopes and her imagination were failing her, just as he had.

The darkest of her imaginings was that he had planned everything from the beginning, and that he had known Samantha long before they had moved to Arrowdale. Mike had always been spontaneous, given to spur-of-the-moment decisions and actions, and his plan to take up the partnership of a small law firm in a Yorkshire market town had seemed totally in character. He was someone who needed change, and every few years he would grow restless. The plan was for her to give up her day job and edit the magazine full-time. The dream of a cottage in the country seemed not only sensible but attractive, and his practice was less than two hour's drive away. She had only learned that his new partner, Sam, was Samantha when it was too late to do anything.

Something was moving in the kitchen. Jane stepped over to the door, listening hard. She thought she heard a furtive, shuffling noise, like someone creeping. She moved slowly to where she could see into the room, but it was empty. For days now she had felt the presence of someone, always out of sight; a flicker of movement in the corner of the eye, the half-heard sound of another. But there was no one. To take possession of the kitchen, she made a mug of coffee, pushing back her unease.

They had bought the cottage in the summer, only weeks before they moved. The drive from the little town had been charming and soothing, driving to their new home in a flickering tunnel of green. Only now that Mike had left her did Jane realize just how isolated the place was. And now this foul winter and the blizzard had made her a prisoner. He had begun working later and later 'to get the firm moving,' then staying in town on weekends and finally, carefully, reasonably, he had left her and moved in with Samantha. He had exchanged one partner for another. She had made what Mike had called 'a scene' at his office, repeating it over again, the best joke of all, a partner for a partner, her laughter going on and on until it turned into a scream.

And now there was Nemo.

Editing an online magazine meant that contact with her contributors was both easy and difficult. Easy, because the correspondence between her writers and ill.u.s.trators was almost instant, and difficult because she had no protection from those who were awkward of reason or too demanding; Nemo was both. The ill.u.s.trations he had sent her were far too crude and hateful to use, and she had told him so, at first tactfully and finally bluntly. She had used the word hateful, a word he had objected to more than any other, crude drawings of foul things being done to a woman. But if Nemo's drawings had portrayed hate, his emails shrieked with not just hatred but with threats, so that Jane dreaded seeing his name in her inbox, and lately they had become just graphic details of what he intended to do to her.

Normally, Jane would have ignored Nemo's rantings, but since Mike had left, she never felt normal, just lonely and sad and tired. And now she was not only alone but isolated. The phone still worked, and the Internet, but the empty silence of the moors seemed to have moved into the cottage and into her soul. She switched on the radio and turned on her PC. She wasn't hungry, so breakfast could wait until lunchtime. Working on the magazine was her escape as well as a ch.o.r.e and perhaps the new copy she was waiting for would take her away from the white blankness all around her.

The story she was waiting for was in her inbox and she printed it out, preferring to read submissions the first time as hard copy. She realized from the first few paragraphs that it would be as good as she had hoped. Finally, she decided to open the inevitable email from Nemo, steeling herself for another tirade about artistic integrity, his genius, and what he would do to her unless she stopped leading the international conspiracy against him. It was shorter than usual; just one link, to her 'More About Me' column.

Jane stared at the screen. She never had the time or the inclination to update her blurb. It contained nothing about her private life and certainly nothing new. She clicked on the link. Only the words 'More About Me' remained the same. Her photograph had been altered so that her face was old and lined, and her smile had been turned into a sneer, and what had been a few ba.n.a.l facts about her life had been turned into a toxic mixture of boasts about her own superiority and invitations to fulfill her detailed s.e.xual fantasies.

Jane felt as if she had been punched in the stomach, as if something foul had moved into the room with her. She heard herself sobbing, but now she was sobbing not out of sorrow, but from fear. For too long she sat transfixed at what she saw in front of her until at last she knew what to do. She would phone Magic Al, her computer guru. Even his name made her feel better. He was magic. He would sort it out, track down what had been done back to Nemo. It had to be a crime. She would send the b.a.s.t.a.r.d to jail.

Her hands were shaking as she picked up the phone, surprised that it was working in this blizzard. She had read the words so many times: 'His hand trembled' or 'Her hands shook.' And now it was happening to her. When she spoke into the phone, her voice was tight with anxiety.

"Is Al there? I need to speak to Al; it's Jane, Jane Allen."