Suzanna J. Linton

Gavin scratched his head, idly wondering what his father would tell him right about then. Probably steal the slave and run. Father's solution was always to steal and run. But he had a job to finish. "All right," he said finally, "here's what we'll do. We'll pretend this night didn't happen." That earned another sarcastic look.

The flames of the fire leapt up and surrounded her, consuming her, becoming her. Heat filled and flushed her, breaking the bottle and she soared up and up. She came to stand in a sun's center. But that even faded and she rode pillion with Emmerich as he crossed the field on his black battle charger, her hands gripping his sides. The edges of his chain-mail bit into her skin and she could hear his labored breath. She could smell his particular scent: horse and leather, sweat and musk. Men roared like the ocean and rushed like waves to slam against the opposing force meeting them outside the walls.

The thunder of horses_ hooves grows ever louder, but, still, I do not move. The thunder of those hooves, the thudding of my heart, and the gasping in my lungs make such a cacophony, it__ a wonder I hear Edmund at all.

Why can__ I have my own life?!

Samantha turns toward us as we enter and her mouth drops open. __ou._ Pure joy floods her face like sunlight falling through storm clouds, and she runs up to me, laying hands on either side of my face as she gazes deeply into my eyes. __here you are.

Emmerich's heart in his throat, he could only stare down at Monica, who looked up at him with glassy eyes as she shivered with pain and choked on blood.

Oh-ho, so you are a witch. More like a witchling, as you're too small to be a full witch._ (Emmerich)

Before she could let herself think, Clara burst from the door and bolted for the table. People just began turning when she grasped the guest and shoved him to the ground, the chair flying backwards. Wine and food spilled everywhere as he flung out his arms. For a moment, she felt a swift pressure, as if her hair was being pulled, before strong hands gripped her, flinging her to the floor. A boot pressed into her back and she felt the cold tip of blade on her neck above her slave's collar.

The motel owner, who walked up when the police car came screaming in with lights flashing, takes me into the office. He sits me down with a mug of coffee. The mug is blue and reads in white lettering, Warning: Murderous Until Caffeinated.

In front of me stands a willow tree by a river, its long green tendrils trailing into the chuckling water. A man sits beneath the tree, back propped against the trunk, gently strumming a lute as he looks out over the water. He feels familiar to me, as if I must know him. As if it would be impossible not to know him.I do not approach. I simply listen to the water and the lute, the sound settling deeply into my bones and heart.

Mall maintenance halls are creepy. Plain and white, with fluorescent lighting, they evoke images of serial killers, hockey masks nd bloody butcher knives. The figure standing at the end does not help matters.