Silas no longer cared if his carefully-sown client was going to do something stupid; his kits were far too valuable and far too difficult to come by to replace. He’d find somebody else, some other paying client to work on. Walking over to the wall, he ripped his sawed-off Nineteen from the wall, and flushed his Boosters. He swore under his breath that he didn’t put on any armor before this appointment. At least he put his shoulder strap on. That strap was like his credbase. He never left home without it.

Daniel spat carefully. Damn the Law. Sure, the crisp uniforms were a necessary evil—they needed him just as much as he needed them. The Law’d get into a nasty situation that involved daemons or some other supernatural creature (even though “officially” there’s no such thing as monsters), and then they’d hire him, Daniel Wayward, to clean it up. Sometimes things were good, real good. One time he managed to keep the acrid blood spatter to a minimum and kill the thing with no casualties. In his line of work, that was a miracle. Being a beastkeeper had its ups and downs. Most times he was lucky to have a day that was in between.

Today was not one of those days.

Third in a three-part series

It was getting cold. He looked forward to starting a good fire to warm his aging bones. Almost the oldest of dragon hunters, he’d earned his experience the hard way, and his body bore the brunt of his hunts with the monsters he’d fought. Every ache, every scar, told a tale, and he had many of both.

Written by Rob Stratman

“Are you still insisting on hunting him down? This isn’t what your father would have wanted. He would have wanted you to continue helping humanity defend itself against hell.” Hal knew Ayden wanted her fighting with them. After all, they grew up together, even was in schooling together. When Ayden went off with the Spiritual Essence trainers, she was scared, and sad. That’s when Hal’s father started training her as a Mystic. He was very talented, and she was to carry on his knowledge.

Written by Crystal Mazur

Danel’s blood spilled out of the ragged gash in his arm in great gouts across the floor of the main hall of the Bascillica de San Zago. Rounding a brazier, trying to concentrate on holding the wound tight, he almost plunged headlong into Brother Artemus.

Written by Mike Holmes

When I was a kid I wanted to play pro tennis.

I had it all mapped out. I’d train hard at school, get noticed, get a coach, start playing nationally. By the time I was eighteen I’d already be world seeded; I’d win my first Grand Slam when I was twenty, nail the US Open a year later. I’d even got an investment plan worked out.

Then Stan came along.

Written by 2005 Fiction Contest Winner, Matt Harvey

It was too late for tracking. This close to nightfall it would be tired of running. If he gave it an opening it would charge into the open. Abram made himself sound as panicked as possible, he broke branches, stumbled over roots and force himself to pant. It went against every instinct he had developed over the years of the hunt. Pam was right behind him, mimicking his actions but she wasn’t pretending. Whatever façade of strength she had summoned up to come with him tonight was gone now. There wasn’t time for a pep talk. “In a few minutes it won’t matter anyway,” thought a particularly bitter piece of Abram.

Written for the Blood Games setting by Daniel Potter

The families lived in exile, far removed from Condar, Rodak or Derve. They did not choose to live there, the mountain hand-picked them. They were merchants, traffickers, and traders in luxury goods, foodstuffs and information. All had a story to tell, some worse than others. A rockslide claimed one party, bandits tore apart another. Long have they been grieved for, even longer have they been forgotten. Until the miners came, dwarves with their pickaxes and knowledge of things buried deep within the earth. Tough yet resilient, Ilieva grew into the mountain ever since her husband died last Lokt. So, when the dwarves came offering a mutually-beneficial treaty, how could she refuse?

Tall, yellow grasses rustled in front of a modest Sarlacchi village, mimicking the movements of a small boy. The child pitched forward, and then rocked backward. He stopped to brace himself against an unseen foe. Something punched him hard in the stomach. Flinging his arms to the sky, the boy grasped his totem necklace and cried out before collapsing to the ground. His mother rushed to the fallen child, clutching him tightly to her breast.

Tara sat at the edge of the abyss. She glanced briefly around her, wondering if something more menacing than the Law guards were lurking in the earthy shadows. Hours earlier, her team breathed a sigh of relief when the Law’s automated attack vehicles returned from the depths of Zone subsector three without a scratch. The Law then pushed her team forward, forcing them to tread where only machines should have gone.

Second in a three-part series

Risla twisted and turned as she slept on the hard ground, her thoughts hunting for answers to Malik’s words. How could she convince anyone that she was the one that would fulfill prophecies? And even if she had the second sight, she wasn’t sure she could speak false about foreseeing the future. Truly, she was anything but blessed. When she told Malik this, he not only reminded her how many people were relying on this belief, but that some people would lay their lives down for such a person.

Part of an ongoing tale in the world of Conspiracy of Shadows.

The darkness crept behind Malik and Risla, embracing them in its strong arms. Albin guided them to an abandoned camp where they could rest for the night. Tomorrow would be a slow day for the both of them, for Challenger needed to be reshoed. They both hoped, for different reasons, a village was nearby. Only the light would tell them that. Malik was fortunate he had excellent night vision. He thanked his father for grooming him well.

“I’m going to look around,” Malik told her. “Stay close.”

Risla could barely make out his arrogant outline. She wondered if “looking around” meant leaving her there. He cared more for his horse than he did for her.

“What should I do?”

Part of an ongoing tale set in the world of Conspiracy of Shadows.

“What does it say, Father Clemens?” asked a young acolyte to the wizened priest.

The middle-aged priest looked carefully around the room, for explaining prophecy to youth was like expressing nature into words to young children. At least his following was here, just outside Alcona at the foot of the Boreni Mountains. It was fortunate they were not wandering off, trying to profess their faith to those who would not listen. Instead they were here, under his gaze, believing Albin granted him the tools to enable them to know things men shouldn’t.

Continuing the tale set in the world of Conspiracy of Shadows

Aiken watched the gun. The muzzle was drifting to and fro, but always covering him, cutting down his options. He was trying hard to sober up. The little man was talking away in his fast, clipped voice, but Aiken was having difficulty concentrating on the words. Before the pair had arrived he had been busy drinking himself unconscious, but now that was a distant memory. The big one had come in first, the muscle, waving his vicious-looking sparklock languidly about, indicating to the clientele of this particular dive that they would be better off not getting involved.

A tale for the a/state setting from Contested Ground Studios, written by Greg Saunders.

It couldn’t remember how it was borne. Was it male? Was it female? It had given itself a name, one that only it knew. Pool.

Pieces of memory gnawed at Pool’s mind. What was home? What did it used to be? Now it was nothing more than a land of yellowing bone and black rock. Fires burned throughout the landscape. It couldn’t have been that way always. Before Pool left its Circle with the others, they poured over books documenting the stories of how things came to be. Shapes of letters appeared before him, describing the velvety touch of a thing called a “flower.” There were no flowers in its Circle. Pool closed its eyes, remembering the smell of sulfur and the feel of spikes crushing beneath its razor-skinned feet.

Part One of a Three Part Fiction Series

Eyes that once spoke compassion and love glinted like twin blades in the smoke-filled night. They called her a demon. Priests, she knew and trusted from her time waddling in the lush fields of the khanate, threw stones at her. Magickal symbols drawn in fertile soil surrounded her. She wasn’t sure if they were to protect her, or to protect the mob from her. For what? The color of her hair? She tried to move her head. It was once the color of the black stones on the bottom of the riverbed. Now it resembled the embers glowing brightly in the fire her clansmen encouraged to consume her. She stood against the warmth, and felt as it reached out to her stiffened body tied taught against a dead tree. Her arms were pinned to her chest, her clansmen afraid she had the dark Gift. Part One of an Ongoing Series

I woke up before sunrise this morning and could not get back to sleep, no matter how much I tossed and turned. The sky was changing from black to grey when I left the house. It was so early that almost nothing was open save for the newspaper kiosk by Cafe Station (I am sure you are laughing hard right now at the image of me waking before dawn!). Because the weather was pleasant for this time of year and because I felt like doing so I was dressed in a light coat and simple leather shoes. This is not important to the story but I feel compelled to discuss these kinds of details.

Written by Jared Sorensen

I woke for no reason from strangely blissful dreams, my eyes adjusting quickly to the dark of our room. Michael slept against me, his huge arm around my waist, one hand splayed across my belly. He should have woken to any disturbance before I did. Yet of the two of us, I woke, not to sound or movement or anything I could understand, but more to a pressure in the air. A feeling, growing from my abdomen under Michael’s palm and spreading up my veins with the shock of the purest Liquid Silver, disturbed my dreams and lifted my head. The feeling told of an unwelcome darkness.

Written by 2003 Fiction Contest Winner, Elizabeth Petersen