The stink of charred rosemary was acrid; it burnt my lungs.
Whatever it was, it wanted what was under those stairs. Mikey had to stop him; he thought about screaming, crying for help but that would just complicate things--and his father would hear about it. Whatever happened, he had to deal with it himself. There was no question of turning around, not anymore. He knew what the thing wanted. Blood, and power.
Alain whipped the barrel of the musket around. His hands were sweaty against the wooden stock now. His arms were beginning to get tired; he felt like he had been holding it for hours. “Let him go!”
In the high forests of France, just before the hills crack open and shoulder into the clouds to become the snow-capped alps, there is a small town called Roussard-en-Lac. In the small town of Roussard-en-Lac, there is an olive grove, situated on a rocky shoulder of a hill overlooking the small farming village. In this … Continue reading The First Lesson of Alain Dubois
The Hounds sprang into the summer storm, screaming in joy and fury, hands curling into fists as they followed the scent as it fled through the forest. Blood would be shed this night.
If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.
It came to Jess in a moment of perfect clarity, like the peal of a small bell that cleared the fog of her thoughts. She knew where they were headed. Deep beneath the ice, beneath the crushing embrace of the black water, she understood.