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 [...]
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.
He was 214, coded as The Keeper. The Keeper had full administrative privileges over the complex known as the Strongroom. The Keeper was designed to protect the contents of the Strongroom.
The laser-pistol whined as it fired a shot. A red-hot, gaping hole appeared in the beast’s throat, edges still glowing from the heat of the bolt. The head recoiled, roaring in hunger and rage, but before it could strike again another bolt sizzled through one of the thing’s eyes. For a moment the alien stared at Mallory with one terrible, luminous orange eye and one the pale lavender of the setting sky.
She remembered the last time she had held a gun. She had been eleven, hunting rabbits with her father on vacation in a small cabin outside Bordeaux. He had taught her to aim with both eyes open. She had killed eight rabbits that day.
Surely gangsters couldn’t run as fast.
In the endgame, it was all about staying calm. He needed something clever, something no one would see coming. He was playing two games, his moves anticipated in both.
"For Life is a kind of Chess, in which we have often points to gain, and competitors or adversaries to contend with.” – Benjamin Franklin