Tuesday, July 29, 2025

The Were-Bat

Not to be mistaken with a werebat, the were bat is a weapon made specifically to engage werebeasts in melee combat. They are usually wielded by experienced hunters of werebeasts and are usually used by groups of six or more individuals. Basically, the wielders of the were-bats surround their target and then beat it to death.

A were-bat is typically a wooden baseball bat that is covered in dozens of studs and spikes made of pure silver. Wounds inflicted upon were-creatures are not subject to any rapid healing traits, but can only be healed through medical treatment and rest, or magic.

A were-bat weighs roughly 48oz/three pounds. It deals 1d4+STR bonus against non-lycanthropes and vampires, but deals 2d4+STR bonus to creatures with sensitivity to silver.




Wednesday, July 23, 2025

The Ghost and the Family Jewels - Fiction by Steve Miller

Among the many characters you'll meet in the next anthology from NUELOW Games, Chillers and Thrillers, is the Ghost of Hong Kong. Here's a story featuring her, so you can all get acquainted.


A Story by Steve Miller:
The Ghost and the Family Jewels

The neon glow of Hong Kong's skyline painted Chin Ho's floor-to-ceiling windows in brilliant streaks of pink, blue, and gold. Sixty floors above the bustling streets, the billionaire reclined on his Italian leather sofa, a crystal tumbler balanced on the armrest. Below him, the city sprawled endlessly—a glittering testament to his empire of shipping, real estate, and ventures that lived in legality's gray areas.

Three women moved gracefully around the opulent living space, their silk robes barely concealing their curves as they attended to Ho's every whim. The first, a statuesque beauty with long black hair, refilled his glass with practiced precision. As she leaned over, Ho's hand found the small of her back, fingers gliding lightly on the exposed skin. She smiled coyly, neither encouraging nor discouraging his touch.

"Mei-Lin, you always know exactly how I like it," Ho stated, his voice carrying the confidence of a man accustomed to getting whatever he desired. The woman's laugh was like wind chimes as she settled beside him, close enough that her perfume mingled with the expensive cologne he wore.

The second woman, petite with delicate features, approached with a silver tray of imported delicacies. Ho's free hand wandered to her hip as she bent to place the tray on the marble coffee table. "And Su-Chen brings me the finest treats," he said, pulling her closer for a moment before releasing her to continue her duties.

The third woman, tall and elegant with auburn highlights in her dark hair, moved like a dancer as she adjusted the lighting and straightened the already immaculate room. When she passed within reach, Ho caught her wrist gently, bringing her hand to his lips for a theatrical kiss. "And Li-Hua makes everything perfect," he declared with theatrical gallantry.

The women exchanged knowing glances, well-versed in their employer's theatrical nature and wandering hands. They had been in his employ long enough to understand the boundaries of their arrangement, and Ho, for all his indulgences, respected those boundaries even as he pushed against them with his constant flirtation.

Su-Chen returned with a plate of precisely cut vegetables, including thin slices of carrot arranged in an artistic fan. Ho selected one piece, holding it between his teeth with a mischievous grin. Mei-Lin, understanding the game, took the other end of the carrot slice between her own teeth. They moved closer, nibbling toward each other until their lips met in a brief, playful kiss that tasted of sweet carrot and expensive lipstick.

"You see, ladies," Ho said, settling back with satisfaction, "life is about taking what belongs to you, and sometimes taking back what was stolen." His expression grew more serious, though his hands continued their casual exploration as the women arranged themselves around him. "Speaking of which, I have some excellent news to share."

Li-Hua curled up beside him, her head resting against his shoulder as his arm encircled her waist. "Tell us, Mr. Ho," she said, her voice carrying genuine curiosity mixed with the practiced interest of someone paid to be fascinated by her employer's stories.

Ho's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he gazed out at the city lights. "You remember the family jewels I told you about? The ones that have been in the Ho family for eight generations?" The women nodded, having heard the story before. The diadem, necklace, and matching bracelets were legendary pieces, crafted by master artisans in the Qing Dynasty and passed down through Ho's lineage as symbols of their prosperity and power.

"Well," Ho continued, his grip tightening slightly on Li-Hua's waist, "as you know, I had to use them as collateral at that gambling establishment in Macau. A temporary setback, I assured myself. But when I went to reclaim them after my shipping contracts came through, those dogs claimed I had lost them fair and square in their rigged games."

Su-Chen moved closer, perching on the arm of the sofa. "But surely you didn't accept that," she said, running her fingers through Ho's graying hair.

Ho's laugh was sharp and cold. "Accept it? My dear Su-Chen, I am Chin Ho. I built this empire by never accepting what others try to force upon me." He gestured toward the windows, encompassing the vast city below. "I knew their games were fixed. The dice were weighted, the cards marked, the roulette wheel magnetized. They thought they could steal from the Ho family with impunity."

Mei-Lin leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest. "So what did you do?"

"I hired the Ghost of Hong Kong," Ho announced with dramatic flair, clearly relishing the impact of his words. The women's eyes widened appropriately. Even in their sheltered world of luxury and privilege, they had heard whispers of the legendary figure who moved through the city's underworld like smoke, dispensing justice to those who thought themselves above consequences.

"The Ghost is real?" Li-Hua asked, her voice dropping to a whisper as if speaking too loudly might summon the mysterious figure.

Ho nodded gravely. "Very real, and very effective. I sent word through the proper channels, provided the necessary details about the gambling house and their cheating operation, and made it clear that the Ho family jewels needed to be returned along with appropriate punishment for their theft."

He paused to take a long sip of his whiskey, savoring both the aged liquor and the rapt attention of his companions. "The Ghost doesn't work cheap, but some things are worth any price. Family honor, for instance. The legacy of eight generations of Ho prosperity."

Su-Chen traced patterns on Ho's chest through his silk shirt. "And did the Ghost succeed?"

"Patience, my dear," Ho said, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips. "All will be revealed shortly. I received word this evening that the Ghost would be arriving to make a full report. In fact, I expect—"

The soft chime of the penthouse elevator interrupted him. Ho's personal butler, an elderly man named Wong who had served the family for decades, appeared in the doorway with his usual impeccable posture and neutral expression.

"Sir," Wong announced in his crisp, professional tone, "the Ghost of Hong Kong has arrived and requests to meet with you."

Ho's face lit up with anticipation and triumph. "Excellent! Show our guest in immediately, Wong. This is a moment I've been eagerly awaiting."

The women straightened, suddenly aware they were about to meet a figure of legend. Ho adjusted his position, trying to project casual authority despite his obvious excitement.

Wong returned moments later, stepping aside as the Ghost of Hong Kong entered. Ho's expression shifted from anticipation to surprise, then to obvious appreciation.

The Ghost was a woman, tall and graceful, dressed entirely in black. Her outfit was practical yet elegant: fitted black pants that allowed for easy movement, sturdy black boots that made no sound on the marble floor, and a long black coat that flowed around her like liquid shadow. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe style that emphasized the sharp angles of her face and the intensity of her dark eyes.

"Sir," Wong announced formally, "may I present the Ghost of Hong Kong."

Ho rose from the sofa with more energy than he had shown all evening, his eyes drinking in every detail of his mysterious visitor. "My dear Ghost," he said, moving toward her with obvious delight, "I must confess, I had no idea you were such a... striking woman."

The Ghost's expression remained neutral, professional. She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment but made no move to encourage Ho's obvious interest.

"Allow me," Ho continued, reaching for the collar of her long coat, "to help you with this. You must be warm after your journey." His hands moved to the fastenings of her coat, his fingers lingering longer than necessary as he helped her out of it.

Beneath the coat, the Ghost wore a form-fitting black top that revealed she was indeed as attractive as Ho had immediately surmised. Her figure was athletic and graceful, speaking of someone who relied on physical capability as much as mental acuity in her work.

"Please, sit," Ho said, gesturing toward one of the leather chairs facing the sofa. "Can Wong bring you anything? Whiskey? Wine? Something to eat?"

"I'm here to make my report, Mr. Ho," the Ghost replied, her voice calm and professional. "Nothing more."

Ho settled back onto the sofa, the three women arranging themselves around him once again, though their attention was clearly focused on their mysterious visitor. "Of course, of course. But surely you can spare a few minutes for hospitality? It's not every day I have the honor of hosting such a legendary figure."

The Ghost remained standing, her posture alert and ready. "The gambling establishment you identified was indeed running rigged games. Their operation was more sophisticated than most, but not sophisticated enough to avoid detection by someone who knew what to look for."

Ho leaned forward eagerly. "And my family's jewels?"

"Recovered," the Ghost replied simply. She reached into an inner pocket of her black top and withdrew a small velvet pouch. "The diadem, necklace, and bracelets are all accounted for and undamaged."

Ho's hands trembled slightly as he accepted the pouch, his excitement palpable. He opened it carefully, revealing the glittering treasures that had been in his family for generations. The diadem caught the light from the city below, its diamonds and emeralds creating tiny rainbows across the ceiling. The necklace was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, each link perfectly formed and set with precious stones. The matching bracelets completed the set, their intricate designs speaking of the master artisans who had created them centuries ago.

"Magnificent," Ho's voice filled with genuine emotion. "These pieces... they represent everything my family has built, everything we've achieved. To have them back..." He looked up at the Ghost with tears of gratitude in his eyes. "You have my eternal thanks."

The Ghost nodded once. "The gambling house has been discouraged from continuing their fraudulent practices. They will not be cheating other customers in the future."

"And the proprietors?" Ho asked, his voice carrying a harder edge.

"They faced appropriate consequences for their actions," the Ghost replied without elaboration.

Ho carefully returned the jewels to their pouch, his hands reverent as he handled the precious family heirlooms. "You have exceeded my expectations in every way," he said, rising from the sofa once again. "Such exceptional service deserves exceptional compensation."

He moved toward a wall safe hidden behind a painting of ancient Chinese mountains, his fingers working the combination with practiced ease. From within, he withdrew a thick envelope. "Your agreed-upon fee," he said, offering it to the Ghost, "plus a substantial bonus for work that went above and beyond what I had hoped for."

The Ghost accepted the envelope without counting its contents, tucking it away with the same efficiency she had shown in producing the jewels. "The contract is complete, Mr. Ho. I'll see myself out."

But Ho stepped closer, his earlier appreciation for her appearance clearly overriding his business sense. "Wait," he said, his voice taking on the tone he used when he wanted something. "Surely such a successful partnership deserves a proper celebration?"

Before she could respond, Ho crossed the room toward her, arms reaching out. "A bonus for exceptional work," he declared, pulling her toward him with the confidence of a man who had never been refused anything he wanted.

His lips found hers in what he clearly intended to be a passionate kiss. For a moment, the Ghost seemed frozen in surprise at his audacity.

Then her knee came up with lightning speed, connecting with Ho's groin with enough force to lift him slightly off his feet. He staggered backward toward the sofa as pain exploded through his body, his face contorting in agony as he doubled over.

The three women rushed forward as Ho collapsed to his knees, then toppled sideways onto the marble floor, his hands clutched protectively over his injured anatomy. His face had gone pale, and small whimpering sounds escaped his lips as waves of pain washed over him.

"Mr. Ho!" Mei-Lin cried, dropping to her knees beside him. "Are you all right?"

Li-Hua and Su-Chen flanked him, their hands fluttering uncertainly as they tried to determine how to help their employer, who was curled in a fetal position on his expensive Italian marble floor.

The Ghost stood over the writhing billionaire, her expression unchanged from its professional neutrality. She retrieved her long black coat from where Ho had draped it over a chair, slipping it on with fluid grace.

"Mr. Ho," she said, her voice carrying clearly over his groans of pain, "I hope you'll guard both sets of your family jewels more carefully in the future."

With that, she turned and walked toward the elevator, her footsteps silent on the marble floor. Wong, who had witnessed the entire exchange from his position by the doorway, stepped aside respectfully as she passed.

As the Ghost reached the elevator, she heard Ho moan loudly, "No hard feelings? Can I call if I have another suitable job for you?"

She turned to look back at the injured billionaire, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips, then stepped on to the elevator as the doors opened. "If you have the fee, you have my agent's contact information," she called out.

The elevator doors closed with a soft whisper. The Ghost descended toward the bustling streets of Hong Kong, leaving Ho groaning on the floor while his three companions tried to minister to his wounded pride and more tangible injuries.

--

If you liked that story, or any of the others that have been posted here recently, we encourage you to get a copy of Chillers and Thrillers, available now at DriveThruRPG, DriveThruComics, and DriveThruFiction. (It's an anthology with seven classic stories by Steve Ditko, seven brand-new stories by Steve Miller, and a revised version of NUELOW's "Fearless Vampire Hunters" cardgame!)

Sunday, July 13, 2025

THE LAST CARD - A Chilling Tale by Steve Miller

The Last Card

By Steve Miller

The candles flickered in the cramped living room as Madeline shuffled the worn tarot deck. The cards felt heavier tonight, their edges soft from years of use, but there was something else—a weight that seemed to press against her palms like a warning she couldn't quite decipher. She glanced across the small table at her client, a man who had introduced himself simply as "Thomas" when he'd knocked on her door twenty minutes earlier.

He sat perfectly still in the mismatched chair she'd pulled from her kitchen, his pale hands folded in his lap with unnatural precision. Everything about him seemed deliberately unremarkable—average height, thinning brown hair, clothes that looked like they'd been purchased from a department store clearance rack. But his eyes held a quality that made Madeline's skin crawl, a flatness that reminded her of stagnant water. When he'd asked for a reading, his voice had been soft, almost gentle, but there was something underneath it that made her want to lock her door and pretend she wasn't home.

Still, she needed the money. The psychic business wasn't exactly booming in a town of three thousand people, and her day job at the grocery store barely covered rent on the tiny house she'd inherited from her grandmother. The same house where Nana had taught her to read the cards, where she'd learned that sometimes the universe spoke in symbols and shadows. More often than not, though, it was just random cards and vague statements from her that made the customers feel good.

"What would you like to know?" Madeline asked, struggling to push aside the sense of unease that was filling her. She began laying out cards in the Celtic Cross spread, each one landing with a soft whisper against the velvet cloth.

Thomas leaned forward slightly, and she caught a whiff of something metallic, like old pennies. "I want to know about my future," he said. "What's coming for me."

The first card was revealed: The Tower. Lightning splitting a dark spire, figures falling into an abyss. Madeline's stomach tightened, but she forced her expression to remain neutral.

"This represents your current situation," she said. "The Tower suggests significant change. Old structures being torn down."

Thomas nodded slowly. "What kind of change?"

The next card made her pulse quicken—the Seven of Swords. A figure creeping away in the night, carrying stolen blades. The image hit her like a physical blow, and suddenly she understood why the cards had felt so heavy in her hands. This wasn't about challenges he was facing—the cards were revealing what he was planning. Her throat constricted as she stared at the thief in the darkness, carrying weapons into the night.

"The Seven of Swords indicates... hidden actions," she said carefully, her voice barely steady. "Perhaps secrets that need to come to light."

The metallic smell seemed stronger now, and she noticed his hands had moved to rest on the table's edge, fingers drumming silently against the wood.

The third card made her breath catch: The Ten of Swords. A figure lying face-down, ten blades piercing his back against a blood-red dawn. Death, betrayal, the violent end of a cycle. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the fourth card, hoping it would somehow balance the reading, provide context that would make this all seem less ominous.

The Death card stared back at her.

"Interesting," Thomas murmured, and there was something like amusement in his voice. "What do those mean?"

Madeline's mouth had gone dry. She could feel sweat beading along her hairline despite the cool October evening. The cards were telling a story she didn't want to read, painting a picture in symbols that made her want to sweep them all back into the deck and pretend this reading had never happened.

"The Ten of Swords represents an ending," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But not necessarily a literal death. It could mean the end of a difficult period, a transformation. And the Death card—" She swallowed hard. "The Death card almost never means actual death. It's about rebirth, new beginnings, letting go of what no longer serves you."

Thomas tilted his head, studying her. "You don't sound very convinced."

"Tarot is symbolic," Madeline said quickly. "The cards speak in metaphors. They're not meant to be taken literally." But her hands were shaking now as she reached for the next card in the spread. She needed to finish this reading and get him out of her house. Every instinct she'd inherited from her grandmother was screaming at her to run.

The fifth card—representing the possible outcome—was the Three of Swords. A heart pierced by three blades, storm clouds gathering overhead. Heartbreak, sorrow, emotional pain. But in this context, surrounded by violence and death, it felt like something much more sinister.

"This suggests emotional upheaval," she said, but her voice cracked on the words. "Pain that leads to growth, the necessity of facing difficult truths."

"You're very creative with your interpretations," Thomas said with a thin smile. "But I think we both know what the cards are really saying."

Madeline's heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. She wanted to stop, to tell him the reading was over, but something kept her frozen in place. Maybe it was professional obligation, or maybe it was the growing certainty that showing fear would be the worst possible thing she could do.

"There are still more cards," she said, though every fiber of her being was telling her to stop.

"Yes," Thomas said softly. "Please continue. I'm very interested to see what comes next."

The sixth card—representing the immediate future—made her gasp audibly. The Moon, but reversed. Deception revealed, hidden enemies exposed, illusions falling away. In the context of this reading, it felt like a countdown timer ticking toward zero.

"This card suggests that hidden truths will soon come to light," she said, but she could barely force the words out. "Secrets will be revealed, and you'll see situations more clearly."

"How soon?" Thomas asked, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now.

"The cards don't give specific timeframes," Madeline said quickly. "It could be days, weeks, months—"

"Or tonight?"

The word hung in the air between them like a blade. Madeline looked up from the cards to find Thomas watching her with an expression that made her blood turn to ice. The mask had slipped completely, revealing something predatory underneath.

"I think we should stop here," she said, starting to gather the cards. "Sometimes readings can be overwhelming, and it's better to—"

"No." His voice was still soft, but there was steel underneath it now. "I want to see the rest. What happens after the truth comes to light?"

Madeline's hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the cards. She knew she should refuse, should tell him to leave, should do anything except continue this reading. But Thomas was leaning forward now, and she could see something glinting in his jacket pocket. Something metallic that caught the candlelight.

With trembling fingers, she turned over the seventh card. The Hanged Man, but upright this time. Sacrifice, suspension, being trapped between worlds. The figure dangled from a tree, serene in his helplessness.

"This represents your feelings about the situation," she said, her voice barely audible. "The Hanged Man suggests... waiting. Being in a state of suspension, unable to act."

But that wasn't what the card was telling her. In this context, surrounded by violence and death and deception, The Hanged Man was showing her exactly what Thomas had planned. Someone suspended, helpless, waiting for the inevitable end.

"And how do I feel about that?" Thomas asked, his voice taking on a conversational tone that was somehow more terrifying than if he'd been shouting.

Madeline turned over the eighth card with hands that felt disconnected from her body. The Devil. Bondage, addiction, being trapped by one's own desires. The horned figure loomed over two chained humans, but the chains were loose enough to slip off if they chose to.

"You feel... in control," she whispered. "The Devil represents power over others, the ability to manipulate situations to your advantage."

Thomas barked out a brief laugh. "Very good. You're finally being honest. What's the final outcome?"

The last card in the spread seemed to burn her fingers as she turned it over. The World, but reversed. Incomplete journeys, lack of closure, goals that remain forever out of reach. In any other reading, it might have suggested delays or the need for patience. But here, now, it felt like a epitaph.

"The final outcome is..." Madeline's voice failed her completely. She stared at the card, at the dancing figure surrounded by the symbols of the four elements, now inverted and wrong. "Incompletion. A journey that ends before its destination."

"Whose journey?" Thomas asked quietly.

Madeline looked up at him, and in that moment, she understood. The cards hadn't been reading his future at all. They'd been reading hers. Every symbol, every image, every dark portent—they were all about her. The Tower wasn't his life falling apart; it was hers. The Ten of Swords wasn't his ending; it was hers. The Death card, the Three of Swords, The Hanged Man—all of it was about what was going to happen to her. What was going to happen tonight.

"Mine," she whispered.

Thomas smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, transforming his unremarkable face into something monstrous. "Very good. You really are psychic, aren't you?"

He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a knife. It was nothing special—just a kitchen knife with a black handle, the kind you could buy at any hardware store. But the blade caught the candlelight and threw it back in sharp, hungry gleams.

"I've been watching you for weeks," Thomas said conversationally. "Learning your routine, your habits. You live alone, no boyfriend, no close neighbors. You advertise your services online, which means people know you invite strangers into your home. It's really quite perfect."

Madeline's chair scraped against the floor as she pushed back from the table. Her mind was racing, trying to calculate distances, escape routes, anything that might give her a chance. The front door was fifteen feet behind Thomas, completely blocked. The back door was through the kitchen doorway to her left, but she'd have to get past him to reach it.

"The cards were right about one thing," Thomas continued, standing slowly. "Tonight is when everything changes. For both of us."

He lunged across the table with surprising speed, the knife aimed at her chest. Madeline threw herself sideways, feeling the blade slice through the air where she'd been sitting a moment before. She crashed into the bookshelf behind her chair, sending volumes of poetry and philosophy tumbling to the floor.

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," Thomas said, stepping around the table with deliberate calm. "I promise it will be quick."

Madeline scrambled to her feet, grabbing a heavy hardcover book and hurling it at his head. He ducked easily, the book smashing into the wall behind him. She bolted toward the kitchen doorway, but he was faster than she'd expected. His hand closed around her wrist, spinning her back toward him.

The knife came down in a silver arc. Madeline threw up her other arm to block it, feeling the blade bite deep into her forearm. Pain exploded through her nervous system, but adrenaline kept her moving. She drove her knee up toward his groin, connecting hard enough to make him grunt and loosen his grip.

Blood was streaming down her arm, soaking into her sweater, but she ignored it. She broke free and sprinted through the kitchen doorway, Thomas close behind her. The narrow galley kitchen stretched before her—counters on both sides, the back door at the far end seeming impossibly far away.

A ceramic bowl sat on the counter to her right—one of her grandmother's pieces, painted with delicate flowers. Madeline grabbed it without breaking stride and spun around, smashing it against Thomas's temple as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. He staggered, blood trickling down the side of his face, but he didn't go down.

"You're only making me angry," he said, wiping blood from his eye. "I was going to make it quick, but now..."

He came at her again, the knife weaving through the air in practiced patterns. Madeline backed away, her injured arm pressed against her side, looking desperately for another weapon. The knife block on the counter was too far away, and Thomas was between her and the back door.

She feinted left toward the counter, then dove right toward the kitchen table that sat against the far wall. Rolling across its surface, she landed hard on the other side, putting the table between them. Thomas cursed and came after her, but the obstacle bought her precious seconds.

She ran back toward the living room, her mind racing through possibilities. The grandfather clock stood in the corner, a massive antique that had belonged to her great-grandfather. It was easily seven feet tall and probably weighed three hundred pounds. If she could somehow tip it over...

Thomas appeared in the doorway, his face twisted with rage. The calm mask was completely gone now, replaced by something feral and hungry. "Enough games," he snarled.

Madeline put her shoulder against the clock and pushed with everything she had. It was heavier than she'd expected, barely budging despite her desperate efforts. Thomas was crossing the room now, the knife held low and ready.

She pushed harder, feeling the clock rock slightly on its base. Just a little more, just enough to—

Her foot slipped on something—blood from her wounded arm, maybe, or one of the scattered tarot cards. She went down hard, her head cracking against the clock's wooden case. Stars exploded across her vision, and she felt Thomas's weight settling on top of her.

"Finally," he breathed, raising the knife above his head.

Madeline's hand closed around something heavy and cold. One of her grandmother's art pieces—a bronze sculpture of a dancer that usually sat on the side table. Without thinking, she swung it upward with all her remaining strength.

The bronze connected with Thomas's skull with a wet, crushing sound. His eyes went wide with surprise, then rolled back in his head. The knife tumbled from his fingers as he collapsed beside her, blood pooling beneath his shattered skull.

Madeline lay there for a moment, gasping, hardly able to believe she was still alive. The bronze dancer was slick with blood in her hands, and Thomas's body was completely still. She'd done it. She'd survived.

She started to push herself up, her wounded arm screaming in protest. She needed to call the police, get to a hospital, figure out how to explain what had happened. The cards were scattered across the floor around her, their prophecies fulfilled in ways she'd never imagined.

That's when she heard the groaning sound above her.

The grandfather clock, destabilized by her earlier efforts and the impact of her head against its case, was tilting forward. She looked up to see three hundred pounds of antique wood and brass falling toward her like a judgment from heaven.

Madeline tried to roll away, but her injured arm wouldn't support her weight, and Thomas's body was pinning her legs. The clock seemed to fall in slow motion, its ornate face growing larger and larger as it descended.

Her last thought was of the cards, scattered around her like fallen leaves. The Tower, with its lightning-struck spire. The Ten of Swords, with its promise of violent endings. The Death card, which she'd insisted didn't mean literal death.

The World, reversed. A journey that ends before its destination.

The grandfather clock struck midnight as it crushed the life from her body, its chimes echoing through the small house like a funeral bell.