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.

Reckoning at High Noon -- a Tale of the Old West by Miller

Reckoning at High Noon

By Steve Miller

The sun hung mercilessly overhead like a blazing eye, casting harsh shadows across the dusty main street of Perdition Creek. The wooden buildings seemed to wilt under the relentless heat, their weathered facades bleached nearly white by years of desert punishment. Not a soul stirred in the silence—save for two figures standing at opposite ends of the street, their hands hovering near the worn grips of their six-shooters.

Jake "Iron Hand" Morrison stood at the eastern end of the street, his weathered duster coat hanging loose around his lean frame. His steel-gray eyes were fixed on the man sixty paces away, and his jaw was set with the kind of determination that came from a lifetime of hard choices and harder consequences. The silver star pinned to his vest caught the sunlight, but today he wasn't here as a lawman. Today, this was personal.

At the western end, "Black Jack" Donovan cut an equally imposing figure. His dark hat was pulled low over his eyes, casting his scarred face in shadow. The twin Colts at his hips had seen more action than most men saw in a lifetime, and the notches carved into their handles told a grim story of their own. He spat into the dust and adjusted his stance, his spurs jingling softly in the oppressive silence.

The few townspeople who had been brave enough to venture onto the street moments before had scattered like tumbleweeds in a windstorm. Shutters slammed shut with sharp cracks that echoed off the buildings. Children were yanked inside by worried mothers, and even the saloon doors had stopped their lazy swinging. The only witnesses to what was about to unfold were the buzzards circling high overhead, as if they already knew how this would end.

"You got some nerve showing your face in this town, Donovan," Morrison called out, his voice carrying clearly across the distance. "After what you did to Marybelle, I figured you'd have the decency to keep riding."

Black Jack's laugh was harsh and bitter. "What I did? You're the one who broke that sweet girl's heart, Morrison. Left her crying on her front porch while you rode off to play hero in some other town."

"I came back for her," Morrison shot back, his hand inching closer to his gun. "Found you sniffing around her like some mangy dog. She's too good for the likes of you."

"Too good for either of us, apparently," Donovan replied, his own hand moving to rest on his gun butt. "But at least I never made her promises I couldn't keep."

The tension stretched between them like a taut wire, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. This wasn't about money or territory—this was about a woman who had somehow managed to capture both their hearts, and neither was willing to step aside.

"She deserves better than a two-bit outlaw with blood on his hands," Morrison said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl.

"And she deserves better than a tin star who thinks his badge makes him God's gift to womankind," Donovan fired back.

The church bell began to toll, marking the noon hour. Each chime seemed to echo through the empty street like a countdown to violence. One... two... three... The sound reverberated off the buildings and faded into the desert beyond, leaving only the whisper of wind through the sage brush.

Morrison's fingers flexed near his holster. "I'm going to put you down like the rabid dog you are, Donovan. Marybelle will thank me for it."

"The only thing getting put down today is your reputation, lawman," Donovan snarled. "I'm going to send you to meet your maker, and then maybe Marybelle will see what kind of man she's been pining for."

Both men tensed, their bodies coiled like springs ready to release. The slightest movement, the smallest provocation, would send them both reaching for iron. The desert held its breath, waiting for the thunder of gunfire that would shatter the oppressive silence.

But then another voice cut through the tension—a woman's voice, high and desperate with emotion.

"Stop! Please, both of you, just stop!"

Marybelle Sinclair came running from the direction of the general store, her blue dress billowing behind her as she moved. Her auburn hair had come loose from its pins and streamed behind her like a banner. Tears streaked down her cheeks, and her green eyes were wide with fear and desperation.

"Don't do this!" she cried, coming to a halt about halfway between the two men. "Please, I'm begging you both—don't hurt each other!"

Morrison's hand froze inches from his gun. "Marybelle, get back inside. This doesn't concern you."

"Doesn't concern me?" she said, her voice rising with indignation even through her tears. "You're both standing here ready to kill each other, and you say it doesn't concern me? When you're both claiming it's about me?"

Donovan's stance relaxed slightly, but his hand remained near his weapon. "Marybelle, honey, you don't understand. This man doesn't deserve you. He'll just hurt you again."

"And you won't?" she shot back, whirling to face him. "You think I don't know about the women in every town between here and El Paso? You think I don't hear the stories?"

Both men looked stung by her words, but neither backed down. Morrison took a step forward. "Marybelle, I know I made mistakes, but I came back. I came back for you."

"You came back because you heard Jack was courting me," she said, her voice breaking. "You came back because you couldn't stand the thought of someone else having what you threw away."

The truth of her words hung in the air like smoke from a gunshot. Morrison's face flushed red beneath his tan, and Donovan's jaw tightened. But still, neither man moved away from his position.

"This has gone too far," Morrison said grimly. "One of us has to settle this, Marybelle. A town isn't big enough for both of us, not when we both want the same thing."

"The same thing?" Marybelle's voice rose to nearly a shout. "I'm not a thing to be won or lost! I'm not some prize in your stupid masculine contest!"

She looked back and forth between them, her chest heaving with emotion. When it became clear that neither man was going to back down, that they were both still prepared to draw their weapons and settle this with violence, something seemed to break inside her.

"Fine," she said, her voice suddenly calm and cold. "If you're both so determined to fight over me, then let me save you the trouble."

Before either man could react, Marybelle lifted her skirts and ran directly into the middle of the street, positioning herself exactly between the two gunfighters. She spread her arms wide, creating a human barrier that neither man could shoot past without risking hitting her.

"Marybelle, no!" Morrison shouted. "Get out of the way!"

"Are you insane?" Donovan yelled. "You could get killed!"

But Marybelle stood her ground, her chin raised defiantly. "Then maybe that will finally get through your thick skulls. Maybe if you see what your foolish pride could cost, you'll finally understand."

For a long moment, the three of them stood frozen in tableau—two men with their hands on their guns, and a woman standing between them with her arms outstretched like a scarecrow in a cornfield. The wind picked up, swirling dust around their feet and tugging at Marybelle's dress.

"You want to know the truth?" Marybelle said, her voice carrying clearly in the desert air. "You want to know what this is really about? It's not about honor. It's not about protecting me. It's about your own wounded pride, both of you."

She turned to face Morrison first. "Jake, you left me without a word. You rode out of town chasing some outlaw, and I didn't hear from you for six months. Six months of wondering if you were alive or dead, if you were ever coming back, if what we had meant anything to you at all."

Morrison's face crumpled. "Marybelle, I—"

"I'm not finished," she cut him off. "And then Jack came along, and he was kind to me. He listened to me. He made me laugh when I thought I'd forgotten how. But you know what? He's just as bad as you are, in his own way."

She whirled to face Donovan. "You think I don't know about your reputation? You think I don't know that you've never stayed in one place longer than a few months? You were already planning to leave, weren't you, Jack? You were just waiting for the right moment to break it to me gently."

Donovan's face went pale beneath his tan. "That's not... I mean, I never said..."

"You never said a lot of things," Marybelle replied. "Just like Jake never said a lot of things. You're both so busy trying to be the strong, silent type that you forget to actually communicate with the people you claim to care about."

The two men exchanged glances over her head, and for the first time, there was something other than hostility in their eyes. There was recognition, and perhaps even a grudging respect for the woman standing between them.

"But you know what the real truth is?" Marybelle continued, her voice growing stronger. "I'm tired of both of you. I'm tired of being treated like a prize to be won instead of a person to be loved. I'm tired of men who think they know what's best for me without ever bothering to ask what I want."

She paused, taking a deep breath before delivering her final blow. "I'm leaving Perdition Creek. Tomorrow morning, I'm taking the train to San Francisco with Emily Tate. We're going to start a new life there, away from all this... this masculine nonsense."

The announcement hit both men like physical blows. Morrison actually staggered backward a step, and Donovan's hand fell away from his gun entirely.

"You can't be serious," Morrison said weakly.

"San Francisco?" Donovan echoed. "With Emily Tate?"

As if summoned by the mention of her name, Emily Tate appeared at the edge of the street. She was a small, delicate woman with dark hair and intelligent brown eyes, and she moved with the careful grace of someone who was used to being overlooked. She had been the town's schoolteacher for three years, and while she was well-liked and respected, she had always kept to herself.

"Emily?" Morrison called out, confusion evident in his voice. "What's this about?"

Emily stepped carefully into the street, her hands clasped in front of her. She was clearly nervous, but there was a determination in her bearing that hadn't been there before. "It's about friendship, Mr. Morrison. It's about two women who are tired of waiting for their lives to begin."

She walked slowly toward Marybelle, never taking her eyes off the two gunfighters. "It's about realizing that sometimes the person who understands you best isn't the person you expected."

When Emily reached Marybelle's side, something extraordinary happened. Marybelle turned toward her, and their eyes met with an intensity that made both men take an involuntary step backward. There was something in that look—a depth of understanding and connection that went far beyond mere friendship.

"Are you sure about this?" Emily asked softly, though her voice carried clearly in the still air.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," Marybelle replied.

And then, to the complete shock of everyone watching—including the townspeople who had begun to peer cautiously out of windows and doorways—Marybelle reached out and took Emily's face gently in her hands. Their lips met in a kiss that was tender and passionate and completely unashamed.

The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but it seemed to stretch on forever. When they finally broke apart, both women were smiling through their tears. They turned to face the two stunned gunfighters, their arms linked together in a gesture of solidarity and defiance.

"This is why we're leaving," Marybelle said simply. "This is what we've both been searching for, and we found it in each other."

Morrison and Donovan stood frozen, their minds struggling to process what they had just witnessed. All their assumptions about Marybelle, about what she wanted, about what they were fighting for, had just been turned upside down.

"I don't understand," Morrison said finally.

"You don't have to understand," Emily replied, her voice stronger now. "You just have to accept it."

Marybelle nodded. "We're not asking for your approval or your blessing. We're just asking that you don't hurt each other over something that was never really about either of you in the first place."

She looked back and forth between the two men, her expression softening slightly. "I did care for both of you, in different ways and at different times. But what Emily and I have... it's something neither of you could ever give me, because it's not something that can be given. It's something that has to be shared."

The two women began to walk away, their arms still linked, their heads held high. But after a few steps, Marybelle turned back one last time.

"Please," she said, and there was genuine concern in her voice. "Please don't hurt each other. You're both good men, in your own ways. You both deserve to find happiness, but you're not going to find it by trying to kill each other in the middle of Main Street."

With that, she and Emily continued their walk, heading toward the boarding house where Emily lived. Their footsteps echoed off the buildings, growing fainter as they moved away from the two men who stood like statues in the dusty street.

For a long time after the women disappeared from view, Morrison and Donovan remained frozen in their positions. The sun continued to beat down mercilessly, and the wind continued to stir the dust around their feet, but neither man moved or spoke.

Finally, it was Donovan who broke the silence. "Well," he said, his voice hoarse with shock and something that might have been laughter. "That's not exactly how I saw this playing out."

Morrison slowly let his hand fall away from his gun. "You and me both, partner."

They looked at each other across the empty street, and suddenly the animosity that had brought them to this confrontation seemed almost absurd. They had been ready to kill each other over a woman who had just made it crystal clear that she wasn't interested in either of them—and for reasons that had nothing to do with their respective shortcomings as men.

"I could use a drink," Morrison said finally.

"Make that several drinks," Donovan replied.

They began walking toward each other, meeting in the middle of the street where Marybelle had made her stand just minutes before. Up close, they could see the lines of weariness and disappointment in each other's faces, and perhaps they recognized something of themselves in their former enemy.

"The Silver Dollar?" Morrison asked, nodding toward the saloon.

"Sounds good to me," Donovan agreed.

As they walked side by side toward the saloon, Morrison glanced sideways at his companion. "You know, I always heard you were a straight shooter, despite everything else."

"And I always heard you were a man of your word, even if you were a bit too fond of that badge," Donovan replied.

They pushed through the batwing doors of the Silver Dollar, and the few patrons inside looked up in amazement. Word of the confrontation had spread quickly, and everyone had expected to hear gunshots by now. Instead, here were the two antagonists, walking in together like old friends.

"Whiskey," Morrison said to the bartender. "The good stuff."

"Make that a bottle," Donovan added, settling onto a barstool beside him.

The bartender, a grizzled man named Pete who had seen just about everything in his forty years behind the bar, poured two generous glasses without comment. He had learned long ago that sometimes the best service was silent service.

Morrison raised his glass. "To Marybelle Sinclair," he said. "May she find what she's looking for in San Francisco."

"To Marybelle and Emily," Donovan corrected, clinking his glass against Morrison's. "May they both find what they're looking for."

They drank in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. The whiskey was smooth and warming, and gradually the tension began to drain out of their shoulders and their faces.

"You know," Morrison said eventually, "I think I owe you an apology."

"How's that?"

"I called you a two-bit outlaw with blood on your hands. That wasn't fair. I've heard the stories about you—the real stories, not the dime novel nonsense. You've never killed a man who didn't have it coming."

Donovan considered this. "And I called you a tin star who thinks his badge makes him God's gift to womankind. That wasn't fair either. You've put your life on the line for people who couldn't protect themselves. That counts for something."

They drank again, and the silence that followed was more comfortable than the one before.

"Can I ask you something?" Morrison said.

"Shoot."

"Did you see that coming? With Marybelle and Emily, I mean."

Donovan thought about it for a long moment. "You know, looking back, there were signs. The way they looked at each other when they thought no one was watching. The way Emily always seemed to find excuses to visit Marybelle. The way Marybelle lit up whenever Emily was around, in a way that was different from... well, different from how she was with either of us."

Morrison nodded slowly. "I was so focused on seeing you as the competition that I never stopped to consider that maybe the real competition was someone I never even thought of as competition at all."

"Makes you think, doesn't it?" Donovan said. "About how much we assume we know about people, about what they want, about what's best for them."

"Marybelle was right about one thing," Morrison admitted. "We were fighting over our own wounded pride more than we were fighting for her. If we'd really been thinking about what was best for her, we would have asked her what she wanted instead of assuming we knew."

Donovan poured them both another drink. "So what now? You going back to whatever town you were sheriffing in before you came here?"

Morrison shook his head. "I resigned my position when I decided to come back for Marybelle. Figured I'd settle down here, maybe start a family." He laughed bitterly. "Guess that plan's shot to hell."

"What about you?" Morrison asked. "You were planning to move on anyway, weren't you?"

Donovan was quiet for a long time. "I've been moving on for so long, I'm not sure I remember how to stay put. But maybe... maybe it's time I learned."

"Perdition Creek could use a good deputy," Morrison said thoughtfully. "The sheriff here is getting on in years, the town's been growing, and, oh yeah, the Mayor offered me the position if I help out the old coot until he retires. Could probably use some help keeping the peace."

"You offering me a job, Morrison?"

"Jake. And yeah, I guess I am. If you're interested."

Donovan—Jack—extended his hand. "Partners?"

Jake shook it firmly. "Partners."

Outside, the sun was beginning its slow descent toward the western horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. The crisis that had brought two men to the brink of violence had passed, resolved not through gunfire, but through the courage of two women who refused to let masculine pride destroy the people they cared about.

Tomorrow morning, the train would carry Marybelle Sinclair and Emily Tate toward their new life in San Francisco. They would face challenges there, but they would face them together.

And in the Silver Dollar Saloon, two former enemies continued to drink and talk, discovering they had more in common than either had expected. They talked about the places they had been, the mistakes they had made, and the future—and for the first time in a long time, both men felt like they might actually have one worth looking forward to.

By the time Pete announced last call, Jake Morrison and Jack Donovan had become something neither had expected when they faced each other in the dusty street at high noon: they had become friends.

The Shared Secret: A short story by Steve Miller

This is the first draft of a story that was born out of a joke that popped into my head while I was editing something else. So, I dropped everything and cranked this out. Your comments are welcomed, since I have no idea how good or bad this is at the moment. That will come when I re-read it.

THE SHARED SECRET

By Steve Miller

The physics textbook lay open between them on Ryan's bedroom floor, its pages filled with equations that seemed to mock their tired brains. Kyle rubbed his eyes and stretched, his joints popping after hours of hunching over homework. The digital clock on Ryan's nightstand glowed 8:47 PM in harsh red numbers.

"I swear Mr. Henderson designed this test to kill us," Ryan muttered, erasing his latest attempt at solving a momentum problem. "When am I ever going to need to calculate the velocity of a bowling ball in real life?"

Kyle chuckled, grateful for the break. "When you're trying to impress some girl at the bowling alley with your physics knowledge."

"Right, because that's exactly what girls want to hear about." Ryan tossed his pencil aside and leaned back against his bed. "Speaking of which, did you see Jessica Martinez today? That blue sweater—"

"Dude, focus," Kyle interrupted, though he was grinning. "We've got three more chapters to review before tomorrow."

"Easy for you to say. You actually understand this stuff." Ryan gestured at the scattered papers around them. "My brain feels like it's been put through a blender."

Kyle's phone lit up against the hardwood floor, vibrating with another notification. He glanced at it briefly before turning it face down, ignoring the message just as he had the previous dozen.

"Your mom again?" Ryan asked, noticing the gesture.

"Yeah. She's been texting all evening." Kyle picked up his pencil and tried to refocus on the problem set. "I already told her I'd be here studying with you. I don't know why she keeps checking up on me."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Maybe she thinks we're up to no good. You know, typical teenage delinquent stuff." He adopted a mock-serious tone. "Maybe she's worried we'll call our girlfriends over for a wild party while my parents are out of town."

"If only we had girlfriends to call," Kyle replied dryly.

"Hey, speak for yourself. I'm working on it." Ryan grinned. "There's this girl in my chemistry class, Sarah Chen. We've been lab partners for like three weeks now, and I think she might actually be interested."

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, she laughs at my jokes. Even the really bad ones."

"That could just mean she's being polite."

"Or," Ryan said, pointing his pencil at Kyle dramatically, "it could mean she's totally into my charming personality and devastating good looks."

Kyle snorted. "Right. Your devastating good looks."

"I'll have you know I've been told I have very nice eyes."

"By who? Your grandmother?"

"By several people, actually." Ryan tried to look offended but couldn't keep a straight face. "You're just jealous because you're too shy to talk to anyone."

Kyle felt his cheeks warm slightly. It was true that he hadn't made much effort to connect with people since moving to town a few months ago. Making friends had always been complicated for him, for reasons Ryan couldn't possibly understand.

"I talk to people," Kyle protested weakly.

"Ordering lunch in the cafeteria doesn't count as socializing."

"I talk to you."

"That's because I'm irresistibly charming and wore you down with my persistence." Ryan grinned. "Remember when you first moved here? You were like a hermit. Wouldn't even make eye contact in the hallways."

Kyle remembered. He'd been terrified that someone would notice something different about him, would somehow sense what he really was. But Ryan had been relentless in his friendliness, sitting next to him in classes, inviting him to study sessions, gradually breaking down the walls Kyle had built around himself.

"I was just adjusting to a new school," Kyle said.

"Speaking of adjusting," Ryan replied, "how are you liking it here? Really, I mean. Not just the polite answer you give teachers."

Kyle considered the question. Moving had been his family's solution to their last close call, when a neighbor had started asking too many questions about their nocturnal habits. But this town felt different somehow. Safer. Maybe it was having a friend like Ryan.

"It's good," he said finally. "Better than I expected."

"Good. Because you're stuck with me now." Ryan stood up and stretched. "I'm going to grab some sodas from the kitchen. Want anything?"

"Sure, whatever you're having."

As Ryan's footsteps faded down the hallway, Kyle's phone buzzed again. And again. The persistent notifications were starting to grate on his nerves. With a sigh, he picked up the device and scrolled through the messages he'd been ignoring.

Are you still at Ryan's?

Don't forget to text me when you're heading home.

Kyle, please respond. I'm starting to worry.

Remember what we talked about. Keep track of time.

Kyle???

I just hope you haven't forgotten what tonight is!

The last message hit him like a physical blow. Kyle's blood turned to ice as the words sank in. He'd been so focused on finals, so caught up in the normalcy of studying with a friend, that he'd completely lost track of the lunar calendar.

His hands shaking, Kyle looked toward Ryan's bedroom window. Through the glass, above the dark silhouettes of the backyard trees, a perfect full moon hung in the clear night sky like an accusation.

"No, no, no," he whispered, panic clawing at his throat. How could he have been so careless? So stupid?

It was the first night of the full moon!

The familiar tingling started in his fingertips—electric, inevitable. His mother's breathing techniques were useless against the moon's silver pull. The change ripped through him like wildfire.

Bones cracked and lengthened with wet, grinding sounds. His shirt stretched tight as muscle and sinew expanded beneath his skin. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as his teeth sharpened, and coarse hair erupted along his arms in dark waves. His jaw extended with an audible snap, nose flattening as the scent of Ryan's room—old socks, pencil shavings, the lingering sweetness of his sister's shampoo from the hallway—suddenly blazed through his consciousness with overwhelming intensity.

The pain was white-hot and familiar, like being torn apart and rebuilt by invisible hands. His human thoughts grew hazy, disrupted by sensory overload and an instintive desire to escape the confines of this room--and even his humanity.

The transformation was nearly complete when Ryan returned, a can of Coke in each hand. He stopped dead in the doorway, his mouth falling open as he took in the impossible sight before him.

Where Kyle had been sitting moments before, a massive wolf-like creature now crouched among the scattered homework papers. Its fur was dark brown, almost black in the lamplight, and its yellow eyes glowed with an otherworldly intelligence. The creature's lips pulled back to reveal gleaming fangs as it turned to face Ryan.

The sodas slipped from Ryan's nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with metallic clanks and rolling away. He stood frozen, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. This couldn't be real. Things like this didn't happen in real life. They belonged in movies and books and late-night horror stories.

But the creature before him was undeniably real, and undeniably where Kyle had been just minutes ago.

The werewolf—because that's what it had to be, impossible as it seemed—stared at Ryan with those burning yellow eyes. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the creature's expression seemed to shift, becoming almost... apologetic?

"Ryan," the werewolf spoke, its voice a deep growl that was somehow still recognizably Kyle's. "I'm so sorry. I never wanted you to see this."

Ryan's legs gave out, and he slumped against the doorframe. "Kyle?" he whispered.

"Yeah, it's me." The werewolf's ears drooped. "I know how this looks. I know how insane this must seem. But I swear I'm not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you."

"You're a..." Ryan's voice cracked. "You're actually a werewolf."

"My whole family is." Kyle's transformed voice carried a note of desperate pleading. "We always move to a new town when people start getting suspicious. We've been hiding my entire life."

Ryan stared at his friend—his friend who was currently a seven-foot-tall wolf monster—and tried to make sense of everything. "The phone calls from your mom. She was reminding you about the full moon."

"I got distracted." Kyle's massive head hung low. "I'm usually so careful. I have routines, precautions. But I was having so much fun studying with you, feeling normal for once, that I completely lost track of time."

"This is why you were so shy when you first moved here," Ryan said, the pieces clicking into place. "You were afraid someone would find out."

"Wouldn't you be?" Kyle's yellow eyes met Ryan's. "Look, I understand if you never want to see me again. I'll tell my parents we need to move. You don't have to worry about keeping this secret or—"

"Wait, what?" Ryan interrupted, finding his voice. "Why would I want you to move?"

Kyle blinked in surprise. "Because I'm a monster. Because I lied to you about what I am. Because normal people don't want to be friends with werewolves."

"Dude, we've been friends for months. You think finding out you're a werewolf is going to change that?"

"It... it should," Kyle said uncertainly. "Most people would run away screaming."

Ryan looked at his transformed friend, taking in the massive claws, the intimidating fangs, the glowing eyes. By all rights, he should be terrified. He should be calling the police or the military or whoever dealt with supernatural emergencies. But all he could think about was how miserable Kyle looked, how his wolf ears were pressed flat against his head in shame.

"Kyle, you're still you," Ryan said finally. "You're still the guy who helped me understand calculus. You're still the guy who laughs at my terrible jokes and beats me at every video game we play. You're still my friend."

"But I'm also a werewolf."

"So? I mean, it's definitely weird, don't get me wrong. But it's not like you chose to be one, right?"

Kyle shook his massive head. "It's genetic. I've been transforming since I was twelve."

"Then it's just part of who you are." Kyle was surprised by how calm Ryan sounded. "Do you, uh, do you need to go hunt something? Or satisfy some kind of bloodlust? Because I should probably warn you, the most exciting wildlife in this neighborhood is Mrs. Peterson's cat."

Despite everything, Kyle let out a sound that might have been laughter. "No, nothing like that. I don't hunt people or animals. I'm still me, just... bigger and furry."

"So what do you usually do on full moon nights?"

"Honestly? I stay in my room and play Xbox. The transformation is mandatory, but the whole 'prowling through the forest' thing is optional."

Ryan stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "You're telling me that werewolves just sit around playing video games?"

"This werewolf does. My parents usually watch Netflix. My sister does homework." Kyle's tail gave a small wag. "We're probably the most boring supernatural family in existence."

"That's..." Ryan shook his head, grinning. "That's actually kind of awesome. So you can't change back until morning?"

"Not until the moon sets. I'm stuck like this for the next few hours."

"Well then," Ryan said, getting to his feet and retrieving the fallen soda cans, "I guess we're taking a break from physics. Want to play some Call of Duty? Fair warning though, I might actually have a chance at winning now that you have giant paws instead of fingers."

Kyle stared at him in amazement. "You really want to keep hanging out? Even though I'm... this?"

"Kyle, you're my friend. You think I'm going to let a little thing like lycanthropy scare me off?"

"Most people would consider it a pretty big thing."

"Most people are stupid." Ryan plopped down on his bed and reached for the game controllers. "Besides, this is actually kind of cool. I mean, how many people can say their good friends with a werewolf? I feel like I should get some kind of award for most interesting social life."

Kyle felt something tight in his chest loosen. He'd spent so many years expecting rejection, preparing for the inevitable moment when someone would discover his secret and recoil in horror. But Ryan was just... accepting it. Like it was no big deal.

"Thank you," Kyle said quietly. "For not losing it. For not making me feel like a freak."

"Hey, we're all freaks in our own way." Ryan tossed him a controller, which Kyle caught carefully in his clawed hands. "I mean, I collect vintage comic books and know way too much about Star Trek. You turn into a wolf every month. I'd say we're about even on the weird scale."

As they settled in to play, Kyle felt a warmth that had nothing to do with his transformation. For the first time in his life, someone knew his secret and didn't care. Someone accepted him exactly as he was, fur and fangs and all.

"Ryan?" he said as the game loaded.

"Yeah?"

"You're the best friend I've ever had. I hope saying that doesn't make things weird or anything."

Ryan grinned. "Trust me, weird would have been if we'd actually gotten around to inviting girls over tonight. Can you imagine trying to explain this to Jessica Martinez?"

Kyle's laughter, deep and rumbling in his transformed throat, filled the room. Outside, the full moon continued its journey across the sky, but for once, Kyle wasn't counting the hours until dawn. For once, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

THE CROSSROADS - Fiction by L.L. Hundal & Steve Miller

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The Price of Vengeance: A Short Story by Steve Miller

The Price of Vengeance

She had texted hours ago that she was on her way home from her evening class. His calls went straight to voicemail. The clock on the wall ticked mercilessly, each second stretching his nerves thinner. Where was Hope, his wife?

When the lock finally turned, relief flooded through him—only to freeze in his veins at the sight that greeted him.

Hope stood in the doorway, her blonde hair matted with dirt and blood. Her clothes hung in tatters, revealing angry red marks across her pale skin. Her left eye was swollen shut, her lip split and bleeding. But it was the emptiness in her remaining open eye that struck Andrew the hardest—a vacant stare that seemed to look through him rather than at him.

"Hope," he whispered, afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter her completely.

She didn't respond. She simply stood there, swaying slightly, her arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hold the broken pieces together.

Andrew approached her slowly, the way one might approach a wounded animal. When she didn't flinch away, he gently guided her inside and closed the door behind them. Only then did she collapse against him, her body wracked with silent sobs.

"I'll call an ambulance," he said, reaching for his phone.

"No." Her voice was barely audible, rough and raw. "Police first. Evidence."

The word hung between them, heavy with implication. Andrew felt something cold and hard form in the pit of his stomach as the reality of what had happened began to sink in.

The following weeks passed in a blur of hospital visits, police interviews, and sleepless nights. Hope identified her attacker from a lineup—a man named Victor Reese—though she admitted to the detective that she couldn't be completely certain. The attack had happened in a dimly lit parking lot, and her memories were fragmented, distorted by trauma and fear.

"It's normal," the detective assured them. "Trauma affects memory. But we have some physical evidence that might help build the case."

Andrew held onto that hope, thin as it was. He watched as Hope withdrew further into herself with each passing day. The vibrant, laughing woman he had fallen in love with seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a shadow that moved through their apartment like a ghost.

The trial came six months later. Andrew sat in the courtroom, his hand squeezing Hope's as Victor Reese took the stand. The man was unremarkable in appearance—average height, average build, with close-cropped brown hair and eyes that revealed nothing. He spoke clearly and confidently as he presented his alibi: he had been at a bar across town with friends at the time of the attack. Friends who testified on his behalf, their stories aligning perfectly with his.

The physical evidence was deemed inconclusive. Hope's uncertain identification was called into question by the defense. And when the jury returned with their verdict—Not Guilty—Andrew felt something inside him break.

Hope said nothing as they left the courthouse. She simply stared straight ahead, her face a mask of resignation, as if she had expected this outcome all along.

The first time they saw Victor Reese after the trial was at the grocery store. Hope froze in the produce section, her hand tightening around a bell pepper until her knuckles turned white, crushing the fruit and causing seeds and juice to run over the fingers.. Andrew followed her gaze and saw him standing by the apples, casually selecting fruit as if he didn't have a care in the world.

As if sensing their attention, Reese looked up. His eyes met theirs, and a slow smile spread across his face—not a smile of greeting or acknowledgment, but something darker. Something that said, I won, and we all know it.

Hope dropped the damaged pepper and walked out of the store without a word. Andrew followed, leaving their half-filled cart abandoned in the aisle.

It happened again at a restaurant two weeks later. Then at the movie theater. The coffee shop near their apartment. Each time, that same knowing smirk. Each time, Hope retreated further into herself.

"He's following us," Andrew said one night as they lay in bed, Hope staring blankly at the ceiling.

"No," she replied, her voice flat. "He's just living his life. That's what hurts the most. He gets to just... live. While I'm still trapped in that parking lot every night when I close my eyes."

Andrew turned to look at her profile in the darkness. "What if there was a way to make him pay?"

Hope didn't respond, but her silence felt different this time—attentive rather than absent.

"My parents..." Andrew hesitated. He rarely spoke of his eccentric parents, who had died in a car accident when he was in college. "They believed in things most people don't."

"Magic," Hope said softly. It wasn't a question. Andrew had told her about his upbringing, though he'd always downplayed the extent of his parents' beliefs and practices.

"Yes," he admitted. "They left me things. Books. Tools. Things I've kept locked away because I never thought I'd use them."

Hope turned to face him, her eyes searching his in the dim light filtering through the curtains. "Would you use them now? For me?"

The question hung between them, heavy with implication. Andrew thought of the locked trunk in the back of their storage closet, untouched for years. He thought of his parents' warnings about consequences and balance.

"Yes," he said finally. "For you, I would."

The trunk was covered in a layer of dust that coated Andrew's fingers as he lifted the lid. Inside, nestled among velvet cloth, lay the remnants of his inheritance: leather-bound books with strange symbols embossed on their covers, small bottles filled with substances he couldn't name, and at the very bottom, a wooden box inlaid with silver.

He lifted the box carefully, feeling its weight—heavier than its size suggested. Inside lay a single book, smaller than the others but bound in what appeared to be some kind of scaled leather that shimmered faintly in the light.

"The Summoning of Vengeance," Andrew read aloud, his finger tracing the title embossed in silver on the cover.

Hope stood in the doorway, watching him. "Will it work?"

Andrew looked up at her. "My parents believed it would. They said they'd seen it work once, though they never told me the details." He hesitated. "But Hope, there's always a price with these things. That's what they taught me. Magic requires balance."

"What's the price for this?" she asked, stepping closer.

Andrew opened the book, scanning the first few pages. The text was written in his mother's flowing script, translated from something much older. "It says the summoner must surrender what they think is the most valuable thing they have once the vengeance is complete."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know exactly," Andrew admitted. "But I'm willing to pay it. Whatever it is."

Hope knelt beside him, her hand covering his on the page. "Are you sure? We could just move. Start over somewhere else."

Andrew thought of Victor Reese's smirking face, of Hope's nightmares, of the justice that had been denied. "Would that really help? Would you ever feel safe again, knowing he's out there?"

Hope's silence was answer enough.

The ritual required specific components: a circle drawn with chalk mixed with the summoner's blood, candles made from fat and herbs, and a focus for the vengeance—something connected to the target. For this, Andrew used a napkin from the coffee shop where Reese had last tormented them with his presence, bearing his fingerprints.

Andrew studied the final pages of the book one more time, his finger tracing the warning inscribed at the bottom of the page, in his mother's elegant script: "The price of vengeance is always exacted in kind—what you treasure above all else will be claimed as payment. This is not a metaphor or riddle, but the immutable law of balance." He hesitated, remembering his parents' frequent cautions about the literal nature of magical contracts. The phrasing troubled him—"what you value most" seemed deliberately ambiguous. But surely it meant a possession, an object of great worth. It couldn't possibly mean...

He closed the book decisively. Whatever the price, justice for Hope was worth it.

The night of the new moon, Andrew sent Hope to stay with her sister. "Just in case," he told her, though he wasn't sure what he was protecting her from—the ritual itself, or the possibility of witnessing his failure.

Alone in their apartment, with the furniture pushed against the walls to make space for the circle, Andrew began the ritual as midnight approached. He cut his palm, letting the blood drip into the chalk mixture before drawing the intricate pattern described in the book. He placed the candles at specific points around the circle and the napkin in the center.

As the clock struck twelve, Andrew began to recite the words written in his mother's hand. The language was unfamiliar, the syllables awkward on his tongue, but he forced himself to continue, focusing on the image of Hope's battered face the night she'd come home.

Nothing happened at first. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls, but the room remained otherwise unchanged. Andrew felt a creeping sense of foolishness, of desperation driving him to childish beliefs.

Then the temperature dropped.

It happened suddenly, his breath fogging in front of him where moments before the air had been comfortably warm. The candle flames turned blue, then an unnatural purple, stretching upward in thin columns before freezing in place like glass sculptures.

The air in the center of the circle began to distort, as if viewed through heat waves rising from hot pavement. A darkness gathered there, not the absence of light but something more substantial—a darkness that seemed to absorb the very air around it.

And then it took form.

The demon—for Andrew had no other word to describe the entity that now stood before him—was tall, its proportions just wrong enough to be unsettling. Its skin was the deep red of congealed blood, stretched tight over a frame that seemed more bone than flesh. Its face was almost human, with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes that glowed like embers, but its mouth was too wide, filled with teeth like shards of obsidian.

"Who calls upon the Vengeance?" The voice seemed to bypass Andrew's ears entirely, resonating directly in his mind.

Andrew swallowed hard, fighting the instinct to flee. "I do. Andrew Mercer."

The demon tilted its head, studying him with those burning eyes. "And what vengeance do you seek, Andrew Mercer?"

"Justice for Hope. For what was done to her." Andrew gestured to the napkin in the center of the circle. "By him. Victor Reese."

The demon looked down at the napkin, then extended one long-fingered hand over it, not quite touching. "I see him," it said after a moment. "I see his crime. I see his escape from your human justice." Its gaze returned to Andrew. "You understand the price?"

Andrew nodded, though his throat had gone dry. "What I value most."

The demon's mouth stretched into what might have been a smile on a human face. "Once the vengeance is complete, I will return for payment. Do you accept these terms?"

Andrew thought of Hope, of the light that had gone out in her eyes, of the life that had been stolen from her that night in the parking lot. "I accept."

The demon nodded once, a strangely formal gesture. "It shall be done."

And then it was gone, the candles extinguishing simultaneously, plunging the room into darkness. The only evidence that it had been there at all was the lingering chill in the air and the circle on the floor, the chalk now burned black as if by intense heat.

Victor Reese was reported missing three days later. The police questioned his friends, searched his apartment, but found no signs of foul play. Just a man who had seemingly walked away from his life without warning.

Hope watched the news report with Andrew, her expression unreadable. "Do you think...?" she began, then stopped.

"Yes," Andrew said simply.

She nodded slowly. "When will you know if it's done? If the... payment is due?"

Andrew had been asking himself the same question. "I don't know. The book didn't specify."

They lived in a strange limbo for the next week, jumping at unexpected sounds, watching the shadows in their apartment with wary eyes. Hope began to emerge from her shell slightly, venturing out more, sleeping through the night occasionally. Andrew found himself wondering if perhaps the price had already been paid in some subtle way he hadn't noticed.

Then came the dream.

Andrew found himself standing in a vast, dimly lit space that seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions. The ground beneath his feet was hard and smooth, like polished stone, but warm to the touch. The air smelled of sulfur and something metallic—blood, he realized with a jolt.

Before him stood the demon, exactly as it had appeared in his living room. Beside it, on his knees, was Victor Reese.

Reese looked up at Andrew, his eyes wide with terror and recognition. His clothes were torn, his body covered in wounds that mirrored those he had inflicted on Hope—and others, Andrew realized. Many others.

"Please," Reese gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. "Make it stop. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The demon placed a hand on Reese's shoulder, its claws digging into the flesh. "He has much to be sorry for," it told Andrew. "Not just your Hope. There were others before her. And there would have been more."

Andrew felt no pity as he looked at the broken man before him. "Is this real? Or just a dream?"

"Both," the demon replied. "I thought you might want to witness the vengeance you sought. To see justice served."

As it spoke, the demon's claws sank deeper into Reese's shoulder, drawing a scream from the man. Wounds began to open across his body, invisible hands tearing at his flesh, recreating the violence he had inflicted on his victims.

"This is just the beginning," the demon told Reese, its voice almost gentle. "A preview of what awaits you for eternity. Each pain you inflicted will be returned a thousandfold. Each fear you inspired will become your own. Each life you damaged will be avenged in the endless time we have together."

Reese's screams echoed in the vast space as his body contorted in agony. Andrew watched, feeling a complex mixture of satisfaction and horror. This was what he had wanted—justice, vengeance, punishment for the man who had destroyed Hope's sense of safety and trust. And yet, witnessing it brought him no peace.

"The vengeance is complete," the demon said, turning its burning gaze to Andrew. "I will come for my payment soon."

Andrew woke with a gasp, his body drenched in sweat. Beside him, Hope slept peacefully for the first time in months.

The demon came three nights later.

Andrew was alone in the apartment, Hope having gone to dinner with her sister—another small step in her gradual return to normalcy. He felt the temperature drop first, then saw the shadows in the corner of the living room deepen and coalesce.

"The vengeance is complete," the demon said as it stepped into the light. "Victor Reese suffers as he made others suffer. His soul will know no peace for eternity."

Andrew nodded, a strange calm settling over him. He had prepared for this moment. "I have your payment."

He crossed to the bookshelf and removed a small wooden box. Inside, nestled on velvet, lay a crown—or what appeared to be one. It was small, perhaps meant for a child, but crafted of what looked like pure gold and studded with gems that caught the light in impossible ways, shifting colors that shouldn't exist.

"This belonged to my parents," Andrew explained, holding the box out to the demon. "They said it was given to them on their wedding day by a dragon they had befriended during their travels. It's the most valuable thing I own."

The demon looked at the crown, its ember eyes reflecting the strange lights of the gems. Then it laughed—a sound like breaking glass that sent shivers down Andrew's spine.

"This is not what I have come for, Andrew Mercer," it said. "The price is not what you value in monetary terms. It is what you value most in your heart."

Andrew's blood ran cold as understanding dawned. "No," he whispered. "Please. Anything else. Take me instead."

The demon shook its head, an almost sympathetic gesture. "The terms were clear. What you value most. And what you value most is not your own life, but hers."

As if summoned by the words, the front door opened, and Hope stepped in. She froze at the sight before her—Andrew standing with the strange crown, the demon towering in their living room.

"Andrew?" Her voice was small, confused. "What's happening?"

Before Andrew could respond, the demon moved. One moment it stood across the room, the next it was beside Hope, one clawed hand wrapped around her wrist.

"No!" Andrew lunged forward, but an invisible force held him in place. "Please! I'll give you anything else! Everything I have!"

"The bargain is struck," the demon said simply. "Vengeance has its price."

Hope's eyes met Andrew's, confusion giving way to understanding. "What did you do?" she asked softly.

"I'm sorry," Andrew choked out, tears streaming down his face. "I just wanted him to pay for what he did to you. I wanted you to feel safe again."

Hope's expression softened. "Oh, Andrew." She looked at the demon holding her wrist, then back to Andrew. "It's okay. I understand."

The demon began to pull her toward the shadows in the corner, which had deepened into what appeared to be a doorway to somewhere else—somewhere that radiated heat and the smell of sulfur.

"I'll find you!" Andrew shouted, straining against the invisible bonds. "I swear, Hope, I'll find a way to bring you back!"

Hope's last look was one of sad acceptance as she disappeared into the darkness with the demon. The shadows receded, the temperature returned to normal, and Andrew collapsed to his knees in the suddenly empty apartment, the useless crown falling from his hands.

Five years passed. Five years of searching, of desperate research, of following every lead no matter how obscure or dangerous. Andrew's apartment became a shrine to his obsession—walls covered in maps and diagrams, shelves filled with books on demonology and the afterlife, tables cluttered with artifacts and components for rituals that never worked.

He even went looking for dragons. He heard there was a colony of them in Australia, but he was unable to find it. He heard that a dragon lived in Arizona and another lived in Finland, but he was unable to find either. He also heard that there was a dragon that appeared every Christmas, like Santa Claus. He dismissed this as too ridiculous to be real.

He lost his job. Lost contact with friends and family. Lost everything except his determination to find a way to Hell—not to escape it, but to break into it. To find Hope and bring her back.

Each failed attempt chipped away at his sanity. He began to see shadows moving in his peripheral vision, to hear whispers in empty rooms. Sometimes, in dreams, he caught glimpses of Hope—not suffering as he had feared, but existing in a strange twilight realm, her eyes sad but resigned.

"You need to let me go," she told him in one such dream. "This is destroying you."

"I can't," he replied. "I did this to you. I have to make it right."

She reached out as if to touch his face, but her hand passed through him like smoke. "Some exchanges can't be undone, Andrew. That's why there are prices."

He woke from these dreams more determined than ever, pushing himself further into dangerous territory. He made deals with entities he once would have fled from, traded pieces of himself—memories, years of his life, even fragments of his soul—for knowledge that brought him no closer to his goal.

On the fifth anniversary of Hope's taking, Andrew prepared for his most desperate attempt yet. The ritual required blood—more than he could safely give—but he no longer cared about safety. He drew the circle with shaking hands, his vision blurring from exhaustion and blood loss.

As midnight approached, he began the incantation, his voice hoarse from years of similar attempts. The candles flickered, the temperature dropped, and for a moment, he felt a surge of wild hope—this time, perhaps this time...

But as the clock struck twelve, nothing happened. The candles continued to burn normally, the air remained cold but not supernaturally so. No doorway opened in the shadows.

Andrew collapsed in the center of the useless circle, his body finally giving out after years of abuse and neglect. As consciousness began to fade, he thought he saw a figure standing over him—not the demon that had taken Hope, but Hope herself, looking as she had the day they met, whole and unbroken.

"It's time to rest, Andrew," she said softly, kneeling beside him. "You can't find me this way. I'm not lost—I'm just somewhere you can't follow."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, tears sliding down his temples into his hair. "I thought I could save you. I thought I could fix it."

She smiled sadly. "Some things can't be fixed. But they can be accepted." She reached out, and this time, he felt the cool touch of her hand against his cheek. "Let go of your vengeance. It's taken enough from both of us."

As darkness claimed him, Andrew wondered if this was just another hallucination born of desperation and madness, or if somehow, Hope had found a way to reach across the barrier between worlds to say goodbye.

Either way, he finally surrendered to the darkness, his last thought a silent apology to the Hope he had lost—both the woman and the emotion—knowing that some prices, once paid, can never be reclaimed.