The Ghost and the Family Jewels

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, 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 murmured, 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.

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 Board Game: A Short Story by L.L. Hundal & Steve Miller

THE BOARD GAME

By L. L. Hundal & Steve Miller

The candles flickered in Megan's bedroom, casting long shadows across the walls. The Ouija board sat between them on the plush carpet, its wooden planchette waiting patiently for their fingertips.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Jen said, brushing some stray strands of blonde hair out of her eyes. "These things are supposed to be dangerous."

Megan rolled her eyes. "It's just a board game, Jen. Parker Brothers makes them, for God's sake. It's not like we're summoning the devil."

"Fine," Jen sighed, placing her fingertips lightly on the planchette. Megan did the same, their hands nearly touching. "What should we ask it?"

Megan's eyes glinted mischievously in the candlelight. "I know exactly what to ask." She cleared her throat dramatically. "Spirit World, we seek your wisdom. Is Jen sleeping with my boyfriend, Tyler?"

"Megan!" Jen's face flushed crimson. "What the hell?"

"What? You've been acting weird around him lately. And he's been acting weird around you." Megan's voice was light, but there was an edge to it. "Let's just see what the spirits have to say."

They watched as the planchette remained stubbornly still under their fingertips. Then, slowly, it began to move.

"I'm not moving it," Jen whispered, her eyes wide.

"Neither am I," Megan replied, her earlier bravado fading slightly.

The planchette slid deliberately across the board, stopping first on 'N', then 'O'.

Megan let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "See? The spirits confirm what I already knew. You'd never do that to me."

Jen's shoulders relaxed. "Of course I wouldn't. I can't believe you even asked that."

But before either could lift their hands, the planchette began moving again, more quickly this time, as if with purpose.

Y-O-U-T-W-O-S-H-O-U-L-D-B-E-L-O-V-E-R-S

"What?" Megan's voice cracked.

K-I-S-S-H-E-R-N-O-W

Jen's eyes met Megan's across the board, her expression unreadable in the dim light. "This is stupid. Someone's obviously messing with us."

"Yeah," Megan agreed, but neither of them moved their hands from the planchette.

D-O-I-T-N-O-W

"This is crazy," Jen whispered, but she was leaning forward slightly, her gaze dropping to Megan's lips.

"Totally crazy," Megan agreed, but she was leaning in too, drawn by something she couldn't explain—curiosity, the atmosphere, the commanding presence of whatever was moving the planchette beneath their fingers.

Their lips met hesitantly, softly. It was nothing like kissing boys—Jen's lips were softer, her approach gentler. Megan felt a strange flutter in her stomach, not unpleasant but confusing. They pulled apart after a few seconds, both breathing a little faster.

"That was..." Jen started.

"Different," Megan finished, not meeting her friend's eyes. "I don't know if I..."

"Yeah," Jen agreed quickly. "Me neither."

The planchette moved again beneath their fingers.

M-O-R-E

 ---

Meanwhile, in the fiery depths of Hell, three demons lounged around a cracked television screen, watching the scene unfold with rapt attention. Empty cans of Red Dog and Coors Light littered the floor around them, and a half-eaten pizza sat congealing on a nearby table, the cheese bubbling in the heat.

"Dude, this is working better than I thought," snickered Balphezor, a portly demon with small horns and a goatee. He crushed another beer can against his forehead and tossed it onto the growing pile. "Humans are so easy to manipulate."

"I told you the boyfriend angle would work," Asmahdeus, a lankier demon with scaled skin, said smugly. "Nothing gets humans going like jealousy and forbidden fruit."

The third demon, Malphis, belched loudly and reached for another slice of pizza. "So what do we tell them to do next? This is getting good."

Balphezor scratched his chin thoughtfully. "We could tell them to strip. That's always entertaining."

"Nah, too obvious," Asmodeus countered. "We need something more... psychologically damaging. Something that'll really mess with their friendship."

"How about we tell one of them to call the boyfriend right now?" Malphis suggested, his forked tongue flicking out to catch a string of cheese. "While they're still all hot and bothered?"

"Not bad," Balphezor nodded appreciatively. "Or we could tell them that one of them has to sacrifice something important to the other. Create some real trust issues."

"Wait, wait," Asmahdeus held up a clawed hand, his yellow eyes gleaming with malice. "I've got it. We tell them that one of them is possessed, and the only way to save her is for the other to do something really embarrassing."

"Like what?" Malphis asked, leaning forward with interest.

"Like... having a threesome with each other and the boyfriend on the church front lawn?" Balphezor suggested.

The three demons erupted in laughter, spilling beer and knocking over empty cans.

"Perfect!" Asmahdeus wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "And then we can—"

He was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. The demons froze as the door to their den swung open, revealing a much larger, more imposing demon with massive horns and glowing red eyes.

"What do you three think you're doing?" the newcomer growled.

"Just a little recreational possession, sir," Balphezor stammered. "Nothing serious."

"Unauthorized use of the Ouija network for personal entertainment?" The senior demon's voice was dangerously calm and measured. "Need I remind you that we have quarterly corruption quotas to meet? The Dark Lord doesn't look kindly on wasting resources for your amusement."

"We were just—" Malphis began.

"Save it," the senior demon cut him off. "Clean up this mess and report to soul-flaying duty immediately. And turn that thing off before you do any real damage."

As the senior demon stomped away, the three looked at each other guiltily.

"Should we at least finish this session?" Asmahdeus asked hopefully.

Balphezor sighed and reached for the remote control. "Nah, not worth getting our tails singed over. Besides, we've probably freaked them out enough for one night."

Malphis chuckled as the screen went dark. "Those girls are going to have some awkward conversations going forward."

 ---

Back in Megan's bedroom, the planchette suddenly stopped moving. The girls quickly pulled their hands away from it, as if it had burned them.

"Okay, that's enough," Megan said firmly, standing up and turning on the lights. The spell of the moment was broken, leaving them both feeling embarrassed and confused.

"Yeah," Jen agreed, avoiding eye contact. "These things are stupid anyway."

They packed up the Ouija board in awkward silence, neither quite sure what to say about what had just happened between them—or whether it had meant anything at all.

"So..." Megan finally broke the silence. "Movie?"

Jen smiled, relieved at the offer of normalcy. "Yeah. Movie sounds good."

As they settled onto Megan's bed with her laptop, carefully placed between them and so maintaining several inches of space between them. Neither noticed that, in the corner of the room, the lid of the Ouiji board’s box seemed to lift itself and slide half off on its own accord, perhaps wanting to make sure there would be another round of questions in the future.

'The Collector': A short story by Steve Miller

This is a draft of a story that will end up in one of NUELOW Games' releases at some point. It might see more revisions, it might not. But please let us know what you think of it!

The Collector

By Steve Miller

The dealer hall buzzed with excitement, a kaleidoscope of costumed fans navigating the narrow aisles between booths full of colorful merchandise. Marcus Heller moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his eyes constantly scanning. Not for rare comics or collectible figurines, but for something else entirely.

He spotted her near the indie comics section—petite frame, choppy auburn hair that looked like she'd cut it herself, and a constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She wore an oversized t-shirt featuring some obscure anime character, faded jeans, well-used sneakers, and a messenger bag covered in enamel pins. What caught his attention wasn't her appearance so much as her solitude. Convention-goers typically traveled in packs, but she flitted from booth to booth alone, examining artwork with an infectious enthusiasm that made several vendors smile despite themselves.

Marcus adjusted his vintage Batman t-shirt and casually drifted in her direction. He'd perfected this routine across a dozen conventions in three different states. Comic cons were perfect hunting grounds—loud, crowded, full of socially awkward people seeking connection. Nobody questioned when strangers struck up conversations about shared interests, and many attendees came from out of town, staying in the convention hotel, away from friends or family who might notice their absence... until well after he was finished with his tasks and long gone.

He positioned himself at a neighboring booth, pretending to browse through back issues while watching her from the corner of his eye. She purchased a small original drawing, carefully placing it in a protective sleeve before tucking it into her bag. Her smile was radiant as she thanked the artist. For a moment, Marcus felt a twinge of something—not quite conscience, but perhaps the faintest recognition that he was about to extinguish something bright. The feeling passed quickly, replaced by the familiar thrill of anticipation.

He didn't approach her then. Patience was key. Instead, he followed at a distance, observing her patterns, noting which panels she attended, which merchandise caught her eye. He learned that she laughed openly, without restraint, during the animation showcase. That she took meticulous notes during a discussion on comic book coloring techniques. That she seemed to know an impressive amount about Golden Age comics, based on a question she asked during a creator panel.

By evening, when the dealer hall closed and activities shifted to the hotel bars and conference rooms, Marcus had compiled a mental dossier. He watched her enter the hotel bar alone but soon join a table of animated convention-goers discussing the merits of different comic book universes. Perfect.

The hotel bar had transformed into an extension of the convention floor, packed with attendees unwinding after a day of sensory overload. Cosplayers posed for photos, industry professionals nursed drinks in corners, and heated debates about fictional characters' abilities echoed from every table. Marcus ordered a beer and made his approach.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, affecting a slightly nervous demeanor, "but I couldn't help overhearing your discussion about Kirby's influence on modern cosmic comics. Mind if I join?"

The table welcomed him with the easy camaraderie of fellow enthusiasts. The freckled woman—who introduced herself as Brigid—scooted over to make room. Up close, her eyes were an unusual amber color that seemed to catch the light in strange ways. Marcus contributed enough to the conversation to establish his credibility as a genuine fan while focusing his attention on Brigid without being obvious about it.

"You really know your stuff," he told her during a lull, as others at the table broke into smaller conversations.

"Been collecting for a long time," she replied with a shrug and a smile that dimpled her right cheek. "I inherited a large collection of weird and obscure titles going all the way back to Centaur's Amazing Man.. and I've been growing it myself ever since."

The conversation flowed easily after that. Marcus excused himself to get another round for the table, a gesture that earned him appreciative nods. When he returned with the drinks, he made sure to hand Ellie hers directly—a fruity cocktail she'd requested—after adding a colorless, odorless substance from a small vial he kept in his pocket. The movement was smooth, practiced, invisible in the crowded bar.

Brigid finished her doctored drink while explaining why Alan Moore was overrated—a deliberately provocative stance that had the table erupting in friendly argument. Marcus glanced at the clock on his phone. Twenty minutes. That's all he needed.

Fifteen minutes later, he noticed the first signs—her blinks becoming longer, her words occasionally slurring. She pressed her palm against her forehead.

"You okay?" he asked, concern etching his features.

"Just... really dizzy all of a sudden," she murmured, her words slightly slurred. "Maybe I should go to my room."

"Let me help you," Marcus offered, already standing. "These convention centers are like mazes when you're feeling well."

The others at the table, still deep in their argument about Alan Moore--that had somehow expanded to include Garth Innis and Frank Miller--barely noticed as Marcus helped Ellie to her feet. She swayed slightly.

"Thanks," she whispered. "Room 742. I think I just need to lie down."

"Of course," Marcus said soothingly, guiding her toward the elevators. "Let's get you somewhere quiet."

In the elevator, Brigid's head lolled against his chest. Her breathing had become shallow, her eyes unfocused. Marcus pressed the button for the fifth floor, not the seventh.

"This isn't... my floor," she mumbled as the elevator doors opened.

"Just need to make a quick stop at my room first," Marcus explained smoothly. "Get you some water, maybe some Aspirin. Then I'll take you up to yours. Okay?"

She made a noncommittal sound that he took as agreement. The hallway was deserted as he half-carried her to room 523, fumbling slightly with the keycard while supporting her weight. Once inside, he guided her to the bed where she collapsed, eyes fluttering.

"So dizzy," she whispered. "What's happening?"

"You're fine," Marcus assured her, already removing his belt. "Just relax."

The room was standard convention hotel fare—bland artwork, heavy curtains, a desk with a lamp that cast everything in a sickly yellow glow. Marcus moved methodically, setting his phone on the nightstand, checking that the curtains were fully closed. He'd done this before. Many times.

He returned to the bed, where Brigid lay, rapidly fading into unconsciousness. With practiced efficiency, he  removed her shoes, then reached for the buttons of her jeans. Her shirt had ridden up, revealing a pale strip of freckled skin at her waist. He traced it with his finger, a possessive gesture that made him smile.

"You won't remember any of this tomorrow," he murmured, leaning down to pull her shirt higher.

That's when her hand caught his wrist with surprising strength.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Brigid said, her voice suddenly clear and resonant, with no trace of the drugged slurring from moments before.

Marcus froze. The dosage he'd given her should have left her barely conscious, certainly not capable of this iron grip or lucid speech. Something was wrong.

"I think you're confused," he said, trying to pull away and regain control of the situation. "You're not feeling well. Let me help—"

"I'm not confused, Marcus Heller," she interrupted, and the use of his full name sent a chill through him. He hadn't introduced himself with his last name, or even Marcus; he had just called himself Mark.. "I know exactly what you are and what you've done. Phoenix. Albuquerque. Seattle. Portland. Chicago. Now Phoenix again."

As she spoke, listing cities where he'd attended conventions over the past two years, her skin seemed to shimmer slightly, as if the freckles were rearranging themselves across her face. She sat up effortlessly, still gripping his wrist, her amber eyes now burning with an unnatural clarity.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Marcus said, finally wrenching free and backing toward the door. Something was very wrong. He needed to leave, to abandon this attempt and move on. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."

"No misunderstanding," Brigid said. "You dropped something in my drink. You brought me here to rape me while I was unconscious. There's no misunderstanding at all."

She stood up from the bed, and somehow seemed taller than before. The room's temperature rose noticeably, the air becoming thick and difficult to breathe.

"You prey on the vulnerable," she continued, taking a step toward him. "You corrupt spaces meant for joy and community. You're a threat in places should be safe." With each accusation, her voice deepened, acquiring harmonics that shouldn't have been possible from a human throat.

Marcus lunged for the door, but his legs wouldn't cooperate properly. The room swam around him, and he realized with dawning horror that he felt exactly how his victims were supposed to feel—disoriented, weak, trapped.

"What did you do to me?" he gasped, stumbling against the wall, sliding toward the door and the safety beyond it.

Brigid smiled, but it wasn't the bright expression from earlier. This smile stretched too wide, revealing teeth that seemed too numerous, too sharp.

"Nothing you didn't plan to do to me," she replied. "Though I didn't drug you. That's just fear you're feeling. Primal recognition of a predator far above you in the food chain."

As she spoke, her skin began to change, the freckles expanding and merging into patches of what looked like fine scales, crimson and gleaming in the dim light. Her pupils had become vertical slits, and her amber irises now glowing as if lit from within.

"What are you?" Marcus whispered, his back pressed against the door, fingers fumbling uselessly for the handle.

"I am justice," she said simply. "I am retribution. I am fire."

With that last word, flames erupted from her skin, racing across her arms and torso, consuming her clothing but leaving her unharmed. The transformation accelerated—her face elongating, shoulders broadening, fingers extending into talons. Where Ellie had stood moments before, a creature now towered, its form a nightmarish blend of human and reptilian features, wreathed in flames that gave off no smoke but intense heat.

Marcus screamed, but the sound was cut short as the creature—dragon, demon, avenging angel, his terrified mind couldn't decide—opened its jaws and exhaled. A torrent of white-hot flame engulfed him, so intense that his skin blistered and blackened before his nerves could even register the pain. His last conscious thought was that he smelled like cooking meat.

The gout of flame expanded, consuming everything in the room—the bed, the curtains, the generic artwork, even the creature that had been Brigid—but contained itself within the walls as if guided by an intelligent force. The windows blew outward in a shower of glass and flame, raining down on the parking lot five stories below, but the fire did not spread to the hallway or adjacent rooms.

When it was over, nothing remained of Marcus Heller but a pile of fine ash on the scorched carpet. The creature surveyed the destruction with glowing eyes, then began to contract, flames receding, scales smoothing back into freckled skin. 

Within moments, Brigid's slight form was back, standing naked amid the devastation, Smoke swirled around her and swiftly coelesed into the clothing she was wearing before--except now there was a red dragon on the t-shirt.

She walked calmly to the door, which swung open at her touch despite the melted lock. In the hallway, alarms blared and sprinklers hissed, but she moved through the chaos untouched by the water, passing panicked hotel guests evacuating in various states of undress.

By the time firefighters arrived, the blaze had mysteriously extinguished itself. They found room 523 devastated—furniture reduced to cinders, walls scorched black, windows blown out—but with damage contained in a way that defied explanation. More puzzling was that part of the fire had lasted long enough and been intense enough to completely incinerate a human being.  Forensic experts determined later that the ashes near the door contained human remains. The fire's intensity had made it impossible to apply any known methods to determine the victim's identity for sure, but it was assumed to be the room's occupant, Marcus Heller, 34, a marketing executive from Denver with no criminal record. Within a few weeks, that assumption would be taken as fact, because Heller would be found to have vanished without a trace.

The investigation would note several unusual aspects of the case: the extreme localization of the fire, the complete incineration of the victim, and the absence of any accelerants or ignition source. Witnesses and security footage showed Heller leaving the hotel bar with a slight, young woman and going to the elevators... but at that moment, every security camera in the hotel went offline due to a mysterious power surge that the hotel's electrician and engineer could not explain. The police traced the woman to her room and found her bleary-eyed and sleepy and completely unawares that anything had been going on. She claimed "Mark" had brought her to her room and then left, like a perfect gentleman.

In the end, the official report cited "inconclusive evidence suggesting electrical fire of unusual intensity" and the case was filed away among other unsolved mysteries.

But the morning after the bizarre fire, as convention attendees buzzed with rumors about the mysterious fire, about the evacuated attendees getting free meal vouchers and free passes for next year's convention, a petite woman with choppy auburn hair and freckles browsed the artist alley, purchasing prints, original art, and chatting enthusiastically with creators. Being awakened in the middle of the night by the police, had done nothing to diminish her seemingly boundless energy. 

Brigid browsed a table of hand-bound journals, her freckled face lighting up when she found one with a dragon embossed on its leather cover. The vendor, a gray-haired woman with kind eyes, smiled as she purchased it.

"You seem very happy today," the vendor observed. "Enjoying the convention?"

"Very much," Brigid replied cheerfully as she placed the journal in her pin-covered messenger bag. She smiled to herself, humming a tune from a bygone age as she disappeared into the crowd—just another fan enjoying the celebration of stories about heroes, villains, and monsters hiding in plain sight.

--

If you enjoyed thaat story, you might like some of the other fiction that NUELOW Games has to offer! Click here to see what's on sale!

And now they're purging their own...

The RPG industry crusaders and protectors of all that is good and pure, and the promoters of inclusive inclusivity of the highest calibre are running out of miscreants to spotlight and throw into the pit. So now they appear to be going after their own.

Christopher Helton has authored this naked hit piece on Sean Patrick Fannon: New Allegations Show More Work Needs to be Done. Fannon has been a reliable and outspoken supporter of efforts to destroy the evil sexists and racists and bigots and anyone else who fails to demonstrate how much they hate fascists and oppressors by beaving like a fascist and oppressor. And yet, Helton has reached back several years to "expose" accusations leveled by mostly anonymous individuals... and accusations that, as far as I recall, predate Fannon's required public affermation of his status as a Crusader and Protector of All That is Good and Right and True.

I suppose the lesson here is that once you're a sinner, you're always a sinner. There's no redemption, no forgiveness, no hope of ever gaining grace... because no matter what, once your fellow believers run out of the wicked to pursue and crush, they will turn inward and start purging the ranks. And those who have confessed their sins provide a ready-made target list for lazy people like Helton to work off.
Or maybe Fannon became a target because didn't praise the right game product in the right way... or maybe he praised the wrong one? (For those who might not know, Sean Patrick Fannon is a game designer and reviewer who is perhaps best known these days for Sean's Pick of the Day.)

Whatever the motivation, Helton has unleashed the shrieking angels of vengeance upon Fannon with a by-the-book hitpiece. I have seen his post referred to as "journalism." As a one-time feature writer and features editor, I wouldn't have wanted my name on this sort of badly sourced rumor mongering, nor would I accepted this trash as an editor, even with the lower standards for what is good reporting and what isn't. Except the purpose here was almost certainly not to practice good journalism.

It's worth noting that Fannon has posted a response to Helton's character assassination--a response that even starts and ends with the Litany of the Protectors of All That is Good and Right and True. You can read that here. It's much better written, and much better supported with sources and quotes, and generally shows Fannon to be the superior writer (and journalist for that matter).

So... if you've made a confession because you wanted to prove your Righteousness in the eyes of the Inquistion, beware. They may come for you as they came for Fannon.

Body Wraps of Dimension Travel

Here's a magical item for use in your just about any roleplaying game.

Body Wraps of Dimension Travel
Found in sets of three, nine, and twelve, they are tightly wound spools of six-inch wide strips of a silken fabric. They can be of any color. If inspected with a detect magic spell or ability, the cloth radiates transmutation magic, and an Atlantean symbol becomes visible every six inches.

The Body Wraps of Dimension Travel were created by Atlantean Witches as a means of letting non-witches, non-spellcasters, or spellcasters unable to traverse dimensions to join them on jaunts to other universes and planes. Each set is pre-enchanted with a specific destination and users are transported to that location with unfailing accuracy, regardless of any wards or anti-magic fields that may be in place at either end of the journey.

Each spool contains enough fabric to wrap a large human completely from head-to-toe; it is virtually impossible for a person to wrap themselves, as they must be wrapped so tight that they are unable to move and no part of their body must be exposed. No clothes or items of jewelry or external body piercing can be worn under them if the wraps are to function.



Art by Murphy Anderson

When the command word is spoken (the symbol on the fabric), wrapped characters are shifted from their present plane and location to the destination enchanted into the wraps. The wrap is consumed during the transfer, so the characters arrive naked. (Typically, the point of arrival is a chamber within a base of operations established by Atlantean Witches. It contains robes, sandals, and other basic equipment.)

Since the destruction of the Atlantean outposts on Earth, the secret to creating Body Wraps of Dimension Travel on our world has been preserved by the magical heirs to the Atlantean legacy, the Witchkind. Using the wraps is a one-way trip, although if users arrive at a location still inhabited by Atlantean Witches, or which has been taken over by the Witchkind (or can otherwise locate them), a return trip may be facilitated.

You can read more about the Witchkind and Atlantean magic in Love Witch (by Marv Wolfman and Steve Miller, with art by Ernie Colon and Don Heck) and Secrets of the Witchkind (by Steve Miller, with art by Bradley K. McDevitt).

Need a Valentine's Day palate cleanser?

Whether you want to get the sticky-sweet taste out of your mouth because you're bitter, or because you want to prepare for what's to come on this Day of Celebrating Romance and Love, we have just the collection of stories for you to read!

Art by Basil Wolverton

Weird Romance, the latest release from NUELOW Games is a collection of short horror, humor, and fantasy tales that are all tinged with the rosey color of romance. These stories were produced by great talents such as Steve Ditko, Dick Giordano, Basil Wolverton, Sam Schwartz, and others. They are well worth your time and money, whether you are just looking for some great reading material or have an interest in the lesser-known works of men who helped build the foundation upon which modern sequential storytelling rests. In addition to the great comics, the book also features a series of tables with which you can randomly generate a love interest for a player character in just about any RPG syste, (It wouldn't be a NUELOW Games release if we didn't toss RPG support in with the comics!)

You can get Weird Romance at RPGNow, DriveThruRPG, and DriveThruComics.

And for good measure, here's a trio of Valentine's Day-related adventure seeds...

* A cleric (or otherwise spiritual character) is awakened in the night by a small, winged humanoid--Cupid! He is being hunted by a group of cultists who want to eliminate love and romance from the world, clearing the way for the return of the Great Old Ones. Cupid is begging for the character's help and protection.

* A sworn and very deadly enemy of a player character suddenly wants not only a truce but also a romantic relationship with him or her. If rebuffed, the enemy will start to make life hell for everyone around the character until he or she accepts the offer of love. Investigations reveal that Cupid missed a shot his magic arrowand has caused this trouble. The party must find the demigod and get him to lift the spell. (In the end, the enemy, if the situation is handled correctly, could end up as an ally of the party, due to residual effects of the magic;)

* Cupid is distraught, because his female counterpart has been abducted by persons unknown. He demands that the party find and free her, or he will not inspire love and romance in anyone every again.

Piper Perabo (cos)playing Female Cupid

The Love Witch has been unleashed!

Last month, we previewed some of the game material that was slated for Love Witch, a book collecting some early work by legendary comics creators Marv Wolfman and Ernie Colon (with additional art by Jack Able, Don Heck, and Mike Esposito). The book is now out, and available for purchase! (And if you liked NUELOW's Sorceress of Zoom books, you'll love Burnick the Love Witch!)

The cover for Love Witch from NUELOW Games

Love Witch features three illustrated tales of dark fantasy set in the times of legend following the destruction of Atlantis. Taking his cue from Wolfman's work, veteran game designer and NUELOW head-honcho created a new set of flexible spellcasting rules for the d20 System game. Relying on the feats and talents mechanics, and completely divorced from specific classes, this system captures magic use as shown in comics, movies, and fiction more effectively than the standard rules. While it is presented as being the spellcasting methods of Atlantis, it can be used in any setting or time-frame in which your campaign is set.

Click here to see previews of Love Witch at RPGNow, or to get your own copy. The book is also available at DriveThruComics and DriveThruRPG.

'Monster, Monster: Vampires' on sale now!

With game designer Andrew Pavlides and artist Pablo Marcos once again front-and-center, we've released our third product for D&D Fifth Edition--Monster, Monster: Vampires! 

Cover art by Michael Wolmarans

Monster, Monster: Vampires is more than twice the size of the previous entries in the series. It contains five vampire variants of use with your Fifth Edition games, three adventure hooks revolving around unique vampire personalities, and two chilling, offbeat illustrated vampire tales. Andrew and Pablo are joined this time out by "guest contributors" Ed Fedory and Steve Miller, while Robert Martin and Ricardo Villamonte provide most of the spot illustrations. It's all behind a creepy cover by Michael Wolmarans.

Monster, Monster: Vampires is available at RPGNow, DriveThruComics, and DriveThruRPG. You can see previews at any of those sites. Further, it's already been reviewed! Click here to see what was said bout the book on the RPG Crazy blog.