LITMIR.BIZ

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they tended the tiny plot of vegetables that somehow managed to grow in the rocky soil.

      By the shed he ran into Bryan, who was tossing a handful of seed to the scrawny chickens within.

      Crossing his arms, he asked, “Where’s William and Edward?”

      “Snuck off to try and catch some fish,” Bryan answered, as he put down the nearly empty seed pail.

      “Figured they were going to get as lucky as you and hook a few fat bass for us to eat?”

      Bryan tensed, and when he looked, Blake’s worst suspicions were confirmed.

      “You went to ol’ man Winchcombe, didn’t you?”

      His brother’s head dropped down as he took a step to walk past him, but Blake snared his arm and roughly pulled him close.

      “You’re not to go back there, Bryan.” For good measure, he jerked on his brother’s arm to bring the point home.

      Bryan ripped from his grasp. “What if I did go to him? What does it matter—”

      “It matters, Bryan. You don’t need to do this. I’ll find a way—”

      “Like you did last time, Blake? Winchcombe told me. He told me—”

      Blake struck out, punching his brother in the mouth and sending him sprawling onto the ground, but that wasn’t enough to stop Bryan. His brother sat up, bracing himself on arms too thin for a thirteen-year-old. Tears mingled with the blood from the cut on his lip as Bryan said, “He said he liked that I looked like you. That you had known how to please him.”

      Fear and rage filled his gut. Jabbing a finger at his brother, he warned, “Don’t go back there again, Bryan.”

      He whirled on his heel, away from his brother and back in the direction of town, his long legs eating up ground quickly as he hurried along. Bryan was too much like him, both physically and mentally. His younger brother would go back to Winchcombe if he thought that would put food on their table, much like he himself had done a dozen years earlier.

      Blake wasn’t about to let that happen to Bryan again.

      

      The Winchcombe mansion hadn’t changed in over a dozen years.

      Why should it have? Blake thought. The blood and sweat of hundreds of men down in the mines provided ol’ man Winchcombe with the money he needed.

      The hunger of the miners’ young sons provided Winchcombe with the prurient pleasures he needed to satisfy his physical needs.

      But no longer, Blake thought, as he pounded on the door of the mansion, rattling the thick wood against the door hinges with the force of his blows.

      Winchcombe’s retainer slowly opened the door, seemingly unfazed by Blake’s angry summons.

      Michael Dillon was a large forty-something man who had once worked belowground as a miner. Much like the house, Dillon didn’t seem to have aged at all in the dozen years since Blake had last come to earn some coins. He was still a strapping man, thick across the chest, and at least a foot taller than Blake, making him an imposing figure as he stood in the doorway.

      “Is he here, Dillon?”

      “Didn’t fancy seeing you here again,” Dillon said, and crossed his arms, obstructing the entry with his immense size. But Blake wasn’t about to be dissuaded. He viciously shoved past the larger man and stormed into the house, calling out Winchcombe’s name as he did so.

      “Come out, you old pervert!” he called out, as he walked into the front parlor. Dillon grabbed him from behind.

      “You don’t want to do this.” Dillon jerked him back toward the front door, but Blake planted his feet. With the muscles developed in the mine, and some knowledge of fighting from an occasional Friday night brawl at the pub, he tossed the big man up and over himself.

      Dillon landed with a thick thud and appeared stunned for a moment before slowly rising to his feet, his hamhock-sized hands fisted at his side. “You’re strong for a puny man.”

      “Tell Winchcombe—”

      “Why don’t you tell me yourself?” a cultured voice asked from above.

      Winchcombe appeared on the second-floor landing. He took a step forward and seemed to float down the stairs, freezing Blake in his place.

      Blake took a step forward, the need to please the older man almost ingrained in him from the many years he had answered Winchcombe’s call. But he was no longer that scared and hungry young boy, and he didn’t intend for his brother to take his place. He battled back the fear within him and fury rose in its place.

      “Do not go near Bryan again,” he warned, his voice low and filled not with threat, but promise. He clenched his hands at his sides, ready to fight both Dillon and Winchcombe if need be.

      Dillon chuckled and was about to advance on him when Winchcombe laid a pale thin hand on the other man’s broad chest. “I’ll see to this myself.”

      Blake braced himself since the old man still seemed quite capable of causing injury. In fact, Winchcombe seemed not a day older than when Blake had first come to his door.

      “Stay away from Bryan,” he threatened yet again.

      With a burst of speed, Winchcombe was suddenly standing in front of him, a broad smile across his face.

      “Do you plan on taking his place, Blake?” Winchcombe caressed his jaw, and as much as Blake wanted to retreat from the embrace, his feet seemed rooted in place.

      Winchcombe moved his hand downward to Blake’s chest, where he ran it across the lean, corded muscle there. The smile on the old man’s face tightened with seeming displeasure.

      “You’re no longer a fine young lad, but you’ll do,” Winchcombe said. He grabbed Blake’s shoulder, imprisoning him in a surprisingly strong grip. His long, bony fingers dug painfully into Blake’s shoulder.

      Then Winchcombe slowly transformed before Blake’s eyes, stunning Blake into nonaction. Winchcombe’s rheumy brown eyes brightened, becoming a startling shade of glowing green-blue unlike anything he had ever seen before. When the smile on his face broadened, Blake saw his teeth turn to fangs, which extended beyond the old man’s lower lip.

      His knees weakened at the sight, but Blake forced himself upright. “You can’t scare me, ol’ man,” he said, grabbing the man’s wrist and trying to break the nearly intractable grip Winchcombe had on his shoulder. He noticed then how thin the other man’s wrist was. How cold and dry the skin felt beneath his fingers.

      Winchcombe laughed, and an odd growl tinged his mirth.

      “I like spirit in a man, Blake. So much so that I think I’ll keep you around for a while.”

      Before Blake could protest, Winchcombe had him in a powerful embrace, but Blake rocked from side to side, trying to free himself. As he glanced up at the demon the old man had become, he said, “You’ll never get my spirit, ol’ man.”

      Winchcombe roared with laughter and then bit down on Blake’s neck even as he continued his defiant struggles.

      Pain erupted through Blake’s skull, followed by need so great that he soon found himself clutching the old man close, welcoming his virulent embrace. The pain slowly fled, but the desire remained, only it wasn’t human desire.

      This need was bathed in violence, filled with a fury unlike any he had ever experienced in his life. It called to him for fulfillment. It called to him for vengeance. The need that grew was so strong that Blake soon found himself able to deflect whatever power the old man had on him.

      Yanking Winchcombe away from his neck, he held the old man at arm’s length, emboldened by whatever was growing within him, taking hold of him body and soul. Strong and uncontrollable, it demanded satisfaction.

      Winchcombe hung from his

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