Empty eye sockets regarded Benny in a cool fashion. He walked into the red-black room and took a seat. It took out a pack of tobacco and rolled a smoke, an ugly, misshapen thing. Benny shivered at every dull rasp of bone grinding against bare bone. It held out one hand. Benny's Army lighter clattered into it.

Grandfather Greylov hand-signed at Benny, Good smoke.

Benny took the cigarette and the skeleton held a poker deck. Eye sockets seemed to glow with the light of malevolent, cold amusement. Teeth and body were green, mossy, as with bones long exposed to the light of day. Still damp, sandy-red grave soil encrusted the hand. 7-up" A dusting of reddish orange clay sifted from the hands, trailed by a choking odor of mold.

Winner take all. OK, kid"

Tobacco smoke curled up around his face. Benny shrugged, then nodded. Life, the kind he was forced to live, man, sometimes it just wasn't worth the effort. So long ago. Ten lousy years. Since the night Grampa tried to murder him, only to wind up dying instead, and at the hands of Benny's mother. A smile flickered over Benny's face, eased some of the tight fear. Mom still regretted the loss of a good butcher knife. And the Witch Stone yet hungered and waited for Benny's soul.

Seven cards, face down. Benny raised an eyebrow. The skull nodded.

Benny flipped one over.

Deuce.

The skeleton took its turn. Ten. Beat that, butt punk. It leaned crumbling elbows on the table. Benny scowled. He flipped another.

"A four, you moldy rack of bones. Gimme my free card. And none o' your bullshit."

Huh.

A card flipped down. Benny looked at it.

"Ace. Cool."

Soon Project Janissary would take the boy. I'm doing this because I love you, Benny. All sanity ripped apart by humans worse than even the master of the game, Benny would die. Do you love me? Then the real work could begin. It mocked Benny's dreams. It destroyed Benny's hopes.

Die for me, you 'breed bastard. Die.

Flaming skulls, chains and slavery. Benny rolled over, let the cold sweat on his face soak into an already saturated pillow and prayed for the peace only death could give him.

New Moon Warte, Warte nur ein wielchan, Bald kommt thy Mohawk:Buu auch zu dir, Mit den kliene hackelbielchan, Macht er Pokelfliesch Aus dir Im den Tufelgeist-Tal soon comes Owl for you, dear

The skeleton leaned back to look upon the work of his hands with a greedy joy.

Welcome, my children, to the Shadows of Fear.

Bah, it disgusted him. Bellisario glanced over the menu. Here, it was pay as you go. What a foul little hovel Rhinehold's had become. Once, it was the pinnacle of all Pocono resorts, and he had stayed here often. It was superior to Project Janissary's closest place, the Manse, a few miles north in Fern Ridge. Ah, but the things a man had to stoop to, to regain that which rightfully was his.

The boy would be here. The controls would not allow his foolishness.

"Five thousand ounces, in gold." The Arab chuckled, an oily sound in the dull quiet of the hotel room. Bank accounts in Luzerne, Switzerland, and the Cayman Islands would be replenished. The Federal government used very high-handed methods to confiscate their contents. No matter. Once that odious VanTur woman had her little stallion back in a collar, he would be wealthy again.

America's drilling in ANWR led to an independence that devastated the Islamic states. Many a sheik again depended on camels and slave raids to uphold their life style.

Glancing over the menu, he sniffed at the choices. Rhinehold would allow only so much more time in this place, then ask him to leave. So much for better times. The Italian foods he skipped over. Once they had been a staple, when he was starving on Rome's Square. No more. Steak a la tartar with a sauce. No, it was beyond his means.

"Three point two, and in gold." The magic to travel the world, to sample the wares of delight in Bangkok, of London, of Rio de Janeiro. In his suitcase, the only one he was allowed to take from his small estate near Carson City, there was a remote and a temporary collar picked up at a hardware store in the town of White Haven.

The collar was nothing, a plain black band of nylon and thin steel wires. On it was a small plastic box, also black. With the remote, the boy would cringe before him. Benny would belong to him, once that devil of a woman had all the sperm necessary for impregnating her subjects. After that, the sixteen-year-old would be good only for the harem. No one struck il Arabe and escaped.

Bellisario rubbed his unbejeweled hands together and settled on the lobster.

Bellisario must have been standing by the door because it snapped open.

The Arab looked Benny over in such a way, he wondered if the man was going to tell him to show his teeth.

"Get in here, boy."

Sidling passed the man, Benny stepped in. Bellisario laughed. He made a quick check of the hall.

"You told no one?"

Staring at the floor, Benny shook his head. "No."

"No sir, you little capon. I am your owner until that odious woman arrives." Bellisario made a sharp gesture at the bed. "Take off your clothing."

Backing away, Benny shook his head. He glanced up. Bellisario was advancing, a small whip tapping the outer seam of thread-worn trousers. Benny cowered away.

"Please. She never made me go that route."

His mind screamed, Do it! Do it or burn.

All he had to do was lay on the bed and hug a pillow for a while. At the Manse, his friend Chris had to with a lot of hosts and male and female predators. And cried with shame on Benny's shoulder only hours before he killed himself.

Cringing to the floor, Benny wet his lips. "Mrs. VanTur ain't going to like it."

Bellisario offered him a thin smile.

"Perhaps." He threw the whip on the bed. "Fetch it. Step lively, boy. Your mistress shall be here soon." Benny ran for the whip and, kneeling, handed it to Bellisario. The man fingered the zipper of his fly. "Still, there is one way to make me happy, boy."

The zipper came down with a soft rasp. Bellisario reached in to fondle himself.

Benny looked away. The quirt slashed down and the crack on the coarse black denim jacket made Benny jump.

Face averted from the mess on the floor, he slipped into the room. Better to think of it as a mess. Anything else and he'd be puking blood. Benny cleaned vomit off the floor, careful to leave no sign of it. Returning to the room, he dragged Bellisario's limp corpse to the bed.

Nausea floored him. Grabbing his stomach, Benny heaved. Breath ragged and shuddering, his guts tried to puke the memory and guilt. Nothing came. He waited, willing himself to move. Benny shoved up. Stumbling through the room he opened the windows. Cool autumn air took away some of the stench.

Using the blankets, he covered Bellisario, then attacked the blood on the carpet. Five minutes later it was only one more stain on a dirty, nondescript rug.

Slipping out the door, he had a moment of agonized terror. An elderly face peered out at him from the opposite doorway. A small, uncertain smile on her face, she stepped out. An old man followed.

Benny nodded. ?"Afternoon, ma"am. Sir."

His face had to be a beacon of guilt. Raw terror seeped from every pore. He stank of death. They had to see it. It screamed at them.

They nodded, murmuring, "Good afternoon, young man," tottering down the hall. Benny heard the old woman say, "What a nice young man." The old man nodded. "Don't see many like him these days, Mama."

He had made it this far without something, someone, demanding he stop and wait for the cops. A shocked Benny sagged along the wall. Fighting a desire to giggle he staggered out to the Night Sun. Head down, he straddled the motorcycle and leaned over the bars. Hidden in tangled laurel brush, late robins called for rain. A cricket chirped. Wind rustled through oaks and maples. It brought the stench of fumes from the highway. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Benny raised his head. He dashed away the tears, shoving the guilt into a cold, dark pocket in the back of his soul, and started the Night Sun.

The black and battered motorcycle arched under him. She purred to life all her own.

Turning the handlebars to the left, Benny tapped her into first and fought the desire to rip out around the building. He had to be careful. That old couple would remember him. If they talked, Cindy would find out. They'd disappear into some "office" in a United Nations building and never be seen again. That would give O"Brian three more reasons to drag him through the courts.

Murderer.

On a slow count ending at eight, a long black limousine rolled up the curving drive and passed him. The windows were tinted, but he could see from the plates, government yellow, VIRGINIA, that it was the woman.

He gasp and choked.

"Asshole, stop it." Benny thumped a fist on his chest and demanded his heart slow. "Can't see me." He grinned. The limousine slid around the last curve and onto the parking lot. So much for the bitch. He had five minutes before she found her number one slave catcher slumbering in his room. Too much iron in his diet.

"Maybe something got caught in his craw. Damn, but yo."

Benny crowed a laugh and shot out of the brush and down to the interstate. He leaned right and took the long way home through White Haven, up passed the old Buckhorn Inn, and through demon-ridden Sandy Valley.

Once home, he took the axe, sat a chunk of oak on a stump and swung. The oak split and the pieces shot off the stump. Benny reached for another and stopped, staring at a drop of blackened blood on the back of his hand.

————————————————————————— ———————————————

Around behind the hotel, a raven cast himself at Bellisario's room. Three more joined him. Then dozens. In silence a murder of ravens clung to the window frame.

One called. More gathered and they spiraled in, landing on the corpse. Silent, with only an occasional flutter of feathers, they began to feed. Soon, nothing was left.

They fled the room. A wolf-like head appeared over the sill.

Coyote glanced back at several others. He leaped through and sniffed at the bones. Not much remained, that was ravens for you, but the pups liked new toys.

First things first. That dammed kid made a lot of work for him. Coyote reached between the ribs to worry at a small, clinging bit of nothing. With a grin, he snagged the Arab's spirit and trotted away to a special dank swamp he really loved. The spirit dropped into the dark, tannin stained waters and sank away, screaming into Shambala.

"The essential part of this and all other projects currently being explored is one Benjamin Wya Grey. Mr. Grey is sixteen, white non-Caucasian being of -" The cultured face twisted in what might have been distaste - "Being of mixed-blood American Indian, and Caucasian of some obscure Eastern European background. Possibly Moldavia or the Ukraine. In the years we have studied him he has shown much promise. He is five foot, six inches tall, of a gentle demeanor.

"No matter how he might wish otherwise, the subject is no fighter. He's too backward and unable to put himself in danger." Or is he" One elegant eyebrow arched. Someone had put an end to that odious man, Bellisario. "With our training and his own natural shyness, the subject is able to put any female subject at perfect ease. At this he was highly successful."

Too dammed successful. Cindy shifted in her seat and blushed half in anger, half in warm, languid pleasure.

"In our training program he was, well, not what one would wish in a subject, but was coming along quite nicely, before the raid."

In dull amusement Cindy VanTur drooped boneless in her chair, watching the pictures roll by on the screen of her monitor. It showed the subject from the time he was yet in swaddling clothes to the drama now taking place in the Wilkes-Barre courthouse. Her people were good at what they did. Very good. A gift from a prominent and highly successful politician, an electric pen moved in slender, nervous hands.

The tape appeared to be just the thing for the next board meeting. Voice a low mutter, she said, "It had dammed well better be. I'm sick to death of wasting my time with those old fossils."

Eyes flashed cold fire at the thought of men and women who worried more about re-election and the common herd that put them in office than what was good for the all. Outwardly serene, she settled into the butter soft leather of the chair. The pen cracked in half and she tossed it away.

Out of the black metallic powder crept a tiny, diamond "cockroach." It fumbled through an avalanche of discarded paper and candy wrappers, emerging near the top. Facetted skin darkened to a matte-black. Six legs moved with lightning speed up the inside of the waste can, over it, and down. The first pair of legs slid up to become antennae.

She lolled back in the chair.

Terminate. Her word, yes. Cindy's eyes misted. Benny would have to go, but not just yet. They needed him back, were running out of 'donations" to the breeding program. His offspring would take the Party to unheard of pinnacles. She glanced at a floating holograph of the world and the pinpoints that represented stars. Soon the Project would continue to explore and to conquer beyond this earth. Yet, no Benny, no Project. In anticipation, cyborg-computers were being constructed. What would it take" With his body out of the way, would Benny finally become tractable"

Cindy's eyes narrowed. The idea of Benny reduced to only a brain encased in a machine brought a delicate shudder to Cindy's fair body. One slender slapped a hand down on the intercom.

"Terry' Cindy here. Get me . . . oh, what was that fool's name?? She punched up the Rolodex on her computer. Ah, yes, here it is. Benny was as good as in her hands. From those hands he would never again escape. The boy would simply have to come to realize that their need of him, the needs of the world, was of far more importance than some archaic emotion he considered to be freedom.

He was of a servant class. Yet her Benny was far from subservient, the little rat.

In his office the Chinese embassy complex, the man's eyes widened. He bared small white teeth and began issuing orders.

She glanced down. "Yeah. You were. Remember where he was. Old man Conner's report to the Project said Benny learned a lot at the Manse. He's a pro."

"Friggin whore."

A smile played at the corners of Leda's mouth.

"Hmm. A professional."

Sulking, Tommy rubbed his hand over his member. "Don't matter squat. He's going on the Stone."

Eyes growing cold, Leda shrugged. "Not that Spider needs to know. Not if you want your cut. Not if you want to live for the next few months."

"Bitch. Sweet Mama Bitch."

His back arched and Tommy groaned, turning so it sprayed over the grass and not on his clothes.

Leda smirked. No control. She slid to her knees and bent over Tommy. No nasty musk on Tommy. No foreskin, so there was less chance of disease, at least from that source. Not like Benny who was au natural, and that in itself added a little excitement, a little more urge to her movements.

Leda pulled away from Tommy's clutching hands.

"I need you with me," she said, rising to brush dust from her knees. "I need you at full strength or Spider will eat us alive."

Growing sulky, Tommy raised his butt from the ground and jerked his pants up, but let the zipper open.

"I hate that old fruit."

Cocking her head to one side, Leda gave him a muttered laugh.

"Like Mom always told me, Can't make it, fake it. Just close your eyes and pretend you got it in my ass, not his. I'll be there, right below him, whispering power over him. I want this," she said, her voice growing hard. "I want the money that old bastard is going to give me."

"Us."

Her smile softened. "Yes, sweetheart. Us." She turned from him to stand by the dirt road. Spider was late. He was never late, and she was growing worried.

"I'm sorry, Benny. It should never have come to this." Trinity motioned at the room, indicating the trouble he was in this time. She glanced at a two-way mirror on the wall. The bright smile wavered. Trinity Johanson ushered Benny into a chair that was as hard and unyielding as the brainwashing forced on him at the hands of the Project.

Benny smiled, leaned his elbows on the table. She was more than twice his age, maybe as old as his mother, but she was still the most elegant creation he ever met. A scent that reminded him of one hot, sweaty summer weekend eased through the air.

Hoping for a kiss, for old time's sake, Benny sighed.

"Benny?"

He looked at Trinity, unable to take his gaze from the sunken contours of her face. Man, but she was looking bad. Her eyeliner was smudged, her sweet lips swollen and red under a mask of pale lipstick. Benny grew uneasy. Dark, bordered with gray, Trinity's aura didn't feel like she was happy to see him.

"Please, Benny, you have to pay attention." Trinity took a deep breath and patted away a sheen of perspiration from her forehead with a silken hankie. "Is the air conditioning on the friz?" Trinity's nose wrinkled. "It smells of stale sweat."

And old fear. Of hate reminiscent of a mink or cat after a bitter defeat. It smelled like cells hidden below the Manse.

"Nah. This is the Gestapo's interrogation room." Troubled by the faint shrillness of her voice, he glanced around. The mirror drew a frown on his face. It wasn't hot in here. Just the opposite. The whole place was damp, chilled by the time of year and the Susquehanna River.

"It's always like this." Benny shrugged. Trinity was always hot. It didn't take much to heat that slender body to a bonfire pitch. He hid a grin. Trinity loved her work. Their time together at the Manse had been wild. She came as a red head, wore a lot of make-up and falsies to hide her tiny build.

He offered the woman a sly grin and said, "What can I do you for?"

A faint click at the door made Trinity jerk and stiffen.

Trinity gave a tight, shrill laugh, cut it off abruptly.

"You don't dare testify. Not even in your own behalf."

"But -"

"Hush." In a near caress, Trinity lay a finger on his lips. "They have agreed to leave you alone."

"Yeah, right." Benny's head jerked away. He glared at the woman. "This rednigger ain't so easy to control no more, Trinity. I'm free now."

Trinity smiled. Is anyone, ever" She gave Benny a delicate frown, continuing as if he hadn't interrupted.

"And all the rest of the men and women they used as a front, if you'll just stay mum about . . . what happened." An anxious smile touched her face. Trinity rested a hip on the edge of the table. The tiny laser Star 2000 she wore in its holster under her arm burned with the ice of a Viking hell.

"They'll put you back in a collar. Please, don't do it. The Pentagon was profoundly involved in the goals of the Project."

Taking a deep breath, he shrugged and thrust up from the chair.

Benny shoved past Trinity and tried to open the door. The clouded glass knob rattled under his hand, but the door was stuck. He tried again, only then understanding it was locked, and why. Benny lay his head on the age-darkened panels and tried to be a man. The tears came anyway.

Trinity rubbed Benny's shoulder. He shrugged off the sympathetic hand.

"Let me out."

She didn't move. In a cracked, hoarse voice he shouted, "Let me alone."

In the back of his mind, Grampa Waya's voice was husky, Listen to her.

"I'm under orders." A faint sob caught in her throat. "If you don't agree, we go out the other door and into a van.?

Benny rubbed his face. He was so tired. Like a part of him died. Trinity shafting him like this was a little bit like death. Man, but he still loved her. She meant the world to him.

"Please, your honor." Anna twisted a worn gold band on the third finger of her left hand. "If only you would reconsider. It should never have come to trial. My son was proven innocent. It's that DA -"

Bored and uncaring, he raised an eyebrow and she rushed on. "Sir, I could send him away." Anna's heart was breaking and it showed in her voice. "He could live with relatives - out of state - until this business with the Project is finished."

Wilson's piggish eyes narrowed.

"Mrs. Grey, for the last time, no." He pretended to busy himself with the stacks of papers on his desk, anything but meet the woman's eyes.

My, but she is good looking. Desperate, as well.

The phone whispered, "Sir, you have a call." Body pulsing with thoughts of Anna, eager, sweating Anna, laying under him, whispering dirty words in his ears and he snatched it up.

"What is it now, Mrs. Jeffras" I'm busy, so be quick about it." His lips smiled at Anna, his eyes leered his thoughts. Make her beg. Then, for the voters he stood to gain, put the boy away for decades. Yes. Let her suffer for having an animal for a son.

In his arrogance Wilson relished the faint revulsion on her dark face.

The monitor showed only his choice of screen-savers. The party on the other line was demanding. He grew pale. Wilson made a sporadic clutch at his stomach. Heart like ice, Wilson snapped upright in the plush chair.

"I . . . Yes, of course, Mrs. Van-?

Jaws slammed shut to stop his teeth from chattering, Judge Wilson slipped the phone back in its cradle. The small monitor slid back in place, silent waves crashed and foamed on a distant shore.

In a stunned silence, he stared at it. He glanced at his watch and shoved to his feet in one quick jerk. Wilson's chair spun in a rapid arc and cracked against the rich Italian chestnut paneling of the wall. Taking a short, quick breath through his nose, Wilson blinked. A shudder withered his spine. He opened his mouth, then shut it with a hard snap.

The scowl wavered. It was replaced by a very real fear snaking through his guts. Benny gave his shoulders a slight hunch. Forcing a way for his mother and himself through a forest of microphones thrust at his face he tried to ignore the strident demand of voices. The control was his restraint. It dominated him, commanded his obedience. Like Pavlov's dog, he was trained to submit.

"Are you finally going to tell about your part in the Manse, Mr. Grey' The people have a right to know."

"Was the President's wife one of the women you had to host at the Manse?"

"How many children have you sired for the Project?"

A tall, gone-to-flesh man pushed between Benny and his mother. He thrust a microphone at Benny. Sweat rolled off the jowly face, a scowl of contempt burned already splotched and crimson skin.

"Is it true the Project emasculated you, Grey?"

Except for a furious whispering in recorders, a deathly silence fell over the packed halls. The man smiled. He looked over Benny's black jacket, his scuffed boots and work callused hands, and rumbled a bark of laughter.

Shocked that the reporter knew about the Project's way of punishing recalcitrant slaves, he stopped. Benny stared up at hungry, shark-like faces and the revulsion there. Anna's eyes grew frantic. At the sight of his mother's fear, a low growl started in the depths of Benny's chest. Filled with hate and an iron rage, Benny snatched the man down to his size. Oblivious to the shouts of alarm, Benny hissed, choking back tears of shame. A bitter, harsh joy formed in Benny.

Kill him. The wolf within crouched, whispering its hate. Feed me. Crushed his jaws. See the blood wash away the perversion of the Manse. War. War. War. Kill. Feed me, Dark-Rider. Give me his soul.

Forbidden power whispered terror at the reporter.

"Shark, I'll eat your friggin ogana liver. I swear I will."

Old man "Spider" Ryan leered a malignant smile. He nodded, tapping a gold-headed blackthorn cane on the floor in a gesture of excitement. It was the DA, O"Brian himself, who had told the County Prosecutor that he was personally taking the case, with only a slight push from the "Spider."

"It goes well," he said to his chauffeur. "Very well indeed. The property will soon be back where it belongs." He cackled a mocking laugh at Henri's open hate. ?"Tis true, poor Benny might have to stay a while in a prison. No matter, me boy-o, indeed."

Ryan had delivered this particular piece of property out of tighter places than the Federal Penitentiary.

"Bah, Henri. A few weeks there would be good for the boy-o. Make him a touch more malleable. Sure, and any normal fifteen year old lad would be overjoyed to exchange bars and bad food and predators for the luxury of a place like the Project's fancy-house. They would indeed. But then, the boy-man is not exactly normal, is he", else the dear people would not be wanting him. Would they now?"

A shudder hit his heart. Ryan swallowed a small pill and touched the ebony crucifix in a bid for help from that quarter. Then he caressed the Owl totem Leda Melancowski had made for him. In it was a drop of blood taken from a sacrificed infant. One of many Ivanovitch put in her.

Ryan caught himself making signs against witchcraft. He saw Henri watching and scowled.

"Devil take the whole rotten lot of you," he muttered, snarling at the tawny eyes of a now grinning Henri. "Black boy, I tell you, that reward was as good as in me Swiss bank account."

Ryan winked at the judge. Wilson hastily averted his face.

Taking a deep breath, O"Brian allowed himself to leer at Benny. Turning to the jury box he straightened his tie. The cold face became a saddened and touching mask.

"I implore you, do not let this . . . animal -" He bit off the word with a savagery, then caught himself. "Do not allow Benny Wya Grey to continue his life of crime. Give us a cry of guilty." His fist shot forward and up. "Remand this case to a higher court if you will, but help us take this . . . person off the streets before he can strike again."

As one, the jury looked at Benny. The papers had been full of the Project, accusations of slavery, buying and selling human beings, hints of breeding them. And this kid. Then nothing.

"Were it up to me," O"Brian said, his voice filled with pain and sorrow, "For his crimes against the State - against humanity, ladies and gentlemen, I would ask for the death penalty." Gasps of shock filled the court. "It is the only humane thing to do. When a dog runs down Main Street, bloody foam dripping from his mouth, you do not attempt to treat the disease. All that is left is that one final, merciful shot."

He paused, allowed his words to sink in. To Benny, he said in a low hiss, "You raped my wife. She'd never willingly lay with a rednigger."

Anna jerked forward and balled a fist. With a low, muttered laugh of contempt, he showed Anna a flash of teeth.

"If you allow him to walk," O"Brian captured each jurist with his eyes, "then you will be guilty of setting free one of the most iniquitous and vile criminal minds America has ever produced. Benjamin Wya Grey is a danger to every man, woman, and child you know. He is guilty. Guilty," O"Brian shouted.

"Guilty," he whispered. "Of this I have no doubt."

Several in the jury nodded. Face triumphant, O"Brian stared at Benny, then at Anna.

"At the tender age of fifteen, he is rotten. His mother was tried and found guilty of the wanton murder of her beloved father-in-law, one Ivor Greylov. His stepfather, Carl Ivanovitch, is a known male prostitute. A pimp who spent most of his life behind bars. Ivanovitch is a biker. A Road Warrior," O"Brian said, his lips curling. "Lawless and murderous, a man on the verge of insanity. "Between these two, they have produced a son who is a depraved and sadistic ghoul that feeds on our children.

"Rotten through and through, ladies and gentlemen." He swung around to face them, hands held in supplication.

A long black Deusenburg of another century rolled over the ruts and potholes of the dirt road. Leda stood tense and angry.

In a shrill voice, she screamed, "Bedammed and thrice-dammed bog-boy. Fucking Irish trash."

In a cloud of reddish tan dust, the Deusenburg rolled to a halt. The man driving the car shot a look of cold hate at Leda so powerful she took a step back.

"Fuck you, nig. Where's the Spider?"

In soft southern accents, the man said, "Master Ryan could not attend, Miss Leda. He sent me to inform you that he requests your presence at his home later this evening. He's giving a small suare` to celebrate this turn of fortune."

"In other words, his pet judge tossed his cookies."

"A regrettable choice of words from a lady."

"Fuck you."

"If you so desire, I'm certain the master will give it to you. I, though, have more class than to touch you. Still, ma"am, I would not sneer at Mr. Ryan's ability to use bribes. We have a far better chance of taking Benny than you." His eyes not leaving her face, he backed the Deusenburg into the grass and left her and Tommy standing tight-faced and bitter.

Gibbous Moon

But a week from fullness, night-sun arose in all her blood-red glory. A murderer's moon. In battle with the afternoon sun, she tipped her light through the hemlocks. Joyful cries echoed throughout the glen.

Leda Melancowski raised her naked body over the straining flesh of a Cu"alani boy. Teased and drugged to the point of agony for release, he whimper and bit off a scream as hot, moist flesh parted for him.

Squatting over him, Leda stroked the sweat-chilled brow. Though of different races, the boy's resemblance to Benny was nothing short of remarkable. That was why she had bought him from the White Rose coven's breeding farm in the Willies Mountains of West Virginia.

No packs of lawyers. Gods be praised that "breed's bitch of a mother hadn't been able to afford the luxury. Someone had the foresight to close every account of her whole dammed tribe. Where that stoke of luck came from, he had no desire to pry. Ah, but that brother of hers. Frigging redniggers. The Natives were growing restless. No matter, Pennsylvania knew how to deal with them.

Sweat quivered on Wilson's bloated face to soak in a chilling circle around his neck. He clenched his eyes against the DA's diatribe.

Shut up, you idiot, he demanded, wishing he could shout it. Shut the hell up, O"Brian. You've already ruined your chances of re-election. Don't fry mine, as well.

Opening his eyes, silence greeted him. O"Brian stood before the jury with his face composed, an avenging angel pleading before God. The courtroom hung on every word. The sheep always liked a good show, and there had been talk of a position on a national level. O"Brian should have been an actor. The worse was over. Now he was going to have to tell O"Brian he wasn't going to get what he wanted. Specifically, the kid's balls on a platter to show that wife of his.

Wilson wished he had the guts to laugh. Mrs. O"Brian was a dear lady with an ass for a mate. Who did her child resemble more, her or the child's father" He studied Benny for a moment. The child was dark. Far darker than a pure son of the god Aryan should be. No wonder O"Brian was so filled with rage. The little bastard endangered his career, if he still had any.

Wilson gave his instructions to the jury. They were back almost before he could gulp his ulcer medicine.

The jury shifted and glanced in wary fear at O"Brian. The foreman cleared his throat.

"We find the . . . ." He looked at the DA, and averted his eyes. One of the jury muttered something. He turned to glare at the woman. " . . . The defendant . . . ." There was a rustle of cloth and low voices as reports held up camcorders and microphones through the courtroom. He closed his eyes and blurted it out.

"We find the defendant - Benjamin Wya Grey - innocent of all charges."

"You friggin bastards.?

Benny slammed the ladder down. He scrambled up to the loft bedroom, shouting, "I don't care, Mom. I'm not going to any church. Just let me the frik alone, will you?"

He stared down through the trapdoor for a moment before disappearing into the hazy gloom of the loft.

Anna gritted her teeth. She wanted to go up, drag Benny down by his long, shaggy hair. Haul him kicking and screaming out to the shack at the crossroads where Ivanovitch, that jerk stepfather of his, lived, then kick Benny so hard they both fell down.

The thought mollified Anna, but did nothing to ease the very real hurt she felt at Benny's rejection.

How in the living hell do you make a pain-filled, frustrated and sullen fifteen year old understand that you're doing something for his own good, and not just to enslave him as the State had. Benny going to a Longhouse-meeting would be a thing his parole officer, and perhaps the judge, would see as being constructive at the next hearing.

Better than Benny's last answer when asked what he did with his time.

"Nothing. Just hang out."

Anna glanced at a man-sized hand-carved cedar chest.

Pouring through greenhouse walls and the south-facing window of the living room the last rays of sun caught and brightened the polished red highlights of the wood. The chest looked as though it were in flames. It held all of her estranged husband's clothing. A few mementos of their short time together. A picture of her at their wedding, wearing jeans and gold feather earrings, Carl's pit bull face battered, still in prison garb. A fiero lighter taken off of a dead Jivarista warlord during his tour of duty in South America. The wooden cup they shared.

Lips twisted into an almost amused grin.

And a movie CD of their wedding night, taken by correction officers at the Walnut Street pen.

That almost got Carl sent up on Murder One. Carved into the doors were the symbols for Carl's home name, Yon:v:ki:Doda, Papa Bear. Sunlight picked them out and mocked her. Benny thought the sun rose and set on Carl. For that matter, maybe it did.

God, but she missed him. Big hulking Carl Ivanovitch, filling the house with his lean bulk and booming laughter . . . Filling her bed with a love that was as shy and gentle as he was war-like and angry out of it.

Tears threatened to ruin the scant makeup she wore. Fine lines etched down along her face. She couldn't go on like this. Anna grimaced at the cloudy rearview mirror.

As one of the ani, the People, she was born into poverty of the likes few in this country had to face. She entered this world in a rundown shack with coal dirt in her blood, in her food, in her very soul. All she ever knew was hard work and bitter times. Her mother's first teaching was pretty clothes and good looks will only get you so far. Woman works with her brains and her back and ruled the world.

At thirty-two people claimed she had a face and body many a younger woman would envy. When told that Anna had to smile. She despised vanity, wearing older, loose fitting and comfortable clothing.

Not too tall. Both Carl and her first husband, Ben, were tall men, liked to tease her, saying she was just the right height for kissing. Her hair was black as Raven's wings. No gray as yet, despite the pain and suffering her former in-laws put her through in their madness of murder and rape.

"Ben, why did you have to die?"

As high priest of the Owl-Men, old man Greylov made the only child he had that he had not murdered himself, Ben, rise from the grave. Then watched his son sacrifice himself to save a six-year-old Benny, Ben's own son.

The insanity of prison was nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the schizophrenia of the Greylovs?. Her years in that zoo-like place had been worth it, because killing old man Greylov prevented him from murdering Benny. She closed trembling eyes and wondered if the scars of that existence would ever fade.

The tiny guardian spirit assigned to watch her car was distracted, just for a moment, by the perfection of a falling leaf but it was enough time for an imp to play with the wiring.

The key was a loose fit in the old warhorse's tired ignition. Anna turned it.

Dead.

Smiling to mask her pain, Anna raised slow hands to the sky. She whispered one word.

"Come."

The breeze died. Everything stilled. Dark hemlocks towering over Laughing Woman Creek ceased their constant whispering of better times long past.

The prostitute gave a shaky laugh. The shack was the entrance to Buu Holle, Satan's Hell, the home of Buu, the Owl. Nothing was going to happen. She was too powerful for that goodie-two-shoes.

A black shadow swooped down. Leda shrieked and dived back into her house.

Anna intoned gravely, "O:Tsi:Yu, O:Galon:v:Yu." Tipping her head, Anna gave the shadow a slight bow.

The shadow fluttered into a lightening struck white pine snag across the road from Leda's ramshackle house.

The old raven croaked out, "Ha-Ha. Kanonasssioniii, Ana:Wa:iiia. O:si:ioo."

Anna chuckled.

"Yeah, cool with me. Some day in the Longhouse of the Old-Woman, beloved Friend-Protector." Lilting, her voice rose in merriment. "Better run down to your Witch Stone, Leda, and use a little more of my baby's blood to wash this one away."

Hand cocked on one hip, Anna spat over the rusted, bilious green finish of the car.

"Leda the witch. Leda the bitch. Mark my word, Leda. My day is coming. Goat-sucker, I'll see you fry in der Holle-Tur."

A dark and sudden fury hit Anna. Leda took Carl at the Owl's insistence. Anna did not doubt that. And at the Buu's insistence Leda had to have Benny, as well.

Leda wanted them all dead. Anna and her family were all that stood between that woman and a grab for power in the dark realms, and Leda meant to slaughter them. But first she needed them weakened. It was Leda who cursed the girl-child she, Anna, had carried. The child would have been Carl's first-born. All other children he knew about went into Leda. And Leda used those poor kids on the Witch Stone to acquire more power, the greedy bitch.

He watched Anna leave. Small, needle sharp teeth of guilt worried at Benny. Face creased in a bleak scowl, he flopped back on the army surplus cot. Sightless and angry, he stared at the cobwebbed shadows in the high peak of the loft's ceiling.

Only fifteen, his face set was in harsh planes, beginning the hard lines of a man who bore life's trials without complaint. He wasn't the sort to back down. Not from anything. Not from anyone. But if he dared defend himself, he'd be arrested so fast . . . And the Project would have him again.

Accompanied by the usual flurry of hiccups, fear settled on Benny, smothering his heart. He grimaced and snapped off the old stereo. It had been his mom's.

Geezus, but what was his problem' During all the months, the years, he had spent in children's homes, the reformatory, and later, in that cathouse Leda sold him to, he prayed desperately just to go home, to live like a family again with his mother. Most of the time he doubted he would ever see her again. God, just daydreaming of spending an hour with Mom felt like paradise when he was in hell.

Funny how Grampa was silent, a cold shadow.

"I love you, Mom," he whispered.

But church was boring.

His skin crawled with the shame. Everybody stared. They all knew what he went through, been forced to do in the cathouse. Because Mom was their ala:tsi:s:do:lo:s:ki, their preacher-Sacred Person, they despised him all the more.

Mom said to make friends with their kids. Kids he would have grown up with, had peers among, had things been different. Huh. All the guys ever wanted to do was snicker about what it was like for him, there in the Manse.

And the girls" Man, if he so much as looked at their sisters the guys would bluster and blow, and their fathers would run up and quick-march the girls away, giving him looks that made him feel dirty and trashy.

"Dirty,? he concluded bitterly, was what he felt like. None of that crap that happened was his fault. Why did people act like that' Evil, like old man Ryan, it seethed and destroyed. And the people, the ani, they weren't much better, acting spiteful because he was Ana:Grey-Wolf's son.

And looked it.

His gazed wandered aimlessly over the ceiling. A water stain was beginning to show. There, on the east slope. Carl was going to re-roof the whole place. Him and ol" Papa Bear. They were going to tear off the cheap tin and replace it with good slate cut from an outcropping Uncle Charlie used.

Benny punched savagely at the air. He flopped over and tried not to cry. "Damn Leda. Mom's wrong. Nothing ever just worked itself out."

In the reformatory, "Gladiator School," the boys called it, it never did. Sometimes a little violence stopped a whole lot of pain. One push in the right direction and bam, no more problem.

Teeth bared, he stilled his racing heart and slipped away into the quiet place, the Forest of the Sun.

It was like feeling music, living the scent of a rose. In the back of his head, Grampa Waya scowled.

He swam upwards through warm and gentle waters, the amniotic fluid of the spirit world.

————————————————————————— ———————————————

Wary, Benny stooped behind a clump of vines. He really shouldn't be here, because it was where God lived, and . . . and he had this thing against God, man.

It was called Life.

Benny slid through the luxuriant growth of a wild tangle of grapevines, the grapes a crisp blood-ripe and the size of golf balls. He eased through the pristine Forest, ran laughing and free over tall hills and wide glens. Finally winded, he came to a clearing where several white tail deer grazed or nibbled on sweet fruit hanging from the bushes and vines.

A buck, horns still ragged with velvet, jerked his head up to snort a warning at Benny.

Then they fled, moving like brown lightening through brush and trees.

"Stupid jerks. No-body's going to hurt you up here.? He thumbed his nose at them and at the Dalonega throne, then squared his shoulders with cool pride.