Lincoln Cole

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I just…when I was walking toward the demon, something told me it wouldn’t hurt me.” “A guess?” “A feeling,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t explain it.”

When morning came, Quinton prepared them a meal of vitamin-enriched oatmeal and a loaf of stale bread. Vivian found the food distasteful, but once again Traq devoured his—and her—helping like a starving child.

Haatim pulled off to the side of the road about half a mile outside the city. He kept the car idling, divided by the raging emotions inside his heart and mind.

“Who? The duke?” “Uh-huh,” she said, looking worried.  “Does that mean I’m a demon worshipper?”

“I’ll kill you when I find you, you little bastard!” Petro Marok sat in the shadows of his alley hiding place, nursing his bruised hand and sobbing. He was low to the ground, hidden behind the butcher’s shop, tucked out of sight and forgotten.

He ducked into the first shop he saw on the next street over and crouched behind a rack of hats. Less than twenty seconds later, the soldiers sprinted past the doorway and down the street, cursing.

Ten steps away from the crates, Gregory heard scrambling behind him. He had finally realized where Gregory was heading.

With a shrug, he shouldered his pack and began walking down the primary thoroughfare. He was confident in his decision to seek out the caravan, now that he had made it, and was glad that he’d managed to motivate himself.

After careful thought and much deliberation, Gregory Colton decided the days were too long in these northern countries.