Chapter 1

God, it’s cold. Rumor Shoff checks his digital watch. 10:45 p.m. The Marburg State Park ranger won’t start his nightly rounds for another fifteen minutes. It will take him at least half an hour to forty-five minutes, to reach this end of the park. Rumor has plenty of time to accomplish his task. Perfect.

At the bed of his Ford F-150, he lifts a duffel bag with R. Shoff sewn into the canvas, and throws the strap over his shoulder. He pulls the trucker’s cap tighter to his balding head, the air rushes through its vented rear and prickles his dome. Chills walk up his skin. He zips his coat to his chin. Christ, it must be near zero with the windchill. The crisp, dry air burns his throat, and the scent of the oncoming snowstorm tickles his nose.

He’s alone in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Only the forest trees are watching. Silent observers who won’t tell a soul what he is up to—even after killing plenty of their kin.

Good. But Rumor needs to move. If caught by the park ranger at a quarter to eleven, he’ll arrest Rumor and charge him with trespassing on state land after dark. That’s the least of Rumor’s concerns. What’s in his duffel bag, however, is.

Heaving the strap to a more comfortable position on his shoulder, Rumor starts toward a large ranch-style gate serving as the entryway onto Serpentine Trail. The white moonlight casts the gate’s arch onto the gravel trail winding its way through the forest like a snake, past the Shoff Family Cemetery, and down to the shoreline of Lake Clarke, directly across from the abandoned summer camp.

Rumor starts past the gate and into the forest, the moonlight has trouble penetrating the leafless trees; the branches so thick and interwoven they block all but a few streaks of white light cutting through the bare canopy. But Rumor doesn’t need a flashlight to guide him; he’s taken this trail many times to get to the cemetery—day and night—before the land was stolen from his father.

Rumor’s face grows warm even in the bitter cold at the thought of the Pennsylvania Department of Conservation and Natural Resources (DCNR) stealing his father’s land. The DCNR came to his father a year and a half ago with an offer to buy thirty-two acres of woodlands that made up the southwestern shore of Lake Clarke, excluding the small plot of land on which the Shoff Family Cemetery rests. No sir! Uncle Sam won’t pick up the tab to take care of that. They planned to add to Marburg State Park’s already sizable acreage. With his father’s refusal to sell, the DCNR made an eminent domain claim—the right of the government or its agencies to expropriate private property for public use. His father sued. But it was a losing battle from the start, and the courts ruled in favor of the DCNR, forcing his father to surrender the land with zero compensation.

The DCNR can claim eminent domain or whatever fancy legal jargon the lawyers invented to sugarcoat the truth, but to Rumor, it was theft—plain and simple.

The trail curves sharply to the right, and the Shoff Family Cemetery appears on the left. Behind an old wrought iron fence, fifteen tombstones jut from the forest floor like crooked white teeth. The wind blows with a haunting whistle. The bare branches sway back and forth, casting long shadows across the front of the tombstones that look like skeleton fingers caressing the grave markers. Rumor pauses by the gate. Even in the shadowy darkness, he spots his mother’s tombstone. Feels his heart ache.

Fuck cancer.

Rumor starts again. The gravel trail fades away and turns to dirt, worn-down over time by hikers making their way to the lakebed on the backside of the hill. He hasn’t been past the cemetery since August 1997 and doesn’t want to go down there now. Still, the DCNR needed to pay for what they had done. And by God, Rumor was going to collect in spades, even if that meant scaring up the memory of that dead girl he and his father discovered the morning of the camp massacre.

Along the shoreline, where the cold water of Lake Clarke laps at the rocks and bankside like a soft kiss, Rumor pauses to catch his breath. The smell of mud and fishy water mixes with the crisp night air that smells both clean and repugnant to him. The full white moon is visible above, and its reflection ripples across the water. In the open, the cold wind cuts across the lake bowl. It stings Rumor’s face and makes his nose leak. He slides the sleeve of his jacket under his nose and sniffs back a glob of snot. The last time he stood there was the morning of the massacre at Camp Southwoods, when he was six.

Across the inlet of water, the steel cable tinks against the flagpole in the courtyard at Camp Southwoods. It’s a lonely, eerie sound that causes Rumor to shiver, as if a ghostly voice speaks from the past. The moonlight casts an eerie white glow across the rundown mess hall, tucked between two identical shotgun-style buildings—the boys’ and girls’ bunkhouses. The dilapidated structures stand out against the clear northeastern sky—though it’s about to be overtaken by the dark snow clouds rolling in from the South.

The ghost-town vibe of Camp Southwoods still resonates with residual energy from the grisly murders in the early morning hours of August 5, 1997. Rumor’s stomach churns as the vivid memory unpacks itself and his eyes drift to where they found the girl, washed up on the shore. She was lying on her side, facing away from them, her brown hair tangled with lake weeds, wet leaves, and interwoven sticks. On the back of her yellow T-shirt was a word in large red letters: COUNSELOR. Rumor thought she was sleeping. But when his father rolled her over to check on her, Rumor saw her pretty face was split from her hairline to her mouth, leaving a fleshy fissure where the axe had struck her. On either side of that gory canyon, two lifeless, milky-white eyes were locked on him in a death stare. An arrow was through the swell of her left breast. Deep lacerations scarred her forearms, and the first two fingers on her right hand were gone. She was from Camp Southwoods, just across the inlet—the torn and bloody yellow T-shirt with the camp’s name and logo affirmed this.

Rumor remembers screaming in horror at the sight of the dead camp counselor. Then, his father was next to him, hurrying them back up the trail to call the police.

Her name was Alice King, and how she ended up there raises the hackles on Rumor’s neck. He tugs his coat closer. But she wasn’t the only camp counselor found slain. Kurt MacReady, Virginia Steel, and Ted Charno also met their demise at the hands of fifteen-year-old Douglas Lee Carver, who, for reasons unknown, decided to hunt them down with a bow and arrow (taken from the camp’s archery range) before stealing their faces with a violent strike with an axe. Three of the victims, Rumor has learned in his research of the murders, were disposed of quickly. But Alice King had valiantly fought back. Sadly, she fell to Carver’s wrath by the lake before washing up a few feet from where Rumor now stood.

Since the murders, a local legend arose of a curse on Lake Clarke and a curse on Marburg State Park itself. Locals claim to see shadow people on the trails or around the camp, hear whispering and laughing, and see lights emanating from the rundown cabins. The lore has grown exponentially over the years. So much so that locals have reimagined an old nursery rhyme, “Bye, Baby Bunting,” to scare the bejesus out of one another for nearly three decades. Rumor knew it well:

Little counselor running,
Douggie Carver’s gone a-hunting
Gonna catch that counselor,
Gonna cleave that counselor,
Little counselor done running.

But those campfire tales are just that…tales. You have work to do. Rumor checks his watch. 10:55 p.m. Get your ass moving.

He continues to follow the trail south along the lake to an area known as Ice Fisherman’s Cove. It’s a favorite spot for ice fishermen to set up because the water freezes fast and hard in the winter. By a large oak tree leaning dangerously over the trail, Rumor drops the duffel bag and squats beside it. He unzips the bag and pulls out a gardening shovel. A battery-operated DeWalt drill with a three-inch wooden drill bit in its jaws. A 350 ml syringe. And a bottle of Tardon—an herbicide that kills woody plants. He drops to his knees at the oak's base and begins clearing away a small patch of earth with the shovel. The January ground is frozen and tough to dig up. Perspiration dampens his back even in the cold. But he’s persistent, despite the challenging work, and continues removing the earth until the oak’s root system is bare.

He rechecks his watch. 11:10 p.m.

Need to hurry this up.

With the drill, Rumor bores into the oak’s most prominent root. Once done, he opens the Tardon bottle, takes out the syringe, dips the wide plastic needle into the herbicide, and extracts a barrel full of blue liquid.

What was that? Footsteps?

Rumor searches the trail ahead but sees no one in the moonlight. It could be an animal. A deer?

The legend of Camp Southwoods, and its murderous boogieman, has lit his imagination. Stop it. There ain’t any ghosts in these woods. I’m alone.

Rumor shakes the silly thought away, plunges the 350ml of Tardon into the root, and empties the barrel. Drink it up. The Tardon kills the trees slowly over several weeks. He’s poisoned many trees around the park. Some are on trails like this one. Some in parking lots where a tree collapse could damage structures, costing the DCNR a lot of money in time and repairs. That’s just what Rumor wants. He refills the hole with dirt, replaces his equipment in the duffel bag, and stands.

Gazing upon the oak leaning precariously over the trail, Rumor knows it’s just a matter of time before it topples. He smiles jovially. Poisoning the trees is only one of the many subterfuges Rumor has committed around the park: clogging the toilets in the guests’ facilities, wrecking the well pumps so the park didn’t have water for drinking and cleaning, dumping trashcans, spray painting obscenities on the public pavilions. He even lit a few fires that burnt some acres on the park’s western side in late September. Maybe I’ll drill holes in the canoes this summer. Or put wasps’ nests in the garbage cans. Or poison the drinking water. He has little concern about someone getting hurt from his shenanigans: people are collateral damage. Pride flows through his veins, pure like holy water, warming him. He’s giving it to the man for stealing his father’s land.

But the warmth is quickly blown away as another gust of wind howls across the lake. Rumor shivers and looks at his watch again. 11:22 p.m. Time to get going.

He returns to where the trail winds back into the woods, past the Shoff Cemetery, and eventually to the parking lot. The desolate tink, tink, tink of the cable snapping against the flagpole at the abandoned campground cuts across the inlet.

Footsteps! On the trail again.

Someone is there! Cold fear shoots through him and tightens his chest like a clenched fist. I can’t get caught. Not now. Not when there’s so much more to do.

He ducks behind a large white sycamore and checks his watch. 11:29 p.m. The park ranger may be down there, checking for trespassers or even looking for him after finding his pickup in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Or it might be a few local kids hiking to the abandoned campground to get high, drink, or make out. They might even tell each other ghost stories about Carver’s victims haunting the area.

Rumor peers around the tree and scans the trail from which he just came. No one lingers about. The tightness in his chest eases. Still, he tries to tune out the wind and focus on the sounds of approaching footsteps. But if they were there and not a figment of his imagination, they’re gone now. He lets out a slow, grateful breath and feels the tension in his muscles relax.

Rumor steps out from behind the tree. He’s about to turn away when he sees a human silhouette step off the trail and duck into the forest about twenty-five yards away.

I’m seeing things, he thinks, as his balls shrivel into his pelvis and goose pimples rise from his feet to his scalp. He’s heard stories about hikers seeing shadow people on the trail, ducking in and around trees. Is that what he’s seeing now? A shadow person? No! There’s no one out there. It’s the wind causing the tree branches to swing and the shadows to move, nothing more. He swallows. His throat is dry like dust. But you heard footsteps—twice now—and saw the shadow. Someone or something is out here with you. Maybe one of Carver’s victims? An unseen frozen hand clasps upon his lungs in a powerful, vicelike grip.

Fuck this!

Rumor turns on his heels to bolt up the trail when a loose rock gives way, and his right foot slips out from underneath him. He loses his grip on the duffel bag, which slides from his shoulder into the dark somewhere, and falls hard on his right elbow. The impact with the unforgiving ground peels the flesh back, and the sting of cold air bites at the raw, bleeding wound. He stifles a scream. He can’t risk someone hearing. Through the discomfort, he pulls himself to his feet and darts up the trail toward the dark, concealing woods where he’ll be safe from…well, whatever it was that he saw duck off the trail.

He doesn’t stop or look back until he’s far enough from the shoreline, hidden deep within the woods where no one—man or ghost—can see him. He bends at the waist to catch his breath, to allow his heart rate to slow. It beats in his ears like a sinister drum. He now understands what it must be like for people who say they’ve seen Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster…

“A ghost,” Rumor whispers in the dark.

Of course, Rumor will never admit ghosts are real. Just like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster are nothing more than stories made up by fringe outliers looking for attention. What he saw tonight were moving shadows, brought on by the wind and an overactive imagination. Rumor feels that the only ghosts down there are memories.

Then why were you running?

He doesn’t entertain this thought and looks at his watch. 11:40 p.m. Christ! I need to—

My duffel bag! It isn’t slung over his shoulder. You must’ve dropped it when you fell. His bloody elbow begins to thump with discomfort at his carelessness. How could you be so stupid! He can’t leave it behind. If found, the Rangers will easily link the tree poisoning and the vandalisms back to him because his damn name is stitched on the side.

No. Leaving the duffel bag isn’t an option.

Rumor gazes down the trail into the dark hollow and listens for footsteps again. But only the breeze blows through the trees, rustling what leaves remain on the branches. He’s positive that everything he’s experiencing—the footsteps, the shadowy figure—is a manifestation brought on by the camp’s violent history and his memories of that fateful day. His head was full of enough lore about Carver and Camp Southwoods to trick anyone’s brain into thinking someone was out there, maybe even following him.

Steeling himself against his fears—real or imaginary—Rumor takes a step. Then another. Soon he’s heading back toward the lake to find the duffel bag. In his mind, he keeps repeating:

They’re only stories.

***

Excerpt from Who's Out There by Westley Smith. Copyright 2026 by Westley Smith. Reproduced with permission from Westley Smith. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Atlantic City
Wednesday October 17
24 years later

Nine minutes to the finale.

Hand me a flower and I’ll transform it into a dove. Shoot me from a cannon and I’ll come out smiling. But lock me in the box and saw me in half, I’ll scream bloody murder.

Unheard of for a Moon – a member of America’s most famous magic family – to be terrified of that creaky old standard, the sawing box. But you’re hearing it now.

In exactly nine minutes, Charlie, our production manager, and Van, my friend and co-star, are supposed to reenact the famous Sawing a Woman in Half illusion as it was performed by Magnificent Morelli and his assistant Cleo West in this theatre during World War Two.

The classic poster hangs in the dressing room: a man with slick black hair and a thin moustache gesturing to a pretty strawberry-blonde who holds a Statue of Liberty torch.

Between them is the infamous sawing box. Black letters slash across the top of the poster:

MAGNIFICENT MORELLI! MAN OF MYSTERY

At the bottom:

NIGHTLY IN THE SCARLET ROOM WORLD-FAMOUS ATLANTIC CITY BOARDWALK

There’s one problem. Van should have been here two hours ago.

My best friend and other co-star, Stormie, and I managed to get through the show to this point because we’re used to working together and because even in the midst of frenzy, Charlie is an oasis of calm. We call it the Charlie effect. He quickly redesigned the order of illusions to make up for Van’s absence.

But Van still hasn’t shown up, so Charlie will saw me in half in Cleo’s original sawing box. This is not the contemporary sleek or transparent sawing box you see on a Vegas stage, but the real thing. Pure old-school; a deep, long wooden container that resembled a coffin. No openings for head or feet. No clamps for neck or ankles. The kind of box in which the magician’s assistant is completely locked inside, head to toe. If that’s not horrifying enough, this is the same box in which Cleo’s murderer placed her body.

Good publicity for a haunted theatre on Halloween, says Charlie.

At five-seven, I’m two inches shorter than the box. Stormie, coming in at a fraction under six feet and 190 pounds, can’t even squeeze inside.

Hanging right next to Morelli is our poster:

HALLOWEEN THRILLS, CHILLS & BLACK MAGICK! REBEL MAGIC
STORMIE, VAN, & LUCY BLACK WIDOW THEATRE, 13TH FLOOR – if you dare! MIDNIGHT CASINO, OCT 17 – NOV 10

Van and I flank Stormie – a magical version of Charlie’s Angels. As if instead of fighting crime, we resolve to change the world, one trick at a time. In the middle, Stormie towers over Van and me in an orange and black dashiki gown, enormous hoop earrings glinting through her copper- black hair that falls in long ropelike locks. On Stormie’s left is Van, a tiny silvery futuristic superhero who sometimes bills herself as ‘Kickass Korean Babe’ – spiked hair, jumpsuit, thigh- high boots with four-inch heels, and a gleaming knife in each hand. On Stormie’s right, I sparkle in my red-hot Miss Scarlett dress and stilettos. That’s me, on the corner of woo-woo and fuggedaboutit – a magic wand in one hand, a cannoli in the other.

Tonight is our opening night, and it means something big to all three of us: our breakthrough as sisters of magic, an opportunity to make our name in the good old boys’ world of magic, and for me, a chance to make my name without the Moons holding me up on stage.

Van wouldn’t miss this for the world.

Her silver jumpsuit is hanging on the wheeled rack, her knives ready for action. She’s not answering her phone, but during the intermission, she left Stormie and me a message: Emergency. Start without me.

Stormie’s golden-brown eyes were huge, her olive skin sallow, making the freckles stand out. ‘Emergency?’ Her voice is shrill. ‘That is not a Van word.’

‘An accident?’ ‘She’d tell us. No, it’s MLD.’

For the past couple weeks, Van has kept her new boyfriend on the lowdown. Boyfriend is normal – Van juggles men like her knives. Keeping him secret is not. Stormie calls him, ‘MLD,’ short for Mysterious Loner Dude.

‘Van would not miss our opening night for a guy, no matter who he is.’ ‘Then where is she?’ Stormie shook her fingers in my face. ‘Look at my hand. The girl’s giving me shpilkes.’ Whenever she’s emotional, Stormie brings out the Yiddish words her Jewish Nana taught her.

‘If by shpilkes, you mean bad vibes, I’ve got ’em too.’

Chapter 2

Seven minutes to the finale.

Backstage, hands trembling, I tug on Cleo West’s very own Stars n’ Stripes gown, slithering into the shimmering satin. Too short for me. Seams fraying – it’s been let out and tightened more than once. Cleo must have gained and lost weight during the war years.

I sit at the vanity, tightly clip my hair and pull on a long reddish-blonde wig. I hate wigs, they suffocate me and give me an instant headache.

Trapped, wrapped and bundled inside the constraints of hair and layers of fabric, my heart staccatos. When did the theatre get so cold? The scent of lavender crawls over my flesh, the sign that the Widow’s resident ghost, Cleo, is in the house. When you grow up with an Irish witch as an aunt, you accept the presence of ghosts. Doesn’t mean you like them, but you come to terms with sharing the space. According to Auntie Maze, ‘Cleo wants us to see the cracks and stains left behind by the past. When she slams doors or turns off lights, she’s saying, “Look! There’s something you’re not seeing!”’

I add final touch-ups to my stage make-up and check my reflection from every angle. I glimpse pinpricks of light in the mirror. Next to my reflection a woman’s face appears, rippling as if she’s underwater. Her fiery-gold hair wavers. Ice-pale eyes meet mine. Two Cleos in the mirror.

I grab the edge of the table. This is the first time she’s shown herself to me! Just in case she’s really there and I’m not losing my mind, I whisper, ‘You’re not real, Cleo. You’re dead. Look, I’m just pretending to be you for an hour, okay? Now please go away.’

She stares at me through the glass. Her lips move. I lean forward, press my face to the mirror, straining to hear.

Cleo disappears, and a large black figure looms in the mirror. Moves closer.

I jolt to my feet and whip around.

A man wearing a black hoodie. At least he’s real, not a ghost. He pushes back the hood. Dark hair falls past his chin.

‘What’s going on here?’ he demands.

Shifting on my feet, I keep my hands low at my sides, ready to punch. ‘You need to leave now.’

He steps closer. He’s half a foot taller, his strong-boned face scowling, his eyes bitter as black coffee. ‘Where’s Van?’

‘Not here.’

‘She said I could come backstage.’

‘Who are you?’ Is he Van’s mysterious guy?

Stormie arrives, breathless. ‘You’re on in five,’ she says to me, and then slits her eyes at the stranger. ‘Elvis Jones! What are you doing here?’

This is Elvis Jones? Definitely not the cheesy overweight Elvis impersonator in a white jumpsuit I imagined when I saw his poster:

Elvis Jones Magic in Hell

Midnight Show No one will be admitted after the door is shut.

I found the blurb pretentious and, on principle, refused to see his show. If I’d known what he looks like, I might have taken a chance. He watches me with a sardonic grin as if he knows what I’m thinking.

‘Hi, Stormie,’ he says. ‘I’m looking for Van.’

‘She hasn’t arrived. Yet.’

He retreats toward the door. ‘I’m outta here.’

Stormie and I watch him leave, and she mutters, ‘What the hell has that girl been up to?’

‘I’m scared for her.’ I hear the words and wish I hadn’t said them.

‘Maybe her phone died, and she’s stuck somewhere. She’s gonna show up.’

***

Excerpt from Zigzag Girl by Ruth Knafo Setton. Copyright 2025 by Ruth Knafo Setton. Reproduced with permission from Ruth Knafo Setton. All rights reserved.

Tania moved fast, her shoes clicked sharply on the floor. She fished a five-dollar bill from her clutch and approached a housekeeper in the hallway.

“A roll of toilet paper, and in a discreet bag, please.”

The woman hesitated, but Tania’s eyes were steady, unblinking. She slid the bill into the woman’s shoulder strap with practiced ease.

“Take it,” Tania said softly. “In case someone accuses you of theft.”

The woman nodded.

Ruth led the way. Tania followed, her mind already ahead, calculating the next move. In the bathroom, she locked the door and leaned against the wall. She heard Judith’s groans.

“It’s me, Judy.”

“Tania?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

The air was thick with sweat and nausea, sharp like unchanged hospital linens. Tania handed Ruth the roll of paper and a small perfume atomizer.

“Tell her it’s from London. She’ll like it.”

Ruth nodded and slipped into the stall.

Tania stepped back into the hallway, then stopped. A girl sick and humiliated in a stall behind her. She caught her reflection in a wall sconce—lipstick fine, hair in place, eyes clear.

Decide now.

This wasn’t strategy. She wasn’t gaining leverage. And still, her feet moved.

When she returned, Judith was pale, shaken, but upright. Tania offered her the drink.

“Peppermint helps nausea,” she said.

Judith studied her. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing.”

“There’s no game,” Tania said. “You have to believe me.”

Judith hesitated. “You and your uncle seem awfully interested in my father.”

Tania unwrapped a mint. “It’s a secret,” she said. “Just not the kind you think.”

She leaned in. “The government wants something your father owns or controls. Sheldon’s the go-between.”

Judith stared at her. “That sounds shady.”

“It might be.”

Judith exhaled. “They spiked my drink. Esther and those girls. Laxatives.”

Tania nodded. “Brutal.”

Silence settled between them.

Tania met her eyes.

“Want revenge?”

Judith smiled.

And didn’t say no.

***

Excerpt from Eyes to Deceit: The Company Files by Gabriel Valjan. Copyright 2025 by Gabriel Valjan. Reproduced with permission from Gabriel Valjan. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Although it was just late March, Crete was already growing hot. Sweating and panting after the bird dance, I pushed my mask to the top of my head. I sucked in deep breaths and flapped the long white sleeves, pinned to resemble wings. Air rushed over my damp arms and legs,

At least my dance was finished. Other dances would also be performed, and, in fact, the next one was already beginning. The younger girls, all maidens and too young to wear the red spotted scarf, were clad in bearskins. They danced to honor the Lady of Animals and Childbirth. I remembered that hot smelly costume from previous years. Now, at almost seventeen, I danced as a bird in a graceful circle of white-clad girls twisting around one another. I thought we really did look like flying birds; not imprisoned by the earth. We each wore the mask of a different species. Although I’d hoped to dance as a gull or an owl, I was only a sparrow.

The other bird dancers removed their masks and scattered into the audience to join friends and family. Except the vulture. Funny, I thought, I didn’t recognize the vulture. Now that I’d begun my agoge and visited the dorms regularly, I thought I knew all the young women – at least by sight. I certainly should know everyone who I danced with.

Despite the identical white gowns and the masks covering the faces, the bodies were difficult to disguise. This girl was heavier, that other one was as slim as a papyrus reed. Although every girl danced the same steps, some jumped higher and some twisted with an extra roll of the hips. Easy to know them even though we weren’t supposed to – for this short space of time we were the creatures represented by our masks. But I did not recognize the vulture. I squinted against the bright sun. I didn’t remember the vulture from the rehearsals either. And surely at least one girl was missing –

“If you’re Martis, the High Priestess’s consort wishes to speak to you,” said a treble voice behind me. I turned and looked first at the grubby little boy and then around at the crowd. I saw no sign of Tinos.

“Where is he?” I asked, my heart leaping.

At one time, I’d thought – hoped – Tinos and I had developed a special connection. But last fall, during the investigation into the murder of the bull dancer, we’d fallen out. I’d seen very little of him since then and only at a distance, as he conducted his duties. Sometimes I imagined we were still close friends. Other times I despaired we’d ever be friends again.

“I’ll take you to him,” the boy said, extending a grimy paw. I took hold and followed the boy through the crowd.

We went a distance from the theater, finally pausing at a copse of trees. Tinos waited within, almost unrecognizable without his headdress or jewelry. His long black hair had been pulled back and tied with a string. “Martis,” he said. As his eyes drifted from my hair to my white dress, his eyebrows rose in surprise. I touched my long hair self-consciously. I now wore it in the fashionable style - with most of it tumbling down my back except for the locks pulled in front of my ears.

“You’ve grown up? I always think of you in a boy’s kilt . . .”

“I wear that only when I am bull dancing,” I said shortly, affronted. Did Tinos believe I would be a child forever? I was old enough to marry - although I’d vowed before the Goddess that I never would.

Tinos nodded and stared over my head as though regretting this meeting. I could see he felt awkward, without the easy camaraderie we’d once enjoyed, and I was both sorry and angry with him. I’d looked forward to talking with him once again and now he seemed, well, disappointed. “You wanted to see me?” I asked, my tone taking on some sharpness.

He turned to look at me.

“That’s the Martis I remember,” he said, grinning for the first time. “Still as quick to anger as ever.” I went hot.

Unable to think of a smart response, I tossed my head.

“Have you seen Atana lately. I know you and my daughter are friends.”

I knew Atana of course and I’d made an effort to befriend her. At one point, I’d hoped to see more of Tinos, which hadn’t happened. Atana was only nine so I didn’t spend a lot of time with her.

I turned and looked over my shoulder as though I could see through the trees and the crowds beyond. Atana should have joined the younger girls in the bear dance but, because she was the High Priestess’s daughter, she’d been allowed to dance with the birds. Now I knew who’d been missing.

“Did you see her this morning?” Tinos continued, his words rushing out.

“No,” I said. “Didn’t you?”

“No. We – um - quarreled,” he admitted, his eyes seeking the ground beneath his booted feet. “I haven’t seen or spoken to her for several days.”

“Ah.” I said in understanding. Before I moved to the girls’ dorm, I’d been arguing frequently with my mother Now that I stayed occasionally in the dorm, I saw her less often and so we quarreled less. “I saw Atana at most of the rehearsals,” I said now. “How many days has it been since you’ve spoken to her?”

“Almost three. She’s been avoiding me. It was a very bad quarrel,” Tinos’s eyes slid away from mine. He took a deep breath and looked at me. “I’m worried about her.”

“Surely the High Priestess –“ I began. But Tinos was shaking his head.

“She’s too busy now,” he said. I narrowed my eyes at him. Too busy to wonder where her daughter went? After so many days without seeing me, my mother took pains to seek me out. “Atana talks about you,” Tinos continued. “She says you are her friend.”

I stared at him. Friends? Sure, we were friendly, but she was more like my younger sister. We were the two outsiders. I’d just moved into the dorms, years after most girls my age, and I stayed there infrequently, so I didn’t know any of them well. I didn’t care to. They were all looking forward to marriage’ I wasn’t.

“Where would Atana go?” I asked. Atana, Tinos’s oldest child, was much shyer than her older half-siblings and did not make friends easily. Perhaps because of her position – Atana’s mother was the High Priestess after all, the other girls alternately teased or flattered her.

“That’s it, I don’t know,” Tinos said. A pleat formed between his brows and he suddenly looked tired. “But I am very worried. Will you ask the other girls if they’ve seen her?”

“Why can’t you ask them?” I asked. “They would have to answer you.” As the High Priestess’s consort, I meant. Tinos was the most important man in Knossos.

The fingers on Tinos’s right hand began to twitch nervously. “I can’t,” he said at last. “It wouldn’t be wise. The High Priestess . . .” His voice faded and disappeared.

“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.

“Speaking to them would be easier for you.” Tinos tried again. “You see them regularly and no one will find it surprising if you talk to them. My appearance would cause too much comment.” He looked at me and I nodded. I was not so much around the younger girls but I did see them as they ran races and wrestled. “Well then,” he said as though it was all settled. “I just want to know she’s safe.”

“And if I find her?” I asked.

“Tell her I’m worried,” he said. “Would you ask her to come home and visit me. And tell her – .” He paused. “Tell her I’m sorry. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, all right,” I said. I did not believe this would be so difficult.

“And Martis,” Tinos continued, “if she objects or becomes angry with you, don’t argue.” He shot me a stern look from under his heavy brows. “Understand? Just come and tell me.” I nodded although I didn’t understand. Why would I quarrel with Atana? Why would Atana argue with me? More to the point: what exactly had happened between Tinos and his daughter? That was the real puzzle.

“I have to go now,” Tinos said, glancing at the sky. “It is almost time for the Showing. I’ll see you later.” He turned and started down the slope. I watched until he disappeared behind a thicket of trees.

I slowly made my way back to the throng of people gathered around the theater. I did not think I could force my way through the crowd to rejoin my fellow birds and besides I would not watch the Showing. Every spring the High Priestess and her consort copulated in full view of the people of Knossos. It was important for the fertility of this land. But now that I knew Tinos and knew him well, I couldn’t bear to see that ritual.

I pushed my way through the crowd at the bottom of the paved area. As I squeezed by a woman in the fashionable ruffled skirt and tight jacket, the lady wrinkled her nose and tried to move away. I guessed I stank of perspiration.

And then, with a collective sigh, everyone turned to look at the walkway below. The High Priestess, riding sidesaddle on a white bull, was approaching. Her unbound hair tumbled down her back and, instead of skirt and jacket she wore a loose white robe that left her neck and arms bare. Bronze bells hung from the bracelets on her wrists and ankles and they tinkled with every movement. The bull was also decorated; garlands of bright spring flowers festooned his horns and encircled his neck.

Usually, the High Priestess smiled and waved at the people of Knossos but her expression today was uncharacteristically grim.

I turned to look at the top of the stadium. The bull-masked consort waited, glistening with water, as if he had just arisen from the sea. The huge white bull’s head covered Tinos’s head and part of his shoulders, the horns tipped with gold and glittering in the sun. Even though I was not supposed to recognize Tinos, even though who else could it be but the High Priestess’s consort, I’d have recognized him anywhere. His broad shoulders tapered to the narrow waist where the thick twisted scar was just visible as it reached his back. Once a bull leaper, the scar served as a reminder of the bull’s horn that had caught him and ripped open his side.

The white bull came to a halt and the High Priestess’s attendants helped her down. She walked the last few yards to the bed at Tinos’s feet. When she reached him she slid the robe from her shoulders and stepped out of it. But she did not unfasten Tinos’s loincloth, as she had done every one of the nine years previously. Instead, after an awkward few seconds, Tinos slid off the garment himself.

I turned and fought my way through the audience, arriving on the other side of the crowd gasping and trembling. I’d seen this ritual enacted almost every year of my life but a year or two ago I had found I couldn’t watch it anymore. I knew that the bodies coming together on the stage were not the Goddess and Her consort but the High Priestess and Tinos acting their parts. And knowing Tinos and wishing he had his arms around me made everything different.

I set off running, fleeing the central court, to hide in the room in which the dancers changed.

***

Excerpt from Murder of Furies by Eleanor Kuhns. Copyright 2025 by Eleanor Kuhns. Reproduced with permission from Eleanor Kuhns. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

JULIE

The woman slid three photos to me across the table, her manicured nails immaculate. “I know you don’t want to believe me. But you need to look at these.”

I was already on my feet, having told her—Frances Boyle, she said her name was—that we had nothing further to discuss. She had no business coming to me with this preposterous story, and certainly not here at the library where I worked. Her manner suggested she wasn’t used to people saying “no” to her, but I wanted her gone.

Yet I couldn’t help glancing at the faded snapshots she’d spread in front of me. All showed the same grouping: a couple, seemingly in their forties, and two teenagers, a boy and a girl.

“That’s my family,” she said, a rasp deepening her voice. “My parents with my brother and me. That was the year before Papa died.”

Against my will, my eyes were drawn to the man in the photos. “Papa,” she’d called him. He sure looked like Dad. My memories of him were vivid, though I was only eight when he died. That dark hair, cut short, with a white streak just off-center. Neat ears, firm chin, and warm smile. And those pointed eyebrows: unmistakable.

But I’d never seen the other people in those photos before.

Heat flared at the back of my neck, and the walls of the small meeting room felt like they were closing in on me. I shook my head, trying to clear it. I wished I’d thought to bring a bottle of water in with me.

Frances leaned forward, the gold chain around her neck glinting as she moved. “From your reaction, Julie, I’d say you recognize him.” Her gaze intensified. “Now do you believe me? Our father had two wives, two families. Yours and mine.”

This couldn’t be true. I gripped the edge of the table and took a deep breath, fighting to get my emotions under control. Who was this woman and what was her game? Inspecting her more closely, I guessed she was in her late forties, a little older than me. Well-groomed. Stocky but not fat. Wearing cropped pants and a short-sleeved silk blouse, a good choice for the hot weather we were having. Her clothes looked expensive, more Nieman Marcus than Walmart.

“Can you show me some ID?” I demanded. Maybe I should have asked for that earlier.

She smiled coolly and reached into her leather bag, pulling out a passport. The photo was definitely her, but with shorter hair. Her name: Frances Louisa Boyle. Date of birth: 1975.

“Wait a minute. Boyle?”

“That was Papa’s name—James Boyle.”

The tightness in my shoulders loosened. “So. That’s not my dad.”

“When he married your mom, he used the name James MacMillan.”

That was Dad’s name—but this was ridiculous. She was claiming not just that he’d had two families, but two names.

She sat back abruptly. “I can see you’re having trouble accepting it,” she said. “I understand. It’s hard to take in.” Her expression hardened. “I only found out after Mama died in February and I was going through her papers. I found some old letters tucked away, referring to his other family.” She raised her eyes to mine again. “Your family.” After a moment, she added, “I have a couple of the letters with me, if you want to see them. They’re in my safe at the hotel.”

My mouth tasted of something bitter, metallic. “What are you after?”

She clasped her hands together. “I had a private investigator locate your mother, your family. I came here to find out more.” Her gaze swept over me. “I thought it was best to come to you first, to see if you knew about it. Before I approach your mother.”

“You can’t be thinking of disturbing my mother with this!”

“I’m sorry, but that’s why I’m here. To find out what she knew, or knows, about what happened.”

If Frances confronted Mom with this story, it would devastate her. “Give me some time to think about this first.” There must be some way to check this woman’s claim. “Can I have copies of those photos?”

She pushed them toward me. “Those are for you.” She rose and pulled a card from her purse. “I realize you may need a bit of time to get used to the idea. Here’s my cell number. When you’re ready, give me a call.” She dropped the card on the table. “But don’t take too long. I can play tourist here in Ottawa for a couple of days, but then I’ll need to talk to your mother.” She straightened her shoulders and left.

I watched her cross the library’s open lobby, passing Tony at the info desk, heading toward the main entrance. I paced back and forth in the hallway, fuming. What she was claiming couldn’t be true.

But a coldness was rising in my stomach. Could Dad really have done this to Mom? To us?

#

Returning to my office, I closed the door and collapsed into my chair, my stomach churning. I dropped my head back against the headrest and stared blankly at the ceiling. Frances’s story kept echoing through my mind. It had to be nonsense…except for those photos. That guy did look like Dad.

When she asked for me by name at the front desk, I had hoped the interruption would be short. I hadn’t anticipated how shaken our conversation would leave me.

I needed to get back to work; I had to post next month's staff schedule soon. But after staring at my computer screen for a few minutes, I picked up my phone to call Caroline.

She and I had been friends since our university days in Toronto. I was studying library science and she was a psychology grad student. We met when we both moved into a shared student house near campus and clicked from the beginning. We’d stayed close friends ever since.

I came back to Ottawa after graduating. When she moved to Ottawa as well, joining the psychology staff at the Royal, our friendship grew. She had become my rock, the person I turned to first for advice.

“Do you have a few minutes?” I asked.

“I do. What’s up?”

I quickly recapped my meeting with Frances and the story she’d told.

“That’s quite the tale.” Caroline’s voice deepened. “But you don’t think it’s true?”

“I’m not sure.” I wanted to say no. But those photos had left me with doubts.

“Have you told Matt?”

My husband. “No. I haven’t had a chance.” I wasn’t even sure I wanted to tell him.

“Or your mom?”

My jaw clenched. “If Dad had another family, if he deceived Mom, I don’t see any need for her to know about it after all these years. She’d be heartsick.”

“But you say Frances wants to talk to your mom. How can you prevent that?”

“Maybe I can’t. But I wish I could find out first…”

“If it’s true?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a foolproof way to check. A DNA comparison.”

Trust Caroline to have a scientific suggestion. “Yeah. But I don’t know if Frances would agree to be tested.”

“Why wouldn’t she? She’s the one who says you’re related.”

I sighed. “Testing takes time, and I don’t think Frances wants to wait.”

She paused. “Do you know about Ancestry.com?”

“…I’ve heard of it, but don’t really know—?”

“It’s a site where people upload their DNA, and check to see if they match with anyone. I keep hearing about people finding linkages there to relatives they didn’t know about.”

“So we could check that site to see if we’re related to Frances?”

A doubtful tone entered her voice. “Well, maybe not, if you’ve never sent in a sample. If you send one in now, it could take several weeks for results to show up. And you don’t even know whether anyone on Frances’ side has uploaded there. If not, there’d be nothing to match to.”

I grimaced, disappointed. “Doesn’t sound like DNA’s going to help us. In the short run, anyway.”

“Yeah, maybe not. So let’s look at this another way. Is Frances’ story plausible? Could that have happened?”

Frustrated tears were pressing behind my eyes. “I don’t think so. But I wish I remembered more about our family, how things were before Dad died. I was so young, and my memories are pretty thin.”

“How about your brother? Would he remember more?”

I sat up at the thought. “That’s a good idea.” Patrick was four years older than me, so his memories of our family life back then would be better than mine.

#

Calling Patrick was complicated by the fact that he lived in Canberra, where he moved when he married Melissa six years ago.

Checking my watch and doing a time conversion, I realized it was still the middle of the night in Australia. But if I called around 4 p.m. my time, it’d be 6 a.m. there. I didn’t know what shift he’d be working—he was a paramedic with the Capital Territory Ambulance Service. If he was on the day shift, he’d be up. I’d text to see if he was awake.

He replied with a yawning-face emoji, but I took that to mean I could call. He answered on the first ring, “Yeah.”

I cut our usual time-and-weather chitchat short. “Listen. A woman came to see me today with a weird story.” I blurted out Frances’ claim that Dad had had two families, ours and hers.

His reaction was immediate. “That’s ridiculous.”

Thank you. “I know, right? It’s just not possible.”

“Wait, let me put on some coffee.” A series of indistinct sounds came through the phone. Then he was back. “Tell me the whole thing. From the beginning.”

I ran through it all, starting with Frances showing up at the library, and ending with her dropping a card as she left.

“Ridiculous,” he repeated. He was silent for a moment. “You think it’s Dad in those photos?”

“I don’t know.” I breathed out. “It looks like him. But photos can be manipulated…”

“Can you send me copies?”

“Sure. Hold on. I’m sending them now.”

While he waited for the images to arrive, he asked, “Are you thinking it’s some kind of scam?”

“Well, what could she be after? It’s not like there’s any inheritance or anything…”

He gave a small cough. “What about Mom? Are you going to tell her?”

“No! Can you imagine her reaction?” I swallowed. “Even raising it…I don’t want to spoil her memories of Dad.”

“Hold on—the photos are coming through.”

***

Excerpt from That Other Family by Lis Angus. Copyright 2025 by Lis Angus. Reproduced with permission from Lis Angus. All rights reserved.