Chapter One

Heavy rain blanketed the darkened city as ghostly figures writhed, twisted and hissed at passersby. Occasionally, a wanderer would tighten their coat and quicken their pace as a figure would come closer. The people couldn’t see or hear the creatures, which slithered, slinked and soared all around. They could only feel their presence as an unexpected chill or the need to glance over their shoulder. They would hustle a little quicker toward their car or their apartment building as the creatures lingered, hoping that one passerby would be desperate enough to understand the creatures’ wordless whispers in their ears and resolve to bind themselves to the Dark World.

There was one figure very close by, however, that could see them clearly. A tall, heavyset woman with curly auburn hair that fell to the middle of her back stood at the edge of a nearby park. The shadows of the tall, domed building fell over her as she squinted her dark green eyes at the twisted things with disgust. There were untold numbers of them lately, far more than she had seen in a very long time.

A very, very long time.

A man passed by her without noticing. It was easy, as nobody could see her right now. She needed to do some investigative work and male humans seemed to enjoy engaging females in conversation late on a rainy night. She could not be distracted by them right now. She was already irritated with the current situation.

A slimy, leech-like creature slithered around her foot. Its flat body made a sickening sucking noise as it crossed over the toes of her boots. The leech looked up at her with bright red eyes as she looked down at it with a nauseated grimace.

"Egh! Scram!" she ordered, kicking at the creature. It hissed and slithered off quickly. "You'll have no luck trying to tempt a Siren, you idiot," she called after it. "We're, like, the original temptresses."

 She straightened her thick black overcoat and smoothed her green blouse. If the rain were able to touch her, the silk would be ruined. With her black slacks and calf-length boots, she looked as though she were any intern working in any important building in the city.

She turned her gaze to the tall building"the United States Capitol. Creatures swarmed in and out of the windows and doors of the building. Many of them, she was anxious to see, had grown quite fat.

She was not surprised by this one bit. There was plenty of corruption and soul-selling to keep the dark minions well-satiated and most likely well-rewarded by The Dark One in this building. Meanwhile, this particular country was falling into decay. As she witnessed the infestation of the building, everything was starting to make sense.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a southern voice cooed from behind her.

She turned to see a slender man with wavy black hair slicked back and neat. He wore a brown suit, bright blue tie and a brown traveling coat that belonged in the Victorian era. His pale skin seemed to shimmer under the rain and his thick lips were twisted into a blood-red sneer.

"Mortimer," she said, spitting the word as one does a bitter berry, "it's so shocking to see you mingling with lowly Minions. Don't you have an obscene manor home to slither around in?"

"Well, as the Chief of Minions, I have to make sure that my charges are doing good work,” he explained.

“Chief of Minions,” she repeated. “So you’ve trained these disgusting things for the last 700 years and you got a promotion, huh?”

Mortimer shrugged. “Well, what can I say? Somebody down there likes me. Judging by how well they’ve been turning the hearts and minds of humans everywhere, I feel it’s a source of pride that the boss took special notice.”

“Yeah. Congratulations on being even sleazier than the other Dark Lords.”

“Why, thank you,” Mortimer said pleasantly.

She sighed and shook her head. “You still haven’t told me why you’re slinking around and bothering me when you can enjoy your new raise being useless in your own home.”

 His dark blue eyes seemed to shine unnaturally through the rain. “Boss's orders. You, of all people, know how orders work, Tilly."

"It's Telese" she said through clenched teeth.

Mortimer ignored her correction. He stepped to her side and looked up at the building.

"These are some of my finest. They managed to win the hearts and minds of many aspiring young representatives that would later become important decision-makers for this country. None of my other ventures around the world have been this successful."

He watched Telese out of the corner of his eyes as she moved her hands over her coat in an irritated fashion, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles. Her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched as she watched the creatures using the Capitol as some personal playground.

Mortimer looked back at the building.

"There's always a place for you in the Dark World, Tilly," he said softly. His voice was suddenly kindly--almost reassuring. "You're the smartest and most tenacious of your sisters. There are five hundred sixty-seven of them alone, not including your nieces. Surely the baby Siren won't be missed."

"The 'baby Siren'," she said with a dangerous tone, "is well over two billion years old and smart enough to see through your slick play. And for the final time, Mortimer, my name is not 'Tilly'. It's--"

"Telese Persephone Zalabraxias. Yes, I know your name. I happen to know everything about you, Tilly. And I know what you want more than anything in the world--the very thing you would get if you shifted your alliance to the Dark World."

"I doubt that," she scoffed. "You can’t seem to figure out that I hate being called ‘Tilly’, that I hate your minions, or that I especially hate you. I doubt you know my innermost desires. Why do you even insist on talking to me?" she asked, crossing her arms and looking toward the Capitol again, “We both know all I’m going to do is insult you. Is this some fetish thing of yours?”

Mortimer turned to her with another smirk. "Tell me, you've been alive since before the dawn of humanity. Your knowledge of the foul creatures knows no limits. Have you seen anything like this before? Has there been other time that they have so willingly submitted en masse to the Dark Powers?"

Telese didn't respond. In fact, there had been many times. Each event bringing about the end of civilization in that particular time and place. But each occasion had been isolated. This, as other diplomats were reporting, was happening on a global scale and was the cause of her anxiety. Silently, she bit her lip and took a few breaths, trying to still the growing queasiness.

"There's a rumor amongst the Dark World that you were responsible for both Atlantis and Pompeii,” Mortimer continued, breaking her musings. “That there was some slight against your family each time and you--"

"I was young," Telese snapped, looking at him fully now. "I still didn't have control of my powers. If that's what you want from me, you'll be disappointed. I'm not some smart bomb waiting to go off anymore."

"No," he agreed, "But I heard that the scope of your powers was unmatched. Even Alexandros himself couldn't compare, which worried him, I'm sure."

Telese winced visibly at the mention of her father. She looked over her shoulder and then back to Mortimer, though more timid than before.

"My past is none of your business."

"Do you think he was telling you the whole truth when he punished you for that rendezvous with the human later?" Mortimer asked, tilting his head to the side, "Perhaps that was just the excuse that he used. Perhaps he had simply been waiting for his chance to really weaken you to his wi--"

"Mortimer, enough!" a thick, Irish voice commanded, and Mortimer fell silent against his own volition. He and Telese turned to see a thin, pale woman with long black hair marching toward them, the skirt of her black dress billowing like a dark cloud in the wind. She joined Telese and waved her hand in front of Mortimer again. He regained his voice.

"Morgan, long time no see. Busy starting wars, I assume?"

"If you bother my little sister while she's working, the next war I'll start will be on your toxic innards."

"Now, Morgan, we were just having a chat," he assured, putting both hands up with his palms out, though his expression suggested no fear.

"Oh, a chat, then?" Morgan asked sarcastically, looking at Telese.

Telese nodded, feeling the anxiety loosen its hold a little at the appearance of her favourite sister.

"Yeah, Morgie. You know, the kind of chat where Mortimer talks at me to hear his own voice and I am repulsed by his presence and try to pretend he's not there."

"Sounds about right," Morgan said, looking back at Mortimer, who shrugged.

"Well, I can clearly tell my valuable company and incomparable charm is not appreciated here," he observed. Morgan and Telese scoffed.

"Being the gentleman that I am, I will take my leave."

He snapped his fingers and a mahogany cane materialized in his hand. It had a silver handle in the shape of a snarling rat. Mortimer used it to slash into the air, where a rip appeared, and beyond it, a swirling mist of purple and indigo that reeked of sulfur. He gave the Sirens a polite nod and made to step into the portal.

Before he did, he turned back to Telese.

"Oh, and Tilly, about what we were chatting on earlier? The answer is freedom." And with that, he stepped into the portal and disappeared with the tear sealing up behind him.

"What was he on about?" Morgan asked her. Telese considered her for a moment, and then shook her head.

"Who knows? It's Mortimer. Lords of the Dark World rarely make any sense," she explained. "So why are you here? I'm sure saving me from Captain Obnoxious was not your top agenda."

It was Morgan’s turn to examine the Capitol. She watched the Minions swarm and slither. Her little sister, the youngest of the Sirens and Lead Diplomat, had been through a rough start. Their father had plans for her, to turn her into something fierce. But Telese had surprised all of them when she opted to be an ambassador for humanity. Never wanting to turn back to destruction, she insisted on conflict resolution between the Light World and the Dark World. She was brilliant at what she did. So many cataclysmic disasters had been averted because of her quick thinking and ability to speak on even the touchiest of subjects with compassion and sound logic. While Morgan had long ago chosen the path of the Warrior, Telese, her only younger sibling, had remained her best friend, even when choosing the opposite route.

It broke Morgan’s heart in so many ways to tell Telese that there would be no way to talk fate out of taking its course. It was not going to be easy to explain to the woman standing next to her, but she had to try.

“It’s Father, Telese,” Morgan began. She kept her black eyes fixed on the Capitol, though she could feel Telese’s on her now. What was the expression, she wondered. Grief? Fear? “He’s called for an emergency convergence. It seems that the Dark World has infiltrated all systems of government in the most powerful countries. In turn, they’re causing despair to the most destitute citizens, opening them up for pacts as well. He’ll address everything there, but I wanted to tell you before we go….” Morgan trailed off for a moment, took a deep breath, and looked at her sister finally. It was fear on Telese’s face. “All diplomacy efforts are being terminated as of tonight. There’s no other way, Telese. Everything is out of order. It’s time for a"“

“A purge,” Telese finished, her voice weak. The anxiety that she had been feeling before returned and began to evolve into panic. “No, Morgie, no, there has to be something else. There has to be something"“

“There’s nothing we can do, Telese.”

“But this isn’t just Ireland or Europe or any small scale. This is the entire world! Billions of humans will die!”

“I understand,” Morgan said, her voice shaking a little. “But Father believes that the world is at a shaky balance at best. Diplomacy tactics just aren’t cutting it anymore.”

Telese looked as though her sister had struck her. “I’ve been working for thousands of years to keep this world at a shaky balance at best and now I’m supposed to just forget about all of my work? As though it wasn’t enough? Or never happened?”

“Telese, I know. I . . . I had the same thoughts. Look, I’m not disagreeing with how you feel. You have every right to be upset right now"“

“Of course I do!” Telese cried, near hysterical. She fixed her sister with frantic eyes. “How are you not upset? How are you so calm, as our father plans to scrap everything we’ve ever done? How can you stand there and calmly tell me that we’ve lost"“

“Because I had my panic earlier, Telese!” Morgan snapped loudly. “But what do you want me to do? Would you like me to force our father to change his mind? That’s suicide! He would kill me just for attempting. Please, if you have any ideas, let me know now!”

Telese fell silent. The air around her seemed so heavy with the burden of protecting it and the humans that breathed it. Morgan believed that Telese was at a loss for words, until….

“We could fight back,” Telese said softly.

Morgan felt her heart stop in her chest for a moment. “Have you gone completely mental? Fight back? Fight our father? Alexandros? He would slaughter the two of us with one wave of his hand! How would we fight back, Telese?”

Telese straightened her shoulders a little. Morgan knew it was the thing she did when she was being obstinate. “Maybe we could ask for help.”

“Oh,” Morgan said, feigning curiosity. “Tell me, who could we rally to our side to take on arguably the most powerful being in all of existence?”

“I don’t know,” Telese admitted. “Maybe some of the Light Lords or . . . or maybe some of the Dark Lords.”

For a moment, the women stood facing each other in silence. Telese wondered if Morgan was considering the option. There was certainly a look of longing and sadness on her face. Perhaps she was as tired from the constant wars as Telese was from constantly avoiding them. For one moment, Telese felt a small shift in her reality, as though preparing for a much larger change.

“The idea is complete madness, and you must remove it from your head,” Morgan said quickly. Telese felt the moment pass her and all hope fade.

“I know, Morgie,” Telese mumbled to the ground. “I’m sorry.”

Morgan put her arm around her sister’s shoulder. “Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get this meeting over with.”

Telese nodded sadly, sniffling. They walked to the Vanishing Point, the thin air that only Sirens could use which took them wherever they wanted to go. As Telese walked, she thought about what she knew. She knew Morgan was right. She knew that her father could"and would"kill them for even suggesting confrontation.

And though she knew she would never stand a chance, there was also what she felt. She felt that Mortimer might be right. She felt that she had more power than her father wanted her to know about. She felt that she would be able to think of a solution to the problem so long as she didn’t let her fear of her father win.

As they reached the Vanishing Point, Telese looked at Morgan. “Morgie, what do you want more than anything in the world?”

Morgan was surprised by her little sister’s question. She took a moment to think about it.

“I think I want calm. As in, no emergencies, no wars, no annihilation. I just want nice, peaceful quietness in the world for a short time.”

Telese thought about this and stepped through the Vanishing Point with her sister feeling even more disgruntled. Not because of what she said, but because Mortimer had been right.

More than anything else in the world, Telese just wanted freedom.

 

***

 

“I’m telling you, Shelly is stellar,” Van argued with his friend. “You’ll never figure it out if you don’t talk to her.”

Van and Eric were sitting in the Greenridge University library, a large building that was brightly lit and hosted a marble staircase to the second-floor computer lab. The building, like the college itself, made an attempt to look current and new, when there was evidence that suggested it was anything but. Peeling paint around the resource section, computers from the early 2000s, and even a remaining card catalogue to hold the titles that would not fit on the computers’ small database system betrayed the library’s true age. The newer resources, such as up-to-date computers, were few and far between, and were housed upstairs.

Van watched Eric sitting at the library table typing away at his laptop, pretending to not even listen. Van scowled. “I know you hear me, jerk. Quit lying to the both of us.”

Eric sighed and looked at his friend. They both made the most extreme contrasts. Though both were brilliant, Van liked to flaunt his intelligence, offering to help some of the prettier girls with their math homework, as there was very little in the subject that he wouldn’t understand. It scored the boy a lot of attention and certainly a lot of dates. Eric had little"if any"social prowess when it came to women, and often didn’t think it was worth his time to speak to them in any nature beyond academic.

As far as appearance, theirs matched their personality. Van had dark brown skin and bright hazel eyes. It was impossible to tell his natural hair colour, as he always had it shaved and coloured some bright, abnormal shade, currently a vivid blue. He often wore bright shirts and jeans that he had ripped and written all over. His entire appearance demanded notice. Eric, however, with his pale skin, dark green eyes and copper-red hair that he hid under a black beanie, tried to be less noticeable. He often dressed in khaki-coloured pants and solid colour shirts, and stayed relatively quiet.

“Look, Van, Shelly seems nice, but she’s sort of a party girl. She’s always drunk, and she’s really young"“

“She’s 22, Eric. All of five years younger than you.”

“I . . . right, well,” Eric said, turning eyes back to his computer, “that’s still really young considering the maturity difference. 22 and 27.”

“You mean 22 and, like 74?” Van corrected he sat against the table next to Eric, smiling brightly. “Come on, man, you’re not as old and wise as you think you are.”

“I think I’m 27. I am 27. What are you doing hanging around 22-year-olds, anyway?” Eric asked, turning his head momentarily to scowl at Van. “You’re two years older than me.”

Van chuckled a little. “Age is nothing but a number and numbers are not what people think they are.”

Eric shook his head. “What does that even mean? Nothing, that’s what it means. Absolutely nothing.”

“Oh, Mr. I’m-A-Genius-Linguist is going to criticize my invaluable wisdom I deigned to impart upon him. People pay for this type of thing, you know.”

“I’m blessed. Truly.”

Eric was, in fact, a genius when it came to languages. He could spend one week studying a language and walk away with at least a working understanding of the grammar and syntax when others were still trying to grasp the new alphabet. He had been learning one new language or another since he was young. His mother, a high school music teacher, had always tried to get Eric just as interested in piano or guitar. He had learned to play both, but when it cut into the time that he could be studying German or Spanish, he had stopped.

His parents had always encouraged Eric to study music, but there was something about being able to speak to so many people in so many places. He had spent a few years after graduating high school working in Spain, learning about the history of the country and beginning to understand how the various dialects had evolved. It was like a key was handed to him, and he could walk through any door into a whole new realm of possibilities.

He had met Van when he was in his sophomore year. Van had transferred from somewhere in California (though he would never specify where) and had asked Eric to room with him after one semester of friendship. (“I don’t normally move so fast, but you seem like the one,” he had said.)

The sudden slam of books against the table  startled Eric. He looked up to see pale green eyes looking back at him. A young, short woman with long blond hair watched him quizzically. “What are we blessed with?”

Eric watched her with a deadpan expression. “Your presence, Meg.”

“Aww,” she said. Then thought for a moment. “Yeah. You really are.”

Meg joined the two students in being considered gifted. Her talents were in the arts, particularly visual art, though she seemed to pick up the idea behind most instruments as quickly as Eric did languages. She was 22 years old, and though she was younger and seemed more wide-eyed and innocent, there was something about her that demanded respect. She often seemed as though she knew more than she let on. Even Van seemed more on guard than usual when Meg was around, as though he thought that she might become offended by something and then . . . Eric had no idea, really. But there was something more than docile about Meg at times.

“We were talking about Shelly Karry. She’s got something for Eric.”

Meg shrugged. “Oh, yeah, Shelly has something for Eric, definitely. She usually goes for the awkward, goofy-looking types. Not . . . that you're goofy-looking," Meg said quickly as Van groaned and Eric raised his eyebrows. Along with her demand for respect, Meg also lacked a filter from her brain to her mouth. She often made an offensive or insulting comment without meaning to. "But, I mean, Dominick, Aaron, Van, here, Martin, they're all--"

"Van, here?"

Meg stopped talking immediately. For once, Van looked ruffled. “I . . . really, just . . . .”

“Wait a second,” Eric said, suddenly offended, “you were trying to . . . sell me your pre-used wares?”

“God, Eric, how insensitive are you? Women aren’t wares. They’re amazing, inspiring creatures that we should all worship and adore.”

Meg nodded. “And worship Van does. A lot. Lots of worshipping going on in La Cama de Van.”

Eric chuckled a bit as Van glared at Meg. “The word is ‘casa’, Meg, you uncultured jerk.”

“Seriously, what happened to that whole ‘worshipping females’ thing?” she asked, not bothering to correct him. “So, I think we had a deal, Van, you were supposed to finish my algebra homework"“

“You got the goods?”

“Oh don’t I,” Meg said, reaching into her messenger bag to pull out a large drawing pad with Van’s name on it. “Three sketches, already done.”

Eric looked between the two. “You know,” he told Van, “there’s an obvious difference between Meg’s talent and yours. Particularly that she has talent and you have none. What do you do during class when the work differs from the homework?”

“I explain that I am an artist only when surrounded by the warmth and familiarity of my own workspace.”

“You mean your dirty clothes and graphing paper?”

“Don’t knock my creative muses, Eric! Anyway, Professor Perry’s never said anything,” he explained, pulling out Meg’s math book from his own backpack. “Probably because it’s a general humanities class and she knows I’m not a striving Picasso or anything. I graduate next year. What do I care? What does she care? It’s mutual apathy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Eric said. “Meg, how busy are you tonight? There was some band that Van wants to see"“

“Flaming Metal Death Bed,” Van interjected indignantly

“"and it sounds like some ridiculous death rock thing that he plays in our dorm all of the time. Want to come with us?”

“As enticing as that seems, I can’t tonight,” she said. “I have a meeting for work.”

Eric and Van stared at her for a moment. “Work,” said Eric. “The coffee shop. You have a nighttime meeting?”

“Yeah, well, you know,” Meg said, packing her things up, “no customers, no opening shift, plenty of time. Mr Norman’s words, not mine. He’s crazy, but he’s my boss, so what are you going to do?”

She slung her messenger bag over her shoulder and gave them a salute. “Gentlemen, I bid you adieu. This geography homework isn’t going to do itself.”

As she walked out of the library, Eric looked at Van. “I always feel like she’s actually a secret agent or something. A coffee shop meeting at night?”

“Meg will do as Meg does,” Van said shrugging. “Do you want to go out for a bit? We can go get something to eat"“

“You know what I want to hear,” Eric said, looking back at his computer, smirking.

“Play some pool"“

“Give me what I want, Van.”

Van sighed. “We can go to the antique store. Again.”

Eric closed his computer with a snap. “On it,” he said as he packed everything away.

Van rolled his eyes as he followed Eric out the door of the library and into the sunlight. Eric loved the antique store. He found plenty of books in various languages, and within two months, had it translated and ready to discuss it with Van and Meg, much to their boredom.

It was cool fall day in Greenridge, Maine. Eric, who had grown up in Boston, had decided to attend school here because of its disconnect from urban life. He loved the weather and the area was surrounded by woods with small roads and even dirt paths that led to the nearest town, if you could call it that. Greenridge really offered a few bars, a grocery store, one clothing store and a couple antique stores. The student body was around 1100, as most people didn’t even think to look toward Greenridge for higher education.

They walked in silence down the Maine country road two blocks the store. The road was rough and bumpy as some gravel gave way to spots of dirt and rocks. He had no idea what Van was thinking of, but Eric still wondered about Meg. They had met her a few months ago and he couldn’t figure out whether she was as sweet as she seemed or if she had ulterior motives to the things she did.

Agnes, the owner of the antique store, could easily be mistaken for a decoration in the shop. She was a willowy woman with a whole thick head of silver hair piled into a messy, loose bun. She often wore floral printed, lace-accent dresses, as only somebody forever surrounded by past generations’ trinkets and heirlooms would appreciate. Her silver eyes were permanently squinting through her tiny silver spectacles into a suspicious glare. When they entered the shop, she turned her face from where she was glaring at her newspaper to glare at them.

“You break it, you buy it, boys,” she snapped as they closed the door behind them.

Van nodded at her. “Good evening to you, too, Agnes.”

Agnes fixed her glare on Van, as though she was trying to figure out whether he was being polite or obnoxious. She scowled and went back to her newspaper.

Eric stepped to the bookshelf. “There are some new ones here,” he told Van.

“If you can call anything in here ‘new’,” Van said. “Did you translate the Russian book already?”

“Da,” Eric said. He looked up to see Van giving him a perplexed look. “It means ‘yes’ in"“

“I know what it means,” Van interrupted impatiently. “What are you looking for now?” he asked as Eric picked up books, flipped through them and replaced the, on the shelf.

“Something different,” Eric said, inspecting a Japanese book. Too easy. “Something challenging.”

“French?” Van suggested.

Eric shook his head, running his finger over spines “Derived from Latin, therefore not a challenge.”

Van looked at the shelf. “How about German?”

Eric looked up at him with one eyebrow raised. “You mean the foundation of sixty percent of my native language? No, thank you.”

Van sighed. “What are you hoping to find? Some alien language from galaxies away?”

Eric nodded, looking through the books again. “That would be cool, I guess. As long as I could have some foundation language to work with.”

He carefully read through the titles, some he remembered from the last time he was here, some new. Most were in English, but every once in a while there was some copy of a Russian play or an old French science journal.

“I doubt you’re going to find anything here. Why don’t you just look through the internet? You wouldn’t believe the things you can find in there. I remember when I was looking for a chemistry book and found it written in Arabic. I almost got it for you, because then you would finally learn something about some useful subject, but, you know"“

Eric had been listening to Van talk, but he suddenly lost interest when he came across a book"and a language"he had never seen before. It was very triangular, but all of the letters seemed to connect. It looked like it was written in some sort of ancient language, but the binding of the book, bright red with gold writing, suggested it was published in the 20^th century, albeit early on.

Van looked over Eric’s shoulder. “What is it?”

Eric shook his head. “I have no clue. I’ve never seen anything like it. Well, I mean, I’ve seen languages sort of like it, but,” Eric turned the book over in his hands and flipped through the frail pages, “never anything exactly like it.”

Van scowled. “It’s probably a million dollars or something. Maybe you should take that Finnish book over there. You haven’t tried Finnish.”

Eric looked at Van who seemed reserved about the book. He checked the price on the inside of the cover. Two dollars. “Hardly going to break the bank, I think,” Eric said. “I don’t even have to take out a loan.”

Van raised an eyebrow and Eric tilted his head. “What are you worried about? Is it witchcraft?”

“How should I know?” Van said, watching Eric with a guarded look. “I can’t read it.” He looked down at the book timidly. “I just think you should concentrate on languages that you can identify. Those are the most useful.”

Eric had already tucked the book under his arm and walked toward Agnes. He gave her the book and the cash. She rung it up without a word and the boys stepped outside.

“This one may take me a while, Van,” Eric said. “But I bet we learn something from it.”

Van nodded. “Oh, yes. I’ll bet we will.”

Eric looked up suddenly to the sky. “Did you hear that?”

Van looked around. “What?”

“It sounded like some huge bird. I don’t see anything.”

“Look, you pick up a weird book and you’re already hearing things. This is how so many horror stories start.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Come on. I want to get started on this.”

As he walked, Eric swore he heard the sound, and even felt it. It felt as though large, feathered wings were trembling.

Author's Note

Ignore highlighted areas, as those are notes for myself

Reviews

[Churchmouse]

OK Sarah, you've asked for comments so here goes... It's alright, no, really it is. The wrinting is fine and the story flows quite well. The dialoge is good and it's nicely laid out. I should say that it's not my genre and it isn't the sort of story that I would choose to read so maybe comments from writers of the same stuff would be useful.
A couple of tips though; Never, ever start a novel with a description of the weather, I know that you want to set the atmosphere but every trashy novel ever written starts with "It was a dark and stormy night" and any publisher who sees it in the first paragraph won't bother reading any further. Save the weather report until at least page two.
Also maybe restrict the introduction of new players in the drama. Start off with two or three in the first chapter then build the story up (i.e. something happens) before bringing a new face in. I know that it's a temptation to get everything laid out as fast as possible but the reader will struggle to remember who is who if there's too many at first and will be concentrating on remembering who everyone is rather than thinking about the story.
You write well and I'm sure that you have something there and you seem determined to get through to the bitter end so kudos to you. Don't give up on it but be prepared to re-write at least four times.