MOTEL BLACK

by Sean M. Hogan

“Just some fox I picked up at a costume party. She was looking for a little fun and sin. Something her husband couldn’t give her. Something I could. So, what do you say, shall we continue this dance with a stranger’s life on the line instead of your own? You’ve already killed one stranger tonight, what’s one more?”

  Alex stalked toward the couch, his hands shaking with all the terror of Sodom and Gomorrah the night they fell, stopping when he stood almost on top of her. She was still out of it, sleeping a black, dreamless, intoxicating slumber. He knelt down beside her, brushed aside her red hair, and pressed the barrel of the gun against her temple. He braced himself and tightened all his muscles, but he couldn’t will his finger to squeeze.

  “This ain’t right,” Alex told himself.

  “No such thing,” replied the Devil.

  “I can’t justify this.”

  “No need, Alex. We’re all sinners here.”

  “I could never forgive myself if—”

  The Devil cut him off with a hiss. “How can one forgive instinct?”

  Alex pulled the trigger. The hammer struck down like an executioner’s ax, igniting the gunpowder with a blinding flash and a thunderous boom. The gun kicked out of Alex’s hands and onto the floor. Blood sprayed everywhere. The couch was coated with the woman’s brains. She slumped down like a bag of potatoes, sliding to a peaceful rest against the couch cushions. A gaping hole now showed on both sides of her skull. Alex stared back with all the horror of a man who just felt a strange bump while driving through a preschool parking lot.

  “Looks like I win,” said the Devil as he packed the stacks of cash back into his suitcase, including Alex’s five grand. “Pity, she was quite the fox.”

  Alex swallowed the swelling knot in his throat. “What was her name?” An odd question to ask, given the events that just transpired, but the only one Alex could form into words.

  “You really want to know?” asked the Devil.

  “Please,” Alex begged.

  The Devil laughed a cruel crackling heckle. Like he was an old woman being driven mad by evil spirits. “The bitch said her name was Nicole.”

  Alex’s face went white as a sightless cave spider. He removed the fox mask from the woman’s face. His gaze rose to meet Jack’s. Their eyes were the same. Mirror reflections of bottomless void.

  The Devil, grinning ear to pointy ear, walked over to retrieve his gun. As he leaned down he tilted his head toward Alex. “I can dispose of the body for you, Alex, if you so desire. For my usual rate, of course. Seven grand.”

  THE END

  Still hungry for more stories? Why not check out some sample chapters from my new book…

  The crow behind the mirror

  Behind the mirror lies a world most people could never dream of. A land populated by tree-sprites and pig-runs, knights and pharaohs, dragons and unicorns, fairies and gods. But now their numbers dwindle.

  In a dark temple, the Undead Bride weeps. Spring never comes. An endless winter sets in. A father’s sin continues to fester and grow.

  Trapped on a dying world, a young high school student finds herself a pawn in an otherworldly feud between three kingdoms, three races, and three gods.

  Meet Sharon. After her father abandoned her at the ripe old age of five he left her to deal with more than a few issues. Social anxiety, depression, explosive anger, and a bitter, broken heart for starters. Despite her mother’s best intentions of starting over in a new city and enrolling her in a new high school, she finds it impossible to fit in. Too bad punching out the most popular girl in school hasn’t made her any friends—only distant ostracizing glares and a trip to the principal’s office.

  But the cherry on top of the misery called her life? There’s this ghost that stalks her where ever she goes. A crow to be exact. One that won’t stay out of her dreams.

  This mysterious phantom from the past comes for Sharon, stirring up dark secrets and forbidden sins of the father she hardly knew. Now, haunted by a crow that glides on the currents of daydreams and nightmares, she is drawn to the magic mirror. One careless touch will change everything…

  Sharon is about to learn that sometimes it takes a broken girl to fix a broken world.

  The crow behind the mirror

  The Mirror Wars, Book One

  Sean M. Hogan

  Chapter One

  The Barbarian and the Boy

  THE BOY WAS DEAD—his lips blue, his eyes placid, and his skin egg white. The snow and ice had claimed him days ago, to sit by Ordin’s side in the Great Hall of Eternal Dreams, where all lost children must go. From the suffering of cold, toward the warmth of light. The final reward.

  At last this boy knew peace. And yet his exposed naked heart still beat.

  ***

  The men had regressed into chanting, thrusting their spears and swords and axes into the cold night air. The men of the Western clans. Eric should have been one of them. He had seen forty harsh winters pass and this winter marked his twenty-eighth as a warrior. Yet he did not share their drunken enthusiasm or their blind courage. He already knew the outcome of tomorrow’s war. The North would be victorious. The West would fall. The big fish would swallow the little one. These men marched to their deaths, and Eric’s fate marched with them.

  Eric slipped away from the ranks unnoticed, without regrets, without looking back.

  The winds howled. The hail pelted. Eric raised his arm and fur cloak and pushed on.

  He would have passed the snow-entrenched road none the wiser, if not for two shimmering lights piercing the darkness. Two crystals, one blue and the other red, reflected the moonlight in a brilliant haze. They called to Eric, beckoned him with a siren’s candlelight. And Eric pursued, chasing the flame into the void as all moths do. To the bitter end.

  When he came upon the crystals, he fell to his knees and brushed aside the snow. He took them into the palm of his hand and reveled in their glory. Their light reflected in his blue eyes and basked his face with warmth. Then he noticed the chain. The crystals were attached to an exquisite gold necklace. What luck, he thought, the gods surely blessed me with riches tonight. He tugged and found resistance. He tugged harder. Still the chain did not budge. This time he pulled with all his strength and unearthed the boy.

  Eric stumbled backward, fell on his ass, and fought back the urge to scream. Once composed, Eric studied him—this young boy with raven black hair and olive-colored eyes. The tail end of his purple cape, made of the finest fabric Eric had ever seen or felt, flapped in the wind. He was bundled up in it—a silent caterpillar cocooned for all time.

  Eric slowly unraveled him. Resting on the boy’s breast was a large book, bound in blood-red leather and clutched tightly in small, dead, frostbitten hands. On the cover three circles overlapped—one red, one blue, and one black. He peeled back the boy’s fingers and took the book, exposing a gaping hole in the boy’s chest, his heart beating like a furious drum.

  Staring into dead eyes, Eric reached for the heart. He held the boy’s life in his hand. Beyond reason and logic, life still pumped through this boy.

  The gods had a hand in this no doubt. Fate deemed our paths should cross.

  The boy lived, but could he be saved? Eric scooped the boy into his arms and headed into the blizzard to find the answer.

  ***

  Shadows cast from the flames of the fireplace danced across the boy’s face. His eyes fluttered open. Bloody bandages lay a few feet from the boy’s bed, fresh ones wrapped around his waist and chest. He scanned the den of the primitive cabin built of clay, straw, and wood. The stale air tasted of sweat and ash. A large figure draped in animal furs hunched over a red book—a hooded barbarian with a thick black beard—and flipped through the pages feverishly, devouring each one after the other. The boy smiled at his first reader. He attempted to rise but sharp seething pain shot through him and he only managed sitting up.

  The boy’s groan alerted the barbarian and his eyes rose from the book. Eric pulled back his hood, exposing h
is weathered face.

  “I should warn you,” the boy said with much weakness. “There is a price for that knowledge you hold in your hands. A price that must be paid in blood.”

  Eric studied the boy for a quiet moment. Finally, with caution, he spoke. “Your wounds healed themselves in one night. Are you man or god?”

  The boy shot him a hearty smirk. “I’ve killed far too many to be called a man.”

  Eric searched for the right words and failed in finding them. “Surely you jest. You’re but a boy. A child.”

  “A child older than the oldest mountains.”

  “Yes.” Eric returned to the book. “The one called Able. Ruler of a world beyond the mirrors. Beyond the stars. So, your book says.” He rose from his chair and handed back Able’s book.

  Able glanced down at the book. “You don’t believe my words?”

  “Books lie as much as men do. Children even more.”

  “But I am neither man nor child.”

  “What are you then?” Eric forced the next question out. “A demon?”

  “Many have called me that. Among others. Prince of Crosses. Lord of Lashes. Emperor of Skulls. So many titles it’s hard to keep track.”

  “Then you are like our Demon of the North. A would-be conqueror.”

  Able relaxed against his pillow. “He sounds fun.”

  “He invades the Western lands as we speak. As he did with the others.” Eric took his battle-ax in his hands, hoping it would imbue him with courage. “But he shall find our wills not so easily broken.”

  “Why did you save me, barbarian?”

  “Ordin rewards those who do good deeds. And saving children is the grandest act one can perform in this life.”

  Able’s eyelids narrowed. “So, it’s a reward you’re after?”

  Eric put his ax down and sat in his chair. “In this life or the next.”

  “Well, I know nothing of the next. But if it’s a reward you want, perhaps I can be of service. After all, I owe you my life.” Able flipped through the pages, searching for the right one. “It’s only fitting I be the one to reward you personally.”

  “Save your gold.” Eric waved Able’s offer away like smoke. He did not want to sully his deed. “The dead and the dying have no need of wealth. Tomorrow I will go to war. I cannot hide from my fate forever. Soon the North will break through our frontlines. Then they will come here. Better to die among kin with honor than be butchered on the run like a stray dog.” He poured himself a mug of mead. “Pray for me instead.”

  Able raised an eyebrow. “And whom shall I pray to?”

  “Ordin and the Seven Maidens. That my everlasting dreams be pleasant ones.” Eric downed his mead.

  “You believe this Ordin to be a god? How amusing.”

  Eric wiped his mustache clean with his sleeve. “It is not wise to mock the gods.”

  “I mock nothing. Ordin died long ago. He had his chance at godhood—yes—but he threw it all away.”

  “He resisted temptation.” Eric poured himself another drink. “He chose the eternal dream over this waking life. Even now he resides in the Dreamtime. Waiting for our return.”

  “The dead wait for nothing.”

  Eric stopped mid-sip and slammed his mug down on the table. His hand shook as much as the mead. “And how are your dreams, boy?”

  Able laughed. When his laughter died, his voice grew calm and callous. “Horrifying—as I suspect yours are. Oh, the sweet irony. I have nothing to look forward to in the next. While you have everything. Well, pleasant dreams at least. But you’re trembling. And I am simply bored. Why is that? I always thought humans invented religion to ease such fears. Yet here you are. So full of faith and yet so full of doubt.”

  Eric calmed himself with a few deep breaths and averted his eyes. “Even Ordin had doubts.”

  “Not doubts. Choices.” Able ripped out a page from his book. “A choice.” He folded the pure white paper and tossed it into Eric’s lap. “Would you like the same?”

  Chapter Two

  The Crow

  CLOUDS BLEW BY as a jet-black crow rode on the currents of the autumn winds. The crow glided through the crystal blue sky and over a sea of modern suburban homes. The wind gushed past the trees and stripped them bare of orange and yellow leaves. The dying leaves hurled into the wind, dancing the way schools of multicolored fish swim in elegant formations while the crow speared on through. He tilted his sleek feathered head to the side and blinked his oil black eyes, scanning the scenery below to observe the orderly chaos of the civilized. Honking cars waded through congested traffic. Fashionably dressed people watered perfect little gardens. Designer dogs defecated on symmetrically carved lawns. A world in and of itself concerned only with its self. The American dream. A world the crow possessed little concern for. For he, unlike them, had a destination.

  The ring of a school bell ensnared the crow’s attention. He circled the school. A noisy flood of gray-uniformed girls spilled out from the building, swarming like frantic gray ants over the yellow lunch tables. He glided in, swooping down to a gentle perch on a telephone wire. The crow peered at the busy students, his gaze zooming in on one empty lunch table, devoid of occupants save for one lone girl.

  Sharon Ashcraft ate alone. It was better this way. Best to avoid conflict with the other girls for now. After all, teenage girls can be more vicious than a troop of crazed chimpanzees—ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness. Any girl unlucky enough to get bullied will testify to this fact. And Sharon was at a disadvantage today. She was the dreaded new kid. At an all-girls’ Catholic school, no less. Stuck in one of those humiliating skirts pop-singers wear to fake the appearance of innocence and chastity. But the color. Her uniform’s color made it unbearable. Gray. The depressing shade of gray that steals your very soul and identity. The kind of gray that makes little orphan sweatshop workers chew off their own fingers so they don’t have to sew another damn uniform. Sharon wondered if there was the word conform written in secret on the back of her shirt. Maybe if she had a pair of special alien-exposing sunglasses like from that old eighties movie They Live she would be able to read it. The horrid color made her appear even paler than she already looked. And with her long raven black hair cascading down her slender shoulders she might as well scream Goth at the top of her lungs. She looked around. Goth didn’t seem to be in this year.

  Sharon swallowed another spoonful of blueberry yogurt. She closed her blue eyes and fantasized about having friends. Other girls her age sitting across from her, talking, laughing, gossiping about cute boys and even hotter guys. Hell, they could be talking about stamps for all she cared. Ironic that the solution to her problem was so simple.

  Just get up, she told herself, just stand up and walk over to the nearest table full of smiling happy well-adjusted girls. Introduce yourself. Talk. Tell a joke. Laugh at theirs. And talk… just talk damn it.

  She was sweating now. Drops formed from the pores of her forehead. Her hands clammed up. The nape of her neck cooled to a chill. Her knees threatened to buckle. Her stomach knotted to a nauseating rat’s nest. Another attack.

  Sharon tried calming her racing heart—to slow the frantic beats with controlled, paced, and rhythmic breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Good. That’s good. She was back in control now, freeing her up for another round of self-loathing.

  Sharon Ashcraft is a pathetic pitiful creature, she berated herself, a coward beyond all measure.

  She dug her nails into her thighs. Sharon hated being this way. Hated being “shy”. Shy: another word for anxiety-ridden. Irrational crippling fear. Why even bother trying? She knew what would happen. She’d freeze up. Fumble her words. Speak so softly no one would understand. Become a deer caught in the blinding beams of oncoming traffic. Social road kill.

  Sharon wished she was back at her old home in California, back at her old school where she had one friend at least. Sarah Herman, Sharon’s partner in petty crimes and misdemeanors. Her sole social circle—if you can
call one friend a circle. Truth was Sharon had never actually made a friend, Sarah made her, doing all the hard work for her back in second grade. Simpler times. Sharon knew the reason for her suffering. It boiled down to science, as everything usually does. She had missed that critical window of adolescent brain development. Where the skill of making friends, like language and reading human faces, imprinted itself. Sharon was socially blind the way feral children raised by dogs can never truly comprehend complex language. She might as well have been Jane Goodall and the other girls: chimps wearing lipstick and mascara. No matter how hard she tried, socializing would always be awkward and foreign. Pretending to be was never the same as just being. No matter how much she observed and imitated, she could never be one of them, one of the happy, well-adjusted troop. Sharon felt like she was always carrying around a large scarlet letter B sown to her chest. B for broken.

  Three shadows descended on Sharon and swallowed up her sun. Sharon gave a quick sly glance over her shoulder. She spotted three girls horde around her like a pack of hungry dogs sniffing out a foreigner intruding on their territory.

  “So, you’re the new girl?”

  Sharon gave no response.

  One of the girls sat down next to her. Too close. Invading Sharon’s personal space and rubbing her shoulder against hers. A clear display of dominance. Sharon had watched far too many nature documentaries on the Discovery Channel to miss this. The girl brushed back her blonde hair from her eyes and smirked at Sharon. Another power play. She wanted Sharon to know she was in control. Fearless. Of course, she was fearless. She had back up and home field advantage. Lucky her.

  “My name’s Alice Gordon. You’ve probably heard of me. I’m the cheer squad leader and class president. My father’s a senator, Charles Gordon. I know you’ve heard of him.” Alice snatched up one of Sharon’s French fries from her plate and bit the top half off like a hen chomping the head off a caterpillar.

  A shining portrait of American teen superficiality. Alice Gordon and her two friends came jam-packed with glittered bracelets, too much makeup, and overpriced earrings. Anything to standout in this sea of gray uniforms.