Before the temple of Solis stands a tree, gnarled, black and leafless. It looks dead, but its roots are still strong. It has stood for generations. Beneath the tree is an altar of volcanic stone, its hollowed center black as the tree. Here the villagers bring the treasures of their hearts: their prayers, their hopes, and their children.

Every family has brought at least one child to the tree, swaddled in ash-gray blankets. Midwives soon learn to recognize the Children of the Fire; born bright-eyed and feverish, red-faced and wailing. The grieving parents carry the child to the tree, tie a white prayer-ribbon to its branches, and lay the child in the smooth bowl of the altar. A high fire basket stands beside it. As the sun sets, the parents cast a small bundle of rosemary and rue into the basket, and set the fuel alight. Dropping one last kiss on the tiny, burning forehead, they turn...

The monster was available by appointment only.

Liza had made her appointment a week in advance, and by the time she stood on the monster's porch twisting her fingers, she had talked herself into the request she meant to make.

The porch light was blotted out, and she looked up with a little squeak.  "Are—are you the—"

"I'm her assistant, Ivor," said the man who answered the door.  "You'll know her when you see her.  Come in."

He looked like enough of a monster to Liza, tall and stoop-shouldered, with a face that leaned to the left.  "All right," she said, and he let her past him, into the house.

The entire house smelled of metals—silver and iron, some, but mostly gold.  Under the metallic scent of the gold, Liza could smell something like molding cornbread.  The...

“I heard a bell ringing by the garden wall, and a voice in the stillness of the night calling on all good people to pray for the souls of the dead, it being All Souls’ Eve.”

—Charles Dickens

    
The new boy pounded on the door nine times before Sorsha Sarin, her long skirt flying, finally caught up with him, reaching up as high as she could to catch his fist in hers lest it hit the door again.

The other children skidded to a halt as they, too, reached the door, clustering around it, breathing hard. The older ones held lanterns that flickered feebly in the Irish twilight, each like a will o’ the wisp. It was the one night of the year they could legitimately beg their neighbors for specially prepared extra food, in preparation for the morrow of prayer and...

She brings the heels of her shoes down onto the papers spread over the table between us, and I’m pressed up against the back of my chair, not quite shaking, not quite still. Yesterday, she took out my neck with a swing of the edge of her hand. That’s not a blow from which you can easily recover. My head was hanging from my shoulders by a string.

She cranes her chin back because she’s bored around me. I was talking just a moment ago; now I’ve lost my nerve, and either way she has no motivation to listen, because I’m no one, and in her mind she’s the Sun God. She pops the front two feet of her chair off the ground, and it terrifies me, because everything she does terrifies me. I can’t tell what I’m looking at anymore. I’ve got no sense of judgment.

She’s watching the sky, where the golden stars change places every...

Prequel to Gate of Souls, A Familiar's Tale, Book One

She woke on the thirteenth day of her life, for since birth she slept like a fairy princess from an old tale, a maiden enchanted by shadows.  Waking at last, organic sensations mesmerized her; whispers filled her ears, the incense-smoked air she breathed stirred her from cloudy slumber.  Touching her body with curious wonder, she discovered she was a woman.

She was not alone.  Voices surged with rising elation.  Sitting up in the great bed, she stared at the robed beings that circled her cradle of sleep, dancing their primal ballet with grim joy.  They ceased their ritual, these hooded-figures in gray robes, and bowed.  They spoke as one, “Hail Obsydia, daughter of Ahridum, God of Darkness and Chaos.”

Worship soothed her confusion, but not...

Tara poured the morning tea.  Winnie, her little elf owl, preened her feathers on the perch.  Duncan sat at the kitchen table, a scroll floating before him, munching buttered toast.

“I’m still waiting for my breakfast,” Winnie said.

“Sorry, Winnie,” Tara apologized, “Scone or toast?”

“Scone please,” Winnie replied.

With a wave of Tara’s hand, a scone rose from the platter and then floated to Winnie’s dish.

“Thank you,” Winnie said, and began nibbling with dainty ferocity.

“Do you like being back at school, my dear?” Duncan asked.

“Oh, yes,” Tara answered.  “The advanced courses are much more interesting.  I even like the professors. ...

A bolt of blue and silver lightning ripped the ground open.  As Tamara scrambled to get up, searing heat slashed through her side.

Another flash of lightening struck in front of her.  It looked like an electrical storm, but she never saw lightning strike sideways.

She inhaled sharply, grasping her arm.  In a daze, she looked down, and saw blood running between her fingers.

She turned to run, but stumbled and fell backwards.

Tamara opened her eyes to see glistening stars scattered among a night sky. 

“Beautiful,” she whispered.

She rose to a sitting position, and realized she was in the middle of a field.  Regardless of her injury, she was eager to see the castle and join the ball.  But, when she eyed a thick forest of pine trees, she became more...

Okay, I admit it.  I had this...this affair with a cartoon--an animated babe.  I don't mean she was hyper, I mean she was a drawing--you know, not real.  No, that's wrong.  She was real all right, but she was a real cartoon, like Mickey Mouse or Roger Rabbit.

I don't expect you to believe me.  I wouldn't believe it myself, if she wasn't the best thing that ever happened to me.  But she was more than that.  She was this vibrant, tough, intelligent woman.  All right, she was a cartoon, but she was still a woman.  A woman I fell in love with.

You can choose to believe me or you can laugh it off as one man's perverted fantasy.  I don't really care what you think, because I lived it. 

That first time it was late, like most of my nights were.  I had the TV on, and I was a little drunk and a little...

Translated from Spanish by Ian Watson

Roberto scarcely heeded the red light; he was so wrapped up in his thoughts.  Impatiently he waited till the little green man lit up, then he crossed the road as though several fairies were propelling him.  Indeed, a pedestrian turned his head at Roberto’s passing.  Roberto was gazing far beyond what was there before him, tugged by strings of anticipatory pleasure, as though he was on his way to meet an old flame.

He was out of breath when he stopped opposite the toy shop.  There it was, the same red lettering--Pinó. Giocattoli artigianali;  Pino.  Hand-Made Toys--with a big painted pine tree beneath which resided jolly puppets and a smiling train, and the shop window itself with its wooden horse and construction game, and the dolls’ house which had its own lighting and water in some of the taps....

When Eira lifted the scented, cotton-fiber envelope from amidst the bills and flyers, her fingers tightened on her car keys.  She stood in the post office, reading the name several times before she could believe it.

Adalee Howard.

Eira flipped it over.  A note scribbled in delicate Copperplate calligraphy under the thick wax seal said, Regarding your request.

A pain in her left hand tore her attention away from the letter.  Eira forced her hand to unclench, and immediately grimaced at the oozing puncture wound her house key had left in the meat of her palm. 

She looked back at her Aunt Adalee’s...