Epoch by Timothy Carter

“You are in big trouble, little brother.”

“Mother and Father are furious,” Max said, stomping toward Vincent and Chanteuse. “And they don’t even know the full truth! I followed you this morning, Vincent. I saw the creature you consorted with. No doubt the same creature that attacked me in the Chapel last night!”
    “Max,” Vincent said as calmly as he could, “this really isn’t a good time.”
    “And now,” Max continued, “I find you hand-in-hand with the witch.”
    Vincent fought the fear to let go of Chanteuse. He had every right to hold her hand, regardless of what his family thought. Besides, he really didn’t want to let go.
    “Mother and Father waited an hour for you at the school,” Max went on. “The principal is furious. And Big Tom’s parents were mortified.”
    A deluge of guilt choked Vincent. He’d forgotten about his forced fight with his best friend.
    “Is he okay?” Vincent croaked.
    “As if you’d care!” his brother snapped.
    “Has something happened to Big Tom?” Chanteuse asked.
    “Be silent, witch!” Max said, whipping out a pocket Text of the Triumvirate and holding it before him like a shield.
    “Hey!” said Nod, poking his head out of the apron pocket. “You can’t talk to her like that.”
    “Aagh!” Max cried, stepping back. “Another demon!”
    “Nod, stay down,” Vincent said, pushing the pixie back in. “You don’t want the demons to find you.” He turned quickly back to his brother and said, “Calm down, Max. It’s not what you think. In fact, it’s worse.”
    “You’ve got that right.”
    Vincent groaned as he turned and saw Grimbowl standing by the side of Chanteuse’s home. This was all he needed.
    “Stay back!” Max said, swiveling around and pointing his Text at the elf. “In the name of the Triumvirate, I command thee to … ”
    “Shut up,” Grimbowl said. “Vincent, smack him.”
    Vincent was only too happy to oblige. Max took a full step back, raised a hand to his cheek, and stared at his brother in astonished outrage.
    “Vincent!” said Chanteuse, who was similarly surprised.
    “Sorry, Max,” said Vincent, who was also amazed he’d actually done it. He’d had no choice; the obyon would have agonized him if he’d refused, but Max was his brother and he’d hit him.
    And Big Tom was his best friend, but he’d hit him, too. What other horrible things would the elves force him to do?
    “So this is your choice,” Max said, staring hard at his little brother. “You would rather ally yourself with these foul things than with your family? And what of your commitment to the Triumvirate?”
    “Bo-ring!” Grimbowl said. “Vincent, smack him again. Harder.”
    “No,” said Vincent. The moment the words left his lips, the pain stabbed right through his head. Vincent clenched his teeth and clapped his hands around his temples, but the pain got worse.
    “Vincent?” Chanteuse said, but he could hardly hear her.
    “Brother?” Max asked, and there was genuine concern in his voice.
    “Aaagh!” Vincent cried, and slapped Max. Harder.
    “Good,” said Grimbowl. “Now reach into Chanteuse’s pocket and squish that pixie.”
    “What?” said Nod, poking his head out again.
    “No!” said Chanteuse, throwing her hands over her apron pocket.
    “No!” shouted Vincent. The agony was tremendous, but he did not—would not—move. If he didn’t draw the line now, he would become a murderer.
    But the pain was overwhelming. It was too much. He fell to his knees, screaming and clawing at his skull. He wondered if he was going to die, and then he hoped he would. Anything for relief from the pain.
    Anything except murder.
    Someone grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. He was pulled forward, stumbling along on legs he could hardly feel toward a destination he couldn’t see because his eyes were shut tight. He remembered his parents telling him of the Soul Harvester, a fallen angel who would drag the