Fading Light: An Anthology of the Monstrous: Tim Marquitz by Tim Marquitz

good fruit.
    Each tree is known by its fruit, and each Shadowchild
by his worth.
    A Shadowchild who does not pick good fruit shall be
devoured by the Biloko.
    A Shadowchild who picks good fruit shall live long in
the Bright.
    Wherefore by their fruits, ye shall know the
Shadowchildren, and ye shall be sustained.

    That’s the prayer we say in secret to the Bright
Lady before we venture out into the Dark Lands. But it can also be a
blessing when the Bright Lady comes down from on high and utters it
to protect us from the Biloko.
    She hasn’t done that in a very long while, though.
    But now, as me and my covey-mates approach the safe zone
just outside the Dome, the Bright Lady gives us each a hug and the
blessing. The Biloko stop their chase. Her embrace is so warm. I want
to stay within it forever.
    And then she goes ice-cold because he is here. So we
start running again.

    ~

    She’s beautiful. As always. But angry. I don’t
care. I don’t really give a fuck right now. I just want her to
end this secret goddess bullshit and come to my side to rule this
worthless world until the Sun goes dark forever.
    Instead, she glows. For a moment, she gets as bright as
she was when she was within her tessling. But then, her body
dissolves into glowing motes, which rise and fade away.
    All that remains are the Biloko. And they’re still
hungry.
    They swarm me. At first, it just tickles like the boy
Levi said.
    But then, their teeth and their claws rip and rend and
shred chunks of me. My perfect ears. My muscular arms. My hard round
ass. My chiseled stomach. The entrails within.
    But I heal. My body repairs itself with an urgent
immediacy, functioning at its complex cellular level. More and more
Biloko keep coming, though.
    It’s not long before I can’t see my own
beautiful body. All I see is grass-furred dark green. The Biloko are
ravenous. Insatiable.
    Their bells are loud. They never stop ringing.
    My pain is eternal.

The Beastly Ninth
    Carl Barker

    The storm clouds were gathering. Lord Wellesley was sure
of it as he sat atop his mount and watched the sky. His horse panted
and swayed from side to side, struggling beneath the weight of so
much plated metal in addition to its human charge. The restless
animal’s breath came in uneven snorts, puffing erratically
around its sweat-streaked flanks. Within his welded suit, the Duke of
Wellington was not faring much better.
    “Are you well, milord?” inquired
chief of staff Sir William Howe DeLancey, glancing nervously at his
master from a few feet away.
    “Well enough for now, my good fellow,”
Wellington responded from within his shell, not wishing to betray any
discomfort in front of his senior officers. He attempted to nod his
head, but the constraints of the plating prevented him from doing so.
“However, I might partake of a little brandy if you have some?
For the cold, of course, you understand?”
    “Of course, milord,” DeLancey replied,
fumbling inside his jacket for what seemed like an age in search of
his flask. “I seem to have misplaced it your Grace,” he
concluded. “Damn shame, too. It was given to me by my wife
before we left England. Engraved with my initials, so it was.”
    “Never mind,” the duke said, attempting to
stretch his back and feeling thirstier than ever. “Probably
better to meet the French with a clear head, anyway.”
    The main body of his force had been positioned outside
Champaubert for almost two days now, their numbers hidden by the
slope of an oversized hill. Having received word the French were on
the move again and marching towards their position, the duke had
given orders for his men to make ready for battle around sunset. As
such, he had been seated upon his mount since dusk, overseeing the
formation of his columns from the vantage point of the saddle. He was
now beginning to regret that decision. Although the temperature had
cooled somewhat since sunset, within his armor, Lord Wellesley had
more in common with a lump of roast