Marsha Bloom’s bosom heaved for the fourteenth time that morning. John was coming, at last. She so longed to see the object of her abject desire with every fiber of her being. She knew he was a profligate rake and a faithless rogue, but her quivering, craven achings quiesced whatever vibrant misgivings she might possess.

Wistfully she absorbed her unblemished bounty in the full length mirror for the last time. Her sapphire orbs gleamed with an iridescent glow, bottomless pools of torment peering out at her from under a teeming thatch of sanguine, salacious tresses. The low cut bodice showed her exquisite globes to jutting perfection. One more dab of glimmering gloss on her succulent lips and she knew she was ready. The doorbell rang.

On a planet much like ours – well, actually, technically, it was ours – there was once a great writer named Lori Lewis. Nobody knew that she was a great writer. For light-years she’d been sending her manuscript to publishers who were too stupid to see how good it was. All they ever sent her back were snippy little notes saying, "Thank you for your interest, but your story does not meet our needs at this time." One of them was even mean enough to mention that she’d said "their" where she meant to write "there." This made Lori cry so hard that the snot ran down her nose and landed on the letter, blurring its harsh words.

(With no apologies to Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins.)

Prologue. Or, if you prefer, “prolog.” From the conclusion of Leftovers: Nick O’Ley, saving us the trouble of coming up with four new pages to kick off this volume in the series.

Truck Gilliams (that’s right, this guy’s name is “Truck,” now try and keep up) was filled with despair, sadness and ennui as he saw the daycare/youth sports league wing of the Christ Evangelical Faith Protestant Resurrection Church. Of course, being an American he was a couple of healthy miles from ennui and a lot closer to despair and sadness, but nowhere near self-pity. No siree bob. Not him.

My horse shied before the vale of Avalo. I had been warned to expect it, and it was a simple matter to calm the animal. But when I tried to spur it forward again, it balked and looked back longingly at the grassy hills around us. I followed its gaze, but farther, imagining that I could see the gates of the Golden City Ilnar. Had it only been an hour ago that I left? Or a hundred years?

When going to a sorceress, one can never tell.

She said it would start with a chill. It was the first time she lied to me.

It started with a hunger, deep and hot like the burn of a branding iron. I felt it when I smelled the heavy stench of the slaughterhouse, when I watched my raven-haired Vivian slipping across the black ice pond, when I heard wolves baying late in the night. It came to me when I drank snow from her cold cupped hands, when I followed her down the lonely game trails deep in the foothills.

If it was someone's idea of a practical joke, Antimony decided, then it wasn't very funny. By rights, she ought to have the creature quarantined immediately. Appearances of lizards (of any sort) needed clamping down pretty severely ever since the Projectors in Room 309 had got hold of that Escher print. One gecko out of place and the whole of Lagado's Old Quarter could be patterned over by suppertime. The public health risk didn't bear thinking about. But for some reason, she felt strangely sympathetic towards it. Maybe it was the signboard. Maybe it was the prospect of finally getting rid of all those ducks.

I recall the day everything changed. It was winter, the happiest time of year for children who lived on houses that floated about a lake. We spent our days outside with finally some room to play.

That morning the women had been in a hurry. They were possessed by something and began slaughtering many of the animals and smoking their meats. Their fur and feathers covered the slaughter-house floor and blood scented the air.

September 18, 2053

Dr. Wenton said I was bound to be the department's good luck charm. I just think I'm the luckiest girl in the world, arriving at just the right time. What a day--and it's not even over!

I haven't admitted it to anyone here, but the only reason I applied for an assistantship at the LTTU lab was because they were new and I figured they'd need some extra help and I needed an assistantship. I read up a little about the broadcasts, but it wasn't anything that interested me too much--who could find them interesting; everyone says it'll take years to translate even part of one, right? Well, I couldn't have been more wrong. I haven't even been here two weeks and the computers had some kind of breakthrough. It's still going on. I'm on a quick meal break, sitting here with a sandwich in one hand and scribbling on the screen with the other hand. I didn't really intend to keep a journal, but this is so exciting I don't want to forget anything important.

The dizzying heat, the mosquitoes trying to nibble at his neck and the rum must have triggered some hidden mechanism inside John Leight, because all of a sudden he chuckled and said the most ridiculous thing.

“Last night I dreamt Agatha tore my fingers off.”

Richard, who had been babbling animatedly now grew quiet.

“There was a man who had nightmares such as yours. He dreamt of Agatha Regant and fell gravely ill. He is dead. His cousin, Madeline Locke, swears Agatha is a witch.”

The day Mary turned Daniel on, they were sitting under the apple tree. She had chosen this spot in the garden because it was the last place, perhaps the only place, that she could remember being happy with him. The trial had been over for six weeks. He had been sent to her days ago, but she had put this moment off, knowing that she needed more time to heal and to adjust to the idea of having him home again.