Free Tucker’s Grove by Kevin J. Anderson Page A

sleeping powders had turned his bones to rubber. Nailing his wrists with more vehemence than was warranted, Elspeth had spat out some curses that would have offended her husband, if his ears hadn ’ t been well insulated by layers of earth….
    Now, as she dressed herself, her head pounded an independent rhythm to the queasiness of h er stomach. With this headache, and the confusing flock of nightmares   …   yes, something was def i nitely peculiar. The Dark Ones were not happy with her.
    Maybe They were just hungry again. She usually let each scarecrow hang for a few days so that the old go ds could have a good look at the offering before she spilt its blood (and also so the sacrifice wouldn ’ t struggle and make too much of a mess).
    But she had timed that last victim too close. Maybe the blood of a man so close to death contained no tonic for thirsty Gods. Maybe They needed healthy, fresh blood. That would neatly e x plain her throbbing headache, her black nightmares and twisted stomach. She had to fix it.
    “ Well, Mr. Johnson, there ’ s one quick way to satisfy a herd of hungry Gods. At least it ’ ll be quick for you.”
    She retrieved the sickle from the kitchen wash-bucket, put on an apron to cover her clean dress, and strolled out into the early morning sunlight.
    As she walked the lane back into the cornfield, Elspeth stopped in shock as she neared he r garden. My, the D.O.s had been busy during the night!
    The two crosses that marked the graves of her son and hu s band had been torn from the earth and impaled upside down in the center of the graves. The unruly grass covering the mounds was now black and l eprous. “ Oh, dear.”
    All the plants in her garden were hunched over, withered and coated with dripping icicles, as if blasted by the arctic breath of the Dark Ones. Her neat rows of beans, peas, and carrots all lay destroyed. The rotting leaves of potatoes and turnips sent a foul stench into the chill air.
    Elspeth swallowed hard, and she felt a cold fist wrench her stomach, as if the ancient gods were prodding her. Then the pain subsided, and she hurried to finish up the sacrifice before the D.O.s got any a ngrier.
    But she got no farther than the melon patch, where the once-healthy vines lay dry and wasted over the unmarked graves of her previous sacrifices. The broad fan-shaped leaves stirred as round shapes moved beneath them. Elspeth put a hand to her mout h.
    The firm, green melons she had nurtured all summer had now transformed into the severed heads of her victims. The round, grimacing heads sat propped on the ends of dead stems from the vines, mottled with decay. Each one of the heads turned to face her, watching her with ebony eyes that had somehow escaped putrefaction. They didn ’ t blink — just stared with venomous a c cusations.
    Elspeth gulped and waddled down the pathway. The dead eyes followed her as she ran….
    Andrew Danforth Johnson was awake and wide-eye d as she approached him with the curved, razor-sharp harvesting blade. The lanky dentist looked none the worse for his night on the crossbar or the nails through his wrists, but he seemed to have lost his voice, for he said nothing as she approached. Mayb e he was too frightened to whimper.
    Elspeth looked up at the big oak on the fenceline, where the crows still huddled. She was a bit disappointed that the big crow wasn ’ t there to watch, but she had a feeling it was close by, waiting.
    “ All right, no time to waste, Mr. Johnson.” With her bulky form, she began to dance around the crossbar. She chanted a di s sonant song, imploring the Dark Ones to accept this new sacr i fice and to make her headache and stomach distress go away… and, if it wasn ’ t too much trouble, to return the graves and her garden to their former conditions.
    She halted in front of the crossbar and placed her plump hands on her more than generous hips. The gangly dentist just looked at her, his expression sour, more disgusted than