Free Midnight Ruling by E.M. MacCallum

bent and worn, but otherwise it appeared unharmed. Hobbling forward, I picked it up and brushed a film of dust from the blank cover. It must have been on top of a box or between them to fall out like that. Breathing out slowly, I opened it, hearing the binding creak.
    Written in black ink, I read: The Midnight Ruling .
    Mud from a bodiless grave, I read . The hair and blood…
     

CHAPTER NINE
     
    I patted the sand to secure it in the plastic yellow bucket. I used the watering can to dampen it and pressed down on the sand again.
    To make a successful sandcastle, you had to add water.
    Overhead, only a few nonthreatening clouds powdered the sky, offering little relief from the heat.
    “I found it!”
    I looked up in time to see five-year-old Neive climb into the sandbox. Her one hand gripped a generous helping of protruding blades of grass.
    “I’ll make a forest for the castle.” Neive plopped down in the sand beside me.
    I nodded and watched my child-like hands add more sand to my bucket.
    “Nora,” Neive said in a whisper.
    I looked up at her.
    “Did you hear that?” she asked and jerked her head left, her mahogany ponytail swinging at a wild arc.
    “No.”
    “Over there.” She pointed to the tree closest to the alley. The large oak had been trimmed back several times over the years. The amputated stumps had greyed and left a wide view of the gate leading to the alleyway.
    The shadow created by the tree had grown darker. I rubbed my eyes with my forearm, it being the only spot that wasn’t sprinkled with sand, and squinted at the spot again. It was as though the sun had no influence on the space. It was so dark beneath the tree that the trunk was a faint outline.
    “Over here,” a voice whispered from the dark.
    “Do you hear it now?” Neive scrambled to her feet, forgetting the grass she’d dropped.
    Something shifted from the blackness. The shadow salivated, inching out into the light, contaminating the light as the darkness took on a shape. Strings of the oily black clung to him from the tree—as if the darkness were pieces of his nature.
    I looked to Neive, thinking we’d be safe in the light, until the man stepped out into it. Damien. He didn’t squint as the sun shadowed his sculpted facial feature, every edge distinct and perfect. He didn’t cast a shadow himself, something that seemed as unnatural as he was.
    He towered over us, and his crow-colored hair shimmered blue highlights in the sun.
    Obsidian eyes met mine, glimmering as if we were sharing a private joke. His skin reminded me of snow reflecting the sun, and I raised a hand to shield my eyes.
    He was breathtaking. I’d almost forgotten how shocking he could be. My stomach seized, and my heart stopped for the fleeting seconds of recognition.
    As usual, he wore black, a button-up shirt with a collar and pants that clung to narrow hips.
    I glanced down at myself to see that I was an adult. I knelt in the sandbox in my purple plaid pajama shorts and white long-sleeved shirt, the clothes I’d fallen asleep in.
    At the same time, our attention drew to the dark-haired little girl standing between us. She faced Damien, inching closer.
    I opened my mouth to warn her, but the wind strangled my voice.
    Struggling for balance, I dropped to my hands and knees and swiped for the back of Neive’s shirt to stop her.
    Blinded by sand, I shielded my face with my arms. The sand pelted my skin like tiny bullets, pinching and pricking with every blast. The sun abandoned me, leaving goosebumps to race and up and down my body in a competition.
    Rolling out of the sandbox, I waited until I felt grass before I dared to peek through watery slits. I saw only shimmering blurs of color, but I’d barely tried to focus when the ululation of wolves overrode the shriek of the storm.
    Frightened, I retained my fetal position, hoping that nothing tried to grab me when I couldn’t see. Through my lashed barrier, I thought I saw movement in front of me.
    “Neive,”