Free The Dark Rites of Cthulhu by Brian Sammons

above the Tabularium had changed from white to black. I thought about how much we had just destroyed, just a few boxes of papers, and yet so very dangerous. Changes needed to be made. The thought was sobering. Llanfer and Armitage were going to follow my directions. The new security would be put in place. Only a few people would have keys, including myself. Things were going to be different. I would make sure of it. I wouldn’t be able to touch the ancient books; they were too high profile, too noticeable. The other things, journals, accounts, notebooks, things that were just piled up waiting to be properly catalogued, these things could be destroyed quite easily. 
     
    Let the old men have their black lettered grimoires and illuminated manuscripts full of legends and ridiculous spells which only hint at what might be. It’s the more recent documents that actually tell the truth. This is a new age, with new ideas, and a new morality. Someone must make sure that we don’t end up destroying ourselves. There are things man was not meant to know, but is it really up to a bunch of old librarians to control? Perhaps not. Perhaps it is time for someone else to take a turn. Why not Detective Robert Peaslee and Megan Halsey? Why not two people who had suffered as a result of that information and those who had used it? 
     
    I can think of no one better.

     
     

     
     
     
    The Murder at the Motel
    By Brian M. Sammons
     
     
    Dennis pulled his rusting Ford Ranger into the parking lot and killed the engine. The all-day downpour had, at last, slowed to a sprinkle as evening gave way to night, which was a blessing, as the Ranger’s cracked wiper blades had made a streaked mess out of the windshield. The motor in the old pickup truck pinged as it cooled and inside the cab, Dennis – AKA the Amazing Kraygen, AKA the world’s biggest loser – sighed and looked out his window. The Sunshine Harvest Motel , a flickering neon sign brightly proclaimed. Next to the words was a painting of a dew-beaded orange doubling for a smiling sun, looking down at a grove of orange trees. Below the sign sputtered a flashing word: Vacancy . Dennis had driven an extra hour up I-75 looking for a place to stay that he could afford. Sadly, this looked like it.
    Come on now, it’s not that bad.  It’s even kind of quaint , a small voice perked up in the back of Dennis’ mind. It was the voice that had first gotten him interested in magic as a child. It was the voice that had told him to quit his job as an accountant to become a full-time magician six years ago. And it was the same damn voice that had told him last year to walk away from his home before the bank took it from him and try his act out on the open road. Dennis guessed that the voice was his ‘inner child’, or whatever shrinks were calling it these days, and that it represented his optimism and wonder at the world.
    Whatever it was, Dennis hated that damn voice.
    He slid out of his Ranger and stretched, causing joints to pop. He’d driven eighteen hours straight to make it to Miami and this year’s MagiCon. Once there, he’d spent two hectic days trying to rub elbows with his peers, make connections, trade hot leads, and perhaps even pick up a new trick or two. All he got for his troubles was two days of cold shoulders, phony smiles, the opportunity to marvel at some overinflated egos, and snickers at his humble credentials. Now, in the middle of a twelve hour drive to his next booked gig, Dennis was in a bitter mood that would not leave him. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and sure of only three things at the moment. One, he hated that little voice in his head that kept pushing him along in this magic business. Two, this motel was a cheap sty he was going to hate. Three, all magicians were assholes, and this went double for himself.
    Pulling his tattered leather suitcase from the passenger seat, he began to trudge through the cold night drizzle toward the motel’s