Free Where the Dead Talk by Ken Davis

their twisted games from the entire family. It had all ended quite suddenly with him being shipped off to the military by Lord Pomeroy. No letters of his had been answered by Darcy, and he’d never once received a letter from her.
    Cooper leaned close and a roll of black liquid slid from his mouth. Pomeroy pushed, but the hands and arms and chest were all taught, unyielding as oak. An explosion belched from behind and a flash lit the figure. Cooper was knocked backwards, his head driven back like a whip. Somehow, he stayed upright. His right eye was extinguished and his hand ran back and forth across his face like a crab, feeling around where the shot had gone in on the high spot of the socket. Pomeroy spun around and got to his feet. Cooper was hunched over, his arms out in front of him, bent at the elbows. A second explosion went off and the private’s head was knocked sideways; a rain of bone and bloody matter hit the grass.
    "Run. Now!" came the voice behind him, the muted voice of the boy.
    He didn’t need to hear it twice. He leaped from where Cooper staggered and sped towards the trees. Just in front of them, the boy stood, the musket still up to his shoulder. On the ground next to him was a second musket.
    "Told you I could shoot," the boy said.
    "What are you doing here?" Pomeroy said.
    "Knew you’d be back. I waited," the boy said.
    The figure of Cooper lurched across the rolls of the meadow, hands in front of him. The back of his skull was gone and his one remaining eye glimmered. The boy picked up the first musket and handed it to Pomeroy, then ran across the path and into the trees. Tracing the boy’s path, he crashed through the slender branches that marked the start of the woods. A ways in, tall pine with few branches at the bottom formed a sort of enclosure, like a large tavern room with wooden columns and a green roof that blotted out the stars and moon. Two horses were tied to low branches. Pomeroy knelt in front of the boy and took a handful of the his shirt.
    "What about Hawkes?" he said.
    Thomas shook his head, his face unreadable in the darkness.
    "It’s too late," he said, "He already got him."
    Pomeroy let the boy go and took his hat off, ran his hand through his hair.
    "Piss on it all," he said.
    Thomas turned and untied the nearest of the horses. He used a branch to step up, getting himself high enough to reach the stirrup. Then he swung up onto the horse and looked down at Pomeroy.
    "We have to go," Thomas said. "Now."
    Pomeroy couldn't hold back the laughter. Just minutes ago, he’d been scared for his life, appalled at what had happened to Cooper and Hawkes. Now he was taking orders from a child – a colonial child at that, too short to get onto a horse without aid. Pomeroy hurried to the other horse. At least someone had some guts – and a bloody plan.
     

Long Enough For The Rope
     
    Something woke her. Carolyn Bucknell sat up in her bed and listened, irritated. She had finally fallen asleep – the events of the day kept running through her mind, especially the thought of Jonathon running around somewhere, hunting or being hunted by British troops. The ticking of the grand clock in the hallway was loud. She got out of bed and wrapped a robe about herself, then went to the window. The yard was darkness. Off in the center of town, candles shone at the tavern and at the Reverend Watts’s home. This talk of invasion and rebellion was evidently keeping others awake. She crossed the room and out into the hall. Light came from the stairway. The tall clock began to chime a quiet ring – it was 3 a.m. A lantern burned in her father’s study. Carolyn went down the stairs in her bare feet and stopped outside of his door. He was at his desk with a quill in hand, staring hard at the page. After a moment, he dipped the quill and continued writing.
    "Father?" she said.
    He started and turned to her. His writing lenses were low on his nose.
    "You surprised me, child," he said.
    "I’m