Pitch Madness B-12: THE MCTAVISH ACADEMY

He wanted an education. They gave him a gun. Now eighteen-year-old Mike Solomon must defend his school’s dangerous secret against a ghoul from the First Crusade.

Sitting back in his chair, old wood and well made, he turned from the woman to brush away flakes of dried skin from his robe. To his left the woman’s son, only a small child, sat in quiet concern where they had tossed him, knees tucked tightly to his chest. The boy was courteous enough to keep his tears to himself and for that Çelik was thankful. In gratitude, he drew an old pistol from his robe and pulled the trigger.

The mother shrieked, crawling to her son’s body and drawing his tiny corpse into her arms. Çelik did his best to ignore her, running a long, boney finger down his polished armrest. From this room. From this chair. Here the one they had mocked, the one they had dubbed ‘The Traitor King’ so many centuries ago would finally take what he deserved. But the crying was getting to be too much.

“Oh stop it,” he groaned. “I did him a favor. You have no idea what’s coming.”