Middle-aged with a receding hairline, the alleged devil looked disappointingly normal.

  “Here’s your coffee, love,” Barbie said. “I’ll bring the egg later. Why don’t you go and sit with the Devil? He quite likes company.”

  Picking up a spoon and a sugar sachet, Manda crossed the room. Her knees quaked a little, but her curiosity won. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all, Miss.”

  Manda dropped into the blue plastic chair opposite him, poured sugar into her coffee and sipped. It tasted like sweetened dishwater. Since her table companion made no effort to launch a conversation, she took a deep breath and started. “My husband and I moved to this area only two months ago. We live at the other end of the town.”

  With a full mouth, he nodded. He chewed for a long time, swallowed, and finally said, “Nice town.”

  “Ah, yes. I’m glad you say so. I find it rather devoid of cultured entertainment and nightlife. I miss the big city, but my husband…” She sighed. “Have you lived here long?”

  “I don’t live here. I only come for lunch.”

  Playing with her scratched stainless-steel spoon, she pondered about the protocol for asking a man if he was indeed the Devil.

  At last, she decided to introduce herself. “I’m Manda.”

  His thin lips formed into a pleasant smile. “Nice to meet you, Manda. I’m the Devil.”

  “The Prince of Hell?” She let a note of scepticism swing in her voice.

  “Do you want to see proof?” At a snap of his fingers, his pupils glowed red like light bulbs on a Christmas tree. Another snap, and his forehead contorted. Two dainty horns sprouted from his receding hairline, red with black scaly stripes.

  Manda gulped and stared, transfixed. Her heart beat with the speed of a blender on ‘high’. Taking courage, she asked, “Forgive my curiosity, but what brings you here?”

  “Barbie’s ham sarnies. They’re the best in town. Real thick ham, straight from the butcher’s.” He stroked his chin. “I also come to tempt people. Ladies especially. Do you want to be tempted?”

  Laughing, she waved her wedding ring at him. “Not a chance, Mr Devil. I’m a happily married woman. But I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. There’s so much I want to ask you about life, death and all that, I just don’t know where to start.”

  “You could ask me why your husband wanted to move here.”

  “Oh, I know that. We’ve come because of his job.” She blinked. “How do you know that it was Greg who wanted to move?”

  “I know these things, Manda. You might care to ask where your husband goes in the evenings.”

  “He’s going to the King's Arms, and to the Working Men’s Club, to get to know people in the area, and make friends.”

  “Are you sure, Manda?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said, slightly annoyed. “That’s what he told me, and that’s what I believe.”

  Barbie arrived with a scrambled egg on toast for Manda, and a refill of black coffee for the Devil.

  When Barbie had left, Manda felt she had to strengthen her statement. “And why shouldn’t my husband go out on his own?” She gave a little laugh. “We trust each other, Greg and I.”

  The Devil took another big bite from his ham sandwich and studied her. “He is a lucky man, your husband, to have such a trusting wife.”

  “Yes, he is,” Manda acknowledged, then jerked. “What are you saying?”

  “Eat your egg. It’s getting cold.”

  “Are you saying that my husband is unfaithful? That he wanted to move to this town because he..” She swallowed. “Because he wants to be near someone? That he’s meeting … her… on the nights when he says he’s at the Working Men’s Club?”

  The Devil sipped his coffee.

  Manda sliced the rubbery egg and the sodden bread, and lifted a forkful to her mouth. It was indeed cold. “Even if I were considering the possibility – which I’m not – how would I know that it’s true?”

  Chuckling, he patted her hand. The cold touch made her skin crawl and she pulled away.

  “I don't expect you to take my word for it, Manda. But if you were to look in his coat pockets…”

  “I’m not snooping in my husband’s pockets!”

  “Of course not,” he soothed. His horns retreated, and his eyes returned to bland blue-grey. “You’re not the type of woman who spies on her man. After all, you said that you totally trust each other. You wouldn’t look into his desk drawer either, which he knows, of course. I’m just saying that if your husband was unfaithful, and if you wanted evidence, that’s where you would find it.”

  “Well, I know my husband is faithful, and I don’t need evidence for that.”

  She finished the cold-rubber egg, gulped down the sugared brown water, and paid Barbie.

  On her way home, anger bubbled in her stomach. How dare the Devil make such suggestions! She and Greg had a perfectly happy marriage, with no need to spy on each other. She trusted him absolutely.

  So what if he had been acting a little strange recently? So what if he hadn’t wanted her to come to the King's Arms with him last night? So what if he had looked embarrassed when she’d entered his home office without knocking? There were perfectly natural explanations for that, she was certain.

  Other women might snoop, but she would not.

  And even if she were to check his coat pockets, or his desk drawer, she wouldn’t find anything suspicious.

  If Greg had been reticent recently, then it was because he was tired from the move and the demands of the new job. And if he had something to hide, it was a surprise he planned for her forthcoming birthday.

  Back at home, she hung her jacket on the hook, next to the coat Greg had worn last night.

  Just to prove to herself how ridiculous the Devil’s suggestion was, she slid her hand into one of the pockets, and found nothing but a crumpled handkerchief. With a sigh of relief, she was about to stuff the hanky back, when something struck her as odd.

  The white square was too small to be a man’s.

  How did a woman’s hanky get into her husband’s pocket?

  Manda sank into a chair by the cold fireplace and stared at the offending article in her hand. Surely there was a plausible explanation. Greg had worn the coat many times, including to the office. Perhaps he had been sneezing, and didn’t have his own handkerchief at hand, and a co-worker offered him hers. Or perhaps he’d found one lying in the street and picked it up.

  Still, she needed to know. Confronting him would be the open, honest course of action. But that meant admitting that she had indeed snooped in his pockets. No, she needed to get more evidence for Greg’s innocence or guilt. From now on, she would watch him discreetly. If there was any hanky-panky going on, she’d soon find out.

  First, a quick look into his desk drawers…

  *

  Meanwhile, in Barbie’s Café, the Devil paid his bill, leaving, as usual, a large tip.

  “Did you enjoy the company?” Barbie asked.

  “Very much,” the Devil said. “I’ve destroyed one perfectly good marriage.”

  This story has been previously published in NocturnalOoze.

  ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

  JOHN BLACKPORT is an American author who writes fantasy fiction. His short stories have been published in Driftwood and Cutlass: Ten Tales of Pirates. His historical military fantasy novels Raingun, Resolution and Balislanka are available as e-books.

  JONATHAN BROUGHTON lives on the south coast of England. He has published four books: Roadkill: Four Nasty Stories, Gifts: Four Poignant Stories, Twisted: Four Paranormal Stories, and a Victorian thriller, The Russian White. His short stories have also been featured in Driftwood, Shivers, Haunted: Ten Tales of Ghosts, Bites: Ten Tales of Vampires, Scared: Ten Tales of Horror and Cutlass: Ten Tales of Pirates. His author page at Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B006SFLK8W or follow him on Twitter @jb121jonathan

  ALICE GAINES writes erotica and romance for Avon Impulse, Harlequin Spice Briefs, Changeling Press, and Red Sage Publishing. She lives in Oakland, California in a fixer-upper she never got around to fixing up. You can visit her website/blog at http://www.alicegaines.blogspot.com

  APRIL GREY'S urban fantasy novel, Chasing The Trickster, is published by Eternal Press. Her short stories have been published in such print anthologies as Demonmind's Halloween 2010, The Best of Everyday Fiction 2, Northern Haunts, Ephemera, Haunted: Ten Tales of Ghosts, Bites: Ten Tales of Vampires and Terrible Beauty, Fearful Symmetry. Many of these stories can be found in her collection, The Fairy Cake Bake Shoppe available through Amazon.

  RAYNE HALL writes subtle horror and quirky fantasy fiction. She lives in a dilapidated English seaside town of former Regency grandeur where she writes subtle horror and outrageous fantasy fiction. Her short stories have been published in many magazines, e-zines and anthologies, including NocturnalOoze, The Deepening, Byzarium, Fate&Fortune, AlienSkin, True Story, Fiction Feast, Read by Dawn Vol 1, Six Scary Tales Vol 1, 2 and 3. She has had more than 20 books published in several genres under several pen names. The latest is the dark epic fantasy novel Storm Dancer. Her editing experience in the publishing industry spans three decades. She is also the editor of the Ten Tales series of multi-author anthologies: Bites: Ten Tales of Vampires, Haunted: Ten Tales of Ghosts, Scared: Ten Tales of Horror, Cutlass: Ten Tales of Pirates and more. She teaches online classes for writers: https://sites.google.com/site/writingworkshopswithraynehall/ You can follow her on Twitter: http://twitter.com/RayneHall or check her author page at Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Rayne-Hall/e/B006BSJ5BK/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

  JOHN HODDY is a retired nuclear engineer and former submariner, living in Southern California where he shares quarters with a wife and four cats. A member of his college magazine features staff, he published three short speculative fiction stories before setting creative writing aside until recently returning to the craft with a young adult fantasy novel. Rejection Letter represents his first short fiction in over 30 years. A subsequently written piece, Decision of the Council, earned runner-up honors in an international writing contest sponsored by AlienSkin magazine and was later published in AlienSkin.

  DOUGLAS KOLACKI began writing while stationed with the Navy in Naples, Italy, published numerous stories in San Diego, and recently completed a cross-country trek to his new home in Providence, Rhode Island. His short story credits include Weird Tales, Dragons Knights & Angels,Haunted: Ten Tales of Ghosts, Bites: Ten Tales of Vampires, Cutlass: Ten Tales of Pirates and Big Pulp. His published novels are Elijah's Chariot and On the Eighth Day, God Created Trilby Richardson. You can find his ebooks on Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/Douglas-Kolacki/e/B0072BVUCC

  TARA MAYA loves rampaging robots, undersea unicorns, magic gone amuck, science turned apocalyptic, pirates dueling gladiators, kittens, cannibals and all things weird and wonderful. She has lived in Africa, Europe and Asia, pounded sorghum with mortar and pestle in a little clay village where the jungle meets the desert, meditated in a Buddhist monastery in the Himalayas and sailed the Volga river to a secret city that was once the heart of the Soviet space program. This first-hand experience, as well as research into the strange and piquant histories of lost civilizations, inspires her writing. Her terrible housekeeping, however, is entirely the fault of pixies.

  She has studied ancient and modern history, sometimes even in school. She is the author of The Unfinished Song, an epic fantasy series in which two lovers are caught between the schemes of the Fae and the Deathsworn and Conmergence, a collection of speculative fiction short stories. She blogs at Tara Maya’s Tales: http://taramayastales.blogspot.com/

  SIEWLENG TOROSSIAN grew up in Singapore and lives in the USA. She devotes her time to family and her passion for books and writing. She writes science fiction and fantasy and is currently working on two novellas of speculative fiction.

  DEAR READER,

  Did you enjoy this book? Consider posting a brief review at Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, Goodreads, or wherever you bought the book or are a member. Share what you liked most, what you liked less, and which story is your favourite. We value your opinion.

  If you've discovered any errors or formatting glitches, please contact rayne_hall_author@yahoo.com, so they can be fixed.

  To find out about more fiction by some of these writers, read the excerpts on the following pages.

  Rayne Hall

  From the epic fantasy series The Unfinished Song by Tara Maya:

  At the High Table, the chief stood up. “I accept the Staff of Peace. To treat for peace, I will send as my envoys seven honored ones, with another seven to serve them, and Kavio the Exile to lead them all.”

  Dindi felt her heart squeeze. Kavio would be leaving… without her. There was no way he could keep his pledge to teach her dancing.

  While the crowd buzzed, and Jensi and Yodigo eagerly debated the trustworthiness of the Blue Waters tribe, Dindi pushed her food around on the eating mat. She knew some women somewhere had toiled over the delicacies, and it seemed a pity to waste the food, but she had lost her appetite.

  “Dindi.”

  She jumped. She would recognize the disapproval in that voice anywhere.

  Brena loomed over her. Dindi scrambled to her feet, trying to guess what she had done wrong this time, to make Brena hunt her down and glower at her like that.

  “Dindi, you have been chosen to be a serving maiden for the peace party,” said Brena. “Come with me now, please. I’ll tell you what to pack. We leave at once.”

  He did it, thought Dindi. He found a way for us to be together.

  Brena strode away without looking back, forcing Dindi to run to catch up.

  “We?” she asked belatedly.

  “Gwenika and I will be going as well,” said Brena. She stopped so abruptly that Dindi bumped into her back. Brena glared at her.

  “Sorry,” said Dindi.

  “Please understand,” said Brena. “My daughter will be going because Zavaedi Danumoro thinks highly of her healing skills, and Gwenika needs a handmaiden to help her carry her things. But you are there to serve her, not get her into mischief. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” said Dindi.

  “I will be watching you as keenly as a hunting owl watches a mouse on the rooftop,” added Brena. “If I catch you in any kind of misbehavior, lies, tomfoolery, anything askew at all, I will find out. It will not be pleasant for you. Do you understand?”

  “Owl. Mouse. Got it,” said Dindi. She tried to smile ingratiatingly, but Brena just snorted in disgust and began to walk away again, as if what she really wanted to do was leave Dindi behind. Dindi didn’t care. Inside, she wanted to sing. She skipped after Brena. Kavio had found a way. Nothing could go wrong now. She wouldn’t let it.

  From the dark epic fantasy novel Storm Dancer by Rayne Hall:

  Even in the shade of the graffiti-carved olive tree, the air sang with heat. Dahoud listened to the hum of voices in the tavern garden, the murmured gossip about royals and rebels. If patrons noticed him, they would only see a young clerk sitting among the lord-satrap's followers, a harmless bureaucrat. Dahoud planned to stay harmless.

  The tavern bustled with women - whiteseers hanging about in the hope of earning a copper, traders celebrating deals, bellydancers clinking finger cymbals - women who neither backed away from him nor screamed. The youngest of the entertainers wound her way between the benches towards their table, the tassels on her slender hips bouncing, the rows of copper rings on her sash tinkling with every snaky twist. Since she seemed nervous, as if it was her first show, he sent her an encouraging smile. Ignoring him, she shimmied to Lord Govan.

  The djinn slithered inside Dahoud, stirring a stream of fury, whipping his blood into a hot storm. Would she dare to disregard the Black Besieger? What lesson would the Besieger teach to punish her insolence?

  Dahoud stared past her sweat-glistening torso, the urge to subdue her washing over him in a boiling wave. For three years, he had battled against the djinn's temptations. To indulge in fantasies would batter his defences and breach his resistance. He focused on the flavours on his tongue, the tart citron juice and the sage-spiced mutton, on the tender texture of the meat.

  Govan clasped the dancer's wrist and drew her close. “Come, honey-flower, let's see your blossoms.”

  She tried to pull herself from his grip. Panic painted her face. Against a lesser man's groping, she might defend herself with slaps and screams, but this was the lord-satrap. She was too young to know how to slip out of such a situation, and none of her older colleagues on the far side of the garden noticed her plight. The other clerks at the table laughed.

  “My Lord,” Dahoud said. “She doesn't want your attentions.”

  “She’s only a bellydancer.” Contempt oiled Govan's voice. Still, he released the girl’s hand, slapped her on the rump, and watched her scurry towards the safety of the musicians. “These performers are advertised as genuine Darrians. I have a mind to have them arrested for fraud. I suspect ...” He ran the tip of his finger along his eating bowl. “They're mere Samilis.”

  Dahoud, himself a Samili, refused to react to the jab. Govan was not only satrap of the province, but Dahoud's employer, as well as the father of the lovely Esha.

  “Samilis are everywhere these days.” Peering down his nose, Govan swirled the wine in his beaker. “Not that I have anything against Samilis. Given the right kind of education, their race can develop remarkable intelligence, practically equal to that of Quislakis. They can make valuable contributions to society.” He stroked the purple fringe of his armband, insignia of his rank. “Provided they respect their betters.”

  The other clerks at the table bobbed their chins in eager agreement.

  Dahoud the Besieger would not have tolerated taunts from this pompous peacock, but Dahoud the clerk had to bow. Submission was the price for guarding his secret.