Songs_of_the_Satyrs Read Free

able to understand but did. They were welcoming him, imploring his blessing. They were the reason for the shape he had assumed; their belief held him to it. It would be simple enough to shuck it, to assume the form of a horse, or bird, or tree, or reed—of anything, of all. Pan.
    For the moment, this form would do. He caught Pascal by the neck and lifted him one-handed, bringing him face to face with what he’d summoned. Pascal’s eyes bulged. The acid stink of urine filled the air. He supposed he owed him a debt of gratitude. He lowered but did not release Pascal. He opened his mouth. It was full of enormous teeth. They bit through Pascal’s skull with ease. It crunched like a crisp, fresh apple.
    The rest of the men were shaking. Their fear clouded the air. He inhaled it, then brought their god to them.
     
    — for Fiona
     

 
Casting Lots
     
By Jodi Renée Lester
     
    “Oh, Chris, you must come. Mom and Dud are having their meeting tonight. They’re reading the Big Book and I’ll be confined to my bedroom. It’s soooo dull. I mean, really.”
    Chris had the picture-perfect image of Maria as she carried on, stretched out on the couch, cord twisted around her finger, putting on airs. Twelve-year-old debutante, with a princess phone to her ear.
    As if she had to convince him.
    “. . . and we’ll steal snacks. I can already smell something yummy in the oven. Baked goods . . .”
    Chris tied his sneakers, grabbed his jacket, and left the house. Though it was shorter through the woods by distance, the trees would only slow him down. He kept to the street, walking along the flat and winding road that skirted the woods until he reached the other side.
    Outside Maria’s house, outside her window, a streetlamp flickered on, a yellow glow asserting itself in the slowly fading light. No cars on the street yet. He may not have to meet any guests.
    Chris climbed the flagstone steps and pressed the button that had long ago lost its luster. Muffled chimes sounded inside and grew louder as Maria’s mom opened the door.
    “Chris. What a wonderful surprise. Now you come in here.” She ushered him into the house, turning on the light in the foyer.
    “Thanks, Mrs. W. Maria didn’t say I was coming? I’m sorry . . .”
    “Never. That’s quite all right.” She clamped her hands on his shoulders and steered him toward the back of the house. “I think she’s in her room.” Her broad smile looked painful.
    Chris politely loosed himself from her clutches and headed down the hall. As he came to her doorway, Maria looked up at him and smiled from her bed. Propped up on a pillow was a walking cast where only hours earlier she had worn a shoe.
    “What happened to you?” He joined her on the bed, staring at the fresh white plaster. “Is it broken?”
    “No. Only a sprain. Good thing Dud’s an orthopod, otherwise I would’ve spent the entire afternoon in an emergency room.”
    “So?”
    “I fell out of a tree. You know the one I like. I was sitting on the big branch up there and here came your brother lumbering along. I was all prepared to scare him when I lost my footing and fell. Poor Richie, not only did I scare him, I practically landed on him. He didn’t tell you?”
    She grabbed his hand and put it to her head. “Anyway, I’ve got a knob now, too. See?” She laughed and kicked out her injured foot, then handed him a felt-tip pen. “You can be the first to sign my trophy.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You smell that? Mom should be in soon with a plate for us. She’s been fussing all about me. She thinks missing a practice or two will ruin my skating career.” She rolled her eyes.
    “How long do you have to wear that thing?”
    “Not long. Not long at all.”
    Mr. W. breezed into the room with a tray. “Chris, you mind the time. It’s getting late.” He tilted his head toward the window.
    “I will, Mr. W.”
    “Looks like there’s one of each for each.” Maria’s dad set the tray on a footstool. Two milks and