We've a dark fantasy story for you now, that will leave you feeling a little uneasy. The author is Alice Godwin, who was born on the island of Van Diemen’s Land now known as Tasmania, which she describes as a Grimm’s fairy tale sort of place. She has won a few awards and has had over 30 short stories published in magazines, anthologies, and literary journals in Australia and overseas. You can find her on social media at
https://www.facebook.com/AliceGodwinAuthor/
and https://twitter.com/mermama1


Dísablót
by Alice Godwin
 

Deep inside the forest where the wild mistletoe grew, covering the naked birch trees like wispy gowns, August wrapped the cloak tightly around Yvette’s shoulders as they joined the other revelers. Fiery torches on long poles flickered as they drank the hot mulled wine in silver goblets. Her very first Ærra Jéola and she was excited. Everyone wore masks; her fiancé August’s was a realistic wolf with silver teeth and glittering whiskers, a family heirloom, Yvette knew, representing their crest and their name. Yvette’s mask was pale gold set with tiny rubies, a stylized face, part human, part fawn, ethereal and fairytale like, a present from her soon-to-be husband. Jugglers and acrobats cavorted between the trees disappearing into the darkness and reappearing like mythical, shadowy creatures.

At some prearranged signal the wandering musicians stopped playing and everyone gathered in a circle. Breaths came out as frosty vapor and the snow sizzled as hot ash fell. Two stood in the centre, a hooded man with a menacing mask of twisted sticks and a woman all in white, from her hood to her boots, even the mask that covered her entire face, was dazzling white with gold and green whirling patterns. She was a Dís, the Goddess in the form of a wild snowstorm that covered the ripening buds of the trees as they slumbered, waiting. She decided how long winter would last and if you would wake to breathe in the spring air.
 
They sang a duet, his voice deep and sonorous and hers, high and haunting. The language was archaic and although Yvette didn’t understand the words, she intuitively understood its meaning, sacrifice and love/life torn apart and trampled. Tears came sliding beneath the metallic mask and turned to ice on her skin.

As the final harmonies echoed into the night, a girl in a scarlet cloak carrying a white rabbit walked out and presented it to the cloaked woman. The woman held its struggling body above her head before pressing it to her chest, where it calmed. Yvette was staring into its bright eyes when a crimson stain exploded across the animals’ body.

A blackened chalice caught the rivulets of steaming blood as it poured out. When the chalice was full the man began walking around the circle, Yvette watched in horror as the chalice was presented and each person raised their lips to it and drank.

“No.” She whispered.

“You must. You don't have a choice.” August’s tone was hard. “It's just an animal. You love rabbit stew. There is no difference.”

“I'll be sick if I drink it.”
“No you won't. It will just taste hot and salty.”

Now the two were in front of them and the chalice was against her lips she reluctantly allowed the warm liquid to fill her mouth.

Yvette stared at the woman whose white robes were splattered scarlet. Her white-gloved hand still held the dripping knife.

The night had bleached into ivory slashed wine-dark red.

Crimson snow. Amber flames.

Yvette felt herself spinning, falling.

She knew those amber eyes within that mask, August’s sister.

He’d not mentioned that she would be here. Or that she would be in that role She looked at the other revelers, was it her imagination but they are all seemed to be staring at her?

Under the ancient juniper trees, August kissed her, his tongue inside her mouth; all she could taste was blood.

She couldn't get the animal’s eyes out of her head; it was as though it was trying to tell her something crucial.

In the middle of the night, waking her from her sleep, the meaning became icy clear.

Run.

Run away.

As fast as you can.
 
 
 
Notes:
Dísablót:  blót, sacrificial holiday that was held in honour of the female spirits called dísir in pre Christian Scandinavia & Northern Germany.
Aerra Jéola: midwinter ancient German festival 

Two new stories for you today – from two authors, both new to the Grievous Angel and, despite being on different continents, they share a theme of creatures with sharp teeth you don't want to meet on a dark night. I'll hand you over now to Blaize M. Kaye with Forty Full Moons and Nicole Tanquary with I Don't Bite.

Blaize M. Kaye is a writer from KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. His work has previously appeared in Fantastic Stories of the Imagination and Nature, among others. Nicole Tanquary works as a university-level writing tutor who also writes fiction. Otherwise, she enjoys playing with her pet rats and eating ice cream.


Forty Full Moons
by Blaize M. Kaye

A full moon hangs low over the apricot grove behind our house. 

My brothers wait amongst the trees, deep voices in the early dark, while my father paces outside my bedroom.

Tonight will mark forty full moons since he called me to his study.

“You are on the cusp of manhood”, he began and then told me of our family’s secret: The change, the bloodlust, the fathomless guilt.

“It came for me on my thirteenth birthday”, he explained, “as it came for your brothers.”

“As it will come for you”, he said, grinning savagely.

Outside my window, my brothers’ conversation becomes an animal babble as their jaws and tongues lengthen. Joints pop and ligaments tear sickeningly.

I close my eyes and call out to the moon, waiting for the change, waiting for my blood to work hot through my veins. But it doesn’t come. It never comes.

My father’s claws click against the parquet floor. He waits a moment, sniffs the air, and knows that, again, I’ll not be hunting with them.

I clench my fists to steady my shaking hands and wonder if I’ll ever become the man my father wants me to be?

At dawn, they’ll return, naked, caked in gore, flecks of gristle between their teeth.

I flex my fingers but my hands still shake.

I never want to become the man he wants me to be.

My father’s howl marks the start of the hunt. And then they’re gone, out to the veld past the grove and on to the town beyond that.

The night is quiet, cool, and smells of the fruit that has fallen before the harvest.
 

I Don’t Bite
by Nicole Tanquary

Hey there hey hey there c’mere yeah c’mere pretty girl I like the way you walkin c’mere an talk to me hey hey HEY where you goin where you GOIN why you in such a hurry hey c’mon I don’t bite hey hey
Hey what
What you doin

I said what you doin, what you doin with yo face
Yo face is like …
  
Okay
I get it okay okay
Okay we cool hey hey we cool
I said we cool don’t look at me like that
Why you lookin at me like that
An what the Hell is wrong with yo mouth

Hey hey I’m walkin see I’m walkin I’m gone
I’m gone
I said I’m gone bitch why you followin me 
Why you followin me bitch stop followin me already I said I’m gone

I’m not foolin don’t you mess with me so just fuck off close yo mouth an stop smiling at me like that
    
Yeah yeah okay I shouldn’t have bothered you I’m sorry okay I’m sorry an I’m goin now I’m goin so stop fuckin-

HEY
HEY HEY Keep the HELL away from me
Those fuckin TEETH
The fuck you DOIN you CRAZY BI–