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  “Like I just told you, man––I’d have no reason to. I don’t even know you.”

  One of the cronies said, “Come on, Damian. Get him already.” I had a name.

  I looked over to Mike, who was staring at the other two guys—guys we didn’t know—who’d found their way over toward him.

  I got shoved. Damian. He was in my face. “What’re you going to say now?”

  My head got real dizzy. Too much booze. I wasn’t in any kind of shape to fight.

  He shoved me again. I tried to stay up, and did so barely.

  A holler, and Mike was against a wall.

  “Leave him alone,” I said. “This isn’t his fault.”

  “Well,” Damian said, “I don’t care.”

  He pushed me, but I stepped back.

  “This is bull,” I said. “And I sure as hell ain’t gonna apologize for something I didn’t do.”

  He swung for my face–and just barely hit my shoulder.

  He was way stronger than me. I was in trouble. My shoulder thudded. There’d be a nasty bruise. The bastard.

  I put up my fists while Damian hovered.

  Mike was on the ground. One of the goons was on top of him. Looked like they were robbing him.

  “Get off him,” I said. “You bullies. What the hell?”

  His fist, my face.

  Every color exploded––like I was in the middle of a mortar shell.

  I tried to put up my arms to block him, but I’d been knocked for a loop.

  And he hit me again.

  I felt incredible pain.

  I felt nothing.

  My feet failed first—my legs followed.

  Down for the count, the others cheered.

  Everything felt like it’d turned slow motion. Reaching behind, I sat myself down. The world spun. The hit was too much for me to brush off.

  Damian kicked me in the chest. My breath forced out, the hit knocked me to the pavement.

  I heard more cheering, and more laughing.

  My breath wouldn’t catch.

  Damian leaned over me. His pug-like face looked inches away, then, miles away.

  He said something, but it didn’t register. Everything sounded like we were inside a tunnel.

  More kicks to my middle.

  My body and mind were separate. There was nothing grounding me.

  I turned my head to check for my friend.

  The two goons were centered on his head. They’d leaned down and it looked as though they were eating him. What the hell?

  They were on his neck. They held him down with their hands. The veins on the backs of their hands were puffed out, like they’d done steroids.

  One lifted his head. He looked so normal, other than those vacant eyes. The ghoul could’ve been anyone. Blood rimmed his lips and dripped from his chin: it was Mike’s blood. Our eyes met for a moment and from between the ghoul’s lips a worm-like thing slipped out. The tip was pointed and sharp. It twitched just a bit and I knew it was his tongue, although it was different than any other I’d ever seen or heard of.

  He lowered his head again. When he connected, Mike jerked. It seemed more like a reflex than a reaction. Mike’s eyes were shut. His skin had gone pale.

  They were draining him of his blood.

  One of their shirts had come undone in the front in the scuffle. His chest looked so white it was almost clear. I swear I could see his insides moving...could make out the faint movement of a beating, translucent heart. A stream of red entered the chamber, blossomed, and then colored the cradle of veins surrounding the organ. Blood. Mikey’s blood–drained from him and taken inside the ghost-like heart of the ghoul kneeling over him. How could the blood get from its tongue to its own heart so damn fast? I thought.

  I tried to yell and scream, but nothing came out. I was in shock. Nothing worked. I looked up to see where Damian was. He’d walked away from me and stood a few feet away from his creeps; he watched them work. Damian’s skin was the same pasty white as his consigliore.

  I turned my head and every nerve inside me seemed to explode at once. Mike laid still a dozen feet from me. Rain ran from his forehead, down his cheek. Only it wasn’t just rain, I noticed. A good stream of blood ran within the rain. There were unnatural gaps in his throat where they’d fed. Moon-shaped bruises marked his flesh.

  Those bastards. I’d get ’em. Somehow, some way, I knew I would. They stood over him, both of them wearing goatee-shaped smears of blood. Formerly empty eyes glistened. The blood––Mike’s blood––had reinvigorated them.

  The sons of bitches.

  Damian looked lit up from the inside. That sounds funny, because people don’t glow. It’s just that the rain seemed not to touch him. His skin didn’t look well at all. Maybe it was because he was so pumped from the fight that he just looked that way. Who knows?

  He’d won. They’d won in no time.

  I considered myself a big guy, but I’d been outgunned. I was shocked at how fast Damian had taken me down. It was inhuman.

  Drugs. Had to have been drugs. Maybe coke. Definitely some kind of upper. That’d explain it.

  Then? One final insult–a swift kick to my balls.

  The blinding pain knocked me down from space, and back inside my beaten husk.

  Bile rose. I turned my head, spewing hot, half-digested beer everywhere.

  “You should take a picture,” one of the goons said.

  “Don’t need to,” Damian said, “I won’t forget this.”

  Neither would I.

  Damian laughed and looked down at me. “You loser,” he said. “You got something smart to say now?” He spat at me, turned, and walked away. I heard them get inside the Jeep, turn it on, and drive away.

  He and his crew were gone, leaving Mike and me lying broken in the rain.

  Once I could no longer hear their Jeep leave, I pulled myself up. Everything hurt and stung. My wet clothes clung to me. I crawled over toward Mike.

  Nudged him.

  Got nothing.

  Kept pushing, tapping, and calling his name.

  No response.

  I used my thumb to try and open an eye.

  No reaction.

  I checked for a pulse.

  Found one, but it was faint.

  The skin of his wrist was cold.

  I tried CPR, but never really learned how, so it was for naught.

  Reaching inside my coat pocket, I found my phone in pieces. One of Damian’s kicks must’ve smashed it. Still, I tried to turn it on. Just in case I could make one more call. No dice.

  I screamed at Mike.

  A few folks had made their way over, probably after hearing my yelling. I hollered for them to call an ambulance, and the cops. They didn’t have to, though. Blue and red lights arrived moments later, just as the rain let up. I got myself to a bench, and sat.

  When I finally got my head on straight, I watched as the EMTs put my friend on a stretcher. They rushed, going as fast as they could. Mike was in big trouble.

  So was I.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

  Cincinnati OH 45249

  Little Secrets

  Copyright © 2016 by Megan Hart

  ISBN: 978-1-61923-087-3

  Edited by Don D’Auria

  Cover by Kanaxa

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