Day 9: Rites of Renown

Sales, Werewolf: The Apocalypse

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Rites of RenownRites of Renown: When Will You Rage was a joy to edit. I got to collect new short stories from a sprawling pack of writers about my old friends, the Garou. There are some classic Werewolf writers here — James A. Moore, Sam Chupp, Jackie Cassada — and some younger hotshots — Eddy Webb, Devin Grayson. Each wrote a tale capturing some of that feel of what it was like to first encounter the Garou.

From The Magadon Job by Eddy Webb:

“It’s my sister,” she said, wrapping her hands around the environmentally conscious disposable cup. “She’s been taken.” Amanda leaned forward onto her elbows. “I’m sorry to hear that your packmate has been abducted, but we’re not really a ‘lost persons’ kind of team. I can get you the number of someone who….”

Liza glared at her, hard. “You’re not listening,” she snarled. And I mean, like, actually snarled. I didn’t even know you could do that in Homid. Anyway, she said “I didn’t say she was lost. I said she was taken. By Magadon.”

I let out a low whistle. Magadon. Maga-fucking-don. Medical subsidiary of global megacorp Pentex, and last place winner of the Friend of Gaia Award. They had their regional headquarters here in town, and we’d talked about hitting it. Hell, once Claudius was able to get us a partial set of floor plans, and I started drooling over the security system. It would be an amazing challenge, but Amanda always said it was an insane monkey wrench.

“It’s an insane monkey wrench,” she said to Liza. “The local Magadon branch is GenDiv, Genetics Division. This isn’t some suburban psych ward for troubled teens; this is their top R&D division. We’ll be lucky to get in the front door.”

“Let’s do it,” I said.

From Vigrid by James A. Moore:

And the hill that rose from the earth exploded, vomited a geyser of nutrient-robbed soil into the air, a herald of the thing that followed afterward. Pale flesh thrust upward, a heaving, nearly gelatinous mass that shuddered as it rose well above the height of a man, taller even than Karl in his most dangerous form. Still it humped its way from the ground, fifteen, twenty, thirty feet into the air, a column of diseased, slick flesh that stank of sulfur and death.

The roar that came from somewhere within the thing was a physical assault; Karl felt it in his bones. There were many servants of the Wyrm, but few that came close to resembling the Great Destroyer. This then, was a thunderwyrm.

The massive thing fell forward and Karl leaped back to avoid being crushed. The ground shook with the impact of the vile body, and thick strings of mucus splattered the soil.

Karl’s heart pounded in his chest, his eyes drank in the sight of his enemy and his rage sang within him. This was a worthy foe. This was an acceptable death.

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