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conquer--
    Ed can feel him now, stirring and thrashing in his pit.
    The demon Croatoan claws the ground, screaming—
    They are still out there in their wells.
    The others of my so-called “kind.”
    Would kill me—would betray, HAVE betrayed—
    Alone but now must be alone —all I have is HATE.
    HATE HATE HATE HATE.
    They’re against me, would destroy me—All against me now!
    First I will take over these pathetic humans, body and soul—and then I will dig them up from their wells and make them PAY!!
     
     
    #
     
    “Against me,” the youthful Constable whispered. “Against me now. Hate.”
    In the shadowy basement laboratory, Rector Powell watched Ed Bolt, studying him. Strapped inside the upright wooden circle of their crudely built psychic amplifier, his hands and feet bound by silver manacles, the youth was in another world: the realm of the Master’s thoughts and desires.
    The young Constable’s face glittered with sweat in the pale alien light that radiated from a slit in the silver cylinder on the floor. He was clearly suffering through an ordeal, the Master’s perceptions and memories burning his mind …
    But there was no visible change yet, no remaking.
    When the change did come, Powell wondered if it would be as bad as it had been with Reverend Mott.
    Would the new refinements in the process work? Or would all the subjects emerge looking like worm-eaten corpses? He looked to Mott, who stood nearby, mumbling to himself and grinning his deathly smile.
    “Is it happening yet, Sir?” Powell’s servant, Mr. Starks, asked. The bearded man stood nearby, biting his lip apprehensively.
    “No, Mister Starks. It will take a while, I presume, as it did with the Reverend Mott. But he can’t fight forever.”
    “At least he’s stopped that awful retching,” Starks observed.
    The Rector nodded. “Physical reactions like that come from fighting the process. Once he accepts his fate, things will go quickly.”
    “Excuse me, Sir,” Starks asked, “but what if he doesn’t accept it? Can he win the fight?”
    The Rector reached out and touched Bolt’s damp forehead with a fingertip, allowing himself to be distantly sympathetic to the boy’s plight.
    “He can’t win,” the Rector explained. “Being merely human, he stands no chance. No chance at all.”
     
                                                                         

Chapter 8
     
    Julia had never seen Edwin leave.
    Mrs. Starks had escorted her abruptly to her bedroom as soon as the dinner was over, locking her in.
    She’d run to the window, hoping to get a glimpse of the Constable… Would he look back up to her, would he care, or even remember her?
    The rain had stopped and the moonlight was fairly bright now, so she had a clear view outside, to the faerie mound. If they were taking him through the passage from the basement, he would have to emerge there.
    But she waited… and waited… and he never emerged. No one came out.
    Her stomach churned with fear for the young Constable.
    How silly she had been, casting him as some rescuing knight in her personal faerie tale… had she placed him in danger by anything she’d done, or said?
    She didn’t think so, but… her father. He had been so careful to ask Edwin if anyone else knew he’d been coming out to the Manse.
    Oh no.
    Did the Master have him? Were they going to kill him, torture him… or worse, use him in some horrid experiment as they had Reverend Mott?
    As she waited and the first flow of dawn feebly bloomed in the sky, she thought she heard screaming. A young, male voice. Screaming and screeching in pain and anger.
    Edwin!
    She had to do something.
    Damsel in distress or not… Her knight needed her, now, and it was time to take action. She’d waited too long, too afraid of her father and the Master to do anything. But this was wrong. To imagine what they might be doing to her handsome young man now…
    She tried