Publication Date—Nov 15, 2011
Falling in love with the teenage Antichrist is dangerous, in this short story from New York Times bestselling author Lilith Saintcrow.
“I think I’m the Antichrist,” Rob Maguire said, handing me the stolen cigarette. His gaunt face, covered with moving leaf shadows, pulled in on itself under his messy dark hair. I thought he was kidding. I took a long drag, let it out. “Great. If you are, can you kill my dad and get me out of here?” I was not kidding. I still had bruises from my last trip home. I’d lasted two days. Rob gave me a sideways look, hunching his thin shoulders. He was like that, wouldn’t ever say you were being a jerk directly. He’d been knocking around Holy Camp at least as long as I had; we’d been quasi-friends, off and on, for a couple years. Lately he’d been hanging with me a lot, ever since his sixteenth birthday. “So if you’re him, what are you doing at Camp, bigshot?” I couldn’t help myself.