Eddy Webb
Eddy Webb (with a “y,” thank you) is a writer, design consultant, and game and narrative designer for video games and RPGs. He’s worked on over 150 books and games during his career. He has created unique game universes, such as the Realms of Pugmire. He’s also worked on established properties like Transformers, The Walking Dead, Futurama, Firefly, Red Dwarf, the WWE, and Sherlock Holmes. He’s even won a few awards over the past decade or so. In his spare time, he advocates for more inclusion of people with hearing loss. He can be found at pugsteady.com.
London (Greater London)
A complete list of works can be found at https://www.pugsteady.com/works.
Books, Short story, Videogames
10
Moonlight pours through the stained-glass windows of a remodeled Gothic church, and in its basement, the dead dine with family. From a small table off in the corner, I watch a thin, almost emaciated woman with steel hair and pale eyes stand from one end of a ridiculously long table. Anja Giovanni raises her wine glass of treated blood to the assembled. I swirl around the thickening blood in my own glass, half-listening to her speech. Something about gathering the Clan of Death, embarking on new beginnings, the usual horseshit. I tune in just as I sense she’s wrapping up. “For we are all Hecata, now. We are all family.”
She nods to the Japanese man at the other end of the table, who also stands up. Hiromitsu Asano has a twig pinned to a jacket that’s worth more than I make in a year. He thanks her and raises his glass in return. Everyone else raises their glass, too. The whole room smells like a hospital dump: nothing but coppery blood and dead bodies. The gazillions of flower place-settings just add a layer of fragrant death over everything.
The fat, sweaty-looking man in a rumpled suit sitting next to me has been trying to catch my eye for half an hour now. Clearly annoyed that I didn’t raise my glass for the toast, he reaches over and taps his glass against mine. “There. Now you’re being social.”
I take a sip of the blood. “Didn’t come here to be social.”
“Tough.” He shoves a hand out to me. “Tony Ambrose. Of the Puttanesca.”
I sigh and take it. It feels clammy and soft, like a fish a day past its sell-by date. “Maria. Of the Pisanob, I guess.”
He raises an eyebrow at that. “Pisanob? Ain’t many of yours around anymore.”
I bite back yet another profanity and close my eyes.
I watched the flames lick the sides of my sire’s haven. I didn’t get the call fast enough, I didn’t drive fast enough, I wasn’t fast enough to stop it. I fell to my knees, tears rolling down my face. And all I could hear in my head was him chiding me, like he did during my first ceremony lessons.
“Don’t cry, little Maria,” he would say. I could remember how he always smelled of sandalwood and copper. “Death comes to us all, even the immortals. One day I, too, shall cross the Shroud and join both those we have lost and those we have enslaved. You can’t become a necromancer if you cry over every single death.”
I wiped my arm across my eyes, and blood smeared on my sleeve. In the corner of my eye I could see a man who was also watching the blaze. He put his cell phone away and got back into his large sedan. He was a fat, sweaty man in a rumpled suit. He didn’t look at me as he drove away.
“Hey, you listening to me?” Tony’s voice cuts through my reverie. “I asked you what happened to all of youse.”
I open my eyes and turn to stare at him — the first time I’ve looked at him all evening. “Most of us were murdered.” He leans back from my gaze, and I imagine what it would feel like to rip his throat out with my teeth
She nods to the Japanese man at the other end of the table, who also stands up. Hiromitsu Asano has a twig pinned to a jacket that’s worth more than I make in a year. He thanks her and raises his glass in return. Everyone else raises their glass, too. The whole room smells like a hospital dump: nothing but coppery blood and dead bodies. The gazillions of flower place-settings just add a layer of fragrant death over everything.
The fat, sweaty-looking man in a rumpled suit sitting next to me has been trying to catch my eye for half an hour now. Clearly annoyed that I didn’t raise my glass for the toast, he reaches over and taps his glass against mine. “There. Now you’re being social.”
I take a sip of the blood. “Didn’t come here to be social.”
“Tough.” He shoves a hand out to me. “Tony Ambrose. Of the Puttanesca.”
I sigh and take it. It feels clammy and soft, like a fish a day past its sell-by date. “Maria. Of the Pisanob, I guess.”
He raises an eyebrow at that. “Pisanob? Ain’t many of yours around anymore.”
I bite back yet another profanity and close my eyes.
I watched the flames lick the sides of my sire’s haven. I didn’t get the call fast enough, I didn’t drive fast enough, I wasn’t fast enough to stop it. I fell to my knees, tears rolling down my face. And all I could hear in my head was him chiding me, like he did during my first ceremony lessons.
“Don’t cry, little Maria,” he would say. I could remember how he always smelled of sandalwood and copper. “Death comes to us all, even the immortals. One day I, too, shall cross the Shroud and join both those we have lost and those we have enslaved. You can’t become a necromancer if you cry over every single death.”
I wiped my arm across my eyes, and blood smeared on my sleeve. In the corner of my eye I could see a man who was also watching the blaze. He put his cell phone away and got back into his large sedan. He was a fat, sweaty man in a rumpled suit. He didn’t look at me as he drove away.
“Hey, you listening to me?” Tony’s voice cuts through my reverie. “I asked you what happened to all of youse.”
I open my eyes and turn to stare at him — the first time I’ve looked at him all evening. “Most of us were murdered.” He leans back from my gaze, and I imagine what it would feel like to rip his throat out with my teeth