Disclaimer: Nope, I still don't own them. Dang it.

The Knife Under the Pillow

By: Vanessa Sgroi

I am THE knife. Not just THE knife, but HIS knife. The very one the strong and determined hunter keeps under his pillow. He keeps me tucked away there, close at hand, for protection. Because you just never know what might come calling in the witching hour.

I am a special knife. To him, I'm special because I was a gift from his father. But my specialness goes far beyond mere sentimentality. Small, almost imperceptible, symbols adorn my handle. My finely honed steel blade was wrought from . . . well; let's just say I owe a knight and an angel a debt for my very existence.

I have been blessed, you know. Blessed by a long-ago priest, a gentle and righteous soul, who understood—who understood the black and amorphous evils that walk this earth.

This young and intrepid hunter, this warrior, does not realize the extent of my illustriousness. Though when he brandishes me with such skill, he does feel a certain electricity—a certain confidence.

When evil seeks to conquer, his aim is always true, and as he fulfills his duty, I fulfill mine.

My duty and my destiny.

His safety.

I'm THE knife under the pillow.

The End