Waves lap the shoreline. Palm trees rustle, muffling the snores of the men round the spit-roast, whose spices linger in the salt air. Logs flicker. The last captive looks out from his cage and prays.

Then clouds part, and the full moon’s light glides over him. He grins, fangs lengthening.

Michael B. Keane is a London-based writer of dark fiction.