Reader's Feast
Author: Carolyn McCray
Date: 2012-12-21 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Fantasy; Romance; Anthologies; Mystery Thriller; Young Adult; Short Stories
Description: With over 200,000 bestelling words this volume includes... 7 Folds of Winter - the #1 YA+ Epic Fantasy, The Rush: A MoonRush Prequel Featuring Mia - the bestselling prequel Moonrush short story Rook - the bestselling supernatural thriller Ambush - the bestselling Betrayed prequel short story Anatomy - the bestselling Harbinger mystery short story Pet Holiday Miracles - the bestselling inspirational short story collection Pet Whisperer...er...rrr - the bestselling romantic comedy Hacked - the bestselling techno-thriller Robin Hood Hacker prequel short story
Publisher: Off Our Meds MultiMedia

From bestselling author Carolyn McCray comes an eclectic collection spanning the breadth of her career.

The perfect gift for that hard to buy for person!

Praise for A Reader’s Feast…

“McCray’s books are always an easy read. When you start a book it’s hard to put down.....always wondering....what’s next?”

Thomas R. Burnett

Amazon Reviewer

“Most authors cannot or have great difficulty branching into different genres and having main characters of all genders and identities. While reading I could place myself as each character and truly enjoy the adventures. I even felt myself connecting in the short pet stories! Wonderful!”

Norita Hiatt

Amazon Reviewer

“This truly was a FEAST including desert! If you are nor familiar with Carolyn McCray, this a great introductin, you will be looking for MORE!”

B. Blair

Amazon Reviewer

“Any reader that loves variety should try these I read them on a long flight and I wasn't bored once!”

Leah Steele

Amazon Reviwer

A Reader’s Feast

7 Fold of Winter

A YA+ Epic Fantasy

The Rush

A prequel MoonRush short story

Rook

Let’s stop the apocalypse, people

Ambush

A 30 pieces of Silver prequel short story

Anatomy

A Plain Jane prequel short story

Pet Holiday Miracles

A short story collection of inspirational holiday Miracles

Pet Whisperer…er…rrr

Book 1 in the Animial’s Talk Back series

Hacked

An Encrypted prequel short story

************

Start Reading

Table Contents

Afterword

About the Author

Other Works by Carolyn McCray

Copyright

7 Folds of Winter: A YA+ Epic Fantasy

CHAPTER 1

Traven was nearly beside himself with excitement. It was the spring equinox, and this year his family had the honor of hosting the feast. Which meant every friend, cousin, aunt, uncle, dog, and runaway slave that could pronounce the Spart name were housed and fed for a full week.

Traven had so many playmates; they ran as a pack, leaving behind a sea of destruction. But not now. No, now all the children were as still as a bunny sniffing the air for kiyotes. Even though their Granny Barely was doing nothing more exciting than sewing a lace kerchief, each of them stared up at the old woman as if she were one of those snake charmers.

Granny put down her stitching and sighed. Each of us took a deep breath as she closed her eyes and rocked silently. Traven knew the time was at hand. The table was cleared, the dishes done. The menfolk had retired to the dining hall, smoking their pipes and drinking the sauce our Ma slapped us for sipping.

The women had taken seats around the room, quietly picking up their craft. Traven smiled at his Ma until he realized that Granny was staring at him with those storytelling eyes of hers. The whites of her eyes glistening in the firelight.

Once her eyelids drooped, we jostled for position, not caring that we had to stay inside tonight. Our angst at not being able to join the older children out in the barn was forgotten.

For those like Traven who were too young to lift a sword, or his sisters Amari and ‘Becca, who were too tender to bleed a woman’s first blood, gathered to listen to Granny. The old woman stirred, and we were rapt with attention.

Clearing her throat, she leaned forward. “When the first snows fall…” Granny stopped as she coughed and wheezed until she finally spit up something into her handkerchief that resembled what we fed the dogs. But she always did this. It set the mood. Silence blanketed the room. Even Auntie Kay’s knitting needles fell quiet.

“When the first snows fall— stay at your hearth!” Granny announced as the room was plunged into darkness. Even those of us who had seen this trick every equinox gasped as the fire cracked and popped. I knew the womenfolk had put out the candles, but I loved how the youngins stared with wide-open eyes.

By the glow of the fire, Granny’s every feature took on menace. Her hands curled around the arm of her chair. I would swear her nails grew and had all manner of nastiness beneath them. Voice low and threatening, she continued. Even the occasional crack in her throat sent shivers down our backs.

“Do not be deceived by snow’s pretty facade or its delicate taste. It is death!”

We took a collective gulp. Winter, the season we’d just weathered, became strange and mysterious again. In reality, it was just a time to annoy our mothers to the point that they wanted to throw us out into a snow bank. But they never did. Storms could descend from Father Winter so quickly that they blinded the eyes. It was very likely you’d never find your home again.

“First ya gets all cold and tingly. Then the numbness sets in. So cold you can’t even feel your own hands. But before you fall into that final sleep, you hear voices from the past. Voices of the dead talking to you from the grave. That’s when ya know you’re done for.”

Traven looked down at Helda. Her brother had snuck out two winters ago and was lost. His body wasn’t found until the Thaw. Helda’s eyes shone with tears, and her jaw was slack, her mouth slightly open as she took in the story, body and soul.

“So do not forget. Stay to your hearth! But if you find yourself on the Barren Plains, caught in the clutches of a blizzard, then seek the Seven Folds of Winter. They are your only protection. Nay, they are your only hope.”

A chill went down Traven’s spine as he closed his eyes, promising anything to any god who would guide Granny to his favorite story about The Rider Who Did Not Know.

‘Becca interrupted the old woman, “Oh, Granny, please tell the story of the Snowy Maiden. Please!”

Amari, Traven’s older sister, added her encouragement, “Yes, Granny. Tell us of The Rider and The Maiden’s love. Is she safe in the Icy Tower? Will they ever be reunited?”

Traven was about to pipe up, but Granny was already shaking her head. He should have known Granny would decline. She had the look of fire and fight in her eyes. Tonight a love story would just not do.

“Girls, you’ll have to wait. It is too early in the year for such tales. Snow still kisses the Western Peaks. Wait until the fireflies blink their intentions and young men come courting. That is the time for such a romance.”

Traven hid a smile as Granny went back to rocking. The fire popped, sending a spray of sparks into the hearth. All thoughts of silly love ballads faded from the room. Tonight was for bone and sinew.

“A Rider, who did not have a Granny as nice as I, wandered into Winter’s grip.”

Traven did not hear the next few lines. He was too busy thanking all the gods for his good fortune.

“Frozen to the bone and starved, The Rider Who Did Not Know searched the horizon for some sign that Old Man Winter did not wish him dead. It was then that the Giants appeared on the horizon. At first they were just specks. Then theys grew to the height of the tallest tree The Rider Who Did Not Know had ever seen. They spoke a strange language, but their meaning was clear…”

Granny paused as only she could, then continued.

“They meant to eats him!”

The little ones squealed, and soon there was a semicircle of open space in front of Granny as they scooted back a bit.

“Pulled him from his horse, they did, knocking his sword away. Then grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him across the plains. Because, ya see, they wanted their meat fresh.”

Now even those who had begged and cried to go out to the barn inched away, leaving Granny room to lean forward even more forebodingly.

“Before the Rider had a chance to pull the hidden knife from his boot, the snow itself gave up the White Wolves of Winter. They growled and snapped, causing the great Giants themselves to tremble.”

Traven thrilled at this part, but Traven noticed that ‘Becca had slipped from our group and crawled onto our mother’s lap. That was okay. If one of the little ones didn’t wake up screaming, the storytelling wasn’t good enough.

“But the wolves didn’t eats him. They brought him back to their lair… where the Rider met a Fairy…”

“Forgive me, Granny, but I really can’t concentrate.”

Traven chuckled, startling both himself and his horse. He hadn’t laughed in months, and certainly not since crossing the tree line onto the Barren Plains. Snowstorms had battered him until his lips bled from a simple smile. His situation really was not all that funny, but still Traven laughed.

Granny had it right all along. Just before you give up the ghost, you start hearing voices from the grave. Traven’s grandmother had been dead for over six years, yet he could hear that scratchy voice like it was yesterday. Her eyes had shone with pride when he left his hearth to seek Mount Shrine and become a Hero just like those in the tales she told.

To think all that Traven desired had come true. He grew to be knighted by the Queen herself, hunted with a prince, and kissed more than his fair share of princesses. Glory and praise had been showered upon him like a gentle spring rain.

Half a decade ago, when he was anointed as a Hero of the Realm, it was upon the very steps that Kings were crowned. The breeze had been warm that morning. It had tugged on the red ribbon that sealed his Imperial scroll. He could feel the rough parchment in his fingers as the Emperor handed him the document that set him upon his Quest.

Back then it didn’t matter to Traven that he would have to forsake his home and family to ride to all four corners of the world. No sacrifice was too great. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind, and especially his own, that Traven was, quite literally, going to save the world.

Traven snorted again, causing his stallion’s ear to twitch. Everyone would be a tad disappointed if they saw him now. Perhaps it was best that Granny had not lived to see this day.

Because you see, Traven was twenty-three. An outlaw, exiled and hounded onto the Northern Plains during the bitterest winter any old codger could remember. Traven was cold, numb, and despite Granny’s assurances, there was not a Fold in sight.

* * *

Crystalia tried to shield herself from the stench and din out in the commons by making herself busy in her father’s storeroom. Everyone was supposed to turn out for the Mid-winter sacrifice, but Crystalia tried to keep her mind off of the commotion by dutifully counting the jars of ginger, cinnamon, and orange essence.

Unfortunately, the walls of their small chutney shoppe were thin, and Crystalia could easily hear the bleating of the tiny kid and the cries of its nanny goat. The poor thing wanted only its mother, but the priests kept it tied in the middle of yard, awaiting the Garrison Commander. Nothing in Last Hitch could happen without his approval— not even the yearly sacrifice to the Winter King.

Desperate to forget the horrible events outside her little shoppe, Crystalia abandoned counting bottles to imagine far-off lands. Ah, to leave the snow and mud behind. She yearned to see the towering pines of Courageous Stand or the crashing waves along the Cliffs of Mourning.

How she longed to travel the world. She had dreamt of it every night and could not count the number of times she’d ridden across the Flowering Meadows. Crystalia yearned to strike south and travel until her eyes feasted on enough green to wash away every memory of endless snow.

She frowned. Even that dream was crumbling. Rumors from the scraggly traders bore solemn news. The frigid winds were sweeping farther and farther south. Even the Narrow Valley had been kissed with snow last winter. Talk of evil omens and dire prophecies sprinkled the conversation of even stalwart churchgoers.

Crystalia cared for none of it. If these silly sacrifices were to appease Father Winter, why did they have yet another year of record snowfall? If the old god liked baby goats so much, why had he prevented a full Thaw last summer? Crystalia found it all very silly. The girl was quite certain that they could slaughter all the livestock in town, and the snow would keep falling.

A shout came from the other room, “Crystalia!” Her father jerked the storeroom’s door open. “What are you doing? The priests are preparing the whetting stone.”

Crystalia became nauseated just thinking about the huge knife they used to sacrifice the poor baby goat.

“Papa, I’m checking our supplies—”

“It can wait. I won’t hear how this family doesn’t support the Brotherhood. You wouldn’t want them all blaming us for this weather would ya?”

Her father did have a point. The townsfolk had become fickle and capricious since the heavy snows lay in. Last Hitch had never been a spot on any minstrel’s map, but they had always treated the wanderers and trappers with respect and hospitality, after a fashion.

Now, anyone who dared enter the town’s walls was subjected to interrogation from the garrison and the Brotherhood. The whole town suspected foul play and demons under every rock. Something or someone had to be blamed for the hostile weather.

“Put on your good dress and meet me outside.” Her father walked into the shoppe proper. “If you’re not there by the sacrifice, I will know the reason why.”

Crystalia bowed her head and assured her father she’d hurry. Digging through her hope chest, the girl fished out her “fancy clothes.” Seldom did she get to wear her blue dress, but it had to be for such a miserable occasion. It simply wasn’t fair.

After slipping on the garment, Crystalia looked at herself in the bronze mirror. She imagined the dingy dress was really a gown made of expensive silk, like her friend Viola’s. Crystalia had the better figure for such a shapely garment anyway. Viola was petite, nearly a sculpture of a budding young woman, but Crystalia’s bosom was a tad more developed. She’d heard the smith’s apprentice telling his friends about it.

Oh, how grand her dress would be with lace at the collar and pearls as ornaments. Gold combs would pull back her mousy hair. Or perhaps a lady from a far-away court would mix exotic dyes to make her hair as golden as Viola’s cascade of curls.

Crystalia frowned. Why did she get endowed with such lackluster hair? Her family lineage dated back to the first settlers out on the Northern Plains. Each one of them had a golden hue to their hair. Why did she have to be the throw back to her ancestors’ days out on the savanna? Her brown eyes, even though flecked with gold, were a rarity amongst the blue-eyed Northerns. Her whole life, she’d stood out like some kind of freak. But with a gown like the one Crystalia imagined, dancing at a ball in the Southern Kingdoms, she would be renowned for her beauty.

Her nose cringed at the stench of burned meat filling the air. The Guilds must have performed their own sacrifices and were already cooking the meat. These winter-hardened people did not waste a scrap of food.

“Crysty! Crysty! Crysty!” A cry came from the front of the shoppe. By the high pitch and joyful tone, it could only be Viola.

“I’ll be right out!” Crystalia said as she hurried so her friend would not see her dingy room. But, as always, Viola ignored anyone else’s instruction and burst in. Mischief turned the blonde’s beautiful features radiant.

“Oh, this is a most wondrous day! Can you believe it? Could we be so lucky?”
Crystalia finished the last button on her gown and scowled. “What? Are they going to sacrifice two goats this time?”

By Viola’s wounded look, she knew that she’d been too harsh. Her sweet friend was even more shaken by these ritual killings than even Crystalia.

“I’m sorry, Vi. What is the news?”

“You must come!” With those words uttered, Viola grabbed Crystalia by the wrist and dragged her out onto the cobblestone street.

“Wait. I need to lock the shop!”

“Why? Everyone’s out in the square!” Viola’s was almost too excited to speak. “Father has grown tired of waiting for the commander. He is going to pass out favors! If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the best ones!”

Crystalia slowed her frantic pace. She loved Viola dearly, but the girl had a soft spot for trinkets and gifts. It sometimes seemed Viola’s mind was as light and airy as her bountiful curls. Crystalia was not so easily swayed. Besides, Viola’s father would never deign to give a shoppe keep’s girl one of his precious good-luck favors. Those were always reserved for the town’s gentry.

“What are you doing? Hurry!” Viola urged as she elbowed them through the crowd.

Which was no small feat. It seemed the entire town was packed into the common square. This was the best showing for the Sacrifice that Crystalia could remember. Everyone she had met or even heard about was here— with the possible exception of Madame Hesper.

Viola dropped Crystalia’s hand as she rushed forward. It seemed Mr. Lannister was already passing out his goodies. Hesitating, Crystalia took a peek over her shoulder to glance at the Madame’s huge mansion. No one looked like they lived there, let alone cared that the Solstice Sacrifice was about to commence. Shivering, and not just from the cold, Crystalia turned back and entered the jostling crowd, looking for Viola.

Before she could find her friend, an object sped towards Crystalia. She only had time to duck. The object hit the tips of her fingers and fell to the ground. Several women scrambled for the small package, but it scooted beneath Crystalia’s skirt.

Under the harsh gaze of the older women, Crystalia knelt down and picked up the tissue-wrapped gift. A red bow tied the package together. The girl was afraid to open it. Afraid someone would come and tell her that it was not for her. Glancing about, Crystalia noticed that Viola was just a few steps away, her hands overflowing with dainty trinkets.

“Crysty! Look at this! And this! And this!”

Viola tried to show Crystalia everything at once and ended up showing her nothing. But Viola barely noticed the dropped packages once her father tossed another half-dozen presents into the air. Crystalia’s friend scampered over to the favors landing, leaving Crystalia to stare at her own tiny gift.

The girl slowly turned it over in her hand. No one but her late mother had ever given her anything before. Even then, it was always a functional item, like the kerchief she carried in her pocket.

With a mixture of dread and anticipation, Crystalia untied the ribbon. It fluttered to the ground as the tissue opened like a timid flower. Holding her breath, she nudged the last corner open. As she pulled the present from its wrapping, her lips curled down into a frown. It was just a stupid twig. Compared to Viola’s gilded baubles and satin trinkets, this was an embarrassment. She tried to hide the tiny piece of wood, but Viola would have none of it.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Crystalia said as she tried to shove the gift into her pocket, but Viola grabbed her hand and forced it open.

“Oh, how did you become so lucky? Can we trade? Please?”

Crystalia stood shocked. Was Viola teasing her? “Why would you want to swap?”

“Don’t you know? Crysty! This is part of an apple branch. The fruit of love.” Viola’s voice pleaded. “Please, won’t you exchange?”

“You want a piece of wood—”

“It’s a twig from the tree of Eros!” Viola tried to keep her voice hushed, but a few of the women looked ready to jump them for Crystalia’s prize.

“Really?”

“Please trade!”

Twirling the twig between her fingers, Crystalia murmured, “This must have cost a fortune…”

“Father had it shipped from the Queen’s Orchard.” Viola lowered her tone to a whisper. “He even cursed out loud when the courier asked for payment. It’s the most expensive of all the favors.”

With new appreciation, Crystalia sniffed at the bark. The faintest scent of apples greeted her nose. At least she thought it was apples. She had only tasted the fruit once before. Even at that, it had been dried and mixed with oats.

“Am I supposed to chew it?”

Viola nodded vigorously. “While you think of your greatest love. If your heart is true, he will be delivered to you.”

“Do I have to say his name?”

Viola swatted at Crystalia’s shoulder. “No, you silly! Why would you do that? He has to be a surprise!”

Chills broke out over Crystalia’s body. A surprise? What a surprise that would be.

“Just remember you can’t eat another thing until you are certain you’ve met him!”

“Nothing else?”

“Aye.” Viola nudged her with a wink. “Hope you ate a big supper.”

Crystalia’s eyes widened. “I’m not… I’m not going to actually do this… Do it now?”

“Why not?” Viola asked as she motioned to the surrounding crowd. “Everyone’s here. It’s the perfect time. You’ll draw him to you like a bee to wildflowers.”

Crystalia surveyed the throng. Did she even want one of these boys to notice her? But Viola looked at her with such enthusiasm that Crystalia found herself bringing the twig to her lips. She just had to chew this piece of wood, and the love of her life would reveal himself? Did magic like that really exist?

“If you don’t, I will!”

Protective over her little treasure, Crystalia turned away from her friend. Viola had her curls and lace. Standing in the mud in a faded cotton dress, what did Crystalia have besides this little twig?

With one last breath, Crystalia placed the sliver on her tongue and began chewing. At first tentatively, then with more urgency. The tart apple taste spilled from the bark.

“Well? What’s it like?”

“Tastes good,” Crystalia said between bites.

“No, do you feel anything? Do you feel different?”

Crystalia wished she could say she did, but she didn’t. What had she expected though? It was an expensive piece of wood, but a piece of wood, none the less. “No, sorry.”

With the excitement drained out of the moment, Viola turned back to the showering of gifts, leaving Crystalia standing alone. She knew it was silly to keep chewing at the twig, but it felt good in her mouth.

Looking around at the crowd, Crystalia tried to imagine whom she would wish for herself. The pool she had to choose from was poor. With this sorry lot of boys, she might as well spit the pulp out. But still she chewed on. Who knew what magic worked in the wood? Crystalia blushed. She was getting as bad as Viola.

But it was nice to dream.

Wasn’t it?

* * *

Stories centuries old tried to overtake his mind again, but Traven shook himself awake. Not that he didn’t love his Granny’s memory, but it was bad enough to be lost out on the Northern Plains; he didn’t need her to remind him of others’ peril. He had enough of his own.

Vision blurry, Traven used the back of his glove to wipe away the frozen snow on his eyelashes. The weather seemed to wiggle in and take hold of every part and parcel of his body.

Unconsciously, Traven’s hand wandered to his boot. Reassured his knife was still hidden, he gripped the reins again. Traven would never admit it to anyone, but he had made certain the secret sheath was fashioned after The Rider Who Did Not Know. He knew it was silly and perhaps childish, but he felt more the Hero with the blade safely stashed in his boot. Traven sighed. Not that the tiny knife would do him much good against the cold. He needed shelter, badly.

Not knowing why he bothered, Traven scanned the horizon. There had been nothing for days. Yet, what was that on the distant skyline? He blinked again and refocused. Before he had drifted off, Traven had noted a black blemish in the distance. He’d thought it no more than another snow mirage.

Over the course of the last three days, Traven had thought he had found five towns, two groves of trees, and several warm taverns. Each was nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

But this splotch was too large, and the detail too great, to be mistaken for a delusion. Traven spurred his horse a bit. No, the once-tiny dot was now a messy sprawl. The Hero whooped into the stiff wind. He cared not about the town’s architecture— the place was his salvation. It might not be a Fold, but he would gladly take it.

Traven pulled out his cracked and frayed map. By the town’s squat walls and lack of ornament, Traven could only assume this was Last Hitch. Had he truly been out on the Plains for six full days? By the gods, he never thought that he’d last this long.

Lauger, Traven’s black stallion, twitched his tail, and a small spring enlivened the horse’s step. The smell of smoke and human refuse drifted on the wind. Still it smelled like civilization. Traven’s stomach growled so loudly that he was certain the gate’s guard could hear it. Lauger must have felt the same as he broke into a trot. The horse was weary but knew a stable lay ahead.

For a moment, Traven took in a well-deserved breath and allowed relief to flow through him. Safety was near at hand. He would not die out on the Plains. Granny must have been wrong after all.

Traven’s nose twitched as Lauger’s ears flicked backward. There was a new smell, one that was exotic yet familiar. Uneasily, Traven shifted in his saddle and took another sniff. The mouth-watering aroma of seared meat greeted his nostrils. Lamb or kid, he could not be sure. Awfully rich meat for such a poor town. Besides, what were they doing with an open brazier with night falling and dark storm clouds brewing on the horizon? Traven stiffened in his seat.

What day was it? On the long trek he’d completely lost count of the calendar. Quickly ticking the days off in his head, Traven spurred Lauger forward. The air was now thick with the bitter sting of sage and Spanish moss.

It could not be! Those smells were unique to only one event. An event that could spell the town’s doom. Traven’s map fell from his numb fingers and fluttered away as he urged his stallion forward.

It was the Solstice Eve, and this town meant to offer a sacrifice to the Winter god.

At a gallop, Traven charged towards the town gate. No guard stood posted. All were at the altar. He would have to admonish the garrison’s commander on their poor defenses. But all that could wait.

First he must stop the sacrifice – or all were doomed.

* * *

Crystalia reluctantly stepped forward with her father. He had jockeyed them into a position so one and all could witness their dutiful faces. After the hubbub of the Guild Master’s generosity, the priests had brought order to the crowd and began the burning of incense and musk. The strong scent stung Crystalia’s nose, and she wished to be far from here when the knife was brought down to end the kid’s desperate cries.

Chewing the last bit of bark between her teeth, Crystalia glanced around the crowd. Antony, the stable owner’s son, was picking a scab on his nose while his friend cleaned his fingernails with his teeth. Both had the look of eager anticipation. The brutal ceremony was a welcome break to their monotonous life. They could hardly wait for the killing to begin.

Who had she been kidding, wishing upon a stupid apple twig? What boy would she want anyway? Viola’s father had wasted his money; that was all.

The Commander’s horse picked its way through the tightly packed crowd. Dismounting, the tall officer climbed the steps to join the priest.

Thank goodness.

This whole thing would be over soon. Turning away from her scowling father, Crystalia cringed. As the priest raised his knife above the baby goat’s outstretched neck, the girl squeezed her eyes shut.

The crowd hushed so quiet that you could hear the wind rustle through the eaves. That was when a wild yell burst forth. A tortured scream. The throng milled, confused. The guards shouted, pointing back towards the gate. A man atop a huge stallion charged into the town square.

One word was upon his breath: “No!”

Several of the guardsmen tried to intercept the lone attacker, but his horse knocked them away with steel-tipped hooves. At the sight of flashing metal, the crowd broke, then ran.

Crystalia was nearly trampled as the throng panicked. Her father was nowhere to be found. The Commander barked out orders, but the square had descended into chaos.

The girl knew that she should seek shelter as the rest had done, but her feet would not move. They were more securely grounded to the spot than if she had used mortar. Crystalia was transfixed by the dark stranger. His hood flew back, allowing his black curls to flow behind him.

As he advanced, Crystalia could tell the man was born far south of the Treeline. What others might have mistaken as madness in his eyes, the girl saw sheer determination. Even after the priests had scattered, Crystalia stood firm. She simply could not move.

* * *

Traven ignored the fleeing townsfolk. They were of no interest. The only person that concerned him was the tall officer who stood defiant upon the makeshift platform. Traven reigned in Lauger and brought him alongside the platform. The officer’s jaw clenched, but his hand hung free of his scabbard, his sword undrawn.

Sheathing his sword, Traven pounded his fist to his chest, bowing his head in respect. “Forgive my trespass, Commander. I mean this town no harm, but I must ask you to step away from the altar.”

“I know not who you are, but you shall pay for this intrusion.”

Traven kept his tone even as he tried to quiet the shaking of his hands. The long ordeal out on the Plains had taken its toll. Traven feared he might not stay atop his horse long enough to convince the commander to abort this grievous ceremony.

“My men surround you as we speak. Surrender, and I promise your death will be quick.”

Traven brought his shield to bear. “This is the Emperor’s crest—”

“It proves you a thief, nothing more.”

With leaden fingers, Traven unbuttoned his near-frozen shirt to reveal the same icon tattooed to his chest, but the commander was unimpressed.

“Nothing but delusions of grandeur…”

Fighting to remain patient, Traven fumbled in his pack. These Northerners were as cold as their god. Finally, Traven pulled out a tattered piece of parchment. “This is an Edict from the High Council.”

“We pay no allegiance to your lords—”

“Your own Prince of the North has put his seal to it.”

The Commander’s fierce features wavered. “It could be a forgery…”

“Look for yourself. You have seen the wax emblem many a times. Examine it before you condemn me as a ruffian, sir.”

Traven nudged Lauger to the platform and handed the stiff officer the document. While Sky Shawl was officially within the Kingdom of All Men, they refused to bend to the crown. The only authority these Northerners respected was that of their own Prince.

The Commander’s eyes left Traven long enough to scan the parchment. Concern, then confusion, clouded the proud man’s face. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I shall explain. All I ask is that you delay the sacrifice until we can speak.”

“Then talk.”

Traven shook his head. “Not here. What needs explaining is best done without other ears.”

He motioned to the girl at the steps and the few brave townsfolk who had come out from their awnings. The Hero glanced around the yard. The town’s gate was already closed, and iron bars were being lowered over the wood. Archers were taking up position along the ramparts. His gambit had best work, or he would be taken by force. “Perhaps in your private chamber?”

“You dare take me hostage?” the Commander asked.

“I would never dare such a thing, Commander. Once we are within your walls and you hear my piece, I will submit myself to your authority.”

“You will surrender your weapons?”

“Once inside and alone.”

The Commander weighed Traven’s words, then nodded. “Follow me.”

The older man showed a spryness uncommon in a man his age as he mounted his stallion.

Traven’s sense of relief was so strong he nearly tilted from his saddle. Only his frozen knees, clenched around Lauger, kept him steady. It would not do to show weakness at such a time. The battle was far from over. The worst was yet to come.

How do you tell such a proud man that his god has gone mad?

* * *

Crystalia’s eyes teared over as the stranger and the Commander rode away. Waves of overwhelming delight and loss washed over her. He was the most perfect man she had ever laid eyes upon. Tall but not monstrous, tousled without being unkempt. He was perfection incarnate.

Oh, and to think she had been so near him.

Biting down, she let out a little yip. A piece of the apple’s bark must have gotten lodged in her teeth and nicked her tongue. A bit of warm blood filled her mouth with the taste of iron and salt. Could this be a sign? Could the lover’s apple have brought him to Last Hitch? For her?

Suddenly her legs felt weak, and she found herself wilting to her knees. Not caring that her good dress was now awash with icy mud, Crystalia began to cry. The moment was so pure and magical that it hurt just to think upon it.

“Crystalia! What are you doing, child? Are you hurt? Did he harm you?”

“No, Pappy. I’m fine.” But in reality the stranger had torn out her heart and ridden away with it.

“Then get out of the mud, girl! You are making a spectacle of yourself.”

More out of habit than obedience, Crystalia rose to her feet.

“Crysty, wait up!” Viola shouted over the now-crowded square.

“What does that one want now?” her father grumbled as Viola deftly wiggled through the excited crowd.

“You were so brave. You were right there. Right next to him!” Viola had not an ounce of dignity as she tugged Crystalia’s wrist. “You must come with me. Father and his friends are taking the buggy over to the garrison to wait on word from the commander!”

Crystalia’s father jerked her again, yanking towards home. “We’ve had enough commotion for the day. Crystalia has chores to finish.”

“Pappy!” Crystalia heard herself exclaim. It was not like her to disobey her father, at least, not directly. What had come over her?

Viola wedged herself between them. “My father, the Guild Master, has requested her presence in our buggy, sir.”

Well, Crystalia certainly doubted that Mr. Lannister even knew her name, let alone that he would invite a commoner’s daughter into his private buggy, but she was not about to correct Viola. Pappy looked like he had his own suspicions, but even at Viola’s young age, she had more power in this town than the old shoppe keep.

“Go, then. But have dinner on the table by nightfall.” Without waiting for a response, Crystalia’s father turned on his heel and stalked back to the shop.

Viola clapped with delight. “We’d best hurry if we want a good spot to see the Hero.”

“But I thought your father—”

“Please. Father’s holed up with his cronies, wrangling over what is happening instead of going over there and finding out.”

Crystalia beamed as Viola pulled her into a hug. “Oh, Crysty, you were right next to him. You were so courageous!”

The girl nodded and hugged her friend back, but Crystalia knew the truth.

She was not brave – she was in love.

CHAPTER 2

Wolves don’t wear no sheep’s clothes. They don’t have no needs, because they wears the skin of man.

Traven tried to keep Granny’s warning in the forefront of his mind, but it was difficult as the fire-warmed air of the Commander’s office melted his frozen bones. It was an effort just to stay on his feet as he waited for the Commander’s return. The older man had excused himself upon entering the Garrison and left Traven with his senior officers. No doubt the cagey Commander was trying to gather information on him, but Traven knew they would find none. In the Dead of Winter, news traveled slowly.

Forcing himself to remain vigilant, Traven glanced about the room and assessed the Commander’s staff. It was early yet, but already he did not like the first lieutenant. The man was a bit too pasty and fleshy for Traven’s taste. Here was an officer who looked at Traven not as an intruder, nor even as an enemy, but as an opportunity to advance his own career. No, Traven did not like this man at all.

The creak of the door marked the Commander’s entrance. Without formality, the old man crossed the room and sat behind the simple, neat desk.

“My men tell me you refuse to hand over your weapons. I thought we had an agreement.”

Traven nodded but did not lift his hand from his pommel. “Once we were inside and alone.”

The Commander’s eyes narrowed. “You ask much for an outlaw.”

Traven’s heartbeat quickened. How did the Commander know of the turmoil in Charlotte’s Berg? Panic washed over him, but Traven realized he had best start talking or he’d stir up more suspicion.

“I carry grave news. Trust only that you will want to hear the tidings first, then decide on what action to take.”

It took no more than a breath for the Commander to make his decision. “Excuse us, gentlemen. Post a guard outside and—”

“But, sir!” the lieutenant broke in.

“Lieutenant?” the Commander asked with a chill to his voice.

The pasty man must have realized his error, for he bowed his head respectfully. “Nothing, sir. We shall post our most skilled men and await your word.”

With a nod of his head, the Commander excused his officers. Once the door was shut behind them, Traven unbuckled his scabbard, then removed the drake that was hooked through his belt. However, he left the tiny hidden knife in his boot. One could never be too certain of a stranger, no matter how noble they appeared.

“May I?” Traven asked, indicating the lone chair in the room.

“It’s been a long trek,” the Commander stated with a nod. “How long have you been out on the Plains? Five? Six days? And without supplies? Perhaps we best start with that tale. How you came upon such hard times?”

Traven was glad to be sitting, elsewise the Commander might have seen his legs weaken. How to recount the days without jeopardizing the Commander’s trust? Traven certainly could not tell the whole truth. Maybe a sprinkling of the facts would soothe the Commander’s concerns.

“There was an altercation as I was leaving, and my supplies were… lost.”

The Commander most likely knew the answer to his next question, but he asked it anyway. “Why did you not simply go back to Charlotte’s Berg to resupply yourself?”

There would be no getting around this thorny issue. The Commander had lived his life too long on these Plains not to detect falsehood. Traven only hoped the old man was as adept at picking up sincerity and honor.

“They would not have welcomed me back.” That was a bit shy of the truth— tar and feathers awaited him if he had returned. Luckily the explanation seemed enough for the Commander.

“They did not like the news you wish to ply on me?”

“Aye,” Traven said, a bit relieved. Lying was not one of his strong suits. Granny had always said a deceitful tongue was like armor made of oiled paper. It shimmered and looked pretty in the light, but once the flame of truth brushed against it, there was nothing left but smoke.

“Then it’s best we have a drink with such dire tidings.”

Traven was embarrassed to gulp down the proffered ale, but his thirst was so great that he consumed three steins’ worth before he was quenched enough to begin.

“I will not beat my shield and spin a great story for you, Commander. I think you would prefer the truth as simple and strong as your drink.”

The old man nodded, nursing his beer. It was obvious the Commander wanted only one tongue in the room to be loosened by the liquor.

“The Winter King… Your god has… Well, Commander we believe he has gone quite insane.”

The usual look of surprise, shock, or anger that Traven had been accustomed to did not appear on the Commander’s face. Instead, the old man only nodded and gave him permission to continue. Traven paused. He was used to answering a battery of questions and defending himself— not explaining the matter calmly.

The Commander must have noticed Traven’s awkwardness. “I suppose our rulers have some proof of this, or is it you who have gone over the horizon?”

“No. I mean…”

Before Traven could gather his wits, the Commander filled the silence. “Enough. I’m sure our priests will want an entire treatise, and I would rather hear the sordid tale but once.” The Commander took a long draught of his ale and gave a grim smile.

Traven sat stunned. Was the interview over? Had it gone well or poorly? “Sir, are you not the least bit… surprised?”

The old man snorted. “How many back-breaking winters have we had in row? Not even horny potatoes will grow in the ground any longer.” There was a pause as if the Commander contemplated how much he should tell Traven. “You live this close to his inner circle and you learn to sense the Winter King’s disposition. There is no doubt that his mood has been a foul one. Would I ever have called him mad, out loud, as you have? No, but it would explain much.” The Commander rose. “Alas, it is not me you need to convince, Hero. It is the priests. They assemble in the map room. It is they who will sorely tax your patience.”

Traven rose and reached to shake the Commander’s hand after the old man returned his weapons to him. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Do not thank me. I will no more defend you as I would an Ice Scab. But for what it is worth, I do respect you.”

Nodding, Traven turned to follow the Commander, but the older man halted.

“And, son, the next time I ask you to yield your weapons, I mean all of them,” the older man said as he flicked a weapon towards the Hero.

Traven caught his own small, supposedly hidden, paring knife before it struck him. How had the old bugger gotten it from his boot? I must be far more tired than I would even admit, Traven thought as he pushed the blade back into its secret sheath.

Silently, Traven followed the Commander out of the office. In the course of his travels, he’d dealt with many a religious man and was not looking forward to another encounter, especially with ones this far north. The harsh weather hardened men and made them all too aware of their own mortality. When you worshipped a god as fickle and powerful as Winter, you tended to take your faith a bit too seriously.

Not that Traven could blame them. A tiny shift in the wind’s mood was all it took to steal your life away. Traven had a taste of Winter’s disdain and did not wish to experience it again.

Everyone rose as they entered the map room. To Traven’s eye, the priests were a motley sort. The flowing robes of the White Brotherhood that he was accustomed to back at The Mount were absent. Each of the men positioned around the table had their own interpretation of formal wear.

Commander Packard motioned for Traven to sit on his left. Traven’s rump was barely in the chair before the table erupted with questions. The Commander tried to proceed with introductions, but the priest on his right refused to be quieted.

“We care not who he is. We care what he has to say.”

“Reginald. Please. Do we wish this Hero to think we are barbarians?”

Traven stood up. “It’s all right, Commander. I can learn everyone’s name soon enough. Let me speak my news now, so that we might have more time for discussion.”

Several divisive snorts erupted around the table, but Traven proceeded. They thought him a snot-nosed whelp. A braggart without an ounce of sense. Traven smiled secretly. They would learn.

“Decades ago, when the Thaw still brought the world to life and The Jade Goddess kissed us awake from Winter’s embrace, there were those who warned of impending doom—”

“Enough of this farce. Tell us the all!” one of the strangely garbed priests shouted, pounding his fist upon the oak table.

Traven’s anger flared, but he held his tongue. Insulting such boars never helped, but Traven fought the urge, even now. They wanted to gut his presentation and spill the facts onto the table. But Traven knew better. The minstrels at Mount Shrine had taught him the power of verse. To win stubborn men’s minds, you must first make them listen with their hearts.

The Commander spoke slowly, meeting each man’s eye with his own. “Cecil, I will have no more interruptions. The next man who shows such discourtesy will be shown the door.”

Finally the belligerent priest nodded.

Traven continued, “These men, denounced by all, warned that the heavy snow fall and early frost bore dire tidings. Even when the Lower Steppes began icing, no one listened. It took the Snake Pass, deep in The Midlands, to pack with snow, trapping hundreds of villagers and killing half a dozen caravans, for any of the kings to take notice. The northern dukes begged for assistance, asking for the Crown’s ear and resources, but the Royal Court was deaf. That is, until the Castle of Light, the very seat of the Emperor, was slapped by Winter’s cold touch.”

Well, that had quieted them down, Traven thought. Either that or they feared the Commander more than the impatience that ran in their veins.

“It was Princess Marlana, now Queen, who first took note of the dying vines. As you know, the western wall of the Castle has been covered in bougenvia since the Lady of the Light brought the flower from across the Starry Bridge.”

Again snorts erupted, but the priests held their tongue. They could argue official theology later.

“One spring, the plant did not send out new tender shoots, and only half the flowers bloomed. Each year more blossoms failed, until there were no more—”

“Liar! I have seen paintings of the Castle. It is still draped in red!”

The Commander sprang from his chair, an order to remove the man fresh on his lips, but Traven intervened.

“You are right, sir. Those paintings are to reassure the common folk. They ship blossoms in from the Sea Kingdom and replant them each spring. The flowers thrive during the summer court but die again each winter.”

Traven let that news sink in. No matter what story you believed regarding the beautiful flowers’ origin, it was well accepted that they truly were a gift from the gods. To have such a precious symbol of the Lady of Light so desecrated brought the room to hushed silence again.

“It was then that the Crown gathered its greatest scholars, theologists, and healers together. They searched the Kingdoms and visited the four corners of the realm. What they found frightened even the most doubtful of men, but there was no questioning the answers.” Traven paused for effect. He had told this story many a time and prided himself on his ability to lure an audience into his grasp. “The world is descending into an Eternal Winter, sirs. Unless we find a way to correct this sad progression, all of us…” Traven emphasized again, “All of us, will be no more than Ice Scabs.”

Traven sat back down. The priests who had been so anxious to interrupt now looked at one another and wrung their hands. Traven knew they just needed time. Soon their arrogance would ride them up and over this daunting news.

“Much of this we knew. Yet it does not explain why you blasphemed our Father Winter,” Reginald said.

“What the studies found was at first a queer thing.” Traven paused and took a sip of warm ale. His throat had taken more of a beating out on the Plains than he had realized. “You all know of The Fort Upon the Edge?”

Murmurings of agreement rose quickly. They had best know it. The Fort protected the first and largest of Winter’s temples.

“There, they are the epitome of devotion. Since time recorded, the statues of the Four Seasons have risen from the ground to the highest rampart. They offer monthly sacrifices and teach the Etching in Ice to all school children. Weekly, they have open prayers under the stars, and each family tithes their fourth son to the Winter King priesthood.”

Traven watched as the priests squirmed in their chairs. These men had grown bloated on their influence over the simple people of Last Hitch. It was best to remind them what real power resembled.

“Yet it was in seats of power such as these that suffered the worst of Winter’s wrath. And the most awful devastation was visited upon the Fort.” Traven paused, bracing himself for the priest’s strong reaction to his next claim. “Last summer, during a freak storm, the ice carvings of the Four Seasons were decimated, shattered and strewn across the snowfields. All of them, except Winter. His was the only statue still standing.”

“This cannot be! We would have heard of such a disaster!”

Calamity broke out around the table, but the Commander did not bother to stifle it. Even he seemed mildly surprised by Traven’s news.

“For the last two years, the trails to the Fort have been closed to all but the Crown’s envoys. The catastrophe was not reported commonly, for it was feared it would drive the populace to panic.”

“Why do you blame our god? Why could this not have been a mere accident? Stranger things have happened,” one of the priests exclaimed.

Traven gritted his teeth. These religious men could cling to their beliefs until their very lives gave out.

“That is not all of it. Later that season, a storm descended upon the Flats, holding the entire region in its grasp for several months. By the time the passes opened and the envoys returned…” Traven paused, the news almost too painful to repeat once again. “They found the Fort encased in ice. Buildings, devoted worshippers, animals— all frozen solid. Not a soul survived to tell the details.”

This information quieted the room thoroughly. The Fort and its inhabitants had survived for centuries in the face of Winter’s bluster and had thrived, boasting of their special love for The Winter King. Everyone in this room, whether he would admit it or not, knew this was no accident or happenstance. The Winter King had massacred his most devout congregation.

“When the Fort fell, the counsel drew an unpopular but logical conclusion from the information they gathered. The Winter King had gone mad. He used the energy given to him by his most loyal followers and lashed out blindly. He is not the god we once knew and cherished.”

Grumbling rose and fell until a clear voice spoke up from the far end of the table. Traven had not noticed the black-skinned priest earlier, nor his leafy green robes.

“Winter alone could not do the damage you have described. Did the Counsel speak to you of the other gods?” the dark priest asked.

Traven nodded, recognizing the man for who he was— a high priest of the Jade Goddess. From the gold branch on his collar, he was close to Spring’s Bosom.

“Yes. We fear the illness may have spread to the other seasons, although their symptoms are much more vague. Increasing their sacrifices have not abated Winter’s onslaught.”

Reginald asked, “Has the elimination of sacrifice to Winter helped in any way?”

“Yes,” Traven automatically answered, but flinched, for it was not exactly the truth. Only by the scholars’ precise measurements of snowfall and a new-fangled device filled with spheres of liquid metal could they determine if conditions had improved. The weather in those regions was essentially unchanged, but at the least it was not worsening.

“We have seen your orders from the Crown and our own Prince, but what of the Blue Priest? What has he decreed?” the man called Cecil asked.

Traven groaned inwardly. He always prayed his audience would not ask this question, but how could they not? The Blue Priest was the ranking head of the Winter King’s assembly.

“He has withdrawn to the Sacred Heart for meditation. He would rule neither way before he left.”

The dark priest spoke again, his speech flavored with sounds from the western forests. “Does he fear a clash within the Order?”

“Aye. Before he left, I was granted an audience—” The sharp intake of breath around the room reminded Traven that he had overstepped his bounds. Normally he did not speak of this meeting with the Blue Priest, but the green-leafed priest spoke so plain and true that Traven had forgotten he was in a room full of jealous, petty, and potentially very dangerous enemies. “I came away with the sense that he feared a mortal war would result if he backed either faction.”

Traven stayed quiet as waves of emotion rolled over the priests. He could see the individual wars brewing behind each set of eyes. The choice he offered was a hard one— abandon your god, or cling to your religion and die a brutal death. No, there was nothing simple about what he presented to these men.

The dark-skinned priest seemed the most calm. “What of the other gods? How do they fare?”

Traven gulped down a few more swallows of ale while he carefully prepared his answer. These priests had heard enough already to fill their craw ‘til the Summer Thaw. He dared not upset them much further.

“The Jade Pool has receded a full three feet from the shore, and its mirrored surface is now murky and pocked by algae.”

This news shook even the dark stoic priest. But, then again, it was his god’s totem Traven was referring to now. It was easy to be unflappable when it was someone else’s faith you were crushing.

“Summer?” the green priest choked out.

“The Eternal Flame in the Scorched Tower began flickering more weakly. The orange color that used to draw thousands of pilgrims has left its fire completely.”

“But it still burns?” Reginald asked.

“Aye.” A half truth at best. The flame still sparkled in the night, but only through an ingenious trick of the Sand Priests. They had found a way to force a volatile type of powder through the rock to keep the fire ignited. If they had not, the flame would have died several summers ago.

A knock at the door startled everyone. The Commander barked a harsh, “Come.”

A soldier entered, bearing a sealed pouch. The old officer’s face went pale as he opened it. Traven could not see what was within, but by the Commander’s skin tone, he granted it was not good. The only positive affect was that it diverted the priests’ attention. The group was so enthralled with the Commander’s package that they had not thought to ask about Fall. For that, Traven was grateful. He did not think he could hide the grievous nature of that story.

The Commander’s mask of detachment reclaimed his face. “Thank you for your time, Hero. We will make you aware of our decision in the morn.”

The room erupted with angry queries. The priests had many more questions, and Traven had much more to say, but the Commander was adamant.

“This is not about the facts, gentlemen. This is about what is best for our town, and this man cannot help us with that quandary.”

Ignoring the agitated priests, the Commander escorted him from the room. Traven was ready to demand an explanation, but the Commander was quicker.

“Again, thank you, Traven. One of my men will escort you to Hammond’s Inn. I think you will find it quite comfortable.”

The older man turned as if he were going back into the map room, then hesitated. His tone was quieter and the edge of lips softened. “Get some food and sleep beneath your belt tonight, for tomorrow you will be overrun with social engagements.”

“But—”

“I have already taken the initiative and accepted an invitation to the Sewing Circle’s monthly tea. I hope I was not too forward, but I thought you might want to ply the town’s wives before you took on the Guilds.”

“Of course I will attend whatever occasion you think proper, but—”

“Good, good. I’m sure Master Hammond will treat you well at the Inn.”

With that, the Commander turned on his heel and retreated back into the room. As soon as the door shut, armed guards hustled him down the hallway. Traven was too stunned to resist.

What was the Commander thinking? Had the old man already made up his mind before Traven gave his speech? Had Traven misjudged the Commander so badly?

* * *

Crystalia tried to catch her breath. She vacillated between holding it far too long and hyperventilating. It would not be seemly for her to faint when she saw the stranger again.

“Will they never let him out?” Viola whined next to her, echoing her own thoughts.

A sudden fear clutched Crystalia. What if they had arrested him? What if they had thrown him into one of those awful jail cells? To imagine a being of his purity and beauty, caged like an animal, put gashes across her heart. If only she could see him again, to burn forever his visage upon her mind’s eye.

“He’s coming,” someone shouted from further down the street. The cobblestones were lined with bystanders. Young and old had gathered to spy upon the stranger and hear what news he bore.

Crystalia’s breath quickened again, but she knew not to get too excited. There had been several false alarms through the evening. Any little stir in the garrison was interpreted as the stranger’s arrival. But so far, it had only been the changing of the guard and one of the garrison’s cooks coming to let water. Each time it had been horribly disappointing. And this alarm looked to be no exception. It was just a pageboy running messages. Looking up at the sky, Crystalia began to worry. They had been out here for what seemed like hours. Her father would be getting hungry and more angry with each passing growl of his stomach.

Desperately, she wanted to stay out of trouble, but the siren call of the dark-haired swordsman was too strong. Crystalia would stay out upon the icy street until she was honored with his presence again.

“He’s here!”

By the surge of the crowd, Crystalia knew it was true. Everyone fought for position, far worse than they had for the Mr. Hammond’s favors. A cry went up, and Crystalia stood on her tippy toes but still could not see a thing. Viola used her elbows with expert precision, but the mob swarmed over and past them. Sobbing, Crystalia saw an opening and took it. She did not move forward with the throng, but backwards upon the steps.

From her higher vantage point, Crystalia could see several soldiers leading the stranger’s stallion down the narrow, crowded streets. The mob called out in a wordless din. It was a mixture of awe, fear, admiration, and angst. The hard winter had cut these people to the bone, and they wished for something, someone to lighten their burden. Crystalia’s heart poured out to the handsome rider. In his perfection, he appeared modest and a bit overwhelmed by the throng’s sheer mass. The guards had to shove and kick to make a path for the war horse.

As he neared, Crystalia could make out his dark eyes and wind-blown hair. A small lock had fallen out from his band. The wavy curl danced in front of his eyes, playing on the wind. His hands were now free of their thick gloves, and he was getting so close that she could almost make out the weaving of the veins on his hands. They were strong hands, yet he held the reins so delicately, giving his horse the bit. There was a confidence in him and his beast that Crystalia had never seen.

“Hero!” Viola called out next to her.

The man turned and looked straight at Crystalia! Her heart near stopped. Her mouth went dry as the handsome stranger pushed aside the stray curl. Then he did the most wondrous thing. He smiled. His lips were tired, but they tugged up a bit— at her. As quickly as the grin came, it was gone, his mouth given over to exhaustion. Crystalia felt her knees buckle again, but Viola was there to lend her an arm.

“Did you see that? Oh, he looked right at you! I am so—”

Viola paused as the soldiers talked to the stranger. “Hammond’s Inn is just across the commons.”

Viola turned to Crystalia, her mouth locked in a near hysterical “o.”

“That’s… that’s… He’s staying at my house!” Viola finally said in a rush.

It was Crystalia’s turn to catch her swooning friend.

* * *

As the priests argued amongst themselves, Commander Jory Packard stood at the window and watched the young man ride from the Garrison. The Hero’s untimely arrival was a bad omen. Actually, it was only one of many foul portents. But none so ominous as the one he held in his hand.

Jory opened the envelope again, wishing his first impression had been mistaken, but the bright red smear on the inside flap confirmed his fears. Inside was truly a severed finger. The short note was scrawled in blood.

Turn him out, or she dies.

For months he had felt that something deep and dark was brewing in Last Hitch. But this horror eclipsed anything he had foreseen. Who in this small berg could conceive of such a crime? And why go to such extremes to banish a stranger? But as Jory asked himself the question, he knew the answer. The Hero had an air about him. It certainly wasn’t an aura of experience, nor even confidence, for it was obvious the rider had very little of either. No, Traven had only one truly noteworthy attribute— sincerity. Jory knew the young man believed his tale. Perhaps not each word or phrase, but the heart and soul of his story, those Traven believed in without question.

Jory could remember a time long past when he would have risked life and limb to traverse the countryside, spreading words of dire warning. He, himself, had ridden amongst princes and even called them friend. But that was another time, another place. Memories did not suit him any longer. An evil had taken root in his town, and he did not have the luxury of reminiscence.

The crowd cheered for the stranger, drawing Jory out of the past. The Commander felt a pang of sympathy for the young man. The Hero thought he’d found sanctuary, or at least a safe place to take a rest. The fool. Jory scanned the throng. Which of these innocently cheering townsfolk hid a secret most dank and foul? Was it one of his own men? One of the gentry? Or was the evil rooted in the priest sect? Jory shook his head. In a town this desperate and frigid, it could be anyone.

Times were so harsh that Jory had prayed the night before. He was not a religious man. Far from it. Jory had not bent a knee for years, but it was clear that a darkness was descending. In his gut, the Commander knew that he alone could not flush the evil from its den. He had prayed for assistance— and now this Hero arrives.

Jory sealed the envelope again. The evil was certainly flushed, which did not bode well for Traven. Beyond the threat contained in the letter, the priests’ jealousy and the fickle nature of the peasants could equally be the boy’s undoing.

“Sir!”

The rest of the room fell to silence as a soldier burst into the map room. Jory could see by the look of young man’s face that another envelope had arrived.

Jory’s tone was firm. “I shall be out in a moment.”

“But sir—”

“I said, a moment.”

The soldier gave a stiff salute and left the room.

Cecil rose to block Jory’s exit. “What has happened?”

“Nothing of your concern.”

The large man’s chest billowed out. “Everything that happens within the walls of this town concerns me.”

“I think not.” Jory stared down into the priest’s enraged eyes. “Or have you forgotten we are not within your temple, Cecil? We are within mine.”

Still the priest did not budge. Jory’s lips turned down, and his tone turned to near a growl. “Shall I have my men move you the two feet I need to pass?”

For a moment, Jory feared Cecil might force him to make good on his threat. But in the end, the priest stumbled back a step.

“If it has to do with the blasphemer—”

“You shall be the first to know.” Jory turned and bowed his head in respect to the congregation of priests. “Use this room to speak your mind, but once outside the Garrison, keep this news close to your chest. I will not have panic in the streets.”

Cecil once again found his bluster. “Inside my temple, I will speak what I wish.”

Jory bit back a retort. Arguing would serve no purpose. Cecil and the rest were beyond reason on this matter. An involuntary sigh escaped his lips as he exited the room. Once the door was securely shut, the soldier handed him another envelope. This one was obviously stained with blood. Jory carefully peeled back the flap to find a severed ear. Quickly he resealed the envelope. The situation was even worse than he had imagined. The Commander would offer what protection he could to Traven, but Jory knew in his heart that the Hero was as good as dead.

* * *

Even though his stomach still ached with hunger, Traven had only eaten enough to be considered polite, then excused himself from the late dinner his host had arranged. Master Hammond had been most thoughtful to provide the rich buffet, but the Hero needed solitude rather than the continuous prattle of the Guild Master. Traven would have time enough to untangle this small town’s politics, but for now his body craved rest.

“It is this one, m’lord,” the butler instructed as he held out a small lantern to illuminate a doorway. But the servant did not turn the knob to his room. Traven’s hand found the hilt of his sword.

After a moment of hesitation, the servant’s tone lowered. “Sir… Sir, there is a rumor…”

Stiffening, Traven listened carefully. In a small town like this, a rumor could earn you a quick dagger in the back.

“They say you are a… a Hero. Ridden out from Mount Shrine.”

Traven kept his tone even and steady. He had to be cautious until he knew if this news gladdened or enflamed the man. “Yes. That is true.”

The veneer of servitude slipped from the man’s face. Traven had not noticed the longish nose the servant had, nor the strong jaw. Both features were quite uncommon on the Plains.

“I hail from Heron’s Isle. Have you heard of such a place?”

Traven could not keep the smile from his lips. “Aye. It is but two days’ ride and a ferry’s trip away from my home town, Magpie Roost.”

“I have a cousin there,” the man exclaimed.

“Aye. It seems everyone does. We used to tease that it should be called ‘Cousins Gathering.’”

The servant openly smiled. “Aye! My father used to say the same.” The man’s jovial mood faded, and his tone became more serious. “Did you visit there recently? Do you know how my Isle fairs?”

“It was one of my first destinations from the Mount. I saw its elegant shores but two years ago.”

“Do the poppies still bloom?”

Traven reassured the man. “Aye. And I was honored to witness the Sleeping Orchid’s opening. It was the second time within the decade.”

“Was the Festival as grand as I remember?”

“I had need to leave before they assembled the carnival, but I heard that the Maiden who was crowned with the Orchid’s leaves was of such great beauty that the Squire of the Crown took notice of her. There was talk of his courting her for his third wife.”

The man’s face glowed with pride. “That would be quite the boon for her family.”

“Aye.”

“I… I had feared…” The man looked loath to speak his concern. “With all the solemn news from the trappers that perhaps… perhaps my Isle had been tarnished by this foul weather.”

“Nay. Last I saw, it was untouched by Winter’s grip.”

The man nodded gratefully. Traven hoped that his words still held true, not only for the servant’s sake, but his as well. With Magpie Roost so near the Isle, his home would not be unscathed if the Isle fell to calamity. But why, out on the Plains, was his mind constantly being drawn back to his birthplace?

Had he not left his home behind in search of just a quest such as this?

CHAPTER 3

“The ship lurched and rocked, tight in the grasp of a furious storm,” Granny spoke in that ominous way only Granny could.

Just last week, their Uncle Belazar had tried to tell this tale, but he hadn’t gotten the right of it. The story was not about a trip across the Empty Sea and a storm. It was about danger and scary things that fly on the wings of the wind. So once their Uncle had gone back to his fishing boat, Traven and his siblings had begged Granny to do a real telling of the tale. Graciously, she had agreed, always eager to outdo her son-in-law.

“The Hanged Man clung to the steering wheel, desperate to keep the ship on course, but nothing short of divine intervention could hope to guide the ship now. They had the Eternal Flame burning in the crow’s nest, but all knew that would not be enough to see them safe this night.” Granny paused for a moment and rocked silently in her chair. The shouts of other children playing in the fields held no attraction for Traven. The story was the all.

“The wind itself howled for blood, and The Man Who Did Not Know feared for the life of his charges. He was in a foreign land, on a foreign element, praying to foreign gods for safe passage. Waves crashed upon the deck. From their stateroom, the Man could hear the cries of yet another sailor swept out to sea. The Man should have been out on deck. He should have been manning the sails, but his love was ill. The Maiden was gravely wounded, and he could not leave her side. A knock came at the door. Loud and booming. Insistent and urgent.”

Traven rolled over, still half asleep. The dream was fading. So why wasn’t the knocking? Suddenly light streamed in, startling him awake. In one motion, Traven was out of bed, his sword in hand, slamming the intruder against the wall. It took a moment to focus on the face before him. It seemed a bit familiar, but the man’s name would not register.

“Sir, please! The Commander has sent armed guards,” the man managed to squeak out as Traven pressed his blade against the man’s neck.

Slowly the past night came back to him. This was the butler from Heron’s Isle. Traven sheathed his sword, but his mind was still on the defensive. “Am I under arrest?”

“I’m not certain, sir. They are waiting outside the door.”

Traven straightened his leather vest. “Escort them in.”

There was no point in delaying. The Hero’s hand was free of his scabbard as the two guards entered, wearing heavy cloaks and ram-shaped helmets. The men were well-armed but small in number. Not much of an arrest party, really. Traven was not sure if he should be honored that the Commander trusted him to come quietly, or if he should be insulted that the old man did not think he could swipe these two gnats away with a single flick of his sword.

The door closed with a resounding thud.

“Put this on.” The officer removed his helmet and handed it to Traven.

“I don’t understand.”

The soldier took off his cloak as well. “You are to leave with the sergeant and follow him without a word.”

Traven slowly put on the disguise. “Where are we going?”

“You will see that when you arrive.”

This could easily be a trap. How did he even know the Commander had sent them? “Do you have the garrison’s seal?”

The man shook his head. “The Commander wanted no evidence of this meeting. He said to have a bit of faith. That is all.”

Traven tried to read the man’s features, but this officer was as cagey as his Commander. Besides if someone wanted him killed, a bit of poison in his marmalade would be far easier to stage. “I will be missed at the afternoon tea.”

“Not if get underway.”

The Hero took in a deep breath. The die was cast. “Lead on.”

Traven followed the sergeant out of the house. They passed the throng without a single person noticing their exit with anything more than mild curiosity. Everyone’s attention was directed upward, searching the windows for a sign of the Hero. Quickly the sergeant took them through the tangled alleyways until they stopped in front of a darkened doorway. He knocked three times.

Once the door swung open, Traven hung back, but the sergeant nodded for the Hero to enter. Bracing himself, Traven entered the dark interior, ready for a blow on the head. Instead he found the Commander kneeling beside the body of a girl.

The Commander didn’t even acknowledge Traven’s entrance. “She was poor— an easy target.”

Traven crossed the barren storeroom and looked down at the dead child. It wasn’t a pretty sight. The girl had been badly mutilated.

“The killer has sent me the finger and the ear already… I had hoped they kept her alive, but I was too late.”

The Hero’s shoulders straightened. “Do you think me party to this?”

“I received the finger at last night’s meeting.”

Traven’s shoulders relaxed but not too much. There was still a murderer to bring to justice. “Do you have any suspects?”

“Would I have involved you if I had?”

Excellent point. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Read this.” The parchment was well-worn, written in blood, and crumbled at the slightest touch. It was vile in its demands.

“Someone certainly wants you dead,” the Commander commented, quite unnecessarily. “I had hoped you might have some idea who would loathe you upon sight.”

Traven shook his head. “I think this murderer would be wiser than to blurt out their intentions.”

“I agree. I was thinking it more likely someone currying your favor, prying you for information?”

“Hammond’s butler has been friendly, he arises from a region near my home.”

“So he might have known your identity before it was revealed last night?”

The Hero remembered the butler’s questions. “Yes, he said there was a rumor I was from Mount Shrine. I did not think to ask him how he knew.”

The Commander gently laid a cloak over the child’s form. “Anyone else?”

“Last night, Hammond seemed quite insistent that his daughter sit to my right at tea.”

“Aye. The Guild Master has been asking if you are devoted to any maiden. I think he seeks a union.”

Traven was definitely not surprised by this news. The Guild Master would not be the first merchant to try and snare him with a beautiful daughter. “I am not promised to any maiden, but neither do I wish to be.”

Rising from the girl’s side, the Commander motioned Traven to the far side of the room. Rats scurried about the corners, and strange noises drifted from the rafters.

“If you would, play along. He is a powerful influence in this town. If he thought you interested in Viola, he might have more incentive to protect your neck.”

“Do you have incentive?” Traven asked before he thought of what he said. This was the garrison Commander. Not some comrade at a pub.

Instead of flaring with anger, the Commander contemplated for a moment before he answered. “You are not safe here, Hero.”

Traven stiffened. “Do you suggest I take my chances out on the Plains?”

“I’m saying you should go about your day as normal. Attend the tea, go to dinner at the banker’s home, but be prepared for an early departure, under the cover of night.” The Commander paused and seemed reluctant to speak his next words. “I will have need to report it as an escape, mind you.”

“This night?”

“Aye. I do not need two bodies to bury in this damnable frozen ground.” The Commander put on a helmet resembling Traven’s and led him out.

“You’re taking me back?”

“The less any one person knows of our actions, the better.”

The logic was obvious, but something nagged at Traven. “I thought you were committed to neutrality. Why are you helping me?”

The Commander did not seem to have an easy answer to this question. He took a moment before answering. “I thought I had seen all types. One might say I was jaded by all that I had seen. But you…” The Commander turned and raised his helm. “You do not just carry the title. You embody its spirit. I have never encountered a true Hero before.” Holding out his hand, his words rung sincere. “It is a pleasure to finally met one, Traven.”

Traven did not know what to say. In the past, he had heard entire recitals extolling his virtues. The greatest kings welcomed him into their castles with all the pomp and circumstance a boy from a small farm could ever dream of. But he had never felt so proud as he did in this moment.

Thanks tangled his lips, and the dragging silence was too much to bear. “You should come to Mount Shrine. We have need of men of your caliber.”

“Nay. Inlands have more than enough of me. It is here that strong men are needed. It is here on the fringes that the true battles will be won or lost. Lives hang in the balance daily. No, I belong here.”

Traven felt the deep veracity in the Commander’s words. This truth brought out his own virtue. “When I return, I will champion your cause, Commander. We will send reinforcements.”

“And food. These people cannot fend off evil if they starve with each passing winter.”

“It is done.”

The strangest sensation tingled up his arm as shook the Commander’s hand. The vibration traveled up his arm and into his chest. Traven looked into the Commander’s eyes and found the old man as surprised at the feeling as he was.

“It is done.” The Commander repeated. His voice heavy with emotion.

Traven tried to ask what had happened, but the Commander snapped his helmet down and strode past. Hurrying to catch up, Traven shook his arm to free it of the quivering. This town was becoming stranger and stranger.

* * *

Crystalia stirred the huge pot. Over and over again. The smell of chutney filled the air, nearly making her gag. The bubbles that were once fast and furious were dying down to a low murmur. Could her life get much worse? She’d been imprisoned with her father the entire day, while Viola was probably sharing pastries with the Hero. It just wasn’t fair!

“Crystalia!” Pappy shouted from right behind her. “How many times have I told you not to keep the heat steady? Will you never learn?”

Crystalia felt her face go flush, and her fists clenched. She fought the urge to shout right then and there that as a matter of fact, she would never learn because she didn’t care. Instead she stood in complete subservience, mumbling her apologies. Since her mother had died, a day didn’t go by without a berating in some form or another. But as quickly as her father’s anger had risen, it blew itself out, leaving only an old man, frowning over a pot. He handed back the spoon.

“Now stir. I’ll stoke the fire.”

Obediently, she took the handle and began the ritual again. She sighed so deeply that the effort shook her thin frame. Her place was not here. Could her father not understand? Did he want nothing but drudgery for his only daughter? How many years had she searched the horizon for a sparkling knight to sweep her from this dingy trading town? And now one had ridden in and stolen her heart away.

“Stir!” her father bellowed.

Crystalia cringed but brightened when she saw Viola running down the street, her golden curls bouncing with joy. A silky scarf blew behind her like a colorful train. Her friend was near out of breath when she entered.

“I’ll not have you interrupt her work,” Crystalia’s father grumbled.

“But Father has summoned her!” Viola said as she stomped her foot. “He wishes her present when the Hero makes his appearance. He wants everyone to give him a warm welcome.”

Surprisingly, her father offered only a gruff acceptance. “I don’t want her gone long— not like last night!”

Crystalia could not rip off her work apron fast enough. Viola silently screamed her joy behind Pappy’s back. They fled the store before her father could change his mind. Crystalia could barely wait to get out of earshot. “Have you seen the Hero this morn?

“No, but Father was able to wrangle an invitation to the Sewer’s Tea.”

“We get to see him? At a tea?”

Oh, how glorious would that be? To sit next to the great man himself?

“I’m sorry, but Father could only secure one seat…”

An ax wound could not have hurt Crystalia’s heart any worse. Despite her pout, Viola’s smile did not fade. “Do you think me heartless? I have arranged a surprise almost as exciting!”

Viola tugged Crystalia towards the back of her house.

“Where are we going?”

“To the stables! Don’t you want to pet his stallion? Perhaps go through his pack?”

“Viola!” Crystalia scolded. It was awful and sneaky, but she had to admit the idea did have great appeal. Besides, might the Hero not also wish to visit his horse?

“How are we going to sneak past the stable boy?”

“I’ve bought us some time.”

“How?”

Viola blushed a bit, but it seemed more out of excitement than embarrassment. “With a kiss.”

“A kiss? For the stable boy? Why?”

“For you, silly. I couldn’t go to the tea with a clear conscience if I didn’t give you a bit of a treat.”

Again, Crystalia regretted her rush to judgment. Viola truly did think fondly of her. But to pay with a kiss? “How… how did it feel?”

Viola shrugged. “A bit wet and sloppy, if you must know, but he tried to touch my bosom! Can you believe it?”

“What did you do?” Crystalia asked, amazement thickening in her voice. A boy had not even given her a peck on the cheek, let alone tried to press his advantage. Again, she was so very jealous of Viola.

“I slapped his hand, then his cheek. I told him for that type of kissing I would need to see the Hero, alone!”

“You didn’t!”

Viola nodded proudly. “He said he might be able to arrange it.”

“Would you? Would you pay that price?”

Viola’s eyes danced with mischief. “Wouldn’t you?”

Crystalia pulled back from her friend. What type of harlot did Viola think she was? Allow a boy to lay his hands upon her body, just for a glimpse of the Hero? The Hero with dark hair and beautiful eyes? The Hero who had smiled at her, and only her? With the memory sharp in her mind, the price didn’t seem nearly so steep.

“Now shush. It wouldn’t do for the Keeper of the Stable to find us out,” Viola reprimanded.

Crystalia barely even breathed, let alone talked, as they snuck into the stable. The place was well-lit with lanterns, and some of the stalls had their padlocked doors open, letting in the waning daylight. Viola led them to the far end of the barn.

“Oh, just look at him! Big and handsome like his master!” Viola squealed.

Crystalia had to admit that her friend was right. The Hero’s dark horse was over two hands taller than any of the other horses, even the Guild Master’s own champion stallion. The beauty of the warhorse brought tears to Crystalia’s eyes. He truly was as grand as his rider. The two were matched in heaven. Viola reached a hand out towards the horse, but he shied away and flared his nostrils in challenge.

Without thinking, Crystalia clucked to the horse. He came forward half a step and sniffed at her hand, nibbling a bit at the dried chutney on her sleeve. Crystalia giggled and rummaged through her pockets. Ah, there deep in the fabric, she found a few dried pieces of vegetables. They were to be seasoning for the chutney, but she didn’t think her father would mind her sharing. Actually he would mind, very greatly. He would probably chap her hide if he knew, but he never would. Crystalia put a few treats in her hand and offered them to the great beast.

The horse’s nose felt silky smooth as its lips tested the treats, then it bit into them. A grunt of appreciation followed, and he ate the rest greedily.

“It’s nice to see the folks of this town treat animals so kindly,” a voice said from behind.

Crystalia turned to find the stranger standing right behind her. She groped for words but could find none.

The Hero patted his horse’s neck warmly. “He likes anything with the taste of sugar, this one.”

Crystalia was certain she had died and was transported to the cloudy heavens.

“Ah, sir. I’ve found you,” a servant said as he hurried into the room.

The girl vaguely recognized the man as one of Viola’s butlers.

Traven stroked his horse’s long nose. “Aye. Is it already time for the tea?”

“I’m going to the tea!” Viola chirped, even high-pitched for her.

“Yes. The carriage awaits you both.”

Traven made a sweeping motion with his arm. Despite the gaiety of the gesture and the grin upon his lips, Crystalia noted there was a sadness in his eyes, a weight that had not been there the night before. “Ladies first.”

“My father… I mean…” Viola stammered so badly that Crystalia could not tell if the blonde was glowing in her status or embarrassed by it. “Only I have an invitation, Hero.”

“Well, that shall never do. How can we separate such good friends?”

Crystalia’s heart fluttered at Traven’s words, but the servant stepped forward.

“Sire, the guest list is sealed. The Matriarch would be quite perturbed if an invitation were extended to one outside the Guild.” Traven’s eyebrow shot up, so the butler hurried on. “Perhaps Crystalia can attend the church social this Sunday.”

Traven paused long enough that the girl thought she might burst with curiosity. Would the Hero be so bold as to challenge the Sewing Circle? Her lips quivered as his lips curled up again, this time into a full smile.

“Crystalia, could I ask you to do me a great honor?”

The girl could not get her lips to move, so her only response was the slightest nod of her head.

“Would you be kind enough to serve my tea?” The Hero did not even wait for her response before turning to the butler. “I’m sure the Ladies cannot argue with that.”

The servant bowed his head in deference.

“Good then. It is settled.”

To Crystalia’s surprise, the Hero took her hand in his own. He raised it to his lips as if to kiss it, but her skin was covered in splattered chutney. Crystalia was mortified, but the Hero smiled broadly and turned her hand over. There he planted the most luscious kiss. His lips barely brushed her skin, but it felt as if every nerve ending along her entire body had been tickled. Her palm throbbed where his lips had glanced, and the room began to spin. Could the heavens be any more kind? Could her life be any more perfect than it was at this moment?

* * *

Traven helped the two girls down from the carriage. He kept a well-practiced smile on his face, but his heart could not stop worrying over the murdered girl. He had traveled to Mount Shrine to protect the innocent, not to inadvertently cause their deaths. The entrance into the Hall was a blur. It seemed that any lady of consequence had cajoled an invitation to this tea. The room was crammed far past capacity with tables and tea sets.

As he was busy being introduced to the multitude of wives and mothers, the Hero noticed an elderly woman trying to shoo away the girl that had been so kind to Lauger. “I’m sorry, Matriarch, I did not have time to inform you. This girl will be serving me.”

Matriarch Wallrider stiffened. “I feel one of the long-standing members should be so offered.”

Traven held the older woman’s gaze. He did not know why he cared who served him, but this young woman seemed somehow familiar to him. Perhaps she had a vague resemblance to his younger sister. For whatever reason, the Hero felt more at ease around her than any he had met in this small berg.

Finally the Matriarch unfolded her hands. “But the Commander had sent word he wishes you to have a taster. Might Crystalia be suited for that task?”

The young woman blushed and nodded as they were escorted to their table. The Matriarch sat to his left, while the pretty daughter of the Guild Master sat at his right. Another blue-haired matron curtsied deeply and poured a splash of tea into a porcelain cup. Traven nodded to the young girl. With shaking hands, the brunette brought the cup to her mouth and tilted it back until a shout rose from the kitchen.

“No!”

The girl hesitated, the porcelain still pressed against her lips.

“No, child! It’s poisoned!” An older woman cried as she rushed from the kitchen.

Traven knocked the cup away and pulled the girl close. “Did you get any on your lips?” He quickly soaked a napkin in water and wiped her mouth. “Are you all right?”

The girl seemed stunned but answered, “I didn’t get a chance to sip any.”

Thank the gods. He would not have another girl’s death upon his hands. Traven swung around to the woman who sounded the warning. “What is the meaning of this?” Fear and anger tainted his tone. He should have known better than to relax his guard around this gaggle of women. Had the Commander not just warned him of the danger?

“You have been sent by the Dark Ones to shake our faith. To destroy our town.” The widow blathered as the room exploded in chaos. Every ounce of tea was being dumped by guests who feared for their lives.

“Who ordered you to poison my drink?”

The old woman was nearly beyond reason. “We only meant to be rid of you and your lies, not an innocent… not a young girl.”

Traven grabbed the widow by the shoulders. “Who told you to do this?”

Before she could answer, the front doors to the Hall burst open, and a raging group of priests rushed in. This was not what he needed right now. This woman may hold the key to murder of the mutilated child.

“Blasphemer!”

“Liar!”

“Apostle of Hell!”

The degradations were flung at him with much malice they made him flinch. What had he done to warrant this treatment? It was he who was almost assassinated. Traven turned and found the serving girl shaking in fear. He grabbed her hand. “Fetch the Commander.”

The girl blinked twice but did not answer.

“Now!”

Before he could be sure she would execute his orders, one of the priests hurled himself towards Traven. Throwing the rabid man off of him, the Hero drew his sword. The room rang with shouts and screams. Woman ran in every direction, knocking over tables and chairs. Traven was glad when he did not see the serving girl anywhere in the room. With any luck, she had followed his orders.

“What is your complaint? Your attack upon me is unwarranted!”

“Unwarranted? You devious bastard. We know who you are!” Cecil bellowed, waving a piece of torn parchment.

“What are you talking about?”

“A dove arrived this morning from our Prince! You murdered the Blue Priest! You are a messenger of Felzor!”

The enraged priest lunged at Traven. Knocking the man back, the Hero fled out a side door and onto the street. Unfortunately an angry mob had already gathered. Against just the priests, Traven might have had a chance to subdue them without harm, but this throng carried rocks and sticks. Running, the Hero prayed he could trust the Commander. If the man had been untrue in his admiration, Traven was already dead.

* * *

Crystalia threw herself down the street. The garrison was a long way, and she needed to find the Commander before any harm fell upon Traven. What was happening? She was the one nearly killed by poison, but the priests were blaming him. It was all too confusing.

All she knew was that Traven was in the gravest of danger. Crystalia had seen the priests in such fervor only once before. Years ago they had stoned a young novice and his male lover. She had been only seven at the time, but the memory was still fresh in her mind. The Commander was Traven’s only hope. The stern man had come to Last Hitch after the stoning and reined in the priests. The Commander would see that justice was served here, too. She was certain.

The sound of hoof beats rang from a side alley. Crystalia darted down the narrow passage and found several of the garrison’s men on foot and the Commander astride his steed. The guards tried to block her path, but she squirmed under their grasp and ran up to the older man.

“Sir, the Hero! First they tried to poison him. Now the priests mean to stone him. I’m certain of it! You need to save him!”

“Whoa. Child. What are you speaking of?”

“At the tea. It was tainted. The widow said so. Then the priests, they burst in with murder in their eyes,” Crystalia blurted out.

“Damn them.” The Commander turned to two of his men. “You take the package to the garrison. The rest, follow me!”

Before the Commander left, he turned back to Crystalia. “Child, the Hero might be needing his horse about now.”

Lauger, of course! Crystalia did not wait for the Commander to ride off. She was too busy sprinting towards Viola’s stable.

* * *

Traven could not hide long. The townsfolk knew these streets well, and the Hero was groping to remember which direction lay the town’s gate. Stumbling out into the main street, Traven recognized the area. It was the commons, the area where the Sacrifice was to have taken place. The altar had been reassembled, and by the look of the set-up, the priests were no longer content with a baby goat as an offering.

But to sacrifice a human? Such things had been shunned long ago. Nevertheless, Traven remembered the look in Cecil’s eyes. These priests were blinded by religious zeal. With the accusation against him, those men would not hesitate to slit his throat and call it devotion.

Traven tried to slip down a side passage, but it was clogged with townspeople. Each road poured out more angry citizens. The Hero spun around, looking for another escape route, but each one was choked with citizens armed with the utensils of their trade; the smith wielded a solid looking hammer, the baker shook a rolling pin and the banker— the very man Traven was to have dinner with— flaunted a sharp-looking quill.

Under any other circumstance, the Hero might have laughed. Unfortunately, these men and their unusual weapons meant him as much harm as an army equipped with lances. Backing up, Traven realized that he was being herded towards the common. With more and more people pouring into the streets, the Hero found himself trapped.

The priests arrived with a flurry of shouts. The crowd moved aside to let the red-faced zealots through. “Prepare the altar! The Winter King will have his due! The blood of the demon will wash away his crime!”

Traven gripped his sword more tightly. While the Hero wished these villagers no harm, he would not submit without resistance. Beyond fondness for his life, Traven had no desire to have his blood spilt upon the altar. With the fuel from his sacrifice, the Winter King would decimate the town. Last Hitch would just be another Fort— frozen and dead.

* * *

Crystalia rushed headlong into the barn. Lauger was agitated and stomped his foot as she opened the latch to his stall. The stallion did not scare her though. Traven needed her, and she would not fail him. She would throw herself onto pikes if it would benefit her love.

“Shh… it’s all right. Shh…” Crystalia slid the bridle off the hook and held it up for Lauger to sniff. “Please let me put this on. Your master needs you.”

The horse tossed his head but did not back away.

“Child, what are you doing here?” a man’s voice asked from behind.

Crystalia nearly jumped out of her skin as Lauger snorted menacingly. She turned to find Viola’s butler looking down his hawkish nose at her.

“I… the Hero needs…”

The servant looked around, then opened the stall door wider. “We must hurry. The Winter priests just left with Master Hammond. They mean to sacrifice the Hero.”

Heart in her throat, Crystalia nodded and inched towards Lauger.

“No, just let him have his head. He’ll find Traven.”

“But his saddle and gear, won’t he need—”

The man put a hand on her shoulder. “Child, if we saddle the horse, the others will know we assisted Traven. They will slit our throats as surely as they will his.”

Crystalia’s words were brave, but her hands shook. “I don’t care.”

“Traven would not want you hurt in his stead. He knocked the poisoned cup from your hand. If he were here, he would tell you to take care.”

How Crystalia wished she could be more brave. She wished the Commander or Traven had told her exactly what to do. Everything was happening too quickly.

“But he’ll need shelter and food…”

The servant shook his head. “Getting him his horse will have to be enough.”

Tragically, Crystalia had to agree. But there had to be more they could do. “Go to old mare’s stall. Get her blanket and oat bag.” Crystalia turned on her heel.

“Now!” she shouted to the butler as Traven had to her. There was no time to argue. The blanket would afford a little more warmth, and, in a pinch, Traven could eat the oats.

Quickly Crystalia hooked the large horse blanket over Lauger’s back and slipped the oat bag over his neck, letting it dangle. The servant opened the barn door, and Crystalia slapped the horse on the rump.

“Get out! Go! Shoo!”

Lauger did not need much encouragement. As soon as he smelled the excitement in the air, the horse was off like an arrow, nearly flying down the cobblestones.

“Thank you,” Crystalia said to the butler before she, too, bolted into the alley. The girl ran down the street, then took the next alleyway— a shortcut to the commons. With every fiber of her being, she prayed for Traven. Prayed that the gods loved him as much as she did.

* * *

“What in the gods’ names is going on here?” the Commander bellowed.

Traven released a long-held breath. Finally there might be some end to this madness. A few of the townsfolk had tried to charge him, but the Hero had repelled them without much injury. Nevertheless, the rabble was getting braver and ready to sacrifice their neighbor upon his sword so they might mob him. The Hero had seen this ploy work too many times in too many towns against too many good Knights.

Cecil waved the parchment as if it were written by the Winter King himself. “The Hero is a traitor! He murdered the Blue Priest! Read for yourself.”

The Commander ripped the paper from the man’s hand, his eyes rapidly scanning the paper. “What say you, Hero?”

Before Traven could answer, Cecil screamed, “Liar!”

“Enough!” the Commander bellowed. “I will not have this—”

A scream rose from the back of the crowd and spread like wildfire as a horse was dragged forward. On its back was slung the wrapped body of the dead girl.

“This is the Hero’s work! He means to kill us all!”

The mob roared with fury and surged forward. Only Lauger’s wild charge into the commons prevented their onslaught. The black stallion flailed with his hooves and kicked viciously at the crowd. Blood splattered on the cobblestones, scaring the populace back a few steps. In a single motion, Traven swung himself up onto Lauger’s back, not caring where the blanket or oat bag had come from.

The Commander tried to regain control, but the throng was a force unto itself.

“Burn him!” Cecil screamed, and the crowd immediately picked up the cry.

Waves of hysteria crashed over Traven. The mob had crossed the line. They were ready for blood on their hands. The Hero could feel it. The Commander must have sensed the shift in mood as well, for the older man waved to the guards, and the gate creaked opened.

The Commander clenched his jaw. “There will be no human sacrifice. It was not he who committed this horrible crime.”

“He’s blinded you. The Winter King has spoken to me!” Cecil ranted, half-mad with power and ale.

Traven tried to keep Lauger from bolting out the gate. The Hero would give the Commander a chance to calm the crowd, but if the wind shifted, he would make for the gate.

The Commander looked over the crowd, which seethed with rage. Finally, the older man sighed and gave Traven a look of apology before speaking. “Then I invoke the Shaladar. We will deliver him back to the Plains.”

Cecil ran at the Commander. “Never. The Winter King will have him!”

The Commander’s horse danced away from the priest as he drew his sword. “Then the King shall have him. Or do you think the god not capable of meting out his own justice? Do you now act for the god as well as speak for him?”

The priest’s face flushed a brilliant red. His veins throbbed, and his cheeks bellowed in and out like a prairie grouse. Traven carefully urged Lauger towards the now-opened gate. The Commander took advantage of the priest’s inability to articulate his rage.

The Commander stared into the priest’s eyes. “He is banished. Does anyone oppose my order?”

“I want—”

Cecil stopped mid-sentence as the Commander’s sword flicked to his neck. The priest had to stretch his chin skyward to keep the blade from biting his skin.

“I ask again. Does anyone oppose my order?” This time no one stepped forward. The Commander swung his horse about to face Traven.

“Last Hitch banishes thee.” The Commander held Traven’s eyes as his tone dropped. “Do not bother traveling west or south, they will know of the priests’ wrath.” The next three words, he pronounced carefully. “It is done.”

Traven opened his mouth to reply, but a rock flew from the throng, hitting Lauger squarely in the flank. The warhorse sprang forward as another hail of stones pelted them both. Digging in his heel, Traven urged Lauger towards the gate. Given his head, the horse charged out the gate.

But which way to turn? What had the Commander meant? The only path left to Traven was either north or east. To turn north was certain suicide. The Ice Scabs and Blinding Storms hailed from that direction. There was a reason this town was called Last Hitch. To the east was no better. The Plains stretched out, unbroken, to the rocky coastline. There was no port, no seaside town to offer shelter. Just miles of barren cliffs at the water’s edge. What was the Commander thinking?

The Hero had no pack, no saddle, no coin. Traven was leaving the damnable town worse off than he’d come, but in a strange way, he was giddy. The Hero had his life, and that was more than many a branded heretic had left. Now his survival was in the hands of the Winter King. Traven shook his head. He had best enjoy the little time left to him, for the Hero was fairly certain the snowy god knew how to hold a grudge.

* * *

“No!” Crystalia screamed as Lauger’s tail disappeared past the gate.

Edging her way through the incensed mob, Crystalia broke free and ran out into the snow banks. Lauger’s slick black coat stood out against the white, but the warhorse was charging away, his rider never looking back.

“No!” The girl sobbed as she threw herself to the ground.

It was not supposed to end like this. Where was the long, tearful good-bye? Since the moment she’d met him, Crystalia had dreamed of their parting. The Hero was to have encircled her with his arms. Time would have stopped, she was certain of it. How could her fellow citizens have been so cruel? Did they not know this Hero was her love?

Mr. Brandley spat into the snow. “I hope the Scabs get ‘em.”

Crystalia’s rage found a target, “He’s done nothing to you! He was good and noble and fought to save us all.”

“You’d think so, you little harlot!” Mrs. Levins screamed.

Mr. Brandley kicked snow in her direction. “Whore! Traitor!”

Crystalia cringed as the townsfolk vented their frustration at her. A rock flew through the air, catching her on the forehead. As she curled into a ball, dozens of stones pelted her. Blood flowed from her cut and blinded her. How could the day have gone so horribly awry? Her own town meant to kill her. Not once in a day, but twice. What insanity plagued Last Hitch?

“Get away!” the Commander shouted as he grabbed the back of her dress and hauled her up onto his horse. The Commander spurred into the wedge of townsfolk and they scattered like autumn leaves under a stiff wind.

“Who are you?” the Commander bellowed at Mr. Brandley. The man stood frozen, a blank expression on his face. “A stoner of the innocent? A fear-driven fool?” The Commander brought his horse around. “Which is it?”

No one offered an answer. The townsfolk began to mill, and the few lucky souls who were on the outer edge bled into the alleyways, away from the Commander’s rage.

“Curfew begins immediately. Anyone caught outside their homes in one half hour will be imprisoned. Have I made myself clear?”

On his mark, the guards moved in on the crowd. Coming to their senses, most of the throng melted away until soon only the priests and a few stubborn men stayed in the commons. Crystalia clung to the Commander’s shirt as he urged his mount across the square.

“Anyone caught outside,” the Commander said to Cecil.

“You can’t—”

“Please. Challenge my authority. I long to arrest you, priest. Those townsfolk can turn on you just as quickly as they did the Hero.”

Cecil and the other priests stood defiant, but Crystalia could see their hands shaking and the paleness of their skin. After a moment, the priests broke and rushed towards their temple. Once the last of the crowd was dispersed, the Commander guided his horse towards Crystalia’s shop.

It was then that Crystalia realized she was with the man who had doomed her love. Before she could think, Crystalia pounded her fists on his back.

“You! You’ve killed him!” she sobbed.

The Commander turned on her, but rather than anger, the man’s face wore a look of exhaustion. “He’s safer out there than he is here, child.”

Crystalia prepared another insult, but he patted her clenched fist. “Think on it. If Widow Masser could be prevailed upon to poison the Hero, what chance would he have? Each morsel, each sip, he took could have been his last.”

“But she warned—”

The Commander’s face turned stern. “Do not be so blind, Crystalia. There are others in this town who would gladly let you die if it gave them a chance to strike down Traven.”

It could not be true! Crystalia wished her ears could clamp shut, so that she could never hear another word about poisons or sacrifices. But as much as she wanted to deny the Commander’s words, the girl knew them to be true. Still, the Hero’s fate weighed upon her soul. If out on the barren Plains, with naught but a horse blanket was safer, what chance did Traven have?

* * *

Jory entered the garrison and waved off the soldiers scurrying to do his bidding. He wanted to have nothing to do with them. Frustrated, he took the steps two at a time, hurrying to be alone with his thoughts. His anger was so great that it nearly blinded him. And that would serve no one. He needed to use his anger to uproot the evil that so cleverly manipulated the day’s events.

Their plans had succeeded so splendidly that Jory thought to check his own coat for puppet strings. His men had not found the child’s body. It was left for them to discover. The poison in the Hero’s tea was but one of several schemes to undo Traven. The plots had followed one right after the other with frightening precision. Jory was certain the mysterious letter declaring the Blue Priest’s murder would now be “lost” in the confusion, never allowing its authenticity to be verified.

Slamming his fist upon the desk, Jory grabbed his spyglass and searched out the window across the Plains. Far off to the east was a glint of black. Traven.

Jory sighed. At least the Hero had taken his advice and headed east. Not that the old man was certain the east meant any safer passage than the others, but something in Jory had been changed by the Hero’s arrival. Long-stifled memories were resurfacing, and old stories took on new urgency.

Decades ago, long before Jory had even received his lieutenant stripes, there were tales of the East. The most adventuresome had claimed that one of the seven Folds laid out upon the wasteland. It was those stories and his own sense of desperation that had swayed the Commander to send the Hero east. Jory only hoped that he did not live to regret it his advice.

The seed is planted

Tears flow

A bond is forged

CHAPTER 4

Ornery set down the pail of water and tucked his ears back under his cap. It was going to be one of those days where his body just didn’t cooperate. He got enough stares already being a stranger pulling into Charolett’s Berg on a gaily painted covered wagon. In the dead of winter, no less. He didn’t need to call unwanted attention to his mixed “heritage.”

Sighing, Ornery picked up the handle and trudged through the snowdrifts towards the common well, passing a gang of teenagers who thought they were well-hidden behind the smoking shack. His ears might be huge today, but at least they graced him with exquisite hearing. Keeping his head down as he walked, he quietly eavesdropped on the boys’ conversation.

“Give me some!” a boy whined. Ornery knew it was Denny, the sandy-haired baker’s son. Despite the fact that their cart had pulled into town only a week ago, Ornery could already spot the yellow-bellied boy in the crowd.

“No fair, I—” Denny’s deep baritone skidded to a halt as his voice cracked.

The other boys laughed heartily, then took turns imitating the adolescent. How Ornery wished he could laugh about his own metamorphosis to adulthood. How nice it would be to have little things like a voice change or new body hair be your greatest childhood challenge. But for Ornery, every day was a surprise. Each morning, he woke up with something new. Hooves for feet. He must wonder would his nose sprout out so far he’d have to stay inside the wagon that day? Those were his burdens to carry. At any moment, his body could convulse and transform before his very eyes.

“Hey, Jeremy got two!” Denny whined from the shed.

Obviously the boys had gone behind the shack to cover up their attempt to smoke some Hocho leaf. Ornery hated to tell them that by the smell, they had selected ones too green. The best they could hope for was sore tummies and raging headaches. At worst they would be sick in bed for a week with their mothers scolding them for their foolishness.

Resting the pail on the well’s edge, Ornery grinned slightly and chuckled at the thought. A real human chuckle. His smile deepened. At least he was past the point of uncontrollably whinnying. Ornery’s lips turned down as he realized the well’s surface was frozen over again. Hadn’t anyone else in this town gotten water yet today? Surveying the town with disgust, Ornery grabbed the ice pick and began chipping away. This wasn’t the first berg where the folk had decided to let the “freak boy” do their hard work for them.

“Good morning,” a sweet clear voice announced behind him.

Ornery nearly jumped out of his skin. He had been so obsessed with his own grumblings that he did not hear the girl approach. Before he turned and mumbled his hellos, Ornery knew it was Belle, the town’s beauty. The sun was barely over the Eastern Ridge, and the girl had already dabbed on perfume and donned a dress fit for torch-lit services.

For a moment, he panicked, thinking he might bray. Instead, Ornery just stuttered and nearly choked on his own tongue. He had never actually been this close to her before, and her beauty was nearly paralyzing. Black curls peeked out from under a red-velvet hair band. Her green eyes shone in the early morning light. Belle’s hands were so petite and delicate that Ornery found himself shooing her away from the second ice pick.

“I’ve got it,” Ornery managed to mumble.

A smile that eclipsed the new sun warmed him as he frantically hacked away at the thick ice layer.

“Thanks… Um, do those potions your mother sells—”

“She’s not my mother,” Ornery barked out and immediately regretted it.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed…”

“I just work for Miss Emmert.”

“Sorry. Where’s your family?”

Ornery hit at the ice with renewed vigor. This is the last thing he wanted to talk about. What would say? That his mother died birthing him, and his father was too much of a coward to take him back to the herd? Ornery could not even tell her that he was half-centaur. She would never believe him and would just have one more thing to tease him about. No, as always, he stayed silent.

Belle lightly touched his shoulder, causing fire to shoot down to his hand. He was surprised the ice didn’t just melt away.

“Ornery? If it’s too personal…”

“It is.”

Covering up his agitation, he hacked hard at the ice, finally breaking through to the frigid water. Now if he could just make a hole large enough, and quickly fill their pails, he might get out of this without completely humiliating himself.

“I was… I was just asking because my grandpa has a bad leg, and I thought one of your medicines might help.”

“You’d have to talk to Miss Emmert about that.”

Cracking the ice off into huge chunks, Ornery put a few into his pail. The sooner he was done, the better. With quick peeks, he allowed himself to spy on the ruff of Belle’s frilly dress and her red boot. It was the most perfect foot he’d ever seen. The leather looked soft and supple, with tiny little sparkles in the pattern of a sunburst.

“I was wondering. Do you ever, you know… spend time with… go to church or the socials?”

Avoiding her gaze, he filled their buckets. “No, we’re heading out soon.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Belle’s voice took on a strange quality. Her tone was so sad and concerned Ornery looked up. But she wasn’t facing him, she was turned towards the smoking shack, waving her hands frantically. By the time he realized there was an ambush, it was too late. Slush balls pelted him from all sides.

“No!” Belle cried out, but the other teens ignored her plea and laughed.

“Not leaving soon enough, freak!” Denny yelled across the town square, chucking a wet snowball at him.

Grabbing his pail, Ornery meant to shuffle off and ignore the whole lot of them, but as he turned, Belle’s eyes met his. For a moment, the world collapsed until there was only the two of them. Belle’s eyes shown with unshed tears. Ornery could swear she said, “I’m sorry,” but no breath escaped her lips. Her emerald eyes said it all.

The moment was shattered as several projectiles pelted his back, throwing him off-balance, spilling half of the water in his pail. Righting himself, Ornery turned his back on Belle and headed to the barn. Sure she was sorry. Wasn’t everyone sorry? Miss Emmert was sorry. His father was probably sorry. Ornery was the most sorry of all. But being sorry didn’t change reality. No number of apologies could alter that fact he was a half-breed freak.

Ornery’s mood did not improve as he neared the stable. What had his parents been thinking? From the stories Miss Emmert told, they had not been thinking at all. Granted his mother was saved by the Centaurs, who had been long thought extinct, but did she have bed one of them? Anger flushed his already-red cheeks. Why did she have to die? Why didn’t his father take him back to the Herd and raise his son amongst his people?

It did not matter the number of questions he asked. The answers were always elusive. He had badgered Miss Emmert for years but her stories were as ever-flowing and changing as his body. He tried to give up caring, but his doubt nagged him every night.

When he could, Ornery snuck out of the wagon and secreted himself into the bars and taverns, listening to real bards tell their stories. Once in a fort moon, a traveling minstrel would tell a story about the People of the Horse and the Distant Steppes. He would soak up every word and memorize each line spoken. Someday he would find his father and tell him exactly how he felt. That is, once Ornery himself figured it out. Which might take some serious time.

How was he supposed to sort out his life, if they kept pulling up stakes and moving before the next moon rose? Miss Emmert was nice enough, not very bright, and certainly not a taskmaster, but he longed for a place of his own. Miss Emmert persistently reminded him that his father’s people were nomads. She was surprised that Ornery did not take to the constant travel. He would always counter that he took after his mother’s side.

Therefore their conversations never went very far. Since she was the only human being he ever talked to, that left him with few options. Fantasies of running away, striking out on his own, played in his head daily. Why shouldn’t he dream of living his own life? He was young, but many of the country boys already had their own homesteads and were marrying. Perhaps he couldn’t have that type of life, but he could head out as a trapper or fisherman, somewhere alone and away from the constant flow of prying eyes.

Ornery did not need the money Miss Emmert made from the sale of their wares. Anyway, half the time Miss Emmert practically gave the money away. She was as easily swayed by other charlatans as the townspeople were by her. Not a single sniffling child could leave without a dose or two of castor oil, whether they could pay for it or not. Ornery was used to hunting or fishing for their food.

The only thought that gave him pause was leaving Miss Emmert alone. Not that he needed to worry about her. She had plied her trade long before Ornery came along. When he was but a babe, not only did Miss Emmert work the wagon, but she cared for him as well. Besides, she always had Mr. Skelt to turn to. They met up with the gaunt salesman twice a year to restock their supplies. Supposedly he was a friend of his deceased mother, but Ornery could not imagine that creepy man being a friend to anyone, except perhaps Miss Emmert. Twice a year, Mr. Skelt and she would send him away for the night and go into the wagon. Ugh, he couldn’t bring himself to think of what they did in there!

“Ornery! What’s taken you so long? And look at you. How many times do I have to tell you to be more careful?”

Miss Emmert burst out of the stable, then straighten Ornery’s clothes and using her pudgy fingers to tuck his ears deeper under his cap. He hurried past her and into the barn, pouring the water into the kettle.

“Where’s the rest? We need some for the basin.”

“I’ll go back later.” Ornery couldn’t keep his sullen mood out of his voice. Only their chestnut mare’s soft whinny calmed his nerves. Crossing the stable, he petted the horse’s velvety nose.

“We won’t have time.” Miss Emmert said. “We’re moving north.”

“What?” Ornery demanded, making Cinnamon jerk her head away and snort in alarm. Absently, he calmed the horse.

Miss Emmert acted as if she hadn’t heard the fury in his voice. “We’re done here. The butcher says the weather will hold until Sermon Day.”

Ornery tried to keep the anger out of his voice so as not to startle the horse, but his words came out louder than he intended. “But it’s the Dead of Winter! A storm could blow in tonight!”

Shrugging under her think coat, Miss Emmert kept a light tone. “We’ve made it through worse.”

“We just got here. Why are we leaving so soon?” Ornery demanded.

“You yourself said how bitter the weather is. Imagine how those folks up in Last Hitch must feel. They’ll be in need of our cold remedy.”

“We’ll be in need of a mortician if we try to journey north.” Ornery crossed to their wagon and fished out their map. “That’s a good two days’ ride, even under the best of circumstances. With the snow drifts this deep, it could take us a week.”

“We’ll be fine,” Miss Emmert said in the lightest of tones and patted his cheek.

Ornery reeled back from her well-meaning touch. Had she gone mad? Did she think he would follow her forever? Did she expect him to tuck his tail between his legs and cow to her every whim?

“I’m telling you that we can’t go, Miss Emmert.”

His caretaker just waved a hand and continued packing their supplies. Ornery took a deep breath. Perhaps she could be swayed by logic. She might risk him or herself, but never their livestock.

“Miss Emmert. We pushed the horses pretty badly just to get to this Berg. I don’t think they’re up for this sort of trip.”

“The horses will be fine, but I do admire your concern.”

Ornery bristled at her condescending tone. “They won’t be fine. One is sure to flounder, and then we’ll be done for. We can’t take that risk.”

“The horses are ready for the trip, and you’d better hurry if you’re to be prepared yourself.”

“Miss Emmert—”

Ornery stopped as Miss Emmert laughed with a deep smile on her face. “For a boy who thinks himself pretty smart and ready to take on the world, you’re not too quick, are you?”

Stammering, Ornery tried to figure out what she was saying. “But… but…”

“It’s not me who wishes to leave, silly. It’s the horses who insist on heading out today.”

“What? Miss Emmert, you’re not making any sense. The horses want to be in their stalls eating grain. They—”

“Young man, haven’t you figured it out yet?”

Ornery just stood there dumbfounded.

Miss Emmert smiled more deeply. “The horses. They are Centaurs. They’re your first cousins.”

CHAPTER 5

“Those blasted fools,” Granny spat as she watched Traven’s father and his men burn the fall leaves. “They’re torching what they should be worshippin’.”

Traven nodded enthusiastically, not that he really agreed with the old woman. What was a bunch of rotting old leaves to him, anyway? No, he just wanted to keep his Granny talking. You never knew where her lectures would take you, maybe to a story or even a tall tale.

Skipping a bit, Traven had to catch up with his grandmother. For such an old woman, using a cane to steady herself, Granny could beat all of them out to the chicken coop.

“If Nature had wanted those leaves burnt, don’t you think she’d have come up with a way?” Granny couldn’t help herself. Scolding her son-in-law was a favorite past time.

“What do you think Nature intended, Granny?” Traven asked.

Granny snorted and spat one more time before they entered the chicken pen. “Why do you think Fall blankets the earth with her fallen treasures?”

Oh, Traven hated it when Granny turned her ire upon her students. Now he had to come up with a plausible answer— one that Granny would accept.

“To cover the ground? To protect it, like the blankets you crochet each autumn?”

Traven fell forward as Granny gave him a forceful pat on the back. “I knew you had more sense than your father. You’ll come to be somebody, Traven. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Wide-eyed, Traven stared back. Granny never talked to him like this. Usually she found him terribly wanting. But today, he basked in her broken-toothed smile. He was already honored just to have Granny all to himself. Traven never would have thought that accidentally burning himself on the stewing pot would end up such a good thing. Yesterday, his older brother had tackled him on the porch. The fight had carried into the kitchen until Traven’s arm had slammed against the red-hot metal.

Normally, on a bustling day after the Harvest, Traven would have been out in the fields, taking his place amongst the men. Instead, with his bandaged arm, Traven had been assigned to help Granny with her chickens. If every day was like today, Traven would have to burn himself a bit more often.

“Fall knows, child. She knows the harsh King will descend soon,” Granny said as she clucked to her chicken and sprinkled scratch from the bucket Traven carried. Her eyes became unfocused, and her voice took on a reverent tone.

“What would her sister, Spring, do if Winter killed all life in his path? No, child. Fall shakes the leaves from the branches and lays down a blanket of love and warmth, incubating the tender sprouts and seeds until Spring can kiss them with light and a bit of tender breeze.”

Traven stood enraptured. He loved it when Granny went into one of her trances. And to think he was all alone. There were no siblings to interrupt or break the spell. Traven could hold his breath for a decade, just to hear her talk.

“If it is Spring that gives birth, it is Fall that carries the babe in her belly until the time is ripe.”

Two chickens squabbled over some grit, breaking the mood. Traven could have wrung both the birds’ necks, right then and there, but Granny just clucked away at them. She talked to the chickens as if they could understand one another. Soon the ruffled feathers were soothed, and quiet descended on the pen again.

“Not everyone respects that, do they?” Traven knew he was chancing Granny’s wrath, but he so wanted her to keep talking that it would be worth the tongue lashing if he got a story for his efforts.

“Like your father? No, they certainly don’t.” Granny had to pet a few of her hens as they clucked in alarm at her harsh tone. “But that’s not what you want me to talk about, is it?”

Traven stood perfectly still, not allowing any emotion to cross his face. Inside, Traven was down on his knees, praying with all his might that Granny would read his mind and tell a tale.

“You want to hear about one man in particular, don’t you? And it’s not about burning no leaves, I bet.”

“It’s important to learn from you, Granny…”

“Don’t give me none of your fancy lip, boy. I’ve helped raise ya. You don’t care nothin’ for learnin’. You care for a grand adventure and a bit of bloodshed. Don’t ya?”

Traven nodded sheepishly. He was caught. To his surprise, Granny hugged him, then kissed the top of his head with her dry lips.

“That’s why I loves you best, boy. That’s why I loves you best.”

How could Traven had gotten so lucky? Granny never acted like this. Never. The moment ended as abruptly as it began.

“Now gets in that coop and collect the eggs before I tan your hide, you lazy good-for-nothing.”

Traven didn’t even hear Granny’s scolding. He could still feel her mouth upon his crown and the words she had said, all the way down to his heart. He was the luckiest boy in the whole world, even more so when Granny started telling one of his favorite legends.

“The Man Who Didn’t Know wandered the forest. The wind rustled in the dry leaves as he urged his horse forward. Winter was coming soon, and he was no more prepared than a new-borne babe. He’d tried his hand at farming and come up with dry dirt. He’d tried wood-cutting, but he couldn’t fell a tree for his life.

He’d tried baking but ended up with oven full of burnt dough. Now he searched the forest for a gift from Fall. He knew he would not survive the Winter otherwise.”

Traven wanted to hurry Granny along to get to the good and gory part, but Granny could not be rushed. To disturb her now would risk her clamming up completely.

“He found a well and cried great tears of longing into the shaft. From down below, it was as if his prayers had been answered.”

In his excitement, Traven cracked an egg, its yolk dripping down his hand. Panicked, he stuffed the broken egg under the nest and wiped his hand on his britches. Granny would kill him if she knew he had wasted one of her precious brown-spotted eggs. She swore it was the special eggs that made her cooking so sought after.

“You ‘bout done in there, boy?” Granny hollered.

Traven snatched a few more eggs and ran out to meet her.

“Any trouble?” Granny asked.

“No, not all all.”

Granny whistled through her broken teeth. “You are such a bad liar, Traven.” Granny tsked at him as she picked eggshell from his pants. “You will never learn…”

Traven tried to nudge her back into the story. “Kind of like The Man Who Did Not Know?”

“So, you’ve noticed the resemblance, have you?” Granny chided, but her tone was light. Traven nearly burst his seams with joy. She was going to tell the story despite his accident. “Yes, child, you probably would follow that siren’s call down the shaft, wouldn’t you?”

Smiling, Traven followed alongside as Granny continued. “So full of hope and wonder, The Man climbed down the slick shaft. The further he descended, the darker it became, until there was no light at all. Shadows swirled around him and clutched The Man in their cold, damp grasp. He tried to scream, but the darkness crept down his throat.”

Traven could feel his own breath tighten in his chest. She was getting to the good part.

“They had nothing to give The Man. It was they who needed something.” Granny lightning-quick tapped Traven on the chest. He was so startled that his pulse almost froze. “His heart! They needed to feast on his heart’s blood. That’s how they kept themselves alive. As they pulled it from his chest, he could feel the beating in his throat until the darkness threatened to claim him…”

Traven startled from his dream. Blinking, the Hero realized he was still traveling east on the Plains, and not in his Granny’s chicken coop. Lauger tossed his nose, a sure sign the horse was hungry again. Not that Traven blamed him, his own stomach ached for food. The least the townsfolk could have done was let him eat lunch before they tossed him out into the bitter cold.

Jumping down off his bareback mount, Traven shook his head as he grabbed the last of the grain for Lauger. In his current predicament, you would think he could conjure up a slightly more inspiring tale. Would it be too much to ask for one with a happy ending? But Granny was never very big on those. No, she fed him what he had wanted to hear. Stories of gut-wrenching adventure and stupendous heroism. Tragic, all of it, but mesmerizing to a young boy.

Well, now he wasn’t so young, and he certainly had his fill of gut-wrenching realism. Granny might have warned him life wasn’t anything like her stories.

* * *

Jory slammed down his quill. How could he write a declaration of banishment when he knew the gates should be thrown open, welcoming Traven back as the Hero that he was? The commander knew that whether or not he scribed the announcement, Traven was still under Shaladar. No one could speak his name, nor assist him in any way, including the commander himself. Jory told himself over and over again that Traven would forgive him for simply making the act official, but it had taken Jory three days to write the damnable thing.

People had begun whispering about Jory’s reluctance. The last thing the commander needed was dissidence from his own guard. They expected Jory to be as efficient and detached as always. His men either wanted the declaration posted or a reason why he had not. Since the only man Jory could trust was now banished out upon the Plains, the commander had kept silent, tossing and turning in his bed each night. Traven deserved far better, but the commander’s hands were tied.

“Sir!” Jory’s first lieutenant blurted as he rushed into the room.

Startled, the commander knocked over his bottle of ink, ruining the declaration. Secretly thrilled, Jory barked at the officer as he made feeble attempts to salvage the parchment. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know. I… I…” Jory’s second in command stammered, red-faced.

Blotting the rapidly drying ink, the commander snapped, “What is so important you breached protocol?”

Gathering himself, the lieutenant’s chest puffed, and his pudgy cheeks swelled in and out. “Sir, I just learned that you have released messenger doves.”

“Aye. And what of it?”

“To the north and east, sir?”

Jory froze for an instant, then forced himself to continue the clean-up. The commander had hoped this news would not find its way into public knowledge. Stalling to find out how much the lieutenant knew before he attempted a bluff, Jory answered, “You think to second-guess me, lieutenant?”

“No, sir. I just… I just don’t understand. Why have you ordered trappers to find Traven’s body?”

As soon as he was done here, Jory would give the aviary keeper a good tongue-lashing. Could the commander not keep one thing secret in this town?

“Aye. No matter the Hero’s actions, Mount Shrine will want Traven’s body back. He still has family.”

“All the more reason we should have burnt him here!” The lieutenant’s face was blotchy and distorted. The man had never looked uglier.

“Even the Blue Priest denounced human sacrifice—”

The lieutenant interrupted. “That was before the Priest was murdered by the impostor!”

Jory did not bother to correct the lieutenant. The tattoo Traven bore could not have been forged, but such details did not matter. “Until I have a decree from the Oligarchy itself, the Blue Priest’s words will be honored.” Jory could see the smaller man’s veins bulge. “Do you find fault with that?”

“No. Of course not,” the lieutenant choked out. “I just… What do we care of a traitor’s family?”

Jory feigned indifference. “If nothing else, I would not stand to lose such a fine stallion. Any other questions?”

It was obvious the subordinate had many questions but dared not voice them— at least not yet.

Finally, the lieutenant tensed his jaw. “What if the trappers find him alive?”

Waving off the man’s concern, Jory hoped his face did not betray his unease. The commander’s last real hope for Traven’s survival was for the trappers to find the Hero and assist him to another town. Despite his romantic notions regarding the Fold, Jory knew he had best get a more realistic plan. Gods were seldom reliable.

Shrugging, the commander did his best to sound indifferent. “They’ll probably slit his throat, loot his gear, and ignore my request for his body.”

Jory sat tense, waiting for the lieutenant to reveal how much he truly knew. The commander told the aviary-keeper where to send the birds, but he did not tell the man the full content of the message. Unfortunately, that did not mean the loose-tongued keeper had not opened the seals and read the requests.

The lieutenant nodded grimly. “I shall inform you when the trappers arrive.”

The commander dismissed the man. Jory was playing a very dangerous game with men who would like nothing better than to have the commander brought down. No matter what happened, Jory could not allow the town to be handed over to a sniveling wretch of a man such as the lieutenant.

There was only one person left in town to turn to. Jory rang the bell, and his assistant curtly entered the room.

“I have need of a runner. Have him wait for my correspondence.”

The man saluted and left the room as Jory put ink to parchment again. This time it was a veiled cry for help. Across the envelope, Jory scribbled the name.

Madame Hesper.

CHAPTER 6

Hot juice bubbled up, splattering chutney all over Crystalia’s apron. Cursing under her breath, she wiped the scalding liquid from her hands. Working in the shop was unbearable. Her father had not allowed her past the front door in over three days.

It was for her own protection, he had said, but Crystalia knew the truth. Her father was embarrassed and could not abide the neighbors snickering behind his back. Crystalia knew what they said about her. She knew they called her vile names and thought her as much a traitor as the Hero. But for once, Crystalia did not care what the town thought. Traven had changed her life, and there was no going back to the girl she was before.

Like a warm breeze in December, the young man had come and gone, leaving behind nothing but bittersweet memories. But because of the Shaladar, Crystalia could not even speak his name out loud. Even in her agitated state, she had obeyed the proclamation.

The town was on edge. Whether from their own guilt or fear, Crystalia could not tell, but she did not want to test their mood. Even her own father barely spoke to her anymore.

An excited whisper came from somewhere behind her. “Crysty!”

The high-pitched voice was unmistakable. It was Viola, but how could that be?

The Guild Master’s daughter had also been under lock and key since Traven’s banishment. Crystalia checked to be sure her father was out of earshot, then motioned for Viola to enter. Her friend snuck in through the back door. Their parents would tan both their hides if the two girls were seen talking.

“Have you heard anything?” Viola whispered all in a rush, her golden curls shimmering in the firelight.

“Nothing!”

“They’ve sent out four search parties. The last one just got back!”

“And?” Crystalia asked.

Viola clutched her hands to her chest in an almost prayer-like manner. “They haven’t found him yet! Do you know what this means?”

Crystalia was too taken by her imagination to answer. She could see the Hero boldly galloping across the Plains, his head held high, striking out for another adventure.

Viola couldn’t wait any longer. “He’s alive! Can you believe it?”

“But how? He left without any supplies, not even a saddle.”

“I know! He must be…”

Even Viola couldn’t finish the blasphemous sentence. Their eyes met over the bubbling chutney. Could they dare hope that Traven was truly a Hero? Could they dare believe a single story of his was true?

Biting her lip, Viola inched closer. “Do you think he could have found… a Fold?”

“Viola!” Crystalia hissed. “Do you want us run out of town too?”

But instead of retreating, Viola leaned closer with her face aglow. “If anyone could, it would be Traven, right?”

With a harsh nudge, Crystalia backed Viola away with her elbow. It was one thing to fantasize, to dream of heroes, witches, and ghosts, but it was quite another to talk about them, in broad daylight, no less!

“We can only pray—”

“But to who?” Viola interrupted.

Crystalia took a swing with her elbow again, but Viola scampered away towards the door. Her friend’s voice became low and took on a tone very unlike Viola’s normal giddy manner.

“There’s a rumor.” The blonde’s voice dropped so low that Crystalia had to lean closer, straining to hear the next words. “Madame Hesper threw bones last night! She sent a runner to the garrison, but he never came back.”

“What do you—?” Crystalia stopped mid-sentence as her father entered the room. Viola slipped out onto the cobblestone street, nodding to the other shopkeepers as if nothing had happened.

“Were you saying something?” her father asked.

“Yes. I need a bit more wood, I think.”

Her father rooted around the roaring fire and checked the mixture, shaking his head. “Any more kindling and you’d be boiling over the edge, girl. Where is your head?”

Crystalia wasn’t about to tell him.

“We’ve got to get this batch done and get you cleaned up!” Her father studied her face. “Or did you forget you’ve got a suitor coming over this evening? From a very wealthy spice merchant’s family, I might add.”

For a moment, the features of the room blurred as Crystalia imagined yet another evening of entertaining. Over the last few days, her father seemed desperate to marry her off. Any slob with a silver to rub between his fingers was a likely candidate. The air clung to her lips, stifling any scream she might think to utter. The room was too hot— her skin too flushed. The entire world compressed down into the tiny space of their little shop.

There were moments in your life when you had to act, you had to set yourself in motion. Crystalia had seen that in Traven’s eyes, and now she knew it was true for herself. She was not quite as brave as the Hero and was not ready to take on the Barren Plains, but she had to get out of this shop and hunt Viola down. Handing over the spoon, Crystalia whipped off her apron.

“What do you think you are—?”

As rapidly as she could, Crystalia grabbed a few jars off the shelf and packed them in a bag. “I’ve got deliveries to run, Papa. I’ll be back in just a bit.”

Before her father could object any further, Crystalia rushed through the door. Even at his best speed, there was no way her father could catch her. Besides, he would have to leave the boiling batch, and she knew he would rather die.

The blast of cold air on her bare arms nearly drove her back into the shop. What had she been thinking, barging out without even her shawl? But her feet kept her moving down the narrow street. Crystalia had never disobeyed Pappy like that, never. Yet, somehow, it felt right and good. Her father could not keep her locked up like a barn animal until he sold her at market.

Crystalia clutched her bag closer to her chest as neighbors and passersby stared openly. She didn’t blame them, though. Crystalia knew that she must have looked quite the fright; dressed only in her brewing dress, itself a lattice of patches and stains, her hair crinkled and half out of its bun. She must look like a mad woman racing to her death. The sneers on her neighbor’s faces said it all. Perhaps she should have left Last Hitch with the Hero. She still felt guilty for not saddling his horse. If he died, his blood would be on her hands. Life simply meant nothing to her any more.

As little as Crystalia cared about others’ opinions, she needed to get inside. Night was approaching, and the air nearly slapped her in the face with each breath. But where to turn? The doorman at Viola’s would never let her in, and everyone else would send her scurrying. Slowing, Crystalia searched the surrounding buildings for signs of a friendly fire. She willed her feet to stop, but they brought her closer and closer to Hanger’s Mansion.

There was nothing welcoming or inviting about the place. Painted black, the building seemed to suck any light that strayed too close. Overwhelmed by curiosity or simple stupidity, Crystalia found her heel clicking onto the first step.

The Mansion looked no better the closer she got. The elaborate facade climbed high into the sky. Besides the garrison, Hanger’s Mansion was the only building over two stories in the whole town. Black, brooding gargoyles hung over the ledge, staring down anyone who dared approach the house.

Unbidden, tales of the house’s sordid history rose in her mind. Originally, it was built as a testament to man’s supremacy, a shout in the face of nature that man could live anywhere he wished, any way he wished. The basement alone, almost unheard of above the fifth parallel, took a hundred men a dozen brief arctic summers to dig through the permafrost. Rumors of a labyrinth and tunnels sprawling out from the mansion had started as soon as the mortar had dried.

Crystalia tried to imagine the foreboding structure back when it was said to be filled with laughter and light. Dozens of governors and their families had resided there for decades, unmolested by the evil.

That is, until the baby-faced Governor Markan was transferred from his eastern post. It seemed his sense of civic duty bent more towards crime and punishment than re-cobbling the roads. Soon after taking his office, the Governor elected himself the hangman. Each Sunday, whether there was a deserving criminal or not, there was a public execution.

It took the officials back at the capital awhile to figure out why this outpost needed so many fresh troops. The stories varied widely about Markan’s removal from office, but many of the town’s buildings still bore the scorch marks. No, there was nothing good to be said about this mansion. Nothing at all.

What might have been a welcome breeze any other time of the year blasted frigid air up her skirt. Crystalia’s knees knocked loudly as she tried to force the cold out. Darn, but she’d forgotten to put on petticoats this morning. In her hurry to avoid another draft, Crystalia found herself clambering up the small flight of stairs and onto the Mansion’s stoop. The largest, tallest, and apparently thickest door she had ever seen stood but inches away. The bronze door knocker, in the shape of a devil’s head, seemed to challenge her to try, just try, to disturb the occupants.

A shout made her turn back towards the street. It was only a gaggle of children, playing some game. Bundled against the cold, their faces shown a healthy pink, and their happy voices echoed along the street. Ah, to be young and carefree again.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she reflexively gasped. Crystalia swore she could feel someone’s breath upon her cheek. The sound was akin to a death rattle. No, more like a groan— painful and exhausted.

Cautiously, Crystalia turned back to the door only to find it ajar. Ever so slowly, it opened further. She knew she should close her jaw and run for the shop, but something held her in its thrall.

With each inch the door opened, the house seemed to moan, “Enter.”

* * *

This is getting ridiculous, Traven thought. The wind was raging down the plains, ready for war. The horizon was seamless, just a sea of white. The hero had lost track of the days, even when he’d eaten last. Nothing seemed to matter any longer.

His once-proud stallion lurched forward with every step. Lauger’s black nose was dusted white from dragging in the snow. Traven realized, with a bit of surprise, that without a miracle, he’d die here.

Youthful enthusiasm had never let him consider death as an option. After all, hadn’t he been plucked from his home and selected as one of the chosen few? Only two dozen of the land’s most honored young men had been handpicked from the countryside. Princes and urchins had vied for the right to be taken to Mount Shrine and declared true Heroes.

After three years of hard training, they had set out to the far corners of the world to prove themselves worthy of the title— The Hope.

But the world was a brutal place, and their numbers had dwindled within months to only a handful. Those few who had survived the first year returned to Mount Shrine for the New Year’s Awakening. Still, with all those fine warriors lost to horrible deaths, Traven had clung to the belief that he was immune to arrow or sword.

Traven was ashamed, but he had secretly felt a slight thrill when the last of his comrades had succumbed. That left only Traven. He was the last of the Heroes. The last to stand between the entire kingdom and eternal winter. Traven had felt assured of his place in history. Soon, he was to be named The Hope— the man foretold in a thousand prophecies for a thousand years to save the entire land.

It was not until this very moment when his cheeks bled from the wind and his horse stumbled again that Traven entertained the possibility that the mages and ministers could have been wrong. Perhaps none of the twenty-four Heroes were The Hope. Perhaps this entire quest was for naught.

Despair washed over him, far heavier than any ax ever lifted against him. Waves of nausea threatened to unseat him from his saddle. How could he have gone through so much, only to end up here? This certainly was not the ending to the tale Traven would have written for himself. Instead of the savior of the world, the Hero was going to end up just another skeleton in the drifts.

Traven braced himself and sat higher. He would not give up. What had Granny warned with each story of hers? Despair was the only enemy.

One could never give up, not when a hundred crazed Dervishes barreled down the slopes, blood dripping from their lips. Certainly, you never capitulated while you still had breath left to breathe. Traven scanned the horizon for any hint of redemption.

For the first time in his life, he prayed to the gods, any gods, to show him a sign, however slim, of hope, even a single tree. Hell’s Rain, Traven would even settled for a blasted rock to provide shelter from the wind. The Hero begged Nature herself to grant him a simple wish, survival.

Rubbing his eyes, Traven checked the eastern horizon. Was that a group of riders upon the plains? He urged his horse forward but was surprised when Lauger resisted his instruction. Instead, the horse backed away, whinnying.

With his heels, Traven dug into his steed’s sides. Damn the horse, could he not recognize a rescue party when he saw one? Lauger tried to rear, but Traven fought with the lone piece of rope that served as a halter. What was the stallion thinking?

Breaking his eyes away from the horse, Traven checked on the approaching riders. The Hero was so startled that he nearly lost his seat. What had been specks a moment ago were looming figures clothed in thick bearskins. Traven felt his breath freeze in his chest. The men approaching weren’t on mounts. They strode across the tundra, chewing up the distance with each step.

Dear gods, Traven thought, They are Giants.

Wheeling his horse around, the Hero spurred Lauger forward. With Traven’s heels in his sides, the stallion surged forward. But where could they run? They could never make it back to Last Hitch. Even if they did, Traven was still under Shaladar. There would be no comfort there. Fleeing across the Plains was also futile. The Hero already knew what painfully little shelter there was to be had out on the Barren Flats.

Risking a glance behind, Traven caught a scream in his throat. The huge, red-bearded men were only a few steps behind. The Hero urged Lauger forward, but the poor beast was at his limit.

It was no great surprise when he felt a blow from behind. Traven clung to the Lauger’s mane, but another hit swatted him from his mount. The snow-covered ground was unforgiving as he tumbled from the stallion. Traven shouted for Lauger to run, but it was wishful thinking. The smaller of the Giants, only three times his own height, moved far more quickly than any man should be allowed and snatched the reins, pulling Lauger to a stop.

Gaining his footing, Traven pulled his sword from its sheath. He might die here today, but not without enemies’ blood drawn. The three Giants quickened to the game, encircling him. Their yellow teeth glistened in the setting sun.

It was strange, but hope rose inside him. Whether the feeling was an answer to his prayers or simple lunacy, Traven charged forward. If he could kill one of them, the rest might scatter. If his plan worked, the Hero might gain some equipment to build a shelter.

Traven’s excitement was cut short by a single backhand from the nearest Giant. Pain seared up Traven’s arm as his sword skidded across the icy snow. It felt as if his hand had been shattered. Dropping to his knees, Traven accepted his fate with a wryness that surprised even him. If the Giants were going to dine on flesh tonight, Traven hoped he was tough and stringy.

Instead of the deathblow, the Giant grabbed Traven by the back of his jerkin, dragging him through the snow. At first Traven fought and flailed, but he quickly realized it was futile.

Unbidden, his Granny’s voice rose above the hissing wind.

“Giants likes their meat fresh.”

Wouldn’t Granny be proud? She was right all along.

* * *

Crystalia’s breath refused to be let out. She had held it so long that her ears rang, and her lungs screamed for relief. The dark hallway of Hanger’s Mansion loomed before her. She wanted to tear herself away and run to the safe boredom of her tiny kitchen, but there was no denying the house’s call.

Every other noise died away. Crystalia should have been able to hear the children playing, the blacksmith pounding out a new horseshoe, or the old women haggling at the market just around the corner. Instead, all she could perceive was a moan so deep it hurt her insides.

The house begged, no, demanded that she enter.

While the sound gripped her belly, Crystalia’s eyes could not be torn from a tiny flicker of light far down the hall. It was like a candle suspended in midair, tousled by the slightest breeze. But what truly held her spellbound was the way the flame’s yellow, red, and orange jostled for domination. Every so often a tiny finger of flame would lash out and end in a tiny explosion of brilliant color. It seemed as if the light was trying to tell her something— something secret and dangerous. Something about Traven.

Oh, how she wanted to hear news of Traven. Viola said Madame Hesper had thrown bones just last night. The medium was renowned for her divining skills. Surely she would welcome a visitor with the sincerest of motives. The house couldn’t be as bad as the old wives’ tales said.

Could it?

As her foot rose to cross the stoop, a wave of panic threatened Crystalia’s balance. What was she doing? The air was thick and dank, smelling bitter and falsely warm.

Crystalia’s heart desired above all else to learn of Traven’s fate, but what was she truly willing to pay for that knowledge? Again the distant flame licked higher, raging a bright orange, taunting her to take that first step over the threshold.

Who knew what horrors Traven was facing right now? How could she turn away from a silly old house?

With renewed courage, Crystalia lifted her foot off the landing and ever so gingerly took her first step into the hallway. To her surprise, nothing untoward happened. No screaming menace, no ghastly apparition flew at her. Gathering her strength, Crystalia slowly advanced down the hallway. The tiny flame looked to be not much further. Surely, it would lead her to the Madame.

But the hallways only appeared darker and darker, as if the walls themselves had been swallowed by the spirit of the night.

With each step, the flame backed away.

No matter how quickly Crystalia shuffled down the thick carpet, the flame eluded her. The air pulsed, causing her heart to join its hurried rhythm. Her eyes smarted, and the back of her throat burned as the air became heavy with the scent of dried herbs.

Enough is enough, Crystalia thought. If the Madame did not wish to be found, who was she to barge in?

Turning on her heel, she tried to find the doorway. Crystalia was certain she had left the front door ajar, certain that she had not heard its squeaky hinges close again.

Groping with her hands, Crystalia tried to find the wall and follow its path back to the front of the house, but try as she might, her hand found nothing but empty air. Near panic, Crystalia gripped her bag tightly and turned back towards the light. The flame jumped and danced right before her, almost laughing at her fear.

With no other options, Crystalia began her quest again as the light sprang away into the darkness. Stumbling, she caught herself as her foot hit something solid. Crystalia almost dared not look. First, she tapped the new object a few times with the point of her shoe to be sure it didn’t move or cry out. Gaining confidence, Crystalia knelt down and felt for the edge, but her hand pulled away from the furry texture. It took her mind a few moments to realize the roughness was simply a wool carpet covering a stair step.

Relief flooded through her body. How could Traven be so brave when facing the unknown? She felt like loosing her bladder over a simple rug. Crystalia took one last glance over her shoulder to be sure the front door had not miraculously opened again, then headed up the stairs.

Just as she gained her footing and some control of her senses, the flame abruptly flared to a blazing glow, then plunged into darkness. Stifling a scream, Crystalia tried to back down the flight of stairs, but no matter how her foot fished behind her, there was no step. Dipping further down, her toes stretched as far as they could, but their search was in vain. It was if the lower stairwell had disappeared.

There was nowhere to go but up. Jaw clenched, she continued to put one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, her hair stirred and flew about her face. The sound of storm shutters clanging against windows echoed through the house. Crystalia stopped, perched on the only step she knew truly existed, craning her head, listening to the sounds.

Branches seemed to scrape against glass, only she could not see any windows. Then she heard it— the sound of rustling, of air being purposefully moved. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted something rushing toward her in the dark, but could not duck in time.

The thing crashed into her tousled hair, entangling itself. Its screams nearly ruptured her ears. Fighting the beast off with her bag and nails, Crystalia charged up the steps, hoping there was an actual end to this stairwell.

Barreling forward, she was stunned by a sudden flood of light. Reeling, Crystalia threw back her head to let out a blood-curdling scream of her own, but a hand came from behind and slammed over her mouth. Adrenaline surged in her blood as the room plunged into darkness. The hold over her mouth was so tight that Crystalia struggled to draw even a tiny breath. Using the only weapon she had, Crystalia swung her bag of chutney over her shoulder. She hit her mark, but the hand only gripped tighter.

With her body shouting for air, Crystalia widened her mouth, then bit down, hard. She was rewarded with a groan and the feel of warm blood in her mouth. Her assailant’s hold was lost, and Crystalia fell to the floor, choking.

Light sparked from across the room, illuminating her attacker. The man towered over her, thin and gaunt. If she had not just drawn blood, she would have assumed him a walking skeleton. With the look of rage in his black eyes, the man raised the back of his hand. Crystalia squeezed her eyes shut and cringed to the floor, waiting for the blow.

“My, you gave us a scare, girl,” a woman’s voice demanded. “The least you could do is help us find him.”

Fear fueled her muscles as Crystalia bolted across the room.

“Perhaps some light would help,” the vile man said, with a far more normal voice than she had imagined. He reached over her and tied back the black curtains, allowing the weak streetlight to seep in the room. The gaunt man had not been trying to strike her; he had been going after the curtains all the while. And he had just been trying to stifle her screaming, not suffocate her.

But what of the look in his eyes? Crystalia tried not to stare and found his eyes not demonic. Instead, the corneas were a sheet of black, opaque. The man should have been blind, yet he moved nimbly about the room, straightening the mess she had made.

Letting her eyes adjust to the new light, Crystalia surveyed the woman who clucked and cooed behind a huge wooden truck, hinged in silver.

“Come here, my little pet. Come now, no one is going to hurt you,” the woman cajoled the unseen creature.

“Madame Hesper?” Crystalia’s voice came out like a little squeak.

“One and the same, m’dear.”

Crystalia inched her way back into a proper standing position and tried to regain her composure. The Madame looked nothing like she’d imagined.

She’d heard tales of this woman all her life. In some, the old medium was a wild gypsy. In others, a ravishing siren. But this woman looked nothing like that at all. If anything, she had an uncanny resemblance to Crystalia’s Sermon Day teacher. Madame Hesper could easily pass for someone’s amply proportioned grandmother.

A noise caught Crystalia’s attention, and she whirled about, still jittery from the excitement.

“I’m sorry…” Crystalia voice trailed off as she backed away in fear again.

Madame Hesper, however, was delighted, bringing up a large bat from behind the trunk. The woman kissed and caressed the thing as if it were a kitten. Crystalia cringed as the Madame approached.

“Do not worry, dear. You are the dangerous one here.”

Crystalia didn’t exactly take this to heart and backed up another step. Madame Hesper chuckled a bit and let the bat go. With a yip, Crystalia ducked, but the action was without cause. The bat smoothly flew past her, far up in the rafters, then settled down upon a beam.

“So, do you always make it a habit to break into people’s homes?”

“Um, no. Yes, I mean, the door was open. I thought it was an invitation.”

“Oh dear, Holt. You forgot to lock it again.”

“The wind must have blown it open. I’ll attend to it.” Holt walked towards the door. Crystalia kept an eye on him until he left the room.

“I’m sorry, child, but we’re not exactly used to visitors here. I’d offer you a bite to eat, but we’ve already had sup.”

“It’s all right. I came here for…” Just when the moment was at hand, Crystalia suddenly felt her stomach shrink in fear. Suddenly, this whole outing seemed the most silly thing she’d ever done.

“Well, if you have nothing to—”

“I’m here about Traven,” Crystalia blurted out, half surprising herself when she interrupted Madame Hesper.

“And what makes you think I know anything more than you?”

“Viola said you threw bones last night.”

“She did, did she?” The Madame seemed a bit agitated and began straightening some silver trinkets on the mantle place. Funny, Crystalia hadn’t noticed the fireplace, nor the small fire crackling in the hearth.

“Yes,” Crystalia answered. “Did you? Did you see anything about Traven?”

“I’ll have to talk to the commander about his loose tongue.” Madame Hesper hurried across the room and turned a vase back upright. “I’m very busy, child. We have guests coming. I really don’t have time for this sort of nonsense.”

In all her years, Crystalia had never heard of a single visitor to Hanger’s Mansion, and now that her courage was up, she was not about to let Madame Hesper wiggle out of answering her question so easily.

“Please, if you know anything, anything at all…” Crystalia tried not to sound quite so desperate, but it had crept into her voice anyway.

Madame Hesper sighed and turned back. “You think yourself in love, girl? Did he dishonor you?” the medium asked frankly.

Horrified, Crystalia answered, “No! He was nothing but a gentleman, Madame. I just toss at night, not knowing what happened to him.”

“Cut a card from the deck and place it face up on top of the pack.”

Crystalia was about to mention that there was no deck of cards to be found when she noticed a thick deck of Tarot cards on a small table.

Why had she not seen that before? With purpose, Crystalia strode over to the table and cut the deck. She hesitated for a moment. The cards felt warm, almost like there was a pulse to them. With shy fingers, Crystalia pulled a card from the center then replaced the rest of the deck. Carefully, she turned the card over.

Both she and Madame Hesper took in a sharp breath. The card was of the Snowy Maiden, but instead of the usual blonde hair, the woman had a sandy-brown mane. More strangely, the Maiden had hazel eyes instead of the usual blue, just like Crystalia. There was a strange familiarity to the Maiden’s features, perhaps like Crystalia’s mother when was younger, but not quite. The medium looked as startled about the card’s unusual facade as Crystalia.

Madame Hesper sat heavily in a well-padded chair. “Sit.”

Crystalia sank down into a velvet chair that she would have sworn was not there a second ago.

“Give me your hand,” Madame Hesper demanded.

Tentatively, Crystalia held out her hand, only to have it snatched by the Madame. The medium’s face seemed harder, more firm than jolly. The medium rubbed and rubbed at Crystalia’s palm, hard enough to make it burn a bit. She tried to pull back when the woman spat in Crystalia’s hand, but the old woman’s grip was like steel. To her shock, the lines of Crystalia’s palm began to change, turning a deep pink and angling off in strange directions.

Madame Hesper jerked Crystalia across the table. The girl would have screamed, but the medium held a razor-sharp knife to her throat.

“Who are you?” the woman asked.

“Crystalia.”

“Crystalia who?” the woman demanded. No longer did the medium look like a church elder. Madame Hesper’s face seemed to float before Crystalia, angry and demanding.

“Crystalia Tender.”

“Why have you not come before to visit me?”

“I…” Crystalia had no idea what she should say, but she thought harder as the knife bit deeper into her exposed neck.

“Why?”

“I was scared!” Crystalia exclaimed, not knowing anything but the truth to say. To her surprise, Madame Hesper let out a snort and moved the blade away from Crystalia’s neck.

“You know nothing of this?” the madame asked, gesturing to Crystalia’s palm.

“No. I don’t know… I…”

“Do you want to know?” Madame Hesper pressed Crystalia.

“I’m not sure. I don’t understand—”

“Do you want to know of Traven’s fate?”

Crystalia certainly couldn’t play confused on that issue. She had to know what fate had befallen Traven.

“Yes.”

“Are you prepared to pay for that knowledge?”

Crystalia shook her head. “I don’t have any money—”

“I want no coin. I have need of blood.”

CHAPTER 7

Traven strove to keep his mind alert. He tried to imagine how a true champion would handle the situation, but no amount of heroism could change the fact that he was being unceremoniously dragged to a certain death. With his horse in tow and his sword lost to the snow, the only weapon left to Traven was his hidden knife. With these Giants, the Hero might as well take aim with a serving fork. It would do about as much good.

As a child, Traven had been accused of living life as a grand dalliance, but as an adult, he had grown quite realistic. His end was closing near— there was no denying it. This close to death, Granny’s voice paid another visit. With his view completely obscured by snow, it was easy to free his mind and imagine Granny sitting out on the porch, smoking her cob pipe. What was it she used to rail on about?

“Mark my words. A man’s not judged by no treasure he’s gathered, nor his greatest deeds, nor even his family and friends. No, don’t be fooled by all the hoopla. Your only fortune is in the names you might be called. Them’s your soul names, and you can’t never have enough.”

The memory was fresh in his mind how Granny had disliked his father, her son-in-law. The Hero’s grandmother would spit out his father’s four soul names: son, husband, father, and farmer.

“Hardly enough to spin a tale. What type of eulogy could ya write off a life like that?”

Traven laughed despite the hellish day. Granny would have quite a field day with the Hero’s own epitaph. Let’s see.

Traven had started off a son, a brother, and, if you listened to his father, he was nothing but a good-for-nothing. Now, if you were talking to the girls from his hometown, Traven would have been called quite the prospect. To the girl’s mothers, on the other hand, he was nothing more than a rascal. Once he left Magpie’s Landing, Traven had become so much more: candidate, Hero, traveler, pole-bearer a dozen times over, fugitive, warrior, scapegoat, savior…

Traven relished the time he had last been called that name. Savior.

It was his most favored soul name. The Hero had rescued the town of Everstand from a band of highwaymen. Really, the attackers were just a group of ragtag ruffians out to turn a quick profit, but Traven had dispatched them with aplomb. The town had thrown wide its gates with a true Hero’s welcome.

Gates were not the only thing opened for Traven, and they weren’t just tavern girls, either. Even the constable’s daughter, Tameria, with her fiery red hair and freckled face, had fallen to his charm. Why had he left that town?

The Great Stand of sequoias nestled the town in its branches, protecting it like a mother’s womb. The air was crisp, and the people had loved him like their own. By the gods, why did not he stay there? Traven could have settled down and started a family. That far south, it would have taken the Sweeping Winter years to gain a hold. It might not have descended upon Everstand within his lifetime.

But heroism was a double-edged sword.

The town had soaked up every word the Hero uttered and had believed him wholeheartedly. Despite their far distance from the Great Plains, the citizens of Everstand feared Eternal Winter with a dread born of living life under green bowers.

Once the townsfolk were rallied behind Traven’s quest, how could the Hero abandon his mission? Still, Traven grumbled in his mind, he could have at the least over-winter there, none of this would have happened if the Hero had waited for the Thaw, but the townsfolk were in a fervor. Not even Tameria had asked Traven to stay. She was so certain of his rightful place in history, battling the seasons themselves.

So with a gallant parade, Traven had ridden from the Great Sequoias and never looked back. Funny, he had never thought that Everstand would be the last warm and gracious shelter on his long journey. The farther north that Traven rode, the more hostile and suspicious the people. Traven could not really blame them though. The words the Hero spoke foretold the end of their culture, if not their very lives.

Traven shook off the haunting memory of angry faces and harsh words. The Hero had a list of soul faces to complete. Where did he leave off? Savior? Next would be renegade, heretic, blasphemer, and finally outlaw. Well, if that roster did not please Granny, he did not know what would.

Still, Everstand lingered in his thoughts. The Hero could picture all the children listening with rapt attention, clinging to his every word. It must have been how Granny had felt all those years. Traven had never known the power of a storyteller until he had tried his hand at it himself. Sadness weighed upon his heart. All those young souls had trusted him. They had confidence in him, to go out an save the world, and here he was letting them down.

Preparing to die in the harsh light of the Northern Empty, Traven’s life took on a different hue. Was he truly worthy of being called Hero, or had the Elders made a tragic mistake? Had he not spent too much time worrying about his reputation, feeding his ego, and, quite frankly, trying to impress the womenfolk?

There was so much he would have done differently, but fate was closing in on him. Cracking open his frozen eyelashes, Traven looked to the Heavens. The Hero swore upon all that he held close to his heart that, given the chance, he would become the Hero foretold. He would put aside his human desires and face down Winter itself.

A tear froze halfway down his cheek. Traven was too cold and stiff to even wipe it away. But a noise, rising above the wind, caught his attention. Soon, even the Giants stopped and cast their eyes about the horizon. Traven tried to sit up as the Giants conversed in a foreign tongue. Could this be the answer to his prayers?

A shout of alarm went up, and two of the Giants scattered as the third one was knocked down. Traven’s torso smashed to the ground. Calling upon his remaining strength, the Hero rolled over to watch the melee. His eyes ached from the strain, but Traven could only make out the Giants struggling fiercely. Finally, the Giant crashed to the snow, and his attacker bounded over the body and landed just inches from Traven.

A howl went up from its companions as Traven’s heart sank to new depths. Hot breath beat the Hero’s face as saliva dripped from bloodied teeth— the White Wolves of Winter.

He should have known.

* * *

“Blood?” Crystalia peeped. She struggled to pull away from Madame Hesper, but the old woman was far stronger than she looked.

“What is Traven worth to you, little girl?”

Oh, the Madame knew her weakness. Crystalia had sworn she would give her very life if needed to help Traven. What was a bit of blood to that vow?

“How much? How much blood?”

“A few drops. Perhaps a small puddle, nothing that would harm you.”

Biting her lip, Crystalia curtly nodded before she could think about her response. Madame Hesper gave a satisfied grunt, then whistled so high-pitched that Crystalia had to turn away. When she looked back, Crystalia screeched and shoved with all her might to get away.

“Quiet, girl, you’ll spoil his appetite,” Madame Hesper chided.

Crystalia squirmed as the bat crept down the medium’s arm to settle on the table next to Crystalia’s wrist.

“Are you willing to pay the price? Willingly?” Madame Hesper asked.

The news had best be good for this cost, Crystalia thought bitterly. “Yes.”

Madame Hesper wielded the knife so quickly that Crystalia did not even have time to tense before the tiny knick was made on her wrist. A drop of blood welled slowly, then dropped onto the table. The bat scampered over and began drinking the warm liquid. Crystalia’s heart beat in her ears, and the girl feared she would swoon as another drop swelled above her skin.

“Don’t watch if you’re going to be so squeamish, child.”

Crystalia looked away but felt the nausea and bile rise in her throat.

“There is nothing unnatural here, girl. This is how he must feed. It is how The-Mother-of-All commanded. Who are we to judge her wisdom?”

“I’ve heard stories though…” Crystalia said her lips pursed in fear.

“Some bats eat fruit, others nectar, others still insects. He is but another type of bat.”

“Vampyr?”

“That is their native name, which means ‘bringers of life.’ Their myths? Their myths I’m afraid have been greatly exaggerated.”

Crystalia snorted despite herself. The thing was drinking her blood, wasn’t it? Her head began to spin, and a strange buzz started in her ear. She needed something to distract her.

“How… how did he get here?”

Madame Hesper’s voice took on the air of nostalgia. “Ah, long ago, well past thirty winters ago, a young girl, not unlike yourself, was running through the woods. Like you, she saw a monster and not a noble creature.”

The medium gently stroked the bat’s head as he paused and nuzzled her hand. Madame Hesper remained silent until the bat began lapping again. “She screamed, almost as loud as you, and swung her bag, very much like you. Unlike you, however, my daughter hit the poor dear, breaking his wing, and she gave him quite the lump on his head. Ever since, he hasn’t been able to use his sixth sense. Hunting is almost impossible for him.”

The bat cocked an ear and took one last lick then scrambled up the medium’s arm, past her neck, and into her hair. There, he began meticulously grooming himself. The old woman did not seem to notice she had an occupant in her gray-streaked hair as she put pressure on Crystalia’s tiny wound. “He still pines for the lush green of the Lavish Rise, but what was I to do? Leave him to starve?”

“I thought you said the natives revered his kind,” Crystalia found herself saying.

“Good. You pay attention. Yes, they do, but they also believe it an insult to the spirit to violate his nature. They would have let him die. It would have been a funeral fit for a god, but I could not let his… his presence be extinguished from the world. The sun travels about the earth more smoothly because he lives. Does it not, Fright?”

Crystalia found herself looking at the bat differently. Whether it was the woman’s choice of words or her tone Crystalia could not be sure, but somehow she respected— only a tiny bit more, to be sure— the flying rat that nestled in the Madame’s hair.

Like coming out of a deep sleep, Madame Hesper shook off her story and smoothed the black velvet table covering. “Your tithe has been paid. What is it you wish to know?”

“How fares Traven?”

“Are you sure you are not more interested in the mystery played out on your own hand?”

Crystalia wavered for a moment. The lines itched and burned a bit and begged for explanation, but that is not why she had come. Besides, the markings were probably some charlatan’s ruse to extract more payment. If Crystalia used the blood she had split for the mysteries of her palm, what would the Madame ask in exchange for the news of Traven? Crystalia shivered at the thought.

No, her tithe had been paid for news of Traven.

“My only concern is the Hero.”

“Then so be it.”

The Madame took a long survey of Crystalia’s face. The gaze penetrated so deeply that Crystalia squirmed in her seat and wished fervently she could flee. Instinctively, she knew she’d best stay rooted if she had any hope of garnishing the truth from the medium. Still, the old woman could hurry a bit. Did Madame Hesper not realize that Crystalia could only hold her breath so long?

“He lives,” the madame finally stated.

“Oh, thank the gods!” Crystalia cried out. It was one thing for the trappers to gossip. It was another to hear it from the mouth of one gifted in the arts. Crystalia’s muscles quaked uncontrollably.

To think she was witnessing the birth of a legend. Once Traven emerged triumphant from the Plains, all the kingdoms of Sky Shawl would rise up in joy. No mere mortal could survive this bitter winter. Her body felt all a-tingle. This new god-amongst-them had once kissed Crystalia’s hand, the very hand that had paid the blood tribute.

Crystalia asked, daring to hope she might be graced with his presence again. “Will he return here?”

“The bones are not a compass, girl. What I have told you of Traven’s current plight is all that I know.”

Letting her heart settle back into her chest, Crystalia rose from her chair. “I’m sorry. You’ve already told me everything I need to know. Thank you!”

Madame Hesper raised a hand. “There is much more. A prophecy. A divining. It might interest you.”

Crystalia took a step back towards the small table. “If it is about Traven, then yes.”

“There is a price.”

Unconsciously, Crystalia pulled her hand deeper into its sleeve. “What?”

“A favor.” Madame Hesper chuckled at Crystalia’s look of sheer horror. “Do not worry, a small one… of my choosing.”

Crystalia immediately shook her head sideways. She had already seen the type of “favors” the madame needed. “Thank you, but no. I’d best be getting home.”

Trying to rush, Crystalia nearly knocked over a gilded urn that had eluded her view until now. Rapidly, she righted the vessel and turned to leave, but Madame Hesper was not done with her yet.

“The bones are not a compass, but I know where one is, one that could tell us of Traven’s exact location. I thought knowledge such as that might give you peace of mind.”

Crystalia turned around against her best judgment. “Where might one find this talisman?”

“Lucky enough, it is already in your possession.”

Now the Madame was talking like a confused old woman again. Crystalia was a scullery maid. How could she have such a miraculous device? Still, there was no doubt that Madame Hesper was a force to be reckoned with. There was no harm in indulging the old woman, was there?

“Where is this compass?”

“Open your hand.”

“My hand?” Crystalia blurted out.

“Yes, child. The lines. They form a compass with Traven being your lodestone.”

Crystalia looked at her hand even though she tried to fight the urge. It looked like someone had taken paint or dye to her palm, drawing strange and confusing circles and symbols. It must have been another of Madame Hesper’s parlor tricks. “I see nothing but a cruel prank.”

Madame Hesper was not dissuaded. “Watch it for a moment, then tell me it is merely the play of the light.”

Obediently, Crystalia stared at her palm and was about to chide the Madame when suddenly the largest symbol migrated, ever so slightly, to the left. Rapidly, the rest of the markings flowed and merged until they, too, settled back into a steady pattern. It had to have been the flickering candlelight, or perhaps mirrors. Frantically, Crystalia scratched at her skin, trying to erase the lines, but no matter how hard she dug, the markings remained.

“What have you done to me?” Crystalia moaned.

“I thought you would be pleased.”

“Pleased? I’m marked like some sort of circus freak! Branded, cursed.”

The Madame clucked her tongue, and the bat stirred, dislodging a few stray strands of black hair. “You said you wanted to know where Traven was.”

“How do we even know this is connected to Traven?”

“The bones last night. They landed in the exact same pattern.”

Crystalia poked at her palm as if it might snap at her. “Why did you do this?”

“I did nothing but bring the spirit sexton to light, m’dear. Someone or something else seeded it.”

“But who—” Crystalia stopped in mid-sentence as a memory sprang to life. “It was Traven! He kissed me there!”

In awe of the Hero’s power, Crystalia tenderly fingered the markings.

“You said he was a gentleman.”

“Oh, he was. It was innocent. Sweet, really…” How could she put into words the most perfect moment of her life? “I gave his stallion a bit of carrot, and he kissed my palm… right there…”

“That might account for it.” The medium paused, then waved Crystalia over. “Now, would you like to have your cards read?”

Even in the euphoria of her memory, Crystalia shied away from Madame Hesper’s offer. Had she not already gotten far more information than she ever conceived?

Now, from the safety of her own home, she could monitor Traven’s progress. She had enough of Madame Hesper’s vague promises and exacting price.

“No, thank you.”

Crystalia waited for a moment to be sure Madame Hesper did not have another rebuke, then headed towards the door, being sure that no new piece of furniture blocked her path.

“I guess we’ll never know if this girl is the one destined for Traven, now will we, Fright?”

Despite her resolve, Crystalia felt her feet falter. What was the old woman talking about now? The girl was able to squeak out another step before she turned her head back. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that last night the bones implied Traven was linked to another soul. I simply thought it would be interesting to read your cards and see if you were the one. But you’re right. There’s probably no real sense in wasting our time.”

A war raged within Crystalia.

The thought that she might be somehow linked to Traven thrilled her. Could she be meant for the Hero? Oh, that was too glorious a thought.

On the other side of her mind, all the stories of Hanger’s Mansion and Madame Hesper poked sharply. How could Crystalia trust anything this woman said? Yet each word of the old woman’s had rung true, or was it just because the medium told her what the girl wanted to hear?

And what type of payment would Madame Hesper ask? Would it be too steep for some foolish nonsense? I should keep walking, Crystalia kept telling herself, but the internal battle raged on.

Caution lost out as Crystalia hurried across the room and slid back into her chair. Its silky seat was cool against her dress. Was it not warm velvet a moment ago? Before she could contemplate the restless furniture, Madame Hesper began dealing the cards.

“No matter the outcome, child, no matter what happens in this room, you must sit firmly. To leave the protective circle could be your undoing,” the Madame said in a well-rehearsed tone.

Madame Hesper did not need to explain. Crystalia had heard these warnings before.

Some summers, at the height of the Thaw, gypsies would wander north and ply their trade. Viola and Crystalia would sneak out in the evening and visit the fortune-tellers, not that the gypsies ever had anything interesting to say. They had always assured Crystalia that she would marry young to a wealthy man and have healthy children. Those stories may have delighted many a poor town girl, but not Crystalia. She had gotten so tired of their happy pronouncements that Crystalia had not even gone with Viola last summer.

“Do you understand, Crystalia? You must keep your seat.”

“Yes.”

Instead of the usual arrangement of cards in rows, Madame Hesper had set five cards into the shape of a star with a card flanking either side. The altered Snowy Maiden card sat in the center.

“Place your hands on these two cards,” the medium stated, indicating the cards on the outside of the pentagram. “Do not remove your hands until I instruct you.”

Crystalia casually put her palms down, then nearly flew out of her seat. It was as if she had touched a hot kettle. Madame Hesper gripped her wrists, keeping Crystalia’s palms in contact with the cards. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Crystalia forced her hands to stay where they were despite the itching of the lines on her palm. Even her other palm begged to be scratched. Crystalia had the intense desire to look at her left palm and see if anything blossomed there, but the look in the Madame’s eyes squelched the urge.

Madame Hesper gave her one last scolding glance, then closed her eyes. The old woman’s mouth moved, but no words came out. When the Madame’s eyelids snapped open, her pupils were filled with a burning light. Crystalia gasped but stayed put. She desperately wished to avoid another scalding look. Instead of chiding Crystalia, the Madame looked down at the cards, then turned the card at the top of the star.

Crystalia was unfamiliar with the subtleties of the Tarot cards, but she knew the Winter King when she saw him. His card was flecked with silver glistening snowflakes and snow so pure that it waxed a bluish tint. Crystalia felt a cold breeze snatch a few curls from her neck and jostle them around. Her nostrils clamped down as the air grew crisp and cold. Wind howling in the distance made the room throb and pulse. Soon, Crystalia found she needed to dig her fingers into table, just to keep them steady.

The Madame only nodded knowingly, then turned the next card to the right. The firewood popped behind her, giving Crystalia a startle. When she looked back down, she found that the medium had turned over the third card.

It was better than Crystalia could imagine. The two cards that flanked her own Snowy Maiden card were the bold Hero and the beautiful Lovers. Above the raging of the wind, Crystalia could hear the strings of passionate music and the boom of victory drums. Surely this confirmed the Madame’s vision?

“Does this—”

“Silence!” The Madame’s voice was a strangled whisper.

Crystalia’s mouth snapped closed. She did not wish to disturb the medium, not when the old woman was so close to fulfilling every dream Crystalia had ever had. The fourth card only fueled the girl’s excitement. It was the visage of the Wanderer. Crystalia might not know much about the arcane, but she knew that anyone who received this card was about to embark on a long and perilous journey. Perhaps Traven was not going to come back to her? Perhaps it was the Fates’ decision that she should join him?

Madame Hesper paused with her hand over the fifth card. Crystalia urged the medium on with her mind. The girl was desperate to see the outcome of her travels. But still, Madame Hesper hesitated, as if she dreaded revealing the card.

Finally, the old woman’s fingers tapped the card, hard, then turned it over as if it might sting her. Crystalia did not even register the identity of the card until the Madame let out a curse. Their eyes met.

Behind the medium’s orange pupils, Crystalia could clearly see fear. Crystalia looked down again but could not quite place the card. It looked like a joker, jester, or perhaps this one was called the Fool. She could not remember. What Crystalia did know was that tragedy was in the making.

Crystalia opened her mouth to ask, but Madame Hesper shushed her to silence. Anything that could startle the medium so caused Crystalia to panic.

Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all. Crystalia had no desire to see the other cards, but she obediently raised her right hand off the sixth card when Madame Hesper asked her. Crystalia’s heart nearly jumped out of her throat.

This card she knew.

Actually every child in all of Sky Shawl knew that this card was poison to your soul.

The Snake in the Forever Garden.

Hissing filled her ears, and the girl had to fight the impulse to snatch up her feet, lest it bite her right then and there. The card meant evil was in your life, side-winding its way to your heart— sooner or later it would take its toll.

“Lift your left hand.”

Reluctant to obey, Crystalia let her palm linger on the last card. No one should know this much about their life.

The Madame’s finger gently touched her own. “You must.”

Ever so slowly, as if her mere hesitation could make the card go away, Crystalia lifted her palm. With equal reluctance, the Madame turned over the last card. Crystalia sat stunned— too shocked to even properly faint.

The black-cloaked image of Death floated before her.

Sickle raised for his next victim.

The room lost all its heat, all of its light. Fright let out a startle cry, and his wings beat frantically past her ear. Crystalia could feel herself being swallowed by unconsciousness, but the Madame’s hand found her own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. When Crystalia looked up, she found the medium’s eyes had lost their glow. Now only an old woman sat across from her.

“Do not worry child. That card is not for you.”

Crystalia let out a choked sob.

Madame Hesper looked haggard as she leaned heavily back into her chair.

“It is for me.”

CHAPTER 8

The lights were all out. Traven and ‘Becca had snuck out the front door on this stormy night. They knew Granny would be out here. Thunder always disturbed their grandmother, and she would go to the porch swing and rock away her worries.

And there Granny sat, holding a cup of hot cheba tea and humming to herself. Pa was always saying how Granny was as deaf as a fence post, but each time the clouds rolled with the clap of thunder, their grandmother would cringe and take another sip. Lightning played across the sky as if the gods were having themselves a bit of game.

“Thunder is the messenger. Lightning is the deliverance of the gods’ wrath.” Granny spoke softly, almost afraid.

Traven stopped himself from correcting her. Even babes knew that lightning came first, then the thunder, not the other way around. ‘Becca crept forward and sat next to Granny’s feet. His younger sister was all eyes and ears. If something shook Granny this badly, then it had to be dangerous. Traven wasn’t so sure. Pa made fun of his mother-in-law, even daring to call Granny a scared old woman— but only when Pa was certain she was well out of earshot.

It was hard to think that the woman Traven had feared and respected all his life was nothing more than just another grandmother.

No one else’s Granny was like her. They were all warm and cuddly, passing out cookies and baking sweet breads. Not Granny. She’d put a switch to your bottom as soon as she would smile at ya.

But tonight, with her wrinkled, haggard face silhouetted by the storm’s light, Traven wondered if his father was not right. For in those tired eyes he saw something he had never seen before. Fear. True, real, fear.

“You don’t believe me?” Granny said, still staring out into the cold night. She patted the seat beside her. “Get up here, and I’ll tell you it all.”

Granny never did quit swinging, but ‘Becca and Traven crawled up beside her. This was a welcome treat. Normally, they had to sit by the side, watching her rock back and forth. Now they, too, could feel the sway of the swing and be lulled by its motion.

“Don’t forget that I’ve seen it. I’ve heard the thunder call my name.”

Traven nearly blushed. He had almost forgotten Granny’s family history. No one ever spoke of it openly. Only by snatching the occasional whisper between his aunts and uncles had Traven begun to piece the puzzle together.

“Tell us, Granny, please?” ‘Becca begged. Traven knew it was futile. Granny had never spoken of it before.

“It was a night like this eve. All black and blustery. The clouds were heavy with rain but wouldn’t shed a tear for us poor farmers. Mama and Papa didn’t know the gods could be so angry that they would just point a finger and strike you down.”

Traven could not believe it. Granny was going to tell them a story of her childhood! It was exciting but strange, too. To think his shriveled up grandmother had parents and that once she was a little girl, just like ‘Becca. It was almost too hard to imagine.

“I was younger than you. Younger than both of you. Back then I slept like a babe through this weather. The whole family did. Jeromy, Petunia, and Hoss. They were fast asleep when the gods unleashed their fury.”

Granny paused, but it wasn’t like her usual, well-timed hesitations. Her eyes were lost on the horizon. The smell was thick and full of anticipation, as if any moment the gods would strike again. Not caring that his father would call him yellow, Traven scooted nearer to his Granny. ‘Becca was already on the old woman’s lap.

“They just didn’t know, but how could they…?” Granny spoke, but Traven knew it wasn’t to them. With a cough, Granny focused on her story. “It was deep into the night when the lightning struck. I awoke at the first bolt and felt the other three strikes rattle the house. Fire burst from the rafters, and I screamed for my daddy.”

Traven found himself reaching out and holding Granny’s hand. She gave it a little squeeze but didn’t look towards him. With her other hand, Granny stroked ‘Becca’s hair.

“I was the only one that still slept in our parents’ room. The others…” Granny nearly choked on the bitter memory. “My brothers and sister slept up in the loft. They didn’t even have time to cry out for help.”

How could his father be so mean? Traven wondered. Who could not hear this story and know Granny’s apprehension was well-founded?

“Papa ran up the stairs while Mama dragged me out of the burning house. She wanted me to run to the Duncan’s place for help, but I couldn’t. The lightning was still striking all around the house like a whip against a stampeding herd.”

There was a long pause. Finally, Granny sighed. “Daddy made it back out with Hoss, but neither of them survived the night. Petunia and Jeromy were just charred skeletons…”

Traven had not known his heart could feel so heavy. At least Granny’s mama survived, but Traven knew that was not necessarily a blessing. The whispered stories told of how Granny’s mama was never quite right after the tragedy. Granny had to take care of her mama until the red fever claimed the woman when Granny was but fourteen.

The house shook, and ‘Becca squealed as lightning hit the iron rod that stuck up from the weather vane.

“Oh, they’re angry tonight,” Granny said with a tremble in her voice.

“Will they kill us, too?” ‘Becca asked in a choked whisper.

“Nay. Your daddy has seen to that.”

Traven spoke before he thought, “Why’d you fight Pa when he put up the lightning rod?”

Granny’s foot stopped their rocking for a moment, then slowly started again. Traven feared he had overstepped his bounds. He felt like blurting it out was just a stupid rumor, but Traven knew that more talking would just get him in all the more hot water.

“There’s the question, young man. Do you risk the wrath of the gods at the expense of expelling the Wee Folk from your home?”

‘Becca was easily distracted, “You ever seen the Wee Ones, Granny?”

“That’s a tale for another night, little sweet one. Another night, indeed.”

Traven grew bold with his Granny’s indulgent mood, “What is a tale for tonight, Granny?”

In the pitch black, Traven could not tell if Granny was angry or contemplating. Suddenly, another lightning bolt brightened the sky so intensely that Traven could see each line on the old woman’s face.

In that moment, he found her pale blue eyes staring into his. Not in anger, but searching. For what he did not know. Just as quickly as the light came, it vanished, plunging them into darkness again.

With the air charged, feeling dangerous and exciting all at once, Granny began. “Once, under a hot summer sun, The Man Who Did Not Know rode out towards Thirsty Gulch…”

Ah, Traven could stay forever in that night so long ago. His world was as blissfully black as that distant memory. Why could he not stay forever in Granny’s world of shining heroes and glimmering beauty?

Traven would have chosen to, but every so often, a noise, most annoying, would intrude. For some reason, light was trying to pry through his eyelids. Last he saw of the world, it did not look too friendly, and the Hero was not any too anxious to return. Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. The pain started at his temple and meandered over his scalp, down his neck, settling into his lower back. The throbbing sensation kept nagging at his comfortable oblivion.

Which was good, in a way, he guessed. Traven assumed all this pain meant that he was still alive. The Hero certainly hoped that, when he died, this level of discomfort did not accompany him.

Opening his eyes was far too ambitious at this stage, so the Hero worked on moving a finger, then two. That had to be a good sign, Traven reassured himself. His arms were leaden, but they picked up and plopped back down with some semblance of control. He tried to wiggle a toe but felt nothing. Traven tried another, then another.

Concern roused him, and the Hero made a conscious effort to move first his foot, then his entire leg. When nothing happened, Traven felt the first true pang of worry. Groping through the fog of his unconscious, the Hero tried to focus on his limbs, but it was if they were not there. No aches or angry grumbling came from his hips or knees to match the rest of his body.

As he awakened further, the Hero heard several voices and the distinct sound of snoring. Traven loathed to let go of the last vestiges of sleep, but at some point, he would need to find out what had become of him.

Slowly, he cracked open his eyelids. They fluttered open far easier than he expected, and the bright light seared through his pupils. Slamming his eyes shut, Traven tried to get his bearings with his other senses. The air was warm, almost too warm for all the layers of clothing that the Hero wore. There was the smell of a cooking fire, and the bouquet of apples floated through the chamber.

The aroma and the gentle clanging of a spoon on a kettle sent streaks of pain through his stomach. It had been days, maybe even a week since he had last eaten. Traven was so hungry even the smell of caribou dung would have been intriguing. That aside, the cider smelled especially delicious, with the slightest hint of cinnamon. His nose twitched and almost made him sneeze. The air was a bit damp, and the presence of moss and widow’s green tickled his nostrils.

Voices rose and fell, and, if he was not mistaken, they were fairly close by. Again the Hero tried to move his lower limbs, with equally discouraging results.

Shielding his eyes, Traven took in the surroundings. He could sense he was laying on his back with his head propped up by something hard and bulky. The roof was not too high and appeared to be exposed granite.

Along the walls, moss crept up the lower half of the stone, while the widow’s green found tiny crevices to burrow into and climb the slick granite. Baby’s Breath and small patches of Forget-Me-Nots nestled in amongst the foliage.

Traven scanned as far around him as possible, but he could see no guards. The two voices were just out of his line of sight.

Tentatively, the Hero steadied himself on his elbows and slowly propped himself up. A scream caught in his throat as he looked down at his legs.

Clenching his jaw, Traven tried to take in the scene. His legs appeared fine, except a huge White Wolf lay draped across his knees. The wolf’s furry paws were crossed over the Hero’s legs, with its snout casually propped on its paws. For a moment, Traven just stared as the wolf snored with each breath. It would have been intriguing, even funny under other circumstances, but not right now.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the sleeping wolf, Traven moved his torso to the left and found another sight, equally unusual. One of the Giants, too tall to stand erect in the room, was hunched over, while a tiny Faery, no larger than Traven’s hand, flew up and around the Giant’s face. It took a moment for Traven to focus, but with difficulty, the Hero followed their conversation.

The Faery’s voice squeaked, “I gave no permission!”

“The prophecies—” The Giant’s voice was rich and full, resonating off the cavern walls.

The Faery darted into the Giant’s face, her dress and skin turning a darker shade of red. “I will tell you when the prophecies are fulfilled.”

Instead of getting angry, the Giant sighed, accidentally blowing the Faery head over heels. Before the Giant could apologize, the Faery corrected her flight and buzzed back, her dress now a blazing crimson.

“You had no right to violate the Fold’s sanctity.”

“Isn’t this exactly why the Folds were created?” The Giant’s voice was calm and soothing, but the Faery’s wings beat furiously.

Her finger now pointed right at his nose. “This is a sanctuary for the innocent— and that is no innocent!”

The Faery punctuated her words with a finger in Traven’s direction. The Hero might have taken offense if the whole scene were not so bizarre.

A tingle went up his spine, bringing Traven’s attention back to his legs. Looking down, the Hero found the wolf awake, its gray eyes wide open, staring at Traven. The Hero’s breath caught in his throat, making a strangled sound. Within the blink of an eye, the Faery sped across the room and hovered above the wolf.

“And get this dog off this… this cretin!” Her dress flowered orange, then yellow.

“See, even the Wolves know his potential,” the Giant stated.

“Please. This wolf takes to anything with two legs, sometimes with those who have six. He is no judge.”

“Pale, come,” the Giant spoke kindly, but the wolf hesitated.

“I will brook no insolence from any of you!” The Faery’s skin was now a light blue and her dress the color of ice covering a deep lake.

“Come, boy.”

The wolf lazily rose to his feet, stretching first his forelimbs, then his rear legs. Traven held his breath as the wolf backed away a few feet, but then with the speed of an arctic hair, the wolf lunged forward, giving Traven the gentlest lick on the cheek.

The Hero might have lost his bladder had it not been for the hold the canine’s eyes had on him. An image hit the Hero like a slap on the face.

For a moment, Traven’s brain could not assimilate the picture in his mind. Rapidly, he realized it was his own face as the wolf had just seen it. As quickly as the image had flooded his mind, it was gone. Shaken, Traven simply sat there mute. His mouth moved. The Hero could feel his lips trying to shape words, but no sound came out.

“This is what you bring me, speaking of The Hope?”

Before the Giant could respond, Traven found his voice.

“Am I a prisoner?”

The Faery flared a wicked blue that flowed back and forth into black.

“That would imply we had some sort of use for you. What would we want with you?”

Traven’s voice cracked, “To eat.”

The Faery’s laughter sliced through the air. It was if hundreds of tiny bells chimed in unison, both beautiful and awful to bear. “I told you, Grave. He is someone’s village idiot. Thrown out of town before he could waste any more of winter’s rations.”

Traven could feel his cheeks flush red. The Hero tried to keep his words simple and direct so as not to embarrass himself further. “Then why have you brought me here?”

The tinkling of chimes filled the room again as the Faery’s dress lightened in tone with greens and yellows dappled across the berry blue. “Ask Grave,” the Faery said as she flew up and out of the room.

The Giant’s shoulders slumped even further as he moved to follow her. His huge head turned back, his red beard dragging on the ground. “Do not fear, Hero.” The Giant took another step, but the wolf whined and nudged him with his nose. “All right, Pale, stay with…”

The Giant’s eyes, as black as the deepest obsidian, studied the Hero.

“My name is Traven.”

Nodding, the Giant spoke to the wolf. “Stay with Traven, watch over him.”

For a man so large, the Giant was quick and agile, far down the hall before Traven found his voice again.

“Would that be to protect me or guard me?” Traven asked the deserted hallway. But what did it really matter? Neither answer would give him much peace.

Traven held his breath while the wolf circled three times then lay down by his hip. It was one thing for the Giant to say that the Hero should have no fear. It was quite another to actually be fearless.

The Hero waited a moment, then carefully began moving his toes. Pain shot up his leg. The tiniest pricks began needling his feet, then, in wave after wave, chased up and down his leg. Perhaps it would have been best if he had left his limbs sleeping.

Cautious not to disturb the slumbering wolf, Traven gently massaged his aching legs. While his muscles were getting reacquainted with blood flow, Traven examined his surroundings.

The blanket beneath him was coarse and stiff, most likely horsehair, but beneath it was a soft cushion of dried moss. The smell of cider still drifted in and out of the room, bringing hunger pangs to the forefront of his complaint list.

Bending his knees, Traven prepared to rise but found the wolf staring straight at him. Traven prayed the canine was not as hungry as he was. A rumbling came from deep in the wolf’s throat. Pictures of blood and flesh ripped asunder flashed across Traven’s mind. Instinctually, the Hero’s hand went for his sword, but it was missing.

Damn, Traven thought, he had lost his weapon out on the drifts.

Despite the graphic images, the wolf stood perfectly still, with his ear slightly cocked, not exactly the position Traven imagined a wolf would take before attacking. The wolf seemed to be asking the Hero a question, but it was one that Traven could not quite understand.

Suddenly, the Hero’s stomach grumbled so loudly that he was certain the folks back at Last Hitch heard it. The wolf wagged its tail, barked softly, and turned on his heel, heading straight for a dark corner.

Traven let himself breathe out— that had been too close. While the wolf was busy, Traven tried to get his legs under him. As soon as the Hero would rise up onto one knee, the other leg would buckle under him.

On the second attempt, Traven came down hard. Pain shot up his spine. If the Hero hoped to take advantage of the wolf’s distraction, he needed his body to cooperate. Working up for another try, Traven noticed out of the corner of his eye the wolf bounding back. The Hero tried to get out of the way, but the wolf ran into him full bore, sprawling both of them across the moss-covered floor.

Scrambling to get up, Traven tripped over something and found himself flat on his arse, yet again. The wolf was far more agile and bounced back up, dragging an object over to Traven. As fast as he could, Traven pushed himself backward until the wolf unceremoniously dropped the slab into his lap. The object was a leg, a really big one. Without further ado, the wolf pulled a piece of fur off and began greedily eating the tender flesh.

At the very least, it was not a human leg.

The wolf caught Traven’s eye and images of meat and the feeling of a filling belly swarmed the Hero’s mind. Traven broke the contact and tried to gently relieve himself of the wolf’s “gift,” but for every inch he scooted the slab away, the wolf nosed it back. A strong picture flooded Traven’s mind of the two of them eating together. When Traven did not act on his invitation, the wolf chewed off a chunk of meat and dropped it in Traven’s hand.

How am I going to get out of this one? Traven wondered as the wolf nudged his hand closer to the Hero’s mouth. Traven’s own mother had not been so persistent about making sure he ate. Slowly, the Hero moved the dirt-covered flesh to his mouth. The Hero had eaten meat raw before, but somehow having it covered in wolf saliva made it even more unappetizing.

Traven’s teeth at first refused to bite down, but his stomach had other plans. After the first gritty bite, Traven gulped down the rest of the chunk. Satisfied with Traven’s progress, the wolf lay down and began digging into the leg himself.

Using his fingers, Traven tore at the meat and bolted down piece after piece, but still the Hero was ravished. Feeling down in his boot, Traven found his paring knife and began cutting larger and larger pieces. The wolf sent such intense thoughts that Traven could smell the delicate bouquet that distinguished between tender meat and gristle. It appeared that two day-old caribou was a wolf delicacy.

At least the Hero hoped that it was caribou. Traven nearly choked on his chunk of flesh. What if it was horse? Was the Hero eating Lauger? Before he could panic overly, an image of Lauger, safely in a stable, flooded Traven’s mind. A dozen Faeries catered to the horse’s every whim. They flew about his mane and tail, braiding them with laughter and delight. Traven had to chuckle. Lauger had never had it so good.

Traven took one last bite. His stomach could not take another ounce, but thirst gnawed at him. The smell of sweet cider wafted through the air, begging him to come try a sip. The wolf leapt up and trotted towards the smell. Gingerly, Traven gingerly rose. Looking over his shoulder, the wolf sent another invitation, this time to share a drink.

Slowly, Traven stretched his legs and took one step at a time across the cavern. He followed the wolf’s white tail around the corner and drew to a halt. Within the kettle a spoon stirred on its own. No hand twirled it or even gave it a nudge. Traven took an unconscious step backward as the ladle rose from the surface and poured back in its contents, then stirring the mixture.

Somehow the significance of the place had eluded Traven.

Until now.

Irrefutable proof stood before him— the Hero was standing in a Fold.

The realization brought a chill to the warm air.

He, Traven Angling, had found a Fold.

No one in written history had visited a Fold and lived to tell about it. Silently, the Hero watched the spoon stir. With each turn of the ladle, the aroma of apples and nutmeg filled the air. It was one thing to meet a White Wolf. After all, they just looked like oversized wolves with white hair. The Giants could have been explained away as really large mountain man. And the Faery… well, the Faery was just rude.

No, it was this ladle, casually stirring cider that caused his brain to throb violently. Either that, or his thirst had gotten the better of him.

Tentatively, Traven moved forward and lightly grasped the handle of the spoon. Immediately, the utensil stopped its motion and rested peacefully in his hand. With a bit more courage, Traven grabbed one of the cups hanging from the wall and poured himself a splash of cider. Ever so carefully, the Hero replaced the ladle. Without pause, the spoon began stirring again.

Putting the cup to his lips, Traven enjoyed a sniff of the rich smell that snaked up his nose. The taste was as good as he could have imagined. Not even Granny had made cider this rich and full. Pouring another cup, the Hero turned to find the wolf staring at him.

Traven did not need to wait for the wolf’s mental sending. It was quite plain that the wolf found the Hero wanting in manners. Grabbing another cup from its hook, Traven poured the wolf some cider and gently placed it on the floor. A sending of thanks, deeper than any appreciation the Hero had ever gotten from a human, followed as the wolf lapped the hot cider. Perhaps this beast was not such a bad companion after all.

Traven slid down the rough-hewn wall and sat on the cool, stone floor. It was nice to rest with his belly full and throat drenched in savory liquid. His horse was tended to, and with the White Wolf, his new-found friend, it did not look like he needed to worry about death anytime soon. Traven leaned his head back and breathed in the warm air. It had been what seemed like years since he had been able to take a deep breath without the air chastising his lungs. The winters were growing longer and nastier with each cycle of the sun.

Something in the back of Traven’s mind kept nagging him, though, not allowing him to slip into a restful slumber. His training upon the Mount increasingly demanded his attention.

Certainly, the Wolf and the Giant seemed to have his best interests at heart, but could he believe appearances? Even if he could trust his instincts, the Hero most definitely could not trust the Faery. Her manner was filled with disdain and something akin to loathing in her eyes. Traven had seen the look before, from a dozen desperate towns, and each time, it had ended poorly for him.

If the Faery was to emerge victorious in her argument with the Giant, it might be best if the Hero had an escape route etched in his mind. Slowly, Traven roused himself and rose to his feet. Cautiously at first, then with more strength, Traven sent a thought to the wolf— one of exploration and discovery. The wolf opened a lazy brown eye and delivered a groggy decline.

Why should they rise now? the wolf asked. Meat was on their bellies and warm cider calmed their brain. They could sniff out the Fold later.

Traven hesitated for a moment. He could leave the wolf behind and wander alone, but the Hero was certain that the wolf was familiar with the cave’s layout. Traven tried again, but the wolf simply responded with a gentle, Later.

Surveying the sprawled-out wolf, Traven wondered how far he could press his request. The Hero was not used to asking for help. He had been raised on a farm and relied on his own muscles since he was a child. Even when other Heroes had ridden out from Mount Shrine in small bands, Traven had struck out alone. He wasn’t even sure how to frame his appeal.

Straightening to his full height, Traven thought a single word. He cast the request forth with the same sincerity that the wolf had thanked him.

“Please,” Traven heard himself say aloud as he sent the thought.

The wolf opened both eyes and stared, then blinked twice. Traven waited for the response, but none was forthcoming. Had he gone too far? Angered the wolf? Finally, the wolf slowly rose and padded alongside the Hero. A sending as soft as a spring breeze caressed Traven’s mind.

There is no anger between pack-mates.

Stunned by the intimacy of the thought, Traven followed the wolf down a narrow pathway. Pack-mates? Traven barely called another man friend, let alone a White Wolf, but the Hero’s anxiety was tempered with relief. His chances were greatly enhanced if the wolf thought of him kindly, but what would the wolf want in return?

Traven had learned not to like surprises.

CHAPTER 9

Madame Hesper sank deeper into her chair as if the uttering of her own death sentence had robbed the old woman of the very energy to live. Crystalia waited a moment to be sure the medium still breathed. There was so much Crystalia still needed answered.

“Madame Hesper?” she asked gently.

The old woman stirred and, with effort, opened her eyes. “Do not worry, child. It was not your fault.”

“What wasn’t my fault? What happened? I don’t understand.”

“I know, I know.” The Madame seemed to fade, but spoke again with her next breath. “There is much you must know. Much that I must teach you before… before it is too late. But not tonight. Tonight I must rest.”

Crystalia tried to temper her tone so as not to startle Madame Hesper, but it looked like this might be the only night they had.

“Please… reveal enough to stop my mind from spinning.”

It was an effort, but the medium leaned forward. “Look at your hand.”

Crystalia did as commanded and stared at her right palm, but the strange symbols were in the same orientation as before.

“No, your left hand.”

Crystalia was startled. Pink lines now marred her left palm. Instead of unrecognizable figures, the markings were her hand’s own creases, only different. Her lifeline stretched far out from her normal crease, almost wrapping itself around her wrist. The love line made a straight arrow to her ring finger, and many of the other wrinkles wandered from their original paths.

“What… what does this mean?”

The Madame rubbed at her own palm and spat into it, but nothing happened. “Dear, I don’t have the power any more. Could you, please?”

At first, Crystalia did not understand the request. Then it hit her.

The medium wanted Crystalia to spit into Madame Hesper’s palm. She took the old woman’s hand in her own but could not bring herself to be so disrespectful. Licking her own finger, Crystalia coated Madame Hesper’s palm with her own saliva, then rubbed hard.

To her amazement, pink and deep red lines suddenly etched the medium’s hand. What stood out the most was that her lifeline was extremely truncated— there was but a nubbins left.

“Do not ask me how or why, but the Fates chose to transfer their affections from me to you. You and Traven must reunite. It is the only way to test the prophecy.”

“But—”

“Please, child, let me finish. I don’t have much breath left this eve. You will depart soon, leaving everything you hold dear. Do you understand?”

Staring with her mouth open, Crystalia could not comprehend what had happened. How could all of this have transpired? She had only wanted a tidbit of news about a stranger. Now she was to embark on a Hero’s journey.

It had all seemed so exciting when the cards were read, but now the reality weighed heavily upon her. She had to leave, truly leave, Last Hitch? Crystalia had never been more than a day’s ride outside the city gates.

Remembering Traven’s kind eyes and the feel of his warm lips on her palm, the girl had known it all along that Traven was her beloved. All the bedtime stories spoke of your knight coming to sweep you off your feet. In her case, it appeared that Crystalia would have to go and hunt hers down.

With her right palm as her guide, Crystalia knew she would not fail. “I understand.”

“Then go home, but tell no one of what has transpired here. In the morn, at the first rays of dawn, enter through the back door and follow the steps all the way down to…” Madame Hesper coughed and sputtered, collapsing back into the chair. Crystalia rose and did her best to comfort the old woman as the cough racked her body. Finally, the spasm released its grip, and the old woman’s breathing calmed. “Go. Sleep and return.”

“But shouldn’t I get your doorman? Help him find the bat?”

The medium shook her head. “Fright is summoning Holt. Do not worry. I will be here on the dawn of tomorrow.”

Crystalia backed away as the Madame slumped and lightly snored.

Concern and impatience collided inside Crystalia. Should she just leave the woman or wait for Holt? The memory of his pocked face made the decision easy for her. On her heel, Crystalia turned to find the door, a quite ordinary door, before her.

“First, child, my payment.”

There was a moment when Crystalia thought of simply bolting. Madame Hesper was in no shape to give chase, but Crystalia had agreed to her conditions, and the gods knew she had received far more than she had bargained. “Yes?”

“Is that chutney in your bag?”

Crystalia had to look down to realize she still had the tote. “Yes, it is.”

“May I have a jar?”

Unconsciously, Crystalia let out a sigh of relief. It could not be true. She could not be getting off this easily. “Of course.”

Crystalia walked back across the room and realized how bare and shabby it looked. If she had not been certain, Crystalia would have sworn they had read the cards in a different room. The floor was the barest of wood, and the walls were unadorned. Crystalia spun around— there was no fireplace!

Questions rose on her lips, but the Madame had closed her wrinkled eyelids again. Quietly, Crystalia began emptying her bag, when the Madame waved her away.

“I believe I’ll only have time to finish one.”

Crystalia nodded even though the medium had already slipped back into a stupor. Picking the richest of her wares, Crystalia left a single jar of chutney on the rickety, stained table. The smell of death crept through the cracks in the walls, hurrying Crystalia along.

In a rush, she grabbed the cracked doorknob only to have it turn a luscious gold in her hand. The wood suddenly took on a dark veneer. Crystalia jumped back and watched the door loose its luster. Tentatively, the girl held out her hand and slowly touched the knob. Within a heartbeat, the transformation was again complete. What manner of trickery was this? Or was it truly magic?

With conviction, Crystalia turned the knob and walked out into a plain hallway. Her feet carried her quicker and quicker through the house. The only thing she knew for certain was that Traven needed her, and she would risk even Madame Hesper’s cruel fate to be with the Hero.

* * *

Traven crept down yet another moss-lined tunnel. After following the wolf through so many turns and switchbacks, the Hero doubted greatly whether he could find his way back to the cider kettle, let alone to a safe escape. The wolf, however, was in ecstasy.

A constant flow of intriguing smells and sensations rolled over Traven from the wolf. It appeared several Giants that were familiar to the wolf had visited a few days ago, and perhaps a troll or two had lodged here recently.

The wave of images from the wolf made it even more difficult for the Hero to concentrate on the very human desire to map an escape route. The wolf would have none of it. Any time Traven tried to slow and mark his passage, the wolf would give a nip of the Hero’s sleeve. Given the wolf’s large, cold nose, Traven quickly abandoned his quest to leave a trail. Now they simply roamed the empty hallways and narrow passages, soaking up every smell and taste.

Traven was stunned when he turned the corner and found a richly decorated room. The walls were covered with detailed tapestries, the floor coated with the finest carpet.

It was a haven that spoke of warm drink and long conversations. It was a bit spare on furniture, but what did grace its floors was made of the most beautiful craftsmanship. The mahogany altarpiece alone would fetch a king’s ransom.

Traven stepped forward to find a small boy, no more than six years old, quietly playing a game. Realizing his trespass, Traven tried to bow out of the room before the child noticed him, but the wolf casually trotted over and plopped down beside the boy.

The boy’s hand strayed and began petting the wolf between the ears. From the warm sending Traven received, it appeared this was the canine’s type of exploring— finding friends and a thick rug to lie down upon.

“Greetings,” the child said without turning around.

Traven hesitated, torn between his desire to continue his search and to be civil.

“Would you like to play with me?” the boy asked.

The child turned, grinning shyly. It was immediately obvious that the child was far from home. His straight black hair and dark eyes marked him from the Western Drift. The only region that Traven had witnessed such dark brown complexion was near the skirts of the Rolling Hills.

“Toshtosh.” Traven bowed in the manner of the boy’s people.

“Kavasar! Morlorn festi non commern—” the boy gleefully tried to reply.

“Sorry. I only know the greeting.”

“Oh. Well, do you want to play?”

“Certainly,” Traven found himself saying to the eager face.

“Goody! I’m Loplop.” The boy clapped and smiled radiantly.

“I’m Traven.”

The Hero had the urge to ask the child how the boy had wandered so far from home, but was certain that the story would be sad in the telling. The boy seemed so happy and at peace that the Hero did not wish to ruin the child’s good spirits. Besides, Traven had nowhere else to be. Some time spent relaxing might be in order before the perilous journey ahead.

Loplop gathered all the small game pieces together and began explaining each object’s role. Traven hated to tell the child, but his prize pieces looked like something a crow would drag home. There was a tarnished silver medallion, a spool of black thread, and a splinter of petrified wood. With each one, the boy solemnly explained its history and role in the game. Traven tried to pay attention, but the chamber in which the Hero was seated begged for examination.

There was an aura about the room. It was not menacing in any form, just stern. The chamber demanded a price for his invasion. One must learn from its wisdom or leave. Traven looked at the child to see if he, too, was disconcerted, but Loplop simply rambled on.

In some ways, the child’s voice and endless words were soothing and made Traven look at the room with his heart more open. A rhythm the Hero had missed before flowed through the chamber. There was a tide, a waxing and waning, to the colors and patterns.

The wall-hanging before Traven had a background the shade of virgin snow with the tiniest geometric patterns sewn over. As the Hero saw less with his eyes and more with his heart, the simple shapes slowly became a much larger picture, detailing the beauty of the tundra. Traven tilted his head to the side. If the light was just right, even these scenes coalesced into a sweeping landscape of the Northern Plains.

Traven gasped. It was too majestic to view in a single gaze. Every detail of the Great Wasteland was recreated with loving detail. What had seemed like random flecking upon the woolly tapestry now took on such beauty that Traven found his jaw slack and his mouth wide open. He had seen art before, even what the world considered great art, but this was as if Nature herself had painted her wintry creation.

Traven realized that the wolf had settled down on a rug that represented the Fold, a warm respite below the Barren Plains, but still a part of the arctic scenery. Amongst the rug’s creamy angora strands, flecks of green, blue, and red vied for the eye’s attention. He was certain if the wolf moved, the rug would reveal its hidden pattern.

“It’s thick but cold,” Loplop stated.

Traven’s attention was immediately drawn back to the child. “Yes. It represents Winter.”

The boy giggled, “I’m not a baby.”

“Oh, of course not. Is it your favorite time of year?”

“Have you been outside of late?” the boy asked, with enough questioning in his voice to imply that Loplop feared Traven might be the babe in the room.

“Yes. I see what you mean. Now what does this piece do?” Traven held up a tiny ring woven from summer daisies.

“That’s for when you rescue the Snowy Maiden! You put it here.” Loplop demonstrated by slipping the ring over the head of a tiny painted stick figure. “And then she has to help you! Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Um, sorry. I believe it is your toss.”

Loplop nodded satisfactorily and rolled the die. “A two! Yippee!”

The child enthusiastically gathered together a tiny stallion fashioned out of horsehair and a little fleck of garnet. Traven picked up the die and found it had twos painted on all four sides.

“This die… each side is the same?”

“Certainly! How else would we play the game?”

Traven thought about exploring the boy’s lack of logic but decided against it. It was a child’s game, let Loplop have some fun. Traven rolled and got a two— no great surprise. From the pile of game pieces, Traven picked out the petrified wood and a chipped obsidian arrowhead.

Loplop looked over Traven’s selection with a wary eye. “You played this before, Mister?”

“No, I can assure you, never.”

“That was a lucky pick then.” The boy drifted off as he played with his pieces. Traven waited for the child to roll again, but he just kept playing.

“Are you going to roll?” Traven asked.

“We’ve got to rally our troops. Don’t you know?”

“Ah, no, sorry…” Traven tried to pay attention to his pieces, but his gaze kept wandering to the wall on his right. There hung a strange branch arrangement that the Hero had dismissed before as pure folly, but now he could see it was actually a mural of Spring’s emergence. The colors were so bright and vibrant that Traven could not believe he had missed its meaning.

Spring was the season of hope. When the first buds opened, you knew for certain you had survived another year, and even Nature herself would pick you up and dust the snow from your back. Traven found himself reaching out to touch one of the leaves. Spring had seemed so far away, but now the Hero could feel the kiss of sunlight on his face and the smell of jasmine in the air.

“Blossoms make my nose itch,” Loplop stated matter-of-factly.

“Yes, they do mine too,” Traven answered.

“I likes the swimming better.”

Traven was about to ask what the boy meant when the Hero noticed the floor beneath the branches was covered in a rug dyed the deepest blue. The fabric picked up colors from all around the room and reflected them back, just like the quiet pools behind the Hero’s childhood home.

It had been so long since Traven had thought of those still ponds. A pang of regret touched something deep within him, and a tear sprang to his eye.

How long had it been since he had been home? Five years? No, six. His coltish sister, Amari, would be a woman now. His baby brother, Brax, should be old enough to work the fields in Traven’s stead.

Long ago, when the Royal Counsel had come to his district, Traven had felt as if his deepest, most secret desire had been granted. How easily he’d shrugged off his mother’s fear and his father’s caution.

Who would not want to ride with the country’s elite? Who would not want to have maidens swoon and Kings compete for your company? Despite his swearing of the ancient oaths and pledging of fealty, Traven had really gone to Mount Shrine for himself. Compared to his sense of adventure, nothing else had mattered, so he had ridden off with the Counsel.

How time and a few tragedies could change your perspective. Memories of his family now littered his thoughts. The Hero could not imagine his siblings being raised in an eternal winter. The image of Last Hitch, a town of hard-eyed strangers clinging to a bleak existence off the harsh Plains, haunted him.

The Hero had become so immune to the land’s hardships that each shire had blended into one gray blur. To think of his laughing, rambunctious baby brother growing up under such conditions pained the Hero. The devastating, indestructible armies of the Winter King had to be halted. Somehow, Traven had to find a way to coax Spring to fight for her rightful place in the changing of the seasons.

“Nobody but you wants to come out and play.”

It took Traven a moment to reorient to the present and answer the boy. “That’s too bad. You could ask the Faery.”

Loplop gave the Hero another incredulous look.

Traven agreed with the boy’s assessment of the Faery. “Maybe the wolf would play?”

“He just chews up the pieces, and then I have to find new ones.”

Traven smiled. The Hero could imagine the wolf doing just that. “What do we do from here?”

“Um, make your castle out of the sand? You know?”

Traven found that the floor off to his left was covered in a rug that was not only the color of a sand dune, but had the same warm, gritty texture. The Hero followed Loplop’s lead and began building a small sandcastle.

Traven hated to say it, but the child was far more efficient than he. The Hero tried to stay focused on his task, but the multi-hued wall covering above the sand refused to release his eyes— not until he saw the essence of Summer in those symphony of colors. How easily it became to conjure the smell of freshly cut hay, to feel the sweat dripping down your back at midday, with the hard morning’s work behind you and the long afternoon in front of you.

Summer burned hot, but it gifted you with a sense of vitality. You were so in tune with your body that you could feel the pores of your skin.

Why had Summer not shown its face these past years? Its heat alone should have sent Winter scurrying back to his Icy Citadel. Why were all the seasons suddenly subservient to the old god? The scholars could bicker and debate, but no one knew for sure. Here though, in this room, Traven felt that if he spent enough time, he might divine the answer.

“You done yet?” Loplop asked.

Traven looked down to find he had barely created a crude battlement, let alone a whole castle, but the Hero nodded.

“Good, now we must pray. Then the battle begins!”

Traven thought he had been unsure of the rules before. Now he was certain that the child was just making them up as he went along. “All right,” Traven said as he closed his eyes to pray.

“What are you doing?” Loplop asked.

“Getting ready to pray…”

“With your eyes shut? How can you see in the dark?”

“Um…” Traven was about to explain but realized it did not really matter. He could pretend to pray as easily with his eyes open.

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Go!” the boy gleefully shouted and began looking at the rug beneath his feet. “The first one to the bottom wins!”

The first one to the bottom of what? Traven wanted to ask, but knew better. The child’s answer would just give him more inconsistent rules. Instead, the Hero simply looked down. Traven would have to leave soon, and he might as well play along with the boy until the wolf decided to rise again.

To his surprise, Traven found the carpet was not made of any fiber, but instead was a blanket of fall leaves. Now that he paid attention, Traven noticed the brown, gold, red, and yellow leaves crackled under foot. Even the smell of a recent rain shower graced the room. There were mysteries under this carpet. As the world prepared for winter, Fall gathered the past year’s bounty and stored it away to give as a late Yuletide present to her sister, Spring.

“Psst…” Loplop whispered, acting as if they were cheating a bit. “It’s my favorite too.”

Traven was going to answer, but the boy’s eyes were riveted to the floor again. Loplop was right. Fall was also the Hero’s favorite. It was harvest time— season of feasts and fairs. Traven could smell his Granny’s Apple Miracle right here in this room.

Really, the dessert had just been an old family recipe of apple crisp, but Granny put in some secret ingredient that made it fit for a god. You did not need a dinner bell on the nights Granny made her crisp. The aroma of toasted brown sugar would waft out into the fields. Even his father, who normally wielded the scythe until moonrise, would lay down his tool and join the family for supper.

The last year Traven was home, Granny had not only won the local fair’s grand prize but also the entire district’s rose of excellence. The Duke himself had asked to try a taste. Granny had refused to travel to the castle, claiming she was too old and too long of tooth for such a trip. It had been up to Traven to escort his mother and older sister to the Duchy’s Castle.

How proud Traven had been back then. He had strutted and bragged for a full week before the trip. Not only was it his first trip up the mountain, but Traven was invited. Never mind that it was his Granny’s apple crisp that was being honored. Traven had used the trip like an ax to knock over the other boys’ heads. The Hero could not remember a time when he was more proud, not upon completion of his schooling and receiving his Hero’s honor, nor even his liberation of Everstand. All other accomplishments faded compared to that innocent trek up the slopes. Little had Traven known how that trip would alter his life.

It was at the Court that Traven had been noticed by the scholars and asked to test for the Great Counsel. His mother had refused and insisted they head home, but the mages had been persistent and sent an emissary down to Magpie’s Landing.

Weeks passed with his mother crying and his father silently tilling the fields. Ultimately, though, his parents had reluctantly given their blessing and sent their son to Mount Shrine. Traven had never realized it until now, but he had his Granny’s cooking to thank for his place among the Honored.

The Hero shook his head. If his parents had had even the slightest inkling what would befallen him on these perilous journeys, they never would have agreed. And right now the Hero would not argue with their logic. All that he had given up, and for what? The world was not any safer because of his sacrifices.

“I miss them too,” Loplop stated sadly, but when Traven tried to meet his eyes, the boy looked down again, enraptured in his own thoughts and memories.

Tears threatened. Somehow over the years, the Hero had fooled himself into believing that he did not miss his family.

In this room, with its smells of the begone and its begging of memories to unfold, the Hero could not help but mourn the loss of all that he had left behind. Traven watched as tears dripped upon the leaves. To his surprise, the leaves bobbed and spun away as his tears made tiny splashes in murky water. He would swear the floor was solid, but the rug made it seem as if the leaves simply lay upon a sheet of water. It was so obvious now.

This blanket represented the Well of Fall.

“No fair! You cheated!” the boy exclaimed. “You said you’d never played this game!”

Traven was thoroughly disoriented. How could he win? He wasn’t even really playing. “I didn’t win—”

“Did too! You got to the bottom of the Well first!” The boy kicked at the leaves and sent a few scattering. “Ah, well. I’ll beat you with my army! Prepare your forces!”

Traven sat stunned, watching the boy rally his troops. It would have been amusing if Traven had not been struck by the oddest sensation. Something important was being played out here. The sense that the Hero was missing a terribly crucial point nagged at him. Where had he heard all these names? How did he know their significance? Again, all Traven had to do was search the past.

Long before the scholars tried to cram his head full of book learning, Granny had begun his education. During those late fall days, when the weather turned and the rain came down, Granny would gather all the girls and babes out on the porch and tell tales of romance and love. Traven would never have been caught dead in that circle.

What would a ten-year-old boy care of such things? Traven only wanted to hear of great deeds and spilt blood. For that matter, throw in a few snakes and decapitations for good measure.

Despite the unappealing subject, Granny’s storytelling voice was a siren’s call. Traven would find some chore, such as sharpening a knife, mending his uncle’s fishing nets, or anything that looked like work, just to bring him close enough to the gaggle to hear Granny.

Traven would do any menial task for as long as the sun crossed the sky. So long, in fact, that his mother worried he was becoming soft in the head. So there he had sat, listening, but not listening, to Granny’s dissertation on the turning of the seasons and the cycle of life. Little did he know exactly how valuable those stories would be. If only the scholars upon Mount Shrine had been so much help. By the sight, Granny had been far more accurate than anything the scholars had to say on the subject.

“Aren’t you going to mount any kind of defense?” the boy asked. “I don’t want you going easy on me, just cause I’m a youngin.”

“No, I’d never do that,” Traven reassured Loplop.

As the Hero finished arranging his “troops” for battle against the boy’s forces, Traven let his mind wander back and savor those afternoons, listening to the tales and raindrops.

During the most tragic moments in the stories, it seemed the sky itself had cried at the lovers’ plight. Despite himself, Traven had listened to every one of Granny’s tall tales. One in particular refused to be forgotten at him. It was one of the old woman’s favorites. She would get that gleam in her eye and even stop her knitting to finish the tale. But what had it been? When were the Folds, Pools, Keeps, and Well united?

The memory brought Traven to his feet, startling Loplop.

“What’s the matter?” the boy asked, frowning and rearranging his game pieces.

Traven was near panic. He never should have entered the room— for it was the Shaman’s. These things, these artifacts, were not painted nor spun by human hand. Traven’s shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

Granny had said the Shaman was an outcast of his tribe and a hermit. The old Marmo had wandered the earth hundreds of centuries ago. The legend began with the Shaman healing an old wound between the seasons. Some age-old grievance was put to rest. To reward the Shaman, each of the seasons had blessed him with a gift made by their own hand.

Not really works of art, but creation itself— duplicated.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Traven urged the child, but Loplop would not be budged.

“If you don’t want to play, just say so!”

If they hurried, their intrusion might go overlooked. “Loplop, we’ve got to—” Traven stopped in midsentence as a voice snapped in the hallway.

“I am Guardian of this Fold. It is decided!” The Faery’s voice was shrill and pointed. Even the boy tensed. There was nowhere to hide. The best Traven could hope for was that the Faery and Giant would barrel past the room. Which they might have done if it had not been for the wolf’s yawning at the most inopportune time.

The Faery was the first to fly into the doorway, hovering menacingly. “Is he daft? Desecrating the Shaman’s Abode?”

“It was Pale,” the Giant stated. “I assure you—”

“And smell him! The human’s eaten and…” The Faery flew up to Traven and took a few sniffs, then turned a dangerous shade of purple. “And he’s drunk our cider! The blasphemer!”

“Emerald—” The Giant tried to defend the Hero.

“Enough. He is to be escorted outside!”

“No! The boy—” Traven tried to interrupt, but the Faery only shook more violently with anger.

“Do you think feigning insanity will help your cause, human?”

Traven turned to find the child gone, along with all his toys. “But he was here,” Traven mumbled as the Faery and Giant again argued.

“At the least give him enough supplies to make it to the next township,” the Giant pleaded.

The wolf sent strong images of Traven staying in the Fold— all would be explained. Traven wished that he could stay, but it was becoming obvious who would win this exchange.

“And have him spread word of this Fold? We’ll have every…” It seemed the Faery could not find a word quite despicable enough. “Every human for fifty leagues upon our doorstep.”

“He will die if we let—”

“Then let him!” Her voice cut as deeply as any sword ever could.

Traven opened his mouth. Before he could utter a single word, the Faery flew up into his face and blew sweet Faery dust. Traven tried to back away and hold his breath, but the magic burned up his nose as the world went black.

* * *

Commander Jory Packard found himself, once again, staring out the eastern window. Years had passed since he last peeked out onto the Plains. Jory’s concern was always inward, towards the township and the people in it. Now, however, his waking hours were torn between the concern for the Hero and the evil that plagued his small berg. You could smell the corruption in the air. It was a taste that, no matter how much warm ale you drank, you could not get it out of your mouth.

A pounding on the door made Jory turn away from his view of the white wasteland. “Enter.”

A guard that Jory barely recognized entered. The commander’s lieutenant had taken to recruiting new soldiers without Jory’s approval. That would need to change. “Your name?”

“Squire Edwin, sir.”

“Your news?”

“The last of the doves have come in, sir. The blasphemer has not entered any shire within a hundred miles.”

The commander just nodded. It was no surprise. The only true surprise was that the trappers had not found a single remnant of the Hero’s existence.

“Alert the Master of Stables. We may need a party brought together. Have the horses well-fed and groomed.”

The squire did not blink an eye, only nodded. Now Jory just needed an excuse to send out a search team. His hands were so firmly tied by the rules of banishment that his wrists chaffed as if they were bound by rough cord.

“That is all, Edwin.”

The boy saluted and left the room promptly. Surely, the young soldier would run and report his strange behavior to the lieutenant. Jory was wise to the junior officer’s ambition, but the commander needed the officer to put his chubby neck in a noose. With so many variables, Jory did not have the luxury of court-martialing one of his own senior officers.

But once this was over— once the pall had lifted from the town— then the lieutenant would feel the sting of real discipline.

Jory fingered the letter that sat upon his desk. How many times had he read and reread the parchment from Madame Hesper? She had thrown the bones as he had asked and, as always, got back an answer that was thoroughly unhelpful.

Unsatisfied with the news, Jory opened the envelope again and took out the satiny smooth paper, hoping that one more reading would bring about better understanding. But it did not. How could it?

He lives.

Prepare.

What in the goddess’ name did the medium mean?

Squire Edwin burst back into the room. Only at the last second did the boy skid to a halt, panting. It looked like the boy had scaled the stairs in a single bound. “Sir! Another girl is missing!”

Jory threw down the letter. “Who?”

“The shoppe girl, the one you saved from the mob.”

Jory stiffened. This boded poorly. Even though he was bereft of any magic, the commander could feel when events shifted and the world realigned. You either figured out which way the current flowed, or you were swept out to sea. “Raise the guard. Lock the gate. No one leaves or enters until this is resolved.”

“Aye, sir.”

The boy remembered a hurried salute, then charged back out the door. Madame Hesper had not been exaggerating in her note, but with an ill wind blowing, Jory knew it would take more than simple preparations to survive the next few days.

CHAPTER 10

Ornery held the reins loosely in his hands, too cold and, frankly, too stunned to spare much attention to driving the horses. The horses? His cousins? Ornery could divine why Miss Emmer had said such a thing.

He loved them, there was no doubt, but Cinnamon and Nutmeg were his relatives? His own flesh and blood? Ornery watched the horses’ bodies move under their harnesses. There was not a hint of humanity about them. They looked like any other workhorses he had ever seen. Ornery would have thought Miss Emmert completely mad if he himself had not starting growing a tail— and the darn thing was the same color as Nutmeg’s mane.

Pushing Miss Emmert for an explanation had been futile back at the stable. The skies were darkening, and they needed to hurry if they wished to get on the road. Ornery had tried to protest, but Cinnamon had whinnied and given him a light kick. With even the horses having a say, the boy was completely out-voted.

The packing of the wagon, paying the innkeeper, and leaving the city gates were all a blur. Ornery’s whole intent had been to get Miss Emmert alone out on the trail and question her mercilessly. But, as always, his plans were foiled when Miss Emmert had retired into the wagon, insisting she had to consult her books. Since the horses weren’t talking, Ornery knew no more than he had four hours ago.

Still, his mind raced. How could Nutmeg and Cinnamon be his cousins? That would mean his mother or father had siblings. Which meant that Ornery had aunts or uncles! Why had he never been told that before?

These horses had been with them for nearly two years. Why had Miss Emmert not told him about this before now? Ornery’s hands clenched in anger. Was it not bad enough that he had to go through life a misfit? It might have helped to know there was family with him right in his own camp.

Ornery smelled Miss Emmert before he heard her stir behind the wagon’s curtain. His caretaker had put on her lavender perfume, the scent she only dipped into when they were going to meet Mr. Skelt. Ornery put on his best pouting face and slouched down into his winter coat as Miss Emmert climbed over the backboard to settle in next to him.

There was a long silence as Ornery tried to guilt the woman into speaking first. Unfortunately, this plan also failed. Miss Emmert just breathed in the tart air and casually scanned the tree-dotted landscape.

“You should have told me sooner,” Ornery said, not able to conceal his hurt.

“I could not,” Miss Emmert replied flatly.

Ornery struggled against threatening tears. “Why?”

“Our first priority has always been to keep you safe.”

“How would knowing—”

Miss Emmert waved a gloved hand to silence his outburst. “There are those who have sought your death from before your birth, Ornery. People and beings of great power who wished you had never been conceived. If the slightest hint of your heritage had leaked out, you would not be alive today.”

Ornery blinked as the tears flowed down his cheeks. He had hated his wandering, meandering existence so much that he had never conceived that there was a greater purpose to his life. But more to the point, who would want a lonely, as-good-as-orphaned bastard dead?

“I still don’t understand. Why the secrecy with me? Could you not have trusted me?”

Miss Emmert patted his shoulder, brushing off stray snowflakes before she answered. “Tell me Ornery, if you had known the heritage of these beasts, would you have treated them any differently?”

Horror clenched Ornery’s throat. Dear god, how many times behind Miss Emmert’s back had he used his spurs a bit harder than he was supposed to or cracked the whip just to feel the rush and power? All of that Ornery had done to his cousins! Girls, no less!

“Yes, I would have! I’m sorry, so sorry—”

“Shh. You didn’t do anything wrong, Ornery.”

“Yes, I did, Miss Emmert. You don’t know. Once when she wouldn’t get her head out of the grass, I told Cinnamon she was fat and lazy, and—”

Miss Emmert took the reins from him with one hand and placed the other around his shoulders. She pulled Ornery closer into a hug as she spoke. “You were supposed to do all that. But tell me. How would you have acted if you’d known?”

Ornery knew the answer without a single thought. “ I would’ve done better by them. I would’ve brought them grain right on time, brushed them out every night, not just when you asked me to. And… and I would’ve—”

“My point exactly. If you had known, you could not have helped but treat them with more respect, more familiarity, than is normal for a teenage boy and his draft horses. From that alone, we might have been spied out.”

Miss Emmert’s words sank in slowly. Finally, Ornery realized she was right. The sheer joy of knowing that he had family would have changed his whole demeanor. Even now, Ornery could feel something stir and stretch inside him. Somehow he felt more whole and happier than he could ever have imagined.

“I know it has been difficult, but there was no other way to ensure your survival.”

“Why are you telling me now?”

Miss Emmert clucked to the horses and adjusted the reins. “You were about to leave us. Strike out on your own to find the answers.”

Ornery sat silent. How had she known? Then it came to him. How many of his heart’s secrets had Ornery cried into these horses’ manes? There were at least a dozen such embarrassing admissions that he could think of off the top of his head.

Unbidden, his cheeks began to blush. Some of those secretes were of an extremely private nature. To think that Miss Emmert had knowledge of even a few of them made his skin even redder. He’d better change the subject fast. “But who would want me dead?”

It was Miss Emmert’s turn to look deep in thought.

Ornery tried to be patient, but when an answer was not forthcoming, he spoke up. “Now that I know a little about my family, wouldn’t it be good to know about my enemies?”

“No, it wouldn’t. That knowledge will come with time.”

Ornery’s words burst out before he could control his pent up anger. “No more waiting. I want to know. And know now!”

“Then use your head!” Miss Emmert snapped at him. Ornery did not think he had ever heard her be so short in his life. The words stung his face worse than the sleet mixed with rain. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, but frustration rang through. “You’ve spent so much time maligning your father and blaming your mother that you might want to consider other scenarios before you damn them so thoroughly.”

Ornery’s rage evaporated under Miss Emmert’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Did you know them?”

“Yes. The sacrifices they made, especially by your father, would humble even a Heavenly Martyr. You have been quick to judge and slow to think.”

Ornery scrunched down further into his wool coat. Its rough collar tickled his cheeks, but he was beyond caring. How could his simple, routine world be overturned so easily? He glanced over at Miss Emmert, but her eyes were gazing ahead, checking the trail. Ornery watched the horses— he meant, his cousins— trotting along. “I assume ‘Cinnamon’ and ‘Nutmeg’ are—”

“Their Centaur names are Kynom and Nutege.”

Mind buzzing with this latest information, Ornery tried out the new names on his tongue. “Kymon and Nutege are my father’s relatives?”

“Yes. Your uncle, Vezar, is Stallion of the Northern Herd. These are two of his fillies.”

“Were our other horses, you know… relatives?”

Miss Emmert nodded. “They were all Vezar’s brood.”

Ornery clutched the wooden bench to keep himself from listing to one side. It was overwhelming to think that one day you were wandering the countryside without a trace of family for support, and then the next, you’ve got an entire herd somewhere watching over you.

“That’s a lot of children,” Ornery said in amazement as he counted the number of horses they’d had over the years.

“Vezar is quite…” Miss Emmert struggled to find the right word.

“The stud?” Ornery offered innocently, until he realized how strange that word sounded describing his uncle.

Miss Emmert’s cheeks even blushed. “Yes, Vezar is known for his virility.” His caretaker could not say anymore, as she was seized with the giggles. “Oh, dear, we should not take this subject lightly.” The woman could not help it, though, and she continued to struggle against her giggles. Ornery found himself laughing along with her. Soon, their amusement turned to laughter, then to full belly laughs.

“Oh, my…” Miss Emmert wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Yes, you were correct, Ornery. Vezar is a Stallion, so all the offspring from his Herd are his own and will be until another challenges and defeats him.”

“Exactly how many cousins do I have?”

“Last count? Over forty. The Northern Herd is the largest upon the Steppes. Just last year Vezar challenged the old Stallion Premier and took over his modest herd, so there should be plenty more foals on the way.”

Ornery pulled himself more upright and took a few breaths of the cold air. Not only did Ornery have family, he had lots of it. It was bizarre to think of himself having roots and a heritage to be proud of, well, at least having a family heritage. “If Vezar knows of my existence, why didn’t I just go to live with him when Father didn’t want me?”

For a moment, Ornery thought Miss Emmert was going to strike him. Her brown eyes glowered at him with the gold flecks glinting in the dusky light. “I never want to hear you say that again.” She turned away, but he could still see her jaw muscles working and her lips pursed in anger.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

“Your father did not abandon you. Dimitri had no choice. No one did. You need to take that as fact. The rest you can speculate upon.”

This was all so hard. Why was she making it all the more difficult? Why could she not just tell him what he needed to know? After all, it was his family, his story, that the woman was withholding, but the look on her reddened cheeks warned him not to attempt that line of argument.

So Ornery tried a different approach, one that he had learned long ago, when she first started tutoring him in his schooling. “How can I draw any conclusions when you’ve given me so little information?”

Ornery watched his caretaker closely out of the corner of his eye. Her mouth softened, and her cheeks paled a bit. Finally, the muscles around her eyes relaxed, and she breathed out deeply. “Do not think you can weasel this answer like you did your ‘rithmetic principles. You’ve heard enough Centaur legends at the pubs and taverns. My hope is that you can sort myth from reality.”

Trying hard not to let the shock cross his face, Ornery wondered exactly how much Miss Emmert knew of his nighttime visits to the pubs.

But of course! He’d always made his escape through the horses’ stalls!

By the gods, they knew everything about him. It was his turn to flush again. They could not possibly have heard him when he snuck away to, you know…

“Do not worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Ornery could not help but take in a sharp breath. This was far too embarrassing for any one person to handle.

“You didn’t do anything a boy or colt would not experiment with at your age.”

Ornery tried to merge with the wooden planks beneath him, but the boards were unyielding. His breath clouded before him, steamy from humiliation. Ornery wanted to say something. He needed to say something, but his body refused to accommodate. Miss Emmert’s forgiving smile was not helping anything.

“Look to the ground,” she said.

Offered something else to do than squirm in his own juices, Ornery immediately turned his gaze downward but had to grab hold of the side rail. It looked like they were flying! The wagon was not plodding along. It was gliding over the snow like an ice skater on a pond. His head jerked back to check with Miss Emmert, but her smile only deepened. Ornery looked more closely at the horses and realized they were leaving no hoof prints, nor were they kicking up snow with each stride.

“Did you believe your cousins were just ordinary horses?” Miss Emmert continued, while Ornery tried to assimilate yet another piece to the puzzle. “Did you really think I’d head out on a five-day trip across the Barren Flats in the Dead of Winter? We should be reaching Last Hitch by moonrise.”

“But why are we going way out there?”

“Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

Ornery braced himself. By the amused look on Miss Emmert’s face, he was certain that whatever the news was, it would shake his world yet again.

“Why, we’re going to meet your father.”

CHAPTER 11

Crystalia hurried along the alleyway, clinging to the shadows. It had taken her what seemed like forever to cut across town. It appeared her father had the Watch out after her. Crystalia had to take the back alleys the entire distance. She had wasted valuable time hiding until the garrison’s men passed. Crystalia was not about to be found out yet. Before the girl faced her father’s wrath, she wanted to share her joy with Viola.

Every other step, Crystalia checked her hand to be sure the compass was still there. The symbol was moving, arcing west. Surely this meant that the Hero still lived. Impulsively, she kissed her palm. Where her lips had touched now glowed a ruby red and pulsed with her own heartbeat.

Hiding her hand within the folds of her bag, Crystalia slunk forward. Luckily, everyone’s shutters were closed tightly against the coming storm. Still, she could not be careless. Crystalia did not wish to be caught before she could thrill Viola with her avalanche of news.

Cautiously, Crystalia approached the large, white-brick building. Already the house’s lamps were extinguished. Crystalia scanned the second floor. She prayed for a sign of Viola, but only a tiny candle flickered on a nightstand.

Shouting would only attract the neighbors, and the night man would sooner scold her than fetch Viola. Crystalia grabbed a few stray pebbles and tossed them at Viola’s window. Instead of the second floor, however, they tinkled against the panes on the first level. Standing frozen against the wall, Crystalia waited. No one came to the window or even turned up a lamp. She’d gotten lucky. Crystalia took a deep breath and prepared to throw a second batch.

Crystalia whispered into the frigid night air, “Please…” She threw the stones, but they appeared to be on the same course as the first. “No, Viola’s window!”

To her surprise, the pebbles altered their trajectory and clinked against her best friend’s window. Crystalia stared at her hands. They looked the same, felt the same, but she could have sworn her fingers had corrected the pebbles’ path.

Her attention was torn away from her hand by golden curls shimmering in the candlelight. Viola stood groggy at the window, frowning. Before her friend could turn back, Crystalia stepped out into the street lamp’s light and waved her hands frantically, but Viola looked the wrong way down the street, then headed back to bed.

“Viola!” Crystalia whispered harshly under her breath. Her friend turned abruptly and looked around the room as if she’d heard Crystalia. Crystalia hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, barely lifting her voice beyond her lips. “Viola, I’m down here…”

A look of shock crossed Viola’s face as she scanned her own floor.

“No, down here in the street.”

Slowly, Crystalia’s friend walked to the window and peered out. Excitement got the better of Viola, and she let out a little cry, racing to open the window.

“No! They’ll hear. We have to meet somewhere.”

Viola tilted her head. Her friend’s mouth moved, but Crystalia could not make out what she said.

“I can’t hear you. Talk more slowly.”

Viola moved closer to the window and formed the word, “Stable.”

“Good, I’ll meet you at the stables! You are never going to believe what happened!” Crystalia said as she waved to her friend.

Her heels clicked on the cobblestones as she rushed to the back of the house. The sound rang in her ears, but she barely noticed. Oh, to relive her life’s most precious day with her best friend. Crystalia skidded to a stop on the icy stones. She nudged open the thick barn door and peered inside. Carefully, Crystalia checked to be sure the stable boy was not out in the corridor, and then snuck in, gently closing the door behind her.

The stable was pitch black and so quiet that she could hear the air moving past her nostrils. Only the occasional snort could be heard from the animals. The smell was a rich mixture of oats and horses— a nice aroma to curl up with. But it only reminded her of how long it had been since she herself had slept. Crystalia crept along the stalls and hid herself next to a bale of hay.

In and out she breathed, counting the seconds until Viola joined her. How many glorious secrets she had to tell!

Crystalia nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Spinning around, her bag ready, Crystalia found Viola standing there, clutching the night robe to her throat, a tall candle in the other hand. Her friend must have nearly flown down the stairs to get here so fast.

“Where have you been? The entire town is out searching for you! They think slavers got you!” Viola chided her.

“No, oh, it’s so much more exciting than that! Traven, he has—”

“There’s been no word, Crystalia. The commander has called off the search.”

Crystalia grabbed her friend by the arms and held Viola until she quieted. “The Hero lives.”

“I know. I hope he is too.”

“Traven lives. I know he has survived.”

Viola shook her head. “Your skull must be frozen, Crystalia. No one knows—”

“My hand knows.” Crystalia showed Viola her palm. “See the symbol.” Crystalia caught her friend as she stumbled back from her palm. “It’s all right. It won’t hurt you.”

“How… how did you get a spirit sexton?”

“A what? Viola, it’s a compass. It shows me where Traven is.”

Viola moved forward and lightly touched Crystalia’s wrist, looking too afraid to touch the actual palm. “How did you get it?”

“It’s the hand Traven kissed! He planted it there!”

Viola hissed, “No!” Recovering from her shock, Viola studied Crystalia’s palm again. “But I’ve seen your hand a hundred times after he kissed you. This wasn’t there before.”

“Madame Hesper brought it to light.”

Viola recoiled again. “The witch? What were you doing at Hanger’s Mansion?”

“I wanted to find out how Traven was.” Viola still looked upset. Crystalia scooted closer to her friend. This was not how it was supposed to be, but she could understand Viola’s suspicions. Crystalia herself had been just as scared and doubtful at first.

Now, though, it all seemed natural. As if she’d had these gifts all her life. Crystalia wanted to share everything that had happened, but she doubted if Viola could stand a demonstration of her other “skills” Madame Hesper had given her.

Viola would most probably faint dead away if Crystalia turned the barn’s plain wood into mahogany. Even to Crystalia, these other magicks seemed whimsical and almost dreamy. Traven’s compass— now that was tangible and in plain view for all to see. For now, Crystalia would keep the rest to herself until Viola calmed down. Maybe Madame Hesper could explain things to the both of them.

“You can come with me to Hanger’s Mansion tomorrow!”

“Me? Go into that den of… of…? Never!”

Crystalia held out her left hand, palm down so that Viola would not be even more startled by her new lifeline. “That’s what I thought, but it was not like that at all. Madame Hesper is… she was… you don’t need to be afraid of her. Really.”

Viola sniffled a bit. “But all the stories.”

“I don’t know about those. Now she’s just… well, she’s dying.”

“That’s impossible!” Viola nearly shouted.

Not letting go of her friend’s hand, Crystalia continued to comfort Viola. She burned to tell her friend the all of it, but Viola was already troubled enough. “She’s grown ill. Madame Hesper wants me to apprentice with her until… Well, until the end.”

Crystalia guided Viola to the bale of hay where they both sat down. Crystalia looked around, fearful that Viola’s outbursts might have roused the stable boy.

“Don’t worry. The stable boy’s out at the cockfight,” Viola said in a fog.

Relaxing her vigil, Crystalia turned her attention back to her friend. “The good news is that I will always, always, know where Traven is.”

Tentatively, Viola turned Crystalia’s right palm over again. “Can you tell if he is alive?”

“He’s moving.”

“But his body, you know, might be dragged or something…”

Crystalia had never thought of that possibility! That would be tragic beyond belief. Her heart sank. Crystalia liked it better when she had no doubt he was alive.

“Did Madame Hesper show you a way to see if he lived?” Viola asked.

She stared at her palm. The symbol was moving at a slow and steady pace towards her pinkie. “No. Do you think there is a way?”

Viola demurred and looked away. “I’m sure Madame Hesper would have told you if there was.”

“I’m sorry, Viola. I thought I had such good news to share.”

“It’s all right. You’ve tried your best.” Viola patted Crystalia’s hand. “We’ll just have to wait for the Fates to show us the outcome.”

Crystalia squirmed.

Viola would die— keel over— if she knew what Crystalia knew about Fate and Lovers. If Viola was jealous about the kiss on her hand, just wait until her friend heard about the Tarot cards. Crystalia judged her friend’s face. Perhaps Viola was ready for a bit more news.

“Brace yourself. All right?”

“For what?” Viola asked, her voice a scared whisper.

“Madame Hesper thinks I might be Traven’s… you know… his…”

“His what?”

“She thinks I’m his soul mate! Can you believe it? And once I’ve learned all I can from her, I’m to join him! That’s what the compass is for!”

For a moment, Viola sat unmoving, not even breathing. Crystalia worried for a second that the very shock of the news had killed her dearest friend.

“Viola?”

Her friend sat stunned, then blinked. The color returned to Viola’s cheeks, and she talked excitedly, “Crystalia, you must go to him! Madame Hesper must be right.”

“Do you think? Really?”

“Look at your hand! And the way the Hero looked at you! I am so envious. The priest isn’t going to believe my confession this week!”

“Perhaps you could come with me? As a companion?”

“Have a friend along on your honeymoon? Has your brain frozen again? You won’t want me within a hundred acres of you!”

Crystalia smiled. Viola was right, but Crystalia had been trying to be considerate of her best friend’s feelings. The adventure was somehow even more grand when she thought about meeting him alone. After the wedding, Crystalia would come home and tell Viola all the details anyway.

Viola popped up and pulled Crystalia to her feet. “What are we doing sitting around? You need to leave tonight!”

“What? Viola, it’s you that has been touched—”

“We’ve got to hurry,” Viola interrupted as she ran about the stable, pulling down a piece of tack here and some supplies there. “The stable boy will be back soon, and you can’t hide from the guards much longer.”

“I know. I’ll go home to Pappy—”

“And tell him what? Crystalia, if you stay in Last Hitch, they’ll lock you up!”

Crystalia followed as Viola continued to gather gear. “Viola, what are you talking about?”

“Listen to yourself, girl! Everyone thought you daft when you socialized with him the first time. Remember how they snickered and made fun of us? Can you imagine what they will think if they heard you talk now? You and the Hero— soul mates? Destiny? Please, you’ll be lucky if the church Elders only lock you up! More than likely, they’ll throw you out onto the tundra like Traven. Do you think you’ll survive as well as he?”

For a moment, the room started to spin. Crystalia had never thought of the town’s reaction. To them, Traven was the enemy— an evil man, sent to do the work of the devil. Even if they believed she and Traven to be soul-mates, what did that make her? Dear gods, Viola was right.

“But Pappy will protect me.”

Viola simply looked over her shoulder, giving Crystalia a look of disdain.

“But he wouldn’t let them take me!” Crystalia protested, despite the growing feeling that Viola was very correct in her assessment.

“Maybe not, but your father will have you married off before you can blink. Is that what you want? Married to one of these yokels? How are you getting away from your new husband to go on this quest of yours?”

It was obvious Crystalia had not thought all of this through, but surely the medium had. “Madame Hesper will find a way to sneak me out of town.”

“You said she was dying? She doesn’t have enough strength to save herself. How is she going to help you?”

Crystalia tried to figure out a retort, but none formed in her mind. This day was maddening. Every time Crystalia thought her world had stopped spinning, something set her off-kilter again. “But—”

“Crystalia, there is no other way. You’ve got to get out of town before they realize who you are. It’s the only way.”

“How am I going to get past the gate? It’s locked for the night and the guard…”

Viola turned and let her hair tumble from its pins. She looked at Crystalia with heat in her eyes. “You don’t think I can distract the guards?”

Crystalia stepped back. She had never seen her friend like this. The blonde was all sharp and plotting. Viola usually could only keep a single thought in her head, and even then, you might not be able to coax the whole thing out.

“Viola, Traven is at least five days out. I can’t travel that far—”

“What if he’s hurt? Close to drawing his last breath? What if they find him at Thaw?” Viola turned and touched Crystalia’s palm. “You, and you alone, know where he is. He blessed you with this for a reason. Will you not take this risk for him?”

Crystalia’s knees buckled, and she feared she would swoon right there. Viola knew she would take any risk for Traven. Crystalia had just hoped no one would ask this of her so soon.

“Madame Hesper will be angry.”

Viola patted Crystalia’s hand. “She will see the wisdom when you bring him to safety.”

In the face of such logic, Crystalia had no argument. Madame Hesper truly was dying. Crystalia had seen it in her eyes, just like in her own mother’s all those years ago. And how long could she keep the spirit sexton and her lifeline a secret? In this small town with prying eyes, her secret would not last to the Sabbath. To stay any longer, she would risk never leaving— never seeing if her destiny truly awaited her with Traven. “All right. I will leave tonight.”

Viola jumped forward and gave Crystalia an enveloping hug. “You are so brave. Finish packing the saddlebags. I’ll run upstairs and change. Oh, how I wish I could go with you!”

With the thought of the bitter cold and Barren Plains, so did Crystalia.

* * *

Ornery threw down his scarf. Miss Emmert just wasn’t fair. How could she turn his world upside down again, then send him inside the wagon to clean up?

He had a million questions, but Miss Emmert was firm. They drew near to Last Hitch, and she wished him “presentable.” Ornery rubbed fog off the small brass mirror. There was no way to make this misshapen body of his “presentable.” Everything about it was grotesque.

Just in the few hours since they’d left Charolette’s Berg, Ornery’s floppy ears had retracted, leaving only two extremely long earlobes to hang down almost to his shoulders. Worse, his nose had elongated, and fur covered his brow and forehead. Why did all this have to happen now? Last week, just last week, Ornery’s face was almost normal. He had been able to pass as human amongst the crowded marketplace. Why could not his body behave? Just this once.

“You have nothing to prove to your father,” Miss Emmert said from behind.

Ornery spun around so quickly that he dropped the mirror. The delicate piece of metal shattered across the slats of the wagon. A hundred reflections told him that Miss Emmert was wrong.

“Child, you must be more careful,” Miss Emmert said as she bent down to clean up the shards.

“What about the horses?” Ornery asked as he headed for the front of the wagon.

“They need little guidance from me. You took so long that I thought you might need some help.”

“I have need of answers.”

Miss Emmert looked up at him. “Would you not like to hear them from your father’s own mouth?”

Ornery’s temper flared as he felt his nose stretch a bit more. “It’s no use. He’ll take one look at me and gallop off again.”

Ornery had meant to stay angry. To vent all his rage at Miss Emmert, but tears rose and cracked his voice. He wanted to tell her all his fears, but only a squeak came out.

Miss Emmert rose and put an arm around him. “Ornery, your father has already seen you. Every centaur goes through this awkward stage. Dimitri himself did as a foal.”

“He did?”

“Yes. Only my understanding is that your father suffered far worse. The other colts called him ‘Baldy’ for an entire moon.”

“Really?”

Miss Emmert pulled him closer into her embrace. “Yes.”

Whether it was her jasmine perfume, her soothing voice, or the reassuring news, Ornery found himself comforted as Miss Emmert stroked his coarse head. His hair had sprouted over the last few days and taken on a life all its own, thick and long enough to be called a mane.

Before today, Ornery would have chaffed at that equine description. Now he rolled the idea around in his head. To think everything he went through, everything he had despised about himself, was not only normal, but expected! It would be nice to have his father around to explain such things. Ornery had enough questions to fill the next decade.

Finally, Ornery snuggled down into Miss Emmert’s sheltering arms. He was running out of anger. Ornery felt strangely drained, and even more oddly, he felt a lightness that almost made him dizzy. Still, something nagged at him. Something that Miss Emmert had said that whizzed past him faster than a hungry hummingbird.

“My father’s seen me?” Ornery asked in a shocked voice. He pulled out of the woman’s embrace, staring at her with wide-open eyes.

Miss Emmert cleared her throat, obviously amused at his surprise. “Do you remember that trip we took to the Outer Reaches last summer?”

Ornery nodded. It had been the most boring region they’d ever traveled through, just acres and acres of rolling fields of wildflower.

“Remember how you told me no one would want our potions and creams?”

“And I was right. They didn’t buy a single one!”

Miss Emmert chuckled lightly. “Of course not. Why would they? Their healer is a student of mine. That natural spring of theirs is blessed by a powerful nymph.”

“So?” Ornery became impatient until it dawned on him that they had no reason at all to travel so far from civilization, unless… “It was a rendezvous with my father!”

“I knew you could catch on.” Miss Emmert patted his hand and turned to leave. “Now you’d best get cleaned up and put on your muff. We’ll be within sight of the town any moment.”

Ornery threw on his scarf and hat, chasing after Miss Emmert into the wagon. He wanted to hear every last detail of his father’s secret visit. Cold air snapped his cheeks as he settled in beside his guardian. The lights of Last Hitch flickered on the distant horizon.

Miss Emmert was right. At their present speed, they would reach the town before moonrise.

“What did he… what did he say about…”

“He was proud. He wrote a poem for you. I’m sure he will read it to you.”

Ornery adopted a begging stance. “Oh please, please tell it to me it now!”

Miss Emmert laughed lightheartedly. “Obviously you haven’t heard Centaur verse before. I’ll let your father embarrass himself, thank you.”

All of Ornery’s questions jostled about in his head, jamming words at his lips. “But… but…”

“Remember the year I made you a little birthday cake of alfalfa and oats?”

“And then I didn’t get to eat it because my teeth changed back to human, and I could not chew so well.”

“You remember throwing a tantrum and sleeping under the wagon?”

Ornery could not help but smile. His previous behavior seemed so disproportionate now. It seemed like someone else had lived that life. Miss Emmert snapped the reins a bit. Ornery knew it was no longer to goad the horses, but for show if any of the town’s sentries looked their way. The wagon had slowed to almost a crawl as the horses, once again, made footprints in the snow before them. The town’s wall and brass-fitted gate were readily apparent.

Smiling, Miss Emmert asked, “Do you still have that bit of slate you found in your pocket that next morning?”

Ornery shrugged. “I think it’s in the wagon somewhere.”

“Your father gave it to you that night and kissed you upon the cheek.”

His hand flew up to his face. Ornery touched the spot Miss Emmert had pointed to. He had thought that memory was only a dream. Ornery could remember awakening slightly that night and someone leaning over him. Dear goddess, he had swatted the invading face away!

“Don’t worry. Dimitri knew his beard tickled your skin.”

Ornery blushed.

Did Miss Emmert know everything? He didn’t have time to ask as the horses slowed to a walk. The town’s gate loomed before them, dark and uninviting. Only two small torches on the rampart illuminated the area. A few feet from the gate, they stopped and awaited a guard— and waited, and waited.

Ornery looked to Miss Emmert, who only shrugged. It was not at all unusual for them to arrive late to a town. Usually, a coin in the hand of the guard, and they were neatly through the gate.

“Do you believe them so lax that they didn’t see our approach?” Ornery asked.

“Nay. This far into the wilderness, they have men in the watchtowers, day and night. Something is wrong.”

Miss Emmert slid down from the seat and carefully crossed the icy snow. It seemed the brewing storm had not hit here. The hard surface crackled and snapped beneath her boots. She was making enough noise to raise the whole town, let alone the gate’s guard. Yet no one appeared upon the rampart. Usually, a guard would at least peek out the smaller side gate and check on the town’s latest visitor. Strange.

Ornery’s guardian strode forward and banged upon the shorter, less ornate guard’s door. There Miss Emmert stood for the span of a few heartbeats. When no answer was forthcoming, she banged again, this time much harder.

“Camp outside ‘til daylight,” a voice pled from inside the guard’s door.

“A storm approaches, and we need to stable our animals!” Miss Emmert yelled back.

“In the morn,” the voice said as it drifted away.

Miss Emmert took her fist to the door again.

“Go away,” the guard shouted back.

“I will knock all night if you don’t, at the very least, speak to me face to face.”

There was a pause and then the loud creaking of hinges long overdue for oiling. The guard looked shaken and skittish. “Now go.”

He tried to push the door closed, but Miss Emmert leaned her ample weight against the wood and kept it open a crack. “What goes on here that you are so inhospitable?”

“A girl. She’s been stolen right out from her daddy’s nose. The gates are locked until she’s found,” the guard stammered. He looked no older than Ornery.

Miss Emmert’s voice took on a schooling tone. “We certainly could not have had any part in this kidnapping. We simply desire lodging.”

The guard still looked unconvinced.

Trying to explain further, Miss Emmert continued, “We were far from here when the poor child was abducted. By letting us in, you’ll have two more sets of eyes to find her.”

“We don’t wants any strangers around, not tonight.”

The guard gave a shove, almost dislodging Miss Emmert, but her boots were dug into the snow. The woman kept her footing. “I will have you reported,” Miss Emmert said between clenched teeth as she brought her full weight to bear against the door.

“Look, lady, you don’t want to come in. You’re safer out there.”

Concern crept into Miss Emmert’s voice. “Why?”

The guard looked around him, then leaned in close. “A pall’s been cast over the town, Ma’am. Babies cry, and men shudder in their sleep. There’s dark goings on.”

“I’m a healer. I can be of help.”

The man vacillated for a moment but then straightened. “I’ve got my orders and—”

Miss Emmert’s tone cracked like a whip. “Then send a runner to Hanger’s Mansion and explain why you’ve refused me entry.”

“But… what…?” The guard was thrown into complete confusion.

“Perhaps Madame Hesper herself will come out and chastise you.”

The guard paled and gave the signal to raise the gate. Ornery clucked to the horses, and they moved towards the opening. Miss Emmert kept her foot in the guard’s door until the horses were past the threshold. Ornery went to stop the wagon, but Miss Emmert hit Nutmeg on the rump to keep the horses moving as she jumped aboard the rumbling wagon, a move which was well-timed, since the gate immediately began lowering.

Ornery shrank deep inside his clothes. Inside the gates, the temperature was a good ten degrees cooler. The town was battened down. Not a single window overlooking the street had a shutter open. Yet along the back of Ornery’s neck, the hairs stood straight up, as if someone— no, something— evil was staring right at him. Even Miss Emmert kept her head down and her gaze upon the horses’ backs. Whatever was wrong in this town, Ornery did not want to get involved.

* * *

“Perfect timing,” Viola chirped as they watched the gaily painted wagon pass by. “And look, the guard has left the smaller gate unlocked.”

Crystalia wished she could be so delighted. The two girls were crammed into a tiny crevice in the baker’s wall, spying on the gate. Now that her departure was at hand, Crystalia’s stomach complained and begged to stay home. And she might have backed out of Viola’s plans had it not been for the constant itch of her palms. Fate had a nagging way of reminding Crystalia of her duty to the Hero. “Viola, maybe you should come along with me.”

“Shh…” Viola said as she checked to be sure that the guards were still milling near the door. “We’ve been through this before—”

“But I don’t mind you coming. I want you to.”

“You’ve only one horse—”

Crystalia was desperate. “We could ride double.”

Viola turned and looked as stern as a schoolmarm. “Crystalia. We had a plan.”

Crystalia backed away as Viola’s face transformed back to her old cheerful smile. Suddenly, her friend’s tone was light and giddy again.

“Crysty, I truly wish I could come with you. I truly do. But how else are you going to get past the gate unless I stay behind? This is the only way.” Viola patted Crystalia’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “You must give Traven a kiss for me. Promise?”

Nodding, Crystalia hung her head. Viola’s logic was sound. If she was to leave tonight, it would have to be under Viola’s cover. Slowly, Crystalia pulled out a letter and handed it to Viola. “I… I didn’t want to just up and leave… and Madame Hesper not know why.”

Viola took the proffered letter and gave Crystalia a hug. “I’ll give it to her on the morrow. For now, it is our good-bye.”

Tears crested over her eyelids, and Crystalia felt the sting of salt water on her lips. Viola’s hug was warm and encompassing. The smell of the blonde’s rose-petal lotion seemed to embrace them both. How she would miss her dearest friend. Crystalia reminded herself that if she wished to find her perfect love, there were sacrifices to be made.

“Good-bye,” Crystalia choked out.

Viola wiped away tears. “Once you are safely out on the Plains, I’ll climb to the tallest spire and wave to you. So this is not our last farewell. All right?”

Crystalia could not even fully answer. She just nodded with a jerk. If she was forced to speak again, she might abandon this quest. Viola must have felt the same, for she snuck away without another sound. Watching her friend sneak over to the guard post, Crystalia kept a teeny hope alive that Viola’s plan might not work, and they might get caught. If Viola could not keep the guards distracted long enough, it would not really be Crystalia’s fault if she did not go. Right?

Shaking her head, Crystalia moved out from her hiding spot. Even if no one else ever knew of her cowardice, she would in her heart. How could she ever face Traven if she abandoned him now?

No, the Hero called to Crystalia through the compass, and she was to join him.

Laughter bubbled from the guard shack as Crystalia guided her horse out from between two buildings. Even with the blanket of snow on the ground, its steps rang out like church bells, but no one raised the alarm. Inching closer, Crystalia could see the smaller guard’s gate slightly ajar. Carefully, she began pushing it open, but the rusted metal screamed in protest. Frozen in place, Crystalia waited to be apprehended, but raucous laughter was the only thing that flowed from the guards’ quarters. Viola was doing a grand job of distracting the men.

On a lark, she removed her glove. Crystalia remembered the door at Madame Hesper’s. Touching the door, she willed it to be new and oiled, but nothing happened. The hinges were still crusted over and the wood-pocked. Crystalia tried again with equally depressing results. She was about to give up when the horse spooked, shoving her into the door.

In a deafening screech, the hinges gave loose, and the door swung open as Crystalia stumbled through the archway. The only thing that kept the girl from falling was her grip on the horse’s reins. Unfortunately, the horse decided to buck and kick its way through the door.

Frigid snowflakes collided with her cheek and bit into her tender skin. Skating on the slick ice, Crystalia ran into the horse’s side and clung to it for her life. Luckily, the horse sensed the capricious footing and slowed its antics. Crystalia swung up into the saddle as if she had done it a thousand times before, adrenaline fueling her muscles. She did not wait to hear if the alarm was raised. She just spurred the horse to the east and gave her mount the bit. In her panicked flight, Crystalia did not even have time to say good-bye to her birthplace.

* * *

Jory paced across his office. Crystalia was still not found, and the smith’s wife had miscarried. It was not the couple’s first such tragedy. Since their second son, the woman could not seem to keep a child in her womb. Still, so close on the heels of Crystalia’s disappearance, the loss of the child only stirred the townsfolk into a greater fervor. Every guard looked wary, and the priests were locked in their various temples, praying for guidance.

Jory desperately needed to find the master behind this rash of baneful events before the town tore itself apart.

“Sir, there has been a breach of the gate.”

The commander spun around and buckled his scabbard onto his belt. “Someone escaped the curfew?”

“Nay. They demanded entry.”

“Who?”

The guard had lost that glow of excitement and stared down at his boots. “They said they were destined for Hanger’s Mansion.”

“Madame Hesper’s?” Jory asked unnecessarily. He had heard the youth the first time. His fingers stopped working his belt, and he laid his sword back upon the table. “Was it a middle-aged woman and a young boy?”

“Aye, sir. The guards sent me as soon as they were past the gates.”

Jory nodded. The commander had never met the travelers, but he knew of them and that they brought no menace to the town.

“Sir, shall I send an arrest party?”

“Nay.” Jory was about to dismiss the boy but realized the guard expected some type of action taken. The commander could not appear lax, not during this trying time. “Send two guards to request Madame Hesper to vouch for her new guests.”

“Request? Vouch?” The young man looked astonished.

Jory’s tone took on its usual crisp manner. “You think a healer and her adolescent charge are a threat to this town?”

“No, sir, I just—”

“You just thought to question my authority. The next time, it will be you I send out an arrest party for.”

The soldier blanched. After saluting, the young man nearly ran from the room.

So much the better, Jory thought as he sat down upon his unyielding chair.

Tonight was the night. He could feel it deep in his marrow. The stage was ready for the grand performance. The players had been auditioned, and the casting was complete. The props were in place. They only needed the curtain to be raised for the real spectacle to begin.

CHAPTER 12

“The Winter King knows no rules. He knows only of force and hunger. He ranges the Plains searching for his next victim. Whether it be a holly bush, a snow hare, or a man, he cares not…”

It was amazing the things that came to your mind when you least needed them, Traven thought as the wind whipped the snowflakes into a flurry. It seemed the Winter King was close upon his next prey. Once again atop Lauger, the Hero was out on the endless snowfields. This all had to be some kind of divine joke. Traven had gone his whole life, surviving three campaigns, fighting innumerable duels, and had managed to stay conscious the whole while.

Now in the course of a day, he’d been knocked out twice. Worse, Traven was fated to be the first Hero to find a Fold, only to become the only human in recorded history to be summarily thrown from one.

Traven’s mentor at the Shrine, Master Quinn, would have quite the laugh if the old man knew of the Hero’s current plight. The scholar had nagged Traven constantly about always taking the most circuitous route around a problem. Traven was fairly certain that he’d topped even himself in that category. There did not seem to be a quick end to his misadventures.

His head hurt, his back was sore, and already his stomach growled. The Hero might have believed the entire Fold was nothing but a memory if it had not been for the thin gold thread braided throughout his horse’s mane and tail. That, and the spring to Lauger’s stride that told of hours of rest and good hay.

Traven’s only hope was that the Faery had been decent enough to point him towards the west. The Hero might have a slim chance of making it to the Climbing Tier. Of course, such a place was not listed on any map, but his Granny had spoken of it commonly. At this point, the Hero was ready to trust his grandmother’s old wives’ tales over any cartographer.

Lauger danced a few steps to the left and snorted loudly. Traven surveyed the horizon but could find nothing to spook the horse. The storm was working itself into a blizzard, but Lauger had trotted calmly through far worse weather. It was then that Traven heard the scream. So ear-splitting that the Hero had the sensation it might have just been his imagination. Lauger, however, jumped at the sound and bolted to the right. Traven tried to rein him in, but the horse was near frantic. Lauger trembled at sounds Traven could not even hear, let alone identify.

Traven struggled to stay seated as the horse lunged and bucked at unseen threats. Normally, horse and rider moved as one, but Traven could not anticipate Lauger’s moves until it was almost too late. Yelling over the howling wind, the Hero tried to calm his panicked stead, but the poor beast jerked more wildly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Traven saw a glimmer of light, blue and cold. Before the Hero could wield around, the spark blossomed into the transparent shape of a haggard man. The phantasm flew at Traven’s head, freezing the air so bitter cold that Traven could not take in enough breath to scream. Instead, the Hero gave Lauger a kick, and they surged forward, just out of their attacker’s path. Even with Lauger’s renewed vigor, there was no way they could outrun this supernatural creature.

There was no doubt in Traven’s mind, the disembodied spirits that shrieked their hunger were the Winter Wraiths— poor souls who had died out on the Plains but had rejected Father Winter’s cold embrace.

To punish those who disrespected his nature, the old god refused them entry into the Beneath. For centuries, these wraiths haunted the snowfields, consuming anyone foolish enough to wander too close.

Lauger’s hooves pounded into the snow, sending icy shards into Traven’s calves. The Hero would take the pain if it bought them escape. Unfortunately, the disconcerting wail only intensified. Traven fought to remember the wards against such creatures, but the sound refused to let any thought through.

Traven heard a keening scream. It felt as if someone had buried an icy sword in his back. Agony ratcheted through his body as the wraith passed through. It was as if the Hero’s soul had been frozen solid, then shattered.

As the pain passed, Traven tipped forward, feeling near death, clutching his saddle horn. The Hero was shaken, but it was Lauger that was possessed. The horse bucked and kicked, but no longer at an enemy. Instead, Lauger was intent on dismounting Traven. Head spinning, Traven clutched a handful of braided mane, but it was not enough. With another leaping heave, Lauger threw Traven from his saddle. The swirling voices laughed in delight.

Within a moment, Lauger was upon the Hero, steel-tipped hooves striking Traven’s back and legs. The Hero rose up, and with his first bit of luck, his fist caught Lauger’s jaw. The horse reeled back and pawed at the ground. Blue light glowed from Lauger’s eyes, but Traven could detect his steed’s valiant struggle to free himself from the ghost’s control. Too many times the horse had saved the Hero’s life, fighting off entire mobs with his hooves alone. If Traven had survived this latest attack by the wraith, it was because a part of Lauger still lived and fought against the ghost.

Taking advantage of the wraith’s confusion, Traven charged his horse. It was obvious the possessing spirit had not expected this move, since Lauger’s body did not even sidestep. Using every ounce of his pent-up rage, Traven slammed into Lauger’s shoulder. The horse stumbled to the side as the Hero grabbed Lauger by the neck and twisted his head back towards the saddle.

If Lauger had been in full possession of his body, the horse might have been able to keep his feet and loose Traven’s hold, but the wraith was ineffective.

Horse and man crashed to the ground. Traven scrambled out from under Lauger’s huge frame. Before the horse could regain its footing, the Hero wrapped his legs around the downed horse’s neck. Keeping Lauger’s head cranked to the side, Traven was able to keep his horse on the ground. The Lauger’s feet flailed and churned but could find no purchase.

Sweat stung his eyes as Traven rode out the worst of the turmoil. Soon, even the wraith must have tired, for Lauger’s legs stopped kicking, and the horse’s breath came in great heaves. Traven took a chance and freed one hand to fish his knife from his boot. The ghost tried to take advantage of Traven’s maneuver, but in one smooth motion, Traven drew the blade to Lauger’s neck. A blue eye rolled back and stared at Traven, daring him to make the cut. Traven’s hand shook as he prepared to kill the only true friend he had ever known.

* * *

Ornery loosened the last of the cinches on Nutmeg’s harness. The barn that Miss Emmert had led them to was both large and cramped. It was filled with hay and clean water, yet the smell of decay hung in the air. The evening’s earlier mystery had only deepened. The guard had quaked at the mention of Madame Hesper, yet Miss Emmert shrugged and told Ornery it was nothing to worry about when he asked who she was. Instead, Miss Emmert watched the streets intently, her hand on the small ax they kept by the wagon seat.

It was strange that they had not approached the looming black house first. Instead, they had headed straight for the barn. They had not even obtained permission to use the stalls. Miss Emmert acted as if she owned the place. Ornery desperately wanted to ask all manner of questions, but Miss Emmert’s quick actions, and the set of her lips, warned him off. The tiny wrinkles on her forehead spoke of her deep concern, and he had learned long ago not to interfere when she was in such a mood.

Ornery jumped as the side door opened, letting in a frigid breeze. The doves in the rafters fluttered and complained as a tall man draped in black strode in. Funny, he had a vaguely familiar face. Ornery took a step back as the man’s slate-black eyes turned his way. Miss Emmert had no such reaction as she rushed into the man’s embrace.

“Holt!” Miss Emmert warmly called the man, as she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Sele. It is good to see you,” the pocked man’s deep voice replied.

The man’s face may have changed, but Ornery recognized the voice. “Mr. Skelt?” he asked tentatively.

The man nodded but did not have time to respond as Miss Emmert badgered him with questions. “What’s wrong? Why are the stables in such a state?”

“Sele. You’d best come inside—”

“Holt, do not vex me. What is wrong?”

Mr. Skelt glanced over to Ornery. Miss Emmert commanded, “Child, tend your cousins.”

Ornery complied but first took off his muff, exposing his ears. Each word was as clear to Ornery as if he were standing in their embrace.

“Sele…”

“On with it.” Miss Emmert’s tone became sharp and stung even Ornery’s cheek. He snuck back around the corner to watch.

Holt sighed. “It’s Mother… she is dying.”

“That’s impossible. She is protected by—”

Mr. Skelt placed both hands on Miss Emmert’s shoulders. “Sele, look at this stable. Would it be in such disarray if Ma was well?

Ornery frowned. Miss Emmert and Holt were brother and sister. So those rendezvous were not romantic. They were more of these secret visits supposed to keep Ornery safe. His cheeks burned. Did they not trust him with even the knowledge that his caretaker had a brother?

Tears choked Miss Emmert’s response to Holt, “How?”

“A girl. We both thought her nothing more than a love-struck child… Mother read her cards and… Even I felt the Magickal Flux.”

“Was she a Changeling? A Fell Sorceress?”

“No, nothing like that. Mother is certain the Fates chose this time to usher—”

“Where is this girl?” Miss Emmert demanded.

“She’s gone home—”

“Home? Get her back—”

Mr. Skelt guided Miss Emmert to the side door and gave her a final hug before opening the door. “Sele, go see Mother. Make your peace with her while you still can.”

Miss Emmert stood there, stunned for a moment, then drew her cloak to her throat. “What of Ornery?”

Giving her a nudge, Mr. Skelt moved to close the door behind her. “I’ll care for him. Go, sister. Only Mother can answer your questions.”

* * *

Traven’s hand shook against Lauger’s neck.

Rage at the Faery and anger at his own helplessness battled within.

The Hero knew what he was about to kill was not his horse, but the wraith that possessed Lauger’s form. Still, it meant losing his sole companion. Fighting back the tears, the Hero gripped the knife more tightly. A howl carried by the fierce wind made Traven’s spine quiver. Voices entwined with his thoughts, begging him not to do the deed, but the Hero did not have much time before the other wraiths joined the attack. The demon struggled as Traven dug the point into Lauger’s neck.

From behind him, Traven heard the rushing of wind. He tried to turn, but it was too late. Brute force knocked him away from the horse.

Instead of the wraith’s icy touch, the object on top of him was hot and panting. It took a moment for Traven to realize that it was the White Wolf. Before the Hero could shove the beast off, the wolf rose and faced Lauger with a low growl rumbling in his throat.

Three Giants emerged from the swirling cloud of snow and surrounded the horse. Lauger had risen, and his eyes burned a bright blue. The horse snorted and pawed at the ground, but the Wolf kept him at bay.

“He’s succumb to a wraith!” Traven shouted as he joined the circle.

The smallest of the Giants, Grave, answered, “Aye, Pale smelled it before we crested the ridge.”

“I was about to…”

Grave nodded. “There is another way. But first—”

Another Giant let out a soul-wrenching scream and arched in agony, slumping to his knees in the throes of a wraith’s attack. Finally, the man shuddered, obviously shaken by the violation but clearly still his own man. Traven empathized. He knew the sensation of another spirit trying to usurp his own.

The Giant asked, “We need a circle of protection. Do you have the necessary talisman?”

“No,” Traven said as he shook his head.

Worry crossed the Giant’s face. “Pale was certain you obtained it from the Shaman’s room.”

“I took nothing, I swear!”

Pale’s thoughts entered Traven’s mind fast and furious. They had no time for doubt. Upon the wolf’s insistence, Traven checked his pockets. He pulled out a handful of the boy’s silly game pieces.

“These?” Traven asked, dismay thick in his voice.

“Aye. The petrified wood. You must speak the Words and disband the knot of wraiths. It is our only protection.”

Traven still could not believe he had the game piece, let alone accept the fact that the tiny sliver of lumber could free them from this viscous attack. The Hero tried to pass the petrified wood to Grave, but the Giant shook his enormous head.

“Nay, it must be used by the Intended.”

“But I don’t know the Words. Can’t I intend for you to use it?”

“Perhaps the Faery was right.” The Giant’s words hung thick in the air. Pale barked and shook the Giant from his thoughts. “If you are to be a Hero, it must be you.”

It was futile to explain to the Giant that the Hero would gladly risk his life, even his soul, to get them out of this danger. Desire was not his problem. Talent was. The Hero had no more idea how to dis-spell a wraith as he did to stop the tides. Indecision gripped his heart. How could Traven try when he had not a single clue what was called for?

“Speak from your heart, and the world shall listen.”

Granny’s words resounded off his nearly frozen skull. Even her memory had the force of a bull. Having no other advice ready at hand, Traven followed hers. He raised the petrified wood to the sky and shouted into the blizzard.

“Wraiths, beware my power! I… I kick you out! I want you to leave us alone!”

The Giant raised an eyebrow the length of Traven’s hand but said nothing. Traven felt like a groping babe, silly and shouting at the deaf stars. What would Granny say? How would this story unfold if he were sitting at her knee?

“I banish thee.” Traven shouted upward.

The wraiths howled in protest but still circled the group. Anger rose in Traven. He had gone through too much for too long to be undone by these spiteful, long-dead savages.

Fed up past the point of caring if he made a spectacle of himself, Traven yelled, “Get out!”

It was as if someone turned a faucet off. Even the roar of the storm abated for a moment. Perfect stillness surrounded the group. Snowflakes froze in mid-flight, and the sweat born of terror suspended its trail down his back. Everything hung in time until Lauger charged, trying to break out of the circle.

Traven dug into the snow to keep his footing as the wind buffeted again. Grave called out as Pale snapped and growled Lauger back into the center of the group. The Giant surveyed the horizons then gave a satisfied nod.

“Not exactly how the Sealed Books prophesied, but we are rid of their company.”

While was true of the rest, one Wraith still lived inside his stallion. “What do we do for Lauger?” Traven asked nodding towards his possessed horse.

“Do you have the spool of black thread?”

Traven thought it best to check his pockets before answering, “no.” There he found the small spool of thick yarn.

“Yes.”

“There is a ceremony, an exorcism, really.”

“Tell me how… or am I already supposed to know that too?” Traven made a mental note to track down each of his instructors and give them an earful of grief so biting even Granny would be proud.

“Aye. Do you know of the Cat’s Cradle?”

“Where you make bridges of thread between your fingers? The children’s game?”

“That is the one. It is taught to all youngsters so they are prepared for a moment such as this. The manipulation of the thread and the saying of the Verse binds the spirit to the body it inhabits.”

“I thought we were trying to expel the demon.”

“Aye. The wraith no more wants to stay forever in a mortal shell than those who are possessed by them.”

“So, they flee before the binding is complete?”

The Giant nodded, but his voice was grim. “Trouble is, the ceremony must be performed by the one possessed.”

Traven glanced at Lauger. There was no way the horse, even under the best of circumstances, could do the necessary weaving. “Then it is hopeless.”

“Nay. Just as you used the wood to scatter the wraiths, you can call one to yourself. Draw him from the horse’s frame into your own, so that you might perform the ritual.”

Traven stared dumbfounded at Grave. He could not believe what he heard. The Giant wanted the Hero to voluntarily coax the demon into his body? Traven nearly convulsed at the mere memory of the wraith’s brief touch. He could not imagine how torturous being completely possessed must feel like— but Lauger did. Traven could see the muscles under his horse’s dark skin quiver and shake. Lauger appeared far more haggard than after a twenty-mile gallop.

“Will he be the same, after… will I be… after…”

“There is no way to know. No one has successfully completed this exorcism.”

Traven nearly laughed. This was the story of his life. Try the untested, the unattainable, and hope you make it out alive. He wished there were another answer. For a moment, the Hero wished he were not the leading— no, Traven reminded himself, he was the only— candidate for The Hope. It would be nice for once to be able to admit you were scared and just too weak to be the one called upon to make the sacrifice.

It surprised even Traven to find that not only could he not shrug off this burden, he did not want to shirk away. Perhaps after all, he was not a coward.

The Hero had feared that someday, somewhere, the truth of his inadequacy would be found out. Perhaps, but not today. Despite all his doubts and worries, Traven could not let his horse pay the price of this quest. For this reason and no other, he would do this.

Nodding, the Hero raised his tiny fragment of petrified wood.

Grave laid a huge hand on Traven’s shoulder. “Prepare, Hero, the stories are grim for all who have tried before.”

Traven indicated his acknowledgment. When had it been any different? Granny would be pleased. He had yet another soul name to be called— fool.

CHAPTER 13

Crystalia rubbed her gloved hands together. The wind was gathering force, and clouds blotted out the horizon. Her only companion on this frigid journey was a full moon. Crystalia shuddered. Even this familiar sight was a bad omen. For in the sky, the witch’s moon hung low, threatening to tumble from the heavens. The orb glowed so brightly that the snowfields might well have been bathed in sunlight.

If Crystalia was to be successful in her quest, she must not let portents such as this dissuade her. In moments of doubt, all she need do was gaze at her palms.

Carefully, Crystalia took off her gloves and held her hands together. Linking her fingers, both palms warmed. The longer that she held them so, the more the warmth spread throughout her body until she barely needed her thick overcoat. Instead of shrinking from this new power, Crystalia allowed it flow over her. She had been so scared, so excited, and so very overwhelmed that she had not truly understood the magnitude of what had occurred in Madame Hesper’s parlor.

The old woman had given her life, her very life’s blood, to Crystalia. Along with that miracle, the medium had also given the girl these incredible gifts.

For a moment, Crystalia wished she had stayed in town and learned more from the medium before setting off. But as much as the girl wished for a soft bed and the comfort of home, the burning of her palm demanded a different course.

Crystalia had thought herself swayed by Viola’s giddy passion, but now she knew differently. Even if she were back at father’s kitchen, tucked into her crisp sheets, Traven’s symbol would still be calling to her, demanding that she follow his path.

No, Crystalia had no other choice but to follow the Hero.

With each step her horse took in the Hero’s direction, the lines of her hand throbbed just a bit more. If Crystalia rubbed her palms together, the skin sparked and a glow spread from her hands to create a ball of soft light. Crystalia could not imagine having to bear these intense feelings of connection if she were squandering her time at home.

Still, it was hard to leave the only place she had ever known. Sadly, Crystalia turned back towards Last Hitch. Her hometown was nothing but a squat blemish on the moonlit horizon.

To imagine, but a day ago it had been her whole world. Straining, Crystalia tried to make out the ramparts, in a vain search for Viola. Her friend must have been detained, for the blonde never appeared to say good-bye. Cold tears sprang to Crystalia’s eyes. To think she would never see her friend again.

Suddenly, Crystalia’s vision lurched and wavered. It was as if someone put a spyglass to her eyes then jerked it away. More slowly this time, Crystalia opened her eyes, but nothing happened. In frustration, she shed another tear, and again the far distance became clear to her. Willing herself to cry, Crystalia practiced this new skill. Last Hitch might as well have been a stone’s throw away; she could see so clearly each detail of the town’s wall.

A light bloomed in the topmost guard tower. Crystalia’s hand rose, and her tears became unforced as she spotted Viola searching the plains. Crystalia waved frantically. Oh, this was such a good omen. Finally, Viola must have made out Crystalia’s retreating figure, for a smile spread across Viola’s face and her friend waved back.

Her throat choked in tears as Crystalia sent Viola a final message. “Good-bye.”

* * *

And good riddance, Viola thought as she let the smile drop. Would that girl never leave?

Viola swung around at the sound of scraping on the stairs behind her. Crystalia’s father clumsily climbed up to join her.

“Get back down, you fool. Who knows how far the Snowy Maiden can see!”

The man backed away as Viola sprinted down the steps, anger in her voice. “Have you done as asked?”

“Yes, the bodies have been moved.”

“Good,” Viola said as she wiped the blood from her hands. For such a simple plan, it had become extraordinarily messy.

“Here.” Viola handed Crystalia’s father the bag of chutney. “Be sure to break a few of these at Madame Hesper’s back door.”

“Then I’m to raise the alarm and accuse her?” Crystalia’s father asked. His body began to flow and change. Strange appendages sprouted from his fingers, and his eyes began to bulge outward.

“Yes.” Viola also let loose of her human form and grew long, curved claws. How delightful it was to shed the constraints of her disguise. How Viola wished she could transform completely and run loose through the streets, feeding and rampaging to her heart’s desire. She’d been denied too long.

Crystalia’s father echoed her longing to be done with this place. “May we then leave?”

Viola shook her now-shaggy head. “No. We must be sure Madame Hesper is dead by sunrise.”

“Then let us raid the witch’s house this moment!” her acolyte urged. Lust thickened his voice, making it more of a growl.

Viola could understand her subordinate’s frustration. She, too, wished to return to the flaming pit they had risen from, but she would suffer an eternity of punishment if she failed in her duties here.

“The Madame’s spells of protection are still too strong. We need her out of the house if we wish to assail her. Now regain your composure, and do as I ordered.”

Grumbling, Crystalia’s father began retaking his human form. “We should have just slit the girl’s throat and been done with it.”

With regret, Viola also flowed back into her disguise. “And have another Maiden spring up in her place? No, if we wish to be rid of the Snowy Maiden, it must be by her own hand. Her own decision. We will let Winter do our deed. Only then will the Eternal Chain be broken.”

* * *

Ornery hung to the stable’s shadows, watching Mr. Skelt clean the tack. It was so strange to think of the man as Miss Emmert’s brother. There were almost too many secrets unraveling for Ornery to keep track. And so many questions that he wanted answers to, but he held his tongue.

Mr. Skelt had not spoken a word since Miss Emmert left, and Ornery was not about to break the silence. What do you say to a man you have hated all your life, only to find out he is your caretaker’s brother? Worse, the man looked like he had recently survived the Plague. And what happened to his eyes? It was strange, but somehow the man looked far scarier than in the past.

Yet, at the same time, Mr. Skelt’s manner was more inviting. Despite the turmoil in the house, Mr. Skelt tenderly oiled the leather and quietly cooed to Cinnamon as the horse ate her grain. The man’s opaque eyes stared off.

Face reddened, Ornery remembered what he used to think about Miss Emmert and Mr. Skelt. How glad Ornery was that he did not tell Miss Emmert his suspicions. How embarrassed he would be if they knew Ornery had thought them intimate.

“Do not feel bad, child. It is what we wanted you to think.”

Ornery’s mouth opened and closed. Could the whole family read his most private thoughts? “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

The man set down his polishing cloth and smiled. “We were sorry to deceive you, but to make everyone believe that we were lovers, you had to believe it first.”

Tentatively crossing the room, Ornery realized this man, despite his visage, might be the boy’s best source of information. “Did you know my parents too?”

“Sele has told you nothing of my family?”

Ornery could sense the man retreating from his question. “No, but she said she would as soon as we got here. She promised.”

It was not really a lie. Miss Emmert had promised the story would unfold. Why could it not be now, with her brother as the fountain?

“Do you even know where ‘here’ is, Ornery?”

The boy ventured a guess. “Madame Hesper’s home. She’s your mother.”

Mr. Skelt’s dark globes seemed to bore through Ornery’s thick winter clothes and past his soft skin to peer at his heart beating with excitement.

“There’s not much I can tell you. Sele has her reasons for waiting.” Before Ornery could complain, Holt raised his hand. “Yes, I knew both your parents. Your father is due to arrive within the week.”

Ornery nearly clapped. This was the first concrete answer he’d gotten.

“What are we going to do once he arrives?”

“That is for Sele to tell you—” Mr. Skelt stopped as a grandfather clock chimed from inside the Mansion. Eleven peels of the bell slowly drifted into the stable.

“It is late, child. We’d best go in and get you ready for bed. Sele would lash me if she found you still up at midnight.”

“But—”

“Do not fret. We will talk while I get you settled in. There are many things I can tell you. Do not worry.”

Ornery was beginning to like this man and his promises.

* * *

Traven crept forward another step and reached his hand towards Lauger. Even with the Wolf growling and the Giants closing in the circle, the horse shied from the Hero’s touch.

“You’ll need to be in physical contact,” Grave grumbled.

Well, Traven had already figured that out.

It was just slightly harder to approach a demon-possessed horse than it looked. Carefully, the Hero stepped closer as he removed his gauntlet. Blue sparked and hissed within Lauger’s eyes. But with each blink, Traven could see a glimmer of his steed’s true mind. For a brief moment, confusion and bewilderment crossed Lauger’s gaze.

Pale sent Traven images of bravery and courage. A strength that was not his own coursed through the Hero’s body. Another sensation, one strange to Traven, caressed his skin, the sense of connection so strong that Traven stumbled forward. Suddenly, Traven could feel each snowflake fall from the sky and hear each breath of the Giant behind him. Using his link with Pale, Traven sent images of his plan to Lauger. The demon tried to brush Traven aside, but he persisted. The contact was fuzzy and weak, but the Hero sent his thoughts with the same ferocity as he would fight with a sword.

“Resist,” Traven implored. “Hold steady. Fight as I shall fight.”

Reaching out his hand, the Hero touched Lauger’s satiny nose. The horse’s nostrils flared, but Lauger stood his ground. Encouraged by Pale, Traven held out the petrified wood and stroked his horse’s nose.

“Come to me,” Traven hissed as he sensed the icy wraith’s fury. “Find sanctuary in me.”

“Prepare, Hero,” Grave warned. “The prophecies are ominous.”

Despite the sting, Traven kept his hand firmly planted on Lauger’s face.

At first, it just felt like frostbite, then the cold became so intense that it felt like boiling oil. The pain snaked up the Hero’s arm then, in a burst, agony screamed through his body. In the explosion of energy, Lauger lurched and sent Traven reeling. Disoriented, the Hero fell to his knees, the petrified sliver tumbling onto the snow.

The wraith filled every nook and cranny of Traven’s body. It demanded total domination. The demon was not to be denied. The Hero’s determination faltered as both Lauger’s and Pale’s sendings were cut off.

Fighting seemed futile while the Hero’s soul was being consumed by frozen fire— but fight he did. Fumbling with chilled fingers, Traven unwound the black thread. Each inch of wool that the Hero loosened from the spool took every ounce of his freewill. The cold robbed his fingers of any dexterity.

The only part of his body that still seemed to be his own was his memories. Luckily, these were his most important allies. The rhythms and verses he had repeated so often in his childhood fell easily from his lips.

“The cat meows. The mouse squeaks…”

Slowly at first, then with greater speed, Traven wound the thread around his fingers and began the binding. The demon wailed its rage and shook the very fiber of his being. The Wraith had wanted to spend a bit of time inside the warm confines of flesh, not spend an eternity there, yet the Hero persisted in the binding. He could no longer see nor hear. The entire world consisted of his fingers and their work.

But for each successful pickup and binding, Traven would drop another thread. Fear and frustration threatened to overwhelm his efforts. The wraith sensed the Hero’s faltering and honed in on Traven’s weakness. Despair washed over Traven like an icy waterfall. The Hero was past shivering— past fighting the icy embrace.

“That’s not how you do it.” A voice penetrated Traven’s bleak world.

Lifting his eyes, Traven found Loplop sitting across from him, playing with his own ball of string. “See, you use this finger here.”

Stunned, Traven remained motionless as Loplop moved Traven’s finger and looped it under the correct strand of thread. The boy waited for a moment then sighed, a very annoyed sigh.

“You do the other side! I’ve got my own to do.”

Taking Loplop’s bizarre presence as a gift, Traven tried to do as the child instructed, but the Hero could no longer feel his own fingers. Loplop tsked again and leaned over, blowing on Traven’s hands. Suddenly, feeling blossomed, and the skin along his fingers tingled with new life.

“The rest you’ve got to do on your own,” the boy grumbled as he cocked his head at this own Cat’s Cradle.

On the edge of his awareness, Traven could feel the wraith’s gnashing teeth, hungering for release. Rapidly, he chanted the rest of the ditty, the boy’s voice adding to his own.

For a moment, Traven feared the wraith would allow itself to be bound. The demon shrieked its determination to make Traven pay for his insolence. Each motion that the Hero made was agony. The image of Loplop faded and cracked.

The boy finally looked up and smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you at—”

The vision abruptly collapsed as Traven’s consciousness was overtaken by the wraith again. With the effort that the Hero might use to pry open his favorite bottle of ale, Traven put the finishing touches on the Cat’s Cradle.

With each looping and snapping of the thread, the Hero could feel the ghost claw at his soul. Before the very last weaving, the wraith vented its fury as it left Traven’s body. The spiteful entity was not content just to leave as it had done with Lauger. No, this time the demon scraped along Traven’s psyche, dragging out the pain until the very last moment.

Suddenly, Traven could see the landscape again as he felt his neck snapped back. The wraith wailed and screamed as it exited the Hero’s mouth. The stuff nightmares are made of came spewing from his lips. Once the grotesque creature was gone, Traven pitched forward, face down into the snow.

The great blackness of unconsciousness begged the Hero to surrender, but Traven refused. On a fundamental level, he would not tolerate fainting yet again. Traven would not be known as The Man Who Always Blacked Out. No, he could do without that name added to his soul list.

Clutching, the Hero dug his nails into his palm, deep enough to make them bleed. The focused physical pain helped call his attention from the soul-numbing torture at his core. The Hero needed to sit up, get his bearings, but that was impossible. All he could do was keep the darkness at the edge of his conscious mind.

Then he felt Pale’s tongue upon his cheek. Lauger nuzzled his hair, then nibbled at the tips, as if nothing more had happened than Traven napping on a warm spring day.

Slowly, using the animal’s thoughts and guidance as a substitute for his overwhelmed senses, Traven rose from the ground. Still shaky and weak in the knee, he felt Grave’s hand support him. The Hero wanted to shake off the gesture, but he feared another collapse if he did. After a moment, Traven found his legs again and moved away from the Giant. Turning, the Hero found all three Giants down upon one knee giving a clenched fist salute.

Traven had no idea what the Giants were doing, but he was certain that he should have known, which made it all the more annoying.

Before the Hero had to reveal his ignorance, Grave spoke. “Forgive my trespass, Hero. I should not have doubted your claim.”

Traven wanted to ask exactly which trespass and which claim the Giant was talking about, but he was far too tired to care about the answer.

Instead, the Hero tried to think of something gracious to say that might encourage the Giants to escort him off these blasted Plains.

“There is nothing to forgive.” He’d wanted to say more, but his voice cracked. It was too difficult to shout above the swirling winds.

“You have honored us, Hero. Giants are slow to forget such graces.” Traven only nodded, still trying to keep his head from spinning. Grave continued, “Please accept our apologies for our tardy arrival. Pale was certain you understood we would rendezvous immediately outside of the Fold. In this storm, it took us a bit to pick up your trail.”

Traven would have kicked himself if he could have managed it without falling on his arse. All those images that Pale had sent just before the Faery did her magick were to keep him close to the Fold.

“It was not his fault. The wolf sent the images. I just didn’t understand their meaning. I didn’t expect your help, not after the argument in the Fold.”

“Ah, yes. Emerald can be taxing. She is the Guardian of the Fold, but outside of it, these are our Sheets. If you have no other urgent destination, my people would request your presence at Thunderhead, our clan’s Hearth.”

Traven thought the Giant would never ask. The Hero did not think it would help his new-found heroic image to admit that not only did he have nowhere else to go, but he would have died trying to get there.

“It is, I who would be honored,” Traven enunciated carefully as he tried to lift his leaden legs.

“Let me,” the Giant said as he scooped Traven up like a small child.

Traven squirmed and complained like a rebellious toddler, “Let me down! I can do it myself!”

The Giant ignored his complaints. “Your horse is too weak to bear you, Hero. Even at your best speed, it could take days to reach Thunderhead. Will you not allow me the honor of delivering you to my home?”

All the Hero could think of was how cowardly this would sound in his epic tale, but Pale sent images of pups being carried by their dams and elder pack members being supported by their brood.

The image was so comforting, and the warmth of the Giant’s embrace was so inviting, that Traven gave up his struggle. Besides, there weren’t any minstrels around to record the event. The Giant grunted with satisfaction as Pale grabbed Lauger’s reins and urged the horse forward.

The group set out into the dark night, torches bobbing with each step. Travel snuggled down and found his eyes drooping as the Giant’s rocking gait soothed his body and mind.

If the Hero closed his eyes, just for a moment, it felt like he was back home. Some nights, late in the summer, when they trekked to his Uncle Saint’s homestead, Traven’s father carried him just like this.

Oh, even back then Traven was a bit too old to be coddled like a baby, but young enough to enjoy his father’s embrace. Even the Giant’s beard scratched at the Hero’s cheek just like his father’s had. With each passing day, even each passing hour, Traven realized the further you strayed, the closer you came to really being home.

* * *

Ornery rubbed at his tired eyes as he walked down the Mansion’s hallway. The pajamas Mr. Skelt gave to him were far too big, making him trip and stumble every other step. The low light did nothing to aid in his search of the house either. Ornery tried to remember which hallway he had come down, but they all looked the same. The wood was pocked, and the paint flecked off in big sheets if you barely brushed up against it. It was strange enough being inside a house. Ornery had only been in a handful over his life, but this one was huge and featureless, making it difficult to navigate.

Angry voices rose from his left, so he cautiously followed them. Ornery knew Miss Emmert when he heard her voice— and boy, was she mad. He was pretty sure the man she spoke to was Mr. Skelt, but the voice was so low that Ornery could not be sure.

He hoped that it was Mr. Skelt for the simple reason that Ornery would not have to meet anyone new. Ornery was tired and simply wanted sleep to carry him from the turmoil. He needed to be at his best to meet his father.

Ornery slowed as he approached the corner for Miss Emmert’s words were scalding— worse than any she had ever launched at the boy, but Mr. Skelt shrugged off his sibling’s harsh words. Ornery snuck to the edge and peered into the hallway.

Miss Emmert was on her tiptoes, trying to get eye to eye with Mr. Skelt, but with the exception of a bale of hay to stand on, she had no chance. Her words were so fast and furious that Ornery had a hard time understanding the conversation, but the gist was clear. Miss Emmert blamed her brother for Madame Hesper’s sudden decline.

“Sele. Holt…” A weak voice drifted from the open doorway.

Both Miss Emmert and Mr. Skelt entered the room in a rush. Despite his exhaustion, Ornery followed close behind, his boyish enthusiasm getting the best of him. Once inside the room, he crept into the corner. The room smelled dank and old, even the candlelight looked reused.

All sorts of odd accents decorated the room. A gilded frame held no picture. On the far wall, a mirror cast no reflection as Mr. Skelt passed by. A bat hung from the rafters, and a stuffed owl sat upon the bedside table. An old woman lay upon the lone bed, layered in thick blankets. Miss Emmert dropped to her knees beside the bed.

“Mother, what is it?” Miss Emmert asked.

The old woman rose up on one elbow and, with great effort, propped herself up on the pillows. “Come, child. This involves you.”

Ornery waited for Mr. Skelt to step forward, but he did not.

“Boy, don’t think I can’t see you in that corner. Come forward.”

Frozen, Ornery tried to sink into the shadows, but Miss Emmert’s angry look could not be ignored. “Mother, let the child go to bed, there is much we need to discuss—”

“Dimtri, your father.” Madame Hesper nodded in Ornery’s direction, “Has been detained.”

This moved Ornery’s feet like no other words could. He found himself nearly across the room before Miss Emmert’s shocked response tumbled out.

“How? When? Why—”

The old woman raised a hand to quiet her daughter. “Listen and I will relay everything.” Madame Hesper patted the bed beside her. “Here. Sit, child.”

Ornery’s feet stalled, but Miss Emmert made room for him to pass. “Mother’s right. You should hear this.”

Madame Hesper continued. “Vezar, your uncle, was summoned to the Peak and—”

Miss Emmert interrupted, “He’s never been called before. Why now, of all times?”

“I do not know. All that was related was the fact of Vezar’s vision and his need to leave on pilgrimage—”

“He could have been lying—”

The old woman gave Miss Emmert a stern look. “If Dimitri believed his brother, then so shall we.”

Ornery held his breath. He’d never heard anyone talk to Miss Emmert like that before. With the mood his caretaker was in, Ornery braced for the worse, but Miss Emmert only sighed and nodded for her mother to go on with the story.

“Dimitri was left as Protectorate of the herd—”

It was Ornery’s turn to interrupt. “Why him? Why not another Stallion?”

The old woman scoffed, but her look of dismay was directed at her daughter. “Have you accomplished nothing in these past few years, Sele? In these perilous times, he must be better prepared.”

Ornery’s caretaker squirmed under her mother’s gaze as Ornery had so many times under Miss Emmert’s judging eye. When Miss Emmert answered, she sounded younger and not quite so sure of herself.

“We couldn’t have him running around the countryside, spewing intimate knowledge of the Herds—”

“Still, some basic social etiquette might have been nice.”

For as weak as the old woman looked, her tongue was as sharp as any.

When Madame Hesper looked back at Ornery, her visage softened, and she patted his hand. “The centaurs have strayed from their noble heritage and… Any other Stallion might take the opportunity to… To increase his… To have…”

“Oh, he might make his own foals?”

The old woman seemed relieved that the boy understood the concept without having to explain it in detail. “Yes. Your father is the first Centaur in centuries to be faithful to one mate.”

Madame Hesper lingered, clearly caught in the hold of a memory. Miss Emmert cleared her throat, and the old woman finally finished the sentence, “Even after your mother’s death, he has remained loyal to her memory. He is a creature of great honor. I know it pains you to wait, but this task is no small thing. If Vezar has truly been summoned to the Peak—”

Miss Emmert supported her mother as the old woman coughed and sputtered. Finally, once Madame Hesper had calmed again, she spoke, but this time to Miss Emmert.

“Sele, you cannot deny the tumbling of events, the convergence of prophecies. This…” The old woman motioned to her bedridden body. “All of this…” motioning to everyone in the room, “Is the Fate’s work. We cannot change the tide now. Our only hope is to navigate it skillfully.”

Ornery could not follow the discussion further. The only damage he cared about was his father’s delay. How could he come so close to finally realizing his childhood fantasy only to have it snatched away? There had to be some mistake. Some horrible misunderstanding of some kind. Besides, how did this old woman find all this out? She was cooped up in this room. How did this knowledge find her?

Before he could stop himself, Ornery blurted out his question. “How did Father send you word?” He was ready for any answer, except for the one he got.

Miss Emmert answered him off-handedly between comments to her mother, “The hawk, dear.”

The hawk? Ornery turned. This really was too much. The thing was stuffed and propped up. Or was it? Did its eyes just blink? Ornery nearly fell off the bed when the bird heard a sound outside and turned his head all the way around. The hawk made a deep cooing noise that made both women turn.

“No, I’m sorry, Swoop. Soon. We’ll send you on your way before daybreak,” the old woman said lovingly.

The hawk turned his head back and resumed its tireless stare. Ornery edged closer to Madame Hesper.

“Don’t worry, child. That old bugger owes me. He’ll not harm you.” Madame Hsepser turned back to Miss Emmert. “Dimitri hopes to meet you in three days’ time at the Cinder Fold.”

“And if he is detained longer?”

“He wants you to reside there until he can escort you to the Steppes.”

Miss Emmert rose and paced the room. “No, the Fold is out of the way. If we set a course for the Lower Steppes, with best speed, we can make it by week’s end.”

Ornery liked this plan, but the old woman was insistent. “He made it extremely clear he does not feel that a safe nor wise plan.”

“Why?” Miss Emmert asked, frustration clear in her tone.

“Now that’s a bit fuzzy. It seemed there was a hare nearby, and, well, Swoop was distracted…”

“Dimitri may have reasons that under these circumstances no longer—”

“Enough,” Mr. Skelt said, loud enough to stop the argument between mother and daughter. “Everyone is tired, and nothing need be decided this eve. We could all do with some rest.”

Miss Emmert did not seem finished yet. “But what of Crystalia—”

“I shall fetch her at first light, and then—”

“Ouch!” Ornery exclaimed as Madame Hesper pulled out a hair from his scalp. He watched in horror as she sniffed it and then chewed on the root.

“He’s to be a bay,” the old woman said with great satisfaction.

Miss Emmert’s face lost its angry contortions as she moved across the room. “Really? Are you sure, Mother?”

“I might have lost much this night, but some skills are yet mine.”

Ornery allowed his caretaker to hug him. “What’s that mean?”

Miss Emmert slicked back his hair and held his hand while she spoke.

“Your father is a bay. It is the rarest of all the strains. The first centaurs were bay…”

Miss Emmert seemed near to tears, so Mr. Skelt came over and helped Ornery up. “As I said, enough emotion for one day. On the morn, we will broker this all.”

To Ornery’s relief, Miss Emmert nodded. “Holt, as always, you are the voice of reason.”

With the excitement past, Ornery’s feet became leaden again. He followed Mr. Skelt out the door and down the dull hallway.

A soft bed never sounded so good.

CHAPTER 14

“Never question hospitality. You never knows when it might come again.”

Granny was a good one, with sage advice that was extremely difficult to follow, Traven thought as he paced inside the hewn-rock chamber that Grave had assigned him.

If the Hero spoke out loud, the words echoed off the impossibly tall ceiling. He felt like an ant given the run of the cellar. The room was so warm that he had stripped down to his shirt and britches, but even the thin fabric was wet from his sweat. One would think these mountain-dwellers would like their homes a bit crisp, but not these Giants. The place was like one of those saunas in the Desert Kingdom.

Pale, of course, seemed not to care. The White Wolf was curled up next to the blazing fireplace. Despite the cracks in the ceiling that served as vents, smoke still spread out from the fire and choked the room. Traven had half a mind to douse the damnable flames, but every other room had its own blazing fire, and the Hero feared to insult the Giants. It was not so long ago that he was lost out on the Barren Plains, nearing death. A little extra heat was easy to take when put in that perspective.

Traven fingered the dress clothes laid out upon the slab of rock that served as a bed. The colors were bold. Gold thread held the silk together. What occasion would he need such finery?

Could it be that the Giants were crowning Traven with The Hope’s Laurel?

The Hero had pestered Pale with such questions, but the wolf had responded in his usual bored manner. Who would have thought a creature of teeth and sinew could be so patient?

“You’d best dress quickly, Hero. The Gathering has begun,” Grave said as he entered the room.

Suddenly, the chamber did not seem so large. Out on the plains, Traven had forgotten how truly huge these Giants were. “Forgive me for asking, but what is this The Gathering? Why am I attending?”

“The Chieftains of the Hearths have been called together to test you, Hero. Our people have great need, and you might be the One we have sought for generations.”

Traven groaned internally. At one time, the Hero would have been thrilled to hear elders speak of his potential, speak of the great and mighty things that Traven could accomplish. Now, however, the Hero knew there was always a price for such glory. He wondered how much this deed would cost him, not that Traven would balk at any request the Giants made of him. He owed them his life, and perhaps even more importantly, Lauger’s life.

“I will summon you when all is ready,” Grave stated as he turned to leave the room. “Pale, to me.”

The White Wolf looked up with half-closed lids, then snuggled back down. Concern, and perhaps a bit of sorrow, darkened Grave’s face.

“If you want I can make him—” Traven tried to say before Grave interrupted.

“No one can make a Wolf do anything he does not wish. I felt it back at the Fold, but now I am certain. Pale has bonded, Hero. Do not forsake him.”

“Wait.” Traven had to run to get across the cavernous room before the Giant strode out. “What do you mean, bonded?”

Grave looked at Traven as though the Hero might have hit his head too hard. “He is a creature of Nature. His lineage descends from the highest order. A select few of these magnificent creatures still roam the world, looking for another kindred spirit to bond with. Forever now, your paths are intertwined.”

“But I don’t need another traveling companion—”

The Giant seemed mildly surprised by Traven’s attitude. “Who spoke of your need? Do you not know the honor? The stature that Pale brings to you and your quest?”

Traven’s cheeks reddened. He was so very tired of being blind to all of these rules and legends. He felt a child trying to play a champion chess tournament. Traven feared his breach of etiquette might have angered Grave.

The Hero straightened and addressed the Giant with as much dignity as he could muster, “I fear I have made another error of ignorance, Grave. I did not understand the depth and width of Pale’s commitment to my quest. I will honor him and you by accepting such a gracious offering.”

Grave turned towards the hallway. Before the Giant could leave the room, Traven touched the Giant’s elbow.

“Thank you for being such a stalwart companion to him through these hard years. We will both benefit from your sacrifice.”

Moisture glistened on the Giant’s egg-sized eyes. “It was no sacrifice. If anything were to happen to you, Pale knows where he may reside.”

Grave strode off before Traven could think of any words to soothe the Giant’s sense of loss— perhaps there were none. He could not imagine if Lauger suddenly elected to bear another rider. There were no words formed by lips that could heal that wound.

Traven viewed Pale with a renewed sense of appreciation. It was hard to imagine that the furry mutt that laid out by the fire, now on his back with his feet stuck in the air, was some sort of Nature’s dignitary. The Hero could not help but kneel down and pet the huge wolf on the chest.

“What did I do to get so lucky, huh?”

The question was supposed to be rhetorical, but Pale sent a flood of images to Traven’s mind. Some were from the distant past, while others were of recent history, and yet others Traven could only assume were of events yet to come.

The Hero tried to hold on to these images so that he could sort through them later, but they evaporated more rapidly than a dream. All Traven was left with was a feeling of pride and loss— glory and despair. The Hero sat down hard on the floor. He would remember never to ask the wolf a question that he did not truly want answered.

* * *

Ornery was startled awake by a pounding somewhere in the house. It was still dark, and by the snap of the cold air, he would say it was before sunrise. The noise stopped, but Ornery crept from his bed to check on the disturbance.

In his short life, late-night visitors were never welcome. He could still remember the time in Navastlan when the church had thought Miss Emmert a witch and came to haul her away for trial. This knocking tonight had that same authoritative tone and quality.

It had not been until now, with all their discussion of talking animals and prophecies, that he realized those townsfolk back in Navastlan were right. Miss Emmert was a witch? Ornery shook his head.

Even if she was, he was not afraid of her. He had never heard of a good witch, but he could not believe either Miss Emmert or Madame Hesper could be anything but decent.

The ring of Miss Emmert’s heel announced her presence, allowing Ornery to hide before she strode past. Carefully, he snuck down the steps after her. Mr. Skelt was already at the front door, arguing with an armed soldier. Miss Emmert stood next to her brother, demanding an explanation for the guard’s rude behavior. Ornery crept down another step so he could hear their conversation.

“It’s my duty as the Garrison’s—”

“May I see your dispatch from the Commander, then?”

The guard looked awkward and glanced over his shoulder to his lieutenant. “Ma’am, we have a missing girl, and all evidence points to the mishap occurring here.”

Miss Emmert stared straight at the lieutenant who stayed to the back of his men. “Unless you have a declaration for entry from the Commander, you have wasted your time, which is better spent looking for the poor child. Good night, gentlemen.”

Mr. Skelt tried to shut the door, but the guard shoved the hilt of his sword forward, jamming the door open. The lieutenant, a chubby, pasty officer strolled up and opened the door further.

“With this many men, I don’t need an Entreaty. We are going to search this house, unless you have any further objections.”

Each of the six soldiers unsheathed their swords and looked ready for a fight. Miss Emmert’s nostrils flared, and her cheeks grew reddened, but Mr. Skelt placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Not here, Sele. We have nothing to hide. Let them search and be gone.”

The lieutenant smiled broadly and gave the signal for his men to enter.

Miss Emmert regained her composure and smiled an equally insincere smile. “My mother is not well. If you could make this as quick as possible?”

“I’ll need to interview Madame Hesper—”

Mr. Skelt cut off Miss Emmert’s heated retort with a soothing tone. “Just be brief. I can answer any other questions you have.”

The lieutenant was full of himself. “Do not worry. You and I will have a lengthy conversation.”

Even Mr. Skelt’s visage wavered for a moment. Ornery was certain he saw a glint of silver in his otherwise black eyes, but both Mr. Skelt and Miss Emmert held their tongues, letting the soldier pass into the house. Ornery snuck back up the stairs and into his room before anyone discovered him missing from bed.

There he lay, wide awake, listening to the men search the rest of the house. He kept expecting his door to fly open at any moment, but it never did.

Looking over, Ornery realized that his door was no longer there. Where once had stood a large door and rusted doorknob, there was just a smooth wall, seamless from the rest of the room. Ornery sank further into his blankets. He was not so sure if he was scared, or thrilled, or a little of both. What he did know was that he needed to keep quiet. There were times in the past when he’d had to scramble under the floor of their wagon and into a secret compartment. Being wanderers made them more vulnerable to both the law and outlaws alike. He knew Miss Emmert was hiding him, keeping him safe.

But from what?

In the past, it had just been ruffians of one sort or another. Now, though, Ornery could not ignore the coincidences that were piling up.

Madame Hesper had been right.

First, Ornery discovered his heritage, then Madame Hesper lost her lifeline, now soldiers burst in during the night. Ornery remembered the feeling of foreboding he felt as the wagon had entered the town. He had wished to stay uninvolved, but it looked like they were smack dab in the middle of the town’s ordeal.

* * *

Crystalia’s head bobbed and weaved as she tried to stay awake. This trip certainly would have been more tolerable if Viola had come along. The two girls could have talked all night long, reliving each and every moment Traven had graced their presence.

“You are never alone,” a voice said.

Spinning around in the saddle, Crystalia nervously checked the snow around her. Except for the long, lonely trail of hoof prints dotting the plains, there was not another blemish on the horizon. The moon glowed bright, illuminating the area so there was no chance of a creature sneaking up onto Crystalia.

“You must be strong,” the voice continued.

This time, Crystalia turned so quickly that she nearly fell out of her saddle. The girl had longed for a companion, but an imaginary one was not what she had in mind. There was such a thing as Waste Madness, but it normally took weeks to descend upon a traveler, not a handful of hours. Looking up, the moon seemed to shift on its axis. The familiar grooves and valleys disappeared, and a gentle face replaced the typical moon landscape.

“You have a long road ahead of you,” the moon said.

Crystalia closed her eyes and wished the vision away. She would not go mad. She would not succumb to the endless horizon. Crystalia concentrated on her quest— on her love of Traven. He would keep her safe.

“There is much you should know, Crystalia.”

How the girl wished she could close her ears as well as her eyes. She did not want the moon talking to her. At this point, Crystalia wanted no one talking to her. Peeking open her eyes, the moon still hung low with a kindly woman’s face. The visage smiled, and wrinkles crimped around the eyes.

“I’m not talking to you,” Crystalia said, trying to be as firm as possible.

“I didn’t know they grew them so rude this far north,” the moon replied.

“But you are not real.”

The moon seemed to nod. “You do have a point.”

Maybe it would go away now, Crystalia thought as she tried to keep her eyes focused forward.

“Not an accurate point, but I can understand how your manners might slip a bit if you thought me a figment of your imagination.”

Crystalia was near tears. Would this vision not go away? Why was her mind playing tricks upon her? “Please, just leave me alone. I need my senses about me.”

The moon appeared concerned. Well, as concerned as a moon could appear. “I mean you no harm, child. I felt your fear and hoped to calm it.”

“You haven’t,” Crystalia found herself snapping. She immediately felt guilty for being so rude, but who had she really insulted? Herself?

“There are many decisions to be made, daughter.”

Stiffening, Crystalia answered, “I’m not your daughter.”

“Do you not bleed each month? Are you not a woman now?”

“Yes, so?” Crystalia answered, wary of a trick question. She hated it when the priests asked such obvious but sneaky queries. She hated it even more when it was her own mind doing the tricking.

“Then you are my daughter. Your womanhood flows from my love.”

Maybe if she just ignored the voice, it would grow tired of taunting her. Crystalia gripped the reins tightly and urged her horse forward. Perhaps if they picked up the pace, her mind would focus on the ride rather than this insanity.

“You cannot outrun me, child. Where can you go where there is no moon?”

Crystalia would at least like to try and find such a place.

Finally, there was a great sigh from the moon, and Crystalia’s hair fluttered around her face.

“When you have need of my assistance, simply speak your apology, and I will appear.” There was a pause, and the moon’s tone softened. “I know you do not wish to hear this right now, but do not forget Crystalia, that whatever happens, no matter how many other names you are called— you are still Crystalia in your heart. It will be the part of you born and raised Crystalia that marries and bears children. Do not forget that when choosing your mate.”

Crystalia turned to reproach the moon but found it hanging back in the sky where it was supposed to be. The woman’s face was gone, and the shadows and brightness were just that, nothing more. Crystalia allowed the horse to return to his plodding pace. She was alone again. Alone, and despite her brave words and scowl of irritation, Crystalia was indeed very frightened.

CHAPTER 15

Traven fixed his silk cuffs for the hundredth time as he followed Grave through the cavernous tunnels towards the dining hall. Yet every so often, much smaller hallways would shoot off at precarious angles. The passageways were barely tall enough for someone of Traven’s height, let alone one of the Giant’s.

The Hero did not have time to ask questions, though, as Grave’s stride kept Traven hurrying three steps for each one the Giant took.

What did increase the Hero’s speed was the aroma of freshly cooked bread. Did he smell apricot preserves and a bit of ale in that mix? As they approached the Feasting Hall, Traven could hear the hiss and crackle of meat on the spit. He was glad to see the Giant’s preferred cooked game, unlike Pale. Not that the Hero did not appreciate Pale’s offering of carrion at the Fold, but Traven was looking forward to a well-done slab of venison.

As they entered the towering Hall, Traven paused. The ceiling was so high that he could not even begin to make out the details. In a ring sat a dozen Giants, each perched on their own marble throne. The sight was overwhelming. Grave must have been a midget to his people. These other men were twice his friend’s size, but they had the same blazing red hair with a sprinkling of gray.

Traven straightened his back and strode behind Grave. Pale paddled alongside the Hero as if this was all very routine. The wolf’s only impatience was a constant query as to when the food would be served.

Grave easily climbed a few steps to the central stage, but Traven had to stop. Pale bounded up the stairs and turned, wagging his tail. Traven was not so amused. Each of the steps rose so high that they came up past the Hero’s chest. There was no graceful way to scale these. Traven hesitated for a moment, hoping Grave might come to his rescue, but the Giant simply gazed at him with a slightly amused look on his face.

Silence, so clear that you could hear each droplet of fat from the meat hiss on the fire, pervaded the room. There was nothing like a venture with such embarrassing potential to be undertaken with a rapt audience.

Still, he was a Hero, and challenges were Traven’s lifeblood. Of course, he had always thought these endeavors would include such things as lopping off the head of a dragon or two, but Traven realized it was situations as banal yet forcible as this one that truly defined your character, or lack thereof.

Pale barked again, piercing the entombing silence and bringing Traven back to the task at hand. The best and only way to scale these plateaus was to pull himself up far enough, then attempt to swing his legs over the edge.

Before he started, Pale sent him an image of easily walking up a set of stairs. It seemed impossible, but Traven had learned not to ignore the wolf. The Hero scanned the room, but saw no other means to reach the stage. Looking up, he saw Grave’s eyes flicker to the far left with a bit of a head tilt. Traven backed away from the step and walked with as much dignity as he could scrounge.

To the far left, he found a set of several dozen low steps, leading up to the stage. Stairs so short that a human babe could probably crawl up them.

Face flaming red, Traven cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment, but only succeeded in enhancing it. Once alongside Grave, Traven bowed to the Gathering.

Grave’s voice boomed, echoing off the cavern walls. “Behold, Chieftains. I present thee a Hero, a man who has proven himself worthy of our greatest gift, a human who transcends the boundaries of race and deserves our most treasured prize.”

Traven stood at attention. One thing the Hero was used to was these formal ceremonies. Although the surroundings were vastly different, the protocols were invariably the same. How long had he fantasized of this day?

But the Hero had never imagined it would take place in a far-off cavern. Traven had always dreamed of being endowed the Star of Hope with his family gathered around, his boyhood friends there— green with envy. But the Fates were seldom indulgent of Traven’s wishes, so he accepted their generosity in any form they chose.

The largest Giant, seated in the center, nodded solemnly and clapped his hands together so loudly that Traven grimaced. “Let it be so!”

Drums boomed, and a flute took up a shrill note. Traven leaned towards Grave and whispered, “I thought there was to be a test?”

Grave smiled. “Aye, and you passed.” The look on Traven’s face asked the question for the Hero. Grave replied, “You entered a Feasting Hall to face a Gathering of Chieftains, unarmed. That alone bespoke your bravery and courage.”

Traven was not about to tell Grave that the only reason he had not shown fear was that he did not know he was supposed to. By now, the Hero had become so used to Grave’s kind manner, he assumed all Giants to be gentlefolk. Now that he looked at the throng, he noticed the Chieftains each had an ax, sword or pike ready at hand— sometimes ignorance truly was bliss.

Behind the Chieftains, a great curtain parted, and light streamed from the opening. Chanting rose to form a union with the music being played. Out from the light strode the most beautiful young woman Traven had ever laid eyes upon. Swathed in blue silk, she seemed to flow, rather than walk, towards him. Sharp blue eyes floated in a sea of alabaster skin. Her long, black hair shone in the firelight. It was as if the girl were a sculpture rather than living flesh.

Again clapping his hands, the chieftain spoke. “I present to thee my daughter, Glacial. Born of snow and moonlight, she has been christened the Ice Princess. To you, Traven of Mount Shrine, we entrust, The Bride.”

The Chieftain offered Traven the girl’s hand, but he was too stunned to take it. Pale nudged and prodded until Traven’s hand seemed to rise on its own and take the cool hand of the Princess. The wolf sent obvious images of Pale’s desire to have this over with so that he could settle down to a good leg of moose.

Thankfully, the couple was asked to kneel, elsewise Traven’s knees would have given out on their own. The music and chanting began again, but Traven barely noticed.

Only one word played over and over again in his head— Bride.

* * *

Ornery found himself waking with the sure knowledge that someone was in the room with him. He did not fear, though, for he knew the smell. It was Miss Emmert’s lavender perfume. But as he awoke further, Ornery realized the person was not his caretaker, but someone else. Cracking open his eyes, he could make out a shadow moving around in the darkened room. Mr. Skelt.

“Good, you’ve awakened. Come with me.”

Rising, Ornery found himself to be clothed already, yet he could not remember dressing. He looked out the window, but it was still dark. Mr. Skelt escorted him through a door on the far side of the room, in exactly the opposite direction of the one that had been there before. The hallway they traveled was far narrower, and spider webs draped across the passageway.

“Where are we going?”

“To Mother’s room.”

Ornery rubbed at the little yellow crusties in his eyes. “Why?”

Mr. Skelt smiled grimly. “To say good-bye, child. Plans have changed. You will be leaving before the first light.”

Ornery did not know what to make of this news. He knew it did not bode well for Madame Hesper and Mr. Skelt, but it did mean Ornery would be off to see his father all the sooner.

As they entered Madame Hesper’s room, Miss Emmert entered through another door. She was bundled against the cold and had a flush to her cheeks that spoke of icy wind and perhaps a touch of anger.

“The soldiers have gone, but they’ll raise the full guard and be back soon,” she said in a rush.

“Do not worry so, Sele,” Madame Hesper spoke, exhaustion tainting her enthusiasm. “I will send a request to the Commander—”

“With the forces brewing this night, it will not be in time. I sensed a darkness as we entered the town. The forces at work have no respect for civil authority.”

Mr. Skelt tucked in his mother’s sheet. “We will be fine, Sele. It is you two,” nodding to Miss Emmert and Ornery, “who need to be upon your way before they batten down the gates.”

Ornery sat upon the corner of the bed as the adults hashed out the last of their plan. He was tired, and so very tired of intrigue. Why could the world not just let him meet his father without all this strife? He had enough pain in his own heart. It was hard to be around so much more.

“Are you sure this missing girl is the Snowy Maiden?” Miss Emmert asked Mr. Skelt.

The tall man nodded. “Yes. I spoke with the Captain of the Guard. Crystalia Tender is one and the same.”

“And you are sure she is not dead, Mother?”

The old woman nodded weakly. “I would not be laid low in this bed if she had succumbed.” A look of anger crossed Miss Emmert’s face, but her mother raised a warning hand. “Do not think of it, Sele. I will not have that girl harmed to revert the power back to me.”

“So it has been Fated. So shall I accept it.” Mr. Skelt said in a deep tone.

How many times had Ornery heard Miss Emmert use the same phrase? Anytime he had railed against his heritage, his caretaker had used the saying as a mantra to soothe him to sleep.

Calming, Miss Emmert asked, “But are we sure she is beyond the gates? She might have been kidnapped, maybe trapped somewhere in—”

“Nay, the farther she travels, the weaker I become. She is far from the city.”

“Then I shall bring her back and right this—”

“You shall do no such thing.” Despite her weakness, the old woman’s words rang with authority. “You will take the girl to your bosom and teach her as I taught you. To do anything less would bring such disgrace upon this family that a thousand years could not wash it away.”

The old woman collapsed back down, each breath now a struggle. Emotions warred on Miss Emmert’s face, but Mr. Skelt tugged at her sleeve and guided her towards the door. Ornery followed.

The man whispered, “It is her life, Sele. Do her the honor of allowing her to make this final decision.”

“Have you both gone mad? She is dying, Holt. Are you willing to just let her slip away?”

“No, but neither am I going to force her to go against every value she embodies.”

Miss Emmert looked ready to shout, but she kept her voice low. “Then perform the Rite. That damn bat has been sucking the life out of her for all these years— let him give some back!”

“Sele, I know you resent Fright’s bond with Mother—”

“I resent him living on, while my mother dies! He has the power to, at the very least, slow her decline. If he is as noble a spirit as you both say, he would gladly give her that gift.”

“They would both need to agree to—”

Miss Emmert’s voice reduced to a hiss. “Then make them!”

Ornery jumped as a rooster crowed somewhere off in the distance.

Mr. Skelt hugged his sister. “Dawn is fast approaching. If you plan to leave, you will need the cover of dark.” Miss Emmert turned, but Mr. Skelt held her arm. “You don’t want to leave it like this, do you, sister?”

Ornery watched as tears sprang to his mentor’s eyes. Her hands even shook as Mr. Skelt kept talking.

“Find the words, Sele. For once, speak with your heart to her.”

Miss Emmert’s shoulders braced as if she had just been struck. Ornery was not sure if she wanted to cry or shout. He was not even sure if the woman knew herself. After a few heartbeats, she placed a hand upon Ornery’s shoulder and looked as if his caretaker wanted to say something, but Mr. Skelt gently removed her hand and placed a comforting arm around Ornery’s shoulder.

“Go, Sele. There is time to explain it later.”

Choking on tears, Miss Emmert nodded and slowly walked over to her mother’s deathbed. Madame Hesper could barely open her eyes as Miss Emmert knelt beside the mattress.

“Mother, Holt is going to speak with Fright about the Rite—” The old woman tried to interrupt, but Miss Emmert put a quivering finger to her mother’s lips. “Shh… Mother, please hear me out.” Miss Emmert waited until the old woman nodded, then continued. “I respect that this decision is yours and Fright’s. I will honor whatever you two decide, but—”

Miss Emmert had to stop, tears streamed down her face and her throat clenched down with so much sorrow.

“But… but… maybe I am being selfish. I need you, Ma. You, of all people, know what lies ahead. I don’t think… I don’t think I have it in me to grieve for you and walk the path that is unfolding.” A cascade of tears tumbled down Miss Emmert’s face and fell upon her mother’s cheeks. There, mother and daughter’s tears mixed and swirled. “I need your love and guidance, Ma. It is your light that has always illuminated the darkness. I cannot lose that now, just as the black—” Miss Emmert could not continue and collapsed into her mother’s embrace.

“I know, I know…” Madame Hesper cooed to her daughter, over and over again.

Mr. Skelt guided Ornery to the bedside and helped Miss Emmert up. “It’s time to say good-bye, Ornery.”

With great hesitation, Ornery approached the old woman. Her face was so ashen that if it wasn’t for the harsh rasp of her breath, he might have thought her dead. But after a moment, Madame Hesper eyes fluttered open. “Come closer, child.”

Ornery leaned forward and was surprised when her wrinkled hands held his head. Gently, she pulled him down until the old women’s lips touched his forehead. Her kiss was like a spark, all tingly and warm. Madame Hesper’s hands fell away as she spoke.

“Aquilum forenstal tatalk tatalk, misetidae.”

Ornery felt a lifting and tugging towards the door. If given the chance, the boy felt like he could run to the furthest corners of the world. He turned to find Miss Emmert again crying, but this time with a look of wonder and hope. Even Mr. Skelt’s eyes were moist.

“It’s best we go now,” Miss Emmert choked out.

Filled with love and delight, the boy rushed forward and gave Madame Hesper a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you,” he whispered to her sleeping ear. Ornery knew not exactly what for, but he knew that he owed her deeply.

* * *

Traven knew the Giants were speaking, he could see their lips move, but for the life of him, he could not understand a word they said. During the ceremony, they had mumbled foreign tongues, only to have their monotones punctuated by shrill counterpoints sung by the womenfolk. Each female was as tiny and petite as Glacial.

At another time, the Hero’s mind might have raced at this strange dichotomy between the hulking men and their fragile mates, but nothing penetrated Traven’s thick skull. There were a hundred questions that begged to be asked, but his mouth was frozen.

Casting his gaze at Pale, the Hero realized the wolf was still no help. Curled up asleep, Traven’s new bond-mate dreamt only of a hunt long ago through a brook and over a meadow. Even Grave only smiled, as if Traven should be thrilled by this latest turn of events. The Hero was sure this ceremony was some kind of high honor, deemed only for the Hope, but what were they thinking?

Traven turned a cautious eye to “The Bride.” Certainly, she was beauty incarnate. Her skin alone made him want to reach out and stroke her ivory cheek. Even in this oppressive heat, her complexion was clear and without a trace of perspiration. Unlike Traven, her blue silk clung to her figure because of the cut, not due to the sweat gluing the fabric to the Hero’s back. The girl’s gown was a marvel all unto itself. It allowed a peek at just the right amount of curves but hid enough so that one desired to see more. No man could wish for a more desirable mate— but marriage?

The thought was absolutely absurd to Traven, but here he was in some sort of binding ceremony. The Hero still was not sure if this was a betrothal or marriage ritual that he was participating in. Traven had hoped amongst all the droning passages that he might speak, but each one of the Chieftains had risen and recited some ancient text.

The Giants could not have actually married the two of them without Glacial and Traven saying vows, could they? Panic began to rise. Traven had best speak up now, or he might never have another chance. With all the magick swirling about him the past few days, Traven could not take any risks that this ceremony might truly be until death torn them asunder.

Waiting for the latest Giant Chieftain to inhale, Traven jumped in before the man could begin another passage.

“Great Leaders, I…”

Traven sputtered and stopped. All eyes had turned on him like a brown hare in the dead of winter. The look of shock and anger mixed on each of the Giants’ faces. Obviously, it was an enormous breach of etiquette to speak out of turn, but Traven had already done the damage. The Hero might as well say his piece.

“I am honored at your… your offer, but sadly, I must decline.”

The room boomed with the sound of a dozen Giants jumping to their feet, demanding an explanation. Even Pale hopped up and slunk over to Traven with his tail between his legs. The only one to keep his composure was Grave.

“Explain, Hero.”

“I.” Traven could not think of any good reason besides the fact that he simply did not want this woman, so he lied, “I am engaged elsewhere…”

Concern crossed the Giant’s face. “But we spoke.” Grave’s voice took on a more formal tone. “You indicated on our voyage here that no duty interfered with our Calling.”

Traven thought, but did not say, Of course, that was when it involved ascending to the Hope. The Hero would have answered very differently if he had known his Calling involved marriage. But how to explain this to the Giants without losing his life? Several of the Chieftains gripped their weapons ominously.

“I mean no disrespect, but I can’t.” Traven found himself flailing for the right words. What had Granny always said? Speak from your heart? The truth has the shortest path between the known and unknown? “I’m sorry, but I cannot marry Glacial.”

Traven had expected much, but not the backhanded slap Glacial gave him. His cheek stung where the princess had lashed out. The Hero could not blame her. No doubt she never expected rejection such as this.

“I’m sorry—”

The Giant tried to interrupt, “Hero, I believe—”

“No, Grave. Please. I simply cannot marry—”

Again Glacial slapped him hard across the face. This was becoming tiresome. When she raised her hand again, Traven caught the slender wrist and held it still. A collective gasp escaped the crowd. Several of the Chieftains raised their weapons, fury playing across their faces. Even Grave seemed shaken.

“I will take much from a woman, Glacial, but not your spite,” Traven said as he released her hand. Her porcelain skin flushed red, and anger turned the corners of her lips downward.

Grave stepped forward and began speaking, “Chieftains, this is but a misunderstanding…”

“He will understand this!” Glacial’s father shouted as he heaved an ax above his head.

Both Grave and Pale stepped in front of Traven. “Please, I beseech you! Listen! The Hero means no dishonor.”

“Speak to the heart of the matter, Grave. None of your other-land speeches,” Glacial’s father boomed.

Grave moved to the fore of the stage. He gave a single glance back to Traven. Every Giant in the chamber was now armed and hefted their razor-sharp weapons at Traven.

“This Hero… his world did not prepare him as we have our offspring. He thought… Traven thought we meant him to wed the Ice Princess.”

For a moment a heavy silence laid over the room, snuffing out even the sounds of the cooking fire. Then a tiny laugh tinkered from the back of the room. Soon, more followed, until even the Chieftains were having a good belly laugh— all except Glacial’s father.

“Glacial, is this what affronted you?”

The Ice Princess bowed her noble head. “Yes, Father. I thought him intentionally insulting my virtue.”

“Were you, Hero? Did you truly think yourself worthy of a Giant’s dowry?”

Traven stammered for a moment, but Grave jumped in before Traven could embarrass himself further.

“In his world, marriage to a Hero is a great honor—” Grave stopped as laughter rolled through the room again. Traven was so glad he could provide entertainment as well as his other heroic duties. Grave continued. “If anyone is to blame for this misunderstanding, it is I. I knew him to be…” Grave gave Traven an apologetic look. “I knew him lacking in… education, but I assumed he knew of our Need and of the task at hand. It was my error that brought dishonor to the Ice Princess. I offer my life in apology.”

Traven was about to rush forward and take responsibility, but Pale gave him a hard nip in the arse. An image from the wolf urged Traven to imitate a statue. Upon Pale’s insistence, Traven planted his feet and did not move. Glacial’s father sat back down with a thud. His dour look lasted another heartbeat, and then a smile broke out, and he clapped his hands again.

“Let the feast begin!”

For a moment, Traven could hardly believe the danger was past. Women laden with trays overflowing with food began circulating amongst the tables. Glacial gave Traven one last icy look, then retreated back behind the curtain.

Grave grabbed him by the elbow, maneuvering Traven down the steps and out of the hall. Once out of earshot, Grave turned on his enormous heel and nearly knocked Traven over.

“Why did you not ask about the ceremony if you were so… so…”

“Uneducated?”

“Aye!”

Traven was loath to disclose the reason. In retrospect he had been so arrogant— so very sure of himself. It was hard to admit how wrong he had been, but Grave had just risked his life and deserved an answer.

“I thought… I thought you were crowning me The Hope.”

Grave stood, stunned for a moment, then even he had to chuckle. “Oh, it’s a good thing you did not reveal that in the chamber!” Grave slapped his thigh, and the sound nearly deafened Traven. “They would not have been able to eat their meal through their mirth!”

Once again, Traven was so glad to be of amusement to another. The Hero could not keep the annoyance from his voice. “What is your Need, then? This task?”

“You are to escort the Ice Princess to the Winter Citadel. There, she is to wed the Winter King.”

“What?”

“We believe the King lost his will after his beloved, the Winter Queen, succumbed to the bite of the Serpent. The Ice Princess will bring order to his Court.”

“The murder of the Winter Queen is a myth—”

“As were White Wolves and Giants but a few days ago. Were they not?”

Traven could not argue that point. As a matter of fact, Traven could not argue any point, he was so far beyond his schooling. But he could ask questions.

“Why me?”

“Hero, are you truly that naive?”

Hanging his head, Traven admitted this hard truth, “Yes.”

Grave patted Traven on the back, “You, my friend, are The Man Who Did Not Know.”

CHAPTER 16

Ornery accepted the wagon’s reins from Miss Emmert as they exited the barn. It took a moment for Ornery’s eyes to adjust to the dim light. The full moon was high overhead, but the streets were darkened by the surrounding buildings. With the slightest urging, Nutmeg and Cinnamon bolted forward, gliding the wagon over the sludgy snow. The windows passed by so quickly that the details blurred.

“Miss Emmert!” Ornery called out, fearful his cousin’s unnatural speed would attract attention.

“Shh,” she answered harshly enough that Ornery turned to look at his caretaker.

Cradled in her palms was a stone of incredible beauty. Golden light streamed forth, causing her hands to glow with a metallic sheen. Ornery could not believe that this was the same dull necklace he had seen every day of his life. Often he had wondered, sometimes out loud, why she kept such a decrepit old piece of jewelry. The stone was normally the most boring of yellows. It was set in a tangle of silver long-ago tarnished past the point of fashion.

Embarrassed that he had chided her so, Ornery tried to apologize, but Miss Emmert was far beyond listening, engrossed in her murmured chant. With every syllable, the gem pulsed a bit brighter until Ornery was certain that the guards at the far wall would spot their glow. In what seemed like a heartbeat, their wagon was fast approaching the northern gate.

Ornery nearly yelled as a pair of sentries rounded the corner, swords drawn. They seemed to be headed right into a fight, but somehow the guards only cocked their heads, as if hearing the horses approach, but were unable to see the wagon. Without hesitation, the horses galloped forward, knocking the men back into the alleyway. A shout of alarm echoed off the closely packed buildings, but no one gave chase. At a speed Miss Emmert normally would have considered reckless, their wagon careened towards the solidly barred gate.

“Should I try to—”

Miss Emmert hissed in a language Ornery could not understand and shook her head violently. Clutching the reins, Ornery prepared for the impact, but he need not have worried. Standing to her full height, Miss Emmert’s arms flung wide open. A string of piercing notes flew from her mouth, blasting the gate with such force that the solid oak doors were blown from their hinges. Never missing a stride, Nutmeg and Cinnamon pulled the wagon through the gate and beyond the city walls.

Ornery let out a breath, too long held. Miss Emmert, however, simply sat down and gave a grim smile.

“Old, even ‘tawdry’ things sometimes have their advantages, young man,” she said, indicating to the once again dull necklace.

Cheeks reddening, Ornery resolved never to doubt Miss Emmert’s judgment again. “I’m sorry, Miss—”

With a dismissive wave of her hand, the woman took the reins back, only to drape them over the sideboard, giving the horses their heads. Before Ornery could argue, Miss Emmert tilted his face to the side and examined his forehead.

“Do you feel all right?”

Wanting to avoid the whole subject of feelings, Ornery answered, “Uh-huh. How long until we get to the Fold?”

Miss Emmert snorted in a very unladylike manner. “We’ll be to the lower Steppes in a few days.”

“But you told Madame Hesper we would go to the Fold.”

“What my mother is unaware of will do her no harm.”

Ornery could not believe Miss Emmert was being so disrespectful of her own mother. “But you—”

“Ornery, there are times when one must make decisions for themselves— sometimes against the best wishes of your caretakers. I think you have some experience with that.”

Blushing, Ornery acutely remembered his nighttime wanderings out to the taverns and pubs. Not so long ago, he had even seriously considered running away. Who was he to judge Miss Emmert? Besides, Ornery had to agree that Madame Hesper did not seem to have all her faculties.

“What did your mother mean? You know when she…”

“Aquilum forenstal tatalk tatalk, misetidae? It is the most cherished of all Centaur blessings. Normally, an Elder of the Meadows confers it, but in these times… Mother has her reasons…”

For a moment, sadness settled over Miss Emmert, but just as quickly, she shook off her melancholy and rubbed at the skin on his forehead. “Did it burn where she kissed you?”

Ornery tried to pull away. He wanted to hear more about the blessing. “Tingled, really.”

“Do you feel any… different?”

Shy to reveal his strange yearnings, Ornery shook his head, but Miss Emmert eyed him knowingly. “No?”

Holding his face in her hands, she lightly blew on his forehead. With each touch of her breath, the overwhelming desire to run, to race, to just leap for the sheer pleasure of leaping, coursed through Ornery’s veins. But he doubted this is what Miss Emmert wanted to hear. “It… it—”

“The truth,” she demanded.

Ornery squirmed. He was certain he was supposed to have some great insight or knowledge of his heritage. Instead, the boy felt like playing. Under her daunting gaze, Ornery finally sighed.

“I know this sounds odd, but I want, I need to run.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Ornery looked down at the ground that flowed by in a blur. “I would if we have time to stop.”

“Stop? I thought you wanted to test your legs?”

“I do, but—”

Miss Emmert’s lips turned up the slightest bit as she shoved him, hard. “Then do so.”

Ornery tried to compensate, but Miss Emmert was far stronger than she looked. Tumbling over the side, Ornery was certain Miss Emmert had lost her mind. Snow smacked him in the face as he landed on the ground with a crash.

Jumping up, Ornery watched the wagon race away. Surely the woman would turn back as soon as she realized he’d truly fallen, wouldn’t she? As Ornery brushed off the chilly snow, he watched the wagon move steadily away.

Suddenly, his forehead burned, and his legs felt cramped. Slowly at first, Ornery began walking towards the wagon, but he found his feet begging to run. And why shouldn’t he? You know, just to close the distance for the horses to come back?

The wind, instead of howling, sang in his ear. The snowy ground sped past faster and faster until Ornery could see the rear of the wagon. They must have slowed! His legs pumped with renewed energy. The need to give chase overcame his skepticism, and he raced with all his might.

Soon, he pulled alongside the wagon— his breath short and hot in his chest. Ornery smiled wide, and feeling giddy, waved at Miss Emmert.

“Thank you for slowing!”

“Slowing?” she asked and motioned to the ground.

Looking around, Ornery realized he was running with the speed of a Centaur. Words escaped him as his scarf loosened, and his mane flowed behind. The hair whipped and snapped in the wind. Blood coursed through his legs and burned up through his belly. His cousins pulled ahead, and he had to redouble his efforts to keep up.

It was no fair— they had four legs! Ornery was certain if he was so blessed that he could easily beat his cousins. The effort began to take its toll, however. His lungs felt on fire. Ornery looked over to Miss Emmert. Despite her tear-streaked cheeks and puffy eyes, a look of pride shown through her tired face. He never wanted to stop, but his legs now complained with each stride.

“Tiring?” Miss Emmert asked.

Nodding, Ornery gulped for breath.

“Then climb aboard, young man. Your cousins don’t like the competition.”

Ornery waited a moment for the wagon to slow. When it did not, he looked back at Miss Emmert. A look of mischief played at her lips. Could the woman really be suggesting what he thought she was?

Grabbing the sideboard, Ornery gave a heave and hurled himself up and over the side of the wagon. Landing with a thud, Ornery gave a shout of pure joy. Scrambling up, Ornery expected Miss Emmert to be perturbed at his exuberance, but she smiled warmly and patted the seat beside her.

“Your father will be so proud.”

Smiling, Ornery settled in next to her, never having felt so alive.

* * *

Traven was beginning to dislike the amiable Giant. Grave kept insisting on dropping news with such weight that it shook the very world, then ambling away. Pacing his room, unwilling to reenter the Feasting Hall and the possibility of encountering Glacial again, Traven stewed over Grave’s proclamation.

“The Man Who Didn’t Know?” Traven formed the words with his lips but could not begin to attach the label to himself.

How could it be? But as much as he tried to resist the knowledge, the rightness of it could not be denied. Or was it just the horrible realization of some long-hidden fear? Whatever the reason, the Hero could not stop his mind from feigning and paring around the idea.

What would it mean if he was truly was The Man Who Did Not Know?

Traven looked to Pale, but the wolf was worse than no help. Every few minutes the glowering canine would send nearly overwhelming sensations of hunger and the intense desire to join the feast. Traven had urged the wolf to join the banquet and leave him in peace, but Pale had refused to budge. They went together, or nowhere.

There was no point in arguing, for each time Traven did, the wolf reminded the Hero what happened the last time Pale let Traven out of his sight. Although Traven doubted there were such supernatural dangers as the wraiths in the Giants’ Hearth, the Hero could not dissuade the wolf. So here they stayed— each pouting after his own fashion.

Thoughts warred with one another to reach the forefront of the Hero’s mind. There were so many directions in which to worry, Traven felt nearly paralyzed. That feeling only served to fuel his anxiety. Anxiety brewed anger. Anger flared into rage.

Traven was supposed to be The Hope! He certainly did not risk his life and leave his homestead to be the laughing stock of the countryside, blundering into one mishap after another. But isn’t that exactly what he had being doing for the last week? Had the Hero not played out in one form or another the tales his Granny used to tell?

Traven stumbled as Pale sent another flood of images. This time they were of the past, long ago, back when the Hero’s bond-mate was nothing than a pup. Traven could feel the warmth of the den, the smell of a dozen other wolves curled beside one another. A black wolf, her face a silver mask, filled Traven’s vision. Pale’s obvious love and respect named her as the wolf’s aunt, Scry. From her thoughts, Traven could “hear” a tale. It was told in much the same way as Granny’s— full of grave warnings and stirring battles.

Quickly, Traven realized that Scry was telling the legend of Pale, long before the wolf had grown up to live it. The details were vague, and the references could be interpreted broadly, but it was clearly the tale of the Hero’s bond-mate. Pale blinked and broke the contact, leaving Traven to grab the nearest table to steady himself. Their bond grew stronger with each passing image.

Traven tried to imagine having his life told to him like a fairytale. Traven froze as he realized Pale’s true message.

Had not the Hero’s own Granny not done the same thing for Traven? Did she not tell the Hero’s tale, before he had lived it? Yet, the particulars were grossly inaccurate. The Giants and Wolves were supposed to be enemies. But in this moment, they appeared to be his only benefactors. While the Faery was something quite different.

Traven spun around and soaked up the room. Had Granny not described this very chamber in rich detail?

Even the narrow bed and triangular shaped fire pit had been recounted to him, back when the Hero himself was but a pup. Traven scoured his mind for the tale revolving about the Giants, but he could not quite grasp the details. It had been one of those damnable boring romance yarns Granny would tell the girls, the ones he had only listened to with his ear half-cocked for the mention of blood and cold iron. The rest of the storylines Traven had just let flow by him without much attention to the minutia Of course, it was the minutia that would be invaluable to him now.

Or would it? So far Granny’s tales were nowhere near being accurate. Traven sent a query to Pale, but got the wolf’s usual shrug of an answer. It was not the wolf’s problem if humans were an addled-minded lot. Traven wondered, keeping his eyes locked with Pale’s to be sure that his friend received the sending. What good was a bonded wolf if he gave such incredibly useless answers?

Pale pulled his ears back and showed a bit of tooth as the wolf sent back the most lucid scene, picturing Traven stripped of his clothes, having to stammer out an apology to Glacial. The image was so vivid that Traven could feel himself squirm and blush in areas he would rather not have turn a bright red. Finally, unable to take anymore, Traven looked away and broke the contact.

Traven chuckled despite himself. How did he expect to beat Pale at his own game? With less force, Pale sent another request to join the Feast. Still, Traven hesitated. The wolf walked up and licked Traven on the hand.

Could they not go to the Hall? Pale would stuff his belly, and Traven could fill his mind with the answers he so craved. Traven could see himself sitting with Grave, asking all the questions he had flung at Pale, only the Giant might be able to ease his quandary.

But what of Glacial? Traven wondered back.

The wolf barked sharply, almost admonishing Traven for his fear. The Ice Princess was nothing more than a tantruming toddler to Pale. Traven had to admit that the image of the porcelain beauty being reduced to a snot-nosed child late for her nap made Traven feel a bit more courageous.

Finally, the Hero sighed and sent Pale his reluctant agreement. The wolf spun in a circle, tail wagging as he charged across the room.

As Pale sprinted through the doorway, Traven felt a rumble beneath his feet. Suddenly, the floor was not stable, and the slab of rock vibrated so violently that Traven had to clutch an armchair to stay afoot. Pale turned, but huge chunks of rock cascaded down from ceiling. Traven could not see what happened to the wolf— the Hero was consumed with his own problems.

Boulders larger than his horse rained down, and the floor gaped with huge cracks. Jumping over a smaller rent, Traven plastered himself into a small crevice and watched his room be destroyed.

Finally, the quake ended. Only a tiny shower of pebbles streamed down the side of the room. Dust still choked the interior, making it difficult to assess the damage. Carefully, Traven stepped out from his cover and crossed the room. Where once there’d been an archway, was now littered with chunks of rock out-weighing Traven himself.

“Pale?” Traven shouted through the barricade.

A muffled bark rose behind the rocks. The wolf lived. A weak image tried to filter through the stone barricade, but without eye contact, it was hazy at best. A sending of an urge to flee the room badgered Traven. He would have certainly liked to accommodate the wolf, but the Hero would need a few of the Giants’ strong backs to remove the mess before him.

Still, the wolf’s sending was urgent enough that Traven began searching for any nook and cranny he might sneak through. A persistent scratching nagged at the Hero, especially because it was coming from behind. The smell of sulfur and lye burned at his nose. Turning, Traven thought he saw a branch or a stalk. Despite the wolf’s warning, the Hero cautiously moved towards the newly formed fissure in his room.

Two stalks appeared from the crack and waved about for a moment, disappearing before Traven could make out what they were. Unconsciously, he took a step back, narrowly avoiding a thrashing tentacle.

Out from the split, a huge creature sprang forth. From its mouth, worm-like creatures flailed, searching for prey. Traven danced away from the monster. For a few heartbeats, the giant creature stood motionless, its long antennae waving in the air.

From what Traven could tell, the beast had eight legs and a grossly misshapen body. It had no face to speak of, just the voracious mouth. Afraid to turn his back on the creature, Traven searched about for a weapon. Above him was a sword. Unfortunately, the weapon was longer than Traven was tall. To his right, however, was a Giant’s paring knife. Even though it was larger than most broad swords, Traven pulled it down from its display.

Hefting the blade with both hands, Traven waited for the monster to commit itself. Pale still implored Traven to leave the room, but that was simply not an option. As forcefully as he could, Traven sent the wolf an image of his current situation.

When the creature leapt, it was with lightning speed. Parrying and thrusting, Traven beat back the tentacles, but the huge mass of the beast pinned the Hero down. Eight strong legs enwrapped Traven in the foul monster’s embrace.

Hot fumes bellowed from the creature’s mouth, stinging Traven’s eyes. Each blow of Traven’s sword simply bounced off the thick armor that encased the monster. When cut, the tentacles would ooze a green slime. With each passing heartbeat, the creature tightened its grasp, slowly squeezing the breath from the Hero. Crushed to the floor, Traven had no real leverage against the beast’s hold.

Hacking with his sword, Traven concentrated on the tentacles. He might not be able to kill the monstrosity, but the Hero had to free himself.

With muscles bulging, Traven thrust his sword elbow deep into the creature’s mouth. A sickening wail shook the room, causing boulders to crash to the floor. Gaining momentum, Traven buried the weapon even deeper and scrambled out from under the thrashing beast. Green slime pulsed from the mouth, and the creature’s antennae waved in huge circles.

Traven cheered as the beast collapsed in a heap, its tentacles lying limp. The creature might have been ugly, but Traven had learned long ago that each enemy had its weak spot. Any hope that the Hero might have finished the beast off evaporated as the monster pulled the damaged tentacles back into its mouth. Traven groped for another weapon as the creature sprang an enormous set of claws. The sharp edges clanged together as the beast gnashed them in frustration. Its antennas bobbed up and down, honing in on Traven’s location.

As the creature prepared for its assault, Traven backed towards the archway. Pale’s sendings were near panicked. The Hero had to leave the room— now!

Every fiber of Traven’s body told him to face the beast, but the wolf’s urgings were stronger. In a moment of sheer faith, Traven turned his back on the monster and searched the barricade for a breach.

A black nose poked out of the debris, whining intensely. In a rush of adrenaline, Traven dislodged a few of the smaller boulders. Pale shimmied through the narrow opening and burst into the room. Without hesitation, the wolf leapt over the chasm, barking wildly. The creature swung around, its antennae swirling in circles, trying to reorient itself to the new threat.

Traven stepped forward, but a clear picture from Pale urged the Hero to enlarge the escape route while the wolf distracted the monster. Uncomfortable with someone else facing danger while the Hero squirmed his way out, Traven hesitated.

Pale paused in his attack to meet Traven’s eyes. The sending was so fierce that it pierced Traven’s soul. The Hero was no longer alone. Traven no longer had the luxury of thinking himself apart— separate from the world. The wolf knew that Traven’s desire to fight rather than dig was nothing more than selfish, arrogant vanity. Courage was more than the willingness to face danger. It was the acceptance that not all danger need be faced.

The tentacled creature severed their connection by leaping across the crevice. Without hesitation, Traven turned to the rocks and began enlarging the hole Pale had dug. The siren song of battle rose behind him, but the Hero remained true to his task. The wolf would have it no other way. Finally, Traven narrowly squeezed himself into the small hole and crawled his way through the debris.

Pale yipped, but there was little Traven could do. Instead, the wolf’s startled cry urged the Hero forward so the escape route would be clear for his bond-mate. Once outside the confinement of stone, Traven turned around and peered through the hole. The Hero could feel Pale struggling towards the exit, but the creature’s tentacles had ensnared the wolf’s leg. Relieved to finally be active, Traven crammed himself back in the tunnel and met Pale halfway.

Grabbing the wolf by the forelimbs, Traven pulled with all his might. Pale whined but urged his friend on. This close to the wolf, Traven could feel the slimy tentacle’s hold as if it were on his own leg. The strain on the tendons was excruciating, and his hip felt like it might be ripped from its socket. Claws snapped so closely to the wolf that Traven could feel the air move across his own thigh.

With a heave, Traven threw himself backward, jerking the wolf with him. The tentacles released, sending the two tumbling backwards. Once in the hallway, they both sprang to their feet, gingerly hopping away from the groping tentacles. They could hear the beast gnawing away at the barricade, but it seemed to be holding.

Traven turned to find Pale bleeding from a gash on his leg, but the wolf refused assistance. They must find Grave. Traven could not agree more wholeheartedly. In unison, they sprinted down the hallway. Pale beat Traven to the most looming question.

What was that thing?

CHAPTER 17

Crystalia caught herself drifting off again. Peeking, she made sure the moon was still just an orb in the sky, not her newest friend. Satisfied the world was as it should be, she allowed herself the luxury of whining.

The horse had been trudging through the snow all night long. Overhead clouds had threatened a storm, but it never materialized. The air still smelled of snow, but only a tiny flurry sporadically broke the otherwise clear sky. The night had dragged by so slowly that Crystalia was certain that dawn should be rapidly approaching, but the skies to the east looked as forbiddingly dark as they had hours ago. Exhausted, she slumped further into the saddle. The last twenty-four hours had been too confusing.

The first half of the day had flown by, filled with revelations and mysteries to stimulate the soul. The night, however, had crept by with the mind-numbing pace of a dying snail. No matter how hard she tried to focus on the questions that had burned in her mind, Crystalia found herself resting her eyes instead.

At one point, she had considered tying herself to the saddle like they sometimes did toddlers, but she elected against it. It would not do for her reunion with Traven to be synched up like a child. The Hero had thought her a mere girl back at Last Hitch, but now she was a woman— ready to share his burden.

Crystalia looked down at her palm again. Traven had certainly been active through the night. Wandering this way and that, but never in her direction. Each tiny speck she moved closer to him made her burn with a desire she had never known before. Her hands pulsed with such heat that she barely noticed the frigid cold.

For the millionth time, Crystalia tried to imagine what their meeting would be like. Would the Hero kiss her upon sight, or would he still play the gentleman? How Crystalia missed Viola already.

Viola could concoct the most delicious fantasies. There would have been no chance for Crystalia to fall asleep had the blonde been along. No, on more than one occasion, the two girls had stayed up all night long, talking of such things. And now to think of how much more they would have to mull over! It was unfair to have so much jumbled up inside and no one to share it with.

But Crystalia did not suppose Madame Hesper saw it that way. Crystalia tried to steer her mind away from the subject, but it kept circling around to the old medium. She should have been too tired to be sad on top of it all, but sad she was.

Of all the things that she already regretted about leaving so suddenly, not saying good-bye to the woman who had granted her these gifts was the thing she felt worst about. It was Madame Hesper that Crystalia had to thank for blessing her with the compass and the extraordinary lifeline that stretched out past her palm.

Crystalia wondered what the old woman would think come the dawn. To imagine that she would cause Madame Hesper a single moment of pain hurt. Perhaps her farewell letter would soothe the wound. Crystalia turned to look back over the Plains, but her horse tripped. Giving the gelding a push with her heel, Crystalia expected the horse to right himself, but he only tripped again.

Looking down, Crystalia found that the poor creature was up to his hocks in snow, apparently stuck in a drift. The horse must be as tired as I am, Crystalia thought as she dismounted, only to find herself sinking into the unstable snow. No matter how hard she tried, Crystalia sank further into the bank.

Quicksnow!

Back in Last Hitch, she had heard the trappers speak of the phenomena with fear thick in their voice. Slow and steady, she thought as she remembered their warnings, but with each lift of her leg, the snow only gave way further.

The horse, sensing her fear, began to panic, kicking and fighting. Battling her own terror, Crystalia tried to calm the beast. Thrashing would only serve to dig them in deeper. Already, her petticoats were under the surface. Mind racing, Crystalia tried to remember the survival tricks the grisly old men had bandied around while they gossiped in front of her shop.

As hard as she tried, Crystalia could only bring to mind one solution.

Stay calm until you are rescued. Even though the odds of that were dismal, Crystalia fought the urge to become hysterical. After all, her lifeline would not lie, would it? With trepidation, Crystalia gazed at her palm and felt her heart jump to her throat. The once-straight line now throbbed and pulsed, twisting and turning as if it were convulsing.

Her fate not as sure as it was before, Crystalia gritted her teeth and forced herself to focus on the current situation.

Perhaps she could melt the snow?

Willing her palms to glow a deep red, she passed her hands over the surrounding snow. Sure enough, it melted, but the liquid just caused her to sink even more quickly. The fear alone as her hips were encased in icy snow caused her hands to cool off. The horse was already sunk up to its withers. Eyes rolled back in his head, he looked like he might die of fright long before he suffocated beneath the drift.

Tears welled, Crystalia knew she was running out of options. There was only one thing left to try. Taking a deep breath, Crystalia let out a scream like she had done as a little girl.

“Help!”

* * *

Ornery shifted on the unyielding wooden seat. For as quickly as they were moving, the scenery did not look any different. Miss Emmert had lain down to rest hours ago, and her gentle snoring made everything that happened seem less strange. At least some things never changed.

Swiveling his newly grown ear, Ornery listened. He could have sworn he heard something. Cocking his head, Ornery heard the strange sound again. Even the horses’ ears perked. The tone was such that he could not identify the source. The wind occasionally played tricks upon his ever-changing ears, but the horses seemed to hear it too. Ornery scanned the blank plains, finding no source of the supposed noise.

The sound echoed again. This time Ornery was certain the noise was real. Turning, he parted the curtain to find Miss Emmert still sound asleep. Should he wake her? Ornery noted that the horses had slowed their pace and had their ears cocked to the north. He intensely wished that he had the same gift as Miss Emmert to speak with his cousins. Ornery hated to disturb his caretaker for nothing. He might not be able to read the centaurs’ thoughts, but they had certainly been able to understand his language in the past.

“Did you hear that noise too?” Ornery asked tentatively.

Nutmeg and Cinnamon jangled their harnesses loudly and bobbed their heads like those trick circus animals.

“Was it human?” Again, the answer seemed to be a definitive “yes.”

“Should we check it out… ya know, before we wake Miss Emmert?”

This time there was no response, as if they hadn’t heard him at all. It appeared they wished the boy to bear the brunt of the decision. Ornery could imagine how angry Miss Emmert would be if they veered off course for nothing. Then again, what if this was the girl they sought?

Even a simple decision such as this caused Ornery to balk. When was he going to learn to be a man and develop his own resolve?

Obviously, not tonight. In his volatile state, a few harsh words from Miss Emmert would send his mind reeling again. With a sigh, Ornery parted the curtain again and called to his caretaker. She bolted upright, as if she had never been asleep.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’ve heard someone crying.”

Miss Emmert was over the backboard in a second and intently stared at the horses. Finally, she patted Ornery on the knee.

“You were wise to wake me. Never think asking for help is a sign of weakness.”

Ornery was not so sure of that, but he was secretly glad she was awake as Nutmeg and Cinnamon took a sharp turn and sped up the pace. The early morning dawn was just beginning to peek over the eastern plain when the sound became so loud, even Miss Emmert heard it.

“Yah!” she shouted to the horses.

It was clear the noise was a girl’s cry for help. Ornery’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. The horses were charging ahead at full tilt, sweat pouring off their bodies, steam erupting from their nostrils. Miss Emmert’s face was grim. Her lips were set in a firm line. Ornery clutched the reins, praying they reached the girl in time.

“There!” Miss Emmert bolted up in her seat and pointed to the right. Sure enough, there was a tiny speck of black on the horizon. “Get down and sprint ahead.”

A mixture of feelings constricted Ornery’s throat so badly that he could not immediately answer. He was proud beyond compare that Miss Emmert trusted him to scout ahead, but another part of him did not want to leave the safety of her side.

“Ornery?” Miss Emmert turned to see why he had not answered.

“What am I to do?”

“What do you think? Help her! Now git!”

Miss Emmert’s sharp words propelled him off the wagon. This time he landed squarely. Ornery was able to surge ahead almost immediately. For a moment, the boy feared that he could not outrun his cousins but something inside of him stirred at the sound of the girl’s pleas.

Rapidly, he pulled ahead. Ornery found himself ignoring his body’s complaints and thinking only of the girl. How frightened she must be! His aches and pains were nothing compared to the terror in her voice.

As he rushed forward, Ornery had expected the objects to take form, but they stayed small specks on the ground. Pouring all his fear and worry into his muscles, Ornery closed the distance. The sun’s rays began nudging away the night, giving him enough light to scan the area.

All he found was a head sticking up from on the ground and a pair of horse’s nostrils flaring next the girl’s head. The sight made his legs falter. How could this decapitated head still be shouting and sobbing?

Worry slowed him, but curiosity nudged Ornery forward. “Miss?”

The face turned towards Ornery, as startled as he was. Despite her puffy eyes and streaked make-up, Ornery had never seen a girl so radiant. There was a kindness there, like somehow her heart showed through her skin.

“Thank the gods! I was—” The girl yelled as Ornery raced forward again, “No! It’s Quicksnow! Don’t come too close.”

Well, how was he going to help her?

“Don’t worry, Miss Emmert will know what to do…”

The girl nodded, but that only made the snow swallow up another inch of her neck. Now, the girl had to raise her chin to keep it out of the snow. Ornery turned as he heard the wagon clamor to a stop behind him. Miss Emmert leapt from the wagon’s edge, falling to her knees, but the woman scrambled up quickly.

Ornery barred her approach. “It’s Quicksnow.”

Miss Emmert nodded sternly then raised her hands and began chanting. As his caretaker’s palms became red embers, the girl shouted, “No! You’ll only make it worse.”

Doubt clouded Miss Emmert’s usually stoic face.

“Don’t worry child, I’ll melt it—”

Desperation tinged the girl’s voice. “I’ve already tried! We’ll just sink faster.”

Hands still spread open, his caretaker hesitated. Ornery reached over and urged her palms down. “I believe her, Miss Emmert. Please, you’ve got to have another… another…” Ornery could not believe he said the word, “Spell.”

“Not without time to prepare…” Miss Emmert’s voice trailed off, but quickly her mind snapped to action. “Get the rope from the back and tie it around your waist. I’ll unhitch the horses.”

Ornery charged to the back of the wagon as the girl continued her strangled sobs. She was trying so hard not to look terrified, which made Ornery’s feet move all the faster. Without hesitation, he followed Miss Emmert’s urgent instructions.

“Now what?”

“Tie the other end to the wagon wheel.”

Ornery’s fingers fumbled and he ripped off his gloves, exposing his bare flesh. Luckily, coarse hair was growing over his hands, giving some protection from the freezing temperatures. “Now?”

Miss Emmert motioned with her head towards the girl as she rapidly untied the horses gear. “Take another rope. Get in there.”

“What?” Ornery said in sheer amazement. Surely, his caretaker did not mean for him to enter the Quicksnow.

Miss Emmert’s words were rushed. “Neither of them can grab the rope from themselves. You have to secure the rope so we can pull them out.”

“But—”

“Go!”

Ornery turned to find the girl sniffling but staring right at him. Her brown eyes refused to beg him, but her need was clear. Before he could think any further, Ornery surged forward and took a flying leap as the snow beneath his feet crumbled away. The landing was not at all jarring, since his feet were sucked into the bed of snow.

His impact forced the horse’s left nostril beneath the snow line. Panicked steam puffed from its right nostril. The girl was not in much better shape. Ornery could barely understand her words through the encroaching snow.

“Thank you,” the girl said more with her eyes then her lips.

Miss Emmert shouted, “Wrap the rope around the horse’s neck first.”

It was hard to ignore the girl’s plight, but Ornery did as Miss Emmert asked. He shared as much heritage with the horse as he did the girl. The task turned out to be far more difficult than he had at first guessed. Fighting the urge to panic as the snow sucked him down consumed Ornery’s attention. With each step he took to near the horse, Ornery lost another inch or two. Soon, he was up to his knees. If he did not get this task accomplished soon, he would not be able to reach the girl before he himself was stuck.

Once beside the horse, Ornery bent over and dug through the snow, freeing the beast’s other nostril. A snort of appreciation blew in Ornery’s ear.

Unconsciously, the boy reached out and petted the horse’s nose, trying to soothe the beast as his other hand groped in the snow. The smell of fear was so strong upon the animal that Ornery found his own pulse quickening. Shoving aside his bestial instincts, Ornery secured the rope.

“Done!”

“Toss it here,” Miss Emmert shouted.

Ornery flung the end of the rope into the air and was shocked to find Nutmeg catch it in her mouth. Both his cousins began gently tugging at the rope, dragging the horse forward inch by inch. Ornery turned towards the girl. Her eyelids fluttered as dislodged snow assaulted her eyes. Buried up to his thighs, Ornery finally stood next to the girl. Tentatively, he brushed away the snow from her lips and brow.

“Stabilize her until we pull the horse free,” Miss Emmert instructed.

“Um… How?” Ornery asked, embarrassed that he did not know.

“Hold her,” his caretaker said offhandedly as she helped Nutmeg and Cinnamon finish the horse’s ascent.

“Where?”

“Ornery, please. Use your head.” When it was obvious Ornery had no idea how to apply that particular piece of advice, Miss Emmert sighed, “Around the waist might be a start.”

He leaned down and fidgeted a bit to sink himself closer to the girl’s level. “I’ve got to, um…”

The girl nodded tersely. “I understand.”

With fingers thick and awkward from acute self-consciousness, Ornery shoved his hands under the snow line. There was no way to hold the girl without first encircling his arms around her waist. And that would mean getting far closer to a girl than he ever had. “I… I need to—”

“It’s all right, I will not think you forward.”

Ornery swallowed hard and inched his hands closer to her waist. His fingers brushed something, and he immediately withdrew his hand. What if it had been her… her…

“Here, let me help,” the girl said in a strained voice. The tension of the experience was plain on her face.

Beneath the snow, the girl’s hands found his own. Her skin was like ice but her touch awoke a burning in Ornery. His palms began to sweat, and he could feel a stirring in his loin.

No, this could not be happening, not now!

Distracting his mind, he thought of all the other girls who had been so hateful to him. Their faces blanketed his vision, and anger rose in the place of passion. This girl was probably no different. Willing his body to behave, he allowed the girl to guide his hands to her waist.

Once his fingers could lock together, he began slowly pulling her up into his embrace. As their bodies pressed together, Ornery had to struggle to keep his mind occupied. The girl’s sigh of relief beat on his neck, causing the stiff hairs to stand on end. Could this be any more torturous?

Unfortunately, it could. For every inch he pulled her up, he sank down, until they were level, chest-high in the snow. Her arms now free, she hugged him and leaned her cheek against his shoulder, exhaustion and cold making her tremble in his embrace. Ornery found himself cooing to her as he had the horse.

“Shh. You’re safe now…”

A wracking sob shook the girl’s thin frame, and she wept in his arms. Ornery never wanted the moment to end. They could freeze to death in this pose, and he would die happy. To think another could so quickly and easily ensnare your heart. With a tug to his rope, the moment was shattered.

“Let’s get her out of there,” Miss Emmert said, wiping her brow. Nutmeg and Cinnamon were flanking the freed horse. Its limbs trembled so violently that it looked about to swoon even with the Centaurs’ support. Gently, his cousins urged the horse forward to try and steady his legs. Ornery looked down to find that the girl staring up at him.

“Are you ready?” he asked the girl.

“I… I won’t be much help, I’m afraid…”

“I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”

The girl’s eyelids sagged, and she leaned back into his chest. She need not worry at all, Ornery thought. He could carry her to the Starry Peak and back if need be. As Miss Emmert pulled with the rope, Ornery used his newly awakened centaur legs to walk towards the woman. It was slow going. Ornery nearly lost as much ground as he gained, but he cared little how long it took, so long as the girl was in his arms. Finally, his knees were clear and he began climbing faster, but the girl moaned.

“I’m sorry, I can’t—” The girl slumped in his arms, now too weak even to cling to him for support.

Without thought, Ornery swung her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest.

“Quickly, Ornery!” Miss Emmert urged. Ornery did not need any further encouragement. His legs complained against the strain, but Ornery cleared the Quicksnow in three strides. Miss Emmert immediately rushed forward and checked the girl’s forehead and pulse.

“Dear gods, I did not realize she was so bad off. She’s chilled to the bone. Get her inside, quickly.”

Miss Emmert climbed into the wagon and leaned over to take the girl, but Ornery waved the woman off and leapt over the edge, landing gracefully inside the wagon. His caretaker immediately began rummaging through her bags of herbs.

“Lay her down and take those clothes off of her.”

Ornery backed away a step. “Miss Emmert, I can’t—”

“Hurry, boy. We don’t have much time! Look at her color.”

Ornery could not argue with Miss Emmert on that. The girl’s tone had gone from pale to red to an ashen gray. Cautiously, Ornery moved closer and gingerly fingered the sash around the girl’s waist.

“Quickly, boy.”

Fueled by the concern in the woman’s voice, Ornery closed his eyes and undressed the girl as if he might a doll. After what seemed like a dozen layers, Ornery reached her petticoats. Instead of ruffled lace, they were brittle and sharp, frozen through.

“Miss Emmert, feel this.”

His caretaker rushed to his side and felt the stiff undergarments, frowning.

“What’s wrong?” Ornery asked.

“She must have melted the snow and it saturated her clothes. Dear mother, I can’t believe she’s still alive.” Miss Emmert urged Ornery to the side. “Hitch the horses and tell them to make best speed to the Fold.”

“But I thought—”

“Tell them the Snowy Maiden’s life depends on it.”

* * *

Traven turned the corner only to find yet another tunnel blocked by debris. They had been wandering the Hearth in search of Grave, but at this point they would be happy to find any Giant alive. Whatever these tentacled creatures were, they had effectively decimated the tangle of tunnels and chambers that formed the Hearth. Occasionally, Pale would pick up a muted scream, but they had yet to find a living soul.

Pale barked and scratched at a tumble of boulders. Traven joined his bond-mate with very little enthusiasm. The chance of finding a survivor was becoming slimmer with each passing minute. Lending his back to Pale’s efforts, they cleared away the blockage and entered one of the side halls of the Feasting Chamber. Pale whined at a sight that made Traven turn away. Several of the chieftains had been slaughtered, their body parts smeared across the walls.

Choking back bile, Traven slowly examined the room. Glacial’s father was among the deceased. The wolf barked again and charged out of the room. Pale had Grave’s scent. Traven gave chase, not so much that he believed his bond-mate had found their friend, more so that he could leave the grisly scene behind. But Pale was certain of the trail and sent a constant flow of sensory images. By the aroma, the wolf was nearly certain that the Giant still lived.

Traven’s pace accelerated as they nearer the scent. Finally, his bond-mate yipped in joy. Through Pale’s eyes, Traven witnessed the wolf and Giant’s reunion. So vivid was the image that Traven had to stop in his tracks, least he run into a wall. His entire vision was given over to the wolf’s ecstasy. Traven could feel the sensation of the Giant’s coarse beard on Pale’s tongue.

As the intensity lessened, Traven raced down the hallway to see for himself that Grave was well. Pale could barely contain himself from knocking over the battle-fatigued Giant.

“Grave! We had thought… We feared—”

The Giant’s face fell into a grimace. “The Chieftains ordered me to escort the Ice Princess to safety.”

“She lives?”

“Aye. There is a sequestered chamber. The Volatics cannot pierce its shell.” The Giant was obviously reluctant to ask the next question. “How are…? Are any…?”

Traven sadly shook his head. “We’ve found no survivors.”

The news was like a physical blow to Grave. The Giant’s shoulders slumped, and his chest caved in so severely that it looked as if all the air had been knocked out of him. “But the Chieftains. They might still—”

Traven gripped the Giant’s wrist with both hands and held Grave steady while he reported the grisly findings. For a moment, Traven thought his huge friend might buckle under. The Giant swayed but remained on his feet. Pale nudged and prodded Grave’s hand, consoling him the best he could.

A scream, that of a woman’s, echoed off the hallway. All three turned back down the hallway. Abruptly, the noise ceased. Traven charged forward, but Grave held him back.

“Nay, Hero. You must serve as Guardian to the Princess.”

“But your people—”

“My people need Glacial to reach the Winter King and end this madness.” The Giant nearly shook as he spoke.

Grave’s words touched Traven, but a true Hero would stay and fight, here and now. Even Pale chaffed at the concept of leaving Grave behind.

“Grave—”

The hallway shook, and the ceiling began to crumble. The Giant shoved Traven, sending the Hero sprawling down the hallway. Boulders tumbled down between them as one of the creatures erupted from the floor directly behind Grave. Traven tried to rush forward but the roof gave way— both he and Pale were thrown backwards.

Through cracks and crevices, Traven watched Grave hurl an enormous boulder at the creature, knocking it back. Digging with all his might, Traven tried to reach his friend.

The Giant turned back. “Go! You have sworn to—”

“I will not leave you, Grave,” Traven shouted as he dug out another boulder.

The Giant used another chunk of rock to smash one of the creature’s legs. “You are not fleeing, Hero. You are ensuring Glacial meets her destiny.”

Traven ignored the Giant. They would have plenty of time after the trio squelched this attack to discuss Glacial. She was at the least safely sequestered.

Only a few more rocks, and he would be through to Grave. Pale nipped at Traven’s sleeve, but the Hero had no idea why. It was not until the floor began to tremble, and the awful grinding sound resonated through the hallway. Another of the Volatics was underfoot!

“Go!” Grave shouted as the Giant finished off his attacker.

Pale nearly dragged Traven down the hall away from the Giant as the second Voltaic split open the floor. Antennae waved ominously from the crack. Turning, Traven ran headlong after Pale. Grave was right. If they did not leave now, they might never be able to.

With blind faith, Traven followed Pale through the labyrinth of hallways. The wolf was able to scale nimbly over the rubble, but Traven was forced to scramble around the debris. Soon, even the wolf’s tail was out of sight. Only the sound of Pale’s harsh pant directed Traven’s path.

Careening around a corner, Traven skidded to a stop. Before him was the most beautiful room he had ever had the privilege of entering. The walls were encrusted with diamonds. Traven had never seen such brilliant gems. A glow from above illuminated the diamonds, creating a forest of rainbows. Two waterfalls cascaded down the glassy wall into a large pool. The air smelled of water lilies and jasmine.

Perhaps the most stunning feature of the chamber was the figure sitting upon a marble bench. Draped in flowing blue silk, Glacial gazed down at the pool, seemingly unaware of his intrusion. Her features were so peaceful and placid that Traven might have thought her a statue. Only a slight rising and falling of her perfect breast revealed Glacial’s true nature.

“Princess?” Traven croaked out.

Glacial did not move a single eyelash as he tentatively approached the bench.

“Glacial. We need to be on our way.”

The girl did not look in his direction as she spoke. “There will be a Ceremony of Departure—”

The room shook violently. Traven did not have the luxury of indulging the Princess’ shock. “Glacial, we don’t have time. The entire Hearth could collapse at any minute.”

“Grave told me these walls are immune to the Voltaics’ jaws.”

Traven hovered near the girl. He wanted to urge her up from the bench, but he knew the Princess would take offense at such a bold gesture. “I’m sure Grave was correct m’lady, but we cannot risk a cave-in.”

“My father would never allow a cave in, he—”

Taking a risk, Traven gently grabbed Glacial’s shoulders. “Your father did not survive the attack, Princess. Grave has ordered me to escort you safely to the Winter King.”

Coldly, Glacial answered. “That cannot be.”

The Hero forced her to turn and look at him. “It is true. We will end the same if we do not hurry.”

Before the princess could react, Traven pulled her to her feet and guided her out of the chamber. Pale was already ahead, scouting the hallways for any sign of danger. Afraid that Glacial might fall into hysterics, Traven held the Princess’s hand. Tears shown in her beautiful eyes but none flowed past her lids. These Giants suffered quietly.

The walls buckled and groaned under the Voltaics’ attack. They had best leave the Hearth before the battleground lines shifted again. Traven sent a query regarding his horse and found that Pale was already leading the way to the stable.

If, of course, the stable still existed.

CHAPTER 18

Ornery finished the last knot on Nutmeg’s harness. Even though it slowed him down, Ornery could not help but look over his shoulder frequently. Miss Emmert’s chanting floated on the wind, carrying with it the sharp bite of sage and the sweet taste of peppermint.

The girl must be seriously ill if his caretaker was burning those herbs. Ornery could remember only one other time that Miss Emmert had brewed such a potent mix. Even then, the young drowning victim had died.

Fear clutched at Ornery’s throat. He could not bear it if this girl should succumb. Lashing down the stray ends of the harness, Ornery hopped onto the wagon and gently parted the curtains. He had meant to announce himself, but the sight before him gave the boy pause. The girl was laid out on a bed of hay with only a thin sheet covering her naked form. Ornery recognized the cloth. It was a present to Miss Emmert from Mr. Skelt many years ago.

When he was but a child and had fallen down a well, Miss Emmert had wrapped him in its unnatural warmth. Ornery knew if he touched the sheet, it would nearly burn his skin. Yet the girl just lay there, ashen and unconscious. Miss Emmert had smeared red dye over the girl’s forehead and cheeks, making her features appear all the more frail.

“Crystalia, I need your help,” Miss Emmert murmured in the girl’s ear. His caretaker picked up the girl’s hand and watched the lifeline flutter and warble. “Child, I cannot heal you alone. You must kindle the fire within you. My mother gave you the power.” Ornery watched as Miss Emmert choked on bitter tears. “I cannot lose you both. Fight, child. Fight.”

Ornery’s foot slipped on the board, and he nearly tumbled into the pair. Miss Emmert quickly wiped her cheeks clean of the moisture and turned to him. “Are we ready to depart?”

“Aye. But what of her horse?”

Miss Emmert nodded and grabbed a small coil of ribbon. Closing her eyes, Miss Emmert kissed the fabric, then handed it to Ornery. “Use this to tether him to the back of the wagon, then have Nutmeg set the pace.”

Ornery stood stunned. Where the material had once been a dull brown, the ribbon now flashed with red and silver. It was beautiful but still flimsy at best.

“Ma’am, I doubt this will hold the horse, and… and in his shape there’s no way he could keep up even a trot, let alone match Nutmeg’s—”

“Child, please. Do as I ask.”

Still uncertain, Ornery hesitated.

“Have a bit of faith, Ornery.” Miss Emmert’s words were so soft that they very nearly kissed his ears. There was no doubt that the boy had always trusted his caretaker, but to have faith? Ornery held the silky tie in his hand and watched as Miss Emmert busied herself with the girl. So, why had faith been so hard to come by?

Because of Ornery’s total and complete resentment of her, he realized. How could the boy truly believe in the person that he held so very accountable for his miserable, wandering existence? Closing his hand around the ribbon, Ornery realized how wrong he had been. Hurrying to do Miss Emmert’s bidding, Ornery smiled. He now had both family and faith.

What more could he desire?

Ornery blushed as the answer came unbidden. Love, the love of a girl, to be exact, was the last and most elusive element of Ornery’s happiness. Rushing, he tied the ribbon to the girl’s horse, securing the beast to the back of the wagon. Whatever came of this rescue, Ornery welcomed it with open arms.

* * *

Pale whined as he circled in front of the stable’s entrance. Along with the rest of the Hearth, its ceiling had caved in. Traven left Glacial’s side and charged ahead. The chances that Lauger had survived this disaster were nearly non-existent. Sinking to his knees, Traven began tossing rocks aside. The Hero had welcomed a demon into his own body to save Lauger. A little dirt was not going to stand in his way now. Traven would not stop until he knew for certain.

“What do we care for a horse?” Glacial said, disdain thick in her voice.

Traven’s muscles tensed. Was this princess without compassion? Never pausing in his digging, Traven’s anger slipped out. “I care more for Lauger than I do for you right now, Princess. So, I would watch my tongue.”

Glacial’s foot stamped down, and Traven could hear her sharp intake of air, but Pale’s low growl stayed her verbal attack, which was just as well. Traven was not in the mood for anymore of the Princess’ berating.

As the stones were cleared, another tremor shook the hallway. This time, though, its source seemed not too far away, adding urgency to an already pressing task. Pale was the first one through the small hole they had cleared. The place was such a mess that not even Pale, with his acute senses, could tell if Lauger was present, let alone still alive.

The smell of sulfur and sticky sweet candy permeated the room, confusing the wolf’s nose. Traven removed the last few rocks and squeezed past the stony barricade. Despite his intense desire to start the search, the Hero turned back and held his hand out for Glacial.

“Come, Princess.” Through the opening, Traven could see Glacial turn away from him. “Princess, I cannot leave you unguarded. Now, come.”

Glacial’s back was as straight, beautiful, and unmoving as the diamond walls they had just left behind.

“Pale, to the Princess.”

The wolf snorted loudly and sent images of refusal. Traven withstood Pale’s tantrum and stood firm in his resolve. Lauger was worth this effort, but the Hero could not allow the search to jeopardize the Princess’ safety. Pale gruffed one last time but turned and slunk back through the hole. Not, however, without serious wolfy curses being thrown Traven’s way.

With the princess guarded, Traven carefully crossed the boulder-strewn stable. Several horses, too light to be Lauger, lay dead from the rockslide. Another warhorse was badly slashed, while a little painted pony lay in the middle of the room, looking like it had been eaten alive— only the extremities were untouched by blood. Rounding an especially large boulder, Traven came upon a dead pack animal. Traven had never seen anything like it upon the Plains. It was woolly and far larger than any sheep the Hero had ever encountered.

Traven sent an image of the scene to Pale. Immediately, the wolf sent the pack animal’s name— a Yukay. They traveled in herds far above the tree line, and their eyeballs had a nice, tasty flavor to them. Traven grimaced. Sometimes the wolf gave him more information than the Hero really wanted to know.

Scanning the shattered room, Traven realized it might be impossible to truly know Lauger’s fate. The floor was littered with so many boulders and rocks that his horse could be buried in half a dozen places, and he’d never know it.

Sighing, Traven reached the back wall and stopped. The Hero could not waste any more time searching for the Lauger. They would just have to set out upon the Plains on foot. Scanning to the left, Traven noted a door, still intact— most likely the tack room. At the very least, they might be able to scrounge some gear for the trip. Traven pulled the partially ajar door open.

Out from the darkness, something charged, bowling Traven backwards. Scrambling to his feet, the Hero could not help but send a feeling of fear to Pale. Clearing his head, Traven found that it was only Lauger, snorting wildly. The whites of the horse’s eyes glistened in the torchlight.

The Hero feared for a moment that the wraith had not been completely exorcised, but there was no blue tinge to the horse’s dilated pupils. No, Lauger was just insane with fury that was fueled by fear. The Hero had seen his steed this way, almost a Beserker, after especially intense battles.

Pale flew over a pile of boulders, growling and snapping his teeth, ready to take out the attacker. The wolf pulled up short and narrowly missed a flashing hoof.

“Whoa, boy. It’s me,” Traven soothed as he cautiously approached his horse. “It’s all right, boy. You’re safe.”

Lauger backed away and pranced to the side— ready in his attack position. Traven did not stop, however. He kept moving forward with a nice slow steady pace.

“Shh, Lauger. Stand down. The battle’s over.”

A glint of recognition crossed Lauger’s face. The stallion relaxed a bit and flared his nostrils, taking in Traven’s smell. The horse’s ears were still plastered back, but the Hero could no longer see the whites of the Lauger’s eyes. Finally, Lauger snorted and took a step towards Traven. Putting his hand out, Traven petted his steed’s silky nose, now warm and damp from the trauma.

“It’s all right, boy. We’re getting out of here.”

Pale helped Traven find the Hero’s tack and gather all the supplies they could muster. To the Hero’s relief, they found his sword amongst the rubble. Still, the trip would be slow going. Glacial would ride Lauger while Traven and Pale accompanied on foot, which would greatly hinder their pace.

Tentatively, the Hero approached his horse, with the bridle in his hand. Luckily, Lauger took the bit more than willingly. Traven was relieved. At times the horse could be fickle and headstrong, but it seemed Lauger was more than willing to leave this place and carry them out of there.

Crossing back to the entrance, Traven felt a slight tremor, then another. Hurrying, Traven slipped through the opening to check on the Princess. The Hero need not have worried. Glacial was standing as rigid as a stone statue— right where he had left her. Kneeling, Traven began enlarging the opening to accommodate Lauger while Pale worked from the inside.

“Princess, this might go faster if you helped.”

Glacial turned so sharply that Traven’s arm flew up to protect against another blow, but it was not her hand that dealt the damage; it was her eyes and her tone.

“I am The Bride.”

Traven resumed his digging as he took the Princess’ answer to be a firm “no.” Just as they were making serious headway, the walls trembled and began buckling. The stony floor moved in waves, undulating as if it were mere satin being blown by the wind. Their precarious hole started to collapse.

“Pale, get out of there.”

Traven hated to leave Lauger alone, but the Hero did not want to risk losing them both. Pale, as always, had other ideas. There was a back exit— a secret tunnel that led directly out to the Plains. Traven drew back.

If that was true, why had Pale not suggested it before? The wolf explained by sending a painfully clear image of this alternate route. It appeared that the Giants had an elaborate catacomb system to remove their waste beyond the Hearth. From the smells and sights Pale passed to him, Traven could understand why the wolf had not bothered to mention this other route. Glacial would never have agreed to soil herself in that way.

Before the Hero could explain their plan to the princess, the stone beneath his feet quaked. Traven had felt this before and knew the Voltaics were close at hand. Turning, he grabbed Glacial by the wrist and pulled her down the hallway.

“Hurry!” Despite his urging, Glacial did not move at more than a walk. “Princess, the Voltaics are—”

Traven did not need to finish his sentence, as one of the creatures shimmied through a fissure. The Hero could only hope that Pale understood his last sending, that the wolf and horse needed to take to the other tunnel.

“Run!” Traven shouted at Glacial, but it did no good. The Princess did not seem able to pump her legs any faster. Traven looked over his shoulder. The beast’s antennae were honing in on them. Throwing his arm around her waist, Traven picked the Princess up and sprinted down the passageway. Immediately, Glacial began screaming and beating upon his chest with her fists. For a woman so small, her blows were nothing to ignore. He wished for once that she would direct such rage at the enemy.

Cold air slapped Traven in the face as he rounded a corner. The Hero had never been so happy to feel fresh air. The exit had to be close. The sound of the creature’s legs scraping the stone echoed behind him. So far, he had been able to keep several paces in front of the beast. A diffuse light called him forward. The sun had risen and was but a few feet away. The Voltaic must have sensed the same thing, for it charged forward.

A tentacle latched on to Traven’s leg, pulling his foot out from under him. Crossing over the Hearth’s threshold, Traven flung Glacial out into the snow and drew his sword. Hacking, the Hero cleaved the tentacle and fended off several others.

From the corner of his eye, Traven saw Pale leap from the rocks. Reeking of excrement, the wolf slammed into the Voltaic. Lauger, equally nasty in odor and appearance, wailed on the antennae creature with both front hooves.

Under the tri-pronged attack, the creature backed away. Traven’s arms tired from the constant effort, but he continued with a fury. Whether it was their attack, or the cold stiff wind, the Voltaic retreated back into the shelter of the tunnel.

Satisfied the beast would harry them no longer, Traven turned to the Princess. The Hero offered his hand to help her from the snow, but she refused. Gaining her feet on her own, she slapped his face.

“You should die for that, human.”

Traven rubbed his cheek, shaking his head. Oh, there was so much he would like to say, but Traven checked his temper. The Princess was shaking, Traven realized, not so much from anger, but from the cold. Glacial was clothed only in thin silk, and her feet were bare. Traven rummaged through the packs on Lauger’s back. “Here, put these on.”

Traven handed a small pair of boots to Glacial, but she let them drop. A look of horror closed her face. Traven picked up the fur-lined boots. “Princess, we don’t have time for this. Now, put them on.”

“Cover my feet? Do you have no respect?”

“You are going to get frostbite, Princess. I know they are not satin or fine leather—”

Glacial sneered as she spoke, “The Bride’s feet are never covered. Never.”

Pale’s sending of annoyance only added to his own, but Traven was used to dealing with difficult royalty and kept his own tone even.

“Princess, you were to cross the Plains. You must have had—”

Glacial drew herself up to her full height. “I was to be carried in a litter. My feet were never to touch this… this…”

Traven watched as Glacial groped for the right word. When she could not think of it, the Hero answered for her. “Snow?”

A look of surprise passed over the Princess’ face as she viewed the Plains as if for the first time. “This is snow? I had not thought it so firm.”

“What?” Traven found himself asking before he could stop. Glacial’s look transformed from wonder to trepidation.

For a brief moment, it looked like she might cry. Turning on her heel, she hurried back towards the Hearth.

“We must go back inside and retrieve my litter.”

Traven had to block the Princess’ way back into the tunnel. “That Voltaic is just lying in wait, Glacial.”

“But, I cannot—”

“Even if we could find it, all the horses have been slaughtered. We would have no way of carrying it.”

Glacial frantically tried to push past Traven. “I must get back inside!”

“Whoa,” Traven said as if she were a spooked horse. He could see true panic in her eyes. “Our only safety is to strike for the Fold. There we might be able to find a litter and more horses.”

Backing away, Glacial scanned their surroundings with fear-filled eyes. “I must get inside”

“Glacial.” Traven’s voice trailed off. “Princess, have you ever been outside before?”

Tears sprang to her eyes. A war of emotions played upon her normally stoic face. “No,” she groaned.

Dear gods, would the problems never cease? And Grave had thought that the Hero naive and unworldly. A new-found compassion flowed through Traven. He now understood her haughty manner was just a protection against a world she barely knew.

“I know this is overwhelming, but you must face the situation, Princess. You must wear boots, and you must ride upon Lauger.”

Glacial’s anger flashed again. “That base creature? You expect me to be in… in contact with that beast?”

Traven took a deep breath. It did not matter the reasons for her manner. This petite Giant was taxing, and they had little time to spare in this frigid cold. Traven was about to force the issue when Pale sent the Hero a suggestion. The Princess could ride upon the White Wolf. That would allow both Traven and Glacial to ride, speeding their journey.

“Princess. I need you to listen carefully. Pale has offered to carry you to the Fold.” Traven held up a hand to cut Glacial off. “Before you retort, you had best mull your words. He is a White Wolf, now bonded to me. He was Grave’s constant companion and advisor. Your answer should reflect this knowledge.”

Glacial looked as if she was going to explode, but her upbringing forbade her from making such a social blunder. Traven had guessed right that the Giants held the Wolves in high esteem, and the Princess could not break such edict.

The Princess finally nodded.

“Sit down then. Allow me to cover your feet for the journey.”

Glacial nodded solemnly, but when Traven approached she slapped him again. “That is in advance for violating The Bride’s feet.”

With an undignified plop, the Princess sat down. With his cheek stinging again, Traven began his task reluctantly. Pale urged him on. The wolf wanted to get underway. That leg of caribou might still be waiting for them back at the Fold. The wolf wanted to claim it before anyone else. Traven sighed deeply.

This was going to be a long trip.

* * *

Jory bounded up the steps, furious. He’d been out all day, searching the town for the Crystalia, only to arrive at the garrison to find that his second in command had ordered Madame Hesper’s home raided.

Shoving his office door open, Jory entered. He should not have been surprised by what he saw. The lieutenant was casually talking to the Guild Master’s daughter, Viola, as if it were the junior officer’s own office.

Red-faced, the commander demanded an explanation. “I ordered no action to be taken against Hanger’s Mansion.”

The lieutenant shrugged. “While you were out, this young woman came forth with evidence to incriminate the Madame. I simply ordered the medium to come in for inquisition, but she refused. I followed your guidelines, sir.”

Jory tried to contain his anger but had very little success at it. “My guidelines are to inform the commander of all action taken by this garrison.”

The Guild Master’s daughter flinched at his harsh tone. Jory tried to take on a more gentle manner.

“Pardon me, child. It might be best if you returned to your home. I will come and speak to your father as soon as I am done here.”

“But I want to find my friend,” the blonde girl said.

“I see no reason why she should leave,” the lieutenant said, growing more bold.

There was a look in the officer’s eyes that Jory did not like. Instead of the usual fear tinged with ambition, the lieutenant’s face held raging ambition with only the slightest hint of fear.

Jory never should have left the garrison and its daily functions in this man’s hands. From the moment the man had been shipped to him from the Prince’s Color Guard, Jory had known the younger man coveted the command position. Now, it looked as if the lieutenant felt he might be within striking distance of it.

“She shall leave because I ordered it.” Jory walked over and began to guide Viola out of the room, but the lieutenant pulled his sword. The sound of metal sliding out of the leather alerted Jory.

The commander’s dagger was unsheathed before the younger man’s long sword was fully out of its scabbard. Spinning on his heel, Jory knocked the officer’s hand away from the hilt and pressed his sharp edge to the lieutenant’s neck. Blood trickled down the man’s plump throat.

“You are relieved of duty,” Jory growled at the would-be usurper.

What Jory did not expect was the hiss that rose behind him. Too late, the commander turned his head to find Viola with her hand raised above his back. Only it was not a hand; it was a claw. Turning to face his new attacker, Jory took the blow across his cheek and neck. Blood sprayed across the walls. Ignoring the pain, Jory slashed at his attacker but found only empty air. The girl had scrambled up the wall and was hanging from ceiling. What manner of depraved creature was this?

Jory meant to give a shout, but the beast that dwelled within Viola’s skin charged at him, forcing her talons through his belly. With a muffled groan, the commander slumped to the ground.

Blood pooled around him, soaking through his clothes. Looking up, Jory found the lieutenant’s face had turned three shades of green, and the man appeared ready to vomit. Jory tried to reach out a hand, but the creature grabbed the lieutenant and dragged him out of Jory’s sight.

Did the lieutenant not realize what manner of evil he’d aligned himself with?

As Jory’s life’s blood flowed from him, the commander realized it was him who had been duped. He’d been so concerned about the chain of command and maintaining the status quo that he’d forgotten that true security necessitates that one takes risks. Jory had let the Hero, the only one amongst them who still remembered what real courage was, to be rousted from town.

Now, Last Hitch would pay a steep price for its own short-sightedness.

With the demon ruling the roost, fires would blaze and blood would flow. Jory lay there dying, knowing that he had only himself to blame.

The path is chosen

Blood calls

A love is tested

CHAPTER 19

Holt gently laid his mother down onto a bed of straw. Not quite the four-poster featherbed she was used to, but under the circumstances, it was the best he could do. Sele had been right. The garrison had sent dozens of soldiers back to house. Right now, the guards were combing each floor trying to find them.

With no magic of his own to speak of, Holt had to use other tricks to out-maneuver the guards. Perhaps his skills were not as flashy as the rest of his family’s, but they got the job done.

He and his mother were in luck that the old Governor Maelek had been as paranoid as he was cruel. Hanger’s Mansion had so many hidden passages and secret rooms that they might be able to hide for weeks beneath the basement. Unfortunately, his mother did not have many hours, let alone weeks, left.

Crooning to the bat, Holt brought Fright over to his mother. With each shallow breath, the old woman was drawing closer to the Black. The steely resolve he’d shown Sele was weakening. What if his mother refused the Rite? Could he truly let his mother die? Holt shook off his confusion and looked to Fright one more time. “Do you submit to the Rite freely? Will you give your life’s blood, with no remorse?”

Since Holt was not blessed with animal-speak, Fright simply flapped his wings and bobbed his small, triangular-shaped head. At least that had gone according to ritual. Leaning over, Holt roused his mother.

“Fright is ready, Ma. I just need you to start the incantation.”

“What?” his mother asked, looking confused and dazed. It seemed she’d already lost her sight and stared into the Black. “Holt? Are you there?”

Her weak hands clutched Holt’s. This was far more painful than he had ever imagined. How Holt wished his sister were there. Sele would not waver in the face of grief.

“Mother, Fright is ready. I cannot start the Rite. You need to provide the invocation.”

To his relief, his mother licked her lips. “Say them with me, son. I may forget a word or two…”

Holt squeezed her hand as tears sprung to his eyes. If even a single syllable was out of place, the last of her magic would be extinguished, with no way to reignite the flame of life within her. Damn the soldiers who had rousted Sele from Last Hitch. His sister could provide the spark of magick that was needed to begin the Rite without risking their mother’s last pinch of strength.

“I will begin.” Holt cleared his throat and recited the incantation. “Blood of blood. Love of Love. Pain of Pain. I call to thee.” Holt paused while his mother feebly mumbled the passage after him. He had best hurry before she was too weak to speak at all. “My womb is dry. My heart is weak. My skin is pale. I call to thee.” This time his mother’s words slurred at the end. Dear gods, had he waited too long? The last portion of the incantation came out in a rush. “Bless this knife. Bless this room. Bless this passage of Life. Ekoli, Goddess of the Light, I call to thee.”

Madame Hesper’s lips moved, but barely any air came out. Would it be enough?

Holt smiled as a warm breeze stirred in the windowless room. After all these years, and everything that he had been through, witnessing raw, undiluted magick still amazed him. The room glowed with a warm, orange light and smelled of honeysuckle and lemon. Fright stretched his wings and let the charged air pass over his gnarly bones.

A woman, a goddess, really, dressed only in moonlight, floated through the solid wall and into the barren, dirt-floored room. Ekoli’s smile wavered as she studied the old woman on the bed. The goddess’ voice rang with sympathy and surprise.

“How can this be? She is thrice graced.”

Holt could only nodded in response. His voice was temporarily strangled by the spirit’s beauty. “The Snowy Maiden claimed her birthright.”

“Oh.” It was not really a word. It was more like the sound of the ocean on a calm night.

“This Vampyr has fed of her blood and is offering his own in return.”

“It will not suffice.”

Holt’s mind raced. What was she talking about? He tried to frame the question so as not to insult the spirit. “Great Ekoli, I do not understand.”

“Once the maw is opened, it will need far more than Fright’s blood to close it,” the goddess said as her eyes rested upon Madame Hesper.

“Then it is hopeless?”

“Nay.” A mixture of sadness and resignation crossed the goddess’ face. “I knew one day this moment would come. I just had not known it would be so soon…”

“Ekoli, I don’t—”

“Your mother’s reserve is vast. The magick she harbored was of such magnitude that it will take an equal offering to save her life.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? It will take Fright, yourself—”

“Me?” Holt’s breath felt tight in his chest. “How… ? What?”

“Let us not be shy, Holt Delant Hesper. I know that you be part Vampyr.”

* * *

Traven pulled up on Lauger’s reins as Pale slowed before him. The snow swirled so violently that if the wolf strayed even a foot, they were lost. Pale sent an image of the Fold. Its entrance should be at this very spot.

“Are you sure?” Traven asked.

Pale did not bother to send his annoyance. The look on the canine’s face was quite clear. He was certain. He was Wolf.

Traven sent his apologies and stood up in his stirrups. He squinted against the fierce wind. Folds were just as hard to find in real life as they were in legend.

Still, he’d assumed that Pale had an open invitation and that this trek would be far easier than the last. Traven could see the Princess’ hands shake in her thick fur gloves. Glacial was perfection given form, but the Princess would not last much longer against the harsh elements. She was meant to be gazed upon— worshipped from afar, not dragged through the Dead of Winter.

“Assist me, Hero.” The Princess held out a royal hand.

Traven dismounted and crossed to her side. At least she was calling him by a title, rather than by the disdainful name that normally rolled off her tongue, “human.”

“Princess, those boots won’t hold up to much—”

“Silence.”

Shrugging, Traven helped the Giant down from Pale’s back. He had gotten used to Glacial’s imperial attitude. For a moment, back at the cave’s mouth, when her loss was fresh and her icy exterior cracked, Traven had actually felt sorry for her. But now, after hours of being lectured to on the advantages of cloistering, Traven had had quite enough of her.

Just as the Hero was ready to urge the Princess back up onto Pale, Glacial reached out her hand as if to push open a door. Before them, light shown through an archway. The warm smell of cinnamon wafted out over the biting snow. Traven would know that aroma anywhere. His mouth watered at the thought of cider. Pale’s mind was already far ahead of them, drooling for his carrion.

Glacial was the only one who seemed stunned by the opening. Which was odd, since she had been the very one to open it. Almost as if testing to be sure it had been her hand, Glacial waved her palm again, closing the orifice. Then she opened the portal once again.

“It worked,” the Princess said in wonder. The Giant’s face transformed from the steely mask she wore like a crown into a creature of pure beauty. But as quickly as her inner light shown through, it flickered out of existence. Glacial’s voice could cut through a wall of ice. “Check the passage.”

Traven bristled at her tone, but by now he had learned not to argue. Pale, unconcerned with stately mandates, surged ahead. The thoughts of rich drink and musty meat were thick in the wolf’s mind. Before Traven could cross the threshold, Emerald, the singular most annoying of any creature Traven had ever met, flew into the Hero’s face.

“How dare you!” the Faery snapped.

Traven smiled, stepping past the buzzing Faery and indicated toward Glacial. “I did not. She did.”

His smile deepened as Glacial and Emerald faced off. This was going to be good. Both women arched and postured silently, sizing each other, testing to see who would cow first. Traven let Lauger have his head to nibble at the moss-lined walls. It might be a while before they were able to indulge in the Fold’s hospitality.

Emerald spoke first. It seemed the Faery did not have the patience of the Giant. “I will have an answer.”

The Princess shrugged in her best royal indifference. “I am Glacial A’A’Mond Vestive of the Mountain Hearth. I am entitled to the full bounty of this Fold.”

The Faery snorted and flew up into Glacial’s face. “You, perhaps, but this one? I did not think a sovereign-borne like yourself would keep such company.”

“Do not insult me, Faery. I am the result of a thousand years of noble breeding to produce The Bride. The Gathering appointed this human my escort.”

“Then perhaps I had best speak to your Chieftains. This is folly! You will only make matters worse.”

Glacial’s back stiffened, and her features coalesced into an icy mask. “We follow the lay of the land and the song of the stone—”

The Faery interrupted, very unimpressed by the Giant’s words. “Where is Grave? Why is he not in your party?”

Despite the Princess’ best effort, her voice shook and warbled. “They were… My people are…”

Traven stepped forward. Despite his annoyance at Glacial’s haughty manner, he could not watch her crumble. Traven spoke into the gaping silence. “Volatics attacked. There may be a few survivors, but last we witnessed, Grave was under sustained attack.”

To his shock, the Faery’s wings stopped their frantic beating, fluttering only intermediately. All color drained out of Emerald’s skin and dress. Traven found himself cupping his hands and catching the failing Faery. She briefly lighted onto his palm, groping for words.

“How…? There has not been such an attack for… for…” Suddenly, Emerald’s skin flared a bright red, and her wings snapped sharply, propelling the Faery from Traven’s hands. “All the more reason to consult the Quorum. They will be assembled within the fort moon.”

The princess took in a breath and steadied her voice before continuing. “By then, Winter’s grip may become a vice, unbreakable. We dare not tally.”

“You will stay here until the Quorum convenes. Then it will be decided what course you shall take.” Glacial tried to interrupt, but the Faery cut her off. “You shall be my…” The Faery tripped over the next word, as if it was hard for her to pronounce. “Guests until that time.”

Glacial bristled. “Prisoners is more the term. You have no right to block my passage, Guardian.”

“I have the right, if I can find the way, Princess. Do not forget that. The Quorum will decide who had the lawful claim here today.”

Glacial’s ears burned red, and her cheeks were heated, but her tone remained cold. “Yes, we shall see.”

Traven was surprised that the princess yielding so easily and was caught off-guard when she strode past him. He turned to follow and had to jerk Lauger’s reins to get the horse to leave behind such good forage. Emerald buzzed in front of him. “I said nothing of you and yours, human.”

Perhaps the Faery was confusing him with the Hero who had wandered into her Fold a few days ago. Emerald obviously had no idea who she dealt with now. The Hero no longer quaked at her insults or winced at her harsh words. Glacial rudeness, at the very least, had forged his will and tempered his constitution. He did not flinch from the Faery.

“Where the Ice Princess goes, I go.”

“She, I must allow. You—”

“Do you not recognize me, Emerald? I have an equal right to this Fold. I am The Man Who Did Not Know.”

Obviously the news was a much a shock to her as it had been to the Hero. Traven relished the look on the Faery’s face. Contorted, Emerald tried to hurl another insult, but fell short of the mark.

“You’ve played the part well, human.”

Traven smoothly walked past her, smiling. “Thank you.”

* * *

Holt felt blood rise to his cheeks. Shame overwhelmed his capacity to speak. How had Ekoli known his darkest secret? Did it show so clearly upon his face? Even if it did not, there was no point in denying it to the spirit. If the goddess knew, she knew. Instead, he hurled an excuse.

“I have never mingled blood with Mother.”

“Then you’d best hurry. We do not have much time.”

Shock and horror froze Holt’s body in place. He wanted to stammer out a thousand objections, but his lips refused to cooperate.

The goddess’ words were calm and soothing. “I know you have never fed on a human before, Holt. I commend you, but now is not the time to stand on principle.”

Holt could not believe what the spirit suggested. To feed on his own mother? To break an oath that had stood for decades? His mother’s hand squeezed on his own. Her words came out as the faintest whisper. “Do as your heart directs, son. I will not have it any other way.”

But what did you choose when your heart was cleaved in two? He could not lose his mother, but, just as surely, he could not imagine drinking her blood.

“You must choose, Holt.” The goddess floated near the ceiling, her body encased in a glowing shimmer of light.

Slowly, Holt allowed his canine teeth to elongate. He felt the rush of hunger as his skin stretched to accommodate his growing fangs. As the change progressed, the idea of feeding on his mother became less distasteful. And for that, he hated the Curse even more. Holt could now hear his mother’s failing heart. Each beat was like a tiny flutter rather than a bounding stroke. For a moment, he feared taking even a teaspoon of her precious blood.

Ekoli must have sensed his concern. “A drop. No more.”

Holt contained his blood lust enough to nod before bringing his mother’s wrist to his mouth. The sweat smelled sweet, and the pallor to her skin no longer looked grotesque. It was the color of all things dying.

Shaking off the Curse’s nasty voice, Holt nicked her wrist with his tooth. Blood welled. The aroma of iron assaulted his nose. How he lusted to sink his teeth into the flesh and take his fill. But Holt was still a man foremost, and he constrained himself to lick the single drop from her skin.

“Take the dagger and mark both Fright and yourself.”

Still struggling with his awakened hunger, Holt did as the goddess commanded.

“Hand me the weapon.” Ekoli held the knife up to the light. “Mix your blood with hers.”

Grinding his teeth, Holt allowed his blood and Fright’s to pour over his mother’s wrist. Something deep and primordial within the Vampyr’s soul railed at the waste. That blood should be his— all his. Holt was so mired in his own struggle that he barely noticed Ekoli hesitate for a moment.

Soon, though, her words rang out, and the room throbbed with power. The bat’s rapid heartbeat and his mother’s own dying heart began to beat at the same pace— Holt’s pace. He could feel his strength seep from his wound and into his mother.

Within the span of a few breaths, Holt felt as though his life was being sucked out of him. He dared not break the contact even though his own life was in danger. The world needed his mother far more than it needed another cursed Vampyr hybrid.

“There you are wrong,” Ekoli said as if she had read Holt’s mind.

Holt turned in time to see the goddess bury the knife hilt-deep into her own abdomen.

“No!” Holt shouted, but it was too late.

As orange blood flowed from the wound, the goddess bathed her hands in the fluid, then took the Madame’s hand in her own. A shock wave rocked the room, blowing the hay into the air and bowling all four of them over. Holt’s head exploded in pain as it collided with the earthen wall. The flash of light had blinded him. Stars floated before his eyes as he tried to focus on the floor.

Struggling to his feet, Holt lurched across the room. Fright flopped about in the far corner, but Holt came upon Ekoli first. Shockingly, she was crumpled upon the floor. All the light that had clothed the goddess had fled. Reaching his hand out, Holt found the spirit to now have substance— flesh and blood.

Suddenly, Holt was acutely aware of Ekoli’s nakedness. Her body was near perfect, with the exception of the ivory-handled knife that protruded from her skin. Red blood oozed down her exposed belly.

Holt’s heart begged to check on his mother, but he could not bring himself to leave the fallen goddess.

“Take it from me,” Ekoli moaned as her hands explored the damage to her perfect abdomen.

“Goddess—”

“I am a deity no longer. Pull the knife,” the being entreated.

Holt hesitated. He wasn’t even sure what the protocol was when touching a holy spirit let alone pulling a weapon from one’s mortal wound. Very human tears sprang to the goddess’ eyes.

“Please. It hurts.” Her words were pained with a hint of surprise.

Holt gripped the hilt and closed his eyes. The blade slid out with sickening ease as Ekoli gasped and clutched at the now-gaping wound. Green and black now mingled with the bright red blood. Overcoming his embarrassment, Holt covered the wound with his hands. Putting pressure on the wound caused the bleeding to slow but did not stop the leakage.

“How… how did this happen?” Holt stammered out.

“Did you think your two’s offering would be enough?” The goddess tried to chuckle, but pain griped her. “Your mother is one of the last.”

Glancing around, Holt could not find the ailing Madame. Fright now lay motionless on the cold dirt floor. Blood still seeped from the goddess wound. Had any of this been worth the price?

“Ekoli, I’m sorry, this wound… this wound is mortal.”

“Do not be so quick to judge, young man.”

Holt turned to find his mother shoving him to the side. Scooting on his heel, Holt made room for her. “Mother. You are—”

“Busy. Here. Hold more firmly.”

He did not know what he had expected, but Holt found his mother healthier than she had been in years. Her skin glowed soft, and her manner had the strength Holt remembered from his childhood.

“Do you know where my specter is?” his mother asked.

Before Holt could answer, Ekoli interrupted. “It will be no use. Nothing magickal can touch me now.”

“Is it part of the pact?” the Madame asked.

“It is the price I pay for abdicating my divinity.”

His mother nodded solemnly, but Holt could not believe what he was hearing. “There must be something we can—”

“Aye. If I relied upon magick alone, I could not rightfully call myself a healer. We need to get into my herb stash. We can use the sheep-gut thread to bind the edges.”

“The soldiers are still above us.”

Madame Hesper spat upon the ground. “Once Ekoli is out of danger, they will taste my disappointment.” Tearing a strip of cloth from her skirt to use as a bandage, his mother continued. “I will surrender myself and draw them from the house—”

“Mother, you are the healer, not I. It should be me to go—”

His mother put her hand onto his shoulder, giving it a compassionate squeeze to blunt the force of her words. “It is daylight, son. You cannot go above ground.”

Shame and anger warred within him. Holt had thought himself resigned to the Curse, but after a few mentions of it, Holt felt as helpless as he had when he was but a teen.

“I shall instruct you. Then lead them away like a magpie. I will tell them you abandoned me to save your own hide. Once we have left the house, you get the proper supplies, then hole up here again. I’ll come get you on the morrow.”

“Mother—”

“Shh. Do you think I do not know it is a trap upstairs? Do you think I cannot feel the evil forces brewing above our very heads? Please, Holt. We must work quickly.”

Holt felt as sullen as he had as a child. His mother was off taking all of the risk while he stayed home to nursemaid. After all these years, one would think that patterns could change. But Fate must have liked her original scheme of things, for she kept repeating it over and over again. Holt gave a brief nod but could not look into his mother’s eyes.

Would the Curse’s punishment never end?

CHAPTER 20

Traven lay awake, staring at the ceiling of his chamber within the Fold. The roof was much lower in this room than it had been at the Hearth. Had it only been the previous night when Grave had escorted Traven to the Giants’ mountainous home?

So much had happened in such short a time that it made the Hero’s brow ache and his stomach tie in knots. As much as he wished to prove himself worthy, Traven was more than a bit glad that the Faery had prevailed over Glacial. It was nice to stop and rest his aching bones.

Pale had wholeheartedly agreed. The wolf was curled up beside Traven’s bed, having another glorious hunt dream. Pale was less the adventurer and more the pragmatist. It seemed the White Wolves believed that one could certainly fight a lot better on a full stomach. Not that Traven argued tonight. The roasted snow goose and honeyed ale had slid down quite comfortably. The Hero felt that he could take down a dozen Voltaics. There was nothing like rest and a warm safe haven to make one feel his bravest.

The wolf whimpered in his sleep, and his huge white paws paddled violently— strange, it must have been a nightmare of some sort. Traven considered eavesdropping on Pale’s dream, but a noise at his door called his attention. A small figure entered the room as Traven swung out of bed. Before he could unsheathe his sword, the shadow leapt forward.

“Boo!”

Traven’s hands flew to his face until he realized it was the boy, Loplop. “Child, do not startle me so.”

“Why not, it was fun!” Loplop answered gleefully as he sat down and began stroking the wolf’s thick fur. Immediately, Pale’s frantic paddling subsided, and the wolf began to snore again. “Do you still have the game pieces?”

Trying to control his wildly beating pulse. “Yes, I’ll get them for you.”

“No need. I got more. See?” The boy’s face beamed with pride as he carefully set down each chipped piece. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Traven dutifully nodded but questions rose to his mind. “Who are you? Really?”

“Loplop, ‘member?”

Holding the boy’s wrist in his hand, the Hero gently pulled the child forward. “I saw you out on the plains, and you disappeared in the Shaman’s room. I ask again, who are you truly?”

“You’re just like all the rest. You don’t want to play. Fine, I will find someone else.” The child tugged away and headed for the door.

“Loplop, no. Please. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I just have… I just have some questions.”

The boy’s radiant smile returned. “That’s what the game is for! If we play another round, you might find the answers you’re looking for.”

There was no doubt in Traven’s mind that Loplop was baiting him.

Perhaps even bluffing him, but Traven could not say no to the innocent mischief in the child’s eyes. How greatly the boy reminded Traven of his little brother, Brax. In another time and place, the two youngsters might have been grand playmates. “You start.”

Loplop clapped and began organizing his pieces. Quickly, a frown clouded his features for a moment. “I’m missing the stag’s horn. Do you have it?”

Traven remembered the strange happenings out on the Plains and searched his pieces before answering. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Probably that girl you’re with stole it. She’s trouble…”

Ears perking, Traven inquired further. “You mean Glacial? The Ice Princess?”

“Icy Fool is more like it.” The child could pout like no other.

“Did she refuse to play?”

The boy snorted as he nodded. A tear sprang to his eyes. “She has her room warded. She’s not very nice, you know.”

Traven nodded in full agreement. Loplop was actually understating the case a bit. “What else do you know of her?”

“Why would I want to know anything else?” The boy’s voice wandered off, and when it returned, it had an urgency that sounded quite unlike the boy’s usual demeanor. “When the time comes, you must listen with your heart and not your eyes. She is a Giant, but very small.”

Traven was about to ask for clarification, but a stir at the doorway diverted his attention.

The Ice Princess crossed the threshold in a rush. “Come, Hero. We must be gone.”

Turning back, Traven found that Loplop once again had vanished. The boy was harder to latch on to than a slime eel. “Princess, it is late. You should be resting.”

“The Faeries have retired and posted no guards. We must take advantage of the opportunity.”

Traven noticed the princess had changed back into her traveling clothes— boots and all. “Glacial, you heard Emerald—”

“The Faery?” The Princess waved a hand dismissively. “Our race is older and entrusted with far more sense than that flock. You heard Grave. You took the oath. Will you forfeit your honor?”

Traven bristled at her tone. The argument woke the wolf, who was none too happy about it either. “He said nothing about a time table, Princess. You yourself admitted we were leaving the Hearth far earlier than expected.”

“And do you remember why? Do you think that was a random attack? Who do you think they were seeking to destroy? This floor is made of stone, like the Hearth. There is no reason the Voltaics won’t seek me out here.”

“Glacial, this is a Fold. We are protected by the Faeries—”

“The Faeries have always used the Giants as their sword arms, Hero. They will be no match for the Voltaics if the beasts choose to attack. The faster we move, the less the chance that the creatures will home in on us.”

The princess stood proud and angry. She defied him to find a flaw in her logic. The problem was that the Hero could not. He’d assumed the Fold was immune to the vulnerabilities of any other abode. If what Glacial said was true, giving the Voltaics a moving target was by far the best strategy.

But Emerald must know all of this. Why then would she bar their exit? Traven knew if he asked the Faery, that she would never answer him fully, and then she would be wise to the Princess’s desire to venture forth. He had no doubt Emerald would post guards if she knew of the Giant’s intent.

Traven queried Pale, who was already trying to get back to sleep. The wolf refused to answer, instead sending back images of a banquet of food that they would have for breakfast, and lunch, and dinner, and so on. Traven could not help but smile secretly. The wolf was nothing if not consistent.

“Pale refuses to budge this night—”

“You allow yourself to be ruled by that dog?”

Stepping forward, anger flared in Traven. The Princess had gone too far this time. “I am ruled by no one, Princess. Not him, nor you.” The force of his words had backed the Giant up a step, and he let the effect sink in before continuing. “He is my bond-mate, and if he thinks this idea’s folly, I heed his counsel. Grave himself entreated me to always seek the wolf’s guidance.”

“Grave is not here, Hero. You must think for yourself.”

Loplop’s words haunted him. What had the boy said about the Princess? Traven backed away and listened to the Princess’ next retort with new ears.

“My path is clear. It is away from here.”

How noble and righteous she might sound to some, but now Traven heard the scared little girl within. She feared for her life and feared for her people if she should fail. It was not bravery that fueled her words, but fear that she was not brave enough. Traven searched for a way to deny her, but his heart surprised him. Inside her convoluted reasoning was a spark of truth. Somehow he sensed the rightness of her desire. They must leave, and tonight.

Traven sent another thought to Pale, but the wolf was already up and ready for their departure. He gave no protest to Traven’s request to scout the hallways.

“We’ll need to tack Lauger.”

The Princess seemed unsurprised that he had bent to her will. “Not where we are going.”

“And where would that be?”

“The Catacombs.”

Traven nearly stumbled. Granny had told that tale frequently. The Catacombs is where The Man Who Did Not Know met his end.

* * *

Crystalia’s eyelids felt heavy and tired. Her head pounded fiercely. Needles seemed to be stabbing up and down her legs. It was the worst agony she had ever known.

Through it all, there was a voice. Nagging, conjoling, begging her not to succumb to the darkness. Crystalia had tried to flee from the woman’s tone, but no matter how deeply she retreated, the woman was always there. The words were unclear, but the woman’s meaning was certain— do not let go.

So Crystalia had crawled and scraped her way back to consciousness. Upon the woman’s insistence, Crystalia had rekindled her magick and spread warmth throughout her near-frozen body. But each degree Crystalia heated cost her dearly. The pain was at times too much to bear, but always the voice refused to let her back away from the agony.

Now she could smell a mixture of sweet hay and bitter root. The material beneath her was coarse and scratched at her bare skin, while the cloth covering her was silky smooth. It was then that Crystalia first noticed she was buck naked. Her mind recoiled from the idea, but her body refused to care. It did not have the energy left to blush or feel ashamed.

After a moment, she realized that the incessant chatter in her head had stopped, replaced by the humming of an odd tone.

Prying her eyes open, Crystalia could make out the blurry image of a stout woman stirring a small pan. The healer had a look about her that Crystalia vaguely recognized. Full-figured, the woman had black hair tied back with a simple muslin cord.

Crystalia blinked twice, then a third time. The fire beneath the pan, instead of glowing orange and yellow, flared blue and green as the lady threw glittering clay into the flames. The woman turned and knelt down beside Crystalia.

“Madame Hesper?” the girl’s parched throat asked.

“No, child,” the woman answered as she offered Crystalia some broth. “I’m her daughter, Sele.”

“Sele,” Crystalia croaked out as she sipped the hot mixture. Scavaging through her mind, Crystalia tried to think of what she should say to the daughter of the woman who died so that Crystalia might carry on. “I’m sorry. I did not know it would happen. I didn’t—”

“Shh. I know now. You are blameless.”

“But if I hadn’t gone to the house…”

The woman shook her head sadly. “If you had not come, the Fates would have found another way to make the transfer. This is out our hands, child. We can only walk the path given to us.”

If only Crystalia’s guilt could be laid aside so easily. Pursuing her heart had cost others so much already. Madame Hesper, her father, Viola. They must both be mad with worry. Carefully, Crystalia tried to sit up, but the woman held her back.

“You shouldn’t rise. You are too weak.”

Crystalia pushed past the woman’s restraining hand. Bile was flowing up her throat, and if she did not get upright, there would be a mess. Her throat burning, she let out a loud burp. Embarrassed, Crystalia’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Sour stomach?” Sele asked as she rummaged through a satin bag. “Here, chew on this.”

Crystalia took the leaf into her mouth. It had a delicate, pepperminty taste which immediately calmed her tumultuous tummy.

“Slowly there. It won’t do to have you ill again.”

Moving her jaw more deliberately, Crystalia surveyed the room. Actually, it was Sele’s wagon. Crystalia had seen it pull up to her rescue. There was no sign of the freakish boy, however. It would never do to be rude to one who risks his life for you, but Crystalia was frightened by that one. He had a wild look about him. Crystalia turned to find the woman watching her, patiently.

“Forgive my lack of courtesy. My name is Crystalia.”

“The Snowy Maiden. Mother told me.” The woman bowed her head in reverence.

Crystalia’s cheeks reddened. She was not used to such courtesy from adults. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“It was not I, child. You have Ornery to thank for that.”

Now that would be an awkward moment. It was not that she did not appreciate the boy’s efforts, but Crystalia had never been good around the impaired. They made her skin prickly and unsettled.

Thinking of skin, Crystalia looked down upon her marked palm. Her lifeline was steady and strong— once again wrapping its way around the meat of her hand. To her shock, on her right palm, Traven’s symbol was straight ahead and almost too close to be true.

“May I?” Sele asked.

Shyly, Crystalia held out her palm. It felt odd to share her secret with a stranger, but somehow she trusted the woman completely. “This is far closer than he’s been.”

“Aye. From the location I would bet he is in the Fold.”

Crystalia’s eyes dilated. “The Fold? You mean… you mean…”

“Yes, child, there are Folds. Just as in the legends. Seven of them. The nearest is the Cider Fold. For reasons that will be obvious when you get there.”

“Have you… Have you ever been there?”

The woman shook her head. “No. I’ve been to the Triangle, Lamb and Powder Folds. Each one is the same, only very different. Understand?”

Crystalia did not understand, but nor did she care. They were talking about Folds! Openly, without a single concern, so that anyone might hear. But then again, there was no real danger from superstitious townsfolk way out here.

“Is it like the tales? Are they grand? Are they—”

“Enough talk, child. You need to rest. You will see for yourself in a few short hours.”

“But—”

“I’ve laid out some clothes. They should be a good fit.” Sele turned and headed to the front of the wagon. “Let me know if you have need of anything else.”

The woman’s firm yet kind tone made Crystalia rapidly recover her own social graces. “No, I should be quite settled. Thank you.”

Sele smiled graciously and left. Crystalia was nowhere near settled, but she also knew that the woman was well aware of her fib. Sele obviously felt Crystalia needed time to digest all of the information she had been given. But how could Crystalia think when Traven was so near? Her heart thrilled at the notion. Within hours, she would see her beloved.

A near-death experience was well worth the price.

* * *

Ornery spun in his seat when he heard Miss Emmert approach. “Is she all right? Is she awake?”

Miss Emmert chuckled softly and patted his knee. “Yes to both. Her lifeline is stable. She is out of danger. Her hand shows that the Hero is just ahead at the Fold.”

Ornery frowned. He did not like talk of another male so close to their beautiful passenger. “Who is this Hero?”

His caretaker shrugged. “If the Snowy Maiden is drawn to him, he must be The Man Who Did Not Know.”

His mind swirled. Ornery had heard tales of this man before, but they were of myth— and he said so. “It’s a myth. Even if he were real, he lived and died long ago.”

“As the Centaurs did?” Miss Emmert said with a sly smile. Ornery stammered, but Miss Emmert continued. “All those stories you heard by the fireside, they all have parts and pieces that are steeped in truth. The ones that are true prophecies are as unbelievable as the out-right fantasies. You must listen for the ring of genuineness, not accuracy, if you wish to know the future.”

“But even the tale says it’s from the past.”

“Child.” Her tone was sharp for a moment, but then a tired smile crossed her face. “You are bright enough to know those fables are but parables. Teaching tools of the ancients to guide us in our lives.”

Ornery was still miserably confused. “Why did they intentionally mislead us?”

“The answers are there for those who work for them. It would not do to have all the gems of wisdom lying about. Besides, it had you thought all those stories in the taverns were to be studied like your school books, would you have listened?”

Ornery could only look away and shake his head “no.”

“Of course not. What child would sit through tedious retellings of the same story if it was good from them? No, the ancients were wise to our fickleness and dressed up their most sacred knowledge in legend and myth.”

“Then the tale of Snowy Maiden is a prophecy?”

Miss Emmert sighed deeply. “Aye. We have always thought so, but now with Mother dying…”

It was Ornery’s turn to squeeze his caretaker’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I.” Miss Emmert sat a bit straighter and squeezed his hand back. “At least now I know that it wasn’t for naught. This child is the genuine Maiden. You can smell it on her hair.”

Ah, the scent of the girl. The boy definitely had smelled it. Ornery could be a thousand leagues away, and he could track her aroma. But he was pretty sure that was not what Miss Emmert was talking about.

“After we reach the Fold, will we seek out Father?”

“Aye. Once we are sure she is in the Hero’s care, we will strike east.”

Suddenly, Ornery was not quite so eager to travel to the Steppes, not if it meant leaving the girl behind. Ornery tightened his grip on the reins. The Fates were cruel.

Could they never just let a boy have his dreams? Even for a day?

* * *

Madame Hesper intentionally slipped on the slick cobblestone street and nearly fell to her knees. A guard roughly caught her arm and righted her gait. She murmured a feeble thanks. It was far better for the soldiers to believe that she was still mortally ill.

The cruelty of the men around her, though, was a bit shocking. They had forced her to walk across the main square, rather than put her into a buggy. Sele had been right. Something evil lurked in their town, and now it wished the old woman dead as well.

A man jumped in front of Madame Hesper, waving an old kitchen knife. “It’s her, I tell ye! She bewitched my girl!”

Madame Hesper stumbled back as the man made several futile stabs in her direction. She noticed how the guards had not bothered to intervene. A young girl, one Madame Hesper vaguely recognized, bawled and wailed behind the attacker. This whole event smacked of a bad stage production. What was not so humorous was the growing mob drawn by the hysterics of the child.

“She’s evil! She killed my daughter.”

The blonde girl sobbed, “She’s a witch!”

This pronouncement brought a rumbling from the crowd. People Madame Hesper had known for years now stared at her fearfully. How quickly feelings could change. Each one of these townsfolk had benefited from her healing skills. Over the decades, the old woman had made sure to be of service to each. Each family had needed her at one time or another. Unfortunately, they were collectively forgetting those old debts.

The same lieutenant as the night before strutted forward through the crowd. The smirk on his face told Madame Hesper she would find no friend here. She tried to sound desperate, which was not so far from the truth.

“I want to see the Garrison Commander.”

“He is away on business. I am in charge here.”

The news took Madame Hesper by surprise. The Garrison Commander never left his post. That was what couriers and runners were for. Even the Governor, if he wished to see the Commander, face to face, had to travel to Last Hitch to do so.

The white frontier was a harsh and unmerciful environment which favored cutthroat, lawless behavior. No, the Commander was not away on business. He was either dead or taken hostage. Madame Hesper sighed heavily. The Commander was not only her protection, but he had once been a good friend. Her friend would never allow this to transpire if he was still alive.

“I want an audience before the Governor.”

The lieutenant scowled and spit at her. “He won’t see the likes of you, witch. We can mete out justice here, just fine.”

Madame Hesper had to remind herself that she was supposed to be deathly ill. The medium leaned on the guard for support, only to find him back away— all the better. She needed to look helpless and weak. “Jail me, then. I will eagerly await my trial. It will vindicate these false charges.”

“Do not try to twist these proceedings to your own will. We know you for what you are. Do not worry. You will have your trial.” The man was near giddy with excitement. “By fire.”

The crowd parted slightly to reveal a stake encircled with kindling. Madame Hesper sobbed a bit, not for herself but for the absent Commander. If this young whelp was so audacious, all of the lieutenant’s senior officers must be dead. Once the lieutenant put the torch to the wood, there would be no going back. This cruel man did not intend to stay within these walls after her death. But where did he plan to go and with whom?

Harsh whispers and curses bubbled from the crowd. Each one of these people was good at heart, but you could hardly tell that now. Sele had been right. Winter had changed them. One could always put on another jacket or scarf, but it seemed the soul was not so easily sheltered.

“You stand accused of witchcraft, most heinous woman. Do you repent?”

How little the arrogant man knew. If the officer was aware of even half of her power, he most likely would have shat in his own pants. But now was not the time to reveal herself. She needed to buy time for Ekoli to heal enough to travel. Once the goddess was fit for the road, this pasty man would live to regret his trespass.

Madame Hesper could not help but pause for a moment. Events were dovetailing so quickly that if you blinked, you were lost. The prophecies had promised years, if not decades, between incidents. Instead, they were separated by a few sunsets. As much as she wished to lash out, she must restrain herself and wait for the right moment. Their escape with the fallen goddess was crucial. “I wish to question my accusers.”

The girl was summoned forward, her face stained with tears.

At first the blonde stammered, but then her voice strengthened. “I am Viola, closest friend of Crystalia. You all know of our bond.” The girl paused as murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd. Either the girl was a skilled speaker, or she was just plain lucky. “Crystalia came to me last night and told me that Madame Hesper had summoned her. She feared for her life, but feared worse how the Madame would retaliate if she did not obey the summons.”

It was of no use, Madame Hesper knew, to cry foul.

The girl lied, but why?

Taking a closer look, the medium realized why she had not recognized the girl earlier. Certainly, the blonde had grown a head taller since Madame Hesper had seen her last, but it was something more. Her curls were a bit too blonde. Her curve a bit too comely for a girl of her age. No, Viola no longer stood in front of her. Something else did.

Still, Madame Hesper held her tongue. The issue was no longer if the mob believed her or not. It was about why this impostor was here and how she had swung the balance of power in her direction.

“You found my poor girl’s chutney smashed on her back step,” the father bellowed. With her new awareness, Madame Hesper found that even he was off.

For a simple man, enraged, the father certainly measured his words carefully. Even though his hands shook, his eyes were hard as flint. The skin seemed stretched too thin across his face, and his muscles rippled menacingly. The girl and he were in cahoots.

The lieutenant waved a bloody glove for all to see. “We found this in the Madame’s own bed chambers!”

Madame Hesper took a closer look at the officer. Certainly the lieutenant craved power and was willing to send a woman that he knew to be innocent to her death. But was he a monster? His eyes were filled with mad lust, but the officer had blood caked beneath his nails. He was a man, no more of that. She was certain. A demon of any worth would have licked those nails clean.

“Charles, is it not?” Madame Hesper asked.

The officer wavered for a moment.

“Do you not remember when I tended your frost-bite?”

“Another trick!” the lieutenant cried out. He turned back to the crowd and rallied them to a pitch of fervor.

Scanning the rest of the crowd, it appeared that her two accusers were the only unnaturals in the group. No matter what Viola and Crystalia’s father’s true form, Madame Hesper was certain she could edge past them. The problem was sparing the bystanders. Not that she saw much reason to think of her townsfolk’s wellbeing, but she would not become what she despised.

Cries and shouts for blood rang through the courtyard. A hunger for pain and sacrifice welled up amongst the crowd. Winter truly had taken away their senses. Was it not bad enough that they had rousted the Hero? Why accuse her? She had been nothing but kind to these people. For all that good it would do her now.

“Stop!” a shout rose above the murderous din. “Stop, I say!”

Madame Hesper let out a sigh of relief. It was the baker, a man of few words but many brains. His wife had died in childbirth, but the medium had been able to pull the babe from the dead woman’s belly. The man had promised to remember her gift even in the darkest hour.

At least one of the townsfolk honored his vows.

“Have you all gone round the bend? This is the woman that has time and again saved us all!” The baker pulled his son, now a strapping boy of fifteen, before the crowd. “Without Madame Hesper, I would have no family! Is this how we treat our only healer?”

“She’s a witch, not a healer!” someone shouted.

The baker swung around and tried to identify the anonymous voice. “You, Macabe, you would have died last winter. And you, Molly. Did she not cure your cough? Does no one remember all that she has done for us?”

The mob began to break off into smaller subgroups. Some grumbled in apology while others wavered in their dedication to the burning. Still, a few called for her blood. Luckily, the baker was as attuned to the shift in the crowd as Madame Hesper was.

“You would burn her without a trial? You would believe words spoken in abject grief? This is why we have prison cells, to hold those thought guilty. Does she not deserve that respect?”

Catcalls lessened as the crowd began to part. The lieutenant, Crystalia’s father, and Viola all tried to speak at once, canceling each other’s voices.

The baker seized the opportunity to address the crowd again.

“Even if she is guilty, would you have her die with the secret of the girl’s whereabouts taken with her? What if the poor child is still alive? Are you willing to kill Crystalia along with the Madame?”

The crowd, for it really could not be called a mob anymore, had no coherent response. Shame and bewilderment rippled through the townsfolk.

The baker must have sensed the shift in the crowd. “We need to sort all this out. There will be time enough to punish her if she has done wrong.”

With those final words, the townsfolk scattered back to their homes. The lieutenant stood there, speechless. Half of his troops were pulled from Last Hitch, and not a one of them looked disposed to carry out his orders any longer. Viola and Crystalia’s father stammered, but the officer raised a restraining hand and spoke to his guards.

“Go back to the search. We will hold the witch for interrogation.”

The father tried to rush Madame Hesper, but this time the guard closed ranks and shielded her. A young guard that the medium had known all his life pushed the older man back, vowing to protect Madame Hesper until the trial. The old woman allowed herself to feel a bit of relief. The tide had turned. There would be no burning today.

The lieutenant hurried them into the courthouse and ordered her locked within a cell. Viola tried to follow, but the lieutenant insisted she go home. Anger flashed across the girl’s blue eyes, and for a moment, her pupils formed a horizontal slit. As quickly as they had transformed, they were back to a circle.

“I must stay—”

“Go home or I will be forced to call your father,” the lieutenant said.

The blonde looked furious but complied with the officer’s wishes.

“She’ll need clean linen and a water basin,” a voice called out from around the corner.

“Bailiff, do not go out of your way. She won’t be here long.”

Madame Hesper agreed, but for very different reasons.

Luckily Bailiff Omar was on duty this day. She had saved his sister many winters ago from the pox. The disease had so disfigured the girl that the Bailiff had feared she might never find a marriage bed. But with Madame Hesper’s ointments and salves, the sister’s skin had healed to a ruddy, smooth complexion. She now lived in South Town with her husband and five children. It was said they had a house larger than even Hanger’s Mansion. It appeared Omar had not forgotten his words of thanks either.

Once the lieutenant flounced out, Madame Hesper squeezed the baker’s and bailiff’s hands before being shown into her cell. “Thank you. Thank you both.”

As the iron bars clanged shut, the baker replied, “Do not be so quick in your appreciation. I have bought scant hours, I think.”

The bailiff gave a questioning look, but the baker nodded towards the office. “Not here.” Turning to Madame Hesper, he said, “There now, lie down and get some rest. Should we be worried about your son, Ma’am?”

“Nay. He is safe on his own.”

The baker nodded and followed the bailiff into his office. The solid oak door was snugly closed behind them, but it was a trifling thing for Madame Hesper to hear everything they said.

“When we hear the commotion, we send Ax’s daughter to the Garrison for help. She says the place is near deserted.”

“How can that be?” the bailiff asked, skeptical of the news.

“This high-born lieutenant cannot be trusted. He is not from around these parts.”

Omar grunted in agreement. There was no greater sin on the Northern Plains than to have arisen from somewhere else. You were forever a “stranger.”

“You’d best gather some weapons. Spread the word, but only to those you trust and who are not stricken with grief-blinded eyes.”

The baker nodded as they exited the office. “Please take care of her. This town cannot afford to lose its healer.”

The bailiff agreed and led the baker out the back door. Madame Hesper hated to tell them that no matter the turn of events, she would be forever lost to them. Her place was at Sele’s side.

Madame Hesper lay down upon the lumpy cot and gathered her strength. When the moment came to act, it would be decisive and with more force than these small town folk could comprehend.

CHAPTER 21

Holt could taste the sun setting. The air always changed just as the globe dipped beneath the horizon. To his Vampyr blood it was a sweet invitation to climb out beyond the confining walls of man and enjoy the world as a Vampyr should.

Moonlight was as much his lover as any woman had ever been. Sadly, Holt had to admit that there had been scant few. Besides the obvious problems of his Curse, living with your odd, eccentric mother out in Last Hitch did not drive women into his embrace.

Until this one.

Ekoli slumbered fitfully within his arms.

After he’d cleansed and sewed her wound closed, the fallen goddess had thrashed violently. So forcefully that Holt had feared she would tear open her stitches. He had thrown a blanket over her naked form, but her curves were unhidden to his hands. He tried to keep his thoughts on anything else, but her fevered body lay so snugly in his arms, it was hard to think of aught else.

Holt knew he should be planning and scheming for the moment his mother needed him, but every moan of the fragile goddess begged his attention.

To think, he— the Cursed One— the one scoffed at by the Great Counsel and the Quorum— was the one to catch the beautiful Ekoli. But he would give up this honor if only to have her radiant once again in her divine splendor. It was grievous and somewhat frightening to see a goddess fall as she did. If the gods were so delicate, what did that speaks of man’s strength?

“Holt?”

“Yes, goddess?”

She shook her amber head. “Please, speak only of Ekoli.”

“But—”

“Do not remind me of what I have lost. Please.”

Holt nodded and released her from his grasp. Slowly, she moved to right herself. She looked weak and queasy, pain contorting her face into a mask of agony. “The fall from Grace was a bit more painful than I had anticipated.”

“Be careful—” Holt tried to warn her, but he was too late. She had tugged on the stitches and fresh blood oozed through her bandage.

“Is that normal?”

“If you move, it shall be.” Holt could not keep the concern from his voice. It had taken hours to stop the bleeding and fit the ragged wound back together. One stray misstep, and it could all come undone again.

The goddess smiled tightly. “Mortality is not as glamorous as the demigods made it out to be.”

As he put pressure on the wound, Holt joked with her to keep her mind from her suffering. “I think they just wanted to make you jealous. They say the same about divinity.”

Grimacing, Ekoli played along. “Ah, but in that they are correct. The Heavens are all that they are made out to—” The goddess had tried to be brave, but the pain overwhelmed her and she cried out.

“Just a moment longer.” Holt reassured her. Cautiously, he removed his hand from the wound. No fresh blood greeted him. Holt tried to remove the soiled bandage, but the goddess would not allow it.

“Your mother is in grave danger, Holt.”

“She knows—”

“Nay. Before I… before I was changed, I could sense a Drakol priestess and an acolyte.”

Holt pulled back. “A Drakol? It could not be. Mother would have sensed it.”

“The demon is draped in the human flesh that she consumed, as is her acolyte. Without my power from beyond, I would not have known either.”

Chewing on her words, Holt rocked back on his heel. His mother was gifted, even reviled, for her spectrum of power, but a Drakol could strike unaware and consume her soul before his mother could even raise a hand to stop them. Holt looked at the damaged goddess. Ekoli was nowhere close to being fit for travel, but he dared not leave his mother in the clutches of the townspeople too long. Especially as night approached, the time of power for the Drakol.

Holt rose. “I must warn her.”

“We must flee this town before the priestess finds out the all of it.”

The goddess was right. It seemed the Drakol were already determined to neutralize his mother. They obviously did not know of his state, nor that the Goddess of Light was here in the Mansion’s basement.

In Ekoli’s present state, a Drakol could swallow the previous goddess in a single bite.

With no other option, Holt allowed the Curse to begin its transformation. He needed to exercise caution, though. The Curse was powerful, and the more he allowed the Vampyr to surface, the more risk he might lose his human soul. But for once, he welcomed the appetite for blood and the surge of power that called for him to quench it.

The transformed Holt smiled. Whatever hunted his mother now had a predator all their own.

* * *

Traven turned swiftly in the tunnel, his sword ready, but once again, the movement was only a shadow, playing hide and seek.

Steadying his resolve, the Hero continued forward. Every inch of their journey though the Catacombs had been nerve-wracking. Not that anything of significance had occurred, but that just made it all the more unbearable.

The Ice Princess, unaware of Traven’s prophesized doom, strode forward with her royal arrogance leading the way. The Hero had begged Glacial to ride Pale, but in typical fashion, she had eschewed his counsel.

Now Traven could see that she stepped more gingerly, and her pace had fallen off. Those beautiful, tender feet were not up to the task of trekking across the broken rock that made up the Catacomb’s floor.

In a few hours, she would be blister-footed and in need of lancing.

Traven could not let Glacial’s wounded pride get in the way of their quest. Nor, the Hero realized, could he allow his own fears to do the same. There was nothing good gained by rushing along, heedless of the consequences. Any other commander would call a halt to the evening’s march and strike camp. Not that the princess was going to like this any better than she had any of his previous ideas.

Glacial had nearly given away their escape in her rage back at the Fold. Traven had refused to leave without Lauger and ample supplies. It had delayed their escape from the Fold no more than a quarter of an hour, but the Princess still fumed. Traven did not have any easy answer for her pointed questions.

If the Hero explained his deep need for Lauger, he would have to explain the prophecy.

Traven knew from long hours at Granny’s knee that Fate was Fate, but still he could not help but try to roll the odds in his favor. The fated tale of the Catacombs had no mention of Lauger along for the journey. A small sliver of Traven’s mind hoped that by changing one aspect of the quest that he could alter the outcome.

Pale padded alongside him and sent a strong image of rest. He could not disagree. The wolf only voiced Traven’s own concerns.

Reluctantly, Traven walked up alongside Glacial.

“We need to set up camp for the night.”

“We shall stop when I ordain it.” In a huff she strode forward, but each step brought a small grimace of pain.

“This trek is long, Princess. We will not reach a safe landing this eve. It is best to keep us sharp and keen for our long journey.”

Glacial turned. Her words a blast in his face. “Are you saying I am not up to the task that has been presented to The Bride?”

Listening with his heart, he could hear the girl’s fear. Inside that porcelain armor of hers lay a girl unsure of herself and her own potential. It appeared that the voice of fear was so loud in Glacial’s head that she was deaf to reason.

Sadly, this reminded him far too much of himself.

“Nay. I’m saying Lauger, Pale, and I are not up to continuing.” Traven shrugged, taking the blame away from the Princess. “A party is only as strong as its weakest link, m’lady. If you tug too hard, the chain will shatter.”

“You will do no such thing. I command you to follow.” With that said, Glacial stomped off, quickly reaching the edge of Traven’s torchlight. “Wolf to me.”

Instead of following, Pale lay down and curled beside Traven’s feet. Traven feared for the Princess’ safety if she left the circle of light, but the Hero also knew that he was right and would not allow her to bully him any further.

“None will follow, Glacial. Make your peace and stay within our protection.”

Glacial fumed. Her pale cheeks a bright, unhealthy pink.

“How dare you abandon your duty! I will have you flailed for this!”

If we make it out of this, I will happily submit myself to the whip, Traven thought but did not voice. It would do no good for her to know his deepest fears. She had enough of her own.

“My duty is to keep you safe from your enemies… and from yourself. Now come and sit while I start a small fire.”

The Princess spent a moment with her fists clenched, then turned on her heel and headed down the tunnel. Traven watched Glacial turn the corner. The Hero had a pang of concern, but Pale sent an image of a child finishing out a tantrum. The wolf was right. Glacial needed to know that Traven would not yield to her royal whims. There might be a time of immediate danger when the Princess needed to heed his warnings.

It took but a few breaths for Glacial to return, cowed and pale. The Princess came towards them, but sat on the far side of the newly formed camp.

Hugging herself, she tried to sound brave. “I could not continue without light.”

Traven nodded, smiling inside. That was about as much of a concession as he was going to get from the high-born Giant. He turned to Pale. “I will take the first watch.”

The wolf replied with a definitive “no.” Traven queried Pale with his mind, not wanting the princess to see that yet another of his party was so disagreeable. The wolf shrugged off the Hero’s concern. It was only right for that Pale to take first watch.

After all, the wolf had been the only one smart enough to rest before their journey. Traven shook his head at his own folly. There was a wisdom to the wolf’s ways. It did not take much convincing for Traven to agree to the second watch. With all the multitude of disasters and current tension, he could use a rest. Preferably, without dreaming of Granny.

* * *

Crystalia smiled broadly as she looked at her palm. More than the cold snap of the wind made her cheeks bloom red. “He has stopped again. See?”

Sele’s eyes looked from the darkened horizon to glance at the sexton. The woman nodded knowingly. “Good. It wouldn’t be beneficial if he slipped through the Fold before you could be reunited.”

Blushing, Crystalia smiled more deeply. The girl liked this woman. Sele treated Crystalia as someone so special that at times Crystalia did not realize the woman was talking to her. Sele spoke openly of the Snowy Maiden, and Folds, and Centaurs as if they were flesh and blood. The woman’s mere words helped Crystalia begin to believe, truly believe, that everything that had happened was real, not some long Winter-night’s dream.

“Are we far?” Crystalia still could not bring herself to pronounce the name of the place. For too many years the school marms had cracked the girls over the knuckles for even implying a place such as a Fold could exist.

“Aye, the horses can smell it. Can you, Ornery?”

The odd boy sat on the other side of the wagon’s bench, with Miss Emmert between them. From stolen glances, Crystalia could barely make out any of his features. Ornery was buried in his overcoat, scarf, and hat. She could not blame the boy though for his bulky attire. Sele had draped Crystalia in enough wool that the girl feared that might start to bleat. Crystalia had pulled short of complaining, though.

At the least, the blankets hid what she wore underneath. The dress Sele had given her was for a far shorter and thinner girl. Crystalia had to leave the back ties undone to get the thing on. But the silk was beautiful and the lace was finer than any she had ever seen. Crystalia was sure it was worth a pretty penny. Sele had seemed so proud that the Snowy Maiden wore it that Crystalia could not hurt the woman’s feelings. The girl only hoped to find something more fitting before she met Traven.

The wagon hit a bump, and Crystalia nearly flew from her seat. Sele pulled the reins in. “Whoa.” Slowly, the wagon came to a halt, and the horses pawed at the ground. Their heads jerked up and down, making the bells on their halters jingle a merry tune. Sele stood up and closed her eyes.

“Open.”

A sight as none Crystalia had ever seen bloomed before her.

A room, filled with honeysuckle light appeared. The walls were coated in green moss, and balls of fire floated at the edge of the room. Crystalia could barely breathe, but the horses just casually pulled the wagon inside the room. Looking behind her, the frozen wasteland disappeared, to be replaced by the back wall. Warmth snuck into her blankets, making them suddenly far too heavy. Crystalia dropped a few off her lap before she saw their welcoming party.

Faeries! Of every color, size and shape. They flew and danced and tumbled towards them. What a grand sight! Viola would be so very jealous when she heard of this. It was perfect. The only sight that would make the scene even more special was if Traven stepped out of the shadows.

For a moment, Crystalia caught sight of a figure down the hallway and thought it her beloved, but what strode out of the darkness gave her a start. Pulling back, Crystalia found herself hiding behind Sele.

The woman patted her knee. “That’s just old Twig. She wouldn’t harm a soul.” Sele’s voice lowered and concern etched her features. “She’s not the one we need worry about.”

Crystalia could not see how that was true. The creature was something out of a nightmare. It looked fashioned from sticks and branches. Its entire body was no more than kindling. Worse, its knees bent back the wrong way, and its hands had more fingers than Crystalia could count. The girl could not believe Sele spoke of the creature so warmly.

“Twig. I’m surprised to see you here!” Sele said as she pushed the boy along so that they might climb off the wagon. The boy seemed as awestruck at the wondrous sights as Crystalia did.

“No more than I, you.” Twig’s voice sounded like a thousand leaves rustling in the wind. “You’re unannounced. Emerald will be most displeased.”

Sele laughed but without much humor. “When is she not?”

A voice rang down the hallway, carrying ahead of its speaker. “I heard that!” It was as if tiny bells exploded all at once.

Almost immediately a Faery, no larger or more beautiful than the rest, buzzed into the room. Her dress was the color of a dragonfly in heat. There was an air about her that marked her as one to be reckoned with. Instantly, the Faery reminded Crystalia of Sister Agnes. The old nun had barely stood taller than her young pupils, but she could make even the Abbott cringe with a single look.

“Emerald.” Sele’s voice held no affection like it had with Twig.

“Do I know you?” the Faery asked, flying up into Sele’s face.

“Not directly, but you might know who my companions are. This…” motioning to Crystalia, “is the Snowy Maiden.”

“Where’s your proof?” Emerald spat out.

Sele nodded to Crystalia who raised both hands and showed the Faery her palms. Emerald flitted over and came at her so fast, Crystalia feared the Faery meant to bite her. But Emerald just hovered for a moment then raced back to Sele.

“She has tattoos. That is no—”

“You know as well as I do that is a spirit sexton. It is attached to the Hero that passed through your Fold but a day ago.”

“That cretin? I tried to kill him once, but the fool is too stupid to die with honor.”

Crystalia’s ears burned and she sought to chastise the Faery for such talk, but Sele held Crystalia’s wrist and gave it a firm squeeze.

“We shall see, Emerald. I present you with The Way.” Sele indicated Ornery, but he looked behind him. Smiling encouragement, Sele nudged the boy forward. The Faery gave him the same once over as Crystalia.

“Centaur? Not much to look at.” Emerald sneered.

“He’s only past seventeen cycle of the sun and still unsettled.”

That gave the Faery pause, and she took a much slower tour around the boy. “His father?”

“Dimitri.”

“The True?” Emerald asked.

Sele nodded. “Yes.”

Emerald flew back from Sele’s. “Then that would make you Seleen the Beautiful?”

* * *

Ornery was confused when Miss Emmert did not correct the Faery. She had always immediately amended statements such as those and clarified that she was only his caretaker. It was quite clear that Emerald was mistaken. His caretaker was not anybody “the Beautiful.”

But Miss Emmert nodded. “Yes.”

“Umph.” The Faery snorted and buzzed around Miss Emmert’s ample waist. “Is this rumpled body a glamour?”

Miss Emmert’s back straightened, and the boy could see the veins in her neck throb. No one dared mention his caretaker’s weight. At least, not to her face. Shockingly, Miss Emmert answered the Faery’s rude question. “No. I could not risk my magick being sniffed out. This is my true form.”

“Dear gods, woman. What happened to that legendary figure? Waist so small that Dimitri could wrap his hands full around? Calves so sculpted that men swooned at the mere sight?” Miss Emmert stood stiff as the Faery taunted her. “Looks more like you could snuff a man out just by sitting on him.”

“It was necessary for Ornery’s protection.”

“You couldn’t think of a better disguise than this? What has the world come to?” The Faery laughed bitterly.

Ornery wondered what game Miss Emmert was playing at. Why hadn’t she just told the truth? He wanted to blurt out his questions, but in the past few days he had learned to watch his mouth and use his mind. Ornery was certain Miss Emmert would explain everything when they were alone.

“Sadly, yes. There was a bounty of over five thousand gold coins on our head. Dead or alive.”

The Faery shrugged. “Mine’s higher… As much as I would love to toss you back out onto the tundra, I am obliged to house you.”

“We will only be staying to freshen up. Then I must get this one to her Hero.”

“I wish you luck then.”

Miss Emmert’s eyes narrowed and suspicion crept back into her voice. “Why?”

“They rejected my hospitality and headed on their own into the Catacombs.”

Anger flared in Miss Emmert’s eyes. “You let them leave without a map and a warden?”

“They stole away in the night! What was I to do?”

“Far more than you did! How dare you risk The Man’s life so recklessly? I shall—”

“He had the Giant’s Bride with him. She means to sacrifice herself on Winter’s altar.” The Faery’s words caused Miss Emmert’s fury to stutter to a halt. Once Emerald seemed certain that she had Miss Emmert’s attention, the Faery continued. “Neither of them would listen to reason. Again I ask, what was I to do? Give them the means to end this world?”

Ornery did not like to see Miss Emmert look so unsettled. Her cheeks were blotched pink, and her breath heaved in her chest. His caretaker was most upset.

“There were other ways to handle the situation. We will leave in search of them at once.”

“As you wish. But if I’m not wrong, I think you have a bit of explaining to do to that one.” The Faery indicated to Ornery. “And I have several gifts awaiting this one. Once you are done, have Twig fetch me.”

Miss Emmert stood silent for a moment, then nodded. “Can your people take care of the horses?”

Emerald waved off-handedly towards the other Faeries as she led Crystalia away down a side hall.

As soon as he and Miss Emmert were a few yards away, Ornery hissed the question that had been burning his lips. “Why did you say those things to her?”

Miss Emmert would not look him in the eye and she hurried down the large hallway. “Because they are true, Ornery.”

“But… but that would make you my…”

Smiling sadly, his caretaker nodded. “Mother?”

CHAPTER 22

Ma was off tending Aunt Chloe’s sick baby while Pa was out helping raise a barn over in Yalla Town. That left Granny to shepherd the Marlen brood. Of course, that meant they had gotten to roast chestnuts and have sweet bread for dinner. Granny was not much when it came to dinner, but boy, could she stir up a lip-smacking dessert.

Now they all gathered around the hearth, waiting for Granny to awaken from one of her notorious catnaps. Despite her closed eyes, Granny gently rocked back and forth. The oak chair creaked against the pine floor, setting a rhythm your heart could beat to. Granny might as well have been one of those turban-wrapped enchantresses; she held them all in her thrall.

“Does anyone remember the Three Trials of Courage?” Granny asked, her eyes still resting.

The whole group chirped “aye” in unison. Even little Brax, who could barely count to two, let alone remember the three ordeals that The Man Who Did Not Know had to endure.

“‘Becca, what is the first?”

Traven was wounded. Why did Granny call on her? His little sister cared nothing for monsters and things that slithered in the night.

“The first is the Craven Creepers?”

Traven nearly shouted for joy as Granny shook her head. ‘Becca had gotten it wrong!

“Nay, that is the second Trial. Who might know the first?”

Even though his Granny’s eyes were still shut, Traven raised his hand so high that he feared his shoulder might come out of the socket.

“Traven?”

“It is the Shadow Swords!” Traven announced with pride.

“Aye. And how does one fight this scourge?”

Traven did not have to think on this answer. It was etched upon his mind, as all the exploits of The Man Who Did Not Know had been.

“Darkness.”

Traven jerked awake, his breath caught in his throat. Those shadows that had made him quiver earlier in the Catacombs’ tunnels were no mere tricks of the light. Near panic, the Hero drew his sword, hopping to his feet. The tunnel was at peace. The campfire still shone in the darkness.

“Where is Glacial?” Traven asked the wolf.

Pale sent back a detailed image of the princess relieving herself. The picture was far too graphic for Traven’s liking. “Get her. Now.”

Lauger paced behind Traven and let out a disturbed whinny. Apparently the horse could feel the darkness closing in as well. Still groggy, Traven began kicking dirt over the fire as the shadows swirled, and glints of metal flashed in the darkness. Traven could hear Glacial’s protest, but from the sound of growling and cloth ripping, it appeared Pale was carrying out his orders.

“What is the meaning of this?” Glacial’s biting tone echoed off the tunnel’s walls. “What are you doing to our fire? And the torches? Have you descended into lunacy?”

“Stay away from the walls.”

Traven grabbed the princess by the elbow and drew her towards Lauger as the last of the light was extinguished. They now stood in pitch black. For a moment, Traven doubted his early concerns. Perhaps he was still in the grips of the dream.

“Ow!” Glacial screamed and clutched her arm. “Who did that?”

Traven spun around and madly swiped in the direction of the attack. Lauger danced to the side and kicked at what appeared to be nothing until a wounded grunt erupted from the darkness. Pale’s growl filled the black hallway.

“It is the Shadow Swords.” Traven tried to explain while he fended off his unseen stalkers. “They are awakened and drawn by light. They use your shadow as a slipstream to—”

Pale lunged as another of the Swords attacked. Using wild arcing strokes, Traven narrowly beat the creatures back.

Glacial’s voice was shaky, but her question was sound. “But in darkness, don’t they have the advantage?”

Traven had no easy answer for her doubt. In the tale, he had never questioned the logic of using darkness as a tool. It had sounded so eerie and valiant that Traven had never thought what it might be like to fight a well-armed enemy in the blackest of tunnels. The one thing the Hero did know was that he could not defend the princess and repel the evil.

“Get upon Lauger,” Traven urged Glacial. She protested, but Traven picked her up by the waist and nearly threw her upon the horse. “Grab hold of his neck and grip with your calves.”

No attack seemed to be coming from their rear, so Traven slapped his mount on the rump. “Yah! Vellaey!”

Lauger was reluctant to leave his master, but he charged down the tunnel, obeying the command to run until safe harbor was found. Traven had no idea if such a place existed in these damned Catacombs, but he knew Lauger would search until death stopped him.

Turning back to the fight at hand, Traven felt doubt sweep through him like a stiff wind. At least with the light, you cut down upon the Shadow Sword’s maneuverability. Granted, that meant they were always at your back, but at least you knew where the attack was headed. Now, they could be anywhere.

Pale’s bark startled Traven. Somehow in the darkness, he found the wolf’s gaze. With the light gone, the wolf’s eyes had adjusted. Suddenly, Traven’s own vision was taken over by Pale. Even though the Hero’s eyes had not sensed it, the tunnel was seeped with diffused light.

Detail returned to the once-barren darkness. Traven could now see that they fought a dozen of the hidden Swords. The creatures that bore the pointed weapons were hideous and nearly beyond description. The Shadow’s faces were a mash of features shoved onto a concave palette. Arms stuck out at precarious angles as drool dripped down their naked bodies.

Despite their enemy’s grotesque appearance, a flood of relief filled Traven. What he could see, the Hero could fight. What Traven could fight, he could vanquish. With a rush of new courage, Traven put the Swords on the defensive for once. Every ounce of training he’d received upon Mount shrine flowed through Traven— he thrust and parried with precision. Pale’s teeth gnashed on the bones of the creatures. It was the Sword’s turn to scream in pain.

Despite the duo’s prowess, Traven realized the battle had by no means swung in their favor. For every Sword they pushed back, another joined the fray. With each passing moment, more and more of the foul creatures combined their strength with their brethren. Even Pale sent a feeling of unease. They were but two against a sea of Swords.

There was more to this tale, Traven realized, trying to force his mind back into the dream. Granny had told it to him all those years ago, but there was a part of the Trials he always forgot. It had never seemed very important or brave when he was a child. How the Hero wished he had slept but a few more moments. The dream might have reminded him of a clue to fight these Swords. Traven caught an edge of steel across his arm, and blood dripped down his sleeve.

What had he forgotten?

Frantic, the Hero dredged his memory. If he did not remember, they were doomed. Traven could recall his grandmother asking what the second weapon that could be used again the Swords was, but the Hero could not force an answer from his subconscious.

“Speed.” Traven heard Brax’s pip-squeak voice in his mind.

By far the smallest of the children, Traven’s little brother could relate to a Hero that had to flee from a larger and more numerous enemy. Brax did it every day out in the schoolyard.

“Run!” Traven shouted at Pale.

The wolf hesitated for a moment, but then followed Traven’s retreating form. Without the shadows to draw the Swords along, the creatures had to give chase using their own legs.

With any luck, the Swords were slow afoot. Their grotesque arms swung side to side as the creatures lumbered after them. Using Pale’s vision, Traven charged down the tunnel. Each look back over his shoulder showed that the Swords were falling farther and farther behind.

Down the long corridors they ran, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the corrupted Swords. Panting, Traven slowed. Pale sniffed the air and searched the hallways to find that none were in pursuit. The Swords must have given up the chase, but where were Lauger and Glacial? With the head start the horse had, they might be leagues from here.

Pale whined once, and Traven turned. From the darkness, the most tender bloom of light came from a crack in the wall. Catching his breath, Traven walked over to investigate. If the hallway had not been pitch black, even the wolf might have missed the subtle light. Once near the wall, the Hero realized it was not just a crack but a passageway. The opening was narrow and not very tall. Lauger might have been able to enter. But would he have?

The wolf could smell the horse had been in the vicinity, but they would have to follow the smaller tunnel a bit to know for certain if Lauger had taken the detour. Traven hefted his sword, nodding to the wolf.

Silent as a ghost, Pale slipped between the rocks and padded down the tunnel. After several switchbacks the stone walls progressively closed in on the passage. With each step they took, the light grew more and more bright.

Lauger’s scent was strong in Pale’s nose, but so was the sharp smell of Glacial’s blood. Every so often they found a splattering from her wounds. Concern goaded Traven’s feet so that he was nearly at a run as he barreled around the last corner. The Hero nearly stumbled as a light, the quality he had never seen before, washed over him.

The room was similar to the diamond room at Thunderhead, but unlike that geode, this chamber cast a soft, warm radiance. The room at the Hearth had been nearly blinding in its beauty. This one caressed your eyes and begged you to stop for a while. The most significant quality about the chamber, though, was that the light came from all around. The illumination somehow clung to each particle in the room, leaving no room for shadows.

“Princess,” Traven said as he crossed the chamber. Glacial was sitting upon the earthen floor as if in a trance.

“It looks like my home. Don’t you think?” Glacial asked softly, almost as if she did not want to break the wonder that embraced them all.

“It does, Princess. How is your arm?”

Glacial still seemed very far away and ignored his question. “We should be safe here.”

Fearing the Princess to be in a stupor from blood loss, Traven carefully began examining the wound. Clotted blood had soaked through her coat, and as he pulled the cloth from the wound, it began to bleed again.

Luckily, the seepage was dark and flowing, not bright and spurting. Tentatively, Traven reached his hand across and put pressure on the cut. Glacial flinched but did not respond with her usual slap to the Hero’s face. Getting a bit more bold, Traven tore away the Princess’s soiled sleeve and made a bandage of the linen. They were fortunate. It was only a glancing blow.

“You will be fine, Glacial. It just needs a bit of care.”

Traven was surprised to find tears in the Princess’s eyes. Her lip trembled and sadness covered her face. Traven assumed the sorrow was from her recent loss rather than from the minor wound to her arm.

“I should not have doubted you, Hero.”

Traven did not know what to say. The Princess never spoke to him with such a respectful tone. But worse, when Glacial was like this, genuinely vulnerable, the Princess had a beauty that eclipsed the sun itself. The Hero knew he should make some response, but found that he could not speak. A stream of tears cascaded down her porcelain cheeks.

Without thinking, Traven took a bit of cloth and wiped them away.

Glacial sniffed once then straightened, pushing away his hand. “It will not happen again.”

With her face again composed, the spell was broken, and Traven found he could answer. “I only wish to serve you, your highness.”

The Princess nodded regally, her mind back from whence it came. Traven rose and began making camp. With the crystals blocking any Voltaic attack and the light preventing the Shadow Swords from attacking, this was probably the safest haven they would find in this blasted Catacomb. Taking a cue from Pale, Traven had learned it best to rest anytime and anywhere you could.

* * *

Ornery stalked down the hallway next to Miss Emmert.

Begrudgingly, he had agreed to keep silent until they were alone. Secretly, Ornery welcomed the time to sort through his thoughts. It was not easy, though. The concept that Miss Emmert, his pudgy caretaker was actually Seleen the Beautiful was difficult enough to conceive. But that she was also his mother? That idea was just too large to fit inside his cramped skull.

Finally, they came to a small chamber, and Miss Emmert led them inside. She sat upon the lone bench and smoothed her hair before she spoke,

“Ornery, I know this is—”

All his preparation did him naught at this moment.

“You know nothing! You lie!”

“Please, listen. Your father was to be the one to tell you. I did not think the Faery would just blurt it out like that.”

“You said my mother died! You liar!”

Miss Emmert rose and tried to comfort him, but he backed away. “I did. She did.” The woman returned to the bench and sat down. “Let me tell this the way it should be told.”

“Are you just going to lie some more?” Ornery shot back, then immediately felt bad. Miss Emmert looked like she was going to cry.

“No. And I did not truly lie before. Seleen the Beautiful, the young high-spirited woman who conceived you, died upon the Steppes, and Miss Emmert was born to take her place.” Miss Emmert patted the seat next to her. “Please, let me tell this from the beginning.”

Ornery reluctantly sat down but made certain it was on the far corner, away from Miss Emmert. He could not stand to be too close to her right now.

“Eighteen years ago, I traveled with my mother and Holt. Much like you and I have fared. Mother was renowned for her healing powers, and when a member of the Royal Centaurs fell ill, they called upon us to visit the Steppes.”

Ornery could not help but inch towards the source of the tale. His anger was muted by curiosity about the Centaurs.

Miss Emmert wiped away a tear and continued. “Since your father, Dimitri, refused to accept his Naming Herd, they thought his manhood ill.” The woman paused, but Ornery nodded. He understood what she meant. Miss Emmert continued. “We pulled up on a splendid summer morning, and down from the craggy rocks, Dimitri galloped to greet us.”

Miss Emmert’s lips turned up a bit, and she seemed lost in thought.

“And?”

Miss Emmert seemed startled. “Oh, I had never seen anyone, anything so majestic in my life. He was everything I had ever hoped for in a love and more. He was… he was…” She had to stop as tears choked her throat. Ornery sat in sheer amazement. He had never seen her like this. Not even when Miss Emmert’s own mother lay dying had the woman broken down like this.

For the first time, Ornery could imagine Miss Emmert was someone other than who he knew her as. The change was both welcome and scary. Miss Emmert was the type of woman who would barrel through a taunting gaggle of children and scoop you under one arm, whisking you to safety. You could count on Miss Emmert to be strong and firm. This new woman who cried and found words hard to muster was a stranger to Ornery.

Sniffing, Miss Emmert picked up the story. “Your father says it was the same for him. He knew, just knew, that I was the one he had been waiting for.” Miss Emmert snorted a bit. “You can imagine how his family took the news. Once Mother declared that Dimitri was sound of both mind and body, we were asked to leave the Steppes. They did not wish me to ‘distract’ Dimitri anymore.”

Miss Emmert’s tears dried a bit, and she squirmed on the bench. “We were young and foolish. We thought we had to take matters into our own hands. We thought time would only harden our hearts, not soften theirs… so we…”

“What?” Ornery asked, now enraptured by her tale.

“We ran off— alone. Just Dimitri and me. With me upon his back, your father galloped past the Red Arches and into the Flowering Meadows.” She cleared her throat. “It was there that we were married.”

“Married?” Ornery felt like he had been slapped in the face again. “You never said that! I’ve thought all this time I was a… I was a bastard!”

Miss Emmert reached out for him, but he sprang from his seat. She was not so easily forgiven for this lie. To hang that title, bastard, on him his whole life. He hated her for that.

“Please, Ornery. No one but my mother, Holt and Vizor knew. We needed you to think, as everyone, did that our union was a mere tryst—”

“I’m not everyone!” Ornery shouted. “I’m your son, and I deserved to know!”

“We thought it best—”

Ornery cut her off. “You thought of yourselves, or you thought of ‘The Way.’ You did not think of me!”

There was a moment of torturous silence as both nursed their wounds.

Ornery knew he had hurt her, but for now he did not care.

Did she have any idea what it was like to grow up a hybrid freak? A bastard, yet? Then, to find out that all of that suffering you went through was for your own protection? For every ounce of anger he had, he had equal reason to feel ashamed for feeling it.

“In a sense, you are right,” Miss Emmert finally said. “We thought only of your life, not of your feelings.”

“Don’t do that! Don’t make me feel guilty that I’m not understanding your ‘noble’ reasons! Don’t!”

Miss Emmert stiffened, but she did not lash back. “I shall not…” She stumbled a bit as she tried to find her place in the story. “Where was I? Oh, yes. The Druid priest we scrounged was so drunk that I am not even sure he remembers the ceremony.”

Ornery took a seat again as Miss Emmert tried to collect herself. “That night, we knew our bond was seeped in magic. Alone, no. Each of us was just another cog in the wheel of time, but together we outshone the stars in the sky.”

It was odd to think of her this way. It was like Miss Emmert was telling a tale of someone else. Of some land beyond the veil and a time so long ago that it was myth.

“That night, we meant to perform the Ritual of Renewal…” Miss Emmert shifted very uncomfortably, and for a moment, Ornery feared she would not continue. Finally, she closed her eyes. “We never quite, well, we never got around to the incantation. We were… I guess you can imagine what we were…”

Miss Emmert blushed so deeply that Ornery felt his own cheeks reddened, remembering his own body’s reaction to Crystalia. He could imagine only too well what his father and Miss Emmert were doing.

“I knew almost immediately I had conceived— conceived you.” Miss Emmert reached out a hand and stroked Ornery’s face with the back of her hand. “I knew that first night that I was with child. You demanded attention even back then.”

Ornery smiled despite himself. He now knew exactly the first day of his existence. How many others could say that?

“Did you go back to Madame Hesper?”

“We tried, but within days it was obvious that the world was not ready for our union. Your father and I were hounded across the Steppes by forces both familiar and foreign. It was all we could do to contact Vizor and beseech his help.”

Ornery suddenly felt bad. He had never known the true hardships his parents had endured to bring him into this world. His own bruised feelings were becoming not quite so injured.

“Although he was fresh to his own Herd, Vizor sent the Twin Stallions to act as guards.”

Surprised, Ornery could not help but interrupt. “But you said the Twins were old and broken, that they had lost their kick.”

“Aye, and it broke my heart to speak of them in that way, but I could not reveal Vizor’s assistance. Now you must know of their valor. They protected us for the full year you grew in my belly. It was upon your birth day that the worst attack was launched.”

Miss Emmert seemed reluctant to continue, but this time, Ornery did not become upset. He was certain she was not holding back on him. She simply did not want to retread such a painful memory.

“The Twins held the ogres off until your father and I were down into the thickets that lined Echo Canyon.” Tears welled again. “We heard their death cries as we crashed through the brush. I still don’t know how we survived the headlong flight through the Canyon. Your father ran with a speed I have never seen, nor ever wish to again. I clung to his back and stifled screams with each contraction.”

It was hard to conceive of the trauma his mother had gone through to bring him into this world. Ornery had been witness to a few births amongst the villages they visited. Those women had seemed near death, such was the pain from the contractions, and those women were lying down with their whole families around them for support. Ornery could not imagine his mother trying to give birth to him upon a fleeing Centaur.

“Finally, we came out the Gorge and found where Mother had agreed to meet us. I gave birth that night. Your father was so very proud.” Miss Emmert cleared her throat and took Ornery’s hand. This time he did not pull away.

“After our year of exile, we realized that we could not bring a babe into that life. We had decided to give you over to Mother and have her place you with a family in the country— to keep you safe.”

Ornery waited for her to continue, but the woman’s voice left her. “But you decided not to?”

“You have to understand. Once I held you, once I felt the soft fur on your nose, I could not let you go. Mother advised against it, and Dimitri could not imagine parting with both of us, but I knew it could be no other way. And since there was no way your father could ever blend into my society, and the Centaurs would never allow a human and half-breed to join their Herds. By the dawn, Dimitri gave us both a kiss and returned to his brother’s herd to rally support and prepare for our return. When I watched him ride off, I knew that Seleen the Beautiful had died.”

Miss Emmert wiped away tears on Ornery’s cheek that the boy did not even realize that he’d shed.

“Mother took us to a small village and left me there as if I were just another harlot with a bastard child. There, I recovered my strength and ate until I thought I was ready to burst. I shore my hair and dyed it a sickly brown once my figure was obscured by the weight. Mother and Holt returned and set me up with my own wagon. It was then that Miss Emmert was born. The rest you know.”

Overcome by emotion, Ornery reached out and hugged Miss Emmert. “Thank you.”

He did not know why he said it. The gods knew he was still angry and confused, but something about the sacrifice and love Miss Emmert gave so freely had to be respected.

“Ornery, I want you to know—” Miss Emmert was interrupted by a trio of Faeries zoomed in. They fluttered around her ears. Even their whispers sounded like little chimes in the wind.

“I’m sorry, Ornery, we must seek out Emerald.”

His disappointment could not be hidden, “Why?”

“The Fates are not fond of rest, it would appear. The Hero is in grave danger, and Vizor’s Herd has been attacked.”

“Is father—?”

“Dimitri is safe, but he has moved the herd. Come. I will explain all once we find Emerald.”

Ornery did not complain as they hurried out into the hallway. If his father was in any danger, Miss Emmert’s stories could wait. Ornery was ready to experience the real thing.

* * *

Crystalia sat as politely as she could while the Faery buzzed about the room, chattering like a starling. Did Emerald not realize that Crystalia loathed her? The Faery was the one who tried to kill Traven, not once, but twice by Emerald’s own account! Did the Faery just expect Crystalia to sit around and have a nice chat while Traven was in jeopardy?

“Here, I believe this might fit,” Emerald said with a bit of cheer in her voice as the Faery flew over with a dress.

Crystalia could not believe what Emerald offered. It was exactly the gown she had imagined back in Last Hitch. It was the most beautiful of blue silk, with lace everywhere. The dress was the most ravishing garment that Crystalia had ever seen. “But, what… Why?”

“I thought you might like something that fit a tad better than the thing you’ve got on now. Besides, that dress you have on was out of fashion when Seleen last wore it.”

Stunned, Crystalia just sat there, open-mouthed.

“If you want me to find you combs for your hair, you’d best try this on.” Emerald darted off.

Crystalia barely had time to catch the gown as it fell. The material felt smooth and cool to her touch. She could not possibly wear something so rich. Crystalia had no means to pay for it.

“Are you going to stare at it or wear it?”

“But, I have nothing to give—”

The Faery turned a shade of deep orange. “It is a gift. I am normally not this generous. If I were you, I would take this offering without any more fussing.”

Crystalia nodded. Even though she intensely disliked the Faery, she was acutely aware that her own fate rested in the little being’s hands. Crystalia almost laughed at the thought.

This had to be some kind of delusion. Perhaps she was hallucinating as she had out on the Plains. It could not be that she had found a Fold, met a Faery, and found the gown of her dreams. It just could not be true.

Through sheer force of habit, Crystalia obeyed and changed into the gown. If this was but a dream, she might as well enjoy it, right? The dress was the most perfect of fits, and the Faery dashed over with two glittering gold combs shaped in the image of dragonflies.

“Here. These should keep that rat nest of yours tamed.”

“Thank you.”

Emerald flew back a ways, studying Crystalia again. “We might want a bit of make-up. Those circles under your eyes are not all that attractive.”

Crystalia sat down and tried to position the combs, but her hands were still stiff from the cold.

“Here, allow me,” Emerald said and began plaiting Crystalia’s hair.

“Why—” Crystalia stopped herself. It was foolish to question the Faery, but the girl felt compelled to do so. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

The Faery’s humming stopped for a few moments. “I’ve asked myself that same question.” Emerald resumed her braiding. “You remind me of Sequen, the first Snowy Maiden.”

“There were others?” Crystalia was shocked at such a notion.

“Aye. For each generation, one arises, but most never know it. They go about their lives, ignorant. They court, marry, have children and are never the wiser to their destiny. Only a few who awakened to know their true heritage.”

It was strange to think others had her title, not that Crystalia really knew what her title really implied or meant. Still, it made her feel both disappointed and gleeful that someone else had walked this path before.

“What was she like? Sequen?”

“She looked much like you. Although she had a much better understanding of her powers. Do you even know how to generate heat?”

Crystalia bristled a bit at the Faery’s condescending tone. “Yes. I used it to keep myself warm out on the Plains.”

Emerald snorted. “There is much more to your talent than that, child. But you will learn.” The Faery’s playful nature rose to the surface again as she smoothed the ruffles on Crystalia’s new gown. “This was one of Sequen’s favorite gowns. I kept it for her after she left.” The Faery must have noticed the look on Crystalia’s face, for Emerald rushed on. “Not that she died a horrible death or anything. After the Dark Menace was vanquished, Sequen retired to the countryside. Married a tanner, if I’m not mistaken.”

Crystalia cringed. She could not image going back to stirring a pot for her father after everything she had been through. There was certainly more to life than Last Hitch.

Emerald continued. “Sequen was the only one of the Maidens I liked. The rest— they did not care. Sequen relished the endless snowy-white Plains. She loved each and every snowflake as it fell. There was nothing about the Winter that Sequen did not cherish.”

Staying quiet, Crystalia hoped Emerald could not sense her tension. It would not fare for the Faery to know how much Crystalia despised the chill in the air. The girl could not even enjoy a wintry sunrise. The wind was always too cold, the snow glared over much, and the ice made it hard to walk. No, she was truly nothing like Sequen.

“There was a time when—” Emerald was interrupted by Miss Emmert and the strange boy’s entrance.

“We must speak,” Miss Emmert stated.

“Yes, once I’m done—”

“Now, Emerald. The Labrinyth has stirred. The Hero and Ice Princess are trapped in its bowels.”

The Faery shrugged her tiny shoulders. “That should keep them from the Icy Throne.”

“Griffins have attacked Vizor’s herd. Dimitri is moving them to higher ground.” Miss Emmert paused as Emerald’s face began to look less certain. “You know what this heralds, Guardian. The signs could not be clearer.”

Emerald finally nodded but did not speak.

“Signs of what?” Crystalia asked.

“The Endless Winter’s perils are not limited to the weather. There are creatures, beings who can only survive in perpetual frost. The world has not seen the likes of them since the last Ice Age.”

“What does Traven have to do with this?”

Miss Emmert looked to Emerald. The Faery nodded, so the woman continued. “She has a right to know.”

“It is prophesized, and we can only pray that it is true, that the Hero alone gains the power to close the Spiral Vortex.”

The strange boy’s face scrunched up, making him look even more freakish. “Why? Why this Hero?”

Miss Emmert patted the boy’s shoulder. “It is the way of the Fates, son. You are the Way. He is The Man. It is how it is.” Miss Emmert swallowed hard. “One thing we know for certain. If the Hero dies, our only hope of fending off the Frigid Warriors dies with him.”

CHAPTER 23

Holt’s claws dug deeply into the ledge’s crumbling brick. The garrison was not aging well, Holt noted as he shifted his weight. The wind was stiff and cold, but his transformed skin was impervious to its battering.

No, he could prowl all night in this weather and never suffer a shiver. It had been far too long since he had hunted. The Vampyr part of him was angered at the delay. It had been promised blood, and the hunger was a fever in Holt’s blood.

But the human side of Holt resisted the urge to smash through the lower windows and unleash the beast’s fury. The temptation was great, but Holt knew that he needed just a bit more patience. As long as the garrison was quiet, his mother was safe. He could smell her just below him. Her scent tasted not of fear, only of concern.

The Vampyr within him cared nothing for this. It relished the aroma of terror that permeated the town. The townsfolk were whipped into a frenzy, building a pyre. More than likely, to roast his mother upon. As much as the idea revolted Holt, the Vampyr found there was nothing like the bouquet of panic to heighten one’s enjoyment of the night.

Holt’s head cocked to the side. A small group approached. The lieutenant had the stench of dread thick about him. How easy it would be to swoop down and feed upon this pasty man. Holt could almost taste the hot blood that would ooze from the man’s neck. The human side of Holt noted that the blonde girl and older man with the soldier had no such smell. If anything, they had the look and smell of victory. They had the aura of one whose long hunt was reaching its end.

Stretching his wings, Holt prepared for battle. With a push of his thick thighs, he launched himself from the parapets. Soaring through the brisk air, the Vampyr reveled in its freedom. It would savor the coming bloodshed.

* * *

Madame Hesper sighed as the lieutenant walked towards her cell. She had hoped that the man would come to his senses and find a way around the carnage, but he still wore the same smug expression. The officer thought himself aligned with an unbeatable force. How little the man truly knew. They might have caught the Commander off guard, but she was not such easy prey.

“We’ve come to get the prisoner,” the lieutenant said.

Bailiff Omar seemed unimpressed with the officer’s arrogant attitude. “I’ll need a signature from the Commander.”

“How dare you! I arrested her. I will have her released.”

Madame Hesper stayed her hand. She needed to be sure there were no more conspirators than the three standing before her.

“The law is the law, sir. Until I have his approval, the prisoner stays here.”

“The Commander is… He is indisposed.”

Omar shrugged. “Then we will wait until he is available to sign for her release.”

Madame Hesper charged the door, but it was too late. The Drakol priestess had shed her human skin and lashed out, decapitating the Bailiff with a single swipe of her claw. Blood drenched the floor. The priestess ran at the cell, but flew back from it at the last moment.

“Forget what iron can do to you, priestess?” Madame Hesper asked.

Crawling out of her skin cocoon, the priestess bared two rows of sharp teeth. “Get the keys.”

The lieutenant fumbled in the Bailiff’s pockets and came up with the key. Madame Hesper backed away from the door, feigning weakened knees. The Drakol’s fangs dripped green saliva as she panted her eagerness.

Fine, Madame Hesper thought— let the priestess reveal in her prowess.

“I have waited long for this…” the priestess slurred through her slimy teeth.

Turning the key, the lieutenant’s hand shook so violently that he almost dropped the brass ring. “I’m sorry,” the man stuttered, eyes averted.

Madame Hesper kept her features calm. The lieutenant had no idea how sorry he was about to be. A scream arose from outside. The trio turned for an instant towards the new disturbance, giving the medium the opportunity to focus on the key. Using a tiny tendril of her power, Madame Hesper caressed the brass and urged the key to turn just a titch further, unlocking her cell. Drawing the magic back into her finger, the old woman waited patiently.

From the shouts and shrieks of terror, it sounded as if Holt was alight. All the better. Her son’s arrival must mean that Ekoli was ready for travel. Madame Hesper intended to put miles between her party and this town before the sun rose again.

That was, once a few matters were settled. The lieutenant turned towards the old woman, his pupils dilated so wide that you could no longer make out the color of his eyes. Madame Hesper allowed a tight smile to escape her lips.

“This is for Jory,” she whispered just before she shoved the iron door open, slamming it into his face.

The man tumbled backwards, blood pouring from his nose. The sound drew the Drakols’ attention. The pair leapt forward, roaring their rage. Instead of fighting or darting out of the way, Madame Hesper took a single step back. The priestess lunged but shied before she crossed the threshold into the cell. Green eyes glared in the dim light.

Clearly Viola could sense the trap, but could not see how this fragile old woman could possibly spring it. Still, the priestess hissed to her apostle, “Drag her from there.” Viola spat as the lieutenant shouted for more guards.

The half man, half Drakol had no such reservations as his priestess and charged into the cell, heedless of the potential danger. Madame Hesper allowed him to close the distance in two bounds, then sidestepped slightly, blowing a bit of magic into the air before him.

In his fury, the beast rushed into the hazy cloud. Suddenly, the Drakol acolyte bellowed, clutching at his eyes in a wild frenzy. The powder was just only trifling of sorcery, but it played its role well, sending the Drakol crashing into the iron bars. An inhuman scream escaped its lips as the scent of burnt flesh filled the room.

Where skin touched the metal, the flesh was seered off, yet the bars would not release its victim. Uniformed men rushed into the room but skidded to a halt. Holding his broken nose, the lieutenant directed the men to free the demon from the metal, but these boys were born and raised in Last Hitch.

Trembling, they balked.

Holt, on wing, swooped through the front door, scattering the young soldiers. The priestess sprang backward, claws at the ready. The anguished cries of the male Drakol still haunted the room as the bars chewed through to bone.

Not slowing in the least, Holt barreled into the lieutenant, flooring the sallow man. In a single motion, Holt was landed, clutching the lieutenant in a talon. “Release her, or watch me drink from him.”

Viola shed more of her human form, releasing the demon within as her disciples’ final wail died from the air. “Feel free. I had planned to eat him myself.”

Madame Hesper cautiously inched towards the cell’s door. Holt’s hand shook, and she could tell the Vampyr’s hunger ran deep. Not that she necessarily cared if her son took a meal from the callous lieutenant. Instead, she feared the Drakol was baiting Holt, tricking him into exposing his own vulnerable neck, but Holt was stronger than the lust that ran through his veins. He sent the lieutenant sprawling into a desk.

“Drakol blood sounds more to my liking,” Holt said as he surged forward.

Madame Hesper had to keep from shouting a warning. Despite his transformation, she knew the Vampyr was no match for a full-blooded Drakol priestess. Perhaps both mother’s and son’s powers combined were not going to be enough to down the demon, but Madame Hesper planned to die trying.

The priestess easily repelled Holt’s first attack and lunged at him with poison-tipped claws. Using leg and wing, Holt scurried out of her range. The Vampyr was now fully formed. In the struggle, what was left of Holt had collapsed under the Curse. A shriek, of which no human ear should ever have to endure, erupted from Holt’s throat. Now, the fight was beast to beast.

As the two creatures circled one another, Madame Hesper slinked past the bars and positioned herself at the far end of the room. She could no longer trust Holt not to harm his own mother in the melee.

Once the Drakol priestess was vanquished, Madame Hesper would then have to deal with her own son. A Drakol curse sprouted from the demon’s lips as she took a slash at Holt. The Vampyr was lithe and quick, but the foul creature was fueled by a far stronger enchantment. The Drakol was born unto her power. Holt was still fresh to his.

Even Madame Hesper could not attack the priestess directly. The demon was renowned for its ability to take raw power and use it to its own gain. No, any magic used would need to be the most subtle kind. Madame Hesper could not tally much longer, lest she risk Holt’s life. But the two’s actions were so swift that the window of opportunity to strike at the Drakol was fleeting.

Raising her hands, Madame Hesper whispered ancient words onto her fingertips. Each one glowed with a sparkling color. Satisfied that the power was under her control, rather than vice versa, Madame Hesper wove an intricate pattern in the air. Her fingertips left a trail of light where they passed. Soon, the old woman had a glistening spider web floating before her.

Luck was with them as Holt spun off to the side to avoid a wicked slice of the Drakol’s tail. Snatching the opportunity, Madame Hesper sent the web flying. The priestess sensed the attack but turned to face her attacker rather than sidestepping. The fine filaments anchored themselves into the Drakol’s mottled green skin. The beast roared in rage, thrashing against the nearly invisible constraints.

“No!” Madame Hesper screamed as the Vampyr leapt towards the flailing creature. The two were locked in a twisting duel of unnatural forces.

Madame Hesper clapped twice as she chanted. A torch flew across the room into her hand. A powerful natural element was the only hope against the Drakol. Heedless of the danger, Madame Hesper rushed forward, grinding the brand into the Drakol’s back.

She gained small solace in the beast’s screams. The Vampyr flinched away from the flame but refused to let go of his prey. Infuriated, the Drakol lashed out, lancing Holt’s chest with a thin gash. Madame Hesper, near panic, pulled back and smashed the torch into the Drakol’s face. A muffled howl gushed from the priestess.

The Vampyr’s wound was a minor one, but Madame Hesper knew that if it was not cauterized immediately, it would be fatal to Holt. With no hesitation, Madame Hesper arced the flame again, this time hitting the Vampyr squarely in the chest.

The fire burned the oozing blood and poison away as the Vampyr turned its wrath towards the old woman. Madame Hesper swiped the torch towards Holt, trying to hold the Vampyr off. She did not have much time. The Drakol was wounded but very near to breaking the bonds that restrained the priestess.

Pulling a tiny knife hidden in her sash, Madame Hesper randomly sliced at the priestess. Green blood flowed from the wounds, smelling strong and metallic. The Vampyr wavered in his assault on Madame Hesper. Blood called more loudly than revenge. Yet the medium could not allow Holt to get near the deadly Drakol. As the priestess broke out of the last strands, Madame Hesper gave the demon a kick. The Drakol rolled away, unharmed by the attack. But harming the demon had not been Madame Hesper’s intent. Instead, the priestess had left behind a large puddle of blood.

The Vampyr could not resist the pool of food and knelt over to lap at the sweet fluid. Confident that she had a few moments without Holt’s interference, Madame Hesper called out to the four elements.

Each she called by their most intimate names. The words rolled off her tongue with familiarity. They each owed her a boon, and Madame Hesper proposed to have those debts paid.

Hopefully, the spirits were not as fickle as the townsfolk.

Wind announced his arrival first. The rush of air that greeted Wind’s entrance blew out her torch. Water trickled down through the roof, dripping in a rhythm that at another time might have been soothing. The floor beneath their feet creaked as Earth rumbled to Madame Hesper’s invitation. Fire was the last to appear. Bright and dancing, the element smiled a wicked greeting.

“Why have you disturbed us?” Light twinkled and sparked with each word from the flame-drenched female form.

Madame Hesper took a moment to form her words. A single misspoken entreaty could bring doom upon them and the rest of the town.

“This Drakol has wronged me and my family. I wish her interred.”

“We have no quarrel with the Drakol. They are not so arrogant as to think that they might command the Elements,” Wind whispered in her ear.

Madame Hesper ignored the slight. Wind was the most fickle of the siblings. She had to be wary of insulting that one. “I do not ask upon merit, Bringers of All That We Know. I only humbly request that my favors to each of you bear fruit.”

The Drakol priestess, now bent down in supplication, tried to intervene. “My Lords. We are but mortals— far beneath your concern. Allow us to resolve our differences amongst ourselves.”

“It is not our way to interfere,” Water bubbled as she flowed over the walls.

Madame Hesper did not bother to comment on the complete inaccuracy of the Elements’ words. The Four meddled constantly, only it was usually of their own prerogative. Each of them bristled at the slightest hint of being ordered about.

“I ask only that you involve yourself to the level that I once did on each of your behalves.”

Fire flared to a dark mahogany. “We never settled on a price, witch. Be careful for what you ask.”

Madame Hesper had every intention of using caution. With measured words, she beseeched the Elements. “I request only that Earth open a crevice to contain the Drakol. Fire to send a small flame with the demon to let her know the pain I have endured at her hands, and Wind to give a stiff sail away from this town.”

“We do not take life,” Earth grumbled.

No, you just grind mortals between your slabs every opportunity you get, Madame Hesper thought, but did not speak. The Elements’ ethics were as slippery as an eel’s tongue.

“Nay. I ask only that she be interred. She has enough magic to sustain her until her brethren return.” Then, in punishment, the Drakol’s own kind would most likely slaughter her, but that was not the issue of the moment. “I ask only that she suffer as I have. An eye for an eye.”

“What has she done to warrant the wrath of the Elements?” Water asked.

Madame Hesper knew that most of the crimes that the Drakol had committed were petty to the Elements. After all, the four destroyed whole continents on a whim. No, only an affront to the Order of Things would shake these spirits.

“This priestess has offered the Snowy Maiden up to the Winter King.”

A rush of air marked Wind’s agitation. Water suddenly poured down like a waterfall. Earth sighed, nearly shaking the building from its frame.

The flames encasing Fire, however, snapped and crackled with anticipation. She was fond of games such as these. “Once I release my children, I have little control over them.”

Well, that Madame Hesper knew all too well. It was one of Fire’s wayward offspring that had required the medium’s services in the first place.

“Aye. I know this structure may take a scorching, so I ask that Water contain the damage to this building only, sparing the rest of the town any further harm.”

Madame Hesper watched Water surge and flow. The medium had chosen her words carefully, or else Water might have gotten the notion to flood the entire town while she was at it.

“I do not like bargains with flesh,” Wind snapped.

“Then you should not have sought her aid that summer,” Fire scolded her sibling.

The room throbbed with tension. It was the Drakol priestess who sensed the Elements’ mutual decision.

“No!” the demon screamed as the building rocked and quaked.

There was not much time. Once the Elements were moved to action, they did so with a gusto reserved for the Eternals.

Madame Hesper sought out her son. The Vampyr hid in the shadows near the rear entrance. She would not have time to bring Holt back to human form, not if she wished to flee the building before it went up in a conflagration.

The ground split open. The priestess clawed at the dirt as she slid down the steep grade. Fire already crackled her anticipation of the destruction she was about to unleash. With no time to spare, Madame Hesper conjured the stench of garlic. Using it as a shield, she herded Holt up the back stairs.

No matter how much Madame Hesper wished to flee, she could not leave until she knew the Commander’s final plight.

Hot air blasted against their backs as they ascended the steps. The Drakol’s horror echoed off the walls. Madame Hesper turned to witness the priestess’s form being licked by Fire’s precocious children. Flames danced over the Drakol’s body as the priestess fell to the depths of the pit Earth had carved for her.

Air blew past Madame Hesper, screaming in her ear. Wind was not pleased, but he did agree to their negotiations. “Summon me, and your gust shall appear.”

Water flowed up the steps behind them. Her words were but a murmuring in Madame Hesper’s mind. “I am not unfair. This favor you ask does not settle our books, witch. Call, and I shall be there.”

Madame Hesper opened her mouth, but the stream of water had already receded.

Turning her attention back to her Cursed son, Madame Hesper corralled the Vampyr up the stairs. The entire world had gone askew. Ekoli had fallen to save the medium. Her son was consumed by bloodlust, and her daughter and grandson rushed headlong into their arduous destinies. Madame Hesper was afraid that the destruction below was just a precursor to the disaster that awaited her family.

* * *

Crystalia could not believe what Miss Emmert suggested. Their group had retired to a room lined with maps. Now, the woman proposed that they not follow Traven through the labyrinth. Crystalia had tried to hold her tongue during Miss Emmert and Emerald’s argument, but she could stifle her concern no longer. “We must follow Traven!”

Miss Emmert’s face twisted in frustration, but the emotion was only passing. Finally, the woman squeezed Crystalia’s shoulder and spoke in a kind voice. “I’ve tried to explain why that is impossible right now.”

“But if we hurry—”

The Faery fluttered in front of Crystalia. “And die like he is?”

“Emerald!” Miss Emmert snapped. “Crystalia, you must understand. The tunnels that Traven traveled through may not be present any longer.”

Crystalia was near tears. The Faery and Miss Emmert spoke of diural this and semiconscious that, but the Snowy Maiden could understand none of it. How could Crystalia leave her love to his fate when she did not even know why?

Luckily, the strange boy spoke up. “Miss Emmert, I am afraid I don’t quite get why we aren’t catching up with the Hero.”

The woman took a breath then spread her hands over the map to flatten it. “Do you see this?”

Crystalia and the boy both nodded. It was a schematic of the Labyrinth.

Satisfied that they were still following her, Miss Emmert continued. “This tangle— the one we labeled the Bowel. It is just that. This entire plateau is a living creature. His name is Gorlonn, or so we believe. This truly is his gut. Somehow the Hero must have—”

“Done something idiotic again.” Emerald pitched in but quieted when Miss Emmert shot her a stern look.

“Unknowlingly, Traven must have harmed the tunnel’s lining or one of its dwellers. Gorlonn is only trying to defend himself.”

Through unshed tears, Crystalia tried to make sense of the story. “Why can’t we just tell Gorlonn it was a mistake and have him deliver Traven to us?”

A knowing look passed between Emerald and Miss Emmert. Finally, the Faery gave a sharp nod then flittered off to sit on a ledge, glowering.

Miss Emmert explained. “Gorlonn lives, but does not think and communicate as we do. There is no truce between us. We do not even know if he is aware that we cohabit with him. The Fold is near his mouth, and through the centuries, the Quorum has keep him well-fed and quiescent. Now, though, he has been stirred.”

The boy pitched in. “I understand that the Hero is in danger, so why aren’t we rushing after him?”

“In defense, Gorlonn is shifting and merging the walls of the maze. I seriously doubt if we could even find Traven amongst the tangled confusion. This map is no longer accurate.”

Emerald could not help but interrupt again, “A lot of good it would do you even if you did find him.”

Crystalia was beginning to remember why she so intensely disliked the Faery in the first place. Miss Emmert only sighed though. Crystalia wanted to hear how wrong Emerald was, but Ornery’s mother did not look like she was going to rebuke the Faery.

“Emerald is blunt, but there is truth in what she speaks.” Miss Emmert hesitated as if she was loath to speak the next part. “We know Gorlonn has three main defenses. The first two traps, Traven and Pale may be able to defeat. The third… The third—”

“In the history of this Fold, no one has survived the Gullet. No one,” the Faery stated, flashing a heated look towards Miss Emmert.

Miss Emmert simply shrugged. “No one yet. That is why I have no intention of heading into the labyrinth.”

“But—”

Miss Emmert held up her hand to silence Crystalia, then traced her finger along the map’s parchment. “I plan to go topside and hasten up and around the Eyemouth, finally arriving at the Gullet— only on the other side of it. If we attack from both sides, we might have a chance to breach the barrier, freeing Traven and his party from the Labyrinth.”

Crystalia’s heart soared. They were coming to the Hero’s rescue after all. Why had Miss Emmert not just said so in the first place?

The hooded boy ruined her mood almost immediately. “Why didn’t the Hero just take the path over the Plains?”

“Well, for one…” Miss Emmert hesitated then seemed to regain her composure. “The Hero did not have the Centaurs’ speed to glide him over the barren snowfields, and with the Ice Princess in tow—”

“They have a right to know, Sele. You cannot ask the Snowy Maiden and The Way to take such a risk without knowing what they face.”

Both youngsters looked towards Miss Emmert. The woman braced herself before proceeding. “In order to cross from the Plains into the Tritons, we must first navigate the Caitiff Pass.”

Emerald buzzed across the room, puffed up and red-faced. “How do you plan to defeat the Bastard if you can’t even talk about him?”

Crystalia took a step back as Miss Emmert’s anger bubbled over. “I have my reasons, Faery. If you could button your mouth long enough, you might hear them.”

The Faery bristled at the tone but obviously did not wish an all-out brawl with Sele. Emerald darted back to her place on the ledge, smoldering orange and yellow. Crystalia hardly heard Sele’s next words.

Looking down at her hand, Crystalia realized that the direction that was suggested would take them far away from Traven before they narrowed the distance. That would be most difficult. Could she bear to watch the sexton shift and Traven’s symbol rotate away? There would be a great ache in her heart, but she believed in Miss Emmert. Crystalia did not mean to fail Madame Hesper’s daughter as she had failed Sele’s mother.

Miss Emmert took a breath before she continued. “I have survived the Pass before and plan to do so again.”

“With Father?” the boy asked more eager-faced than Crystalia had ever seen before.

“Yes. The Centaurs and the Roué have a mutual enemy.”

“The Griffins?” Ornery asked. How did the boy suddenly know so much more than she did?

“Aye. My hope is that the Caitlyn still remembers Dimitri and the oath they swore.”

The Faery’s snort sounded loud enough for a draught horse, not a tiny woman. Emerald turned away rather than face Miss Emmert.

Once she was certain that the Faery would stay silent, Sele continued. “If the Caitlyn does not, there are others ways past the brute.” She hurried on before anyone could interrupt her. “Nevertheless, our greatest challenge shall be the Gullet. If we ever wish to depart, I need time alone with Emerald to make the final arrangements. Do I hear any argument?”

The two young adults chimed “nay” in unison.

“Then head to the stables and help prepare the wagon. We will leave within the hour.”

Crystalia was a bit tentative about leaving with the strange boy, but she could tell by Miss Emmert’s tone that the woman would tolerate no such delays. So Crystalia nodded curtly and followed Ornery out of the chamber, just glad that they were finally getting underway towards her beloved.

* * *

Ornery walked a few steps past the archway, then doubled back, nearly knocking Crystalia over. Before the girl could verbalize her surprise, Ornery put a hand over her mouth. He had not meant to do it— not meant to come into contact with her soft lips, but there he stood in the hallway, his palm to her mouth.

“Shh,” Ornery said as he released his hand. To hide his severely reddened face, Ornery turned back towards the map chamber.

Crystalia snuck up behind him and whispered in his ear. “Miss Emmert said to go to the horses.”

Ornery kept his back to the girl, afraid his desire would show clearly on his face. “The Faeries are already hitching the wagon. She just wanted to be alone with Emerald.”

“But shouldn’t we—”

“Don’t you want to know what she doesn’t want us to know?”

Ornery did not bother to wait for the Snowy Maiden’s answer. Her presence by his shoulder told of their shared curiosity. Creeping forward, he began to pick up the drift of conversation.

“I can’t hear anything,” Crystalia complained.

“Shh. I’ll tell you later. “

Despite his body’s reaction to the girl, his mind was intent on the women’s conversation. By Miss Emmert’s tone, Ornery was glad he snuck back.

“Emerald, I wish there were another way.”

“Do you? Do you truly, Seleen? I think you care not.”

Ornery could imagine the flurry of colors Emerald must have been flashing in her anger.

“I know you’re flustered, Emerald, but we must discuss the Fold—”

“What is there to discuss? If you slay the Gullet, the Gorlonn will uproot and leave the Fold in ruins.”

Miss Emmert tried to interrupt. “But—”

“And if you succumb at the Gullet, the world will descend into chaos, and this Fold will be lost to the world. Either way, this place is forfeit.”

His mother’s response was so soft that Ornery could barely hear her voice.

“Will you accept no solace from me?” Silence smothered the room. Once no response was forthcoming from Emerald, Miss Emmert continued. “We must develop a strategy—”

“I evacuate the rest and wait.”

Crystalia nudged Ornery. “What are they saying?”

“If we save the Hero, the Fold will be destroyed. Now, shh!” Ornery turned his ears forward again, trying to reorient to the quiet tones in the other room.

Miss Emmert’s voice was sad and resigned. “You will be sure that Twig finds her way South.”

Emerald snapped, “You need not worry, Seleen. I will see that all are safe.”

“What do you mean?” Crystalia pestered him again.

Ornery heard scuffing of shoes and propelled Crystalia backward and down the hallway. “They’re coming. Run!” he whispered harshly.

The two raced down the hallway.

“Which way?” Crystalia panted in his ear.

Her hot breath nearly sent him tumbling. “I know the way.”

“How? The tunnels are so convoluted.”

Ornery took care not to betray the sudden pounding of his pulse. “I can smell my cousins. Now hurry, before we are caught in the hallway.”

Short of breath from their hasty flight, they ran into the stable area, where the Faeries were hard at work. Miss Emmert was only a few strides behind.

“Crystalia, ride in the back of the wagon.”

“But—”

Miss Emmert’s tone brooked no argument. “You are still not well. I need you rested for the journey ahead.”

Ornery tried to make as if he had been hooking up the tack. “Will Father be meeting us at the Pass?”

“You should know the answer to that Ornery, or did you not listen well enough while eavesdropping?”

The look on Ornery’s face must have betrayed his shame, for Miss Emmert’s voice took on a softer quality.

“We’ll talk later. For now, take the reins.”

Not wanting to vex Miss Emmert, he meant his mother, any further, Ornery nodded his agreement and hopped up into the wagon, pulse bounding in his ears. They were off. Every mile they traveled east, brought him a mile closer to his father. For that, Ornery would risk the Gullet, Gorlonn, and the Caitlyn, combined— nothing was going to stand in the way of this reunion.

* * *

Glacial hugged her knees as silent tears ran down her cheeks. Her ascension to the Icy Throne was not supposed to be like this. An entire royal entourage was to have carried her to the Winter King’s Castle. There was to have been ladies in waiting and incense to calm her mind and prepare her body for the offering.

What if the mad King found her wanting? Tugging at the bandage, Glacial stared at the gash upon her arm. In all her seventeen years at Thunderhead, she had not a blemish— not a single scratch or bruise to mar her perfect flesh.

Now she was sore of foot, smelled as if she had rolled in refuse, and her arm would have a scar that could be seen across the Feasting Hall. Their flight from Thunderhead had left her with no personal belongings besides the silks she had worn. They had not even salvaged a walrus-bone comb to smooth her hair.

The King would never accept his Winter Queen in such a state. But what was she to do?

The human would have no sympathy for her plight.

Traven was coarse and a brute, enjoying every moment of her distress. How could she tell him her needs? Her deepest fears.

Carefully, the Princess turned her head and watched the Hero breathe evenly in his sleep. She, too, should have been to bed, but the room reminded her so deeply of her home that Glacial was unwilling to shut her eyes. If she let her mind wander, blocking out the last twenty-four hours, the Princess could almost imagine that she was back at the Hearth.

Glacial turned back to find Pale staring at her across the small fire. His eyes seemed to pierce her regal exterior and strike directly at her wounded heart.

Even though she was used to the beast wandering the Hearth, to be so near him and to watch the human communicate with the animal was disturbing. Worse, the Princess had to place her safety, and the survival of the world, in their hands. The thought made her shiver despite the flame’s warmth.

How Glacial wished her father were here. Or even Grave. The diminutive Giant had an odd liking for the White Wolf, which had always cheered her as a child. Grave would be able to chase the ghosts from her mind and bring a smile to her face. With the state of things now, Glacial was not even sure her lips could form a grin, let alone laugh. The Princess had no reason to feel merry.

If they dud survive this tangled gauntlet, what did she truly have to look forward to? The Matrons and Chieftains had made life with the Winter King seem so much like life within the Hearth that Glacial had never paused to consider what her people truly asked of her. The Princess could imagine an eternal life, living happily within Thunderhead or even another Hearth with her people, but now Glacial began to fear that the Icy Throne would be nothing like that.

Now, the princess had seen the outside world.

Glacial had tasted what fresh air felt like and how harsh the world could truly be. Were the Plains any indication of how the Winter King would hold his court? Was she expected to live an eternity in a frozen wasteland? Glacial shuddered again and lay back upon her thin bedding. The single-weave blanket gave little protection from the rocks and pebbles that littered the floor.

Despite the way her back complained at the hard bed, the Princess’s mind was far more pained. Sleep would be her best refuge from her future. Glacial was only now beginning to understand why they called the wedding ceremony Tthe Sacrifice.

CHAPTER 24

Madame Hesper crested the last stair and planted her feet firmly on the landing. The possessed form of Holt backed a few steps down the hallway. The Commander’s office was but two doors down.

Froth poured from the agitated Vampyr mouth. Its dangerously long teeth and talons glistened in the low light. The Madame knew that she should abandon this inquiry and head back to her mansion and Ekoli, but she could not leave until she saw for herself what had happened to the Commander. But for that, she needed her son, not this blood-driven creature that stood before her.

“Holt. You must come forth. I have need of you.”

The Vampyr sneered at her words. There was not a trace of Holt’s intelligence in those hungry eyes.

“I shall drink your heart’s blood.”

“I think not.” Madame Hesper snapped back. “If it were not for me, you would be dead now.”

“I am Vampyr. I need no one.”

Madame Hesper took a step forward. “That was poison on the Drakol’s claw. If I had not cauterized it, you would be dead.”

Unconsciously, the Vampyr’s hand reached for the large scorch mark on its chest. These creatures of the night were none too bright. They lived to hunt and feast. Vampyrs had arisen in the deepest jungles.

There, they had every right to hold such an arrogant view of themselves. In the rain forest, they were feared by one and all. Here on the frigid barren plains, they were at a disadvantage. It was just convincing the demon of that fact that was going to be the difficulty.

“Drop the garlic spell, and we shall see who dies,” the Vampyr growled.

“You are hungry? No?”

The Vampyr glared at her with red eyes. “I shall fill my belly this night, witch.”

“Allow Holt to come to the fore, and I promise you a hunt tonight.”

Wary of a trap, the Vampyr gnashed his teeth. The beast was nearly mad with hunger. His entire existence drove him to stalk and kill, yet she had him pinned.

“You would never allow me to feast on human flesh.”

Madame Hesper could honestly disagree. “There is one man I will.” The picture of the lieutenant’s pasty face rose in her mind. If they found what she feared in the Commander’s office, she would have no problem unleashing the Vampyr upon him.

“Let me hunt, then I shall release your son.”

“Nay.” The medium shook her head sternly. “If you wish a kill, you must relinquish control.”

Madame Hesper realized she’d been wrong before. The Vampyr might be reckless, but there was a sly intelligence behind those demonic eyes. It sparked briefly as the Vampyr’s forked tongue licked its pointed teeth.

“If you betray your oath, witch, I will lay claim to your son forever.”

Madame Hesper hesitated. Would she truly be able to watch the Vampyr brutally kill a human? Could she allow him to drain a man of his life’s blood?

If it meant saving Holt, then yes, she could.

“Agreed.”

Upon her word the Vampyr’s face began to shift and change. At first it was subtle, but every passing second brought Holt’s features back from the darkness. The pointed nose softened into a human nose. The high forehead retracted and eyebrows once again sprouted.

“Mother? The Curse is resisting the change.”

She was not surprised. To think the Vampyr hunger would freely relinquished complete control was ludicrous. No, now she had to trust in Holt’s inner strength to protect them.

“We need its prowess, Holt. Just stay in command of your actions.”

Her son nodded and clenched his hands into fists. She could only begin to imagine how difficult her request was to fulfill. Not wasting another second, Madame Hesper rushed to the Commander’s office. Flinging open the door, she could immediately smell the scent of betrayal and death. A groan called her attention behind the desk.

There lay the commander. His intestines oozed out through his stomach wound, but still he clung to life. Falling to her knees, she sought his hand.

“Amanda?” he asked.

“Aye, Jory. It is I.”

The commander licked his lips and tried to clear his throat. Madame Hesper surveyed his injuries but found them far too grievous to mend. They were fatal the moment they were struck. How he had hung on this long, she could only guess.

“I have failed—”

“Please. Do not speak. You must conserve your strength.” Madame Hesper smoothed the Commander’s hair.

The man’s face cracked in a painful smile. “Why? So that I might die well-rested? You cannot hide the truth of my condition, Amanda. I have felt my gut slide from my belt.”

There was nothing Amanda could say. She was so wrapped in her guilt and sorrow that she almost did not hear the attack coming from behind. Instinct raised her arm and spun Madame Hesper around on her heel. The assailant was thrown off-balance and crashed into the desk, sending splinters of wood across the floor.

“Lieutenant, so glad you could join us,” Holt said, his voice thick with the Vampyr’s accent.

Madame Hesper, though, was almost saddened by the man’s condition. He was near ranting. All sense of reason was drained from his face.

“Do you know what I did?” the lieutenant yelled. “What I gave up for their help? I will see you burn!”

Holt sprang forward, but the lieutenant was already on the attack. Throwing herself to the side, Madame Hesper narrowly escaped a skewering by his blade.

“No!” the man screamed as he crashed through the second-story window. The Vampyr echoed the man’s cry.

After a sickening thud, Madame Hesper looked out the shattered pane of glass. The lieutenant lay broken on the cobblestone with a crowd gathering around. The flames from downstairs had brought townsfolk flocking to the garrison. If she hoped to escape unnoticed, they would have to leave immediately.

“You have failed to live up to your end, witch. Do you cede now?”

Madame Hesper looked down again. There was no way the Vampyr could feed off the lieutenant, not with the crowd and fire. Either she set him upon a new victim, or she lost her son.

“Nay.” A weak voice croaked behind them. Turning, she found Jory trying to prop up onto his elbow. “Never give in…”

Groaning, Jory fell back to the floor. He was near delirious. Madame Hesper had a weighty decision upon her. Sic the Vampyr upon an innocent, or watch her only son be consumed by evil. There was no easy answer.

“Amanda.”

Keeping one eye on the Vampyr, Madame Hesper knelt beside the commander.

“Jory, I must leave you soon—”

The man’s grip was still strong as he held her hand. “It was this secret you held…” Jory had to take several breaths before he could continue. “You did not trust me with your son’s condition?”

Tears welled in Amanda’s eyes. It had been long since she had thought of the Commander as anyone but a loyal ally. Decades had passed since they knew each other as lovers.

“Yes. I could not risk you growing too close, Jory.”

The commander nodded and gave a strangled laugh. “I knew, you know. I knew what he was, even back then.”

Madame Hesper could not hide her surprise. “But how? Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I need an answer, witch,” the Vampyr hissed from behind her.

Jory pulled the Madame close and whispered into her ear. “Have him drink from me. Pay your debt with my blood.”

“Never!” Amanda tried to protest, but the Commander would not allow her.

“Let my death have meaning. We both know I will never rise from this floor.”

The very thought sickened her. To think this noble man would be sucked dry by a hungry demon was unbearable.

“You’ve spent your life protecting your son, Amanda. Do this now for him.”

All the guilt and shame she had kept at bay for years came crashing down upon Amanda. It was her fault Holt had been infected. It was her arrogance and stubbornness which had resulted in his possession. Now her mistake from so long ago would cost her another friend. She looked deep into the Commander’s gray eyes and kissed his trembling lips. There was nothing more to say. If he did not know how she felt by now, he never would.

Turning to the Vampyr, she wiped the hot moisture from her cheeks.

“Take him. You may quench your thirst upon his neck.”

* * *

Did his mother not realize how tentative a hold he had on controlling the Vampyr’s hunger? Holt did not know if he could stop the demon once his teeth were sunk into the Commander’s flesh.

“Mother—” He could get out no more than that. The Vampyr’s lust constricted his throat, squeezing the words from his vocal cords.

“Do it. Do it before he dies.” His mother seemed no more comfortable than he did at the prospect.

Holt tried to control his limbs, but they seemed to move on their own.

With two steps, he was past the medium and was awash in the sight and smell of the eviscerated man. It was like wine and freshly roasted boar to his senses. This would make a fine feast. Before he could think, the Vampyr lunged forward and sank his teeth into the Commander’s neck.

Blood gushed from the puncture wounds and filled his mouth with sweet, warm liquid. The taste was exquisite, and Holt felt his skin burn and sing at the flavor. Like many victims, the man’s hands flew up to the Vampyr’s head. But Holt did not need to worry. The Commander was far too weak to push him away.

Instead Jory actually cradled Holt’s face and spoke his last words. “Thank you.”

The human inside of the Vampyr’s skin wanted so badly to pull away. It was so very wrong what he was doing. To have the commander thank him overwhelmed Holt with such shame that he nearly lost control over the Vampyr.

Thankfully, his mother had placed a hand on both Holt’s back. “Drink, but do not lose yourself, son.”

As he drained the man of his last drop of blood, Madame Hesper closed the commander’s eyes with a kiss. “Good bye.”

The Vampyr still noted how close the woman’s neck was and how warm her flesh smelled. It would be a simple thing to take her, as well. Holt could not stop himself as the Vampyr urged his body to pull his teeth out of the dead man’s throat. A forked tongue flickered out and licked up the last few splashes of blood. Before the Vampyr could think about lunging for his mother, Holt pulled up and flung himself backwards.

“We must leave.”

“Aye. We leave as soon we collect Ekoli. We shall join Sele upon the Plains.”

Holt knew he nodded, but the words were truly meaningless. His only desire was to leave this room before he killed his own mother.

* * *

Madame Hesper hurried through her house, barely noticing the mess. The guards had ransacked the Mansion in their zest to capture her and her son.

Picking up her pace, she descended down the hidden set of stairs. Holt was behind her, dragging a bit. Was his hesitation exhaustion, reluctance or fear? Normally she would have stopped and made certain of his mindset, but they had very little time. The townsfolk were stirred into a frenzy. Amanda could not blame the simple citizens. Events of profound importance were transpiring, leaving even her unsettled. These poor people had no way of dealing with the horror that had sprung up around them. She could feel sympathetic, but that did not mean she wished to dally and be caught up in their zeal to find a scapegoat.

In addition, the night was wearing long, and they needed to get a great distance before the sun rose again. Out on the Plains there would be little shelter to protect Holt from the killing rays. Madame Hesper opened a secret door to find Ekoli crumpled in a corner. Rushing over, she barked at Holt to hurry. She had assumed the goddess was well-recovered, only to find her still grievously ill.

“Ekoli, I need to change your bandage. This might hurt a bit.” That was an understatement. The linen was soiled through, caked to the spirit’s skin. They would be lucky if she did not keel over from the pain.

The fallen deity roused a bit. “Amanda. You did not succumb.”

Working quickly but gently, Madame Hesper tried to keep Ekoli distracted from the work at hand. “Aye. The Drakol still lives but is interred by Earth.”

“The Elements complied? This world is in a state of flux.”

Holt was at her Madame Hesper’s shoulder, handing her bandages. Ekoli’s eyes fluttered for a moment. Then she seemed to settle back into a stupor.

In a harsh whisper, Amanda chastised her son. “How could you leave her like this?”

“She insisted, Mother. She feared for you.” The words were slurred between his sharp fangs. It was obvious he was having a difficult time controlling the Vampyr this close to so much blood.

Her anger was not assuaged, but now was not the time to force the issue. “Get me the sage and fennel.”

“Leave me. It is you who the world needs.” Ekoli begged through pale lips.

Madame Hesper ignored the woman. She would no sooner leave the goddess than abandon Holt. But time to make their escape was fleeting. Once the bandage was secure, they would have to leave. Tying the last strip down snuggly, Amanda turned to Holt.

“Can you carry her to the roof?”

There was a moment of pause looming between them. She knew what she asked of Holt. To carry a helpless, blood-splattered victim would be the worst torture that could be visited upon her son. But they had little time to be considerate of anyone’s needs.

“Aye. But…”

Madame Hesper laid a hand upon her son’s arm. “There are no buts, Holt. We flee with the goddess now, or we are lost.”

Her son’s face flowed and eddied with warring emotions. In the end, Holt’s fleshy features won out. He did not speak, but he gingerly picked up the semi-conscious form of the goddess. “Where from the roof?”

Amanda allowed a smile to come to her lips. It had been so long since she had indulged herself. “We alight.”

Holt nodded and led the way through the tangle of hidden passageways up to the attic. From there, they opened a set of glass doors and stepped out into the starry night.

Flames from the garrison licked at the dark sky while townsfolk scrambled through the streets. Chaos had come to town and did not look like it was leaving anytime soon. Which was perfect cover for their departure.

“Are you ready?” she asked her son.

Taking in a deep breath and studiously trying to ignore the woman in his arms, Holt nodded. He was off the roof within two wing beats, soaring over the hapless town. Opening wide her arms, Madame Hesper began to hum, then sing. A gust of wind slapped her in the face. A reproach from Wind for daring to invoke their bargain.

“You are bound to your word, Wind. I have need of your power.”

The air before her shimmered and twisted. The Element was always just outside one’s reach, but always close enough to hurt you. “I said nothing of my timing.”

Madame Hesper bit back a retort. Wind was erratic at best, cruel at his worst. “Do as you may. But if you refuse, you will be known as an oath-breaker before the Quorum.”

A gust of angry air nearly knocked her from her perch. It was not often the Elements were challenged so, and by a human. Madame Hesper feared she was the first. Wind’s mercurial form dissipated and melted from her view. He did not speak again but a strong draught of air lifted her from the floor. Perhaps a bit rougher than need be, the wind swept her along to join her son.

For just a moment, she reveled in her renewed power. Wind was doing much of the labor, but it was her skill that allowed her ride the waves of air. Anyone else would be hopelessly tumbled and smashed to the ground. Nodding to her son, they gained height and scaled the town’s wall. A cry of alarm rose behind them, but Madame Hesper ignored it. They had nothing to fear from humans any more.

No, their worries ran much deeper now.

CHAPTER 25

Traven led Lauger along the narrow tunnel. The ceiling was so low that even Glacial had to dismount from Pale, else her head scraped upon the rock. This had slowed their progression even further. The Princess’s feet were in no shape to travel their rough path. Even swathed in linen within her boots, the soles of her feet were covered in blisters.

Not that Traven was necessarily in a headlong rush to meet their next obstacle. He hoped that they had skirted around the most dangerous areas.

The small group had been traveling for hours and had yet to come upon another enemy. This served only to jangle Traven’s nerves all the more. He would rather face an army of foes in front of him than a single one hidden. And hiding was the Creepers’ best talent. They could spring out at any moment.

Pale interrupted Traven’s worry with a concern of his own. The smells in this tunnel were too familiar. The wolf was certain that they had passed this way before. Traven’s immediate response was to deny such thoughts. The Princess seemed certain of each turn they took. They could not be lost. Yet, looking at the walls, there was a certain familiarity about them.

“Glacial. Are you confident this is the path we take?”

The Princess’s royal arrogance was in full power when she answered. “Of course. I have been prepared for this voyage since my birth.”

Still, Pale was not at all convinced. The wolf broke away from the group and sniffed along the passageway. He gave a short bark. Traven joined him and shook his head. It was a bit of embarrassing find, but it proved that they were walking in circles.

“Princess. You have led up astray. Where is your map?”

Glacial backed away. “How dare you accuse me?”

Traven tried to be respectful, but his patience was nonexistent. “This is no mere accusation, Princess. We are lost. I need to see your map.”

“What have you found?” Glacial tried to cross to their position, but Traven blocked her way. Her agitation was clear. “What is it?”

Traven had hoped to avoid telling her, but at this point he cared not for her royal sensibilities. “It is where we let water out. The dirt is still moist.”

The color left her ruddy cheeks for a moment, and she backed away.

“I need that map.”

Glacial was uncommonly subdued as she pulled out a small necklace in the shape of a heart. Within it was a tiny piece of parchment. With eyes downcast, the Princess handed over the sacred relic to Traven. He could not believe what he found. The drawing was of the crudest sort. It did not even have the four points of the compass to use as a guide. The map was worse than useless.

“You have been directing us from this?” Traven asked, amazement still thick in his voice.

“Aye. I was told it would lead me to my husband.”

“Glacial, how could you—” Traven had to regain his tongue. “You must have known that following this was hopeless. Why did you not show this to me from the start?”

For once Glacial seemed contrite. Her voice shook a bit, and if Traven hadn’t known better, he’d thought she sounded apologetic.

“I had never seen a map before. The sages spoke with such reverence for the thing, I thought it foolproof—” The Princess stopped when she realized the unintentional pun in her words. “I was… I was embarrassed to say that I did not know how to read it.”

How Traven wanted to light into the Giant. How badly he wished to take this opportunity to scold the woman who had made his life hell since he met her, but somehow he could not. Glacial had never looked so lovely as in this moment of confession. Her vulnerability shielded her a thousand times more fully than her rigid aggression ever could.

His anger bled out, Traven sighed. “You should not have been ashamed. This parchment is unreadable. There are no directions, and even the schematic makes no sense.”

The Princess raised her eyelids and looked at Traven from the corner of her eye. It was obvious she had expected a berating. “Then we are truly lost?”

Traven folded the parchment again and handed it back to Glacial. “Aye. Our best hope is that Pale might be able to sniff us out a trail.”

Pale sent a forceful image informing Traven of exactly how angry he still was at the Princess. The wolf was unimpressed by her embarrassment. Pale was already tired of dried venison. He wished to hunt again and was quite peeved at Glacial for delaying his pleasure. Traven sent back an equally powerful picture of the Craven Creepers and reminded the wolf of their true mission here.

Flicking his tail, Pale abruptly cut off the sending. The wolf did not seem any too fond of goals. Traven felt slightly ill at ease as Pale rounded a corner without him. He did not like the group being split up.

“Glacial, follow tight behind me.”

For once the Princess obeyed wordlessly, using only a polite nod to answer him. Lauger’s nostrils flared as they progressed down the side tunnel. The walls were even more cramped and pressed down upon them. Pale sent a strong sending of discovery. It was as if Traven himself could smell the aroma of sweat and blood. A feeble light began illuminating the hallway. Perhaps there was a second chamber like the one they had paused at. He sent a warning of caution, but Pale had already slowed.

Sword drawn, Traven followed the wolf cautiously around the corner. Still connected to Pale, Traven was almost overwhelmed by the barrage of smells and sights. Stumbling backwards, Traven tried to push Glacial back before she could enter, but the tiny woman slipped under his arm. Her cry of shock echoed off the large chamber. Nauseated, Traven urged her back into the dark tunnel.

“What. What was that?” Glacial asked, her words aflutter.

Traven could not answer, his mind was so consumed with his own concerns. Could their plight get any worse? No, he would not ask that of himself, for lately Fate had been only too happy to oblige him with the answer.

The princess jerked his sleeve, causing him to turn to her. “What was that?”

How could he tell her the truth? How could he not?

“It’s a lair.”

“All those bones. And those bodies…” Glacial could not finish her statement.

Which was probably best anyway. There was no adequate way to describe the carnage in that chamber. Something brutal and inhuman had littered that place. Even Pale’s stomach was turned by the sight. Out of all the labyrinths, how could they have found their way here?

“But whose lair?”

The words had to be forced from Traven’s lips. “The Craven Creepers’.”

* * *

Crystalia tried to rest. She really did, but each time she closed her eyes, her palm burned and begged to be checked. And each time she checked, Traven was farther away. How could Miss Emmert expect her to sleep when every fiber of her being cried to head north instead of east?

But east is where they headed. Crystalia watched as Miss Emmert sewed upon a napkin. It seemed everyone she had met since leaving Last Hitch was strange, to say the least.

From what Crystalia could gather, Madame Hesper’s daughter was married to a horse not unlike the ones pulling the wagon, while the odd boy was some sort of hybrid. It gave Crystalia the shivers, but they had been nothing but kind and helpful. There was much she did not understand, and it was becoming apparent that Crystalia had best learn much of it if she wished to survive her quest.

Scooting over, she asked Miss Emmert about her craft. “What are you sewing?”

“It’s an enslavement lash. We might need one at the Pass.”

Crystalia stayed quiet for a moment. She had no idea what such a tie might do or how it could be used. It might be important to know, but Crystalia did not feel she was ready for that type of knowledge quite yet. Still, she needed to be of some use to the woman who saved her life.

“Can I help in any way?”

“Nay, child. I need you rested. It would not do to present The Man with a rumpled Snowy Maiden.”

Smoothing out her blue silk, Crystalia smiled shyly. Miss Emmert understood her completely.

Ornery burst in from the front of the wagon. “The horses have slowed and refuse to pick up speed.”

“We must be nearing the Polar Span,” Miss Emmert said as she passed the sewing to Crystalia. “Here. Can you work on this while I tend the horses?”

Crystalia nearly dropped the material. Who was she to work such sorcery as an enslavement lash? “Do I chant or try to weave it with my magick?”

“Nay.” Miss Emmert chuckled a bit. “That will come later. All I need you do is embroider some roses for me. Can you do that?”

Nodding, Crystalia picked up the needle and thread. Long ago her mother had taught her the stitches. It was strange to use such a commonplace’s craft in the use of powerful alchemy. But she trusted Miss Emmert and began sewing as Ornery and his mother left to care for the steeds.

Crystalia hummed the tune her mother had taught her many winters ago. It was funny how she could remember the melody. Maybe one day she would teach it to her own daughter. She got goose bumps at the thought. Yes, she would teach everything she knew to the children she and Traven brought into the world.

* * *

Ornery felt a bit silly asking for Miss Emmert’s help, but he no longer knew how to relate to the horses. Before, he would have given them a bit of the whip and goaded them on, but now even Miss Emmert took their counsel.

Besides the terrain had changed drastically in the last few hours. The Plains had given way to broken hills and banks of snow taller than most buildings.

“Nutmeg can feel rock not too far under the snow pack. The Span cannot be too far off,” Miss Emmert reported after staring intently at the horse.

How he wished he could speak with his cousins in such a way. Why was his mother so gifted, and not him? Before he could ask, they rounded a drift to find an enormous chasm gaping before them. Across this canyon was a narrow bridge of ice. The width of the thing was less than two wagons wide. Now he could see why the horses had slowed to almost a halt. Icicles hung down, some longer than he was tall, from the Span.

“Is it safe?” Ornery asked.

“The Span has withstood the test of time. Some say it stood before any of the races inhabited the lands.”

He could believe it. The slab of ice had to be dozens of feet thick. Gently, Miss Emmert clucked to the horses. It was obvious they were hesitant to step upon the slick surface. With no more pull than a normal horse, they slowly drew the wagon onto the Span. Loose ice crystals crackled under the wagon’s weight. The noise brought the Snowy Maiden out from the curtain.

“What is that—” The girl stopped short as she scanned the impossible view. They were literally miles above a dark abyss. The moon shone down, lighting the narrow ribbon of ice that they crossed. The sight was nothing short of spectacular.

“Come have a seat.” Miss Emmert patted the bench next to her.

The girl looked flustered but did as was requested, her stitching dangling from a forgotten hand.

“Once across the Span, we will—” Miss Emmert paused and looked like she was going to continue, but then shut her mouth again. “Did either of you hear—”

This time there was no doubt of the sound. Ornery cursed his now-tiny ears. He had not heard the attack coming. From behind them a half dozen creatures beat upon the ground with their crude clubs. Their bodies were covered in white fur but blood stained their mouths and chest.

“Yah!” Miss Emmert called to the horses, and they were more than eager to comply. At first they trotted but quickly they sped into a gallop. The wagon jumped and jostled across the slick surface. Miss Emmert looked again over her shoulder as the beasts grew more bold and gave chase after them. “Damn. The cold must have forced them down from the heights.”

“What. What are they?” Crystalia asked, her eyes wide with fear.

“Yeti. Normally they live far up in the mountains. Things must be desperate for them to wander so far south.”

That was something Ornery did not want to hear. Desperate men, desperate animals were the most dangerous of all. “Can they catch us?”

“I think not, but it might be close getting to the other side.”

Crystalia could not peel her eyes off of the advancing party. “Why aren’t the horses running faster?”

“The footing is slick here. Any faster, and we would risk skidding off the side and down that ravine.”

Gulping, the girl did not argue with Miss Emmert’s logic. Although it was still hard to watch the giant ape-like creatures narrow the gap. In the cold night air, their hungry growls echoed off the rising mountain faces.

“Watch out!” Crystalia screamed.

Suddenly the wagon jolted violently. Miss Emmert barely kept them on course.

“What was that?” Ornery screamed back.

All three of them looked behind the wagon to see the six Yeti converged in a semicircle. Miss Emmert groaned and snapped the reins.

The horses sensed her urgency and immediately picked up the pace, drawing them up and off the Span. Their speed tripled.

“I… I thought we couldn’t risk—”

“We can’t. But nor can we risk the Yeti’s Tribal ring. They need only one more member—”

The wagon again lurched as the Polar Span quaked. Cracks began forming in the smooth ice.

“Do they mean to shatter the bridge?” Crystalia asked, terror plain in her voice.

“Nay. They are simple creatures. They do not understand the composition of the Span. They see only that we escape, and they are using one of their hunting tools.”

“But it is cracking the bridge!” Ornery pointed out, quite unnecessarily.

Miss Emmert nodded. “It is called the Korakal. They shake the ground and throw off their enemy’s pace. In the mountains it can generate an avalanche, killing their victim. They just dig out their prey later.”

“Here, though, they will—”

Miss Emmert cut Ornery off. “They will destroy the span, killing us and themselves.”

The weight of her words silenced both Ornery and Crystalia. Despite the horses’ speed, they still had three-fourths of the Span to go. It seemed an unending distance stretched out before them.

“Should we lighten the load for the horses?” Crystalia asked.

Ornery mentally hit himself. He should have thought of that first! How was this girl ever going to respect him if he could not even keep her safe?

“Nay. What lightness we will achieve will be tiny compared to the risk we throw out something we might desperately need later.”

Ornery took small comfort in Miss Emmert declining Crystalia’s idea. How could they need something more desperately then they were now? Another tremor shook the Span, this time inducing huge fractures in the ice.

Crystalia’s voice was thick with dread. “Another has joined them. They are seven now.”

“Dear gods!” Miss Emmert exclaimed. “Prepare yourselves!”

Ornery had no idea what to prepare for until he was nearly thrown from his seat. Only the tight grip he had on the wagon seat kept him from flying into the chasm. Crystalia was not so lucky. Her hold on the railing was too weak, and she went sailing over the side of the wagon. Without thinking, Ornery threw himself past Miss Emmert and leapt over the buckboard.

The girl had slid across the ice and slipped almost over the edge. She was holding on to the ledge by the narrowest of margins. Using his Centaur-fueled legs, he closed the distance in a single step. Planting his feet firmly in a crevice, Ornery grabbed the maiden’s wrist.

Her nails were dug so deeply into the ice that her fingers bled. Despite her obvious pain, she did not peep a sound of discomfort. Ornery loved her all the more for that. With a heave he brought the top half of her over the edge. Crystalia used her legs and was able to help him lift her completely onto the ice.

Another quake shook the Span to its very core. As the ice beneath them crumbled, Ornery scooped Crystalia up into his arms and ran. He ran faster than he had ever run before. Which was a good thing, since Miss Emmert had not slowed the wagon a whit. She trusted in Ornery’s legs more than he did. Their flight down the icy bridge was slippery and exhausting. Carrying the girl was far harder than Ornery had anticipated.

With each grueling step, they closed in on the wagon. They were so near, but Ornery’s legs complained brutally. With the extra weight, he would not be able to overtake the wagon. There was only one way to try and save them both. Without warning, Ornery spurted forward, just enough to almost touch the wagon’s edge. With a grunt, he flung Crystalia forward. The throw was not pretty, but she sailed through the curtains, and he could hear her thud against the wagon’s floor. She might have broken a bone, but at least she was safe.

Exhausted, Ornery rapidly fell behind. His plan had been to lighten his load and catch back up, but it was rapidly becoming obvious that he did not have the strength nor the endurance. A glance behind showed the Yeti preparing for another blow. With the deep, ragged cracks in the ice, Ornery realized this would be the last strike the Span could endure. Even his feeble efforts to save the Maiden may have been in vain.

The Yeti shouted in victory, then brought their clubs to bear against the ice. The resulting impact knocked Ornery from his feet. Splayed on the ground, Ornery watched the wagon careen towards the edge of the Span. He could do nothing as he watched his mother and love go over the edge.

* * *

Crystalia screamed so loud that she thought her throat might burst, but still the sound of ice cracking drowned her out. The sound of the ancient bridge giving way filled the world.

“Jump!” Miss Emmert shouted and gave Crystalia a shove. Barely stable on the seat anyway, Crystalia more like fell from the wagon yet again. You could hear the wagon wheels sliding over the edge. The wood creaked and groaned.

Miss Emmert was already up, helping to pull the horses back from the edge, but their leather harnesses held them tight to the falling wagon.

“Grab the ax!” Miss Emmert shouted.

Crystalia would have, if she had known where it was kept. Luckily Ornery rushed up behind her and grabbed the tool from behind the seat. With strong arcing blows, he cut the leads from the wagon. Crystalia stood stunned at the show of force, but regained her senses and joined Miss Emmert’s efforts.

The horses were near panic. Centaur or not, they could feel the touch of death close. They all could. Around them the ice splintered off and plummeted into the chasm. Even the Yeti had scattered and charged back across the Span.

“Pull!” Miss Emmert yelled as Nutmeg lost her footing and flailed to regain it.

Grabbing at the reins, Crystalia did her best to steady the beast. Cinnamon was freed and surged past her, nearly launching herself over the other side of the Span. Miss Emmert looked into the horse’s wild eyes, and immediately the animal calmed. Crossing back over, Cinnamon took the reins in her mouth and supported her sister. The whole thing would have been quite an amazing event, showing Crystalia the depth of Centaur compassion, if it were not for the sound of fracturing ice.

With one last swing, Ornery cut the last tie that bound Nutmeg to the doomed wagon. In an instant the loaded wagon vanished over the side. Crystalia stepped forward and watched their conveyance plunge into the abyss. Crystalia could not help but remember Miss Emmert’s anxiety over keeping the contents of the wagon. What had they truly lost?

Crystalia’s question was left unasked as Miss Emmert shoved her towards Ornery.

“Mount up with him.”

Even though the ice vibrated beneath her feet, Crystalia objected. “I would rather ride with you.”

“We have no time! Nutmeg cannot take the additional weight. Now mount up.”

Ornery, already astride Cinnamon, snatched Crystalia’s wrist and jerked her onto the horse’s back.

“Hang on to the mane!”

With that warning, he kicked Cinnamon and they flew forward. There was no grace nor precision to their flight. This was a panicked run. Nutmeg’s tail thrashed before them as she tried to keep her footing on the treacherous ice. The unfortunate Yetis behind them now screamed in terror as the Span collapsed in the middle. Huge chunks followed, large enough to create quite a boom from the depths of the canyon.

A fissure opened up before Cinnamon, and she was forced to hurl herself across it. Another and then yet another gaped in front of them. Clinging for her life, Crystalia closed her eyes. She did not want to see her own death.

“This way!” Crystalia heard Miss Emmert shout.

Peeping through her sealed lids, Crystalia watched Cinnamon jump over yet another crack and follow Nutmeg so closely that her nose was buried in her sister’s tail. Ornery’s arm was wrapped tight around her waist, yet with every jolt, she feared she would fly off.

“The end is just ahead!” Ornery shouted over the wind and roar of destruction.

Risking a look, Crystalia found the snowy bank the most welcome sight. They were but yards away. The horses could sense freedom and rushed ahead, almost running straight into a huge crevice that had formed. With a strangled cry, Miss Emmert was thrown forward as Nutmeg skidded to a halt. Ornery was off Cinnamon in a heartbeat, but before Crystalia could join him, he whacked the horse in the rump.

“Yah! Jump!” he shouted.

Cinnamon’s legs were up to the challenge and they cleared the schism. Doubling back, Crystalia watched as Ornery lowered Nutmeg’s torn lead down to his mother. The woman tried to reach out hand, but she slid down another few feet. The ice gave way again, opening a huge hole in the ice. Large enough for Miss Emmert to fall through.

* * *

Ornery knew he did not have much time. Throwing the lead over his shoulder, he scampered down the icy crevice. It not like he was heedless of the danger or the slippery purchase or the fall that would crush each of his bones. It was just that Ornery knew that if Miss Emmert died, they all died with her. There was no way the girl and he could survive the Pass, or the Gullet, or even find the Steppes by themselves. No, right now reckless haste was his only hope.

He figured the gods owed him some help right about now. They could not deprive him of so much for so long, only to snatch his mother away before he could tell her how much he loved her.

“Don’t move,” Ornery cautioned as he lowered himself to her level.

Miss Emmert did not even nod in response, she was concentrating so hard on keeping her feet wedged in the tiny outcropping of ice that she had come to rest upon. The ledge was narrow, and there was no way Ornery could perch there as well. Clinging to the icy wall with sheer will, Ornery tied the lead around her waist. Once that was done, he realized he was, himself, without a lifeline. To hang on to Miss Emmert and be pulled up with her would greatly lessen her chance. There was no time to devise another plan.

“Cinnamon! Yah! Pull her up!”

There was a moment when Miss Emmert realized what Ornery was doing, but his mother was jerked upward before she could complain. Ornery stared up at the wall of ice. He had climbed down it with ease. Could he not climb up it with equal skill? His first slip told him that was not the case. If only he were a mountain goat, Ornery thought ruefully. He would give anything to be part Billy goat right now instead of Centaur.

The sharp crack of new fissures filled Ornery with terror. He had best get moving, or there would be no wall to climb. Miss Emmert was above him, nearly over the edge herself. If he could just hold on and scale a few more feet, she could throw him the lead. Just a few more feet, that was all he needed.

But it was not what Fate gave to him. Instead Ornery felt the ice give way. The chunk he clung to suddenly lurched and moaned. It took his brain a fleeting second to recognize what was happening.

Without thinking, Ornery leapt from his purchase as the piece gave way. Midair, his body responded without his prompting and twisted him around. He hit the remaining ice with his finger and toes and nearly ran up the sheer face.

After a few hops, he realized that his wish had come true. He was prancing up the slope just like the Bighorn sheep he had seen in the Granite Mountains. With all that had happened to him in the last few days, he did not question this gift. He only used it. Even Miss Emmert seemed shocked as he hopped up next to her. She had not even had a chance to untie the lead.

“Get up!” Ornery ordered his mother. He was still so full of energy and confidence from his climb that she actually did as he commanded. “Go!”

Cinnamon had more faith in his new-borne abilities than Miss Emmert. The horse immediately hurled herself across the crevice and landed on the other side by Nutmeg and Crystalia. Rearing back, Ornery trusted his legs and jumped the crevice in a single leap.

Giddy with excitement and driven by the shattering bridge, Ornery ran ahead. “Follow me!”

The race to the end of the Span was the most exhilarating of his life. His cousins gave him competition, but in the end, they were no match for his new-found swiftness. Everything about his body felt different. There was no more gangliness. No more awkward angles. Bone and flesh moved smoothly beneath his skin. Too soon, they were upon the snowy bank. He wanted to run on forever, but Miss Emmert reined in the horses.

Panting, Ornery turned back with his companions and watched the great ice bridge collapse onto itself. The roar was deafening, and the sight was one no human should lay eyes upon. The bridge that had been built by the gods themselves was now gone forever. He was surprised to find tears running down Miss Emmert’s cheek. Ornery had been so full of himself he had nearly forgotten the gravity of their situation.

“Ride behind Crystalia,” Miss Emmert ordered.

Crystalia and he both objected at the same time. He wanted to run! Unfortunately Miss Emmert was firm and a bit sad. Ornery thought she would be proud of his new skills. Instead she rebuked his complaints and gave him a look that halted any argument. Pulling himself up behind the girl, Ornery pointed to a low mountain pass.

“Is that where we are going?”

Miss Emmert shook her head. “Nay. See that blight near the tip?”

Squinting, Ornery could make out a dark smudge far up in the range. “Aye.”

“That is where we must travel. So conserve your legs, son. We have left behind the leisurely portion of our journey.”

CHAPTER 26

Madame Hesper compensated for another gust. This ride was not going as smoothly as she had hoped. They were still miles from the trapper’s hut that she had hoped to weather the day in.

Over an hour ago she had changed course and headed for the Fold. It was their only hope of finding cover before sunrise. Besides the danger to Holt, she could sense his fatigue. Flying all night, holding Ekoli, had taken its toll.

Surveying the moonlit landscape, Amanda noticed a tiny fleck in the distance. Adjusting her course, she closed in on the object. Holt tried to follow, but his wings beat slowly, and his path was more an arc than a true turn.

“Continue,” Amanda urged. “ I will return.”

Holt did not argue. He only gave a tired nod. At this point, Madame Hesper was more concerned with her son’s soul than his body. How could he fight the Curse if he was this exhausted? Once they reached safety, all of them would need some rest. Upon approach, the speck did not get much bigger. Taller, perhaps, but thin and spry.

“Twig!” Madame Hesper exclaimed as she swooped down near her old acquaintance. “What are you doing out here?”

“You have not heard from your daughter?” Twig asked in her raspy voice.

Immediately Amanda’s pleasure at finding an unexpected friend vanished, replaced with concern for her offspring. “Nay.”

“The news is not good, I’m afraid.” Twig held Madame Hesper’s hand in her own as she told the medium of Sele’s discovery at the Fold. Twig’s many fingers stroked Amanda’s hand as she relayed the sad news. Her barky flesh was rough yet gentle upon her skin. It somehow made the tidings easier to hear.

“She means to fight the Gullet?”

Twig’s branchy head nodded.

Madame Hesper could not believe what she heard. “But, the Gorlonn will destroy the Fold—”

“I left before the full evacuation got under way.”

Amanda just stood there stunned. A Fold? To fall? It was unheard of. They were places of ancestral sanctuary. They were unchanging in a sea of ever-turning events. This could not be. Yet it was.

Worse, the first Fold to ever be destroyed would be upon her own daughter’s head. The Quorum was already vexed with Sele over her secret marriage to Dimtri. After this, they might forsake her and her son completely.

But would Amanda make any different decision if she were in her daughter’s shoes? Sele knew as well as she did the grave circumstances that they found themselves in. No one would be exempt from the devastation that would follow.

“You should make for the Fold. My leaves sense the sun’s arrival,” Twig said. The green sprouts on the tips of her stems began to unfold and orient themselves to the east.

“Aye. We are far behind schedule. Wind has not been as helpful as I had hoped.”

“When is he ever?” Twig reminded her gently.

Madame Hesper nodded. The branchy one had great wisdom. “Where do you head?”

“I miss my rooting ground. With the north in such disarray, I shall strike for Everstand.”

How Amanda wished she could go with Twig. She had no desire whatsoever to see Emerald again. Especially in the Faery’s current mood.

Madame Hesper leaned forward and hugged her barked friend. Twig’s gentle humor and wisdom would be sorely missed.

“Hopefully, when all this is over, we will visit again.”

“That much I know is true,” Twig said, her voice full of unspoken knowledge.

Before Madame Hesper could ask any further questions, Twig was already several steps away. She could follow her friend, but knew she more than likely would get no clarification. Twig’s race was like that. Instead Amanda allowed the gusting wind to carry her up and north. Rapidly she rejoined Holt. He had barely covered a few miles while she spoke. With the skies lightening a bit and the air warming a titch, they did not have much time.

“Here, let me carry her for a bit.”

Holt’s refusal was more like a growl than a response. Dried saliva clung to his chin, his face haggard.

“Son, the Fold is still a few leagues away. We must make best speed.”

“I will make it.” Holt choked out.

Madame Hesper held her tongue, not quite sure who was in control at this moment. Holt must have had the slimmest edge, since he not drank from Ekoli, but the margin looked narrow. The only reprieve in this situation was the Vampyr instincts would hound Holt’s body until they found shelter from the sun. Even now, his wings beat stronger, and there was an urgency to his flight.

“I will fly ahead and open the portal.”

Holt did not give any verbal or physical sign he heard or even understood her. Amanda hesitated for a moment, fearful of what the Vampyr might do in her absence. She was sure the beast was hungry even after its meal at the garrison. With sunrise so close, the demon would be more daring.

Tentatively, Madame Hesper flew forward but checked over her shoulder frequently. Holt’s grim expression had not changed a wit. Gaining speed, Amanda found the landmarks that delineated the Fold’s opening. There were two of the slightest dips in the Plains, with a third point of raised snow to complete the triangle. Men could hunt for decades, and had, and still not find the precise spot one needed to open the Fold.

The eastern horizon bloomed a light pink while Madame Hesper settled her feet onto the ground. She walked forward and put her hand out.

“Open.”

Nothing happened. Madame Hesper checked her foot placement again and pressed her palm forward and said the incantation in the ancient tongue.

“Soloma.”

Still nothing. Calling forth her magick, Amanda probed the air before her. She could feel the pulse and throb of the portal, but another spell overlaid the orifice. Holt startled her as he landed off-balance next to her. Ekoli had roused at the jarring impact.

“It denies me entry.” Madame Hesper said.

Ekoli motioned for Holt to release his hold on her, but he ignored her. Instead he walked forward and allowed her to reach a hand out. She, too, intoned the ancient command but had no better luck. The sky was now mottled with deep purple and blue. The skin on Holt’s back steamed with the heat of the sun. It was only a matter of minutes before he was consumed by the fire.

Madame Hesper dug more deeply into the overlying spell. It appeared she had read Emerald’s mood correctly. The enraged Faery had placed a ward on the portal, an enchantment to exclude humans. Amanda turned to her son. He was half human, but half was not. What she asked of him would require him to relinquish control to the Vampyr. Could they trust the demon not to betray them all?

“Holt. We need the Vampyr to gain entry.”

Her son hissed in frustration and pain. His entire body was now smoking from the sun.

Amanda motioned to Ekoli. “Let me take her.”

“No!” Holt snarled and backed away a step. Calming down a bit, his human voice came through more clearly. “He will not harm her.”

Madame Hesper understood the warning. For some reason the Vampyr was protective over Ekoli. His mother, on the other hand, would make the demon a nice meal. Backing away, Amanda allowed Holt to ease into full transformation. The Vampyr turned and parted his lips, showing off his two full rows of pointed teeth.

“So it is me you need, witch. What price are you willing to pay?”

Amanda closed the distance. She tired of the demon’s games. “It is you who need to be inside this moment, Vampyr.”

“And your son. If I die, so does he.”

Madame Hesper shrugged her shoulders. She knew Holt, in full human form, would never want her to make another bargain like the one she did earlier that night. “Then he dies. There will be no more bargains.”

The Vampyr’s skin crackled, and even the demon’s features winced in pain. There was a moment Amanda feared the Vampyr too far gone to reason properly, but finally he raised a hand and spoke the command. Immediately the warm radiance of firelight greeted them. The demon stumbled inside, his back nearly fried. Madame Hesper made sure she was right beside him to catch Ekoli as the Vampyr stumbled and fell to the ground. The demon’s bravado had spent the last of his body’s energy.

“I have need!” Madame Hesper shouted into the empty hallway as the portal behind them closed, encircling them in stone.

A startled Faery buzzed into the room. It took one look at the blood-soaked Ekoli and the Vampyr and flew right back out. It seemed everyone was a bit twitchy at the Fold. Cursing under her breath, Amanda put pressure on the goddess’s wound. The agitation had caused her injury to gush blood again.

Emerald darted into the room, flanked by half a dozen Faeries. Each one was ablaze with orange. “How dare you override my ward!”

“Get me bandages, corn starch, and a blanket. Quickly!” Madame Hesper ordered.

“I will tolerate your family’s insolence no more!’

Madame Hesper caught Emerald by the legs and jerked the enraged Faery to face her. “This is Ekoli, the Great Goddess given flesh. She now lies dying because she saved me. If I hear another word out of you, I will snap you in half. Do we understand one another?”

The Faery drained of all color and flittered away once Amanda released her grip. The other Faeries bustled about, carrying out Madame Hesper’s requests. Holt, or more accurately, the Vampyr that possessed Holt’s body, cowered in the shadow.

“Take Holt to a safe room and douse the lights.”

Emerald’s voice was shaky and uncommonly helpful. “We will find some blood. Does he wish to rest beneath ground or above?”

Before Madame Hesper could respond, Holt was able to respond in a garbled tone, “Above, on a bed.”

Amanda flashed a supportive smile to her son. He was trying so hard to remain human. But had she pushed him too far already? After all these decades, would she finally lose him to the Curse?

Madame Hesper whispered to Emerald. “Get him some clothes. And post a guard. No, three or four, on his room.”

The Faery’s smug look returned for an instant, but equally rapidly it disappeared, and Emerald nodded. While Amanda worked on Ekoli’s wounds, the Faery flit around her head.

“Why have you not sealed the skin with the spell of Moulin?”

Amanda knew Emerald was trying her best to rebuild rapport, but at the moment, Madame Hesper only wished to be left alone to tend the fallen deity.

“Her flesh resists any magick. It is why she could not open the portal.”

Emerald had no witty, sharp response to that statement. How could she? In her ire she had almost denied one of their most esteemed goddesses entry into a Fold that Ekoli had helped create. If any were to survive this ordeal, Emerald would pay dearly for that transgression.

“I… I would offer you the hospitality of this Fold for eternity, but events have been set in—”

Madame Hesper carefully examined the puckered wound on Ekoli’s abdomen. How she wished the Faery would just go away. “Twig informed me.”

“Then you head east upon her recovery?”

Amanda had enough of the Faery’s chatter and lack of focus. “Nay. I join my daughter at the Gullet.”

“Are you daft?” Emerald blurted out before she could compose herself.

Madame Hesper tried to rein in her frustration. “Nay. Sele’s plan is sound. I am sorry that it requires the sacrifice of this Fold, but we are headed towards dark times, and dark actions are needed.”

The Faery hovered in front of Amanda’s face. It was obvious that having to remain civil was difficult for Emerald. “I have accepted the Fold’s loss, Madame. I was thinking more of the world at large.”

“The Ice Princess must be stopped—”

“I, of all beings, have no quarrel with that goal. I say feed her to the Gorlonn.” Emerald stopped her ranting and calmed back down. “Do you not wonder why all is happening so quickly? Why is the event horizon converging with a speed unheard of?”

Madame Hesper had to take pause. Everything had occurred so rapidly that she had not time to absorb the full brunt. She hated to admit it, but the Faery’s question was valid. “And what have you deduced?”

“Winter is not alone in his illness. The other seasons are affected as well.”

“As a side effect—”

“What if it is not?”

Amanda pondered Emerald’s point. Her mind wrapped around the idea as the bandages encircled Ekoli’s midriff. The goddess was now asleep again, eased into rest by some medicinal cider. Her breath was slow and regular. A far sight better than it was at Hanger’s Mansion.

“Emerald, what is your suspicion?”

“Winter is the only god visibly infected.” The Faery’s voice was rushed and tight. “I believe a power beyond our scope is trying to wrench the seasons from our grasp.”

Now, Emerald was being preposterous. “Who would do such a thing? And to what end?”

The Faery flew backwards from Madame Hesper’s reproachful tone, but her determination was unwavering. “I know not who or why, but I know we must find out the answers to exactly those questions.”

“And how would you go about this vain quest?”

Emerald’s dress glittered in a hundred different colors. Her excitement was unbound. “You must visit the Oracle. She is the only one who might have a hint to this scheme.”

Madame Hesper rocked back onto her heels. “The Oracle? She retreated far from the world, long ago. What makes you think she would speak to me?”

“I do not. But she could not deny her sister.”

Amanda had almost forgotten. The Oracle’s half-sibling was Ekoli. But in human form, would the Oracle recognize the relation?

“It is a good plan. Is it not?” Emerald buzzed with pride. The Faery was unused to having such a hand in matters of the world.

Madame Hesper wished she could find a dent in Emerald’s design, but the Faery was correct. Even if her theory regarding the other seasons was inaccurate, the Oracle could be of great help in containing the Winter King. It was most annoying when the Faery was right.

“It is, Emerald. Once recovered, we shall head east.”

The Faery did a somersault in the air and clapped her hands. Anyone else would have looked gleeful or at play, but even now Emerald had a hard edge to her celebration. “I shall prepare for your departure.”

Amanda bet she would, but said nothing. There was no point in antagonizing the Faery any further. She bent back down to finish Ekoli’s bandage when the goddess’s eyes fluttered open.

“It seems I have my uses yet…”

Madame Hesper patted the weak woman’s arm. “Aye.” It appeared they all did.

* * *

Traven’s mind refused to obey. He was supposed to be alert and prepared for an attack, but all his memory wanted to do was replay Granny’s horror stories. If his party faced the Craven Creepers, there would be no trickery, no running. This would be a fight of tooth and nail. Before, when he was younger, that would have sounded like heaven.

Now, with his weapon in hand, Traven rather preferred the method he used against the Shadow Swords. He was beyond caring about his ego. If he could run away from this enemy, then he would do so in an instant.

Glacial yawned atop Lauger. Once the passageways had widened she consented to riding astride the horse. Since Lauger had saved her life the night before she seemed more comfortable around the horse than Pale. Her noble philosophy had given way to pragmatic concerns. All the better for Traven. It relieved the wolf to act as scout and still keep Glacial off her swollen feet. It might be days before the poor girl could walk comfortably again, and speed was essential on this journey.

They don’t need to kills ya, they eats ya to death. They likes their meal still moving.

“Ugh, Granny.” Traven thought. “Stop that.”

He did not need to remember things such as that. The lair itself would cause nightmares for months.

Pale sent a warning of the smell of flesh again. Traven agreed another liar most likely lay ahead. They should take another path. Several times Pale had sniffed other beings, but each time they had been able to skirt around them. The wolf chose only passageways with little to no aroma of life. The tunnels they traveled were barren and lifeless. Not even moss or algae grew down here. Traven feared at some point they would need to take the risk and head into the main passages if they hoped to climb up and out of the Catacombs.

But for now, fresh from the sight of the lair, Traven was content to wander the deserted tunnels. The wolf signaled enthusiasm in the Hero’s mind. There was the smell of damp walls and the bite of frost. They must be near a passage that led to the surface. Traven urged Lauger on and caught up with Pale. On closer sniffing, the wolf found the faintest hint of sweat. The aroma could have been left a minute ago, or days. From this far away, there was no way to be certain. Silently, man and wolf conferred.

Was it worth the risk? Should they stick out their necks in the hope that there was an escape route? Or was it more dangerous to wander the Labyrinth with sparse supplies until they succumbed to starvation?

Pale despised the second option. Granted the wolf was loath to enter battle. He would rather feast, but he would not die a shriveled, starved form. Traven did not like that scenario any better. There truly was no simple answer. The decision made, the wolf pulled out in front.

Stopping every few feet, Pale would raise his paw and lifted his flaring nostrils. Traven could sense the wolf’s apprehension. Because of the tangled pathways and stagnant air, Pale’s usually keen nose was compromised.

Fresh air was clearly up ahead, but others had recently visited this place. A fire had been extinguished only a day or so ago. Were the Creepers lurking nearby? It was hard to say, since they had only scented the Creepers’ victims, never the Cravens themselves.

They turned a corner, and the tunnel widened as the ceiling sloped away. Traven was glad. He could finally take a deep breath and not worry about knocking his elbows against a wall. Traven had never been prone to closet sickness, but now he could understand the disease.

Back at the Mount, one of the last rigors that the Candidates were subjected to was called the Box. Each Candidate was placed in a sealed box and buried beneath the ground for five full days. One had to breathe out of a straw and lick the dew off the walls. The scholars said the exercise was to eliminate those with closet sickness, but Traven just thought them mean-spirited. Half a dozen fine warriors had been culled from their ranks because of this test. Traven had grown to like most of these men and found it absurd they were eliminated from the running simply because they could not tolerate the Box.

After spending the last few days in the Catacombs, Traven could begin to see the scholars’ wisdom. It would not do to have a Hero unable to survive amongst the narrow tunnels and crevices that sprawled beneath the ground.

Traven looked more closely at the walls. He recognized this tunnel. Turning suddenly, Traven glanced behind him. This was the passageway they had fled down, escaping the Shadow Swords. Calling Pale over, Traven studied the hallway intently. Had they come around full circle? Had they stumbled back into the Sword’s territory? Pale confirmed his worst fear. This was the Shadow’s dominion. Traven urged Lauger forward with a pat on his flank.

Can you find the chamber of light again? Traven asked Pale in his mind. The wolf was already sniffing out the cracks in the wall. Soon, Pale announced that the entryway was a few scant yards ahead. Traven was both relieved and upset. He was glad to have found a safe sanctuary again, but they had lost a full day of travel. At this pace they would never see the surface again.

Pale sent a suggestion. Traven should seek shelter with the princess and allow the wolf to scout ahead. Immediately, Traven rejected the idea. If anyone was going to search the hallways alone, it would be him. Pale gave a growl and nipped at Traven’s leg. The wolf’s frustration was well-founded. This trek would require Pale’s sharp senses. The wolf made it clear that Traven’s human attributes were nearly useless in the Catacombs. Reluctantly, the Hero agreed. He would follow Pale in his mind and allow the wolf to scout ahead.

“Where are we going?” Glacial asked as Traven led Lauger forward.

“We are—” Traven stopped and swung around. Had he heard something? He was certain he caught the sound of nails across the granite. Pale’s ears were also cocked.

“What—” The Princess fell to silence as Traven signaled her to shush.

The man and wolf waited, motionless, as the moments ticked by. Pale’s sensitive eyes searched back down the hallway where they had last encountered the Swords. Were their imaginations overactive, or was there something moving in the shadows? Should they douse the torches and run? Lauger snorted and backed up, nearly knocking Traven over.

“Traven!” Glacial screamed, pointing down the other side of the tunnel.

Pale spun mid-leap, narrowly escaping a set of sharp teeth. As suddenly as the beast had appeared, it was gone again. Traven turned to face this new threat. Red eyes glinted in the dark hallway as the creatures crawled up and down the walls. The sound of their legs scraping against the stone filled the tunnel.

Raising his sword, Traven fought back a tide of fear. Their situation could not get much worse. They were trapped between the Shadow Swords behind, and, if Granny was at all correct, these new beasts were the Craven Creepers.

Traven could not make out the creatures, but he knew from his grandmother’s tales what they looked like. They were akin to spiders, only bigger than most cats. Their plump, shielded body scrambled around on six double-jointed legs. The entire front of their body was a mouth large enough to encase two full sets of teeth. These Creepers needed no weapon fashioned by hand— they were born with their own.

The Cravens also blocked their path to the geode chamber. Not that the room would provide much safety. These beasts had no such weakness as the Shadow Swords. This was a battle that must be stood and fought. No trickery, no easy ploys. Just teeth-grinding warfare. Traven sent a flash of images containing everything he knew about the Creepers, only to find the wolf already knew of the threat. Pale’s own aunt had taught him the tales long ago.

“Should… should I go?” Glacial asked as the ruby eyes inched closer.

Traven wished there was somewhere secure he could send the princess, but they were trapped. All of them. “Nay. Stay atop Lauger. He will protect you.”

The Creepers became more bold and snuck into the torch’s range. Their bodies were not slick and smooth as Traven had thought. Their shells were cracked and skin hung off of them in patches. The group had spread out over the floor, walls and ceiling. They were closing in for the kill. Traven’s sword was already raised, and his dirk pulled from his belt. The stories had never detailed how one actually killed a Creeper, but Traven assumed it would involve several strong blows to the eyes and mouth.

In a burst, the Cravens leapt forward, mouths open wide. Lauger reared and kicked a number away from the Princess as Traven fended off half a dozen himself. Pale had the worst of it though. One of the Creepers had gotten a hold of his tail, and the other harassed the wolf horribly. Traven took huge swipes with this sword, but the strokes just seemed to bounce off the beasts’ shells. And they moved so fast that it was impossible to accurately aim for their eyes. The best he could hope for was to keep the Creepers’ teeth away from his flesh.

The group had succeeded in fending off a few of their attackers, but it was rapidly becoming apparent they were being overrun. If Creepers weren’t launching from a wall, they were dropping from the ceiling. Traven’s clothes were thick with the beasts’ saliva. Stumbling, Traven tripped over a Craven. He heard the snap as the creature’s leg broke under his weight. The Creeper skittered away, visibly limping.

Rushing forward, Traven stomped on another of the beast’s legs and was satisfied to feel it crumble beneath his boot. The thing was now scampering away. The Hero’s heart soared. He had the beast on the run this time.

Traven sent Pale his strategy as he turned towards Lauger. The horse already had the instinct and had crippled several of the Creepers. Even hobbled, the creatures kept attacking. He could not hope injuries alone would keep the Creepers to bay. No, they needed to find some way to kill them. Traven ignored the other Cravens that swarmed around him and concentrated on the one that was disabled. With a few stomps he shattered the rest of the creature’s legs. Instead of lying still, the damn thing rolled about the ground, its teeth still grinding ominously.

Using his sword to pin the beast to one spot, Traven dug his dirk deep into its eye. Black blood spurted from the wound, and the Creeper lay still as Traven gouged out the other eye. But still the beast would not die. Traven raised his sword and skewered the Creeper right through mouth, striking so hard that he felt his blade’s tip strike the earth beneath the beast. A shrill cry escaped the mouth.

For a moment Traven hoped he was successful as he kicked away the other Creepers, but the creature’s mouth began gaping, and suddenly it was climbing up his sword.

Traven tried to fling it from his blade, but the beast’s teeth bit hard into the metal and pulled it swiftly up the sword. Turning, Traven began beating the Creeper against the wall. The beating slowed the beast a bit, but still it fought its way to Traven’s hand.

In the moment before Traven dropped his sword, Pale’s fangs bit deep into the dented shell of the Creeper. Using the creature’s hold on the sword as leverage, the wolf shook the beast violently. An agonizing wail pierced Traven’s ears until Pale tore the Creeper in half. It had not been pretty nor skillful, but a Craven was dead.

Now that Traven knew it could be done, the Hero set about destroying the creatures with gusto. Together Pale and Traven stomped and chewed their way back to Lauger. Bodies began piling up on the now-slick floor. The horse had his own technique, which seemed equally efficient. Creeper bodies littered the floor around Lauger and the Princess. The remaining beasts backed away from the party, gnashing their teeth in frustration.

Just when Traven thought the tide had turned, another Creeper dropped from the ceiling, biting as it fell, trying to find purchase on Traven. The Hero danced and spun, but the Creeper finally sunk his teeth into Traven’s calf. Bellowing with rage, Traven knocked the beast off his leg and stomped the creature to death with his own feet. Pain screamed up his calf, but Traven did not stop until there was nothing left but a black, gooey mash on the floor.

“Traven. They flee!” Glacial said, ashen but excited.

The Hero let a smile come to his lips. They had beaten the Creepers! And without any help from his dear old Granny. If he were not so tired, pained, and worried about the trip ahead, Traven might have whooped.

“Oh, no.” The Princess groaned.

Traven turned to see the glint of metal in the shadows behind him. The Swords. They must have been drawn by the sound of battle and the smell of blood.

“Go!” Traven yelled as the Shadows writhed in menace. Lauger leapt forward, but Glacial was pulling back hard on the reins.

“What of the Creepers?”

“Princess, now!” Traven shouted as one of the Swords took a swipe at him from behind. Pale was already darting ahead. They would just have to hope the Creepers had fled back to their lair. Traven had meant to run alongside the group but his ankle flared with pain. He would not be able to keep the pace.

“Lauger, to me! Tatchasta.”

The Hero’s horse obeyed flawlessly as he slowed. Traven grabbed the back of Lauger’s saddle and hauled himself up behind Glacial. The Princess let out a bit of a squeal but did not object.

Wrapping his arm around her waist, Traven urged Lauger on. Rapidly they outdistanced the ungainly Swords. Pale slowed their pace and sniffed for any sign of the Creepers. Apparently they had taken another passageway in their retreat.

For now, they seemed safe. To sweeten their victory even more, Pale had detected fresh air again. This time much stronger. The smell of fresh snow and a crisp breeze filled Traven’s mind.

“Pale thinks we might be heading towards an exit,” the Hero informed the princess. He did not know whether Glacial sobbed or simply sighed, but the Giant’s body sank back into his. Traven had forgotten how full her figure was beneath those clothes. Under any other circumstances, Traven might have felt pleased, but now he felt only anxiety. Even Pale’s enthusiastic images of an escape rang hollow in Traven’s head.

He had been so proud of defeating both the Swords and the Creepers, yet he could really take no credit for either deed. It was foretold he would emerge victorious. Traven had to overcome those two foes. Else wise how could the Gullet claim his doom?

CHAPTER 27

Crystalia tried to bend her fingers but could not get them to move. Miss Emmert had forbidden Crystalia from using her magick to warm herself. There were beasts that were drawn to sorcery, and Miss Emmert wanted a safe ascent. They had been riding since before sunrise and were still climbing the mountain come dusk. Every joint in her body creaked in protest. Crystalia had pushed herself too hard, too long, although she doubted if they would get rest any time soon.

The black splotch against the mountain peak had spread to a dark blemish against the white-sheeted range. Miss Emmert had explained that the foul rock was so very slick that not even snow could stick to its surface. Not even the bighorn sheep could navigate the polished surface. That was why the Pass was such a strategic location. One would have to travel hundreds of miles to the south to cross the High Peaks. If they wished to reach the Gullet before the Hero, they would have to bargain their way through the Pass.

Miss Emmert refused to discuss who the Caitliff was. Why would a man hold a Pass for ransom, then never let anyone cross? It made no sense to Crystalia. Not that much on this journey had.

The only thing still real and tangible was the mark upon her palm. Her hand warmed to the thought of Traven nearing. By tomorrow they should be united.

Or dead, Crystalia reminded herself.

Either way, this torture of not knowing would be over.

“Stop!” Miss Emmert hissed as she pulled Nutmeg to a halt.

“What—” Ornery tried to ask, but Miss Emmert cut him off.

“Silence.” Her proclamation was more a sound than a word.

Crystalia shifted in the saddle as Ornery looked behind them. There was nothing out of the ordinary. The white slopes were still pristine, and the black rock still glimmered in the late day’s sun.

Miss Emmert urged Nutmeg close to Cinnamon. Her words were a hushed whisper. “Guide Cinnamon forward. Slowly. Do not speak until I allow it.”

Ornery looked like he was going to question her orders, but the boy simply nodded. At a creeping pace, the two horses picked their way up the now-steep slope. Crystalia jumped at every tiny sound. Did Miss Emmert sense a foe neither the boy nor she could see?

The strangest popping sound echoed off the mountains. Crystalia tried to look up, but Miss Emmert gave Cinnamon a swat to the arse, and both horses surged forward. Crystalia had to grab the horse’s mane with both hands to keep from falling off. Soon the noise was so loud that Crystalia ears felt like bursting. A deep rumbling filled the air.

“Avalanche!” Miss Emmert screamed, her voice barely rising above the sound of crashing snow. Whole sheets of once packed snow, careened down the slope towards them. The entire mountainside appeared to be falling towards them.

With a look up the slope, Crystalia realized they would not clear the wall of snow. Miss Emmert must have had the same sense, for the woman pointed to an outcropping of rocks. Nutmeg veered to the right as Miss Emmert shouted.

“There!”

Cinnamon tried her hardest, but the stony overhang was too far. The horse and her riders were hit with a ton of speeding snow. With a scream, Crystalia was knocked from Cinnamon. Tumbling inside the snow, Crystalia wished for only one thing.

To live to see the Hero one last time.

* * *

Ornery tried to let the snow simply carry his body, rather than pummel it, but it was no use. The avalanche was an angry beast, ready to chew up anything in its path. He felt the back of his collar get caught. For a moment, Ornery thought his shirt would rip off his back, but suddenly he was pulled from the snow’s path. Blood clouded his vision, and his head hurt so badly that it was painful to even think.

“Are you badly injured?” A voice tried to speak over the thunder of the avalanche.

“Mother?” Ornery heard himself say, like a babe for the first time.

Miss Emmert clutched him to her chest. “Aye, son. Just rest for a moment. Let me staunch this bleeding.”

Suddenly there was a deafening silence. All the noise had seemed to drain from the world.

“Is it over?”

“For now. Here, let me see your eye. Can you open the lid?”

Ornery tried, but the pain was too great.

“Does this hurt?” His mother asked as she probed around his eye socket.

“Yes!” Ornery exclaimed. What did she expect? Everything hurt. “Where is Crystalia?”

Miss Emmert’s tone was solemn. “I could not reach her. The snow swept her away.”

“We must go to her.” Ornery said as he tried to sit up. His head swam, and his vision blurred.

“I will go. You lie down.”

Miss Emmert was up and gone before he could protest. He so wanted to search for the girl, but his body would not cooperate. The world tilted and spun each time he tried to rise. Realizing that fighting the pain and nausea was getting him nowhere, Ornery lay back down and willed his body to heal. He could hear Miss Emmert combing the hills, softly calling out to Crystalia. Ornery did not have much experience in the mountains, but he knew avalanche was still a threat.

“Oh, god, no!”

Despite his vertigo, Ornery leapt up at Miss Emmert’s words and raced outside. He found his mother kneeled down beside the snow, sobbing deeply. Ornery covered the distance down the slope in a few bounds but skidded to a stop. It could not be. Miss Emmert pulled Ornery into her embrace. Nutmeg whinnied loudly and nudged the body.

Cinnamon was still almost completely buried in the snow bank. Miss Emmert had only dug out her head. The scene seemed unreal to him. This could not be. His cousin could not be dead, yet there she lay. Lifeless and still.

“You must heal her!” Ornery demanded.

His mother shook her head. “I cannot. She is beyond the Veil.”

“You fixed Crystalia! You said Madame Hesper could perform a Ritual! Use it on Cinnamon!”

Miss Emmert hugged him more closely, stroking his hair. “She is gone, son. There is nothing we can do.”

Ornery cast his aching mind about, trying to find a way to bring back his beloved cousin. Though he had not known her to be a relative until a few days ago, he loved her deeply. Even as just one of their stock horses, his fondness had been expansive. She was always the one to give him a nip or kick when she felt the need.

Nutmeg brayed loudly and swatted the air with her thick tail. They looked down the slope to find two bundled men dragging Crystalia towards the pass. Miss Emmert was onto her feet in a blinding second, mounting Nutmeg and charging down the mountainside.

“Stay here!” His mother shouted as she pulled away.

Petting Cinnamon for one last time, Ornery rose up on shaking legs. He would not lose them both this day. Anger and despair fueled his aching muscles. He swore to the gods, both human and Centaur, he would not.

* * *

“Ouch!” Crystalia squealed as the brute jerked her hair again. How could she possibly keep up with these men? Did they not know she had just narrowly survived an avalanche? “Please! Let me go!”

The men did not appear to understand the King’s language. She had not gotten a good look at them when they dug her from the snow. At first she had been relieved and thankful, but now her limbs shook with fear. It was clear that they meant her harm.

Crystalia tried to turn her head. Did she hear someone cry out from behind? Did anyone else from her party survive the disaster? The man cranked her head back, but she could sense their apprehension. Someone followed. Grunting, the brutes stepped up their pace, yanking her along.

Where were they going? She could see nothing but snow and ragged stones jutting up amongst the banks. Suddenly, they turned past a set of rocks, and hot air blasted her in the face.

For a moment, she could not breathe. Her eyes burned, and her lungs complained of the sudden humidity. Smells assaulted her nose, making her cringe. What manner of filth lived in this mountain? She had never smelled so much body odor and refuse before.

“Let me go!” Crystalia shouted as they dragged her over uneven stone. “Let go!”

The men complied but shoved her forward. Stumbling, Crystalia fell to her knees, scraping the palms of her hand. The markings flared and burned with the sting of blood. The room was filled with steam, and the stench of incense burned over long.

She looked up to find a hideous face staring back at her. The flesh was all tangled like a scar gone bad. A third eye blinked out of step with the creature’s other orbs. The face seemed to float and bob in the thick fog.

Screaming, Crystalia tried to back away, but the men roughly held her in place.

“You are a pretty thing, girl.” Drool slid from the thing’s lips, but before the spit could fall, the creature sucked it back its mouth.

Crystalia clawed at the face as it descended towards her. Her nails dug into the tissue, ripping shreds from his face.

The creature only laughed. “I like my women playful.”

A voice boomed from behind. “Step away, Caitliff”

Mercifully the men turned to meet the intruder and released their hold on Crystalia’s neck. Scrambling backward, Crystalia found a niche in the wall and tried to hide herself. Miss Emmert emerged from the fog astride Nutmeg.

“Do you now add kidnapping children amongst your crimes?”

The mist cleared a bit, and Crystalia could now make out the body attached to the vile face. Its arms and legs were as fleshy and twisted as its visage.

The man waddled forward, booming with threat. “How did you breach my threshold?”

“I have been here before, sir. Your invitation lasts forever. Or have you forgotten?”

Ornery burst into the room and was immediately captured by the brutes. Miss Emmert flashed an angry look at the boy but turned her attention back to Caitliff.

“You dishonor yourself, knave.”

The grotesque man stopped in his path and let out a rolling laugh. “You amuse me, Ma’am. How could a bastard born from a dead woman’s belly under a new moon bring any more dishonor to himself?”

Miss Emmert’s tone was full of disdain. “You seem to have found a way.”

“My, you have a tongue, woman. Would you like to use it on me?”

“I am Seleen, Daughter of Madame Hesper. Wife of Dimitri. You owe me allegiance, Caitliff. I have need to cross your Pass.”

Laughter still echoed off the chamber, even though the man’s face had turned stern. His third eyelid fluttered erratically. “I owe none. The Pass is my own.”

“I am tired, bastard, and have a rough road ahead. I am in no mood for your posturing. Deny me, and I will bring down this hovel of yours, along with the Pass.”

This seemed to shock even the Caitliff. “You would never—”

“The Icy Span is destroyed. The Pass is nothing to me.”

Crystalia shivered despite the oppressive heat. Other equally ugly men filled the room. They were outnumbered five to one. She hoped Miss Emmert knew what she was doing. Caitliff looked enraged and a bit scared. It did not seem a good combination.

“You have much to answer for, woman.”

“Let me through the Pass, and you can take your argument up with the Quorum.”

The man obviously had no taste for Miss Emmert’s suggestion. But neither did he wish to look weak in front of his men. “I admit your husband did me a favor. But that was paid by your own crossing decades ago.”

“Nay. Do not twist the past, Caitliff. You owe Dimitri.”

“Dimitri, perhaps, but not you.”

“We are one, Caitliff. Decide within three seconds, or I shall make this mountain quake like nothing you have ever felt.”

“I will have her, as wife.” The man pointed to Crystalia. She tried to melt into the stone, but the deformed legs carried him over to her hiding spot. Crystalia cringed as he reached a greasy hand towards her.

“You have outgrown your senses. You think yourself the Snowy Maiden’s equal?”

The Caitliff snatched his hand away from Crystalia’s face. His look transformed from lust to fear. “The Snowy Maiden?”

“Aye. The boy you so callously hold is The Way. If you do not heed my power, fear the gods’ wrath if you harm either one.”

The man hobbled back to his low throne. His teeth chewed his lip until it bled. The Caitliff was blustery but obviously not eager to tempt the Fates.

“I will need a small favor in return for my generosity.”

Miss Emmert sighed and nodded. “A small one. Think before you ask. My temper grows short.”

One could almost see the man’s mind churning as he drummed his fingers on the stone beside him.

“I will not tally here—”

“That one’s undergarments.” The Caitliff blurt out pointing to Crystalia. She squirmed under his gaze as a slow smile crossed the deformed face, showing a mouth with cracked and chipped teeth. “Yes. That is what I will need.”

Crystalia could not believe it when Miss Emmert agreed. “Her petticoats, then.”

“Nay. I want those next to her skin. I want her smell on them.”

“Caitliff, I will not—”

“It is not every day one has the pleasure of the Snowy Maiden’s company. The winters are long here, Seleen.”

There was a finality to theCaitliff’s words. He had made up his mind, and it sounded as if he was now ready to fight for his boon.

But Miss Emmert’s lips firmed into a straight line. “And I have held my magic close for over a decade, not letting even a drop spill past my pores, Caitliff. I do not wish to destroy another fabled landmark, but test my patience again…”

The grotesque man squirmed in his seat, apparently trying to decide if Miss Emmert was serious or not. Finally he must have believed her look of determination.

“Her petticoats then.”

Miss Emmert nodded sharply. “Then we leave without delay, with an armed escort.”

The man’s third eye blinked compulsively, and it looked like the Caitliff wavered, but Seleen’s hand raised, and she whispered a chant under her breath.

“Granted,” Caitliff hissed.

Miss Emmert dismounted and crossed to Crystalia’s hiding place. “Slip them off.”

“But Miss Emmert! I can’t! I—”

“Child, do it!” The woman’s voice did not allow any retort. Red-faced, Crystalia began peeling her thick petticoats off but stalled when she found Caitliff’s eyes upon her. “Must he watch?”

Miss Emmert turned on her heel. “We will have privacy!”

The grouping of men murmured their disagreement, but the Caitliff must have sensed Miss Emmert’s swelling anger. The spectators melted away with a wave of the Caitliff’s hand. Once released, Ornery turned his back.

“There, child. Now be quick about it.”

Crystalia tried to hurry, but her fingers were sore and bruised.

Even the time Viola strung her stockings up the garrison’s flagpole, paled in comparison. But Crystalia realized this was a small price to pay if it bought them safe passage to Traven. At least that is what she tried to convince herself of as she tugged her petticoats off. After handing the linens to Miss Emmert, she hurriedly pulled her petticoats back on.

Miss Emmert turned to find the Caitliff right beside her. With all her layers of dress on, she was certain Caitliff, at most, snatched a peek at her ankle, but even that seemed like too much to Crystalia.

“Here are your panties, knave. Enjoy them as you rot away from the inside.”

The man seemed pleased at the insult.

“I shall.” He buried his nose in the under garment and took in a draught. “My men await you down the hallway. Do not think to come back this way unless the Maiden is willing to give me more than just fantasies.”

Miss Emmert’s voice was thick with threat. “The next time the Maiden sets eyes upon you, Caitliff, she shall kill you.”

* * *

Madame Hesper cautiously entered the chamber where Holt was being held. The sun was fading from the afternoon sky. They could leave soon, if her son had recovered his senses. If not, well, Madame Hesper did not wish to dwell on what would happen then. She had been a fool to think they could keep the Curse at bay forever. Even the decades of remission they had salvaged were more than most could hope for. This moment had been inevitable.

In the complete darkness of the chamber, Madame Hesper could not make out her son’s form upon the bed. Taking short, careful steps, she crossed the room.

“I would not venture any closer.”

Madame Hesper swung around to find Holt hanging from the ceiling, his talons bit deeply into the rock. He swung slightly to a rhythm all his own.

“Son, are you fit to travel?”

A hiss snaked out from Holt’s lips. “I hunt.”

“Holt. You must break the Curse’s hold. Do not let the hunger seduce you.”

Her son’s wings spread, and with a strong flap, Holt flipped over and landed on the floor. His face was still twisted into the mask of a Vampyr, his human form barely recognizable. “What would you know of hunger? You have grown fat and docile.”

It pained her to hear those words come from her son’s lips, but she knew it was a part of Holt that was fueled by bloodlust. All other victims of the Curse succumbed to the siren song of the hunt and feeding. Their animal instincts overwhelmed the human spirit. Descending into a sneaking madness, the victims were usually put out of their misery before they could harm friend and family. Would she be faced with such a choice?

“You must fight back, Holt.”

“I am Vampyr.”

Madame Hesper’s hand felt the slick handle of her stake. She had hidden the object amongst the folds of her dress. If she could not summon her son’s spirit to the surface, she could not leave the Vampyr to wreak havoc. The wood weighed heavily in her palm. To kill one’s own child went against all of nature. Yet if the Vampyr was in control, was her son not already dead?

“You are my son. Come back before it is too late.”

Holt looked ready to attack. His talons flexed menacingly, and his eyes were bright with hunger. Planting her feet, Madame Hesper waited for the onslaught.

“Holt, you are more than the Curse.” A voice carried from the hallway.

Madame Hesper turned to find Ekoli gingerly walking into the room.

The Vampyr looked torn. The goddess’ bandage must have reeked of blood, yet it was obvious he was loath to hurt her. Something of Holt remained to contain the demon.

Madame Hesper lent an arm to Ekoli as she wilted from weakness. Still her voice carried strong to Holt’s heart. “The Vampyr is nothing more than your base self, the part we all hide within, given form. The Curse need not be destructive.”

What was the goddess saying? There was nothing about the Curse that was not damaging. Most did not survive a single season once afflicted.

“I am Vampyr,” Holt said, this time with less confidence. Ekoli let go of Amanda and walked to face the Vampyr.

She put a hand out and stroked Holt’s cheek. “You are who you wish to be, Holt. Long ago, your people forgot there was a time before you gained dominion across the land. The Curse was a gift to the people of the forest at a time of great need. It gave them strength and courage in the face of devastation. Bend the Curse to your will. Let the hunger serve you.”

A single tear rolled down Holt’s cheek. Despite the transformation, the Vampyr leaned his face into the goddess’s hand. Slowly Holt’s skin cracked and lost its black gloss. The hawkish nose and pointed teeth began to recede. A human visage began taking shape.

“Ekoli?” Holt said, raspy and garbled.

“Aye. Complete the transformation. Embrace your human form.”

The words were more a croak. “It hurts.”

Smiling, the goddess outlined Holt’s jawbone. “And I shall stay with you through the pain, as you did for me.”

Madame Hesper watched as her son emerged from the demonic cocoon he had been held prisoner in. She nearly sobbed for joy but did not want to disturb the metamorphosis. Even though Ekoli was no longer a deity, Amanda vowed to build the woman a shrine. Holt reached out a human hand to her.

“Mother. I cannot say how sorry I am.”

“Do not waste another word,” she said as she embraced her son. Tears now flowed freely from them both. Ekoli stumbled back a bit and looked queasy. Holt turned and caught the goddess. “How are we traveling, Mother?”

“We have a litter to carry both of you across the Plains to the Oracle.”

“The Oracle?” Holt asked as they walked from the room.

Madame Hesper sighed. “It is a long story. I will tell you along the way. For now I wish to leave before I must endure Emerald a second more.”

“I thought we were bonding, witch.” The Faery flew up between mother and son. “The Vampyr has been subdued. It thought it not possible. Your family is certainly resilient.”

Madame Hesper did not bother to respond. Emerald was always baiting, looking for a dispute. It was one of the few pleasures the Faery allowed herself, it seemed. Although Amanda could find fault with the Guardian’s social etiquette, she could not deny the Faery was efficient.

As promised a large litter stood ready in the Fold’s anti-chamber. It was covered in thick black wool and tightly secured so that not even the fiercest wind could force open the fabric. It would not do to have sunlight stream in upon her son.

“The supplies are loaded?”

“To your specifications,” the Faery replied. A hint of superiority tainted her tone.

“Holt? Will you load the goddess?”

Her son looked around. There were no horses or livestock to pull the litter. “How will we be conveyed?”

Emerald’s dress flashed a bright blue with subtle shades of green. “I am not yet exiled from my home. The Guardian has her ways.”

Madame Hesper opened her mouth to question the Faery further, but Emerald too much liked the mystery of it all. “You shall see in a moment.”

Once Ekoli and Holt were loaded into the interior, Madame Hesper took her seat upon the front bench. Where there would normally be reins and the brake were only bells and a gong. What was the Faery up to? Emerald nodded and the rest of the Faeries grabbed the litter and raised it slightly off the ground. Their wings beat furiously, and the strain was apparent. Those gossamer wings could not tow them across the Plains. Slowly they moved forward, and the Fold’s entrance opened, revealing the great, barren snowfields. Once out in the bitter wind, the Faeries lowered the litter again.

Emerald sent her workers back inside and waved the litter off. “To go forward, jingle the bells. The faster the tune, the more speedy your passage, but be warned, the ride might get rough. To stop, use the gong.”

“What are you—”

The Faery did not deign to answer. Instead she flew back into the portal and closed it immediately behind her. Madame Hesper rubbed her hands against the cold that was already setting in.

Holt opened the cloth a slit, protecting himself against the waning sunlight. “Does she rely on your magic?”

“I hope not,” Madame Hesper replied. She had great reserves but they were better suited to bursts of activity or manipulating subtle changes, not prolonged endurance. Amanda did not think she could sustain their journey all the way across the Plains.

Ekoli’s voice drifted from inside the litter. “Just make some music and enjoy the ride.”

Holt shrugged and Madame Hesper took the small chain of bells and began jingling them. At first the sound was nothing more than annoying, but soon she picked up the rhythm and produced a pleasing melody. Suddenly the snow swirled around their wheels and the surface melted a bit. They sank a bit in the now soft snow, but almost immediately they were back on level ground. The surface swam with figures sliding in and out amongst the snowflakes. Tiny faces glittered briefly then vanished.

The litter began to move forward, almost as if the ground itself propelled it. In front of them, the snow coalesced and merged into a slick surface. Once the wheels came into contact with the glistening surface, it skated forward. Music matching her own flowed from the altered snow.

“Powder Fays…” Holt whispered in awe.

Madame Hesper seconded his amazement. Even she had thought the creatures a legend. A myth to brighten the dark night of children. But here they were, gleefully drawing the litter along the Plains. Joyful music drew them like a babe to sweets. Their only demand was a cheerful beat.

Watching the landscape race by, Amanda remembered to say a prayer to the Old Gods. It had been too long since she had paid them homage. Too long had gone by when she was witness to their power. Or perhaps, more importantly, to their sense of playfulness. She might trust a god who created ones such as these.

CHAPTER 28

Traven’s stomach churned and knotted. It was as if someone had wrung their hands inside his abdomen. Each step they took brought more hope they found an exit. Even his human nose could detect the scent of sweet air. Glacial rode with her back straighten and a faint smile upon her lips.

But not even Pale’s excited pace could keep Traven from fretting. There would be no easy escape for him. His greatest hope was for him to launch Pale and Glacial out of the Catacombs before he succumbed.

A bark echoed off the walls. In his mind, Traven could see what the wolf experienced. Once around this bend, the wind blew in great gusts, blasting Pale with its strength. Traven urged Lauger on, but not nearly as quickly as he might have. He was hesitant to turn this corner. His death could come at any moment.

“Princess, no matter what happens, you must strike for the exit. Lauger will carry you to safety.”

Not knowing his internal struggle, Glacial nodded and answered with a light tone. “I trust you, human. We will meet on the other side.”

Traven nearly choked. They might meet on another side, but it was most likely across the Veil.

Pale barked again, anxious for the other to join him. Traven could no longer drag his feet. The moment was at hand.

Taking a deep breath, he rounded the corner. To his surprise nothing untoward happened. No demons leapt out at him. No fire-breathing dragon singed him. But they were not out yet.

Joining the wolf, they came around the last bend together.

All of them stumbled to a halt. What stood before them was beyond anything they could have imagined. A fleshy web covered their escape route. In an alternating rhythm, the thing would dilate and open and closed, creating the gusts of wind. For a brief moment, at the apex of its expansion you could see the snowy mountains beyond the Catacombs. Its veins were so large and thick that one could make out the green blood that flowed through the creature. A strange sucking noise accompanied each cycle of the puckered doorway.

The wolf queried Traven. Absently, held in the shock of finally seeing the monster that would rob him of his life, Traven spoke aloud the name of the gateway. “The Gullet.”

Pale cocked his head, probing further into Traven’s mind. The wolf did not know of this threat. How were they to best it? Traven had no answer, and he vigorously shielded his true concerns from Pale. If the White Wolf knew of Traven’s danger, Pale would never leave the Catacombs without him. Traven would not have the wolf die in a vain attempt to save the Hero. If The Man was to die here today, he wanted to take no others with him.

“Princess, we will time the Gullet. On my mark, Lauger and you will charge through. On the next cycle, Pale will follow.”

“What of you?”

Traven tried to hide his lie. “On the next.”

“Could Lauger not carry us both?” Glacial asked, innocent of the death mark upon Traven’s brow.

“Nay. I do not wish to weigh him down.”

Luckily the Princess took him at his word and turned back to watch the Gullet. They took small steps forward until they could nearly touch the beast. The wind was frigid as it blasted through the living portal. But Traven would walk into a frozen hell itself if it meant he lived another few minutes.

“Prepare,” Traven said as he counted off the rhythm in his head.

Glacial braced and leaned forward, her hands loose of the reins but buried in Lauger’s mane.

“Forward!” Traven yelled. The princess even gave the horse a bit of heel to urge him on. Lauger surged forward despite the nasty hiss and smell the creature exuded. The horse was halfway through the portal when arms lashed out at them. A thick, multi-headed tentacle knocked Glacial from her seat. Lauger could not change course in time and vaulted through the opening, clearing it in a single leap.

Traven charged forward, sword drawn, and began hacking at the thick arm that held the Princess. The portal had clamped down, blocking the outside world. He had no idea his horse’s fate. Smaller tentacles parted from the larger trunk and began attaching their suction cups to Glacial’s body. Her screams of panic rang off the hallway. Pale jumped and snapped but for each tentacle they eliminated, other finer filaments took hold.

A single head was still alive, and it tried to gnaw on the Princess’s arm. Traven pulled the knife from his boot and slit the thing’s throat. The head gurgled for a moment then lolled to the side. Glacial’s mouth opened for a scream, but no sound came out. Her voice was frozen with horror. Chopping at the remaining limbs, Traven finally freed the princess from her unnatural restraints.

The princess sobbed in his arms, clutching her bleeding arm. Traven backed them away from the beast. Bristling from the portal were five arms, each with its own set of five appendages, each with five heads. The hideous faces bobbed and weaved on their stalks, hissing their anger. Pale suggested they find another passage out of the Catacombs, but Traven immediately refused.

There was no other way out. The wolf meant to argue, but the Hero told Pale to turn around and look behind them. Traven did not need to glance back. He knew what had happened. The tunnels behind them were closed off, slowly pushing them forward. Soon there would be crushed up against the Gullet, with nowhere to run.

“We must fight our way through,” Traven said, hoping he sounded far more confident than he felt.

“How?” Glacial asked, her voice small and pained.

What he would have given to have a pinch of the magic powder the alchemist used to free gold from its vein. Light a bit of that and throw it into the Gullet, and their problems would be solved. Pale caught the gist of the Hero’s idea and barked for Traven to follow. The wolf sent him his full senses.

Awash in Pale’s sights and smells, Traven nearly tripped. The wolf put his nose to the ground and caught the scent of a bitter aroma. Following it to its source, Pale barked at a rock embedded in the granite.

Running his fingers over the surface and sniffing the dust that came off, Traven confirmed the find. It was the raw stone from which the explosive powder was derived. But this rock was all but useless to them. It took weeks and great skill to refine the dust, and even more expertise to use the mixture. Pale snorted. Traven should have relayed the difficulty before they bothered to search for the ore.

Apologizing, Traven began trying to unwedge the stone from its berth. He did not know why, but something about the rock held his interest.

There was a tale Granny used to tell. Not of The Man Who Did Not Know, but of the Hanged Man. In that yarn the Hero found a chunk of stone, which once ignited, would burn a slow hole through whatever it touched. No grand explosion. No great fireball, but destructive nonetheless. The Hanged Man was a bit more knowledgeable metallurgist than himself, but what could it hurt?

“Glacial, we need your help!”

The princess stumbled over, blood covering her blue silk. Traven immediately regretted calling her over. She was in no shape to dig.

“Watch our backs.”

Glacial nodded solemnly and leaned into the wall to support herself. Pale was suspicious of the results Traven hopped from the rock but began pawing around the edge of the slab. The stone was deeply lodged, but ultimately it gave way to their efforts.

“Glacial, get the torch.”

Traven applied the fire to stone, but it did not even spark. He tried again and again as the walls began contracting down around them. Pale urged Traven to give up and turn to fight, but the Hero refused. He knew the outcome if they relied on steel alone.

The Gullet would make a nice meal of them all.

Even if they somehow killed the Gullet, even in death the portal would not open. Instead it would seal over forever, trapping them in the Catacombs for whatever short life they had left.

Finally he took the hilt of his sword and pounded on the stone, shattering it in half. Within the outer shell sat a softer core. Once the fire was put to these smaller rocks, they burned with a weak flame.

Using his gloved hand, Traven picked up the first rock and flung it towards the portal. One of the heads intercepted the projectile and swallowed the fiery stone. Inhuman screams filled the small chamber, and all the heads backed away from the center, flailing and writhing in pain. Taking advantage of the opening, Traven chucked the last bit of flaming rock to the very center of the portal, where it landed, the flesh contracted and undulated. The rock did not dislodge, however, only burning deeper into the portal.

“Now we fight,” Traven said, his sword raised. Even if he died, he might still guarantee his companions’ escape. Pale and the Hero charged together, swords and fangs flashing in the torchlight.

* * *

Crystalia felt as if every part of her body were in rebellion. It no longer wanted this journey. There were muscles that ached with such intensity that she felt she might swoon. Sleep or a coma would be a far sight better than the pain she was in right now. But that would get her no closer to Traven. She knew once she set eyes upon the Hero, all of her aches and pains would vanish.

Their love would heal her.

Nutmeg lost her footing for a moment and threw Miss Emmert into Crystalia’s back. Fighting for balance, Crystalia’s legs screamed in complaint. The ride had gotten much harder once they had started scaling the rocky terrain of the last mountain. Miss Emmert thought the Gullet was just beyond these peaks.

From the look on Ornery’s face, as he ran beside them, Crystalia was not the only one eager for their flight to be over. The boy was obviously taxed well beyond his limit, but he ran anyway.

Crystalia did not think that physical pain alone brought the deep frown to his face. Miss Emmert, Nutmeg, and he had not weathered the blow of Cinnamon’s death well.

Worse, they had to leave the horse’s body behind without a proper burial. Cinnamon was not Wheatland but even Crystalia felt pained by the loss. The horse’s playful manner had ingratiated Cinnamon to Crystalia within the short span of time they had known each other. Given a few more days, Crystalia might have loved the horse as the others had. But that was not to be. Cinnamon was buried in snow on the other side of the Pass.

Shivering, Crystalia pulled her cloak more tightly around her neck. Even the mere flitting thought of the Caitliff’s domain scared her.

Granted, she had only lost her panties, but something deeper had been disturbed by the creature. She did not want to dwell at all on recent events. Miss Emmert had made the most ludicrous threat. Why had the woman gone and done that? The woman had given her mind a puzzle to fret about, bringing her thoughts circling back to the Caitliff’s throne room. Exactly what she never wished to imagine again.

“How far?” Ornery asked, panting through his mouth.

“Shh. Did you hear that?” Miss Emmert asked.

Crystalia tensed so badly, her muscles spasmed in her neck. The last time Sele had pronounced those words, an avalanche had almost claimed her life. Ears perked, Ornery swiveled his head.

“The wind is so fierce…” Ornery’s voice trailed off as he cocked his head. Crystalia could hear the strange tones carried on the wind. Miss Emmert slowed their pace as the sound of groaning echoed off the mountainside. The noise was not of human origin. Carefully Nutmeg picked her way through the shattered rocks. The going was treacherous, and each of them was tensed to the extreme. Miss Emmert was not one to rush into danger.

Human shouts rose from the distance. Crystalia gave Nutmeg a kick. She would know that voice anywhere. “Traven!”

Miss Emmert let up on reins giving Nutmeg her head. The horse picked up speed a bit but was forced to go carefully on the slick outcroppings. Ornery scrambled ahead, using his smaller size to his advantage. As they crested the rocky mound, Crystalia pointed into the distance. The moonlight illuminated a horse striking at a bizarre fleshy barrier.

“Lauger! The Hero’s mount!”

“At least one of them escaped already,” Miss Emmert said, her tone flat. Crystalia wished the woman were more optimistic. Traven had to survive. Even if it meant bringing down the Fold. And she was certain he was alive. The horse would not be fighting so valiantly if his master were not still alive.

Ornery was the first to reach the grotesque orifice. The boy startled Traven’s horse, and the dark stallion turned on Ornery.

“Lauger, No!” Crystalia screamed. The horse flattened his ears and wheeled around to watch Nutmeg charge forward. Lauger’s eyes were dilated, and his breath blew white and hot from his nostrils. Crystalia threw herself from the Centaur and landed on her shoulder. Despite the pain, she rolled up and slowly walked towards the warhorse.

“Whoa, boy. You remember me, don’t you? Please. Ornery is a friend.”

Miss Emmert approached from behind and whispered into Crystalia’s ear. “Get him to move aside, child.”

Crystalia nodded and took a tiny step closer as the horse’s eyes rolled back and his lip curled. “We’re here to help Traven.”

Before she could grab Lauger’s lead, the portal groaned so loudly that it drowned out Miss Emmert’s instruction. Through the center, singed flesh pulsated, and a rock lit with fire fell through the hole.

“Flame of Adamantine!” Miss Emmert shouted above the Gullet’s cries of agony. “Crystalia, get the horse back! Ornery, shove the stone back into the beast!”

This time Crystalia lunged for the reins and tugged the great horse backwards. Lauger did not give much resistance as he danced away from the flames. Ornery used his sleeve to protect his hand and picked up the rock, but as hard as he tried to push the stone into the flesh, it simply rebounded back out onto the snow. The fire that burned flickered and waned.

Miss Emmert pulled a small letter opener from her waist and gouged the flesh of the portal. Green slime oozed from the wound. Ornery shoved the barely sparkling rock deep into the fleshy opening.

All around the orifice, tendrils formed and grew to the size of tree trunks. As the heads formed on the arms, they screamed their outrage. But the stone was doing its chore. The small hole was now enlarging to one that a child might be able to fit through. Miss Emmert and Ornery backed away as the snake-like heads gnashed and lunged.

“We need weapons!” Ornery shouted over the chaos. “Do you have anything else?” he asked Miss Emmert.

The woman shook her head. “Only ourselves.”

* * *

Traven felt another suction cup latch onto his neck, digging into his skin. He whirled around, and in a single arcing stroke, severed the tentacle. Despite the death of its arm, the suction cup held on tight, pinching his flesh. Taking a second, Traven reached up and ripped the damn thing from his body. They all had marks where the cups had penetrated the skin and began sucking the blood. Already his head swam with dizziness, but they could not pause in their efforts.

They had cut down dozens of such tentacles, only to have more spring forth. Granted they were smaller, but equally lethal. Glancing over his shoulder, Traven noted that the hole was twice the size it was before. It was getting large enough so that one such as Glacial might slip through.

Pale growled a warning, and Traven cut through another arm before it could strike at him. Glacial clung to the back wall as it advanced. In a few moments, she would not be able to hide from the Gullet. If they did not get her out of the ever-tightening chamber, she would be an easy mark for the monster.

Traven could swear he heard voices on the other side but did not take the time to check. Even Pale was too overwhelmed in battle to extend himself to the outside world. They fought in such close quarters, against so many foes, that it was all they could do to stay alive.

But alive they stayed. With each moment the hole was enlarging, and the light of the full moon was streaming through the opening. Wind now buffeted them from outside. If they could just hold on long enough, they might all just make it.

Glacial’s scream forced Traven to spin around. All the reserve energy he had dissipated on sight. Behind the Princess, the walls had parted. Instead of an alternate escape route, the opening offered only death.

From one side the Shadow Swords sharpened their blades, and from the other, the Craven Creepers prepared to launch an attack. Stepping back, Traven grabbed Glacial by the arm and yanked her towards the Gullet. Fending off a tentacle, he shoved her forward. Picking her up by the waist he crammed her into the tiny opening.

The Gullet spasmed and churned, but could not close the hole around Glacial. But neither could Traven shove her all the way through. She was stuck, halfway through the portal. The Hero could hear her begging for help and prayed there was someone on the other side to grant it. For now, his own hands were full of suction cups, Shadow Swords, and Craven Creepers.

* * *

Ornery darted forward and tried to grab the girl’s hands, but the heads swooped down upon him, biting and snarling. Lauger and Nutmeg were helping him keep the monsters at bay, but the beast was fast and viscous. And he had no weapons. At the least the horses had their sharp hooves. What did he have?

“Think of a warhorse!” Miss Emmert shouted. Ornery turned, a puzzled look on his face. Was his mother speaking in code? “As you did the mountain goat! Think of a deadly stallion and attack!”

Ornery blinked twice, still not understanding her meaning. His body seemed to know, however, and it burned to rush forward. Before he lost his nerve, Ornery snarled as best he could and leapt towards the black-haired girl. His hand flashed out in front of him and lanced through the Gullet’s tissue. What had once been his fingers were now pointed hooves, filed to a razor.

The more he looked at them, though, and doubted their existence, the less sharp they became. Freeing his mind of questions, Ornery snatched the girl’s outstretched hands and gave her several hard yanks. With each one, she screamed but still clung to his hands.

“Quickly!” Miss Emmert shouted from behind.

He did not need to turn around to know that the monstrous heads were turning their attention towards his rescue efforts. Putting his entire body into it, he wrenched the girl free. They fell backwards, tumbling through the snow. But they were free, at the least. Or were they?

Slowly, the girl began sliding backwards, howling in pain. Ornery jumped up to find another tentacle wrapped around the girl’s leg with its hook-like appendages piercing her ankle. Without thinking, Ornery raised his arm above his head and willed it to strike clean.

He brought his now-hoofed hand down upon the Gullet’s appendage. The blow did not have the force to sever the tentacle, but with a bit of frantic sawing, the girl was freed. She kicked at the limb still enwrapped around her foot until it rolled free.

Helping her up, Ornery escorted her far from the Gullet and eased her into a sitting position. Instead of letting go of him, the girl pulled him closer.

“You are a Centaur?” she asked.

“Aye.”

Before he could react, the girl pulled his still-hoofed hand to her lips and kissed him once. Ornery tried to pull back, but she forced his hand to her chest, just above her bosom, then kissed it again. Without giving her a mighty shove, there was no way to disengage the young woman. In a final motion, she touched his hand to her forehead and gave it a last kiss.

“I had not thought I would live to see your most-revered people. I can go to my fate, contented.”

With those words, the girl swooned over. Whether it was from the loss of blood or something worse, he did not know. He turned and shouted to Miss Emmert.

“Come quickly! She’s fainted away!”

His mother waved in acknowledgment but first turned back to Crystalia. Ornery tried to pull his hand from the girl’s, but hers was a vice grip. The warmth of her hand felt good in his own, but he did not trust the feeling. This one was so beautiful even in her current state that she shown with a purity not reached by humans. But if there was one thing he had learned in his travels, it was beauty had a way of corrupting even the gentlest of souls.

No, he would not trust this girl, even if his life depended upon it.

* * *

“Do you want to help, Crystalia?” Miss Emmert asked.

“Yes! Anything!” Crystalia answered, meaning it fully. There was nothing she would not do for the Hero.

“You will not completely understand what I ask of you, but will you do it?”

“Aye, yes.”

Miss Emmert had Crystalia’s complete trust.

The woman looked once at her with those penetrating eyes then nodded. “I need you to fall asleep.”

“What?” Crystalia felt ready to jump out of her skin. There was battle being waged right behind them, and Miss Emmert wanted her to rest?

“Child. I told you, you would not understand. I have not had time to teach you all of the Snowy Maiden’s secrets. But know this. Traven has need of the Maiden right now, not Crystalia.”

How Crystalia wanted to fight Miss Emmert, but she had learned over the last few days, there was no winning against this one. “How can I sleep now? I—”

“All’s you need do is lie down and will yourself to sleep. But before you fall into full slumber, you must stay conscious of your surroundings.”

“Why? You said—” Crystalia stopped as a scream burst from the orifice. The opening was not much bigger than it was before.

“Child, we have not much time. Listen and listen well. You must separate from your body. Your spirit is immune to the Gullet. In this form you can cross the barrier and tell the Hero what must be told.”

Crystalia wanted to argue, to fuss, to fight. Anything but do as Miss Emmert asked. She was now no longer afraid that this plan would not work. Crystalia feared with all her heart, it would.

How would she get back? What if her spirit itself was injured? The most comforting thoughts during her church days had been the talk of eternal peace. They had always said that no matter what happened to your body, no one could ever touch your soul. What if they were wrong? What if her soul was damaged, but her body intact?

Miss Emmert shook her. “Can you do this?”

Nodding, Crystalia plopped down onto the hard snow. She took one last look at her surroundings. Nutmeg and Lauger were again striking at the Gullet while Ornery tended to the fallen girl. On the other side of that orifice was her greatest love. Whether she was contained in flesh or not, she would reach out to him.

“I am ready.”

* * *

Traven’s arms complained loudly of the abuse he was heaping upon them. There were so many foes coming from so many different directions that he could not complete a full thrust before he had to swing around and parry. It was not the stuff his instructors back at the Mount would approve of, but it kept him and Pale alive.

“Keep gnawing!” Traven shouted to the wolf. The hole was still too small for either Pale or himself to squeeze through. It was up to the Hero to keep the attackers at bay while the wolf carved out an escape route.

A chill passed over Traven, far worse than any he had received from the brisk wind. The feeling was so unnerving that the Hero wavered in his defenses and looked over his shoulder. There was nothing but Pale standing motionless. What was the wolf thinking? Traven sent a strong urging to Pale, but it was ignored. Turning his attention back to their attackers, Traven growled.

“Chew!”

Pale did the oddest thing. He whimpered. Not in pain but in delight. Traven could not help but turn around again. Still, there was nothing. A shiver coursed down the Hero’s back, and he unconsciously raised his sword to an unseen presence. What manner of foul creature now attacked? The wolf sent a rush of images, blurry and too rapid to sort out. Taking a blow to the back from a tentacle, Traven stumbled as he spun to the fight.

Whatever the wolf had to say, it was not as important as the fight at hand.

Once the excitement calmed, Pale sent Traven a clearer image. In his mind’s eye, he could see a girl standing before the wolf. The Hero’s eyes flicked back but could make out no such person. This was not what he needed, Traven thought.

More than likely, some ghost of a murderess had his wolf in thrall and would kill them both for the joy of it. But Pale’s enthusiasm refused to be denied. The wolf demanded Traven’s attention. Letting his body flow with instinct and years of practice, the Hero opened his mind to his bonded wolf.

Traven could now hear the spirit speak. At first it was too soft for him to make out the words, but slowly he began to understand her speech.

“Miss Emmert says you must use your symbol. Lance the Gullet at the points of your mark.”

“Who is Miss Emmert, and what do you know—”

The girl’s transparent hand rose to show him a tattoo of his Hero’s emblem. “Please, Hero. Pierce the beast and flee.” Her words were choked with tears. “You do not have much time.”

In that, she was more than correct. He would be lucky if he could fend off the denizens of the Catacomb for a few moments longer. Pale barked in encouragement and moved away from the portal to take up the defense while Traven did the deed.

“I cannot stay. Join me on the other side,” the ghost said. Then faded from view.

Traven hated to tell spirit, but the Hero hoped never to see her again. But he was out of options, and this plan was no more insane than others he had tried. His arms were so fatigued that he could barely raise his sword above his head to drive the blade into the first point. This seemed like a fool’s task, but apparently he was a fool, so Traven continued.

If nothing else the Gullet groaned and convulsed as he sank the sword down to the hilt. As green blood gushed from the wound, the Hero struck the next point. This time the tentacles flailed wildly and screamed with terror. He was making headway. The Craven Creepers all scrambled away as Traven moved to the third point. Only two more to go.

The Shadow Swords fled after the next piercing. The tentacles had fallen limp to the floor. Traven smiled. This was more like it. The portal opened a bit more.

“Jump!” He shouted to Pale. The wolf surged through immediately, wiggling his body in such a way he looked like pup trying to sneak into a chicken coop.

Traven pulled back and lanced the fourth point. This time, though, the Gullet let out a shrieking wail and collapsed upon itself, blocking the hole.

Traven stabbed at where the exit used to be, but the mass was solid and unyielding. Raising his sword again, the Hero drove his blade into the last point. Nothing happened. Traven pierced it again and again, but still nothing changed. The Creepers and Swords had not gone far and now circled back, waiting like vultures.

Falling to his knees onto the blood slick floor, Traven gouged wildly at the portal. He fought to escape but knew his efforts were futile. Fate would get her due.

“You don’t play very well, you know.”

Traven spun around to find Loplop sitting beside him.

“Can you help me?” the Hero asked in desperation.

“You say you want to play. You pick your pieces, and you talk all nice, but when it comes down to it, you turn all sissy pants.”

This was not quite as helpful as Traven had hoped. “Do I need to use one of my game pieces?” Traven asked as he began rummaging through his pockets.

“Are you just plain dumb? Jesh. The girl showed you everything already.”

The boy went back to playing with his trinkets as Traven tried to figure out what in the world the boy was hinting at. “Could you tell me again?”

Loplop rolled his eyes and made a sound similar to one used when talking to a person of very feeble mind. In the green blood, the boy made a circle. “Connect the dots.”

“But the girl said nothing—”

“Are you going to let a girl do all your thinking? I told ya! You’re a big sissy.”

Traven ignored the boy’s taunt and rose to his feet. Starting at the top, the Hero drew a line with his sword in the Gullet’s flesh. Once the circle was complete, the tissue melted away, leaving a hole large enough that Traven could easily walk through. He turned to thank the boy, but Loplop was already gone.

“Hurry!” A scream came from the other side. Not needing much encouragement, Traven leapt through the portal and out onto the snow.

* * *

Ornery lifted the unconscious form of Crystalia up onto Nutmeg’s back. Miss Emmert held the girl in place. “Help the Hero with the Princess.”

The Hero was stumbling out of the orifice, still dazed by the battle. Ornery ran over and offered his assistance. “We must leave. Mount your horse.”

“We have wounds we must attend—”

Ornery shook his head vigorously. “Nay.” Ornery handed the Hero Lauger’s reins. “Once the Gullet dies, the Gorlonn will rebel. This whole region will be unstable.”

For a moment it looked like the Hero might cry. It was obvious that the man had thought himself safe, only to find himself in as much peril as he had been on the other side of the portal.

Ornery encouraged the stunned man. “Quickly, before the quakes start.”

The Hero recovered his composure quickly and swung himself up into the saddle. Glacial was so light that it barely took any effort for Ornery to raise her form up to the Hero.

“Where do we head?” the man asked.

“Follow Miss Emmert.”

Ornery turned to leave, but the Hero stopped him. “Was it you who pulled Glacial from the portal?”

Suddenly Ornery was embarrassed. He hoped the Hero did not plan to kiss him. “Yes.”

Traven reached out his hand. “I owe you my thanks. What is your name?”

“Ornery.”

“There will be songs written for you, Ornery.”

Before he could blush any further, Ornery ran to join Miss Emmert. Already the ground vibrated with discord.

* * *

Holt flexed his arm beneath Ekoli. He had not meant to hold her so long, but it was the only thing that kept the goddess from tossing and turning. Shifting her weight, Holt enjoyed the sensation of having control of his own body. He had been under the influence of the bloodlust for less than a day, but it had seemed a lifetime.

To watch yourself become a vile creature of evil and cruelty was too much to bear. Holt had nearly killed his own mother. Worse, he would have relished the taste of her blood. The thought drained all sense of peace from the moment.

Restless from his long enforced rest, Holt shifted Ekoli to a soft blanket. His mother would be exhausted. While the sun still hid behind the earth, Holt could relieve her of the reins. Making sure that Ekoli was comfortable, Holt rose and joined his mother out in the night air.

“You look well,” his mother said, patting his knee.

“You look worn. Go inside and rest.”

A frown covered the old woman’s face. “I wish that I could. My mind keeps spinning. There is so much I need to know, to learn. There is no time to sleep.”

Holt took the bells from his mother’s hand and began playing a lighter tune. The Fays danced and swam faster with the beat. He smiled before he turned back to his mother.

“Lie down at the least and close your eyes. Your body may have its own ideas.”

“But—”

“Mother, do not fight me on bedtime.” Holt took on a chiding tone of a parent. “What was it you used to do to Sele and me when we bucked lying down?”

Madame Hesper chuckled a bit, and Holt could see her hands relax a little. She carried far too much weight of the world upon her shoulders. He would not have her succumb because she pushed herself too hard. It was only a few days ago she was upon her deathbed. He knew even her energy had limitations.

“I would not have you complaining I held double standards,” his mother said as she raised up on cramped legs.

“Nay. That is for Sele to do.”

As she turned to inside the litter, she squeezed his shoulder. “And she does it well enough for a whole brood.”

Holt smiled into the moonlit night. Tragedy had struck and torn at their family with the viciousness of a rabid dog. The world had turned, and their lives were forever altered, but still, some things had not changed. There were still jokes to be told and joys to be remembered.

Holt jumped as a voice spoke from the night.

“Do you mind some company?”

He turned to find Ekoli standing at the edge of the curtain. “I would be delighted.”

That certainly was not a lie. But Holt was not sure if the experience would be entirely pleasurable. He had assumed his intense attraction to the fallen goddess would fade once his bloodlust was under control.

Unfortunately, Ekoli looked as appealing and lovely as she had the night she fell from grace. Just her mere presence sent goose bumps up his arms. He found it hard to carry on a normal conversation. Not that one could call any discussion with a previous deity, normal.

“Are you feeling any better?”

Ekoli gave a wan smile. “Would that I knew the difference. This mortal body has so many feeling states that I cannot keep track of them.”

“Aye. The demigods might list that as one of our advantages.”

“Then they would be wrong,” she said with more than a bit of bitterness to her tone. Ekoli realized the sharpness of her words and softened. “The pain has lessened, and the bleeding has stopped, so I assume that my body recovers from the injury.”

Holt stayed silent for a moment. It was obvious the goddess needed reassurance and support, but he did not feel he was the one to administer it. What could a man Cursed say to a divine creature such as Ekoli?

“I lied a bit back there,” the goddess admitted.

“When?” Holt asked, intrigued. Not often did the deities admit deception, especially not a goddess of light such as Ekoli.

“In your state, back at the Fold, I did not think you ready to hear the all of it.”

Holt tensed. He had not anticipated the discussion would turn to his Curse. He would rather leave that subject unvisited for eternity. “I am sure you had your reasons. There is no need to explain.”

“It was I who Blessed the Leaf Weavers. It was I who instilled the Vampyr into their blood.”

As Holt’s hands stilled, the bells fell silent. Holt could barely breathe, let alone make music. The litter stalled to a halt, but he did not care. How could this goddess, a goddess he had worshipped in the truest sense of the word, create such torture? Why had she not rescued him from it years ago? He had so many questions but none would form on his lips.

“You are angry?” Ekoli asked.

Angry? No. He was livid. He was betrayed. He was devastated. He was far beyond angry.

“Why?” he choked out.

“The rest of the story is true. The Dew Forest was invaded by a clan of Molesters from the west. Five tribes of Leaf Weavers had been wiped out. They were a peaceful people with no skill at warfare. If I had not intervened, they would have been destroyed.”

Holt’s fury burned on his lips. “Why did you not just damn the Molesters? Rout them from the Forest?”

“The Molesters were under the protection of Serpentine. Unless I wished war amongst the gods, the only option I was left with was to find a way to strengthen my worshippers. I fought fire with fire. I gave the Weavers a gift of inner potential. A Blessing to help them throw off their attackers.”

“There had to be another way!”

Ekoli sadly shook her head. “Magick is not always easily rendered, even for a goddess. For every gift, there is a price. The Weavers were shown their animal ferocity and could tap into that force for battle. Their payment was to live at night and always guard that primal power within.”

“It is too high!”

“Tell me, Holt, did you think that way when you saved your mother’s life? Does it hurt you to think you helped defeat a Drakol? Were you angered at me when you were able to open the Fold and saved us all?”

Holt wished he could answer her questions, but he could not. In those moments that she recounted, the Curse had, in fact, been a blessing. But what of the previous decades he had suffered for no apparent reason? What of the others who lost control and were hunted down like animals?

“I was given no choice in this matter. Nor do any of the other victims who receive your ‘blessing.’ It is thrust upon us.”

Ekoli looked long out across the plains. Holt recovered his senses enough to begin playing a tune, setting them in motion again. Finally she spoke. Her sad tone alone captured his heart and thawed his anger.

“For that I am sorry. My motivations were pure, I assure you. It is difficult to remember when you live up beyond the clouds that time travels differently on earth. It was but a blink, and my people had forgotten their roots and the reason for their blessing.”

“So it was never your intent to have Vampyrs running amok, infecting innocents?”

The goddess shook her head, and a tear sprang to her eye. Her next words seemed very uncomfortable. “When I saw what the Weavers had done with my gift, I became enraged. I turned my back upon them and would not hear the cries of trapped souls. For this, you owe me your ire.”

“You mean, you knew? You heard my prayers each night to release me from the Curse?”

“Aye. I was numb to your pain.”

Holt sat stunned. Sele had always said the gods were fickle and pernicious. To survive the Curse, Holt had clung to his faith. How else could he have endured the decades of torment? He had to believe there was a higher purpose— a reason that he had been so Cursed. Now, to find out it was nothing more than a whimsy of a goddess who no longer cared to take responsibility for her actions? This was too great a burden.

Ekoli tried to explain further. “I did not know what pain truly was until now.”

“Try feeling like this for decades,” Holt spat out. He might be able to forgive her for creating the Curse, but never for letting him linger in it.

“I have upset you.”

Holt only snorted at her words. What had she expected? That he would somehow feel better knowing his agony had meant nothing to her? Silence stretched as they glided across the snow.

There was nothing more to say.

CHAPTER 29

“The ride was wild. The mountains quaked with anger, and the wind howled its rage. Had their horses not been fleet of foot, they would have fallen into the Pit. Earth tumbled and rolled. Whole mountains collapsed upon themselves, marking the passage of an era. With a mighty storm bearing down upon them, The Man Who Did Not Know led them on their headlong flight.”

Granny was part right, Traven thought. The excerpt that kept rolling around his mind was from a story entitled “The Clash of Stone.” But the way his grandmother had told it, there was no Catacombs or Gullet. Yet her description of their narrow escape was letter perfect.

At first, Traven had to be convinced to flee the dying Gullet. It had taken the side of the mountain cracking for Traven to put his heel to Lauger. Before they had crossed over the next peak, the entire mountainside was crumbling. The group had lurched forward, never knowing if the next step they took would be their last. The Catacombs had sunk into a giant Pit. A great black hole marred the wintry landscape.

And it was all the Hero’s fault. All this Traven had caused.

At first, he had felt elation and pride for surviving the Gullet, only to find that his victory had doomed the whole region. The Cider Fold was no more, because of him. The news had struck him more deeply than any Cravens’ fangs wound ever could. It seemed unreal. How could he have laid low an ancestral sanctuary?

No matter the how, Traven had done it. Any chance the Hero had at being selected as the Hope was dashed. One was not crowned the savior of the world when he went about destroying sacred sites. No, more likely when this was all over, they would flog him for his disastrous accomplishments.

Yet with all this brewing about his mind, it was a far different matter that preoccupied him. He could no longer deny it or make a joke of it.

His Granny’s stories were uncannily accurate. Oh, for certain, she had the facts a bit jumbled, and the timeline was askew, but overall the tales were, at their heart, true. How could Granny have known? He would have liked to ask her, but she was no longer of this place. Granny had passed away before she could see him knighted and named Hero. Her secrets died with her.

“It shouldn’t be far!” Miss Emmert shouted over the wind.

Traven was beginning to wonder if they would ever reach the trapper’s cache. It was near dawn, and they still had not found shelter from the elements. Given a few more minutes, they would be caught in a storm that was wailing from the higher peaks. It was as if Winter himself was breathing down upon them, punishing them for their blasphemy.

Glacial stirred in his arms and whimpered a bit. She had been brave over the rough ride, never complaining of the jolting gait. They fled over craggy rocks and slippery snow. The bleeding had stopped, but the suction wounds inflicted by the tentacles were beginning to fester. There were red welts up and down her arms and neck. The Princess stayed conscious, but he did not know how much longer she could hold on.

The other girl, the one that had come to him in ghost form, had fared far worse. She had not moved a whit since they fled into the peaks. Her still form was held tight by Miss Emmert. Ornery had tired and finally agreed to ride the White Wolf. Pale was the only one happy amongst them. The wolf was certain food was on the horizon, and the boy on the wolf’s back was not much heavier than Glacial and was far better company.

“There!” Miss Emmert pointed to a barren slope of snow.

Before Traven could question her further, Miss Emmert guided them to what appeared to be a random spot.

“Start digging!” Miss Emmert said as she carefully lifted the unconscious girl to the ground.

Traven helped Glacial dismount then made certain she sat near Miss Emmert. “Stay here.” Turning, the Hero began digging alongside Ornery and Pale. The work was strenuous in the biting cold. How much snow did they need to move, anyway?

Glancing over his shoulder, Traven checked on Glacial. Her eyes were on the boy digging next to him. What did she find so fascinating about Ornery? Granted he was some kind of Centaur hybrid, but what did he have that Traven did not? Never had the princess shown such interest in him. The Hero was not sure how he felt, and at the moment did not bother to explore it. There was work to be done if they hoped to survive the wicked storm.

* * *

Crystalia’s rise to consciousness occurred fast and cold. She startled awake with her rear side near frozen and with a throbbing headache. The dreams of flowers and weddings were replaced by snow and more snow. Carefully, Crystalia rose to a sitting position and let her head stop spinning. The Princess Ornery had saved sat next to Crystalia. The poor thing looked far worse off than even Crystalia felt. Her hands were marred by blisters, and she hugged her knees, rocking in the snow.

A few yards off, everyone else, including the horses, were digging. It was then that she saw the Hero. Saw him with human eyes rather than through the reflection of the moon. How glorious he looked. Sweat rolled down his brow, and dark curls bounced as he shoveled. Crystalia flew to her feet.

“Traven!” Despite her swimming head, Crystalia threw herself at the Hero. He turned in time to catch her in his arms. Crystalia relaxed into his embrace. “Oh, Hero. How I have waited for this moment!”

She squeezed him tight and wished she could melt into this body, fusing as one. Leaning back, she looked into his dark eyes. Closing her own, Crystalia pursed her lips, waiting for his kiss.

“Child, do I know you?” the Hero asked as he released his arms from around her back.

Crystalia was flustered but tried not to let it show. The poor dear was confused and shaken by his trials. “Hero, it is me. Crystalia, from Last Hitch.”

The Hero’s brows furrowed. “The girl that was near poisoned at the tea?”

“Aye!” Crystalia said and hugged him more tightly. “You saved me, and now I have helped save you.”

Traven pulled her away from his chest and held her at arm’s length. “For that I thank you, miss. But I really must dig if we are to weather the blizzard.”

With that he turned back to his work.

Crystalia felt the breath leached out of her. “Traven! You have nothing else to say to me?”

To her shock, he shrugged his shoulders before turning away. “No.”

Crystalia did not know whether to start crying or shouting. How could he be so cruel? Had he lost all memory of what they had meant to each other? Miss Emmert was at her side and tried to lead her away.

“Come, child. Let us discuss this.”

“No!” Crystalia shouted, not caring if an avalanche swept them all away. “I’m not a child. I’m the Hero’s love!”

Traven turned back. “I swear I did not touch her!”

“You kissed me! You gave me this!” Crystalia said as she shoved her hand towards him. The Hero looked sincerely confused. Did he truly not understand the bond that worked between them?

Miss Emmert interrupted. “Traven, it is true. You planted the soul sexton upon her palm.”

The Hero backed away a step. “I did no such thing.”

Gripping Crystalia’s shoulder to keep her from launching at Traven, Miss Emmert explained. “I do not think you knew what you did, but it was your kiss that set her in motion.” Miss Emmert paused for a moment. “Please. Let me make a proper introduction. The Man Who Did Not Know, would you gently meet the Snowy Maiden.”

* * *

“The Snowy Maiden.” Traven found himself repeating the name as if trying to assimilate the title. He knew nothing of the girl from Last Hitch, but he knew much of the Snowy Maiden. The Man and the Maiden were supposed to be great loves. They traveled the world together, and romance always brushed their path. How could this slip of a girl be his intended?

“This cannot be.”

“It is!” the girl near shrieked. Tears welled in her eyes.

Miss Emmert tried to calm them both. “Crystalia, Madame Hesper warned you that Traven might not return your affections. You are but one of many who might be his soul mate.”

“But I have the sexton!”

Hugging the girl, the woman continued to console her. “That you do. But we must see how this all unfolds. The prophesies are unclear.”

“The story of the Catacombs had the Snowy Maiden as my companion…” Traven said, half-conscious that he spoke the words out loud.

Miss Emmert nodded as she stroked the girl’s hair. “Aye. Yet you in actuality traveled with the Ice Princess. We cannot take any myth at face value.”

The girl sobbed bitterly in Miss Emmert’s arms. “But he smiled and kissed me!”

Traven felt a tad guilty. He had not done anything untoward to the girl, but neither had he shielded the girl’s feelings the way he should. Traven liked the attention of any young thing he met and seldom had cared about their emotions. Now this girl had traveled across the Plains and into Winter’s grip because of his careless flirtations. Once again Traven was reminded of why he was not worthy to be crowned The Hope.

“I’m sorry that I do not love you. I meant nothing—” Traven tried to comfort the girl, but she would have none of it.

“Get away from me!” Sobbing, the girl was led back a few steps by Miss Emmert. There was no repairing the girl’s heart with a few awkward words, so Traven went back to digging.

“Over here!” Ornery shouted and pointed downward. Traven and Pale joined the boy. He had uncovered the outline of a door in the side of the slope. Quickly they cleared the snow and the wolf sniffed at the partially opened wooden door.

Through Pale’s mind, Traven could sense there was food for certain in the hut, but also the smell of death.

“Well?” Miss Emmert asked from behind.

“It’s a cache, all right, but Pale fears foul play,” Traven reported.

Miss Emmert shrugged. “Do we have any other choice?”

The question did not require an answer. The Hero pulled his sword and motioned for the boy to back away. Pale took the point as Traven knocked the door in. The wolf’s eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. The room was simple but large. A fire pit sat in the front of the chamber, long cold. Some food was stacked in the back. Littered in the center were four dead bodies. They were frozen through— obviously dead for a while.

Traven was startled when Miss Emmert spoke near his shoulder. “I would imagine one of the Caitliff’s raiders is responsible.”

“Why would they leave the food?”

“They’re not the most efficient lot.”

Traven walked the perimeter of the room to be sure there were no surprises waiting in the crevices as Miss Emmert checked the food supplies.

“Not much, but enough to fill our bellies once over.”

Nodding, Traven inched up to the bodies and began checking the deceased for any gear. Their bodies were solid ice. This must have been what the people of the Fort looked like. The Hero had seen plenty of dead bodies before, but these disturbed him. The last one especially. Traven did not know why, but the face of this one bothered him. The dead man’s face was ashen white, with frost clinging to his eyebrows and mustache. The look on his face when he died seemed surprised. Like death had startled him.

Traven jumped back as the body’s eyelids fluttered. Before the Hero could shout a warning, the dead man jerked upright into a sitting position. Traven raised his sword and prepared to cleave the unnatural head from its frozen shoulders.

“Hold your weapon, Traven!” Miss Emmert shouted.

The body stood up as the Hero’s arm wavered. Why should he listen to the woman? He should eliminate this threat now. Before he could strike the blow, Ornery tackled the Hero from the side.

“My mother said ‘no!’”

Scrambling up, Traven kept his distance from the dead man, but held his sword raised. “What is it?”

“I do not know,” Miss Emmert said, but must have recognized the look of frustration on Traven’s face for she hurried on. “But I thought it best we find out what miracle walks in front of us before we destroy it.”

Traven’s cheeks reddened a little. She was right. He had demolished enough this day. Traven needed to learn restraint.

* * *

Crystalia could wait no longer. She had heard the shouts and commotion inside and took a step towards the kicked-in door. Rage and shame still burned in her chest, but a spark of concern still flickered for the Hero. She had not come all this way only to have him die before he could make amends to her. To think of all she had been through for him. Nearly poisoned, trapped in Quicksnow, and she had given over her petticoats to that insufferable Caitliff.

All for nothing.

The Hero did not love her. That was clear upon his face. He had not a single spark of affection when he looked upon her. For that she should have hated him, but she could not. The cold air must have slapped some sense into her, for she felt only sadness and not rage. She could see the leaps of faith she had made and could not fault the Hero for his feelings.

And a part of her was still driven by an unquenchable desire to be near him. Her palm burned hot the nearer Crystalia got to the Hero. The sexton did not care if there was love in the air. It drove her to be close to Traven. For this reason and the fact she had a natural abundance of curiosity, Crystalia snuck into the shack.

Stifling a scream, she tried to back out of the room, but the Princess blocked her way.

“What’s happened?” the beautiful girl asked.

Crystalia only shook her head as she stared at the walking dead man. Miss Emmert slowly crept up to the stretching figure.

“What is your name?” Sele asked.

The body blinked twice then answered. “I cannot remember. Truly.”

“What are you?”

“A corpse. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

Miss Emmert flashed a look at the Hero, but he only shrugged.

“Do you mean us any harm?” Traven asked.

“Now why would I do that? I need your heat if I have any hope of staying animated.” The dead man shook his head and loosened up his wrists. “If you put on a fire, I might be more inclined to speak.”

Crystalia shrank in horror as the corpse opened his coat to reveal a neck wound deep enough it looked like his head might roll off. The wolf crossed the room and stood guard in front of the two girls. Much to Crystalia’s disconcertion, Pale kept nudging her with his nose and expecting a pet. Absently she stroked the wolf’s head just to keep him quiet.

Miss Emmert nodded to Ornery, who began building a fire. “What should we call you?”

“Corpse will do. I doubt if any of you have claimed that name for yourself, so there should be little confusion who you are speaking to.”

The wind howled savagely through the still open doorway and sputtered the fire Ornery was trying to make.

Miss Emmert motioned for the girls and horses to enter the enclosure. “Everyone, inside.”

Crystalia was tentative, but the snow was beginning to fall outside. Leading in the mounts, Crystalia stayed clear of the dead man and circled around behind Miss Emmert.

“Glacial, have a seat by the fire, I’ll attend those wounds. Crystalia, could you stir up some grub?” the woman asked.

Crystalia did not think that anyone would be in the mood to eat with dead bodies not only littering the floor but also sitting at their fire, but she held her tongue. Miss Emmert must have noticed her unease, for the woman turned to the Hero.

“Traven, could you and Pale remove these…” She motioned to the dead bodies. “For us?”

As the Hero and wolf cleared the room, Crystalia sorted through their meager supplies. Most were moldy, and none were fresh. “Miss Emmert, I’m not even sure if I can make a descent soup, let alone a stew.”

“Just make do, dear.” Miss Emmert said as she gave Crystalia’s hand a squeeze.

Crystalia’s eyes teared over again. Nothing really had changed despite the distance she had put between her and Last Hitch. She was still just making do.

* * *

Traven hauled the last of the bodies out and reentered the room. It was a most uncomfortable assembly. Glacial looked far worse for the wear, as Miss Emmert did her best to nurse the Princess’s wounds. The other girl was still obviously suffering from a broken heart, and the boy, Ornery, looked ready to keel over where he stoked the fire. The only one with any life left in his face was the corpse.

Pale sent the Hero strong waves of hunger. Traven tried to reassure the wolf that there would be more than enough to go around, but Pale could not be fooled. He could smell every ingredient Crystalia cooked, and there would barely be enough to fill five bowls for the party, let alone for a hearty portion for the wolf. The horses were subsisting on stale hay that had not a kernel of grain in it.

Why should Pale take any of the humans’ food, when there was so much nicely frozen meat right outside their door? Traven recoiled at the thought. They would not eat human flesh! The wolf corrected the Hero. Pale was not suggesting the rest of the group consume it, only him. Still, Traven was shaken. How could the wolf suggest such a thing? Did he not know cannibalism was forbidden? Pale scoffed in Traven’s head. He was wolf, not human. It would be no different if the wolf ate a dead horse.

Traven was still not in agreement, but he heard an echo of another thought in Pale’s head. The Hero turned to watch Miss Emmert stare into the wolf’s eyes. In shock, Traven listened as the woman gave her permission.

“Go. But do so outside and bury the remains.”

The Hero was appalled, but what could he do? Make a scene in front of everyone else? Traven tried to send his reproach to Pale, but the wolf was already out the door. He was not sure if he was more shaken by Pale’s actions or the fact someone else could speak inside the wolf’s mind. Traven knew Grave had the ability, but the Hero had assumed he was the only human able to do so. Obviously he was wrong.

“Traven, would you like to do the questioning?”

“Yes.” He bristled at Miss Emmert’s tone. She was not deferring to his authority, but rather offering him a bone. Traven was not used to being a follower amongst the crowd.

* * *

Ornery made himself look busy near the fire so that Miss Emmert would not shoo him away. The dead man both repulsed and fascinated him beyond belief. With every passing moment, as the fire crackled and snapped to a full roar, the corpse gained more color. His white cheeks were painted a shade pinker and hands moved more smoothly.

The Hero tripped over the dead man’s name. “Corpse, I am trying to be patient, but we would all like to know how you came to be… be here.”

“It is a sad tale, really. Not that I would expect you to understand,” Corpse said as he sat so near the flames that Ornery was worried that the dead man’s clothes would catch on fire. The man glanced around the fire at their group. “Or by the looks of you, you might.”

Traven jumped in before Corpse could go on much further. “Why don’t you try us?”

The dead man sighed. “Much I do not remember. I was traveling with a party. That much I know. We sought True North, but for what reason escapes me.”

The man paused as Miss Emmert, Traven, and Glacial shuffled in their seats, looking suddenly uncomfortable. What did they know of True North that Ornery did not?

Corpse did not rest his tongue long. “All’s I remember was a huge Hallway. It seemed to go on forever, stretching out to the horizon.” The man seemed to lose his focus.

“Something happened there?” Traven prompted the man.

“Aye. There was a great ring that hovered above the floor. It was sprinkled with the stuff stars are made of and shimmered with the look of new frost. I could not help myself, it was so very breathtaking. I reached out and touched its surface. It was cold and hot. Icy and burning.” Corpse turned to Ornery. “May I have a sip of that tea you are brewing?”

Ornery looked first to Miss Emmert, who nodded her head. Pouring some into a cracked cup, Ornery offered the tea to the dead man. He made sure to release the container before Corpse could touch his skin. The man placed the warm liquid to his lips and sucked down the entire contents. The tea gushed from the wound in his neck, drenching the front of his shirt. Ornery cringed but did not flee. It was so grotesque that he could not look away.

“There. My throat feels much better.” Corpse casually wiped off his doublet and continued. “I remember turning to my companions, but they were under attack by some foul creatures. You could not see them, only the destruction they left in their path.”

The man stopped again and handed the cup back to Ornery. The boy filled it to the brim. He wanted to see more of it come out the man’s throat. After finishing the tea, Corpse licked the cup.

The group waited, but the dead man just kept licking and licking. Traven finally stepped in. “It is there that you died?”

“Uh? Oh, yes. That part. I should have figured you wanted that bit of the story… I turned to run, but a garrote caught me around the throat and tightened.” Corpse opened his collar and showed them all the details of the gnarly wound. “When I awoke next, I was lying on the icy floor, my life’s blood split all around me, but still I was able to rise. At first I thought it was a miracle, but soon I realized I was as dead as my companions.”

“You do not remember why you went to the Icy Throne?” Miss Emmert asked.

“Is that where I was? The Winter King’s seat of power? Damnable. I should have known better than to have trusted those other wankers. No wonder I’m in such a state.”

Ornery could not help but blurt out his question. This story had almost the same appeal as a tavern’s bawdy minstrel. “What happened next?”

“Back then I wasn’t as wise to my condition, so I set out to head south.” The man shrugged. “Next time I woke up was when these men here found me up on the slopes.”

Miss Emmert nodded. “A Frost Zombie requires heat to stay functional.”

“Well, somebody should have left me instructions, because I wasted nearly seven years frozen on that slope. What year is it now?”

“The year of the Snow Hare,” Traven answered.

Corpse seemed relieved. “Ah, then I’ve only been down for another four years.”

Miss Emmert corrected the dead man. “But we are in the Second House of the Moon.”

“Then another fourteen years have passed.” The man seemed disheartened by this news. “Not that it should matter. I’m sure my wife would be disinclined to have me back. She wasn’t too fond of me alive.”

Ornery stirred the tea and made room for Crystalia as she came over to start boiling the soup. He flashed her a tentative smile, but the girl did not even notice. Her eyes flicked between the Hero and Corpse.

“What happened here?” Traven asked. “How did these men meet their fate?”

“They were nice enough chaps. Dug me from the snow, warmed me up a bit and didn’t skewer me when I arose. I think they had plans to sell me to a traveling gypsy show, but I don’t fault them for it. Winters have gotten hard, or so I have heard.”

Miss Emmert nodded. “Aye. Was it the same manner of creature that attacked you at the Icy Throne?”

“No. These had the look of men, but their movements were too quick. Before I could raise a hand to defend myself, they killed the others, extinguished our fire, and stuffed snow down my gullet and into my wound.”

“Was it Caitliff’s men?” Crystalia asked, fear plain in her voice.

Miss Emmert shook her head. “Nay. They are a bit soft in the brain. They would never know how to neutralize a Frost Zombie.”

“Are you saying someone hunted him down?” Traven asked.

“Yes,” Miss Emmert said, but did not back up her claim.

Crystalia slipped from the fire’s edge and went back to the cabinets. Glacial took the opportunity to slide in next to Ornery. The boy scooted over on his heels closer to Corpse. He would rather be near the dead man than the painfully beautiful Princess.

“Would you like to explain, Miss Emmert?” Traven asked, irritation clear in his tone.

* * *

Glacial ignored the throbbing of her wounds and listened carefully to Miss Emmert’s answer. Their talk of the True North and the Icy Throne had roused her from her fitful rest. Despite her body’s protest, she had risen and joined them by the fire.

Miss Emmert had several false starts before she finally spoke. “There is so much to discuss. I do not know where to begin.”

“I find leaping off from the beginning sometimes helps,” Corpse said with a grim smile on his face.

“That would require us covering over five hundred years of history. Would that sate you?” Miss Emmert snapped at the dead man.

The Princess had only known the woman for a few scant hours, but she already sensed Miss Emmert’s harsh tone was much unlike her.

“I would be pleased with just the pertinent facts,” Traven said, trying to placate the agitated woman.

“Even that is difficult,” Miss Emmert grumbled. Her voice leveled out, and she sighed. “I had hoped to have some food in our belly before we were forced to discuss this.”

Glacial inched closer to Ornery. For some reason the smell of his thick mane comforted her. She would never admit it out loud, but she was just a bit in awe of the Centaur. They were so revered amongst her people that Glacial had been taught fluent Equis and knew their history as well as she did her own.

Miss Emmert squirmed and glanced furtively towards Glacial. Whatever the woman was about to share, the Princess was fairly certain she wound not like it one bit. To have the Centaur sitting next to her made the upcoming discussion a tad more bearable.

“Crystalia, please join us. You are affected by what I have to say.”

“But—” the girl tried to resist. The only available spot around the fire was directly between Traven and Corpse.

“Sit,” Miss Emmert said with a finality that cut off any other complaint from the girl.

Once Crystalia was settled in, Miss Emmert started. “First, we must understand the importance of this meeting. It is not random. It is not by accident we have found all of ourselves in this shack. It was preordained.”

Glacial felt goose bumps run up and down her limbs. So far prophecies had not been kind to her.

“Around this fire sits The Way.” Miss Emmert indicated to each of them in turn. “The Ice Princess, The Man Who Did Not Know, The Snowy Maiden and…” Miss Emmert paused and let everyone’s eyes linger on Corpse. “The Hanged Man.”

Traven nearly shouted. “That cannot be true! That cannot—”

“Hero, think a moment on this before you protest too loudly. You know the fable of the Fire Conclave as well as I.”

Glacial watched as Traven fell completely silent. Obviously he did remember the story, but she had no idea what Miss Emmert was talking about.

“What does this mean? Will it hinder my ascent to the Icy Throne?” Glacial asked, flustered by all this talk of prophecies.

Miss Emmert smoothed her dress, then looked Glacial straight in the eye. “There might be a time, Princess, after the Winter King is calmed, when you join the Icy Court, but for now, you must avoid True North—”

“Never! It is my destiny to climb the frozen steps and—”

“You will doom the world if you chose poorly, Glacial.”

She sputtered before she could answer this insult. Who was this woman to talk to her so? She might have saved Glacial’s life, but Miss Emmert was only a human. Her advice was questionable at best.

“I am the Ice Princess, and I shall—”

Miss Emmert interrupted Glacial but directed her words at Traven. “To ascend, the Princess will need to spill her blood upon Winter’s altar.”

“No!” Traven gasped.

“Aye. Did you not know that it was you who was supposed to slit her throat for this joyous ascension?”

It was Traven’s turn to redden and speak hot words. “Princess! Why was I not told of this? I would never have agreed.”

Glacial raised her chin and looked down upon the humans who had no understanding of the depth of Giant logic. She would not be swayed by their petty arguments.

“But you did. Back at Thunderhead. You swore a vow. Would you break that oath?”

Traven’s face twisted in confusion, but Miss Emmert had no trouble answering her challenge.

“There was no oath to break. No vow to forsake. Do not forget I know your people, Princess. They are not the most forthcoming of sorts, but neither are they dishonorable.” Miss Emmert nodded to Traven. “I am sure the Hero has promised to keep you safe and fulfill your destiny, but they never meant for him to do the deed. Grave was supposed to accompany you, was he not?” Miss Emmert waited until Glacial reluctantly nodded. “Once Grave succumbed, the burden then fell upon the Hero. But Traven never agreed to this, did he?”

Glacial squirmed in her seat. How she wanted to prove the woman wrong, but Miss Emmert had the right of it. Traven was never to be anything more than an escort. But if the Hero did not perform the Rite, who would? The Princess retreated to lessons taught to her since her infancy.

“My place is at the Winter King’s side—”

“I will not do it, Princess.” Traven said with heat in his voice. His resolve was clear. No amount of brow-beating or shaming would sway the man.

Glacial’s thoughts were a muddle. Her distress was so great that she thought she might burst into tears. But never would she give the humans the satisfaction of seeing her cry like a child. One half of her raged against their intrusion. Did they not understand the Princess’s obligation to save her people? Glacial’s destiny was to rescue the Giant’s from Winter’s icy grip.

Yet another quiet, but rapidly growing, voice within her bosom secretly delighted at the news. Could there be a way around the Sacrifice? Was it possible she might live out her life? As a child, the idea of being the most infamous Bride in written history had filled her with such pride and confidence that Glacial had never doubted the words of her Elders. When chosen in the womb for such an honor, one did not question it lightly.

Now that she had walked in the world and seen Winter’s ferocity firsthand, the princess was no longer sure she wanted him for her eternal mate. Glacial had tasted pain and was no longer certain she could stretch her neck out for the sacrificial knife. But how could she abandon her people and their plight?

“My ascension is the only act that can break Winter’s grip.” Glacial tried to say it with conviction, but she obviously failed.

Miss Emmert gave her a sympathetic grin before answering, “If that were true, Glacial, I would slit your throat myself. But Princess, you must begin to accept the fact that your people misinterpreted the portents… Your people were wrong, Glacial.”

The Princess bristled at the human’s arrogance. “How dare you hurl such accusations—”

“Did your wise men foresee The Way being born in this generation? Did they know you would cross paths with the Centaur?” Miss Emmert asked, annoyance creeping back into her voice.

Glacial fell silent. Both knew the answer. If the Elders and the Chieftains had missed such an important omen such as Ornery, could they not have been fallible when it came to the Bride? How she wished Grave was here. He would give sound advice.

Miss Emmert continued, a reassuring tone to her words. “I do not ask you to abandon your quest completely upon my words. I ask only that you delay your journey and accompany us to the Steppes. There you can confer with the Centaur’s mages and decide your next course.”

The Princess almost gave in to the threatening tears. The woman had given her an honorable path that would give her time to sort out her warring emotions.

“We will go with you,” Traven said, speaking for both of them.

For once Glacial did not mind the Hero’s rashness. She did not think she could speak right now even if her life depended upon it.

* * *

Crystalia watched the exchange of looks that passed between Traven and Glacial. To see the Hero so concerned and enrapt with another girl galled Crystalia to the point she wanted to spit into Traven’s face, or perhaps scratch at his eyes. But she sat still.

Despite the humiliation and crushing disappointment, Crystalia still could not bring herself to think of the Hero poorly. Even Traven’s dedication and concern for the Princess was somehow endearing. She wanted to hate him for his attachment to Glacial, but could not.

For a moment Crystalia was glad Traven was traveling with them, but then she realized she had no need to continue with the group. With the Hero safe, she could return home and find a nice, boring stable boy to marry, have a bundle of screaming children, and stir chutney all the winter long. Any life back at Last Hitch would be better than sitting next to a corpse in a shack with a blizzard howling at the door— anything.

Before Miss Emmert could open another subject, Crystalia interjected. “Is there a way I might go home?”

The sad look on the woman’s face answered her question before Miss Emmert opened her mouth to speak. “Nay, child. You are as drawn to this web as Glacial.” Miss Emmert rubbed her hands together and tried to put on a cheerful face. “I think we might all enjoy a bite to eat and a rest before we discuss this further. There will be time tomorrow on the path to speak of such things.”

“I want to know now!” Crystalia said, a bit more whine to her voice than she had intended.

When Miss Emmert hesitated, Traven spoke up. “I agree with the Maiden. Why does she need to come along?”

A day ago, Crystalia would have been wounded by the Hero’s words, but now she was grateful for his support. Miss Emmert could be quite stubborn.

“Just remember, you both asked me to speak of such things,” the woman warned.

Suddenly Crystalia was not so sure she needed the information right that second, but Traven nodded, and Miss Emmert began her tale.

“I have spent my life deciphering ancient texts, sifting through crumbling parchments, and writing passages backwards a hundred times. All in the effort to divine a trinket of knowledge that might be of some use in the dark days to come. But after years of searching, I can relay what I have learned in a few short sentences.” Miss Emmert paused and swallowed hard. “Perhaps if my mother were here, she might…” The woman trailed off as she choked on her words.

Crystalia felt guilt pinch her again. It was her fault Madame Hesper was not here. The medium should have been at this meeting instead of Crystalia. The Madame would be of help. What use was a young girl from Last Hitch, when the fate of the world rested in the balance?

Finally, Miss Emmert continued. “But she is not, so we must make do…” There was a long stretch of silence as the fire crackled and popped.

“I don’t know about anyone else, but this story could use a goosing,” Corpse said as he warmed his hands in front of the flames.

* * *

Traven shot a look to the dead man, but Corpse hardly seemed to care how insulting he was. Internally, the Hero admitted that Corpse had a point. He, too, tired of the woman’s hyperbole. If she had bad news, she should spill it.

Miss Emmert gave a grim smile. “We know prophecies to be fluid. They expand and contract with each reading, but there are some tales that ring true, that are as solid as the ground that we walk upon. Like this meeting. It has the feel of Fate about it.” She nodded to Traven. “As did the fight at the Gullet. I did not know beforehand the mechanism of your survival, Traven, but I knew that you would burst from the Catacombs intact.”

Well, Traven would not exactly call it intact. A part of him died back at the Gullet. He could not give it a name, but The Hero could feel it deep within his chest. He no longer feared death. Not that he wanted to go into her embrace any time soon, but he did not flinch from its threat any longer. The Fates be damned. Traven would not allow another to choose his path for him.

“The Hanged Man’s resuscitation is such an event. According to the Faded Pages, Corpse was to have emerged over a decade ago, long before any of you stepped forth into history’s glare. We doubted Ornery’s claim to The Way, and were startled by Crystalia’s bursting forth as the Snowy Maiden. We were not even on the lookout yet for The Man Who Did Not Know. All of these signs we missed because The Hanged Man’s existence was unknown to us.”

“You said this could be summed up in a few sentences, woman. Do you wish us never to eat?” Corpse said, now taking off his shoes and socks, wiggling his toes near the fire.

Traven certainly did not wish to be around when the dead man tried to eat a meal, but he did wish Miss Emmert would get on with the telling. She could have learned a thing or two from Granny.

“I fear something, or someone, is altering our course. A force outside of history is accelerating events and twisting Fate to serve its own ends.”

“That cannot be!” Glacial blurt out. The poor Princess was obviously overwhelmed by all the turmoil. Traven sensed that her values and beliefs had been shaken to the core. It did not seem she could take another tenet, that Fate was ever-constant and in control, to be damaged.

Traven did not wish Miss Emmert to go off on another tangent, so he spoke quickly. “Who do you believe is responsible?”

Miss Emmert shrugged. “I do not know, but we must reveal our enemy before they target us again.”

“What is their end? Why are they doing this?”

“By their actions, I can only assume they mean to destroy the seasons and make the earth inhospitable to life as we know it.”

Ornery asked, his face bright with questions, “How could they survive in a world without definition?”

Miss Emmert seemed proud of her son’s query. “There has always been those opposed to the Quorum. Those that live on the fringe of our world and inhabit the earth we find too inhospitable. Any one of those races, or another we have not yet met, could be forcing this crisis to fruition before we are prepared for battle.”

The room fell silent, except for the bubbling of the soup upon the fire. The aroma of the thin soup filled the air. Despite its lackluster smell, Traven’s stomach growled. They may be in dire circumstances, but his body cared for none of it. Tonight it would be happy to have a full meal and sleep the night away. Unfortunately, Traven knew events such as this did not dissipate that easily.

“You have a plan?” Traven asked, already knowing that she did.

“Aye. We will head to the Steppes and unite Ornery with his father. From there we will travel southwest and meet with the assembled Quorum. After that, the path is unclear.”

“Then it is best we post a guard both inside the door and outside through the night and let everyone else rest for the journey ahead.”

Miss Emmert shook her head as Traven moved to rise. “Before any talk of rest, there is one thing yet to do.”

Traven sat back down, a frown upon his face. He had an inkling what Miss Emmert was talking about, but hoped that he was wrong.

“If this is the Fire Conclave, we have a covenant to seal.”

“Will you fall quiet after this pact is made?” Corpse asked.

The woman only nodded.

“Then let us get this over with.” The dead man held out his hand to Crystalia, but she backed away.

Miss Emmert encouraged the Snowy Maiden. “Go ahead, child. We must hold hands while I speak the words of binding.”

Crystalia’s voice was filled with horror. “I do not wish to be bound to him.” Turning to Traven. “Or him. Or any of you, for that matter.”

“It is all or none, Crystalia. We must all agree to travel together until the Fates ask us to part. If one is struck, the others will stand in defense.”

“The Giants do not make allegiances with dead men,” Glacial said, her haughty tone regained.

Traven was none-too-thrilled with the prospect either, but he had gleaned enough from the Granny’s stories to know this was an essential ingredient to their success. If they did not form this pact, this night, then all would be lost.

“This is not about our people or our heritage. This is about the future,” Traven found himself saying. Once again Granny had prepared him for this moment.

“Declare yourself now, or go home and start carving your gravestone.”

Traven felt like smiling despite the grave nature of his words. Granny always had the best way of summarizing.

Miss Emmert bobbed her head in agreement. “We are what we are. Fate has chosen us as its champions. Who are we to reject the Sisters’ offering?”

Slowly everyone took hands. Crystalia still cringed, but she joined hands like the rest of them.

“Tonight we call forth our mothers, our fathers, our sisters, and our brothers to witness our joining,” Miss Emmert intoned. Her voice had taken on a new strength. A new passion. “Assembled here, we vow our fealty to the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars. Together we are bound. Together we shall live or die.”

Wind whipped through the cracks in the wooden door, making the fire hiss and crackle. Strange light danced around the circle, illuminating everyone’s features.

Miss Emmert’s head snapped up, and a wild look came to her eyes. “I, The Beauty, pledge myself, body and soul.”

The flames licked higher and higher until they reached the roof, and still they climbed. For a moment, Traven could have sworn he saw another figure in Miss Emmert’s place. A slip of a girl with a beauty that radiated from within. But then the vision was gone. The woman, once again pudgy and plain, nodded to Glacial.

“I, The Ice Princess, pledge myself, body and soul.”

Traven did not believe Glacial could become any more beautiful than she already was, but in the blazing firelight, she shone more brightly than even the flames themselves.

“I, The Way, pledge myself, body and soul.”

Traven watched as Ornery’s face rearranged itself, and his body sprouted two new legs. For just a glimpse, Traven knew he had witnessed a true Centaur.

“I, The Hanged Man, pledge myself, body and soul.”

Traven prepared to view a transformation but was disappointed that nothing happened when the dead man spoke. Not even the fire spurted at his words. So Traven was unprepared when Crystalia announced her vow.

“I, the Snowy Maiden, pledge myself, body and soul.”

Instead of a dowdy trapping-town girl, there sat beside him a creature of such gentle beauty, Traven almost wept. Snow danced in her hair, and ice crystals glittered all over her skin. What he had once thought of as plain brown hair now lay rich on her scalp like fertile top soil. She breathed of life and promise.

Holding his breath, Traven composed himself to speak his own pledge. What would change about him? What did he want to see when he spoke the words?

“I, The Man Who Did Not Know, pledge myself, body and soul.” Traven did not even get out the last syllable when the fire exploded, throwing him flying through the air. He was slammed against the far wall so hard that he could not take a breath. Miss Emmert was the first to his side as he coughed and sputtered, trying to loosen the anguish in his chest. Stars danced around his vision, and every word spoken bounced off his skull with agonizing pain.

“Are you all right?” the woman asked, far too loud for Traven’s taste.

Traven inclined his head ever so slightly. He did not wish to talk and set off the pain in his head again. Traven could see the others looking worried over Miss Emmert’s shoulder as she carefully examined his body for injury.

“Well, I think you will survive, Hero. Although I had not expected such a reaction from the binding.”

Neither had he. But as The Man Who Did Not Know, Traven knew he had best get used to such occurrences. They seemed to come with the title.

CHAPTER 30

Madame Hesper squinted against the morning sun. The litter still slid across the snowy Plains, the Fays shimmering as rays of light struck the icy surface. It was a beautiful sight that normally would have enraptured the medium, but her mind was distracted. It was obvious when Holt had awakened her shortly before sunrise that something was greatly wrong, but he would not speak his heart to her. Had the Vampyr damaged her son further? Did the bloodlust still burn in his veins?

For right now, the medium could only ask questions, not expecting any answers. Ekoli still slept in the enclosed litter. Madame Hesper had hoped the goddess would awaken so that she might question Ekoli and determine the source of her son’s ill ease. Unfortunately, that was not to be. The sun had risen and grown high overhead, and still Madame Hesper was forced to fret alone. Making matters all the more frustrating, the Oracle’s Temple was nowhere to be seen. By Ekoli’s estimate, they should have arrived at the temple early this morning. Either the monument was no longer standing, or something had slowed their journey through the night.

Scanning the horizon, the old woman sighed. Would nothing go according to schedule? She feared greatly for her daughter and grandson. Madame Hesper even had a titch of concern for Emerald. The Faery was most annoying but did not deserve the fate that had been handed her.

“We near,” Ekoli said, startling the medium.

“How can you tell? I see no markings.”

The fallen goddess nodded. “Exactly. Does the snow not seem too flat? Too nondescript?”

Madame Hesper again looked out over the horizontal Plains. They were as level and unchanging as ever. They seemed no different than before.

Ekoli seemed unconcerned. “You’d best slow the rhythm. We wouldn’t want to run into the walls full speed.”

Complying, Madame Hesper took up a more sedate tune. Her eyes ached of searching the horizon, so she turned to Ekoli.

“Holt seems troubled. Do you know the source?”

“That is for Holt to say.” The goddess’s tone was remote and forbade any further discussion.

Still, Amanda felt the urge to press on. She was about to open her mouth, but the litter glided to a stop. The old woman rang the bells more urgently, but the vehicle would not be budged.

Ekoli frowned as she climbed down from the litter. “Let us get on with this.”

Madame Hesper followed but did see a temple anywhere in sight.

“Help me open the doors,” Ekoli said.

The medium would have sworn that there were no doors to be found, until she ran into a marble wall with her shoulder. Putting her hand out, the old woman ran her fingers over the glossy, smooth surface. Taking a step back, Madame Hesper could now make out the edges of the building. Its white exterior blended perfectly with the surrounding Plains. The optical illusion bordered on a miracle.

“They’re jammed.”

Ekoli’s words brought Madame Hesper back to the situation at hand. Joining the goddess, the old woman lent her shoulder to the door and slowly the marble gave way, opening a crack. Immediately the smell of incense filled Madame Hesper’s nostrils. She took a peek around the edge of the door and watched as a small fire lit itself in the brazier. Could it be true? Could the Oracle have sensed their presence already?

“Is your sister present?” Madame Hesper asked, wonder thick in her voice.

“Half-sister,” Ekoli corrected, a bit harshly, then shook her head. “No. The brazier is but a trick the priests developed to impress the Oracle’s simple followers.”

Madame Hesper felt her cheeks blush a bit. She had certainly fallen for the ruse. It served to remind the old woman that who she stood next to was not a normal woman, but a goddess. Now clothed in ratty wool, it was easy to forget Ekoli’s status. No matter the warmth that had sometimes flavored their interactions, the two women could never be called friends.

“Summon Holt while I lure my sister from her slumber.”

Amanda nodded and walked back to the litter. Holt was already awake and draped in thick black blankets. Madame Hesper wished to have a moment with her son before they entered the Oracle’s Temple, but Holt strode past her.

Once they were inside the temple, with the door securely shut against the sunlight, Holt dropped his coverings. Instead of crossing the room and joining Ekoli, however, her son lingered in the far corner. Such strange behavior. Madame Hesper turned towards Holt, but the floor rumbled, and air hissed from hidden vents.

“Another trick. Do not worry. When my sister arrives, there will be no doubting it,” Ekoli said as she arranged tiles upon a pedestal.

Madame Hesper looked over the goddess’s shoulder and viewed the small ceramic pieces. Each had runes engraved upon their glittery surfaces. The medium could not read the language, but their use was clear. The tiles were a key to a lock. Madame Hesper had heard of such devices but never used one herself. The medium preferred the calling of names or invocation by fire. These runes were known to be dangerous. A single symbol out of place, and you could be sucked into never-ending vortex. An old teacher of hers had lost an arm and a breast to one such disastrous summoning.

“You had best back away. Delphi will not be amused.”

Crossing back to Holt, Madame Hesper kept an eye on the goddess. There was an edge about her. The tension was palpable in the room, clinging to your clothes, making you feel like you’d put on too tight a corset. Holt was no better. His face was a mask, unreadable. What had happened the night before that spun them both so out of sorts?

Without warning, Madame Hesper had to grab hold of the wall to keep from falling. This time the quake was so violent that the thick marble floor cracked down the center. This was no trick of ancient priests. Ekoli leapt back from the altar. Picking up a torch, she lit it from the brazier.

“Sister, I call to thee. Sister, I evoke our bond. Sister, I demand thy presence!”

With her last words, Ekoli put her torch to the tiles. Each one flamed in turn. A wailing began, almost too quiet to notice. It built and built until the voice filled the room with its pain. The entire temple trembled from the sound. Madame Hesper turned to find Holt standing stiff and straight. Still no emotion on his face. His eyes were perhaps a bit more dilated, but he showed no other reaction to the event they were witnessing.

“I shall smite you,” a voice boomed from the crack. “Release me now!”

Ekoli skipped away from the edge and put the torch to the tiles once again. “Materialize, or I shall scorch your very soul!”

Madame Hesper had no idea this summoning would be so hostile. One would think a sister calling to another would require far fewer fireworks.

The wail rose again from the giant crevice in the floor. Finally a mist rose from the darkness, taking shape over the altar. The fog dressed itself in human form but never quite materialized completely. The edges were constantly swirling and changing.

“Who has dared draw me to this plane?” The Oracle hissed.

“It is I, Ekoli, your sister.”

“Half-sister,” the Oracle corrected.

Even across the room, Madame Hesper could see the sneer that spread across the deity’s face.

“Father held his best seed for last. In that, Ora, you are correct.”

The Oracle’s body expanded and puffed up to four times her original height. With each inch she grew, her form paled and became nearly translucent.

“Father begot a simpleton. Look at you. You wear flesh and walk on tired feet. Your words mean naught to me.”

Ekoli stiffened. “I was preordained to fall from grace—”

“The Fates knew you for what you were. There was a reason they pointed their finger in your direction, little sister.”

Madame Hesper felt like she should say something, anything, to halt the altercation, but she knew any intervention would be greatly unappreciated. It was obvious there was animosity that ran for a millennium between these two.

Luckily, Ekoli did not rise to the bait. She reared back as if to retort but held her tongue. Instead, Ekoli’s put on an artificial smile.

“Sister, I do not wish to argue. Will you honor my request for knowledge?”

The Oracle ignored her sister’s words. “Father will be most disappointed to hear you have rekindled your fascination with mortals. He had so hoped that it was but a phase you would outgrow.”

Ekoli eyes darted to Holt, who refused to answer her gaze. Looking wounded, Ekoli turned back to her sister. “I am not fascinated, Oracle. I am concerned. I need knowledge of the future—”

“How did your dalliance with the Vampyr resolve, Ekoli? I heard upon the winds that your favored children are dissatisfied.”

Ekoli squirmed in front of the altar. To Madame Hesper’s eye, it appeared the goddess was more concerned with Holt’s reaction than that of Ora’s. Ekoli kept sending furtive glances to Holt, who stood unmoved. How could her son ignore the looks of deep sympathy upon Ekoli’s eyes? Amanda did not know the particulars of which happened last night, but she was certain that Oracle did.

Finally Ekoli answered her sister’s remarks. “What my crimes are against my subjects will be dealt with later, Oracle. I was wrong to abandon them—”

“Subjects are meant to be used, then discarded, sister. It is this lesson you have failed to learn miserably. Now unbind my form, or I shall—”

“If I succumb upon this plane, do you not think Father will search out the truth of it? Do you not think he will be a bit perturbed to find that you did not aid your sister even a tad?”

It was Oracle’s turn to deflate and look preoccupied. The two goddess’s father, Parlamount, was known for his violent temper and streak of vengeance. Even his own daughter might not be immune if he suffered such a mood.

“He would not hold me accountable for your foolishness,” Ora answered, but did not sound all that sure of herself.

Ekoli knew she had her sister on the defensive and struck for the jugular. “The Guardian of the Cider Fold knows I have sought you out. The Faery engaged the Fays for our transport. Do you not think she will ask Father to avenge my death?”

Oracle’s form pulsed and throbbed, becoming more and more dense, until she seemed nearly solid. “What is it exactly that you wish to know?”

“Tell me everything that would be important to our success against all the threats of this plane,” Ekoli said boldly.

Oracle snorted and ballooned back out again, although far smaller in stature than she was originally. “Do you not think I have gone soft simply because I extend a tendril of kindness? You are allowed one question with one answer. Do not think to ensnare me again.”

Ekoli shifted her weight as she thought. Silence enveloped the room. Each heartbeat boomed in Madame Hesper’s ear. How she wished to rush forward and consult with the fallen goddess. The medium was not used to being idle while events unfolded. Holt, however, seemed content to melt into the shadows and leave the uncomfortable burden to Ekoli.

“Ora…” Ekoli seemed near tears. An almost childlike pleading came from her throat. “Ora, if there is any information that will assist us in the days to come. Please free your tongue.”

The Oracle shimmered in the dim light. For a moment Madame Hesper feared Delphi would not comply, but finally the Oracle let out a hiss.

“You had best inform father of my help, Ekoli. This act will not work again if you do not.”

Ekoli nodded.

The Oracle bloomed from a female form into a giant head. Madame Hesper took a step back as the face expanded to fill the entire altar area. Oracle’s eyes were now a sparkling gold, while her skin glimmered with silver.

“The past is distant. The present is clouded. The future is cloaked to all but me. Hear me now…” The Oracle’s visage floated above the altar. “Winter rages, but Fall is the danger. Summer cools, yet Spring is in peril. Mirrors will shatter, and fires will rage—”

Interrupting hotly, Ekoli stepped up to her sister’s bloated face. “I need an answer, Oracle, not this rhythm and riddle. Answer me plain and true, sister, or Father shall know of your deceit.”

Oracle smiled with a glint of anger in her eye. “There is rat in your pantry, sister. Find it, or the rodent will spread disease to the four corners.”

“Who is the rat? What race is—”

“One question, sister. One only.” With her final word, Oracle blew out the brazier, plunging the room into darkness. Her form swirled with glittering sparkles and surged down into the fissure.

“No!” Ekoli screamed, trying to stoke the fire, but it was to no avail. The Oracle had departed and could not be summoned again. The runes on the tiles were scorched black, unusable.

Ekoli fell to her knees, sobbing and clutching her midriff. Madame Hesper rushed forward to aid the goddess. Holt was at her heel. Whatever had transpired between the two did not seem to lessen his concern for the goddess’s safety.

Blood seeped between the bandages, but otherwise the stitches held her wound together.

Ekoli’s words could barely be understood. “I’m sorry. I thought she would… I thought she would be…”

Holt’s voice was cold. “She is a goddess. You need not explain further.”

Madame Hesper threw a stern look to her son. This rudeness was not helping their cause. She did not raise a child to act so callously in the face of pain.

Amanda tried to soothe the goddess. “It is not your fault, Ekoli. The Oracle was a cipher even when she did these augers freely.”

Ekoli did not look towards Madame Hesper. Instead, her eyes were for Holt. “I will not fail my people again.”

Holt looked terribly uncomfortable. His face surged with emotion, but no words came out. Finally, he stepped back and mumbled his excuses as he took leave of their presence.

“We had best leave this place,” Ekoli said as she rose onto her feet. “We cannot trust Oracle. This place could tumble down at any moment.”

“Aye. We will ride West to the Steppes and rejoin Sele.”

Holt was already draped in his blankets when Madame Hesper opened the marble door. To their surprise, the sun had gone down, and the night sky was lit by a thousand stars.

Madame Hesper turned to Ekoli. “How could this be? It was not even midday when we entered.”

Ekoli only shrugged and climbed up onto the litter. “Oracle’s presence warped time within the temple.”

“Then we had best hurry. We have lost an entire day’s ride.”

As Holt climbed onto the litter, Madame Hesper jingled the bells, but nothing happened. She tried again, only to find their conveyance still stationary.

“Are we too near the temple?” Madame Hesper asked. “Perhaps we need to back away a bit.”

Ekoli descended from the vehicle and felt the snow around the litter. Sadly the goddess shook her head. “Nay. The Fays have left.”

“Will they be back?” Holt asked, concern plain in his voice.

“I would not count on it. If they were not bound to this litter, they could be hundreds of miles from here.”

Madame Hesper jumped down from the litter, cursing. “I should not have allowed Emerald to arrange our transportation.”

“I would not blame our plight on the Faery, Amanda. The Fays are notorious for their short attention spans. I am certain Emerald is guileless.”

Madame Hesper was not so certain. Emerald had her own agenda, and if there was a single ally the medium might suspect as the rat, it would be the Faery.

Holt voiced their common concern. “What do we do from here?”

“You fly Ekoli to the Steppes,” Amanda stated simply.

“What will you do?” Holt asked.

Madame Hesper knew the answer, but did not know how she knew it. Ever since arriving at the temple, the eastern horizon had called to her. She had been successful in ignoring its temptation until now. Although the Oracle had not specified anything of the sort, Madame Hesper felt destined to walk alone onto the Plains.

“I head toward the sun’s rise.”

Holt’s disbelief was most evident. “With what? How? Mother, you can’t just trudge through the snow.”

“What do you hope to accomplish?” Ekoli asked.

“I do not know. It will be as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

“Then why? I can carry you both,” Holt demanded.

Madame Hesper shook her head. “We would never reach shelter in time. You must join Sele as soon as possible. This, I feel in my bones.”

“You feel senility, Mother. I cannot allow you—”

“Walk your path, Holt. I will walk mine.”

Her son sputtered for a moment, then quieted. He must have sensed her determination. Suddenly, the only thing that truly mattered to Madame Hesper was placing one foot in front of the other. As long as the medium looked towards the east, she felt at peace. Any other direction gnawed at her stomach.

“You two need to take flight. You will need all your time to reach the Intuit village upon the Southern Slope. From there, strike directly west. Dimitri will find you shelter from there.”

Holt embraced his mother and whispered into her ear. “Do not dally. Sele will scold me terribly if you are tardy.”

Madame Hesper squeezed her son tight before she released him.

“I would bless you if I could,” Ekoli said as she gave Madame Hesper a tentative hug.

“You already have, goddess. I will rejoin you soon.”

Tears shone in Ekoli’s eyes as Holt brought the goddess up into his arms. “I do not think so, medium. Our paths diverge from here.”

As Holt took wing, Madame Hesper felt a shiver pass all the way along her spine until it settled into her feet. Her entire body felt encased in ice.

Prophecy had been spoken today, but not by the Oracle. Instead, Madame Hesper was sure Fate’s scheme was divulged by Ekoli. In her bones, the medium knew she would never see the fallen goddess again.

With less enthusiasm, Madame Hesper wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and began walking through the deep snow. The going was agonizingly slow, but she refused to turn around. She would not watch Holt and Ekoli fly off, fearing she might lose her nerve and call them back.

Despite her trepidation, the call was still strong. With each foot step, the medium could feel the far distance sing her name. Whether it was salvation or a slow death that awaited, the summons could not to be denied.

CHAPTER 31

Crystalia shifted uneasily upon Nutmeg’s back. It was not the horse’s fault that the Snowy Maiden was uncomfortable. It was the man sitting behind her.

Well, not really a man, Crystalia reminded herself. It was Corpse. The dead man had to sit behind someone to obtain the warmth he needed to stay thawed. The burden had fallen to Crystalia.

Last night’s blizzard had raged all through the dawn and into the day. It was not until late in the afternoon that the storm finally blew itself out. Once mounted, Miss Emmert had pushed them hard.

It was long dark, but still they rode. The woman wanted to crest the last ridge before the sun rose again. It was Miss Emmert’s hope that the Centaurs were just beyond these peaks.

Ornery ran alongside the White Wolf, conferring with Miss Emmert, who sat atop Pale. The boy’s legs seemed stronger after their enforced rest, or perhaps, it was the thought of the reunion with his father. Crystalia was none too fond of the way Ornery looked at her and constantly asked to assist her, but the girl could not help but be a tiny bit thrilled for him. It was not every day that one found their lost parents.

Beside them, the Ice Princess sat perched in front of Traven upon Lauger’s back. A part of her wanted to shout, “It should be me, Crystalia, beside you!”

But the Snowy Maiden’s tongue was firmly planted behind her lips. For what would such an outburst gain? Nothing. The more time she spent with the Hero, the more Crystalia had come to realize that Glacial’s pristine beauty held Traven in the Princess’s thrall. It was clear in the way Traven’s hand lightly rested on the Princess’s hip or the deep smiled that he flashed each time the Giant spoke his name. Even if it were Crystalia seated beside him, it would be Glacial that rode in the Hero’s heart.

From all appearances, the Hero and Princess were destined to be together. Crystalia’s lips turned down at the thought of the word. Destined.

As a child, she had always thrilled at the thought of the Fates, as if they were some type of congenial matchmakers. Instead, the girl had found they were mean old bitties who fancied human suffering, especially young lady’s pain. And Crystalia could not imagine being in much more agony than she was. Her heart ached with every breath, and her body was so very sore that she did not think it would ever know a soft bed again.

“Pale has caught the scent of Centaurs!” Miss Emmert announced with a broad smile. Nutmeg seemed to catch the same whiff, for the mare swished her tail and trotted a bit more brightly.

Ornery pulled in close to Miss Emmert. “Can I scout ahead? Please?”

Miss Emmert shook her head. “It is too dangerous.”

Even Crystalia had to grin as the boy clenched his fingers in prayer and begged his mother. “Please. I will be so careful!”

Traven nodded. “It might be nice to have a lay of the land ahead.”

* * *

Ornery silently thanked the Hero with his eyes. He so badly wanted to sprint ahead. Miss Emmert was about to shake her head again, but Ornery spoke up before she could deny him. “Please, Mother. Please.”

Miss Emmert’s face softened as she slid off the wolf’s back. “Take Pale with you. Do not stray far.”

Jumping with joy, Ornery dashed forward, the wolf right at his heels. He turned to wave and found that Traven was dismounting and placing Miss Emmert upon Lauger. Despite Ornery’s initial dislike for the Hero and the way he had crushed Crystalia, the boy begrudgingly admitted that Traven possessed great honor.

The Hero had been nothing but kind and supportive since their meeting. Ornery was beginning to feel a bit guilty at the venom in his heart towards the Hero. Even Crystalia admitted that Traven had not been a cad. Still, Ornery felt a pinch of resentment towards the tall man. Whether it was Crystalia’s affection for the Hero or his own jealousy at Traven’s physique, Ornery was not certain.

If only Ornery had a splinter of the Hero’s physical presence, he would not have had such a tumultuous childhood. But now, Ornery looked ahead.

Here on the Steppes, he would find his own kind. Here, perhaps, he would finally fit in. If he truly was The Way, would Ornery not be honored and treated with respect? Would he not experience all the joys and laughter he had missed as a vagabond traveler?

“Be careful!” Glacial shouted from far behind.

Ornery cringed. That princess would not shut up. The girl set his teeth on edge each time she spoke. Glacial was always coming up to him, touching his hand, asking him questions. It was unnerving. Normally, Ornery could not be silenced from talking about the Centaurs, but around the Princess, he would sooner muck out a stall.

The truth was that he did not trust her or her kind. Oh, it was not her Giant heritage. They sounded like a worthy enough folk. No, Ornery did not trust her beauty. It seemed to Ornery that beauty somehow tainted the soul. Had Belle not proven that back at Charlotte’s Berg? And a dozen other girls along his travels? Had not each of them felt their beauty entitled them to torture whomever they pleased? This Princess would not lure him into her games. He was wise to one such as she.

Pale slowed and gave a low growl as they approached a cluster of overhanging rocks. How Ornery wished he had mindspeak. Miss Emmert or Traven would know exactly what the wolf was feeling. Cautiously, they climbed up the slick rock as Pale nosed the snow and crevices. Ornery had not been around the wolf long, but knew that Pale was concerned. By the way the wolf’s nostrils flared, others had passed this way recently.

Ornery could not help but peek around the corner, only to have himself lifted high off his feet. Letting out a scream, Ornery flailed against his unknown attacker. Pale leapt from the shadows but landed softly beside Ornery, wagging his tail. While his legs kicked in vain, Ornery squirmed around to face the person who restrained him.

Only it was not a person, it was a Centaur. The horse portion of the Centaur was only fourteen hands high but broad in the chest. One arm jutted from his trunk, and an elongated horse face stared at Ornery with probably the same amount of surprise as Ornery had looking at the Centaur.

“Declare yourself,” the Centaur finally barked.

Ornery could see a second Centaur on the other side of the overhang. This one had two arms, but a nearly complete horse head. In its hands rested two huge battle-axes.

“I am Ornery, Daughter of Seleen, Son of Dimitri.”

Ornery was dropped onto the hard stone as both guards seemed confused. Pale barked loudly, the sound echoing off the rocks. Behind them, Ornery could hear the rest of his party.

Miss Emmert was the first through the opening. “Konrad, do you not recognize me?”

“Seleen?”

“Aye!” Miss Emmert ran up to the Centaur and hugged his wide neck. She planted a kiss upon his cheek. Even with all the fur that covered Konrad’s face, Ornery could tell that the Centaur blushed.

“Dimitri will wish to see you immediately,” Konrad said, emotion thick in his voice.

Ornery nearly burst from his skin as they followed the Centaur escort through the rock and out into a valley. Behind him, the others followed, a bit more reluctant than he. Traven had his sword drawn, but its tip was down. The Hero looked ready to raise it without hesitation, though. Ornery wanted to reassure Traven, but he could not find the words. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Across the moonlit snow, a single Centaur charged across the valley. His mane and tail were thick and streamed behind in the late-night wind. His deep red coat glowed in the pale moonlight.

“Dimitri?” Miss Emmert asked quietly, almost too soft to hear. At first his mother stepped forward tentatively, then ran to meet the Centaur.

“Seleen!” Dimitri shouted as he scooped Miss Emmert up into his strong arms. They hugged so firmly that you could not distinguish one body from the other. “Thank the gods you are safe, my beauty.”

It took a moment for his father’s words to sink in. The Centaur was not mocking Miss Emmert. In Dimitri’s eyes, Ornery could see that his father meant every word. There was a love there that Ornery had never witnessed before between husband and wife. Tears crept into Ornery’s eyes. These were his parents.

Even a few moments ago, Ornery had found it difficult to imagine Miss Emmert was ever more than just his caretaker. Ornery could not conceive of her being Seleen the Beautiful.

That is, until now. The reflection in his father’s eyes was that of his mother— his true mother.

Miss Emmert sobbed heavily into Dimitri’s shoulder. For a long moment, Ornery’s father just held his wife, stroking her hair. Ornery studied his father. Dimitri’s face was covered in a fine fur, even his eyelids. Large round brown eyes spilled a stream of tears down his long nose.

Ornery was glad to see his father had human lips that turned up at the corners whenever he felt his wife stir in his arms. With each sound, his father’s long, horse-like ears swiveled to take in the noise. Finally, Dimitri turned to the group.

“Ornery?” his father asked.

The boy could not answer. Ornery could not remember how to speak, but he did take a step forward. Gently, Dimitri lowered Miss Emmert to the ground and held out his arms. “Son, how I have missed you.”

Ornery did not remember running or leaping into his father’s arms, but there he was, clinging to Dimitri’s chest.

Quietly beside them, his mother finished the introduction. “Dimitri, your son, Ornery. Ornery, your father, Dimitri.”

Ornery did not care if the entire world collapsed in the moment— he was so divinely happy. Ornery feared that he would burst from joy. Behind him, someone coughed awkwardly, but Ornery did not care. He wanted this moment to last as long as any moment in history had ever lasted.

Corpse was, of course, the one to shatter the mood. “Do these brutes understand what a fire is?”

His father did not let go of Ornery, even a bit, as he answered the dead man. “The fire pits are deep inside the rocks. Please, allow me to show you the way.”

Dimitri swung Ornery up sidesaddle and scooped his wife up into his arms like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. His father noticed Nutmeg and looked over the rest of the party. “Where is Kymon?”

Miss Emmert shook her head sadly. “She was lost in an avalanche, saving the Snowy Maiden.”

“Ah, that will be a hard loss for her mare. Nutmeg, your node has taken the most southerly caves as their own.”

Ornery felt a touch of sadness creep into his heart as he watched Nutmeg trot away. It seemed mighty strange to not have Nutmeg close by. In the past, the horses had never been more than a few feet away. He had slept with them his entire life. A chill went through his body despite his father’s close proximity. Ornery became very aware that his life would never be the same again— never.

* * *

Holt’s wings strained. The winds had turned against them, and the last hour of flight had been difficult. Even now, he had trouble maintaining their altitude. Several times his feet had dragged along the snow, but it would not be much longer.

In the near distance, Holt’s Vampyr eyes could make out the scattering of yerts across the Plains. A caribou herd looked not too far off. This was the Intuits’ winter camp. The nomads settled in this region to over-winter. They took advantage of the sheltering foothills in times of blizzard.

The Intuits must have been forced extremely south to be camped this far out on the barren Plains. Holt was not complaining, though he did not think he could have scaled the hills before sunrise. Even now, the light was just a tad brighter. The moon still washed the Plains with cool light, but now there was a touch of purple to the deep black that crept at the edge of his vision.

Holt was struck by the moment’s splendor. This night was a beautiful night. His Vampyr eyes could not spot a single blemish in a bank of snowflakes. With his enhanced vision, he had easily scouted the featureless Plains and found the Intuit camp.

Holt stiffened. He should not think like that. There was nothing about being Vampyr that was redeeming. It was a Curse, never a blessing. With Ekoli cradled in his arms, it was becoming harder and harder to remember that. They had not spoken the entire night, but her mere presence had already begun to soften his angry heart. It infuriated him that his body still thrilled at her every breath. The way she sighed and grimaced each time she checked her bandage made him wish to comfort her. All through the long night, Holt had to remind himself that it was she who had damned him.

The wind whistled in his ear, singing a slightly different tune than a moment before. Were those human voices he heard? Holt scanned the horizon again, and the Plains were now dotted with Intuits moving around their camp. Even for the nomads, this was an early rising. Before dawn, there might be a few young boys sent out to milk the caribou, but never this many of the camp.

Giving a part of himself over to the Vampyr, Holt sharpened his vision even more. A dull ache formed in his stomach. The more he gave over to the bloodlust, the more his hunger grew. It had been nearly two days since his last feeding, and his stomach was complaining greatly.

Tuning out the roar of his body, Holt focused on the camp. There was disarray and chaos. The nomads were scattering.

For a moment, Holt feared it was his presence that had set off this turmoil, but he knew it could not be. Holt and his mother had visited this tribe through the years. They knew of his condition and accepted it as they did anything else Nature felt moved to create. What then could have caused this near stampede?

“Hold on,” Holt warned Ekoli as he beat his wings faster. His pulse bounded in his throat. He recognized the threat. Ice Scabs. They were well-hidden in the snow and blended in with the snow banks, but his Vampyr eyes could not be fooled.

The Scabs were cloaked in polar-bear furs and wore white sealskin facemasks. Their weapons were fashioned from walrus bones. Holt knew that underneath their camouflage that these attackers were only men made of flesh and blood. Despite the Scab’s lack of supernatural powers, this many could slaughter the Intuits.

Holt’s shoulders screamed from the strain. In an attempt to subdue the bloodlust, Holt had kept as many human features as possible during the journey. It was an awkward compromise, but it had been functional to the fly over the Plains.

Now, however, his human muscles could not bear the strain of this type of flight. Reluctantly, Holt allowed the Vampyr to emerge more strongly. With each muscle fiber he allowed to be transformed, Holt could feel his will sap away. He could not allow much more to fade, or else he might be as much danger to the Intuit as the Ice Scabs themselves.

Banking sharply in the wind, Holt landed near a small group of Intuit who were frantically breaking camp. The leader of the party swung around with his scrimshaw knife. Holt danced away and felt his heart pound with excitement. How the Vampyr part of him would love to fight right now.

Instead, Holt forced human words through his pointed teeth. “Jumar, it is I, Holt.”

It took a moment for the Intuit to recognize the man within the Vampyr shell. “Holt, we are under attack. The Ice Scabs—”

“This is Ekoli. Keep her safe, and I shall join the melee.”

The man only nodded and went back to his work. These people were used to hardships such as this. Living this far north, there was always a threat sleeping next to you. Holt took wing again and skimmed over the yerts. He only needed to buy the Intuits enough time to yoke the caribou and take flight. The Ice Scabs were masters of stalking and ambush, not pursuit.

Diving, Holt knocked a Scab from a small girl and slashed the brute’s throat with a single swipe of his clawed finger. The young girl screamed as Holt licked the blood from his nail. The bloodlust was strong, and it was all he could do to take flight again, away from the pool of bright red blood that seeped from the dead Scab.

Once in the air, Holt headed to the far edge of the camp, where most of the men were fighting off the Scab host. The party of attackers was quite large. Farther north must be brutally cold if the Scabs had banded together to this degree. The Scabs could barely tolerate one another much more than other folk could.

Gliding over the battle, Holt lashed out with all four limbs, raking the Scabs indiscriminately. The line buckled and broke, giving the Intuits the upper hand for a moment. The men pushed the brutes back, making them take the defensive, but the Scabs were a hardy lot and quickly regrouped.

One was able to lasso Holt’s leg and jerked the Vampyr down from the sky. In his tumble, Holt pulled off the Scab’s fur coat. Underneath the polar fur was a hideous sight.

It was easy to see how these people got their names. Their entire body was covered in patches of frostbite. All over their skin were great festering scabs and open sores. Even the man’s tongue was covered in nasty lesions.

The Scab slashed at Holt with his knife, but it only took one carefully placed claw to end the brute’s life. The Scabs were not the most skilled fighters, but they made up for their lack of prowess with an almost manic drive.

The Scabs would attack until their enemy was either vanquished or the Scabs themselves were slaughtered. The only way out of this vice was to use speed to outrun the berserker Scabs.

Holt landed near the tribe’s chief. “Spare some of these men to guard the caribou.” Already Holt could see the Scabs had stolen or slaughtered half the herd.

The man nodded gravely and gave the order. “Thank you, Sir Hesper.”

Not bothering to correct the Intuit, Holt rose up on his wings again. Holt was not a Sir this night— he was Vampyr.

The battle had flowed from the eastern end of the camp to the northern portion, much nearer to Ekoli and her party. Determined to reach her before the Scabs, Holt swooped over the yerts. But as much as he wished to find Ekoli, Holt kept stumbling onto Scabs that were pillaging and trying to rape the fleeing women.

Blood near boiling, Holt dug his claws into a Scab’s back and nearly pulled his heart out through the Scab’s backbone. Holt might be part Vampyr, but this wanton behavior galled him.

A Vampyr lusted for blood but did not take joy in torture like these Scabs did. Herding the survivors forward, Holt led them to Jumar’s group. The Intuits had broken down several of the yerts and loaded them onto the sleds. Caribou were harnessed and snorted their apprehension. They were ready to run fast and strong to get away from the nasty-smelling Scabs.

Jumar indicated toward a covered sled. “Quickly, before the sun rises.”

In the passion of battle, Holt had nearly forgotten about the early morning glow. Rushing across the snow, Holt skidded to a halt when he found Ekoli already crammed into the tiny sled.

Of course, the Intuit did not know of their rift. Before Holt could voice his concern, a stabbing pain flared in his left wing. He turned to find black blood dripping from a large gash in the leathery skin. A Scab smiled a toothless grin and charged again— his white blade now tainted with black blood.

Holt’s rage flamed to the surface, and in a single motion dug his claws deep into the Scab’s neck and pulled out the man’s throat. The Scab flailed and groped at his neck, then fell dead into the snow.

Still panting from the thrill of the kill, Holt looked for another victim. He wanted to purge his anger and frustration on the Scabs.

“The sun!” Jumar screamed as the orb began cresting the eastern horizon.

Still, with death so close, the Vampyr yearned for mayhem. It was Ekoli’s hand upon his arm that brought Holt’s consciousness back to the surface.

“We must go,” the goddess said plainly.

Over her shoulder, Holt could see the Scabs swarming towards them. With the sun on the rise, there was nothing else to do but flee in the covered sled. Drawn by Ekoli, Holt squirmed himself into the fur-lined sled. The fit was tight, and once Ekoli secured the flap, they were in complete darkness. If it were not for his Vampyr eyes, Holt would not have been able to see a thing.

Ekoli groped in the dark and found the wound on his wing. By putting pressure on the thin tissue, she was able to stop the bleeding.

The smell of so much blood, even his own, enflamed Holt’s lust. In such close proximity, even the human remnants of the Vampyr felt the heat of passion. Ekoli’s body was nearly smashed against his own. Only a thin layer of her clothes lay between them. He could hear her heartbeat and feel her breath warm his skin. What raced through his mind would have made an Ice Scab blush.

“You need to feed,” Ekoli stated, as if he could just nibble on some bread and have done with it.

The Vampyr was keen on the idea, but Holt balked. He was not at all in control of the bloodlust and feared for Ekoli’s life. Although it might be ironic to have the goddess succumb to the very Curse she had unleashed, something inside of Holt refused to consider such a thought.

For all that Ekoli had done to him, he still worshipped her. Holt wished that his feelings were towards a goddess, but he had to admit that his love was now for the woman as well.

“Rein back. Then sate your hunger.”

Holt only hoped that Ekoli had no idea what his current hunger consisted of. Right now, it had nothing to do with her blood. But even submerged deep in lust, Holt could hear the wisdom in her words. He could not transform back before his wing was healed. A wound that deep would be mortal to his human flesh. Only blood could mend the damage done by the Scab.

Slowly, Holt fought the Vampyr’s urges and gradually regained control. He scaled back the transformation until he was mostly human. Only his wings and teeth remained committed to the Vampyr.

Ekoli pushed up her sleeve and offered her wrist to him. As Holt brought the tender flesh to his mouth, he could not help but take in her scent.

Was it the closed quarters, or fear, or something else that flavored her aroma with a musky fragrance? He could feel her pulse racing beneath her alabaster skin. Holt wet his lips before he placed them upon her tender wrist.

For a moment, he hesitated, then as gently as possible, pierced her skin. The tiny cry that escaped Ekoli’s lips brought an unwelcome thrill to his lips. Careful not to take a draught, Holt pulled back his teeth and let the blood well to the surface. If he had any hope of controlling the bloodlust, he could not drink deeply. He could have to content himself with lapping at Ekoli’s wrist.

His forked tongue flicked out and cleaned the blood from her skin. The taste set his whole body on fire, but Holt controlled the urge to sink his teeth into her arm again. With great patience, Holt waited until the blood welled again, then took another lap. He had assumed this slow and carefully measured course would temper his lust, but Holt found it did not.

If anything, the method only enhanced his desire. If there was not the dull roar behind his ears of his bloodlust, this might have been a loving act. Every fiber of his body yearned to lick her skin once again.

Ekoli moaned softly as he took another lap and laid her other hand upon the back of his neck. Holt had to freeze— for fear that his body would indulge in its fantasies.

His arousal was so strong that for a moment Holt lost his grasp on the Vampyr. With his face transformed, Holt turned towards Ekoli. Her eyes must have adjusted to the dark, for she looked directly into his own eyes.

“Are you sated?” Ekoli asked her voice husky and rushed.

Although his belly was full of her blood, Holt knew what she asked. “No.”

The goddess pulled him close to her and wrapped her arms around him, pressing their bodies together. Their lips met, and fire arced between them. Ekoli pulled back a moment.

“Then let us both feed.”

CHAPTER 32

Traven squinted at the midday sun. Spending the night in the dank caverns had made his eyes sensitive. A light snow had fallen during the night, powdering the valley. The Centaurs were working the ground, digging past the snow to the stubby grass beneath.

In another time and place, the scene might have been idyllic, but the Hero felt ill at ease. There was something wrong here. A tension that he could not easily put his finger upon. The Centaurs obeyed Dimitri, but it was obvious that there was no love lost between their temporary leader and his subjects.

The Hero had no desire to spend the next few days in this Herd’s company. Tomorrow, they were to break camp and head west towards the Lower Steppes. The hope was that Vizier would descend from the Peak and join them before the group addressed the Quorum. Glacial still needed to be convinced her Sacrifice would be in vain, but Traven would not feel settled until they returned to Mount Shrine.

The knowledge he had gained was far too great a burden for his shoulders alone. He wished to report to the scholars and leave them to ruminate upon the complexity of the problem. The Hero was content to use his sword rather than his mind.

“Ah, it’s going to be a warm one,” Corpse said as he climbed from the cavern. “The heat chases the chill from my bones.”

Traven moved over a step to allow Corpse a vantage point. The Hero was still not quite used to the dead man’s presence. Even Pale was slightly disturbed by the newest member of their party. The wolf did not like a companion who gave off no smell. Corpse had no spoor to track, nor any sweat to sniff out. Pale gave the dead man a wide berth even in these cramped passageways.

“Do these… these things eat something besides grass?” Corpse asked.

Traven hated to admit it, but the dead man had a knack for cutting to the chase. There was not a moment when Corpse did not announce his feelings or opinions.

Still, decorum had to be preserved. “We will eat what we are offered.”

“My, aren’t we a bit cranky today?” A laugh rattled in Corpse’ throat. “Do you not find our hosts appealing?”

The Hero did not bother answering the dead man. Corpse seemed to thrive as much on goading everyone as he did on a fire’s heat. Worse, The Hanged Man was quite good at striking the mark. Corpse was right. Traven found the Centaurs uncomfortable to be around. They were not quite horse, nor human. The combination made him queasy.

The only one enthralled with their host was Glacial. The Princess glowed in the ancient race’s attention. The Giant was showered with so much courtesy that Glacial was nearly speechless. Her royal veneer had slipped away to wide-eyed wonder. Traven could not share in her admiration.

“The wind blows the wrong way,” Corpse said.

Traven checked the wind, but found it blowing from the north, as it should. “It hails from the north, Corpse.”

A smile crossed the dead man’s lips. “There is more than one type of wind, Hero.”

* * *

Ornery had tried to be patient all day long. He had tried, truly. But he was sick of waiting. The adults had spent the day rehashing the events, turning them over and over again until even Ornery, who had lived through them, was confused.

He knew the world was in grave danger. He knew that great evil forces were at play, but he had concerns nearer to his heart. Could he not spend a little time with his father before they had to ride into danger again?

“Ornery?” a voice called behind him. Turning, he found it was Glacial. The Princess was never far from his side.

“Yes?” He tried to answer with courtesy, but not too much.

The Princess diverted her eyes. “I am sorry to have disturbed you. I will come at a time that is more convenient.”

“No, Glacial. I just wish… I was just hoping to have some time with my father.” Immediately, Ornery wished he had not spoken his true feelings. Bracing himself for her scorn, Ornery turned away.

Instead, Glacial’s eyes teared over. “My father and I did not spend enough time together either, and now he is gone.”

“I am sorry. I had forgotten your loss.” How awkward this was. Ornery felt badly that he had touched such a wound yet did not trust that the girl’s tears were true. The beauty could still be baiting him. It would not be the first time.

“There is nothing to be sorry for.” The Princess took a step closer. “I do not know how to ask this.”

Tensing again, Ornery tried to keep suspicion out of his voice. “Simply ask.”

“It is not that I haven’t appreciated the Hero’s bravery and companionship, but I find it uncomfortable to ride upon his horse or wolf.” Glacial looked far more tentative than Ornery had ever seen her. “It would be the greatest honor if I could sit astride one of your people.”

Was that all? And here Ornery had been prepared for some hideous request that would embarrass him to the bone.

“You might ask Miss Emmert or my father, but I do not see why they would not honor your wishes. Crystalia rode on…” Ornery stumbled over Cinnamon’s name. It was still difficult to talk about his deceased cousin. “The Centaurs carried the Snowy Maiden with no hesitation.”

Glacial nodded thankfully. “I will do as you say. Thank you.”

Ornery was not quite sure what she was so thankful for, but he nodded in response. At least the Princess was walking off to find his parents and not bothering him any longer. Ornery kicked at some snow and scrambled down the rocks a bit.

Some of the other colts and fillies were racing through the snowcapped ridges. Ornery could make out their shiny coats, and their calls echoed off the peaks.

For years, Ornery had been devastated by his strange equine features, but now the boy fretted that he only had two legs. Why was he not graced with another pair? How he would love to join in the chase.

“Does your stomach burn?” a question was asked from behind.

Ornery turned to find his father walking up beside him. “Sometimes. Especially at night.”

His father smiled. “Your other legs will sprout. Do not worry, son.”

Ornery cared not any longer about his legs. His father’s hand was upon his shoulder! Ornery could barely think of anything to say, but he was desperate to keep the conversation going.

“The Ice Princess was looking for you.”

“Aye. She found me. Konrad will more than likely bear her.” Dimitri smiled and ruffled his son’s hair. “That one reminds me of your mother. Although she does not quite have as quick a tongue as Seleen.”

Ornery could not imagine Glacial and Miss Emmert being more different, but he was not about to contradict his father. “Did you play like those foals when you were young?”

“Yes. Far too often, if you listen to my father.” A mischievous look passed over Dimitri’s face. “Would you like to explore the hillside?”

“Oh, yes!” Ornery could hardly believe it.

Miss Emmert came from the caves, a frown upon her face. “I think not. These are dangerous times.”

His father crossed and pulled Miss Emmert up into an embrace and kissed her fully on the lips. Ornery shuffled, uncomfortable with his parents’ constant show of affection. Could they not wait until the privacy of their own cave?

Dimitri smiled brightly in the late afternoon sun. “Aye, they are. But the boy must learn how to keep his feet under him. These races are more than games, Seleen, but you know that already.”

“He will have time enough to learn balance and coordination. For now, we must keep him safe.”

His father’s smiled waned a bit. “And when will that be, Sele? We expect him to take up a man’s burden but do not let his body develop normally.”

Miss Emmert seemed to be wavering, so Ornery leapt into the conversation.

“I want to be strong and sure when I am presented to the Quorum! We will only be gone a bit.”

“Aye,” his father agreed. “You will not have to hold dinner even. Just a quick jaunt up the hill and back.”

“Please,” Ornery pleaded.

With both of them badgering her, Miss Emmert finally shooed them away. “But make it quick. None of your notorious explorations. Is that settled, Dimitri?”

Ornery smiled as his father demurred to Miss Emmert. Obviously, his father had a roguish streak. Once his mother had disappeared behind the rocks, Dimitri turned to Ornery.

“Beat you to the jutting rock!”

Before Ornery could even agree to the challenge, his father was leaping up the hill. Scrambling up the slick snow, Ornery laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes.

This was the best time of his life.

* * *

Crystalia peeled some gnarly potatoes. They had scrounged the awful things from the trapper’s cache. The vegetables had been pitiful back there, but now everyone welcomed a break from the stringy Plain grass. Chutney never sounded so good to the Snowy Maiden.

Last Hitch was like a paradise to the life she inhabited now. Even cooking dinner was disturbing. Yet she could no more leave this party than slash her wrists. In her palms the Snowy Maiden could feel their binding— each life was now entwined.

Looking up at an approaching figure, Crystalia was disappointed. It was only one of the Centaurs. Secretly, the girl had hoped that it was Traven, not that the Hero ever sought her out.

Like right now, he was off with Glacial, talking about important things with important people, while Crystalia sat here and peeled half-rotten potatoes.

The rest of their group was outside, leaving only herself and Corpse to tend dinner. The dead man sat across the fire, staring at her with those frosty eyes of his. They were all milky but clear at the same time. Crystalia looked away and stirred the pot. It did not really need tending, but it distracted her from the dead man’s gaze. Finally, she could take no more.

“What are you looking at?”

Corpse shrugged and took another sip of his hot water.

Crystalia ignored the dribble down his neck. “I would appreciate it if you would not stare at me so.”

“Don’t you find any of this a bit strange?” the dead man asked.

What did Crystalia not find odd? Despite her thoughts, Crystalia kept silent. The Snowy Maiden did not wish to initiate a conversation; she only wanted Corpse to leave her alone.

“You are very pretty, you know.”

Crystalia stiffened. The last thing the girl needed was for the dead man to take a fancy to her. Quickly, Crystalia thought of the rudest thing to say— something that Viola would have retorted.

“You have been dead too long.”

Corpse snorted. “Aye, that is true. But do not worry. I hold no affection for you as I should.”

For a moment, Crystalia was a bit injured by the man’s blunt declaration. The Snowy Maiden did not want the corpse chasing after her, but the dead man did not need to be quite so curt about it. Besides, what did Corpse mean?

“As you should? What is that to mean?”

The dead man shrugged. “In all the legends, I am hopelessly in love with you. Smitten. Bewitched. Enamored. I lust for you and resent The Man Who Did Not Know for having you.”

“Oh,” Crystalia said, suddenly wishing she had not mentioned a thing.

“I was just thinking. If that part of the tale is so blatantly untrue, then what is to say that any of it is correct? Could this whole thing be a farce? Miss Emmert could have just gathered together a bunch of misfits and called them whatever she wished.”

Crystalia’s brow crinkled. “Except for the fact that you really are dead. That would be hard to fake.”

“Well, yes, except that part.”

“And the Gullet and the—”

Corpse waved her response away. “The events are in order. It is just the players who are sorely mistaken. You love Traven. The Hero is soft for Glacial. The Ice Princess can’t take her eyes off The Way. Ornery blushes each time you walk in the room, and I couldn’t care less if you all fell off the edge of the earth. Interesting, is it not?”

The dead man rose and warmed his hands by the fire.

The Snowy Maiden could not dispute Corpse’s words. Everything was in a tangle. You could not look at one relationship without involving the whole bunch.

Yet, no matter how many doubts Corpse threw her way, Crystalia could never question the rightness of their path.

Although she wished will all her heart that she could.

At one time, the Snowy Maiden had wished to leave their presence and strike for home, but now Crystalia knew that was not possible. The more time she spent around Traven, the stronger her soul sexton’s demands became. Despite the thick rock that separated them, Crystalia could tell that the Hero now walked a bit southwest. The farther he strayed, the greater her urge to join him. Even if she wanted to leave the group, Crystalia did not think the sexton would allow her to.

Shaking her head, Crystalia knew she should not have thought about the Hero. The only way to resist the sexton’s call was to ignore its compelling allure. Dwelling on Traven only heightened the near pain of separation.

Crystalia sighed when she caught Corpse staring at her again. Could she get no peace? Rising, Crystalia headed down the tunnel.

“Stir the pot a bit,” she directed the dead man before she left.

Crystalia realized that suggestion might not have been the best idea. Corpse might lose a finger or something into the stew, and they would never know. The Snowy Maiden did not stop, however. Crystalia needed a bit of fresh air, and it would be pleasant to soothe her palm’s demands. She itched at the black markings. They burned worse the nearer Crystalia was to the entrance.

This was odd. Usually the symbol quieted once she was closer to the Hero. Turning the corner, Crystalia heard a strangled cry, then it was abruptly cut short.

Was it the wind?

Her feet began running before her mind registered the alarm.

Bolting out of the tunnel, Crystalia was blinded by the glaring sunset. After her eyes adjusted, the Snowy Maiden let out a scream.

* * *

Traven turned to find Crystalia at the mouth of the caves. What was the girl doing? Could she not see they were under attack?

Pale sent a warning just in time for the Hero to ward off another assailant. This one was a huge creature. With the body of a lion and wings of an eagle, the Griffin roared its challenge. Using his sword, Traven fended the beast off, but another swooped in.

A claw sliced the Hero’s sleeve, drawing red blood. Pale leapt in front of Traven and bit the Griffin’s tail, yanking it from the sky. Unbalanced, the beast tumbled down, breaking a wing. Traven jumped and buried his sword into the creature’s chest. Fierce jaws snapped at the Hero, but Traven danced away.

Pride swelled for a moment in Traven’s heart. He was the first human to kill such a beast. Traven’s grin faded as the Hero realized that the dead Griffin had sacrificed itself to lure Pale and Traven away from the Ice Princess.

Glacial’s scream echoed off Traven’s ears. A Griffin batted its paw inside the rocky crevice where the Hero had hidden the Ice Princess. Charging the beast, Traven drew his sword above his head and slashed across the Griffin’s back.

Enraged, the beast turned on Traven, knocking the Hero backwards, sprawling down the rocky ledge.

Before Traven could get his footing, a fourth Griffin attacked from the side. Only Pale’s quick maneuvering and snapping jaws kept the beast from the Hero’s throat. Even though only half a dozen Griffins had attacked the herd, Traven and the Hero were grossly outmatched. The Ice Princess drew the beasts like a lodestone. Traven could not take a breath before another launched an assault.

Struggling to his feet, the Hero scaled the slick stone and fought off another creature. From the corner of his eye, Traven noted that the rest of the group was fairing no better. Miss Emmert was cornered by two Griffins on the other side of the valley. Her magick sparked and crackled, but the beasts were agile and wary of coming close enough to the woman to suffer any damage.

The Centaurs were admirable fighters, but the Griffins had struck with blinding speed. Many of the Herd had been injured in the initial assault. It was only by blind luck that Glacial had insisted upon waiting for Ornery near the tumble of rocks. Traven, Pale, and the Ice Princess had some shelter during those first few minutes that the Centaurs out on the valley floor had not.

Traven lunged and sliced as best he could. Mount Shrine had not prepared him to battle foes that took wing. The Griffins moved in such a way that it was nearly impossible to keep up the offensive. The Hero was reduced to hacking a small circle of safety out for himself and the Princess.

Pale was slightly more imaginative and had taken to launching himself off the rocky outcroppings and landing on the Griffin’s back. The wolf had not succeeded in killing one yet, but the tactic kept the creatures off-balance.

A scream that froze Traven’s blood arose behind him. Turning, Traven felt a wave of panic. The damn beasts had dislodged the overhanging rocks and now batted at Glacial like a mouse in a box.

“No!” the Hero yelled as he flung himself towards the Ice Princess. Pale joined him, but they were too late. One of the Griffins snatched Glacial’s dress with its paw and lifted her from the circle of rocks. The princess flailed and kicked, but could not free herself. Claws encircled Glacial’s tiny waist. In unison, the Griffins took wing and flew off, the Ice Princess in their clutches.

“Glacial!” Traven screamed as he raced over the rocks, but it was to no avail. The creatures were well away. “No,” Traven whispered to the retreating figures.

Anger surged again as he scrambled over the rocks towards Miss Emmert. The rest of the Griffins had fled after their brethren.

“We must give chase!” Traven shouted as he found Lauger unharmed.

“Nay, Hero. We must plan first,” the woman said, still panting.

Traven ignored Miss Emmert and searched for his tack. Those beasts could be feasting on the Ice Princess right this moment. They did not have a single instant to waste. Miss Emmert grabbed his sleeve and forcibly turned Traven towards her.

“Open your eyes, Hero! This was no random attack.”

He cared for none of Miss Emmert’s lectures.

The Ice Princess was in mortal danger, and Traven would not abandon her. “Let me go, woman. I will not allow the Griffins to dine on Glacial this night.”

Gripping his sleeve more tightly, Miss Emmert kept him from leaving. “They have kidnapped her, Traven! Kidnapped her. They mean to take her to the Icy Throne!”

Traven jerked his arm free, but the woman’s words gave him pause. “That makes no sense.”

Miss Emmert’s stare held the Hero more firmly in place than her grip ever had. “They seek to give Winter exactly what he lusts for. Power. Complete, annihilating, power.”

* * *

Crystalia plopped down hard onto her bottom. The force of Miss Emmert’s words sapped all of her strength. She knew the woman’s words were true. It was all spelled out on her palm.

Just like the time Crystalia was buried in Quicksnow, her lifeline was wavering. The line that normally wrapped around her hand, indicating a long and prosperous lifespan, was now broken and disconnected. Despite the fact that her body seemed completely safe and secure, Crystalia knew that grave danger lurked in the very near future.

Traven still fussed and fumed with Miss Emmert, but Crystalia could already sense the fire was out of the Hero’s argument. He was reluctant to admit the truth, but admit it he would.

“Even if you are right, we must follow! We cannot allow them to complete the Sacrifice!” Traven’s cheeks were red, and his fists clenched tight.

Miss Emmert’s words were equally urgent. “You are right, but we must rally a force. If we use the Centaurs’ speed, we might be able to scale the—”

“We will never make it in time! They are on wing! We must leave now!”

Crystalia could feel the truth in Traven’s words as well. She knew of the Centaur’s amazing swiftness firsthand, but they could never reach the Icy Throne before the Griffins.

Staring at her palm, Crystalia realized all was lost. Glacial would be sacrificed, and Winter would use the power in The Bride’s spilt blood to level this world.

“Too bad, really. I was just starting to enjoy being alive again,” Corpse said as he reached Crystalia’s side.

Would this dead man never leave her alone? Crystalia would like a bit of solitude if these were the last few hours of her life.

* * *

Ornery whooped at the evening sky. He had never had so much fun— never.

His father had led them deep into the surrounding mountains. Earlier in the day, Dimitri had allowed Ornery to scale the steepest cliffs, testing his new skills. The sheer faces were so slick and treacherous that Ornery almost wished Miss Emmert had been there. His mother never would have allowed him to climb those walls.

There was more than one time that Ornery had felt that he could go no farther and shook with fear, but all he needed to do was turn and see his father look up at him with such pride and joy, and Ornery would keep climbing.

They had wandered too far and were very late, but Ornery would not mind the tongue lashing from Miss Emmert. It had been the singular most perfect day of his life. His father had talked of their family and all the plans for the future.

For the first time, Ornery felt a part of something. He was somebody. Ornery hoped the feeling never faded. And it never would, as long as he was near his father.

There was something about Dimitri that made you feel special just by being in his presence. Now, Ornery could understand some of what Miss Emmert was trying to share with him back at the Fold. He could now understand a bit better how she could have acted so rashly— his father had that effect.

Ornery’s attention was drawn back to Dimitri when Ornery realized his father had stopped talking. Shifting around, Ornery tried to peer over Dimitri’s shoulder. Ornery’s legs had tired on the descent, and his father had carried him down the mountain.

As hard as Ornery tried, Dimitri would not allow Ornery to view what lay ahead. “What’s wrong?”

“Son, close your eyes.”

Close his eyes? Something must really be wrong. Ornery shoved his way around. Immediately, Ornery wished he had obeyed his father. Two fillies lay dead on the snow. Their blood tainted the pristine white of the drift.

Tears choked Ornery’s throat. They had passed these two foals just an hour ago. The two fillies had been playing chase-the-tail with their mare. A few steps farther, and they found the foal’s mother. Her belly was laid open, intestines spilling onto the ground.

“Hold tight!” Dimitri shouted as he charged forward.

Ornery clutched his father’s mane as they made their reckless descent. They moved so quickly that Ornery could only make out blurry landmarks. Miss Emmert had not exaggerated his father’s speed. Ornery could not imagine taking this flight while in the throes of labor. His mother had more stamina than he.

The slaughter got no better the closer they drew near the caves. Konrad, the one-armed soldier, lay dead next to Nutmeg. Ornery wanted to throw himself from his father’s back, but Dimitri sped past the bodies. Their concern needed to lie with the living.

“Mother!” Ornery shouted as he spotted Miss Emmert on the far side of the valley. His father increased their pace to the point Ornery feared even a single stumble would kill them both, but Dimitri did not falter.

“It was the Griffins. They have seized Glacial,” Miss Emmert reported to Dimitri as she pulled Ornery into a hug. Her hands were wet with blood from those she was tending.

“Nutmeg is dead!” Ornery sobbed into his mother’s arms.

His father trotted past them. “We must gather the survivors and strike north.”

“Crystalia!” Traven shouted.

Ornery spun around to watch the Snowy Maiden trudge across the snow, out into the open. What was she thinking? Crystalia was now completely vulnerable to attack.

* * *

Crystalia’s shoes were soaked through. She was so agitated that her body was melting the snow as she walked. Why she was slugging out into the open was still a bit of a mystery to Crystalia. The moon had risen and called to her.

The words were so very soft that Crystalia had to strain to hear them. They had drawn her out into the valley. She had been quite certain that this was the thing to do, but now that her toes were all wet, Crystalia was not so sure.

One never noticed how many faces the moon had, until you really looked at her— looked at her like Crystalia was looking in this moment. The moon’s words became more clear in Crystalia’s mind. But instead of instructions, the moon made demands. It insisted that Crystalia choose.

“Choose what?” Crystalia asked the moon.

“Do you accept your title? Are you truly the Snowy Maiden?”

Crystalia had to turn away from the silvery face. She would prefer not to answer that question. What else did the world expect of her? Had she not already given enough?

As the silent moments passed, Crystalia could hear people calling her name, but she did not care to reply. The Snowy Maiden had learned that one did not interrupt the moon.

“I do not know,” Crystalia finally answered. “You all call me by that title, but it does not feel like me.”

“What do you feel like?”

For a heartbeat, Crystalia had no answer. She was so very jumbled up inside that she stumbled over her words. “I feel like going home.”

The moon’s surface shimmered all silver and white, smiling down at Crystalia. “Do you think it would be the same? Is home where you really want to go?”

Deep in heart, Crystalia knew it was not. Last Hitch was so very far from here and from the person that she had become.

Even now, Glacial’s absence put a strain on Crystalia’s heart. The bond had practically been forced onto her, but now the girl did not know how to live without it. A part of her ached so deeply for the Ice Princess that Crystalia feared she might cry.

“I want to save Glacial,” Crystalia blurt out.

“The entire world might appreciate your efforts.”

“Then how do I help? The Griffins are too far away. We will never be able to catch them.”

The moon did something close to a shrug. “The Snowy Maiden is undeterred by such concerns.”

Crystalia wanted a clear answer. Was that too much to ask for? Why could the moon not be more helpful?

“Why the riddles? Why can’t you just tell me what to do?”

“Because I do not know. That is why you are the Snowy Maiden, Crystalia. Only in your heart are the answers to such questions.”

Staring down at the blood-splattered snow, Crystalia was certain the moon was wrong. She carried nothing but pain and sorrow in her heart. There was nothing there but fear and sadness. Tears sprang to her eyes and they could not be denied. Everything Crystalia loved, everything she cared for, was going to die because her heart was barren.

“See with the Maiden’s eyes,” the moon said before she turned her face.

“I don’t know how!” Crystalia cried to the now-ordinary moon. “I don’t know how,” she sobbed.

Tears cascaded down her face as Crystalia searched the skies for an answer. Movement caught her eye in the far off distance. Crystalia blinked a few times as the tears enhanced her vision. She could see as far away as the farthest peaks. Swinging to the east, Crystalia spied the Griffins flying steadily to the north. How she wished her body could join her vision and take flight, but she could not.

“Crystalia! We’ve got to take cover!” Traven shouted as he tried to drag her from the snow.

She ignored the Hero. He had good intentions but was wrong. They needed to be out here, searching for a way to follow the Ice Princess. Traven grabbed her arm, trying to haul her away, but Crystalia sent a flash of intense heat down her shoulder and into her fingers.

The Hero let out a yelp and dropped her arm. Crystalia paid him no heed. She could sense the deep rhythmic pulse of the earth now. Each snowflake seemed to speak to her. Far away, the wind whispered secrets and teased the girl for her slow wit. Crystalia would not have Traven shatter this rapport.

Slowly, the Snowy Maiden scanned the horizon, crying all the while. Crystalia was not sad any longer, but joyful. She had not seen the true beauty of winter until now. The mountains were breathtaking with their blankets of white.

Even the dark clouds that brewed and threatened to the north had a splendor all their own. To the northwest, the mountain range broke into shattered crags. The bare rock jutted up into the sky like a challenge to the gods.

Crystalia blinked. Was there movement on those cliffs? Attuning her vision, she searched the rocky face. Holding her breath, Crystalia could not believe the beauty. There, on those jutting ledges, were six Arctic Eagles.

It was these magnificent birds that the Prince of the North had chosen to grace his seal. Crystalia could understand why. These huge birds were majesty incarnate. Their pristine white feathers were glossy in the twilight. The eagles’ beaks were long and hooked, ready to meet any threat, but for now the birds were roosting, grooming one another as the night descended.

The nearest bird’s feathers were ruffled by a fierce wind. Casually, the eagle fluffed its coat and shook out the cold. With its beak the raptor smoothed his feathers back down. Even this small task revealed the eagle’s glory. Crystalia did not think there was any action the bird could take that the Snowy Maiden did not find enchanting.

The largest of the birds swiveled its head in Crystalia’s direction. Against its snowy white body, the eagle’s kohl-black eyes seemed to leap out at Crystalia. It blinked once, and Crystalia knew that these were the allies she needed.

“Please. We need your help,” Crystalia cried out, but the bird did not take notice. “Please.”

No matter how hard she tried to project her voice, the eagles could not hear her. They were too far away.

“Crystalia!” Traven had her again by the shoulders and was shaking her. “Stop this nonsense!”

Impervious to the Hero’s scolding, Crystalia’s eyes dried. The time for crying was over. She knew the eagles were the key, but how to unlock their cooperation? Her mind circled around the issue.

She knew of the Arctic Eagles, but not much. What would lure them to her side? If she truly was the Snowy Maiden, they would surely answer her bidding. Would they not? It was just a matter of contacting them.

“Traven. Is there not a song about the Arctic Eagles? Did not Laureates sing of them?”

The Hero stared at her as if the girl had just spoken a foreign language, but she had not. Crystalia could remember brief snatches of a ditty, but could not remember the words. It was Crystalia’s turn to grab the Hero by the sleeve and shake him.

“Hero. The song!”

“Crystalia, please. I know this has been traumatic for you but—”

Turning away from Traven, Crystalia sank to the snow and began singing. The Snowy Maiden was not even sure if it was the correct words or not, but she sang. The wind invited her to join in its melody. Perhaps it would be kind enough to carry her message to the Eagles.

If she truly was the Snowy Maiden, now would be the time for her to prove it.

* * *

Traven stared at Crystalia in complete frustration. Could this girl never focus on the problem at hand? Once the Snowy Maiden’s voice climbed an octave and her song rang out across the valley, the Hero paused.

Was it the girl’s voice, or the way her blue skirt poured over the snow that made Traven hold his breath? He feared exhaling and ruining the moment.

Before him was not a small-town girl any longer. Her features lost their insecurity and bashfulness. Crystalia’s eyes were closed as she lovingly brought forth her song.

Miss Emmert joined them. Instead of helping Traven get the girl to safety, the woman also lowered herself to the snow and picked up the melody. Miss Emmert nodded for the Hero to raise his voice in union. Traven could not sing. The women’s song was a complex one that he could barely follow with his ears, let alone his lips. But join in, he did. Ornery kneeled beside the Hero, adding his baritone to the music. The boy seemed as surprised at the quality of his tone as Traven did.

It was as if their voices were single threads being woven together into a fine filament. Traven could feel the song in his very bones. Yet something was not quite right. There was a dropped note occasionally. A slight fraying of their musical tapestry. The Hero turned to see Corpse standing outside their circle. Traven waved the dead man over.

Shaking his head, Corpse stepped back and turned to leave. “You have all gone bloody well mad.”

Crystalia’s voice rose above the others, and her note pierced Traven through the heart. Obviously, it had the same affect upon Corpse, for the dead man turned around. The Snowy Maiden’s volume dropped, but her melody was infectious.

“She’d better cook a damn sight better stew if she’s going to make me do this,” Corpse grumbled as he sank to his knees.

Their voices rose to the heavens as they sang, following Crystalia’s lead. The sound was fuller, more complete, but not entirely. Traven realized that it was Glacial’s voice that was missing. With hers, their song might have reached the gods themselves. The Hero did not know why they sang; he only knew that it would change him forever.

* * *

Ornery had a difficult time focusing on the words of the song, he was so taken by the Snowy Maiden’s beauty. The boy wished that he could capture the look on Crystalia’s face for eternity. If he could draw, Ornery would pick up some oils and paint her right this moment.

The bond between them, all five of them, throbbed in his chest. There was magic here, deep and primordial. They had a need. One of their own had been cleaved from the bond, taken from them. The five sang of their loss and their pain.

In this moment, it felt like the wound was so grievous that Nature herself was needed to heal the rupture.

A cry from high above broke the spell, drawing Ornery’s eyes away from the Snowy Maiden. Over the ridge flew six of the largest raptors Ornery had ever seen. Their wingspan blocked the twilight from the valley. Ornery knew he should be afraid, but there was not an ounce of fear in his heart.

Ornery knew them for what they were— Arctic Eagles. The Rulers of the Sky. Defenders of the Hope. The Fire Bound had a need, and Nature had, in fact, filled it.

The magnificent birds landed gracefully in an arc around Crystalia. Traven’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, but the Hero never drew the weapon. Pale ran around the edge of the circle, barking and leaping over small snow banks, as the Snowy Maiden rose to her feet and tentatively held out her hand. The largest of the raptors leaned his head into Crystalia’s palm. Ornery stood motionless as the girl stroked the eagle’s face. A pang of regret struck Ornery. To his surprise, he was sad that Glacial was not here to see this. The Princess would have been beside herself to actually touch an Arctic Eagle.

Miss Emmert stepped forward and raised her hands in supplication. “You honor us, Iron Claw. One of our flock is lost.”

Silence stretched. Ornery could tell that his mother was using mindspeak by the way her lips moved without a sound. Soon, Miss Emmert curtsied and bowed her head to Iron Claw.

“We know it will be a hard flight without thermals to glide.” His mother turned back to the group. “Gather your gear. We leave immediately.”

It was then, as everyone scrambled to get organized, that Ornery realized that he would have to leave his father, his entire Herd, behind. Panic struck his chest.

He could not go! His place was here. There was so much more to do. The Herd was badly injured and would have need of his unique skills.

His father must have sensed his ambivalence. “Son, go with gratitude.”

“But—”

“There are no ‘buts’ in Fate’s eyes. We must each accept our burden and bless it.”

There was no way Ornery was going to feel blessed today— no way at all. Ornery wanted to throw a tantrum, one so large a toddler would be proud, but he did not. Ornery would not be his father’s son, if he did.

Hugging his father, Ornery allowed Dimitri to carry him back to the caves to grab the rest of his supplies. As his father carried him over the snow saturated with blood, Ornery was brutally reminded of how dangerous his quest was to be.

As the sun gave up its final rays, setting low behind the mountains, Ornery wondered if he would ever see his father again.

* * *

Traven’s emotions were a strange mix. He so urgently wished to leave— to be hard upon Glacial’s trail. Yet another part of him was greatly reluctant to climb atop the giant Eagle. Each one of those talons could tear a man’s throat out, but the Hero knew this was not the real reason for his hesitation.

The thought of flying above the hills and mountains made his stomach churn. He was loath to admit it, but heights disconcerted him. His head usually wobbled, and his innards tied themselves up in knots.

Somehow, three years ago, Traven had passed the Spider Challenge. Each of the Candidates had to climb up the backside of Mount Shrine and repel down its sheer face. Back then, the Hero had thought nothing of the test. His head had wobbled and his innards had, in fact, tied themselves in knots, but Traven had put one foot in front of the other and had somehow gutted it through. Barnacle, his study-mate, had told Traven to focus on the next foothold above and just climb to that purchase, then begin the whole process over again.

Back at Mount Shrine that had been simple enough, but what was he to do now? There would be nothing but air all around them and nothing but a rocky death beneath. How was he going to manage without pitching over the side? The Hero turned to Pale, but the wolf and his companion eagle had retreated behind an outcropping of rocks.

With his mind, Traven sought out Pale’s reassurance, but the wolf was otherwise engaged. For a few moments, the Hero eavesdropped on the wolf and Eagle’s mental conversation, but it was too difficult to make out. The two animals communicated so very differently than he and Pale that Traven could barely understand a tenth of what was being passed along.

Just as the Hero prepared to disengage, he was sent a clear picture. Pale invited him to join in a meal. Before Traven could ask, he witnessed the Eagle regurgitating some meat for the wolf. Pale lingered a moment over the slime-covered flesh, making sure that the Hero did not wish to join the wolf. Traven sent back a very disgusted “no.” Pale shrugged and bolted down the meal.

Traven had to turn away. Sometimes being bonded to a wolf was not as inspiring as the legends made it out to be.

“Let us take wing,” Miss Emmert said as she climbed onto her Eagle courier.

Pale was already on his ride’s back. The wolf seemed to enjoy very greatly that he was for once the rider instead of the ridden. Traven reluctantly mounted his own raptor and tried to find a comfortable seat on its bony back. Corpse fussed at his bird. The Hero feared the dead man might raise a commotion, but finally Corpse settled in.

As they were taking wing, Corpse smiled to Traven.

“Do you think the Winter King will have dinner laid out for us?” The dead man did not wait for a response before continuing. “I hope it is a buffet! I love all those exotic dishes. Oh, perhaps they will have quail’s eyes!”

Traven turned his head. Corpse’s recital of menu items only reminded the Hero of the wolf’s last meal. Stomach tossing and bucking as the Eagle gained altitude, Traven hoped that this would be a very short flight.

* * *

Holt cradled Ekoli in his arms. It had taken a great deal of effort, but Holt had tamed the Vampyr and wrested back into control. Ekoli now rested in completely human arms. The sled had settled to a stop, but Holt did not wake the goddess. The way her breath rose and fell made him wish for the world to stop, just long enough to savor this moment.

Ekoli’s face was radiant as she slept. Her pain and anguish was washed away by the comfort of sleep. She stirred, and he adjusted himself so that the goddess snuggled down again. They would have to leave soon, perhaps even this night, but he wanted just a few more precious minutes alone with her.

“Sir Hesper?” a voice tentatively asked through the bear skins.

For a heartbeat, Holt considered staying silent and letting the man wander away, but he realized that they did not have that luxury. Events were spinning recklessly. They could not ignore even the most minuscule occurrence.

“Aye,” Holt whispered back, mindful not to wake Ekoli.

“Night has fallen. The Hag Mother has asked for your presence.”

Holt sighed deeply. This was not good news. The Hag would not disturb them if it were not urgent.

“We shall be right out.”

Carefully, Holt roused the goddess. “Ekoli, we must rise.”

A tiny smile played at the corner of her lips as she awakened. Pulling the blankets tighter, Ekoli pressed her body against his. “Can we not stay like this for a little while longer?”

Holt would have spent eternity here, but he knew that could never be. “The Hag has called for us.”

Ekoli stretched herself awake but kept her stare on Holt. Where her eyes gazed, Holt’s skin burned. Her voice was husky. “The Fates are keeping themselves occupied of late.”

In the tiny confines of the covered sled, the two tried to dress. It was awkward at best, but delightful at the same time. Any chance to be near Ekoli was to be snatched like a rare treat. Their exit of the sled was equally ungraceful. Luckily, the rest of the Intuit party was far too busy with the work of establishing camp. Only a young boy noticed their appearance and ran over.

The boy spoke in the Intuits’ native tongue. Holt could not understand the words, but the meaning was clear. Reaching down, Holt caught Ekoli’s hand. He did not know if one was allowed to hold hands with a goddess, but he felt the need to be connected to her. Ekoli gave a reassuring squeeze as they walked away from the sled.

Following the child, Ekoli and Holt were lead into a large yert. The outside of the enclosure was bear and seal skin, but the inside was lined with silk and linen. The snowy floor was carpeted with furs.

The Hag Mother was surrounded by half a dozen younger women. Each one of the maidens shone with the beautiful features of this tribe, but none could compare to Ekoli’s splendor. The Hag, however, was a shriveled old woman, paunchy, and her hips bore the marks of the many children she had birthed. Each Intuit tribe had its own Hag, but this clan’s was renowned for her deep resonance with the earth. It was this woman’s reputation that had drawn Holt and his mother to this camp so many years ago.

Holt and Ekoli bowed in the way of the Intuit and were greeted with a broad, toothless-grin. The Hag bobbed her head in excitement and chattered in Intuit. Holt wished he knew the language better but had to rely on Ekoli to interpret. Still speaking, the Hag extended her wrist and urged it towards Holt.

“What does she want?” Holt asked.

“They know you must be hungry. She offers her own blood for your meal.”

Holt unconsciously backed away. “No.” He had just gotten control over the Vampyr. Holt had no desire to rekindle the Curse’s hold.

Ekoli translated, but the Hag would not be refused. “She says it will be a great honor to serve one who serves life.”

No matter how little Holt wished to comply, he knew that in the end he must. To the Intuit, his curse was nothing but a fact of life. Their creed was simple yet profound.

It is.

In Intuit culture, there was no belaboring your Fate— no whining about your circumstances. You accepted and moved on. There was no other way for the Intuit. This Hag would no more hesitate to offer Holt blood than she would to slaughter a caribou to feed the tribe. Still, Holt was uncomfortable. He had hoped Ekoli’s would be the last human blood he ever tasted.

“She is concerned that you do not find her worthy.”

Holt shook his head and stepped up. Taking the Hag’s wrist, he allowed his teeth to elongate.

“Tell her it would be my honor to drink from one with such rich knowledge and power.”

As Ekoli translated, the Hag’s smile widened. Holt nicked the old woman’s skin as shallowly as he could. Her blood was dark and thick, welling up slowly.

Tentatively, Holt flicked out his tongue and tasted the liquid. It was warm and had the sharp taste of iron and salt. His reservations melted away as he carefully drank a bit more blood. This was nothing like his encounter with Ekoli. The bloodlust was only a dull murmur in the background of his mind, and he had no impulse whatsoever to caress the Hag.

Once he drank enough to seem courteous, Holt rose up and thanked the Hag. She smiled and drew her arm back. The surrounding Intuit woman tended to the Hag’s wound and looked a bit jealous that the older woman had been so honored.

Immediately, the Hag began gesturing to Ekoli and talking with such a rapid pace that Holt did not think he could have understood her even if he knew the language. Ekoli only had time to nod. This was a one-way conversation.

Finally, the Hag halted her discourse. Ekoli took a deep breath before turning to Holt.

“There is much, but we’ll have to discuss the rest once we are underway.” Ekoli placed a hand on Holt’s arm. “Seleen and Ornery are en route to the Icy Throne—”

“That can’t be. Surely, Sele is either at the Fold or—”

Ekoli smiled grimly. “The Cider Fold is no more. It was destroyed.”

Holt could not think of what to say.

What in the name of the seven gods was going on with the world? Folds were not destroyed. They were eternal. Sanctified. It was one of the rules that held the universe together.

“There is more, Holt. All bad. We do not have time to argue. We must launch for the Throne and hope to rendezvous there.”

Despite Ekoli’s urging, Holt still felt like questioning everything the Hag claimed. Yet in his heart, Holt knew the old woman’s words were true. The Hag was blessed with the ability to listen to the world with more than her ears. If the Wind knew of anything, he shared it with this old woman. Holt thought again of the Intuit saying— It is. Accept your circumstances and move forward.

Holt finally nodded. “We should get you fed—”

Taking his hand again, Ekoli shook her head. “They’ve already packed food for the journey. We can leave immediately.”

“Thank the Hag graciously for us.”

“She asks only one favor for her efforts.”

“Anything.”

Ekoli shifted uncomfortably, and her hand felt clammy in his grip. For a moment, Holt thought she might not pass on the request. When the goddess did, it was with an embarrassed tone.

“The Hag asks… the Hag has requested that any child that is borne of our night together… Well, she wishes to pick the name for such a child.”

Holt could not find his tongue. Child?

Dear gods, he had not even considered that possibility when he and Ekoli had shared their love. But a child? Was the goddess even capable of conceiving? How did the Hag know? What did the Hag know?

“What…? Are you…? How…?”

Ekoli shook her head. “The Hag said she could smell our union but is not certain if I am with child.”

Holt felt like he might faint. It was one thing to fall hopelessly in love with a goddess and join with her in a night of passion, but to become a father on the same night? Could his foundation be any more rocked?

As a Vampyr he never thought he could produce offspring. The codes that had defined his life were no more.

The Hag rose and urged them towards the tent’s flap. The Intuit was completely nonplussed by the news. Once again, the Hag took the news for what it was.

It is.

Bowing again, almost unconscious of what they were doing, Holt and the goddess left the yert. From there, many of the Intuits passed by and gave their thanks. The entire procession to the outskirts of the camp was a blur to Holt.

How could any of this be? And why were they rushing off into the face of death? Could the Fates, for once, allow him a tiny bit of joy? Holt did not think it was much to ask.

“We must hurry,” Ekoli said, her face sad and concerned. How Holt wished they could lie together again just so he could see her features at peace.

“Aye.”

Before he allowed his wings to sprout and the Vampyr to enter his consciousness, Holt pulled Ekoli close.

If they made the Icy Throne by sunrise, this might be the last quiet moment they had together. But what should he say to her? What would help explain the depth of his feelings and soothe her own fears?

With his still-human fingers, he traced the outline of her face.

“I love you,” Holt said as he kissed Ekoli.

The goddess whispered in kind. “And I, you.”

CHAPTER 33

“The Icy Throne is a bit like a castle, a bit like a dungeon, and nothing but trouble. Folks ought to know better than to visit the god’s house, but they gots nothing better to do than snoop around,” Granny said with a flourish.

Traven’s grandmother was supposed to be scolding them for going out into the barn and sipping some fermented cider, but her voice had already dropped from its lecturing tone to one of storytelling.

“Why did The Man go there?” Traven asked. Although he knew the answer, Traven could not wait to hear Granny tell it again.

“Because he’s as stupid as a stump! The Man ain’t got the sense of a chigger mite. He thought he’d just ride off to save the world and forgot that he might be a tad more concerned with saving himself.”

Brax clapped his hands, completely forgetting that they were all in serious trouble. “Please, tell us the all. I want to hear about the Storm Gate and the Frigid Knights! Please?”

“Now why would you want to hear about them?” Granny asked, but she, too, knew the answer to her question. Traven’s grandmother liked a good and receptive audience though.

All the children piped up and showered Granny with a million reasons they needed a story, right this minute.

Finally, the old woman raised her hands to quiet them, then rubbed her palms together. “The Icy Throne is the place of cold, hard death. Once you enter the Storm Gate, you’ll never leave the same.”

Enough already, Granny, Traven thought. The Hero knew each of the threats that they would face once they passed the Storm Gate. Traven did not need to recount each one over and over again. Until he was within the clutches of the threat, the Hero could not know how much of Granny’s tale was pertinent and how much was just so much embellishment.

Besides, his stomach felt sour again. Adjusting his weight, Traven realized that he could not dislike this flight any more than he already did. The eagle tried its best, but the wind rocked their course. It was only by the Hero focusing on the back of the raptor’s head, to the exclusion of all else, that Traven had managed to remain seated on the bird.

Over the whole journey, Corpse had rattled on about his favorite menu selections. Pale was no better. The wolf kept trying to prompt Traven to relate Pale’s choice of cuisine. Between the two of them, the Hero was lucky that he had not lost his stomach along with his dignity.

Miss Emmert would occasionally shout reports of their progress, but otherwise the group was flying blind. Clouds had rolled down from the north and obscured the night sky. Thunder boomed in the distance, and the wind grew more and more savage the closer they drew to the Icy Throne.

This, at least, was just like Granny’s story. Soon, they should be able to see the Icy Throne’s towering walls and hear the sound of blizzards being born.

* * *

Crystalia tried to keep the tears flowing, but her eyes were near cried out. She needed the moisture to scan the horizons. Every few minutes there would be a break in the cloud cover, and she would glimpse the Griffins up ahead. The beasts were huge and fierce but slow in flight. The Eagles were making headway, Crystalia was sure of it.

What she was not so sure of was what they would do once they caught up with the Griffins. Crystalia had witnessed the destruction of the creatures firsthand. Even with the Arctic Eagles’ talons and beaks, the Snowy Maiden was not certain that they could save Glacial, but saving the Ice Princess was not Miss Emmert’s main concern.

Keeping the Winter King’s Bride from the Icy Throne was. Crystalia had heard the woman tell Traven to knock the Princess from the Griffins’ hold, then worry about where Glacial fell later.

Crystalia shivered. Would Miss Emmert be so callous if it was the Snowy Maiden up ahead? Crystalia knew the world was at risk, but could they not be so calculating about it? The Snowy Maiden had to give Traven credit, once again, for his deep honor. The Hero had resolved to wrest the Ice Princess away from the Griffins, but had not agreed with Miss Emmert’s method. The tension between the two was as thick as the clouds surrounding them.

Communication was extinguished to almost nothing as the wind shrieked. The closer they drew to the Throne, the worse the weather. Sleet and hail were mixed together, pelting their party. Tightening her coat’s collar, Crystalia wondered if they might not all catch pneumonia before they reached the Icy Throne. Theirs would not be the first rescue party to succumb to the elements.

From her childhood, Crystalia had heard stories of search efforts that had gone awry. Any traveler that entered Last Hitch was warned that no rescue would be launched for them— the Plains were too unpredictable. Commander Packard had made that type of decision and did not have to take into account Crystalia’s current circumstances.

The Snowy Maiden’s party chased an enchanted Princess being kidnapped by a mythical creature into the maw of a mad god’s power. If the girl did not feel the rightness of their quest in her gut, Crystalia would have questioned all their sanity, but this group was beyond such judgment. They had no other option. Their bond drove them to grind themselves upon the Storm Gate, if necessary, to save Glacial.

Crystalia gasped as the clouds parted and revealed the Winter King’s Citadel. On the highest peak of the highest mountain stood the icy castle. It was a milky blue-white that shone against the night sky. The ice radiated a nearly blinding light. The frozen spires jutted into the sky, announcing the god’s dominion.

Turrets curved upward, seeming to penetrate the very heavens themselves. The impossibly tall icy walls were smooth beyond anything that man could create. Black, dark, heavy clouds circled the peaks, hiding the true height of the frozen cliffs. The Griffins were not far. Crystalia could make out Glacial’s limp form. With all the blood staining, Crystalia hoped the girl was only unconscious and not dead.

Before she could alert the others, Crystalia’s Eagle screamed its challenge. Crystalia was nearly unseated as the bird banked and dove. For a moment, the Snowy Maiden did not know what was happening, but suddenly she caught site of a Griffin streaking towards them. One of the beasts must have gained altitude while still shrouded by the clouds.

Iron Claw did the best he could, but the Griffin was upon them within a heartbeat. The Eagle rolled to use his claws, but the huge attacker had the advantage. The Griffin’s claws dug deep into the Eagle’s chest, and blood spurted from the lancing wounds.

Crystalia shouted as the Eagle’s body pitched and rolled. With the next lurch of its wings, Crystalia was thrown from Iron Claw’s back. Hurtling through the air, plummeting to the ground, Crystalia screamed into the cold air. She did not need to check her palm; she knew her lifeline was just about run out.

* * *

Traven reacted upon instinct and urged his Eagle down and to the left. The Hero had no idea how to steer a giant beast such as this, but he did the best he could. Traven knew Miss Emmert had not hesitated in her pursuit and still sped towards Glacial, but the Hero could not watch the Snowy Maiden die.

It was Traven’s fault that the girl was even here. Crystalia tumbled through the air, hurtling to her certain death.

The Eagle seemed to understand Traven’s intent and folded his wings tight against his body. They streaked towards the falling Snowy Maiden. As they neared, the Hero could see the stark terror on Crystalia’s face. Ignoring his lurching stomach, Traven leaned close to the Eagle, keeping their drag to a minimum.

For a moment, the Hero feared they were too late, but the Eagle tilted sideways and snatched Crystalia’s dress midair. Flapping his wings again, the eagle strove for altitude— there was still an aggressive Griffin somewhere in the vicinity.

Up ahead, Traven could make out two Eagles still striving towards the Icy Throne. He had no idea where the other two eagles had gotten to, but the Hero urged his raptor towards the Winter Citadel. He could not let Crystalia die like that, but he feared the delay might endanger Glacial.

Could his choices never be easy?

* * *

Crystalia felt her fur coat begin to rip. At first it was just a little tear, but suddenly she could feel the frigid wind on her back. She yelled to the Hero, but he did not seem to hear her. Crystalia reached up and tried to keep a grip on the Eagle’s huge talon, but its skin was slick from the sleet and rain.

From above, another Griffin attacked. Traven’s Eagle was ready and banked out of the way. Not knowing its purchase on her was compromised, the Eagle released her coat with one claw, using its talons against the Griffin. Crystalia screamed as her dress gave a final rip, and she slipped out of the Eagle’s grasp.

“Maiden! To me!” a shout rose from below.

Looking down, she found another Arctic Eagle coasting below her.

“Let go! Now!” the voice urged.

Crystalia hesitated, but Traven’s Eagle banked again, dislodging her slippery hold on the beast’s foot. Praying to every god she had ever heard of, Crystalia let go completely.

For a brief second, she was in free-fall again, then she landed hard upon the other Eagle’s neck. With the wind knocked out of her, Crystalia clung to the bird’s feathers as her rescuer hauled the rest of her body up onto the Eagle’s back.

“There you go.” Turning around, the Snowy Maiden meant to hug her savior, but it turned out to be Corpse. The dead man smiled brightly, as if this was all just a great game to him. “Seems we are destined to ride together everywhere.”

Still jittery from her near miss, Crystalia did not respond.

Instead, she looked to her palm. Her lifeline still wavered and pulsed— the fall was not the end to her dangers, it seemed.

* * *

With the Snowy Maiden relatively safe upon Corpse’s Eagle, Traven pulled his sword and helped his Eagle fend off the Griffin’s attack. Each minute they wasted here was a moment the Ice Princess was at risk. He wished to dispatch this creature as quickly as possible and hurry to Glacial’s side, but that was easier wished for than accomplished.

Pale’s bird joined in the fray, but the lone Griffin still tore at them with claw and fang. Traven urged his Eagle to dive down. While Pale harassed the creature, the Hero’s Eagle slid up underneath of the Griffin. While the creature’s attention was drawn upward, Traven planted his sword deep into the beast’s belly. The Griffin let out a bellow of pain, but the Hero did not stop. He drew the blade forward and sliced the creature’s gut.

Claws flailed at him, but Traven knew the Griffin was done for. Intestines slipped out the beast’s wound as the Eagle banked sharply, taking them out of harm’s way.

Exhilaration gave way to concern almost immediately as clouds obscured his vision. The towering walls of the Winter Citadel were now covered by the dark gloom. How were they supposed to find the Storm Gate through this thick fog? But Traven guessed that was exactly the point of the camouflage.

The Winter King would do anything to keep them from his throne room— anything.

* * *

Ornery could not help but look over his shoulder every other moment. He had hated to leave Crystalia behind in such danger, but Miss Emmert had given orders to his Eagle through mindspeak to follow her bird, and Ornery could not turn the Eagle’s course.

Anger burned his cheeks. If he truly was The Way, his mother would have to be the first to start treating him like it.

The clouds were thick, but the Eagle flew in a straight line. Miss Emmert was just in front of him. Her Eagle gave a high-pitched shriek and peeled sharply to the right. The Citadel’s blue-white walls were right in front of them. Ornery’s own Eagle turned and pitched, skimming up the vertical wall.

“Hold on! The Storm Gate is—” Miss Emmert’s words were cut off by a blast of air. The velocity was so great that it shoved her Arctic Eagle back several feet. The bird flapped its giant wings in vain, never gaining a single inch.

Billowing clouds rolled out of the Gate, tumbling Miss Emmert’s bird head over tail. Ornery barely had time to react before her Eagle righted itself and swooped in next to his bird. They glided side by side for a few heartbeats. The wind died, and the air became perfectly still.

Time seemed to falter for a moment as moonlight streamed over them. Miss Emmert looked up and pointed. “Now!”

Both eagles rose together and raced towards the Storm Gate. Its surface was opaque with streaks of black swirling around the center. Ornery’s mother pulled in a deep breath and shouted two words he could not understand. Her voice pierced the silence.

The Gate’s center became clear, but the edges still wavered, black and threatening. The birds dove through the opening. Before Ornery’s Eagle could make it all the way through, the orifice lashed out with a wicked gale. Knocked from his perch, Ornery crashed to the icy floor. His bird was not so lucky. The wind tore feathers from its wing, hurling the Eagle backwards through the gate. Ornery tried to scramble to his feet, but his ankle screamed in protest. The joint throbbed and sent pain shooting each time he tried to bear weight.

“Hurry!” Miss Emmert shouted, holding her hand out for Ornery to join her on the remaining Eagle.

He tried to run across the slick floor, but his leg would not cooperate. Stumbling, Ornery fell to the floor. When he looked up, he found a Griffin landing right before him. The beast reared on its hind legs, threatening with both front paws. Its mouth was wide open, showing its many fangs. Ornery knew he was looking death right in the face.

* * *

Damn, but the clouds were thick, Traven thought as they searched the walls for the Storm Gate. The eagles had reached the Winter Citadel but could not find the only entrance through the thick ice walls. The Hero had tried to follow the wind back to its source, but the currents were so erratic that they had ended up flying in circles. If they did not find the entrance soon, Traven knew that all would be lost. Miss Emmert was capable, and the boy Ornery had the heart of a champion, but Traven knew the battle would not be decided by either of his companions.

To have any hope of surviving this ordeal, the Hero would have to face the Winter King himself. Granny had said so.

Not that Traven relished this meeting. Each of Granny’s tellings of the Battle for the Icy Throne was different. In some, The Man Who Did Not Know emerged victorious. In others, the Winter King rose from his frosty realm and shattered the world with his frigid touch. As the conflict at the Gullet had shown, prophecy was a tricky bedfellow.

“Hero!” Crystalia shouted from Corpse’s bird.

Traven turned to find her pointing down. He followed her finger but could see nothing that resembled the Storm Gate. Pale sent him an image of an entrance, but Traven could still not make it out. What were they talking about?

Finally, the wolf simply demanded that the Hero follow. With no other option, Traven urged his bird to pursue his diving companions. They descended past the icy walls for the longest time, but still he saw nothing.

Pale tried to reassure the Hero that their course was correct, but with each foot they plunged, the more wary Traven became. In none of the tales did the Storm Gate lie at the foundation of the Citadel. It was always near the top, near the Icy Throne. Traven was certain that the wolf had lost his senses when they all alighted on the rocky ground. They were at the base of Winter’s Citadel. The wall of ice towered above them. Its presence was so great that it nearly stifled Traven’s sense of urgency.

“Hero! They must have breached the Gate!” Crystalia shouted as she leapt off the Eagle. The girl looked shaken, but the expression on her face was fierce.

“We must join them!” Traven relayed as he crossed the rocks to join the rest of his party.

Crystalia shook her head. “Miss Emmert must have forced her entry with magick. The Gate is now sealed.”

“The Storm Gate cannot by sealed!” Traven responded. The girl was obviously panicking. The gods knew he did not want to take wing again, but that was exactly what they must do. “We must—”

Pale tried to intrude into Traven’s mind, but the Hero blocked the wolf. It was bad enough trying to wring some sense into the girl. He did not need to be listening to Pale’s meal selections as well.

I felt the Gate close, Traven. Feel the weather. Feel the clouds. They are without direction.”

The Hero lost his temper and immediately regretted it. “How would you know?”

Crystalia’s face frowned for a moment then resolve settled in. “I am the Snowy Maiden, Hero. Do not doubt me on this.”

“I’m sorry, Crystalia, but I need more to go on than your—”

Pale’s barking drew their attention. The wolf scratched at the icy wall. Traven could not even hear himself think while Pale made such a commotion.

Striding over, the Hero chastised the wolf with his thoughts. Pale shrugged off the reprimand and sent a cascade of images to Traven. There was stale air nearby. Air that came from the Citadel. Traven begrudgingly agreed with the wolf’s assessment.

Perhaps there was another way into the Icy Throne besides the Storm Gate. Frustrated, the Hero gave Pale permission to search the base. At this point, he did not care if they chewed their way through the ice. They just needed to get inside the damn castle.

“Pale agrees. Let us help him in his search.”

With every moment that passed, the Hero’s teeth ground together. They might encircle the whole base and never find the supposed opening. What would he tell his superiors at Mount Shrine if he failed here? Then the sobering thought hit Traven. If they were defeated here, there would be no scolding by the Imperial Council, because there would be no Imperial Council. No Mount Shrine, no Magpie Landing, no anything, if the Winter King entered this world.

Pale barked sharply, and the group ran to the wolf’s side. By Pale stood a crack in the solid ice. The Hero was not certain if he could even shimmy through it, let alone squeeze in the Arctic Eagles. Besides, how did they know the fissure led to the interior?

“Does it go all the way through?” Crystalia echoed his concern.

The wolf flooded Traven’s mind with images of the wolf’s old den. Pale’s aunt, Scry, was in the center of the mind-picture. She had told of the Winter Citadel and the spiral staircase that led to the Icy Throne.

From his urgency, Pale believed that this was the entrance to the steps. Traven eyed the crack more closely but could not tell if it penetrated through the entire wall.

“I’m not sure,” Traven answered Crystalia’s earlier question.

“This is the correct way,” Corpse interrupted. “The prophecies are converging, Hero. We must scale these steps if we wish to spare The Bride in time.”

Traven’s anger flared. “Corpse, there are no prophecies regarding—”

The dead man smiled in that disconcerting way of his. “This is where I lose my hand.”

“What? How can you be sure?”

Corpse’s voice became grim again. “Because I am falling in love with the Snowy Maiden.”

* * *

Corpse’s words barely mattered to Crystalia. Love, or the lack there of, was not the issue here. Convincing Traven that the Storm Gate was closed forever, and that they had to take an alternate route, was the most important concern. If that meant Corpse would look at her forever with moony eyes, then she would accept that price.

“What does the wolf say?” Crystalia asked. She had noticed Pale’s insistent gaze towards Traven. Miss Emmert had explained the Hero and White Wolf’s mental bond.

Traven shifted uncomfortably. “He says there is a staircase leading up.”

“Then we must take it,” Crystalia said as she strode past the Hero. Despite her initial unease around the great beast, Crystalia was now comfortable with the wolf’s presence. In her gut, she knew Pale would never lead her into danger. With the wolf and Corpse following close on her heel, Traven had no other choice but to join them.

“What of the Arctic Eagles?” Traven asked.

Crystalia did not know how she knew, but she was quite certain of her words. “They will claim their dead and fly to the highest Eyre. There they will pay their respects, then rejoin their family.”

The Hero took her upon her word and stepped into the lead. Crystalia was more surprised by her declaration than any other in the group. The more she reached out with senses and welcomed the cold terrain, the more it spoke to her. Everything the moon’s rays touched was now her responsibility. To take on the Snowy Maiden’s mantle meant that Crystalia now cared about each of Winter’s creatures. Perhaps that was why the White Wolf no longer made her muscles quiver.

The cold walls closed in upon them as they penetrated deeper into the crack. The heat seemed to sap right out of them. Energy pulsed through the walls, making one feel small and puny. Crystalia wanted to speak with Traven, but she could not get her voice to rise. The oppressive atmosphere squelched your very spirit. Corpse moaned behind her, and his steps fell short. Without thinking, Crystalia grabbed his hand and pulled him close to her, sharing her heat. The dead man gave an odd grin, then kept his eyes to the floor. It seemed this place could dampen even Corpse’s glib mouth.

* * *

Ornery scrambled into yet another hiding place. His ankle complained each time he put weight upon it, but the joint held underneath of him. Miss Emmert had distracted the Griffin, giving her son enough time to flee, but the beast was not so easily dissuaded. Each time his mother had let down her guard for even an instant, the Griffin had turned on Ornery.

The creature seemed bent on his destruction, and in this icy hall there was not much room to hide. The blue torches that lined the long passageway glistened off of the slick ceiling. Besides small niches for delicate ice sculptures and doorways with no doors, the hall was barren. Ornery had to rely on scrambling just out of the Griffin’s reach in the small stoops. If he did not circle back to his mother and flee this place, there would be no escaping the Griffin’s claws.

The Eagle’s cry echoed off the icy walls and nearly deafened Ornery. The Griffin roared its response, and the two mythical beasts engaged in battle. Miss Emmert leapt off the Arctic Eagle and joined Ornery.

His mother pointed to the right. “We must use this cover.”

Ornery did not need any encouragement. Together, he and his mother skirted the fight.

“Sniff out Glacial,” Miss Emmert urged.

Obeying his mother, Ornery searched the air for any whiff of the Ice Princess. His nose was not as sharp as it had been yesterday, but still he could pick up the sharp taste of Glacial’s blood in the air. “That way.”

The two hurried towards a large archway that appeared to lead deeper into the Citadel. Behind them, the Arctic Eagle gave a startled cry. Ornery turned to find the Griffin at the great bird’s neck.

“Run!” Miss Emmert screamed as the Griffin turned its blood-soaked face in their direction.

With his injured ankle, Ornery could barely keep up with Miss Emmert’s pace, which was not nearly fast enough to outrun the winged Griffin. The beast flew over their heads and landed squarely in front of them. It seemed to delight in its show of power. They were but so many mice to this great creature.

“Escape while I distract it,” Miss Emmert whispered to Ornery as she prepared a spell.

Ornery knew what his mother really meant. Her magick was near spent. He could see it on her face. Miss Emmert did not mean to distract the Griffin. She meant to sacrifice herself as the Eagle had. Ornery could not allow that.

As his mother chanted under her breath and gathered her energy, Ornery desperately searched the room for some kind of weapon, anything that he might use against the Griffin. Not that he had much skill in that area, but he would not let her die without a fight.

His mother gave him a shove as she began her incantation, but Ornery held fast. Energy surged from Miss Emmert’s mouth and slammed hard into the Griffin. For a moment, the beast stood there, perfectly still, stunned by the force.

Unfortunately, it shook off the magick’s effect and bellowed its pain. The creature seemed hardly fazed by the spell.

“Go! This might be my last chance,” his mother hissed at Ornery.

As she mumbled the words of power, Ornery ran to the nearest wall and grabbed one of the torches. The flame was a sparkling blue flecked with white, but the fire gave off no heat whatsoever. Ornery had no idea what damage the flame could do, but he might be able to back the Griffin off just enough for them to flee down a side passage.

The beast must have sensed the woman’s intent, for the Griffin launched itself into the air just as Miss Emmert released her spell. The creature avoided the brunt of the energy, but not all of it.

Ornery leapt forward, ignoring the searing pain in his leg. In midair the Griffin hovered, captured by his mother’s spell. Ornery lunged with the flame and buried it in the fierce beast’s mane. Instead of setting the fur on fire, the torch froze the Griffin’s mane and all along its back. Realizing the power of the flame, Ornery swiped the torch across the length of the creature’s body.

Before Ornery could reach its head, the Griffin recovered from Miss Emmert’s magick. Screaming in agony, the beast tried to use its wings, but one was frozen solid. Crashing to the floor, the parts of its body that were touched by the flame shattered on impact. The beast did not seem to realize what had happened to it and tried to crawl forward with its front paws. Finally, it growled one last time and collapsed, dead.

Dropping the torch, Ornery actually felt sorry for the Griffin. No creature should have to endure that type of torturous death.

A scream echoed off the walls, coming from deep within the Citadel. Both Ornery and Miss Emmert shouted, “Glacial!” in the same moment.

At best speed, they ran past the mangled beast and through the archway. On the other side of the hollow chamber, a lone Griffin dragged the Ice Princess towards a glittering threshold. Ornery tried to rush to the girl’s side, but a yawning chasm stood between them and Glacial. The Griffin must have flown over the gaping ravine. Ornery peeked over the edge but could not make out the bottom.

“Where are they taking her?” Ornery asked.

“The Icy Throne is just beyond that threshold. We must reach the other side. Perhaps I can conjure a bridge…” Miss Emmert’s voice faded as she concentrated on her magick. From her fingers flowed a bit of twine, but it was more like a child’s toy rather than a bridge that would span this great divide.

Ornery realized they could no longer rely on his mother’s magick— she was failing. By the bluish tint to her lips, his mother was failing fast. Ornery knocked her hands down and broke the spell chain.

“Son! Never interrupt—”

“Mother, you must save your energy. There must be another way across.”

Scanning the side walls, Ornery could make out tiny footholds in the smooth ice. It would take great care and skill, but Ornery was certain he could scale the wall and cross the fissure. But what to do with his mother? Picking up the twine, Ornery tied it around his waist and then began tying it to Miss Emmert’s hips.

“Ornery, what has gotten—”

Tugging the last knot tight, Ornery answered as he maneuvered them to the wall. “Try your best to cling to the ice. I will show you where to put your feet and hands.”

For a moment, it seemed his mother was going to argue, but she did not. Nodding, she followed his lead. It was strange to have Miss Emmert obey him so. Strange, but agreeable. The Way could not be worried if his mother was going to scold him at each turn in history.

CHAPTER 34

The Winter Citadel is a place no mortal should visit. It has all manner of creatures with hearts of ice. They know not of love or affection. They live to protect the Winter King’s abode and feast on the flesh of those that dare disturb their god’s sanctuary.

Traven’s mind raced with all of Granny’s stories, but he could not remember a single one about the Citadel’s staircase. The spiral pathway looked like it was never-ending. Despite the illusion, they charged up the steps with great purpose, but the Hero was queasy about what they would find at the top.

Without his Granny’s story to prepare him, how could they survive the gauntlet he was certain to face?

Pale relayed Glacial, Ornery, and Miss Emmert’s scent to Traven. The rest of their party was above, somewhere in the Citadel. At least they knew the three still lived. The wolf was certain the aroma was fresh, and from the stench of fear and pain, the others were most certainly still alive.

This knowledge urged the Hero’s feet even faster. Crystalia and Corpse lagged a bit behind, slowing them again. Thoughts of leaving the dead man behind, and letting him freeze solid, had crossed Traven’s mind, but he could not do that to his companion.

Corpse had earned his right to take his place amongst them when he had rescued the Snowy Maiden. So no matter the Hero’s sense of urgency, they kept the pace of the dead man.

The wolf stopped in his tracks and twitched his ears. Traven halted and opened his mind to Pale. There were sounds, very faint, but noises nonetheless. And they were not the wind or any other natural phenomena. It was the scraping of many a boot against ice. As the sound neared, the more obvious it became that an entire army was descending towards them. Traven looked around, but there was nowhere to detour, nowhere to hide. The walls rose tall all around them.

They either retreated down the stairs and back into the mountains or faced the legend that advanced upon them. To flee would garner them nothing. Even if they avoided the assault, Glacial would surely be sacrificed, and this group would still be the first to die by the Winter King’s hand. No, they needed to stand and fight.

Turning, he found Corpse had already drawn his sword. That left only the Snowy Maiden unarmed.

Traven pulled the small knife hidden in his boot and handed it over to Crystalia. “Use this.”

The Hero had to steady himself after he said those two simple words. The sense of déjà vu hit him so powerfully that his head swam. He did not need to hear the Snowy Maiden’s response of “I shall,” for he already knew her answer.

Buried somewhere in his brain was one of Granny’s tales. It must have been one of those sticky love stories, for he could not remember the details. Shoving aside his mixed emotions, Traven turned back to the threat at hand.

Slowly, they crept up the stairs, one step at a time. The stairwell turned so sharply that you could not tell what was before you until you made the turn. Now, even his human ears could make out the clang of armor approaching. Traven’s grip tightened on his sword as he climbed another step. Around another bend and they were face to face with their enemy.

Frigid Knights. Every fierce combatant that died in Winter’s embrace came to the Citadel to act as the King’s personal guard. In this moment, the Knights seemed as surprised to see Traven’s party as the Hero was to encounter them. They were not supposed to join in battle, here in the stairwell. This meeting was supposed to occur at the Icy Throne itself.

Taking advantage of the Knights’ confusion, Traven let out a battle cry and charged forward. He shattered an arm off his first victim, but was not so lucky with his second. The Warrior fended off Traven’s attack and pared with his own dirk. The Hero pivoted away but tripped over Pale. The close quarters made the fight nearly impossible.

How were they going to battle their way through this thick host? Above them, Traven could see that the staircase had straightened, leading to a landing.

Unfortunately, the entire stairs were packed with Frigid Knights. They were easily outnumbered ten to one, and there were no tricks, no magickal slight-of-hand that could beat this enemy. If they wished to emerge victorious, they would have to hack their way to the top.

* * *

Crystalia watched the battle. All this fighting was getting them nowhere. It wasn’t that Traven, Pale, and Corpse were not skilled with their weapons.

Quite to the contrary, they were striking the enemy with great efficiency. The problem was, even if they struck true and clean, the Knight would just rise again to fight again. These Frigid Knights seemed immortal. Sometime soon, their group would simply be overrun by the sheer mass of the enemy. Even now, Traven and the rest had to retreat several steps.

It was odd, but the Snowy Maiden felt no sense of panic. The battle flowed and ebbed as Crystalia watched it with a bizarre sense of detachment. Ever since the Hero had placed the dagger in her hand, Crystalia knew she would be instrumental in this fight. In what role, she had no idea, but Crystalia knew the exchange of the knife was no little thing. Her sexton burned with the feel of the handle in her palm.

How she wished Madame Hesper could have taught her more about the Snowy Maiden. Crystalia knew so little about her powers and strengths. It was a mystery what she could and could not do with her magick. Quickly, Crystalia ticked off the skills she already had. Seeing far with her tears seemed completely unhelpful in this situation. The Snowy Maiden was certain her voice could carry to the farthest Knight, but these were unnatural creatures with no obligation to heed her words. There was a chance Crystalia could reach out to the walls of the staircase and alter their appearance. While that might make the place a bit more attractive, she did not see how it would help their situation.

No, she needed to tap into a deeper power— something that could alter the course of this battle.

“Cut off my hand!” Corpse shouted as he joined her.

“What?” Crystalia backed away from the dead man.

“This fight will never be won as long as I have my hand. It is preordained. Do you not feel like hurrying Fate a bit?”

Shaking her head, Crystalia let the knife’s tip lower. “No. You may yet—”

Traven’s shout caught both of their attention. The Knights were close to running over the Hero and Pale.

“Do it, Snowy Maiden. I beg of you. We must somehow turn the tide,” Corpse said, his face uncommonly sincere.

Grabbing his right hand, Crystalia felt a spark tingle up her arm. They were on the right course, but the dead man pulled away. “The left, m’dear. I might still need that one,” Corpse said as he jiggled his sword in his right fist.

Crystalia took his left hand, and in a single swipe, severed it from the dead man’s arm. Corpse gasped and shook his arm violently. “One would think after death, things such as this would not hurt nearly as badly.”

“What have you done?” Traven shouted, drawing the girl’s eyes back to the line of battle. The clash had momentarily stopped. The Frigid Knights stared at Crystalia and the severed hand.

Instinctively, the Snowy Maiden raised it above her head, for all to see. The Knights took a collective step back. Crystalia decided to press the advantage. But what could she say that would sway them? What was their deepest desire?

“I have the power to free you from your servitude!” she shouted to the mass of enemy. Crystalia had no idea if she truly could or not, but it sounded dramatic and brave.

The foremost Frigid Knight’s voice was that of a nail scraping ice. “It is our duty to protect the Winter King.”

By just talking to her, Crystalia knew the Knight was not quite sold on that idea. She needed to find a way to turn these warriors against their captor.

“He has enslaved you. Once you lived. Once you were proud swordsmen, fighting for the cause you believed in. Now what do you do? Mindlessly protect the very god that snatched your life away.”

“It is our duty.”

Crystalia puffed up to her tallest height and waved the hand. “No longer.” She had to pause, though, for she had no idea what else to say.

Corpse jumped in. “I was once like you, but she transformed me. The Snowy Maiden can do the same for you!”

A murmuring rippled through the crowded Knights. It seemed most of them had great respect for her title. Crystalia’s mind spun, desperately trying to think of a way to dispatch this host and get her party to Glacial’s side.

“Take me to the Icy Throne, and I shall free you.”

* * *

Traven had no idea what Crystalia was up to, but he welcomed the rest. He was out of breath, and his whole body ached with the strain of battle. Yet the Hero was loath to leave the stairwell with these Knights. At least on the steps, they had the advantage of a bottleneck. The Knights could only attack one or two at a time. Outside those confines, his group could so easily be overwhelmed. Was this a ruse of Crystalia’s or the Frigid Knights’?

“The Winter King would want to punish these trespassers himself,” the Frigid Knight said to his comrades. “We shall escort them to the Icy Throne.”

The Hero squinted and tried to read the enemy’s mood, which was a little difficult, since they were nearly frozen solid. The Knights seemed a simple lot, though. The warriors’ minds were a fraction of what they once had been. Traven did not believe them capable of calculating the advantage to themselves. Pale’s thoughts agreed with the Hero’s.

The Frigid Knights might slice them down if the Winter King ordered it, but for now, their party seemed relatively safe in the Knights’ custody. Traven lowered his sword as the Knights backed up the stairs. Each side was still wary of the other, and rightfully so.

* * *

Ornery touched his foot on the other side of the chasm. Making sure that the footing was solid, he shifted his weight. Carefully, Ornery helped Miss Emmert onto the ledge. They had crossed safely, but it had cost them a great deal of time. The Griffin had long-since disappeared through the threshold.

“Ornery, you must listen to me,” Miss Emmert said, her tone serious as she dusted off the ice from her dress. “We must use any means possible to halt Glacial’s blood from reaching the Icy Throne.”

Ornery nodded and started to walk away, but his mother held his arm.

“Child, I mean, any way possible. If that means throwing Glacial from the tallest spire before they can reclaim her, that is what we must do.”

“I am not a child any longer, mother. I will not allow her blood to be spilt,” Ornery answered as he strode away from Miss Emmert. It wounded his heart, but the boy knew that he could do the deed if necessary.

They both stopped in front of the glittering threshold that Glacial had been whisked through. The doorway was opaque, hiding the next room’s contents. The Griffin could be lying in wait on the other side. Ornery directed his mind and transformed his hands into sharp hooves. Silently, he nodded to his mother.

Together, they stepped over the threshold. A blast of frosty air slapped them across the face.

The next room was so large that it could not rightfully be called a room. It was a long hall. So long that you could not make out the end. In the center was the Icy Throne itself. It was so silver that you almost believed it was made of pure shine. A raised altar stood just a few steps behind the Throne. Hanging over the altar was the Spiral Vortex.

It looked much like Corpse had described. It was both so beautiful and horrible that it hurt your eyes just to gaze upon its swirling surface. A fierce wind blew out of the snowy ingress. The Griffin was nowhere to be found, but Glacial was bound to the altar, half-naked. Ornery moved to run forward, but Miss Emmert held him back.

“It is an illusion,” she whispered. “Use your equine senses. Animals are not so easily foiled by glamours.”

Extending his senses, Ornery realized his mother was right. The deception could fool his human eyes, but not his Centaur heritage. “Is it a trap?”

Miss Emmert carefully walked around the edge of the room. As they neared the Spiral Vortex, Ornery found a huge shaft in the center of the room that plummeted beyond view. If he had run straight across, he would be dead now.

His mother explained, “This is just the antechamber. The real Throne lies somewhere beyond this room.”

Following the curved wall, they arrived at another threshold. Carefully, they passed through the doorway, only to find themselves in a room exactly like the one they had just left. It had the same illusionary Icy Throne and central shaft.

Ornery looked to Miss Emmert, who frowned as she spoke. “It is a Mirror Loop. There must be another hidden exit.”

The boy focused so hard with his eyes that his head felt near to bursting. No matter how hard he looked, he could find no other flaws in the icy walls. Feeling defeated, Ornery turned to his mother.

“What shall we do?”

“There is a spell… It might work.” Her voiced sounded far more doubtful than her words. Ornery did not want his mother to expend herself any further unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Save your magick, Mother. There must be a key to this puzzle. Is there no legend that discussed this room?”

Miss Emmert’s brow crinkled. “There is one.” The woman shook her head. “But it regards the White Wolf.”

“What is it?” Ornery asked, desperate to find a way that did not tax his mother’s limited stamina. Even now, she nearly panted at the exertion of simply walking around the antechamber.

“Ornery, it is vague. It just describes Pale as ‘sniffing’ out the true door.”

Sniff? Ornery raised his nose and flared his nostrils. His senses certainly were not as acute as the wolf’s, but they were far more advanced than Miss Emmert’s. Pouring all his concentration into his nose, Ornery sampled the air. The ice smelled clean and sharp in his nose. The scent was so pure that it burned his tender membranes.

Leaning close to the wall, he followed its path, his nose but inches from the icy partition. He sniffed around the threshold and found that it smelled no different than the walls. There were one and the same.

Obviously, his mother and Ornery’s crossing of the threshold was nothing but an optical illusion. They had never left the same room.

Ornery smiled. With his Centaur senses he did not necessarily need his mother’s magick. Carefully, he scanned the wall— inch by inch. He could feel Miss Emmert’s tension, but she made no effort to hurry his progress, nor did she advance another strategy. It felt strange to have his mother rely on him like this. Ornery truly felt that he was his father’s son now.

“It is here!” he blurted. The smell was so subtle he had almost missed it. Ornery placed his hand on the solid-looking ice, only to have it vanish. Miss Emmert stepped up and tested the area. The space was about the same size as the other doorway. They gave each other one last look before striding through together.

Once through, they were both startled by a young girl’s voice. “I was wondering when you’d finally get here.”

A beautiful blonde girl sat upon the silver throne, her feet thrown over the arm of the chair. She twirled a small whip in her gloved hand. The room was very similar to the antechamber but somehow was so much more real. Now that they had witness the full glory of the throne room, they could never again mistake the antechamber for anything but the sham that it was.

Beneath the Winter Vortex was Glacial. The Ice Princess was crumpled upon the altar. Blood smeared her face, and black hair was matted to her head. Even from this distance it was obvious she had been beaten, severely. Ornery winced in sympathy. Even if she survived this ordeal, her beautiful features would never be the same.

Miss Emmert cautiously edged around the room, wary of the blonde stranger.

“Who are you?”

“Someone who is very annoyed by all the delays.”

Ornery followed his mother and made certain that there was no chasm in the floor as they crossed to the altar. The Vortex hanging behind the Throne was something akin to a living creature. It pulsed and flowed. Faintly, behind the glistening facade, Ornery swore he could make out a wintry scene. Was that a glimpse of the Winter King himself?

“The Bride was not enough?” Miss Emmert was obviously as confused as Ornery. The Ice Princess’s blood was supposed to open the Vortex. Why had it not?

The blonde seemed equally perturbed about the situation. “I told them to wait until the Conclave assembled, but they would not listen.” The girl toyed with her curls. “The Griffins are majestic but not too bright. Luckily, they allowed me to test the Vortex with just a bit of the Princess’s blood. As you can see, we’re all still here.”

An intense dislike of this girl and her attitude was forming in Ornery’s heart. She smelled funny too. But his concern was for the Ice Princess. Glacial looked so forlorn that his heart actually ached for the Princess. He would give anything right now to have her awaken and pester him about Centaur history.

The blonde girl casually swung her limbs back over the side of the Throne and clapped her hands. “I was hoping you would deliver the Snowy Maiden to me, but there again you failed miserably.”

Two Griffins emerged from the shadows, growling and swishing their tails. Ornery automatically reformed his hands into weapons, but Miss Emmert put a restraining hand on his arm and shook her head.

“Now is not the time,” she whispered.

The blonde girl giggled lightly. “Nay. Your mother wishes for you to wait until all is assembled before making her strike. She is very wise, you know.”

Miss Emmert took a few steps towards Glacial. The blonde girl stepped out of his mother’s way.

“By all means, Sele. Tend to the Giant. I might need her yet.” Annoyance crept over the blonde’s face. However, and she tapped her foot on the icy floor. “This is taking the others far too long. That Crystalia, she certainly knows how to loiter,” the blonde said as she headed to the exit. In a deeper voice, she spoke to the Griffin. “Keep them safe until I return.”

Ornery cautiously followed his mother to the Ice Princess but kept an eye on the Griffins. The beasts barely seemed restrained now. What were the creatures going to do when the girl left the room? His attention was distracted as Glacial moaned when Miss Emmert rolled the Princess over. Ornery winced to see her face so black and blue. One whole eye was swollen over. The Princess could not even open it. Glacial’s lips were so cracked that she could barely speak.

“Ornery?” the Ice Princess managed to croak out.

Miss Emmert urged him to Glacial’s side. Instinctively, Ornery picked up the Ice Princess’s hand, “Yes, Glacial. Please try to rest.”

“I dreamt you came to me.” It looked like she tried to smile, but with all the caked blood it was impossible to be sure. Her sole open eye moved to his mother. “Why are they doing this? The Winter King will never want me now.”

Miss Emmert soothed the Princess and adopted the tone she had used so many times with Ornery when he was sick in bed. “Do not fret, sweetness. They have no desire to make you The Bride, only to open the Vortex.”

Glacial’s tongue tried to wet her lips, but she flinched from the pain. Miss Emmert scraped some ice from the floor and dampened the girl’s lips, then dribbled some into the Princess’s mouth.

“Ornery is right. You must rest. You must be strong for our escape.”

Ornery knew Miss Emmert was being overly optimistic, but he did not care. He liked the thought of leaving this place. Before Ornery was too busy and too occupied to notice how thin the air was. A breath of it barely seemed to fill your lungs. And the cold. It went bone deep. All the walls, ceiling, and floor were pure ice— cold and unforgiving.

“I am no longer The Bride anymore, am I?” Glacial asked.

“Shh, child. Do not worry of such—”

The Ice Princess gripped Ornery’s hand much tighter. She drew herself into a sitting position. “I am free to choose my own betrothed?”

Miss Emmert smiled, but her concern for the Princess’s future could not be hidden. “Yes, Glacial. You are released from your vow to the Winter King.”

Glacial fell back down and sighed, “I am free.”

Ornery gave the Princess’s hand a squeeze, but she did not return the gesture. Panicked, he looked to his mother. Miss Emmert frowned.

“She lives, but I do not know if she will awaken.”

Settling down next to Glacial, Ornery moved a few matted hairs away from the Princess’s brow. A gash longer than his finger crossed her forehead. What had these beasts done to her? In that moment, Ornery vowed to make them pay. To make them pay for every life they had taken, every life they had destroyed.

* * *

Holt fought the wind at every turn. Clouds collided with one another and boomed their anger. Finally, he could make out the towering blue-white Citadel. Ekoli urged him to land near the base. Alighting near a large fissure in the wall, Holt set down the goddess. The moment that he had dreaded all night was at hand.

It was his family that was in danger, not Ekoli’s. There was no reason the goddess should risk her life.

“I want you to stay here. I will be back for you.”

Ekoli graced him with a warm smile and a light kiss on the lips. “I must accompany you, m’love. I know secrets of the Icy Throne that no other could fathom.”

Holt was not easily dissuaded. “Tell them to me. I will not have you at risk. Especially, not if you might be… might be carrying our child.”

Unconsciously, the goddess hand rubbed at her abdomen and she frowned. “I must ensure a warm and receptive world awaits any child of ours.”

“Please, I beg of you. Stay.”

Ekoli did not answer. Instead, she pulled him against her and kissed him deeply. By the time the goddess released him, Holt was nearly out of breath. She grasped his hand and began walking towards the crack in the wall.

“We go together.”

In his current state, Holt was in no shape to argue. He followed his love into the fissure.

Within a dozen steps they found a steep staircase. Taking her back into his arms, Holt took wing again. He caressed her tenderly as they rapidly ascended the stairwell, taking each moment of comfort he could scrounge.

Once near the Icy Throne, there would be little time for love.

It would be time for war.

* * *

Traven fought the urge to just rush forward. This slow crawl through the hallway was driving him mad. To have dozens of enemy pressed so close was unnerving. His hand burned to raise his sword and just start hacking away, but he did not. That ploy had not worked too well in the staircase and certainly was not the strategy of choice here.

No, at least Crystalia’s ruse had gotten them this much closer to the Icy Throne. There would be a battle with these Knights. This much Traven was sure of. In each of the tales, unerringly, they fought the Frigid Knights, and the battle occurred in the Throne Room itself as the Ice Princess was sacrificed. All these details the Hero knew from Granny. It was just the outcome that was in question.

Glancing towards Crystalia, Traven felt a pang of concern. The girl would not like her role in all of this. The Icy Throne was where the Snowy Maiden was prophesized to be gravely injured. If The Man Who Did Not Know and The Hanged Man were successful against the Winter King, they would snatch the injured Maiden and flee down the mountain, sailing away on a ship. It was on the rough seas where the Snowy Maiden succumbed. So even if they won against the Winter King and his minions, Crystalia would die for their efforts.

But the Fates had been kind to Traven, in a bizarre fashion. A part of him had truly died at the Gullet. The young boy with grandiose ideas and boundless passion was gone forever. In its place stood a man who knew when Fate had him by the throat. Traven looked at the Snowy Maiden again. Her hair was quite the mess, and her face was streaked with tears, but still she strode forward. He wondered if the Fates were feeling generous, if Crystalia would survive this ordeal. And if she did, what would she have to sacrifice? What part of her would die in the process?

* * *

Crystalia cringed as she raised Corpse’s dismembered hand even higher. The further into the Citadel they got, the more Knights had gathered around. She felt like a little girl holding a cupcake away from nanny goats. The Frigid Knights were drawn to her and swarmed about. Traven and Pale kept the damned creatures back, but their bodies still pressed the group tightly together. The going was slow, and she feared they might be too late. Besides, what was she going to do with all of them once she reached the Icy Throne?

A gong sounded, ringing off the walls and echoing repeatedly. The Frigid Knights milled, then broke. Crystalia looked around at her companions, but none seemed to know what was happening either. Traven’s sword was raised, but the Knights offered no aggression. They just melted away. The leader of the group gripped Crystalia’s wrist tightly with his frozen hand. “Do not forget your promise, Snowy Maiden.”

Before she could respond, he, too, was gone. For a moment, everyone stood perfectly still, too stunned by the Knights’ departure to move. All at once they surged ahead, not trusting this turn of luck.

“Pale is certain that Glacial lies up ahead!” Traven shouted.

The ice hallway took numerous turns, and at each corner they had to slow and check the corridor for any sign of the enemy. It took them running into several blockades to realize they were in a maze.

“The Winter King is not the most hospitable host.” Corpse indicated towards the bare ice walls as he said, “And he could use a few tips on decorating.”

“Shh!” Traven hissed. “I heard a cry.”

Once the hallway was silent, Crystalia could hear it too. Following after Traven, they found one of the many small side chambers. The rest had been empty, but this one contained a young girl chained to the wall. The blonde captive raised her face, sobbing.

“Viola!” Crystalia shouted as she ran towards her friend. Traven’s arm restrained her, though. The girl jerked from his grip. “Hero, this is my friend, you met her in Last Hitch.”

“How did you get here?” Traven asked as Pale growled.

The girl could barely speak she was so beside herself. “After you left, the entire town was slaughtered. I was kidnapped by these great big beasts with wings.”

Crystalia pushed past the Hero and kneeled by her friend. She tugged on Viola’s restraints. “Can you open these?”

Traven sounded skeptical. “I think we best—”

“Can you not see? It is just like Glacial! Now find a way to open these manacles.” Crystalia glared at Traven. How could he be so insensitive? Guilt throbbed in her heart. She was certain that her poor friend had been kidnapped because of the Snowy Maiden.

“My father?” Crystalia asked.

Viola began to sob hysterically, “Dead, everyone dead.”

Crystalia fought tears. It seemed unreal to think of her father gone. The concept was almost too abstract to really touch her heart.

Traven came near and held out his hand. “Give me back my knife, and I will unlock her.”

For some reason, Crystalia was loath to release the blade back to its owner. She rose to consult with the Hero when Viola gave out a scream. Crystalia turned and realized that she still had Corpse’s hand in her grasp. Shoving the dismembered organ at the dead man, Crystalia said, “Take it.”

Corpse backed away. “Where am I going to put it?”

Crystalia tried to foist the hand at the dead man, but he pushed it back. “Put it in your pocket or something. We might need it later.” Corpse indicated over his shoulder, indicating toward the still at-large Frigid Knights.

Snorting her frustration, Crystalia shoved the hand deep into her pocket. Did the indignities of this quest never end? Lowering down to Viola, the Snowy Maiden tried to quiet her friend. Turning to Traven, Crystalia demanded, “Tell me what to do.”

Wary of lowering his own weapon, the Hero agreed to talk her through picking the lock. Soon, both manacles were off, and Viola flung herself into Crystalia’s arms.

“Ask her if she know where the Icy Throne is,” Traven suggested with a bit of irritation to his voice.

Smoothing back her friend’s wild locks, Crystalia brought Viola’s face up to her own. “Vi, were you taken to a large hall? With a suspended mirror in the center of the room?”

Viola nodded bashfully. “They said they were going to kill me there.”

A look passed between them all. Crystalia knew what the next question needed to be. “Can you lead us there?”

“No! We must flee! Leave this place!” Her friend became hysterical again.

Crystalia rocked the blonde gently back and forth until the girl finally quieted a bit. “Vi, listen to me. You just need to lead us there. You don’t have to go in.”

“I don’t want to.” The words were more a whine than a statement. Like a child trying to weasel out of her monthly bath.

Rising to her feet, Crystalia urged Viola up. “Come. See, the Hero is here. He is very strong and brave. He will protect you.” Crystalia hated treating Viola like such a child, but it was the only way to get her friend moving. Worse, the Snowy Maiden knew she was quite possibly leading her friend into grave danger. Strangely, this did not perturb Crystalia the way it might have. They were all in grave danger whether they sought the Icy Throne or not. A few more steps closer were not going to endanger her friend that much more.

As they were leaving the chamber, Traven pulled Crystalia aside. She hated parting with her friend, but the Hero was insistent. His tone was harsh and rushed. “Pale fears this girl is corrupted. Human smell is not the only thing upon her skin.”

Could they not see that Viola was her friend? “She has been through much. If she is somehow damaged, Miss Emmert will heal her.” Crystalia tried to sound assured, but Pale’s low, insistent growl made her waver. The wolf had not been wrong before.

“And if she turns on us before we reach Miss Emmert?” Traven asked, concern thick in his voice.

The Snowy Maiden could not abide the thought. This girl was the same one Crystalia had known all her life. The blonde had taught her how to pull her hair into a Parisian Twist. Could the group not grasp that some things in this world were still constant and true? Still the same? Despite all of the horrible changes they had been through?

“She will not.” Crystalia rushed on before Traven could interrupt. “She is the only one who knows the way to the Icy Throne. Do you want to wander around the maze a bit more?”

The Hero was obviously not amused by either option. “We take her, but Pale stands guard.”

Crystalia agreed and rejoined her friend. The wolf hung close by, his hackles raised slightly. Even Corpse kept his distance. The tension was so thick between them all, that the dead man did not even have a jib upon his lips. Corpse moved slowly, separated as he was from his usual heat source, but he refused to come any closer to Crystalia and her friend as they made their way down the hallways. Viola was not always sure of which turn to take. They had gone down a few dead ends before they finally found a larger tunnel that seemed to be leading to the heart of the Citadel.

“It is down there,” Viola said, peeping like a mouse. She shrank from walking any further.

“We should leave someone to guard her,” Crystalia said.

Traven shook his head. “We can’t spare anyone. Either she follows, or we leave her here.”

Before Crystalia could answer, a wailing scream echoed off the walls. The entire group turned to find a winged beast hurtling towards them. It carried in its arms a woman whom the creature dropped as he dove towards their group.

“No!” Viola shouted, but it was a strange type of shout. More angry than scared.

Crystalia raised her tiny knife as the beast knocked the Hero out of the way. The creature had skin so red that it seemed black, and its huge fangs glistened in the light. Slashing with the knife, Crystalia was able to wound the beast’s arm, but he did not even slow. With one slash of his claws, he cleaved Viola’s head from her body.

Crystalia shrieked as her friend’s head rolled from her shoulders and fell to the ground. The Snowy Maiden looked to Pale for protection, but the wolf was wagging his tail. She turned back towards the creature and prepared for another attack. Surely, Crystalia was its next victim.

* * *

Traven stood completely confused. His body longed to attack the winged beast that had just executed the blonde girl, but Pale’s sending of restraint was so strong that the Hero could not move a muscle against the attacker.

“She was not a friend,” the beast hissed.

“Well, not any more. That is for certain,” Corpse commented.

The Hero flashed an irritated look to the dead man, then surveyed the new woman in their midst. She was slow to rise from the floor where the winged creature had dropped her. Was she a new threat, or was she another of the creature’s victims?

The woman nodded towards the black-skinned beast. “Holt speaks the truth. Back away and prepare.”

“Prepare for—” Traven did not get a chance to finish his question as the decapitated girl’s body rose from the icy floor. A foul smell emanated from the body, and an ugly sound bubbled from the tissues. Pale leapt at the animated body, chewing at its arms, but the demon threw the wolf off. A pointed head emerged from the severed neck.

The transformed demon turned to the winged creature. “Your mother is not here to protect you, Holt. You shall pay for her crimes.”

Traven watched as Holt lunged forward, joined by Pale. Any enemy of an enemy was your friend, Traven reasoned and added his sword to the assault. Before any of them could reach the foul demon, she snatched the stunned Crystalia and slipped through the icy wall. Pale slammed into the barricade, trying to follow. Traven pounded on the ice, but no opening could be found. The new woman grabbed his arm and turned him around.

“None of us have the magick necessary to open the secret postern,” she stated. “We must use the hallways.”

Traven jerked away from the woman’s hold. They did not even know who these strangers were. With their common enemy fled, these two newcomers might turn on the Hero’s party. “Who are you?”

“I am Ekoli. Mine is a long story. This is Ornery’s uncle, Sele’s sister. We must reach them before the Ice Princess and Snowy Maiden’s blood is mixed.”

The Hero stared at the winged beast. It did not resemble Ornery or Miss Emmert in any way. How did Traven know they were not just lying? Trying to lure them into a trap as the demon inhabiting Viola did? Traven turned to the wolf, but Pale urged the Hero to trust these two. Did the Hero not recognize the Goddess of the Light? Traven turned on his heel and stared at the woman. This could not be. “You are Ekoli, the goddess?”

The woman again grabbed Traven’s arm. “Used to be, yes. But we do not have time for explanations. We must hurry.”

Pale was already down the corridor by the time Traven made up his mind to follow. Corpse was just a few steps behind. The feeling of imminent doom pressed against the Hero’s heart. Traven realized the gathering was now complete. Each character of every fable of the Siege of the Winter Citadel was now assembled. A part of Traven had remained hopeful while the cast was incomplete. It meant they might have been able to change the course of the story, give it a happier ending. Now though, with the addition of the Vampyr and the Fallen Goddess, the Fates could complete this sordid tale.

CHAPTER 35

Ornery helped Miss Emmert bind Glacial’s wounds. They knelt closely by the Ice Princess as more and more of the Frigid Knights entered the Throne room. The frozen soldiers assembled themselves in a huge circle around the Spiral Vortex. Ornery wanted to ask Miss Emmert all sorts of questions, but his mother had shushed him to silence. The boy’s heart was heavy. Perhaps against the two Griffins they might have made an escape, but against this host? This well-armed army of Winter? There was no way. The odds were staggering.

Glacial moaned again as Miss Emmert sinched down a dressing. The Ice Princess turned her head, gave a weak smile to Ornery then closed her eyelid again. It seemed that the girl roused only to be sure that the Centaur was still there. Ornery gave Glacial’s hand a squeeze even though he knew she had slipped back into the darkness. The poor girl was hanging on by the narrowest of threads.

Miss Emmert pulled Ornery close as a green-skinned demon entered over the threshold, dragging the Snowy Maiden behind it.

“Crystalia!” Ornery screamed, but a Frigid Knight knocked him back.

“Remove those two from the altar, but keep them close,” the demon hissed. The Knights jerked Miss Emmert and Ornery away from the Ice Princess. Ornery bellowed as Glacial’s hand slipped from his own. Luckily, the Ice Princess was still unconscious. The demon jerked Crystalia along and began binding her legs to the altar. The Snowy Maiden seemed in a daze and did not struggle against the demon’s restraint.

“A Drakol Priestess. I should have known,” Miss Emmert said with a sneer.

“Yes, you should have,” the demon answered without turning back.

Miss Emmert took a step forward, but a Knight blocked her path. “Do not do this, priestess. No matter what Winter’s minions have promised you, the Winter King cannot deliver.” The demon ignored his mother’s words, so Miss Emmert continued. “Look at him! He has no sense left, no honor.”

Ornery looked into the Vortex. Miss Emmert was right. The blurry picture of the other realm was that of insanity given form. The Winter King railed against his boundary. Frigid air would burst from the Vortex in fits and starts. With the Storm Gate closed, the volatile air had nowhere to escape. The room strummed with the bracing wind. The icicle chandelier above them swung precariously overhead. If released, the Winter King would most likely destroy his own Citadel.

The demon shrugged as she worked the knots on Crystalia’s ankles. “He is no concern of mine.”

Miss Emmert implored. “The Winter King will gnaw on your people’s bones like the rest of us.”

“Why do you think I have kept you alive? It is certainly not for your company.”

Ornery looked to his mother, who had paled. Even her hands shook. Miss Emmert’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “You would not.”

The demon laughed wickedly. “You do not think I would eat all your hearts? Consume your raw magick and use it to invoke the Aegis for my people against the Winter King’s destruction? You truly have underestimated me, woman.”

Ornery nearly gave a little cry as his mother’s fingers dug deeply into his shoulder. He did not need to ask Miss Emmert if the priestess was bluffing. By his mother’s response, Ornery knew the demon could do exactly what she proposed. The Drakol could unleash the Winter King and destroy all other life, leaving her people to rule the frosty world.

* * *

At first, Crystalia had honestly been shocked into compliance. It was not easy watching your best friend be decapitated, only to be revived as a horrible demon, but somehow the Snowy Maiden had managed it. Now though, she lay in wait. Traven and the rest could not be too far behind. Her palm itched as the Hero neared, closer and closer. If she pretended to be submissive, the demon had not bothered to disarm her. Not that the tiny knife was much protection, but the way it burned in her hand, the Snowy Maiden knew it would be of use.

Crystalia wished Miss Emmert would say something, anything, to keep the Drakol occupied. The longer the demon took, the more likely the Hero would arrive before Crystalia was sacrificed. Not that she planned on submitting any too quickly to the priestess’s blade.

“Do not!” Miss Emmert screamed, but it was too late. The Drakol had unceremoniously grabbed a sword and sliced Crystalia’s wrist. Blood spurted out of the deep cut in her left forearm.

“Spill your blood, Maiden! Open the Vortex!” the demon raved.

Crystalia did not even think. She just raised the knife and plunged it deep within the Drakol’s green eye.

“Add your own to the mix,” Crystalia said through gritted teeth. The Maiden drove the knife in with all her might and ground the blade against the back of the eye’s orbit.

The Drakol’s inhuman scream filled the chamber. Crystalia pulled out the knife and targeted the other eye, but the priestess stumbled back out of range.

“Crystalia, behind you!” Ornery shouted, drawing the Snowy Maiden’s attention to the Vortex behind her. The milky opaqueness was gone, and through the glasslike surface she could see the Winter King. His glistening crown was askew, and his face was contorted in madness. Snow-white hair billowed out around his manic visage. Thick eyebrows nearly obscured his frosty forehead. His eyes glowed with an unnatural blue. The mad god howled against the slim, invisible barrier that kept him trapped on the other side. As more of Crystalia’s blood swirled with Glacial’s blood, the magickal shield thinned until it seemed the Winter King would burst right through. Using her dress, Crystalia tried to staunch the gash in her arm, but the flow was too great. Instead, the Snowy Maiden began hacking at the rope around her ankles. Perhaps she could get away from the altar and forestall the process.

* * *

“Child, it is your blood that opened the gateway. It is you that can close it,” Ekoli said to the Snowy Maiden.

Traven charged through the door, heedless of the danger. He had heard Crystalia’s scream and could not stop his feet’s forward movement. Inside the Throne Room, the Hero found disarray. The Drakol priestess was venting her ire upon Miss Emmert. Ornery’s mother was lifted off her feet by the demon’s clutch hold.

“Sele!” Holt shouted and tried to take flight, but Ekoli held him back.

“No, we must go to the Snowy Maiden!” the Fallen Goddess cried out over the rush of wind.

Despite the Griffins joining in on the attack of Miss Emmert, Traven had to agree with Ekoli. The Hero knew his place was at the altar. It was there that the fate of the world would be decided. Traven raised his sword, charging forward with a battle cry on his lips. The group launched itself towards the Icy Throne, but only a few of them made it through. Traven, Holt and Ekoli rushed to Crystalia and Glacial’s side, but Pale and Corpse were rebuffed. It appeared there was a magical shield that prevented their entrance.

“Assist Ornery!” Traven shouted over the din before turning to Crystalia.

“I must get away from the altar!” the Snowy Maiden yelled as she cut away the last of her lashings. Crystalia tried to flee the area, but she was held by the same force that had denied the wolf and dead man’s entry.

Traven ripped off his sleeve and used it to tie off her bloody wound. The bleeding was stopped, but so much blood had already been split that it appeared that the Winter King was only moments from crossing through the Vortex. Traven swore he could feel the god’s cold breath upon his neck. The tip of his sword lowered as his mind raced. There was no way to close the Vortex once opened, or was there?

* * *

Crystalia groaned inwardly. She had used every ounce of cunning and resources to reach this point. The Snowy Maiden had nothing left to give. A shout drew all their attention to Ornery. The boy flailed at the Drakol, but the demon would not release his mother. The Griffins seemed a bit reluctant to enter the fray but were circling, awaiting their moment to pounce on the Centaur.

The Frigid Knights hung around the edge. Not yet engaged in battle, but with weapons bristling the Knights seemed ready to attack. The frozen warriors inched forward as the Drakol unleashed her frustration on Miss Emmert. The woman was flaming with magick, but the demon seemed only to feast on Miss Emmert’s efforts.

Pale and Corpse, unable to breach the altar’s magickal shield, rushed to Ornery’s side, but Crystalia knew they would not be enough to turn the tide. If something was not done, and done now, her friends would be slaughtered.

“The hand. Use the hand!” Traven whispered in her ear.

Crystalia dug Corpse’s hand from her dress and raised it high overhead. “Hear me, Knights.” All of the warriors eyes turned towards her, but what was she to say? She could not free these men of their shackles. No, but she could use their belief to her advantage. “Bathe in the Drakol’s blood, and you shall be sanctified!”

A wave passed through the Knights, but they held their ground. Even the Frigid Knights were reluctant to attack the raving priestess. Crystalia reared back and dug deep within her fear and angst to produce the most scathing tone. “Now!”

Upon her word, the legions broke and swarmed towards the demon. The Griffins roared and turned on their previous Knight allies. The Drakol dropped Miss Emmert and reached her hands up to the ceiling in supplication. The clouds that had been swirling formed into a single great cloud-mass, crackling with energy.

“No!” Miss Emmert screamed and threw herself at the demon, but it was too late. The words of power were spoken, and the clouds rained down Fire Toads.

Crystalia watched in horror as the disgusting creatures assaulted the Frigid Knights. With their hot skin, they burned into the warrior’s flesh, but did not kill the Knight. Soon, half the warrior hosts were writhing in agony upon the icy floor. Everywhere the Fire Toads touched, the ice began to melt. The once-smooth, glass-like floor was now marred with pocks filled with puddles of steaming water. The Drakol priestess did not care how she desecrated the Winter King’s Throne. The demon was mad with power and lust.

* * *

Ornery shielded his face as another of the toads leapt towards him. His sleeve caught on fire, and he had to squelch the flames upon the icy floor. Miss Emmert was lying off to the side, unconscious, or so he hoped. He did not think he could go on if he knew his mother’s limp form was truly dead.

“Fight, boy!” Corpse yelled as he tossed Ornery a short sword.

He had never used a weapon such as this before, but Ornery did not hesitate to skewer the next toad that jumped his way. It was a little like trolling for night crawlers. Pale and Corpse concentrated on the two Griffins, while Ornery kept them guarded from the menacing Fire Toads.

“Yes, fight, little boy,” the Drakol priestess hissed as she picked him up by the neck. Ornery flailed and struck out with his sword, but the demon’s skin seemed impervious to his blade. Almost casually, the priestess flicked his weapon away.

“You cannot hurt me, half-breed.”

Despite her arrogant words, Ornery noticed blood running down her face. Ornery saw the damage Crystalia had done. Focusing with his mind, Ornery transformed his fingers into a single edge and plunged his newly formed weapon into the priestess’s other eye. The howl of pain nearly deafened him, and he was thrown clear as the demon lurched away. The remaining Frigid Knights took the advantage and began hacking at the disoriented Drakol.

All was not won, though, that Ornery knew. From the altar, he could hear the awful sound of the Winter King’s madness. And at the center of it all stood Crystalia and Traven.

* * *

Traven’s mind raced. Nothing was happening as it was supposed to. The Hero would far prefer to be battling the Frigid Knights than wrestle the Winter King. He had known this moment would come, but now that he was face to face with the old god’s power, Traven realized there was no way to beat the Winter King once he entered this realm. The only solution was to close the Vortex again.

“A sacrifice must be made. The only payment accepted by the Fates is that of life. Life and blood is the coin of the Fate’s realm, for they have neither.”

The Hero chewed on his Granny’s words. They were not related to the story of the Siege, but he could feel the truth in the passage. Had not the parables been mixed and out of order? Since it was Crystalia’s blood that had opened the Vortex, only her life could close it. But how to offer her life to the Fates, without spilling any more blood? From the way the Vortex bulged and flowed, it looked like only another drop was needed to shatter the slim barrier between planes.

Traven looked to his left. There stood the Vampyr. Suddenly, the ramifications of the creature hit him. There was a way to offer a sacrificial body, drained of blood. It was the reason Holt had been drawn here.

Even knowing the complete rightness of his words, Traven still had difficulty speaking them. “Crystalia must sacrifice herself to—”

Ekoli shook her head. “Sacrificial blood will only—”

Traven raised his hand. “Nay. There is another way. Holt will…” The Hero could not finish the sentence. He could not pronounce the words that sealed the Snowy Maiden’s fate. Traven could not meet Crystalia’s eyes as she searched his face for an explanation.

“Let it be me. My blood was mingled,” Glacial whispered.

“What? I don’t understand,” Crystalia asked.

Holt’s voice was thick and rough. “I am a Vampyr, Maiden. I can drain your body before the offering. The princess is offering her life for yours.”

Ekoli shook her head. “Nay, it will take them both.”

* * *

Crystalia was so very confused. It was bizarre enough to imagine this creature that stood before her was the man that she had met at Madame Hesper’s Mansion so many days ago, but to think of allowing him to feed off both her and Glacial made her head swim. The battle that surged outside the shielded altar did nothing to help calm her.

The Hero shook his head, violently. “One will suffice.”

“Can you not see the pattern, Hero?” Ekoli asked. “The prophecies seem so tangled because the Princess and Maiden are but two halves of the whole. Only together did they provide the energy necessary.”

Not caring that she looked like an ill-tempered child, Crystalia stomped her foot, interrupting the Hero and Goddess’ argument. “It is me you are talking about! Explain this to me!”

Ekoli took her hand. “Child, centuries ago, while I was still the Lady of Light, I was feeling generous and gave many endowments to the world. The Princess and Maiden were but two.”

Traven suddenly seemed to understand and blurted out, “You created them the same night! With the moonlight to weave the spell, their fates were bound from that moment forth.”

The Fallen Goddess nodded sadly. “Even I did not realize their powers were so intertwined. This must be the reason the fables are so inconsistent.”

The Hero nodded, but Crystalia was still not clear on what they meant. The only thing still clear in her mind was that she needed to die today, with Glacial, if there was any hope to save the world. As Traven and Ekoli still discussed the dynamics, Crystalia looked around her. She was not quite as terrified to die as she might have imagined, but she was deeply saddened that this was the last sight she was to see.

Miss Emmert’s still form was smoldering from the Fire Toads. Pale and Corpse were barely holding their own against the Griffins, and poor Ornery was trying to keep the entire Citadel from melting to the ground. If one had to die in service to the world, Crystalia thought she should at least be able to see the Flowering Meadows or something a bit greener and to her liking than this.

Calmer than she ever thought possible, Crystalia turned to her companions. “If this must be done, let us do it now.”

This statement quieted the argument.

The Vampyr, however, stepped forward. “There may be another way.”

* * *

Holt could not believe what he had just said. Why had he not kept his thoughts to himself? Holt was averse to say more, but the group looked at him with anticipation.

“Ekoli.” Holt’s voice strangled in his throat. “You gifted them. Might we not find some way around their sacrifice?”

“If I were still empowered, I might have been able to avoid…” The Fallen Goddess’ voice trailed off. Finally, Ekoli voiced what Holt could not. “I can die in their stead. I do not know if my sacrifice will satisfy the Vortex’s need, but if it does not…”

“Then Holt could claim Glacial and Crystalia.” The Hero finished Ekoli’s sentence.

Crystalia shook her head. “I cannot ask you to do this in my place, goddess. If it is Fated, then so shall it be.”

“This is not the last crisis the world will ever know. There are many more tales for you to live yet, Snowy Maiden. I am not of this place. It is time for me to return to the spirit realm.”

Holt felt hot tears burn in his eyes. This could not be. To find such pure love and then have it snatched from him? What if she bore their child? What of his embryonic plans for the future?

“Don’t. There must be another way.”

Ekoli put her hand upon his cheek and the chaos around him receded. Holt could no longer hear the clash of battle behind him, nor the rage of the Winter King that was but a few inches away. His whole world was reduced to Ekoli and her words.

“This human skin does not suit me, Holt. I will never feel at home here. I must return—”

“It will not be the same! You will be forever confined to the Blizzard Realm.”

Ekoli soothed his features with her fingers and spoke calmly to him. “Aye. But I will be free of this fleshy prison. Let me do this, I beg of you.”

Holt could not stop the rush of tears. “Do you not love me enough? What of your womb? We still do not know if you are sacrificing another with yourself.”

The goddess’ face clouded, but her resolve was firm. “I have loved you more than any other, Holt, but I do this for the world. I am not meant to be here. We are not meant to be.”

The clash of fighting broke the intimacy, and Holt could see that the flow of battle was not going their way. They could spend no more time debating. The time for action was at hand.

“Hero. Be prepared,” Holt warned. “Once I feed, you might have to protect against me.”

Traven nodded and kept his sword aimed at the Vampyr. Holt allowed the bloodlust to fill him. To drain Ekoli completely would take the Vampyr’s hunger. Holt feared the human side of him would shrink from finishing the gruesome task before it was completed. Ekoli wrapped her arms around his waist, offering her neck to him. Her pulse beat so strongly under her skin that it was almost easy for Holt to sink his teeth into her flesh. The goddess gasped, and her body arched into his as Holt drank from her artery.

The blood was hot and fresh, pouring into his mouth almost faster than he could swallow. The Vampyr reveled in the feeding orgy and begged for more. Holt lost himself in the sensation of the blood frenzy. He did not even pause as he felt Ekoli’s heartbeat slow to a stop. He did not stop sucking even when her flesh shriveled under his lips. The Vampyr drank until there was not another drop left in the goddess’s body.

And Holt wanted more. Turning to the rest of the group, the Vampyr knew he could have it.

* * *

Traven could sense the change in Holt. The Vampyr’s eyes were completely gold and black. There wasn’t a fleck of blue left in them. Holt had succumbed to the Curse.

“Get her body in the Vortex,” Traven shouted to Crystalia as the Winter King raged against the invisible barrier. The Hero did not stop to check and see if the Maiden complied with his orders. Instead, he stepped forward and raised the point of his sword. “Holt. Rein in the Vampyr.”

The winged creature ignored Traven’s plea and charged forward. The Hero knocked the Vampyr’s claws away but could not gain the leverage to take a swing himself. Holt flew up and over their heads and dove towards Glacial. Prostrate and gravely wounded, the Princess would be an easy victim for the Vampyr. Charging, Traven tried to knock Holt away as the creature grabbed at the Ice Princess, but the Vampyr’s grip was too tight. Luckily, the floor shook so violently that Holt’s balance was thrown off, and Holt fell to the side.

Traven clung to the altar as the whole Citadel rocked. He knew the sound that was wailing from the floor. It did not take Pale’s frantic sending to alert him to the newest threat.

The Voltaic.

* * *

Crystalia tried to ignore the room’s movement, but her eyes were drawn to the center of the chamber. From a huge crevice in the floor tentacles sprang and waved around. The Snowy Maiden did not wait to see what followed. Instead, the girl dragged Ekoli to the Vortex. She could not look up into the Winter King’s face, however. For if she looked into those mad eyes, she might not have had the nerve to come so close. Struggling with the dead weight, Crystalia felt her muscles cramp. The goddess was far heavier than she looked. Finally, she pulled Ekoli close enough so that Crystalia might push her into the Vortex.

Was there not some ceremony that should be performed? Should the Snowy Maiden not chant some words of sacrifice? But Crystalia remembered the way the Drakol had just slashed the Snowy Maiden’s wrist to open the Vortex in the first place. This gateway did not seem to care for pomp and circumstance. Saying a word of thanks under her breath, Crystalia rolled the body off of the altar and into the Vortex, but it would not go. At least, not completely. The unclothed portions of the body slipped past the clear barricade, but the fur coat Ekoli wore prevented the rest of the body to cross. Around the skin that had pierced the Vortex, wind hissed through and blinding snow whipped through the tear. The Winter King pressed up against the barrier, distorting the Vortex’s interface. He was so close now that Crystalia could feel his breath upon her skin.

Dear gods, what had she done?

* * *

Traven raised his sword, ready to cleave the head from this Vampyr, but the ground shook again, and a mighty blast of wind escaped the Vortex. Despite the danger from Holt, Traven turned just in time to witness the Winter King pierce the Vortex. Half in the mortal world and half still in the Blizzard Realm, the old god bellowed his fury. The Citadel shook in a way that not even the Voltaics could produce.

“Crystalia!” the Hero shouted. The Snowy Maiden had been thrown back by the Winter King’s partial escape. Ekoli still lay across the threshold of the Vortex. There would be no containing the old god until the Fallen Goddess was completely past the Vortex.

The Snowy Maiden lifted her head, looking dazed. Traven watched her try to rise, but Crystalia nearly swooned again. The Hero’s hand clenched his weapon, but there was naught he could do to help the girl. For but a few feet away, the Winter King howled. Finally, face to face with the old god, Traven felt Destiny’s hand give him a nudge forward. Prophecy was fulfilled. A culmination of a life’s hopes and dreams settled down into this moment and awaited Traven’s response. Did he have it in him to battle the Winter King himself? Was his arm strong enough to raise his sword against the old god?

Traven was going to find out. Hefting his weapon over his head, the Hero struck a mighty blow at the old god. Traven cried out in pain as his blade clanged against the icy visage. His arm was so badly shaken that his sword slipped from his numb fingers. Dropping to his knees, Traven realized his worst fear. In a moment of clarity, with the world now swarming with snow and bitter wind, the Hero realized that there was no blade on earth that could hurt this god. The Winter King’s face grew in size and contorted with a madness that was unheard of in the mortal world. Traven might as well use his blade to slash his own wrists, for it would be no good against the power that raged before him.

Through the din of destruction, Traven felt the slightest sending from Pale. All was not lost.

You are prepared.

Was that the wolf’s voice or Granny’s? Did it really matter? Traven was not prepared, not even close to being ready to take on this threat. They needed Miss Emmert’s spells or the Drakol’s magick to vanquish a power of this magnitude.

You are prepared.

Damn, would that voice not be silenced? It might be nice to make his peace before the Winter King completely crossed the threshold and tore everyone into ribbons.

You are prepared.

More out of disgust than hope, Traven turned inside himself to answer the nagging voice. Ignoring the chaos around him, the Hero dove deeply into his mind. If there was anything within his memories or subconscious that would be of help, now was a good time for it to reveal itself.

“Finally! I thought you’d never want to play,” Loplop said, smiling that childish grin of his. The boy’s black hair was tousled by the raging wind, but he did not seem to mind.

“Loplop, please. Please, help me,” Traven near begged.

The boy looked askance at the Hero. “Why would I do that? I’m trying to win this game too!”

Traven reached across to the child and took his hand. “No, Loplop. I need help to fight him.” The Hero nodded towards the seething old god. In his present state, Traven could no longer hear the howl of the wind or the screams of battle, but he knew they persisted. He did not have much time.

“You can’t fight him!” the boy exclaimed, as if he was stating the obvious. “He used to play, ya know, not too bad neither. But he’s not quite right, ya know?”

“Yes, Loplop, that’s my problem. How do I do battle against him?”

The boy cocked his head and asked in all sincerity, “Are you stupid or something?”

Traven had to restrain himself from yelling at the boy. Friends all around him were falling, and they all might be dead within a matter of moments. The Hero did not need to be reminded of how inadequate he was. Traven knew the world was going to die because he simply was not Hero enough.

“No, you are just slow. Next time, only invite me if you are ready to play!” Loplop said before he vanished again.

The Hero nearly pitched forward. Sobs clutched his chest, and he found it hard to breathe. The child had been his last hope of finding an answer.

“Traven!”

The Hero did not have time to see who warned him. He only had time to throw himself to the side. The Winter King howled and surged forward from the Vortex, freed at last from the Blizzard Realm. Traven felt his sweat ice over. The room sucked the heat from his body. Pushing himself up, the Hero turned to face the old god. Here, the Hero would die, cowering in the corner.

* * *

Crystalia was near panicked. The Winter King was risen, and the world was about to know his frigid touch— and all of it was her fault. She had not gotten Ekoli across in time. The Snowy Maiden had created the breach that released the mad god from his prison. Crawling over to Ekoli’s body, Crystalia felt her life’s heat being sapped from her. For a brief moment, the girl worried about Corpse. He would not last long under these conditions. Who was she fooling? No one could survive this intense cold.

Modesty be damned, Crystalia thought as she ripped the clothes from the Fallen Goddess. Perhaps if she could just get Ekoli across, the woman could help lure the Winter King back across the Vortex. Fingers near frostbitten, Crystalia tore the last undergarments off. Before the Snowy Maiden lay the goddess’s naked body. Crystalia’s hand was drawn, almost against her will, to the Fallen Goddess’ stomach. Even though Ekoli’s body was certainly dead, shriveled from the loss of blood, Crystalia could sense a life within that belly. Not knowing what she did, or why, the Snowy Maiden asked for forgiveness and blessed the tiny life.

But she could hesitate no longer. Traven faced the Winter King himself, and Crystalia knew he was doomed to fail. It would take both the Snowy Maiden and The Man Who Did Not Know to end this frigid threat. With an awkward shove, Crystalia pushed Ekoli’s body across the Vortex. Once the last of the goddess’s flesh was beyond the barrier, Crystalia witnessed a miracle. Ekoli’s body rose from the ground, swirling in a stream of light. Her form lost its definition as her skin transformed into a thousand twinkling lights. Ekoli was a Goddess Reborn.

Then the screaming began. The goddess’ gleaming face twisted into a scowl, and her painful wailing penetrated every corner of the Citadel. Crystalia backed away from the Vortex as it began to throb and warble. Crystalia began to cry. She had only made the situation worse and doomed Ekoli to an eternity of torture. It was only her body’s survival instinct that caused her throw herself out of the Vortex’s range.

* * *

Everyone was knocked from their feet as the Vortex began spinning on its axis. The room thrummed with unstable energy. The force-field that had once kept the Hero’s group trapped next to the Icy Throne burst in an ear-splitting explosion. The Vortex shattered into a thousand tiny shards. Traven tumbled down the steps, his dirk knocked from his hand.

Bouncing to his feet, the Hero grabbed the limp form of the Ice Princess and yelled to Crystalia. “Run!”

The Hero’s warning must have penetrated the Snowy Maiden’s shock, for the girl turned on her heel and chased after Traven. The Vampyr was nowhere to be seen, so the Hero made a path to the rest of his companions, praying that it was not too late. Even the Winter King seemed shocked that the portal to his Icy Kingdom was destroyed.

There might be hope yet. The Winter King was severed from the vast reserves of power that lay in the Blizzard Realm. He was still a god, and mad beyond reasoning, but the Winter King was no longer master of this Citadel. The old god began grumbling and mumbling to himself as he rummaged through the remains of his Vortex.

The room was suddenly quiet. The wind seemed to be hiding away, fearful of what might happen next. While the air could not be called warm by any means, the frigid cold that sapped one’s soul was gone. The Fire Toad’s damage now became a serious problem. Without the fuel of the Blizzard Realm, the Icy Citadel was now vulnerable to heat. Tiny puddles became deep ravines in the ice floor. The entire room was rapidly crisscrossed with streams of water.

Traven leapt over a small channel and rejoined his companions. Crystalia was not far behind. Carefully, the Hero laid the Ice Princess down next to Miss Emmert. Both were still blissfully unconscious. Pale and Ornery looked relived to have the party reassembled. Holt, though, was nowhere to be found.

From the look, the Frigid Knights had taken the Snowy Maiden at her word and had rent the Drakol priestess into a thousand pieces and were literally bathed in her green blood. The once pristine white warriors were now soaked in the demon’s blood. One Griffin lay dead, and his injured mate had retreated to the back of the chamber, holding up a wounded paw. Even the Voltaics had stopped their wave of destruction. The tentacled trio stood motionless in the center of the room, their antennae waving frantically in the still air.

Everyone waited— waited for the Winter King to declare himself.

* * *

For a brief moment, Crystalia hoped the old god would come to his senses. Perhaps the loss of his Blizzard Realm and the destruction of his Icy Throne would shock some sense into the Winter King. Almost immediately, the Snowy Maiden’s hopes were dashed. The old god rose from the remains of his Icy Throne. He pointed a sharp finger at her party.

“You must all die!” The Winter King’s eyes flared with blue madness. By now, the old god towered over the room. His white crystal crown scraped the towering ceiling. He turned to the Frigid Knights. “Kill them!”

“No!” Crystalia screamed and held up Corpse’s hand again. The gesture seemed feeble against the Winter King’s might, but she could not let everyone die because of her failing. The Knights surged forward, but the sight of the hand held them back. Still, almost against their will, their sword arms raised in menace.

The leader of the Knights neared Crystalia, torture clear in eyes. “Free us now, or it will be too late.”

How Crystalia wished that she could, but the Snowy Maiden was without a clue as to how she might help these Knights and herself.

Ornery nudged her. “Look at the floor. Some of the Knights are at rest.”

Crystalia tore her eyes from the mighty host standing before her and scanned the floor that was littered with bodies. Most of the damaged Knights, no matter if they still had a head or not, still tried to rise and fight. A lucky few bodies scattered amongst the rest seemed to be at true peace. The icy shell that encased them was gone, and blood seeped from the wounds. But why those and not the others? What was the key?

“Now,” the Frigid Knight implored, both hands now gripping his sword, ready to bring it down upon her head.

In the bright glare of the Winter King’s presence, the cold steel bands that encircled the Knight’s wrists glinted. Without thinking, Crystalia raised the Hero’s knife and hacked at the metal bands. They were rings of confinement, the Snowy Maiden finally realized. The steel bound their spirits to their frozen bodies. Those on the ground, now freed of their servitude to the Winter King, had lost both their hands. Their bondage to the King was severed. But the metal ring was too sturdy. Crystalia did not think, given a hundred years, that she could break through the bonds.

Suddenly, it came to the Snowy Maiden. It was not The Hanged Man’s hand they needed to sever— it was the Frigid Knights’. Only then could the warriors be put to rest. Shoving Corpse’s severed hand in her pocket again, Crystalia grabbed the Knight’s arm. “Trust me.”

The warrior’s face clouded, but he did not flinch from her touch. “Hurry. I cannot hold back much longer.”

With a great swipe of her blade, she cut off the Knight’s right hand. As the steel band fell to the floor and clanged against the ice, the warrior fell to his knees. Red blood oozed from the wound. Dropping his sword, the Knight held out his other wrist. “Thank you.”

Swallowing hard, Crystalia took another blow, but this time did not cut the hand off cleanly. “I’m sorry. Oh, I’m sorry,” the Snowy Maiden said as she chopped away at the frozen flesh.

“Here, allow me,” Traven said. In one clean arc, the Hero severed the hand. A look of sheer joy passed over the warrior’s face as the second confinement ring slid from his wrist. With their leader down, the other Knights milled. Though still dangerous, hope shone very clear in the frozen warrior’s eyes. If their leader was freed, could they be?

Traven raised his sword high above the throng of warriors. “Take your comrade’s hand and—” The Hero did not have to finish his sentence. The Knights readily cut off each other’s hand. “Now the other.”

* * *

It was strange to watch these fearsome warriors face off against one another, but Ornery was glad for it. He had watched them tear the Drakol to pieces and did not wish to have their swords turned on his party. It was bad enough that both Miss Emmert and Glacial were near death. He could not imagine taking on this host and having anyone survive.

In one swipe, the entire army of Frigid Knights fell to the floor, their spirits free to enter the Cloudy Kingdom. Ornery breathed a sigh of relief, but realized he might have been premature. All eyes had been on the Frigid Knights. Ornery had nearly forgotten that the Winter King still loomed behind them.

The cold air became quite still, except for the old god’s breathing. For each inhale, the room seemed nearly drained of air. With the exhale, you were nearly bowled over. The Voltaics’ antennae waved frantically, then balled up. In a single instant the three gruesome creatures dove back into their fissures, fleeing the Throne room. Ornery took it that this was not a good sign.

* * *

The moment had come, Traven realized. They had danced around this event, but finally he must face the Winter King. Grabbing the fallen Knight’s sword, the Hero lifted the weapon in hand. Perhaps this cold steel could pierce the old god’s form. Even though the Winter King was cut off from his Blizzard Realm, power and strength still flowed through his being. Thick white eyebrows were knit together in fury. Deep was the Winter King’s rage. Before the old god could gather himself, Traven whisper to Crystalia, “No matter what happens, try to flee with the others.”

The Hero could not turn to see if the Snowy Maiden obeyed him. Instead, Traven crossed his swords in front of him and charged forward, a war-cry upon his lips. He was half way across the room when the Hero knew, deep in his gut, that this was not going to be effective. The Winter King took in a long breath, then blew it out. The wind that ripped from the old god’s lips whistled with a deafening pitch. The frigid blast froze Traven’s boots to the icy floor. With a single finger, the Winter King reached out and flicked against the Hero’s weapons, shattering the metal. If Traven had not released his grip, he was certain his arms would have been equally destroyed. Firmly stuck in place, the Hero could not run as the Winter King’s form pulled in close. The cold was sickening as the old god neared Traven.

“You will make a worthy plaything,” the Winter King sneered as he examined the battle-weary Hero.

Plaything? Traven’s mind spun. What had Loplop said? Not waiting for his mind to catch up with his mouth, Traven blurted, “I challenge thee!”

The old god’s laugh was tainted by lunacy. “Go ahead, little man.”

Traven dug through his pockets and pulled out the game pieces Loplop had given him. “A game of…” Traven stalled. What had the boy called the damn game? Pale sent a single word, and the Hero repeated it. “Conquest.”

The Hero nearly pitched forward as the Winter King reeled back, sucking all the air with him. Traven coughed a bit and tried to catch his breath. The old god towered over the Hero. Blue fire in his mad eyes. “You think yourself my equal?”

Traven pulled himself upright and tried to sound as brave as Granny had said The Man Who Did Not Know always sounded. “The game will decide.”

The Hero tumbled backward as the Winter King hissed his discontent. Traven was pleased to see that he had unsettled the old god. It was about time that the Hero actually made an in-road.

“Begin.”

Putting the pieces down into a pile, Traven rolled the die. With no surprise he obtained a two— the only number on the die. Tentatively, the Hero reached out to the pile. He could pick any two game pieces, but which two? Back at the Shaman’s room, Traven had simply grabbed willy-nilly. He had no real idea how to play this game. How he wished Loplop would appear, but try as he might, the Hero could not reach the imaginary little boy. Traven was on his own. Closing his eyes, the Hero picked up his pieces— a small bit of dried apricot and a miniature vase. By the Winter King’s wicked smile, Traven assumed he had not picked as well as the Hero would have liked, but there was no pressure. Only the fate of the entire world rested on his selection.

* * *

Holt clung to the shadows and watched the proceedings. The Vampyr’s lust was nearly all-consuming. The winged creature could make no sense out of the strange game that the Hero and Winter King were playing. If it did not involve blood and gore, the Vampyr had no interest. He only wished the frigid god would leave and allow the Vampyr’s wings to defrost so that he might fly away to find more prey.

“Holt,” a familiar voice whispered. The Vampyr frowned. He was Holt no longer. The human had died with Ekoli.

“Holt. I have need of you,” the voice implored.

An itch in his leg became insistent. Scraping his skin with his claws, the Vampyr found a shard of the Vortex lodged in his muscle. Pulling it out, Holt went to throw it down when the fragment spoke to him again.

“I am here. I need you to look with human eyes.”

It was a furious struggle, but Holt reclaimed his vision. In the tiny shard of the Vortex, he could make out the blurry image of Ekoli. Only she was no longer in human form. The goddess’s skin once again glowed with the beauty of the night sky. Only her face was contorted in pain.

Holt caressed the fragment as if it were her skin. “What is wrong?”

“Holt.” Ekoli nearly moaned his name as she reached out with her hand. Their fingers could almost touch through the magickal interface, but not quite. “It is too great a story for now, but know that all is not as it seems. The Winter King cannot help himself. This Realm is infected, infested with…” The goddess paused. “Someone means to destroy the seasons themselves.”

“How can we stop them from—”

“Nay. That must come later. You must return the Winter King to this Realm, or it will collapse. We will have lost Winter. The other seasons would topple shortly thereafter.”

Holt looked over towards Traven and the old god. The Winter King had shrunk from his towering height down to the size of a large man. Still the old god would not go back willingly. How were mortals to drive him back?

“Ekoli, how—”

“It is all I can do to keep this fragment of the Vortex active. Make the Winter King touch this shard and force him back through. Once he has passed into the Blizzard Realm, destroy this shard. It is the only way.”

“But what can we…” Holt’s voice faded as the image of Ekoli drained from the shard. Had she already lost the Vortex? Was it completely closed? There was only one way to find out. As the Winter King leaned over the game pieces, Holt unfurled his stiff wings and took flight. He would make sure the old god touched this fragment— and in the most painful way possible.

* * *

Traven was concentrating so hard on his accumulated pieces that he barely noticed the Winter King’s next roll. Instead, of the usual two, the old god had rolled a five. The Hero’s head snapped up. “You have cheated!”

The Winter King’s eyes were fierce and defensive. “The dice changed on its own.”

Traven jumped to his feet. “Nay! You tainted the die! The game is forfeit. You have lost.”

The old god did not look like he was going to take losing gracefully as he raised his hand to strike the Hero. Traven ducked, but not from the Winter King. Out of the corner of his eye, the Hero saw the Vampyr streaking towards them. The old god let out a howl that nearly deafened the Hero. Holt was thrown clear, a wing shattered.

Slowly, as if the old god could not imagine being harmed, the Winter King felt his back. From deep in his form, the old god pulled out a tiny sliver of glass. The Winter King frowned, then bellowed at the party. “You shall pay!”

Before the old god could make good his words, the shard bloomed to life, becoming a narrow, shimmering doorway.

“No!” the Winter King cried out and threw the fragment from his hand. The piece skipped across the ice. The doorway still stood open, but the Winter King was nowhere near it.

“You must force him into it,” the grievously wounded Vampyr lisped.

But how? Traven thought as the old god turned back to finish meting out his punishment. The Hero cringed as the Winter King once again raised his hand in fury.

* * *

Crystalia could watch no longer. She knew the Hero had implored her to flee, but she could not. The Winter King howled his rage and charged towards Traven. Not knowing how she was going to do it, Crystalia sprang forward to halt the old god’s progress. The Snowy Maiden was so scared and so upset that she could feel heat radiating through her body. The ice melted beneath her feet, making it difficult to run quickly.

“Stop!” she cried as she cut across the Winter King’s path. To her surprise, he did. Not only did he halt, he backed away from her. Flushed with excitement, Crystalia felt her palms burn. Her lifeline wavered and pulsed. “Get back to where you belong!”

The Winter King seemed to recover from his initial startle and edged closer to her. “It will take more than a little warmth to drive me back.”

Crystalia realized he was right. Pouring all of her energy into her body, the Snowy Maiden felt herself burn with heat. Just as she had done to warm herself after the Quicksnow and the avalanche, the Snowy Maiden radiated a near baking heat. The Winter King stumbled back. “You cannot…”

Pushing the warmth in front of her, Crystalia erected a heat shield before herself. “I can.”

The air jumped and shimmered before her as the waves of heat pounded outward. The Winter King cringed from her heat’s touch. Crystalia backed him further and further towards the open Vortex. The old god howled his rage, but took no steps forward, only backward. Finally, his back touched the glowing doorway.

“This is not over. I will rule this world! I will—” the old god was cut off as Ekoli’s spirit hands grabbed the Winter King by the hair and jerked him back into Blizzard Realm. Wind screamed and shrieked around them, but the Winter King crossed the threshold back into his own Kingdom.

“Destroy the shard.” Holt’s weak voice carried over the now thick silence.

Crystalia ran over and picked up the tiny fragment in her hand. Despite the intense pain, she dumped all the heat she could generate into the sliver of Vortex. Soon it warped and melted, making a puddle of useless glass. Lightheaded and weak beyond imagining, the Snowy Maiden swooned to the ground.

* * *

Traven was first to Crystalia’s side, beating even the fleet-footed Pale. The girl’s hands were a bright red, and already they had the look of blisters. As carefully as he could, the Hero took ice chips and bathed the Snowy Maiden’s hands. The girl sobbed softly as he worked.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Crystalia shook her head and tried to look into his eyes, but her damp hair covered her eyes. She tried to push the hair away, but even the backs of her hands were scalded by the magickal heat.

“Here,” Traven said as he brushed the locks aside.

A little smile came to her lips, even though her eyes were brimming with tears. “I did it… I really did it…”

Without thinking, the Hero leaned forward and kissed the Snowy Maiden’s forehead. “Yes, you saved us all.”

The girl blushed and leaned against his shoulder. Traven was amazed at how his body responded to the Snowy Maiden’s presence. Was it prophecy or true emotion that drew them together in this moment? Shattering the stillness, a rumbling came from beneath the floor. The Voltaics must have sensed the Winter King’s departure and were returning to finish their hunt.

Traven yelled to the others, “Move!”

The Hero had intended to take the stairs down, but Pale sent a clear image of the shattered steps. There would be no descending that route. Traven turned to Corpse. “Is there another way down?”

The dead man shook his head. “You are asking the wrong man, Hero.”

Holt stumbled forward, his broken wing dragging on the ground. “From the sky, I had spotted an icy rampart that connects to the mountain range. We might be able to cross that to safety.”

Traven appreciated the man’s words, but how were they going to get out of the Citadel? With the Storm Gate closed and the stairwell blocked, they were trapped in the icy tower.

* * *

Ornery set Glacial down. The others were wrangling over how they might breach the thick ice.

“Can Crystalia melt our way through?” he asked, surprised the others had not thought of it.

Traven kneeled next to the Snowy Maiden. Ornery could see the concentration on the girl’s face, but quickly she cried out. Her hands were too badly damaged to take the heat again. The room shook as the Voltaics neared. They would come crashing through any moment, and the shape the party was in, they would not hold out a minute against those giant creatures.

Instinctively, Ornery stabbed at one of the few remaining Fire Toads who had leapt too closely to Miss Emmert. Would these things never die? As the ice floor melted under the Toad’s body, Ornery knew he had the answer. “Quickly, everyone! Grab a toad!”

Picking up the still-squirming amphibian with his knife point, Ornery ran over to the north wall and ground the Toad against the ice wall. Slowly but surely, the heat ate away at the thick wall. “Hurry! We need more.”

Traven, Holt, and Corpse scoured the room for more Toads as Ornery melted a passageway out. Pale whined next to the boy. The wolf had no way of capturing the Fire Toads without himself being burnt.

“Drag the women over, Pale.”

Crystalia was already awkwardly trying to lift Miss Emmert from the floor. Ornery turned back to the wall. It was too hard to see his mother like that. To see the Ice Princess so limp was almost as bad. No, he had to concentrate on the wall. Soon, as the men added more Toads to the group, a veritable waterfall coursed down the wall. They would only need a few more minutes, and they would be free of the Citadel.

* * *

With Pale’s help, Crystalia maneuvered Miss Emmert towards Ornery. The Snowy Maiden wished she could do more, but in her current level of pain, it was all she could do to stay conscious herself. It felt like her hands were still aflame, but really it was her forehead that burned the most. Where Traven had kissed her still pounded and throbbed. Even though she knew he had only meant it as a show of a comrade’s affection, Crystalia could not dampen her body’s response. The Hero could still make her heart sing.

The floor shook again so violently that Crystalia had to fall to her knees to keep her balance. An ear-splitting sound rang through the chamber. It was the timbre of frozen floor splitting open. If they survived this ordeal, Crystalia hoped to never hear the sound of ice cracking again. This time the Voltaics were fast out of the crack that they had created, scrambling towards the Snowy Maiden’s party.

“Hurry!” Ornery said as he swiped the Fire Toads against the ice. He had made a hole, not very large, but all the way through to the stormy night.

Shoving as hard as she could, Crystalia pushed Glacial through the opening. Pale had left her side to rejoin Traven, who was in combat with the Voltaics. The sounds of battle rang through the chamber, but Crystalia kept her mind focused on the task at hand. The Snowy Maiden could do nothing more as a weapon, but she could help speed their escape. Peering out into the blizzardy night, Crystalia wondered if they might not be as safe staying to face the Voltaics.

* * *

Holt’s shattered bones screamed each time he lunged or sliced, but what was he to do, hang back in the shadows and allow his companions to be slaughtered by these enormous creatures? He would have time enough to pamper his broken wing once they were free of this blasted Citadel. He would hate this place until he took his last breath. Holt had lost his love this night. To compound his loss, his sister was struck down, perhaps so grievously that she might never awaken.

But grief would have to wait as the battle raged on. The Voltaics were all tentacle and claw. No matter how many times you struck the damn beasts, they simply sprouted a new and uglier appendage. The fight was beginning to feel futile. Right now, there only hope was to delay the creatures long enough so the others might make an escape.

Beside him, Pale fought valiantly. The wolf’s claws and teeth flashed in the dim light. The Vampyr within Holt admired the lust and sinew that the wolf threw into the fight. Holt’s own bloodlust was high. He wished to simply bare his fangs into the Voltaics and suck the life from them, but their skin was coated with the foulest-tasting secretion, preventing him from gaining a purchase.

“Go!” Traven yelled and waved everyone towards the opening Ornery had created. Corpse screamed something back, but the words were unclear

Holt took another slice at a waving tentacle and answered Traven. “Not without you.”

The Hero was brave and a glorious champion. However, he was a horrible liar. “I will join you.”

Holt closed the distance between them. “It is all or none, Traven. You cannot hold them alone.”

“Will you get out of the way!” Corpse shouted, this time loud enough to carry over the fighting.

Holt looked over to find the dead man was hefting a battle-ax with the only hand left to him. The Vampyr within him refused to give up the fight. Holt still slashed and tore even as Corpse flung the ax, but the trajectory was not towards the Voltaics. Instead, the weapon flew upwards towards the ceiling. Too late, Holt realized the dead man’s plan. The ax severed the icy chain that suspended the huge icicle chandelier. The spiked sconce plummeted to the floor.

Pale knocked Holt aside as the sharp points speared into the Voltaics. Scrambling to his feet, Holt surveyed the damage. One Voltaic was dead, and the other was deeply wounded. Their companion wailed in grief.

“Run!” Ornery shouted from the hole in the icy wall.

Holt nodded to Traven. It was now or never as the floor shook again. More of the infernal creatures were on their way. Remaining a moving target was their only hope.

CHAPTER 36

Traven turned and ran. There was nothing pretty about their retreat. Nothing that the Hero would want his mentors back at Mount Shrine to witness, but it got them across the room before the other four Voltaics burst through the icy floor.

“Go!” Traven screamed as Ornery waited by the opening. The young boy threw himself out the hole. Pale and Corpse shimmied through after. Holt had a more difficult time with his broken wing, but finally cleared the narrow passage.

The Hero lunged for the opening, but a tentacle caught his boot. Without even turning around completely, Traven sliced the offending limb from his foot and jumped for the hole. On the other side, the Hero was greeted by a bitter wind. Containing the Winter King had done nothing to ease the intense cold outside the Citadel.

Fanning out in front of them was a broad sheet of ice that sloped away from the Citadel. The slick surface ended at the base of the surrounding mountain range. It was a steep grade, and the climb down should have been handled with great care. Unfortunately, they did not have the time for such finesse. From the gnawing sounds emanating from the other side of the wall, they did not have much time to make their escape before the Voltaics broke through. Traven reached down to pick up the still form of Miss Emmert, but Holt stopped him.

“I will take my sister, Hero.”

Traven did not bother to argue. Glacial was already in Ornery’s arms, leaving the injured Snowy Maiden without an escort. Traven swept Crystalia up into his arms. “Hurry.”

The Citadel shook so violently that the Hero feared that the icy castle would crumble before they had reached safely. No one had to be encouraged as they fled down the slippery sheet. At first Traven ran, but quickly his feet lost traction. Flailing, the Hero kept Crystalia safe but fell hard on his arse. Once Traven was off his feet, he could not control his descent. Soon, everyone was slipping and sliding down the swath of ice.

“Wahoo!” Corpse yelled as he skidded past Traven. It seemed the dead man enjoyed their wild ride down the slope. The Hero was not so excited. Granted, they were rapidly pulling away from the Citadel, but now they careened towards the ragged mountains. Those rocks would be unforgiving if they should smash into them at their present speed.

Shifting Crystalia’s weight, Traven positioned his sword so that it scraped against the ice. The maneuver slowed them greatly, but the Hero was certain that the edge of his blade would never be the same. With the exception of Corpse, everyone else followed suit and slowed their descent.

Pale’s claws began to bleed from the strain, but the wolf kept his nails dug firmly into the ice. The only problem was that Pale kept spinning around in little circles as he slid down the sheet. The wolf had such a look of distress on his usually noble face, that Traven wished that he could help, but the Hero was a bit occupied with his own descent. Traven had never been much good at sledding, even as a child, let alone doing it on his breeches.

The Hero felt the trembling of the ice sheet far before he heard the sound. Looking back over his shoulder, Traven watched as the Citadel rocked and swayed. With one final, deafening crack the Winter King’s castle split in half. The tall spires leaned and pitched for a moment as if they were made of fabric. Finally, the strain was too great, and the top of the Citadel tumbled down. Huge blocks of ice crashed onto the sheet of ice they were descending. The chunks hurled down the icy slide, rapidly gaining on Traven’s party.

Pulling his sword out of the ice, the Hero warned the others, “Full speed!” They would have to worry about the rocks, if and when they got that far.

* * *

Ornery clung to the weak Princess. Things were bad enough. He did not need to lose hold of Glacial, too. They were near the base of the mountain, but even that was not good news. The chunks of ice were right behind them. If Ornery and the rest did not kill themselves upon colliding with the mountain, the ice blocks would surly crush them like a hammer on an anvil.

“This way!” Corpse gleefully called out. The dead man had skidded around a corner where the ice flowed between mountain slopes. Ornery followed the sound of Corpse’s laughter. Looking behind him, Ornery watched the rest of his companions brake and bank to the right. Willing his fingers to once again form a claw, Ornery dug his nail into the ice and changed course. The gap in the rocks was narrow, and for a brief moment, Ornery closed his eyes, certain that they were going to hit, but they did not. Instead, they slid down the cramped, curved slope, gaining speed.

“I’d slow down if I were—” Corpse warned just before he careened into a sudden dead end.

Ornery wrapped his legs around Glacial’s still form, transformed both hands into hooked claws, and buried them deep into the ice. The noise his claws made was atrocious, but it slowed them enough so that they stopped just inches from the stony wall. The others were lucky as well and halted short of the dead end. The sound of the ice blocks smashing into the mountainside echoed off the small canyon. It took several minutes before the area was quiet again.

Corpse rolled over and moaned, “Remind me not to feel quite so invincible next time.”

* * *

Crystalia sprang out of the Hero’s arms. It was not that she didn’t like the feel of Traven’s arms around her. It was that she feared she would grow too accustomed to it, and Crystalia could not make the same mistake again. She was the Snowy Maiden now, not some love-sick girl. Crystalia would carry herself like the lady that she had become.

“We need to seek cover,” the Snowy Maiden said, trying to sound very responsible.

“My sister and Glacial need attention,” Holt slurred through his pointy teeth.

Traven nodded but urged them all up. “We all need rest, but we need shelter more. This blizzard is just winding up. It will worsen during the night.”

“Which way do we head?” Ornery asked.

Everyone answered in unison. “South.”

Crystalia shrugged the Hero’s helpful arm. “My legs are fine, Traven. Help Holt with Miss Emmert.”

The Vampyr rebuffed Traven’s offer, but after a few steps in the knee-high snow, Holt allowed the Hero to bear the burden of carrying Miss Emmert. It took some cajoling from Crystalia, but Holt finally agreed to ride the White Wolf. Ornery was surprisingly reluctant to relinquish carrying Glacial as well, but Corpse needed another body to warm his own, so in the end, Ornery had lifted the Ice Princess into the dead man’s arms.

The hike out of the canyon was silent except for the howling wind. Without the glow from the Icy Citadel, the world was a pitch black. Only by the feel of the rocks could they guide their descent into the mountain range proper. It seemed that hours dragged by, but Crystalia was certain it was not even a full hour before her legs began cramping.

Ornery was the first to admit the futility of their current progress. “This is getting us no closer to shelter. Is there not a Fold nearby or something?”

Crystalia snorted a bit. Did the boy think that Folds were littered about in the most convenient of spots? But she was as cold and fatigued as the rest of them, so she stopped along with the rest of her party to discuss their course.

Traven shook his head. “The Folds are hidden to all but a few. Even Pale is aware of only the Cider Fold’s location. It is like looking for a snowflake amongst a blizzard. We would be better suited searching for an animal’s den or burrow to crawl into.”

Palm itching, Crystalia rubbed her hands together. Was she getting frostbite already? The Snowy Maiden was so sore and cramped that she did not think she could start upon the trek again. Perhaps they should just curl up here and hope they survived the night. Freezing to death, she had heard was sort of peaceful, for a way to die that is.

“You two are the saviors of the world. Don’t either of you have a clue about the Great Mysteries?” Corpse asked, sounding quite disbelieving that he had fallen in with such an uneducated crowd.

“Maybe Glacial knows?” Crystalia asked.

The Hero shook his head. “I do not think she does.”

“But you said she opened the Cider Fold.”

“Pale is the one that found it for her.”

Crystalia slumped. It had been such a good idea. Leaning up against a rock, the Snowy Maiden rubbed at her hands again. Why were her palms acting up so badly? Burns had never itched like this before. The wind raged, and snow blew into her nose, making her nostrils cringe. The longer they delayed, the less she felt like trying. Where did they hope to find shelter, out here in the Great Barrens?

Palms stinging so badly, Crystalia finally bent over and stared at them in the darkness. The lines of Traven’s sexton glowed a faint red. So faint that she feared it was an illusion made by the deep scalding of her palms, but there was no mistaking the Hero’s symbol. The Snowy Maiden would know it anywhere.

Glacial moaned as Corpse readjusted her weight, but Miss Emmert made no sound at all in Traven’s arms. Perhaps the older woman was the luckiest of them all. She did not have to endure this fateful decision. Either choice most likely left them for dead.

Would her hand not stop itching? Despite the sting of her burns, Crystalia took her nails to the skin and scratched hard and fast, trying to quiet the nagging sensation. Instead, itching the area made the faint glow bloom into a brilliant red. The symbols radiated with such light that they might be able to navigate by her palm’s illumination.

Reinvigorated by the find, Crystalia held out her hand. “Look.”

* * *

Traven stared at the Snowy Maiden’s palm. She was right/ The light was growing with each moment, but what good would it really do them? The wind was blowing with such force that it nearly snatched their words away. The ache in his ear was getting so bad that the Hero was afraid his hearing would be lost soon. The wound on his thigh ached, and he could feel each and every injury of Pale’s. Taking a look around at their tattered party, Traven realized they could travel no further tonight.

“Hey, I’ve seen that symbol before,” Ornery said as he examined Crystalia’s palm.

Off-handedly Traven answered, “It is my Hero’s emblem.”

“No, this one. It was etched in the Fold’s room where my mother and I visited.”

Looking more closely, the Hero was not so certain. “There was nothing like that in my room.”

Pale came over and nosed the Snowy Maiden’s hand. The wolf agreed with the boy. The symbol on Crystalia’s palm was from the Cider Fold. But what of it?

“Perhaps it means something,” Crystalia said quietly. “Maybe it is a map.”

“Guiding you to me,” Traven replied, a bit too harshly. He did not want anyone’s hopes raised, especially not his own. “That is what the spirit sexton is for.”

“Hello? Has anyone else noticed that there are seven defining symbols?” Corpse stated as he studied the sexton.

“Yes, but—” The Hero stopped short. Traven had assumed the strange markings on Crystalia’s palm were some ancient symbols for the directions on a compass, but maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were something else altogether. “Corpse, you think the sexton’s position is guided by the Seven Folds’ location?”

Corpse shrugged. “It’s the best theory I have heard so far.”

Traven nodded his agreement, but how would they use this information? “We need at least two points to make a wild guess and three spots to triangulate any sort of precise location.”

Corpse shook his head. “Not necessarily. Look. We just came from True North. Hero, where was the Fold in relation to the Citadel?”

Traven told the dead man as much as he knew, as Corpse scribbled in the snow, transforming Crystalia’s palmful of jumbled symbols into a map more like the Hero was used to studying.

“Using this knowledge, and the fact that we know the Folds are equidistant—”

“We know that for certain?” Traven asked, unaware of that fact.

Corpse only shrugged. “They are equidistant on her palm. I say we take that as fact.” Corpse drew a few more angles then hopped back up to his feet. “Look, if we take all those variables into account, a Fold should be right here!” The dead man drove his stick deeply into the map.

“But that is just a bit away,” Ornery said, doubt thick in his voice.

Corpse smiled at his snowy creation. “I think I was cartographer before, well, you know.”

Traven did not waste any more breath before giving the command. “Let’s march.”

* * *

Holt cringed with each stride the wolf took. It was not Pale’s fault that the ride had become bumpy. The snow had gotten quite deep, and the poor wolf was nearly bounding with each step just to get over the drifts. Holt’s Vampyr skin was fairly impervious to the cold, but he could tell the others did not fare as well. They had best find this Fold before the blizzard froze them in place.

His sister was by far the worst of the party. Only through his heightened senses could he tell that Sele still lived. But in the end, it was Holt who was in the most danger. Sunrise could not be too far off, and there was scant shelter from its rays. With dawn rapidly approaching, it was a constant struggle to stay in control of his bloodlust. With all the fear and smell of sweat, the Curse cried out to be answered. He could drink the lot of them and complete the transformation. The Vampyr could fly despite the pain of his broken wing. The beast had no sense of the impossible. Vampyrs did not understand the concept of moral dilemmas. They only asked to survive, nothing more. Holt’s human life was so much more complicated.

“It should be right around here,” Corpse stated as he stopped.

The map upon Crystalia’s hand was beginning to fade, so the girl scratched at it to bring it to light. That young, tender wrist looked ripe for his teeth. The girl did not seem to notice the Vampyr’s enrapt attention as she regained her bearings. They had hiked from the rocky slope into a small set of foothills. The meager protection the mountainside had offered was sorely missed. The wind ripped even at Holt’s thick, ruddy skin.

“Holt, give it a try,” Traven said, a mixture of hope and doubt in his voice.

Gingerly, he dismounted the White Wolf. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Holt held out his hand and walked forward, but nothing happened.

“Try to the left,” Corpse prompted.

Holt did as directed, but still no Fold door was forthcoming. Everyone gave him a direction to try, so that very soon he was walking around in circles. Holt knew he looked the fool, but how else was he to do it?

Crystalia lightly touched his arm. “Here, let me try.”

The girl closed her eyes and raised her palm to the wind. She murmured something, but even Holt’s Vampyr ears could not make out what she said. The sexton began to glow brighter and brighter until it bathed the snow in a bright red glow. “It should be here,” the girl said, her voice thick with pain. Illuminating the sexton must have cost the Snowy Maiden greatly.

With not much hope, Holt held out his hand. This time he felt a slight tingle up his arm. His lips formed the word, “Enter.”

* * *

Traven stood in awe as a warm, gentle light beamed from the Fold’s entrance. No matter how many times the Hero witnessed this sight, it would forever make his heart skip a beat. The walls were draped with a yellowish-orange plant. It was quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. The ground looked like it was made out of granite, but the entire floor was a huge mural, made up of the swirling of the rock. It was one of the most beautiful sights that the Hero had ever seen. After a single breath, where everyone stood enrapt, Traven herded them inside. The Hero had not complained a wit about Miss Emmert’s weight along the difficult hike, but he was about ready to drop her, his arms were so fatigued. Stumbling into the shelter, the Hero made certain everyone was within the Fold before he set the woman down.

Corpse followed suit with Glacial then stretched his arms. “Now this is more like it!”

Traven smiled foolishly at the dead man. He could not agree more. The Hero had not realized how stiff the wind had been until it was gone. The silence of the Fold was almost shocking after the constant howl of the blizzard. Everything was so very perfect.

“You never learn, do you?” a high-pitched voice shouted from down the hallway. Traven wiped the snowflakes from his eyes as the voice continued. “It wasn’t bad enough you destroyed my Fold. You thought you might do the same to the Granite Fold?”

The Hero still smiled. Even the sight of the Faery warmed his heart. “Emerald! We have need of healers. Two of our party are gravely injured.”

The Faery buzzed up to Traven. “I’m not surprised, given the fact that they travel with you.”

Behind Emerald a group of strange beings followed. They looked human but were small and bent over. Their hands were gnarled. Their faces pushed in.

“Ugh, not Dwarves!” Corpse exclaimed and backed away.

Traven’s hand instinctively went to the pommel of his sword. “Are they a danger?” the Hero asked.

Corpse shook his head but kept backing away. “How would I know? I just don’t like the look of ‘em.”

If Traven had been any closer, the Hero would have punched the dead man. Traven knew from firsthand experience that insulting the Fold’s Guardian only brought you sorrow.

* * *

Ornery felt like he was walking through a dream. The Dwarves had led them to a large chamber painted all in brown and red. Streaks of gold coursed along the walls. There was enough wealth in this room to make them all rich, yet the Dwarves had never disturbed the delicate veins of precious metal. Already, he liked these Dwarves.

He liked them even better when they treated his mother, Glacial, and Crystalia with such respect and kindness. Each of the women had been laid out upon a bed of plants. At first, Ornery had been frightened by the herbs’ strange properties, but now he was used to the leaves caressing the women’s wounds. The Faery had called them Tender Sprouts, and he could see why. The boy did not like Emerald much more than he did before, but he was happy to enjoy her hospitality. Ornery did not want to dwell on how badly his body hurt or on all that he had lost today.

Glacial gave his hand a squeeze. “Is Miss Emmert awake yet?”

Sadly, Ornery shook his head. “No. The Dwarves are uncertain when she will awaken.” Ornery did not bother to add that the Dwarves were uncertain if his mother would live, let alone awaken.

“Tell me more of your people,” Glacial whispered through her split lips. The Sprouts had done a miraculous job of warming the Ice Princess and bringing some color back to her cheeks, but most of her wounds would be longer in the healing.

Ornery smiled. He would be happy to share his heritage with her. After all was his wish not fulfilled? With the room quiet and the lights dimmed, Ornery murmured to the Ice Princess. Her eyes closed, and sleep brought a peace to her features. A hand squeezed his shoulder.

“You should get some rest yourself,” the Hero said.

The boy had forgotten that Traven was still in the room. Pale nosed Ornery, urging him up from his chair. “But what if my mother comes to?”

The Hero rose and helped Ornery to his feet. “I will take over here and summon you if Miss Emmert stirs in the least.”

The boy could barely keep his eyes open, but he objected anyway. “How will we know if—”

Pale retreated from Ornery’s side and hopped up next to Miss Emmert. The bed was not that wide, and it took some careful maneuvering for the wolf to snuggle up next to her, but he was successful in the end. For a moment, Traven frowned, but then a smile bloomed to his lips.

“Pale is speaking to her now, in her mind. The wolf will know when she rises from the darkness.”

Ornery still wavered, but Glacial must have sensed his total fatigue, for the Princess’s eyelids fluttered open, and she added her agreement to the Hero’s. “Please, Ornery. Go. I will feel better knowing you are resting.”

That was the final straw for the boy. Ornery gave one last squeeze to Glacial’s hand. He petted Pale on the way out and planted a tender kiss on Miss Emmert’s cheek. “I love you, Mother.”

* * *

Crystalia felt tears spring to her eyes as she watched Ornery kiss his mother good-bye. She would never get to kiss either of her parents good-bye ever again. How she wanted to fall asleep like Glacial, but her mind would not stop churning. Her life was no longer her own. Before the Icy Citadel, a part of her still fantasized about returning to Last Hitch. Thinking of her father and Viola, Crystalia could imagine that she was still the same girl as before. Now, after the demon had sprung from Viola’s skin— all that was gone. How much of what the Drakol priestess said was true? Had Viola always been a demon?

The Vampyr had said that her father was one of those Drakol too. Had she been raised in a town of demons? How much of her boring life was all a carefully constructed lie? When you could not even trust your past, it made the future all the harder to bear. Who was she? Now that the Winter King was defeated and the Vortex smashed for all eternity, what role did the Snowy Maiden have?

Oh, her head ached to match her burnt skin. Did the Dwarves have a calming ointment for her mind? If they did, the Snowy Maiden would certainly try some. Crystalia was so deep in thought that she did not notice Traven pull up a log stool and sit down between her and Glacial. His voice had a certain amount of false cheer. “And how are we doing?”

Crystalia murmured an answer. It was too painful to see the Hero right now. He too strongly reminded her of Last Hitch, but Traven had the strangest look upon his face. It nagged at her until she had to speak.

“What is it?” Crystalia asked.

Traven shook his head and looked puzzled himself. “Nothing.” The Hero placed a gentle hand on her arm and another on Glacial’s hand. “Nothing at all.”

Crystalia did not believe the Hero, but nor did she press him on the matter. She allowed him to keep his own worries. The Snowy Maiden had enough of her own.

“Now, if you thought those Centaur stories were good, just wait until you hear my Granny’s version,” Traven said, a smile back upon his face.

The Snowy Maiden had meant to sort all this confusion out in her mind, but the comforting sound of the Hero’s baritone lulled her thoughts. To Traven’s deep voice, Crystalia felt herself drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Madame Hesper stumbled forward, numb, yet still in pain. The sun was barely over the eastern horizon. She searched the snowfields, but could see no one around. The medium checked to the north, but the black, brooding storm front had truly dissipated. Surely, the Winter King was vanquished?

“He was never the problem, you sap,” a tinny voice admonished.

Madame Hesper could not see her accusers, but she spoke anyway. “But it was the Winter King who was the—”

“He was noisy and rattled his chains, but the Winter King was the least of your worries,” a third, shrill voice added to the berating.

Madame Hesper groaned as three beings materialized before her. Their shriveled female forms were hard to look at. “You are the Lamia?”

With a broken-toothed sneer, the closest being answered. “We prefer Harridans as—”

The second of the hags cut in. “We prefer not to be bothered with mortal concerns.”

“Then why have you summoned me here?” Madame Hesper asked, trying to keep her tone respectfully neutral.

The third Harridan spat at the snow. Where her spittle hit, the snow steamed and hissed. “Because it’s your fault we’re in this mess. We figured it only fitting that you be the first to know.”

Madame Hesper waited for a moment, but none of the hags explained. “Know what?”

“The seasons are stricken. If you do not reverse their course, all will be lost.”

The first Harridan hissed, “Even those of us who have had no hand in this outrage will succumb. That is how far-reaching this cabal has spread.”

Madame Hesper did not believe the hags for a moment. Despite their looks, the Harridans were powerful sorceresses who had transcended their human flesh. “What do I need to do?”

“Fix it!” the three shouted.

“How?”

“How should we know? It is you who awakened the Snowy Maiden too soon. It is you who made Ekoli fall. By your actions, you have not only destroyed the Cider Fold, but the Icy Span as well.”

“You must have some idea—”

The third sorceress spat again. “Spring is dying. She had been poisoned. If she should waste away, there will be no hope of revealing the underpinnings of this mystery.”

“Now be gone. We tire of your company.”

Before Madame Hesper could argue, the Harridans vanished, leaving her out on the Barren Flats with not much more clue as how to proceed than she had before. Turning, she faced the north and began walking. Madame Hesper knew there would be no other answers out here on the Plains.

* * *

The Hero found that he had missed retelling the stories from his Granny. They had somehow salved his battered soul. He was almost too tired to even recognize how exhausted he was.

The healers had tried to urge him out of the room, but Traven had insisted on staying. He was not quite sure why. Everyone else was asleep. Even Pale had tired of his mindspeak with Miss Emmert and had fallen into a deep slumber. Instead of following suit, the Hero stayed seated.

Gently, he patted the two girls’ arms. For some reason, which seemed to be beyond Traven’s understanding, he could not leave their sides. Glacial kept him in her thrall by sheer presence. Even battered and bruised, the Ice Princess could charm a snake out of its skin. The Snowy Maiden, though, drew him to her like a warm spring breeze. The hint of comfort and bliss were Crystalia’s scent. His heart and attention was divided between the two.

What had Ekoli said back at the Icy Throne? The two girls were halves of a whole. But what did that mean to Traven? The Hero chuckled to himself. In the grand scheme of things, he doubted very much if the Fates had factored his affections into the weaving of their web. Only time would tell which way his heart led him, if it led him anywhere. Over the years, Traven had quietly become afraid that he could not love, for of all the girls, of all the women he had known, none had captured his heart. Until now.

Shaking off his folly, Traven began telling his fables again. Even though there was no one to listen, the Hero spoke aloud, if for no other reason than he needed to hear them again. For even though they had defeated the Winter King, Traven’s gut told him the crisis was not over. Granny had dozens of stories that went far beyond the reach of the Icy Citadel. He was certain she had not told those tales for nothing.

Traven knew each one of those legends held a kernel of information that could mean life or death in the future. The Hero swore he would not go into combat again so poorly prepared. His Granny had taught him well, and Traven planned on learning equally well. The Hero searched for a grandly stirring tale, but all his tired mind could come up with was The Lovers’ Pact.

Traven had always eschewed those romantic tales, but somehow, with an all-female audience, he felt it might be appropriate. The Hero’s mind slipped back in time, back when Granny would be spitting ‘bacco into her brass spittoon on the porch. She always loved to tell this story with a bit of fog in the air and mist covering the autumn ground.

Clearing his throat, Traven tried to do his Granny proud. “Lover’s pacts aren’t to be taken lightly. No, they’s ain’t! You don’t tell no woman or man that’s you loves them and then wander off— especially not the Snowy Maiden. The Man had already broken her heart once. if he dids it again, there would be no redemption.”

Granny chewed on her corncob pipe and watched her grandson try and tell the tale. That boy still couldn’t get storytellin’ for his life. Her snort caused the scrying pool to ripple, distorting the view of the Granite Fold.

Traven had best listen to his own words, or all would be lost.

The Rush: A prequel MoonRush Short Story featuring Mia

CHAPTER 1

The silver Mercedes taxi came out of nowhere and almost ran Mia over, jolting her out of her thoughts. Literally. As she slammed a hand onto the offending car hood, her hand got zapped. The latest in hover car technology. They could now protect themselves from “abuse.” Right. Just a new way for taxis to be even more obnoxious. The driver just smiled as she shook out the sting. No use in getting upset. By the time she could think of a comeback, the driver was long gone, merging into the second tier of traffic, and even if he wasn’t, he was French. Very little chance he would take anything an American said seriously. Ah, Paris.

Mia was crossing the Quai des Tuileries, coming from the river Seine on the Pont Royal, headed toward the Musée du Louvre—arguably the most famous museum in the world. Also one of the few that had not kicked Mia out and politely asked her never to return.

She tossed a glance behind her, feeling as though eyes were on her back. It was a stupid instinct, of course. She was just a Ph.D. student, who the heck would be following her? Well, with what she had in her purse, fellow scientists might want to; however, most of them were more accustomed to white lab coats instead of trench coats. Even so, Mia hurried toward the Porte des Liones entrance situated along the far southwest corner of the museum.

Clasping her jade scorpion necklace to keep it from bouncing, Mia crossed the remainder of the street with a bit more caution, dancing between mothers with strollers, clearly on a play date missions, and the subdermal tattooed beatsters. She hadn’t had a chance to really use her martial arts training given her hectic schedule, so Mia took time to enjoy the solo sport of crowd dodging. Funny to think she’d originally fought her parents tooth and nail on going to the dojo, but they’d insisted; if she wished to…gasp…live abroad, she needed to know how to protect herself. Now she couldn’t imagine life without what her sensei called “thoughtful strength.”

At the entrance to the famed museum, Mia waved her pass across the holographic scanner and was dinged right in. She nodded at the virtual security guard—Selle, she thought his name was—as he looked down and frowned at her well-worn loafers. Even the holograms in France were pretentious. Shaking off his virtual disapproval, Mia walked up the steps to the first floor. From behind, a group of tourists shoved past her with little or no regard for her presence. They were like the Visigoths invading Rome, only without the manners.

The Mona Lisa will still be there, Mia wanted to shout, but it was the Louvre, after all.

She put her hand inside her purse to check that the device about to rock the world’s notion of art and man was still inside. The MedScan 4, supposedly a simple device to perform CAT scans out in the field had been modified to do so much more. The changes she had made to the program were working fantastically well. Too well. Like revolutionarily well. Through the grad student grapevine, Mia had heard stories of innovations of this magnitude being targeted by corporations and even hostile governments. It might be 2049, but greed was still alive and well.

As she dug around inside her purse, a postcard worked its way to the surface. A postcard she had meant to send to her family last week. At this point, it would be easier just to hand it to them. She was going back to the States to visit for Chinese New Year in four days.

Four days. 96 hours. 5,760 minutes. It was like an old-fashioned time bomb ticking down in her head. Now the tightness in her chest and feelings of absolute doom made sense. It wasn’t some nebulous international conspiracy to steal her scanner. It was plain ole family phobia.

Now if she were married, pregnant, and could present her Ph.D. degree to her parents, kind of like her two sisters, then Mia would be in the clear. However, there was no gold ring on her finger, and last time she checked her belly was unoccupied, and well, her doctoral thesis had hit a sticky patch.

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” a kindly voice murmured as the woman tried to move past Mia.

“Ce n’est pas un problème,” Mia replied, grateful for her undergraduate minor in French. She scooted to the side, the brief encounter bringing her back to her purpose here. Yes, her thesis had basically been blown out of the water, but that was before the modifications to the scanner. Now? She could smell the job offers once she published the results.

Time to get some baseline scans. Mia felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as she pulled the device out of her purse and passed it across the head of a man trailing along at the back of the pack. She made the pass quickly, pulling the scanner down by her side as soon as she could.

Mia peered down at the reading. Impatience. Irritation. Exhaustion. Probably dragged along to the museum by his wife. He certainly was no art lover. Mia scanned another, this one an older woman. Excitement. Anticipation. Exhaustion. Well, they certainly had one thing in common. Perhaps it was the tour guide. The buttoned-down young lady at the front of the group did seem to be…determined.

As Mia studied her device, the group slowed and she almost bumped into her subjects. She stowed her scanner with some trepidation, glancing around to make sure no one had seen. She really didn’t want to get kicked out of the Louvre, too.

She circumvented the group, giving the tour guide a surreptitious scan as she passed. Aggression. Wait. Could that be right? Mia checked the scanner again. Definitely aggression, with little or nothing else. Mia stared at the guide, taking her in more fully. Tallish, blonde hair that was almost platinum, ice blue eyes, and a lean profile. What an odd thing. But so far the scanner had been precise in not just picking up brain waves, but quantifying them. Giving Mia an insight into not exactly what people were thinking, but how they were feeling. Sometimes a much more valuable measure of a person.

Leaving the group and its odd readings behind, Mia took the next set of stairs at a brisk pace. The morning would soon be over and she wanted to have at least a little bit of research to show for it.

As she exited the stairwell, she barely missed running into a large man in an army green coat. So much for her martial art skills keeping her out of trouble. Mia really needed to pay better attention. She turned to apologize to the man, but found his jaw clenched and his fists balled. She took a step back, then as quickly as the fury had risen, it faded away, leaving a look of apparent bewilderment.

“I to apologize, miss. I was not to know I standing in way.” The man’s heavy accent sounded French, with a hint of something else. Belgian, perhaps? His smile was strained, but at least he was trying to be polite. More evidence that he was Belgian.

“It was completely my fault,” Mia said, inching away. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.” As soon as she passed the man, she swiped her scanner past his head, then kept moving.

Not until Mia rounded a corner and headed down the long walkway, passing by the Spanish paintings, did she stop to read the scan. Anger. Worry. Determination. Each one of those results was completely contrary to his words. But she was so new at this. Maybe that’s just how one acted in polite society. You were pissed off on the inside but kind on the outside?

Shrugging off the inconsistencies and deciding to scan only art patrons from now on—she did not want to explain these anomalous readings to her Ph.D. advisor—Mia continued down the long passageway filled with the Italian paintings, working her way from most recent to oldest. Rounding the next corner, Mia found herself in front of Véronèse’s The Wedding Feast at Cana. As luck would have it, there was a couple standing there holding hands, their backs to her.

Perfect. These were her kind of subjects.

Mia glanced around, making sure no one else there could see what she was doing, then pulled out her scanner and approached the happy couple. To get a full read, she had to get close enough for the scanner to pick up the brainwaves, but stay far enough away that she wasn’t setting off anyone’s creep alert.

One advantage was Mia’s years of martial arts training. Moving quietly maybe wasn’t something that was taught to the white belts in most dojos, but if you spent enough time working with masters, you picked up a few skills along the way.

She scanned the woman first, moving in diagonally behind her, as if Mia were trying to get closer to a detail in the painting. Truth be told, this wasn’t one of Mia’s favorites, but you grabbed the scans where you could. Mia stepped back to read the results.

They were pretty standard for what Mia had been finding overall with fine art lovers. Increased dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine levels along with increased activity in the cerebral cortex. Peace and pleasure, along with a boost in the overall feeling of intelligence.

Another exploratory pass left Mia with information on the guy. The results were fascinating, if not outright hysterical. Sex. That was pretty much all the scan showed. Sex, heavy on boredom with a smidgeon of irritation. Apparently, this man was here at the museum only as a ploy to get the young woman into the sack with him. For shame.

Thinking this through, Mia realized this could be another application of the scanner. Use it as a dating tool. Scan your guy for sex thoughts. Is he there for love or for lust? The commercial copy practically wrote itself.

Then, finally, perhaps her parents would lay off. Maybe if she were financially successful enough, they’d forget she was single…and apparently, according to her mother, barren. Their feeling was if they were lucky enough to live outside China and its one child rule, you’d better make the best of it. At this point Mia was pretty sure her parents would totally embrace a grandchild out of wedlock.

Mia only had one thing to say to them. Not. Going. To. Happen.

Then the couple shifted and murmured, looking as if they were getting ready to move on. Time for Mia to go as well. She had learned this from painful experience. Staying in one area scanning patrons for too long was what contributed to invitations to never return to said institution.

As she started packing away her scanner, she saw another patron enter from the opposite side, moving toward de Vinci’s Mona Lisa, where Mia was headed next. The visitor was a man that looked to be in his late forties, dark hair peppered grey at his temples. He was wearing a black mock turtleneck with well-pressed Chinos and ebony loafers, the picture of aging European masculinity. The man was walking slowly, but with precision, his eyes directed straightforward rather than observing the artwork on either side. Maybe Mia had time for one more victim.

Perfect time for a walk-by scanning. Timing it with precision, Mia transferred the device from the hand on the far side of the patron to her closer hand just as she passed him. She then swiped the scanner up the man’s spine and around the back of his head before flipping it back into her purse. Mia picked up her pace, not slowing until she neared the Mona Lisa.

Ducking into an alcove, Mia checked the scanner to see what she had picked up. Should be another good baseline model for her to use for her “control group.”

Aggression.

This was getting weird. One strange reading like that in a day was not unusual. Even two wasn’t enough to raise Mia’s hackles. But that plus the guy in the green coat? Maybe there was something in the air. Mia had certainly woken up on the wrong side of the bed, but she doubted a scan of her brain would show that she was likely to engage in violence any time soon.

Shaking off the negative trend, Mia moved on to the Mona Lisa display. As usual, there was a fair-sized crowd surrounding the mystery woman with the provocative smirk. While the crowds would normally make her life more difficult, Mia found she had much most of her success around the more famous paintings. Since everyone there was busy with their vid-discs and camera drones, one more unidentified device amongst them didn’t usually raise anyone’s guard.

It was also possible to get much closer to someone without looking like a stalker. The only issue in spaces like these was getting a clear scan on one individual. It required some innovation and creative posturing at times.

Once she gathered enough beauty, peace, and universal love readings to rescue her faith in mankind, she headed up to the second floor where the French paintings were housed.

As she entered the older part of the Louvre, Mia passed through the area where the temporary exhibits were housed. This month’s exhibit was the world’s largest collection of star diamonds. Mia rolled her eyes at the crowds that were gathered to peer at the tiny shards of rainbow-colored mineral. Seriously, they were like a murder of crows, flocking around a shiny object.

Mia had heard that a star diamond chip that measured less than a twenty-fourth of a carat had just sold for a million and a half US dollars. What kind of insanity was that?

Even the way they had to be mined by hand seemed barbaric. Star diamonds could be found only up on the moon, where asteroids filled with the shiny crystals had struck on the dark side. They were undetectable by any kind of location technology tested up to this point. In order to find the little suckers, diamond hunters had to pan for them the same way miners had done back two centuries ago during the Gold Rush, with the addition of spacesuits and oxygen tanks.

Stepping through the crowds, Mia was jolted with another thought. What if she scanned the brainwaves of the patrons here? She could demonstrate that the star diamonds were invoking a more primitive animal response, versus the more elevated cerebral cortex activity that paintings and fine art caused. That would be an interesting addition to her findings.

Mia pulled out the scanner and moved in closer to the mob of people, who she could now see, was the group that had bumped her upon entering. Up front was the icy blond with the determined eyes. The woman spoke to her group with an accent that sounded Swedish or Finnish…something Nordic, anyway.

As Mia passed one of the plasteel showcases housing the diamonds, her scanner vibrated in her hand, indicating a completed scan. Strange. She hadn’t thought she was close enough to pick up a reading on anyone.

Searching the crowd to make sure no one had noticed, Mia locked gazes with the tour guide. Steely blue eyes bored into her own, causing Mia to flush and duck away. She shoved the scanner back into her purse, trying to make the action seem as natural as possible.

Mia scuttled off to one of the corners of the exhibit, waiting for a harsh voice of a virtual security guard to ask her what she was doing. When nothing happened, she leaned against the wall, allowing her heart rate to return to something resembling normal. That had been close. And more than a little strange. Her scanner had never done anything like that before.

A quick check of the system revealed nothing out of order. The battery was charged, the scanner seemed to be working, and all of the other scans appeared normal. Maybe there had been some sort of interference from a nearby vidphone. Or maybe there was something in the security measures the museum was using on the star diamonds. They had to be keeping close tabs on those little glass chips. All told, they were probably worth close to a billion dollars. That had to be it.

Reassured, both by her hypothesis and the fact that no one had come to search her purse, Mia prepped the scanner and got ready to step out of her darkened corner. Just as she was about to rejoin the group and start collecting data, the crowd around the exhibit started moving toward the nearest exit. Mia guessed the tour group was on its way toward whatever else was coolest this month at the Louvre.

As the tour guide followed the group, herding them forward like so many sheep, Mia wondered at the woman’s tactics. Didn’t tour guides normally lead from the front? As the guide passed through the doors of the exit, she took a moment to pull them closed behind her.

Mia started to move out of her alcove, but was stopped by movement from the opposite direction from which the tour group had gone. Two men entered through the doorway and closed the doors behind them. Mia felt a shock of recognition. One of the men was the older man that had scanned as aggressive. The other was wearing an army green coat.

Something was definitely not right. Mia slunk back as far as she could into the tiny alcove and watched the men through their reflection in a rather gaudy Greco-Roman mirror. Mia could see bulges under their arms. The kind of bulge a concealed weapon might make. Mia shrank back, doing her best impersonation of being invisible.

As the three approached the star diamond case, Mia cast her eyes around looking for an escape route or at least a hiding spot better than this barely-recessed alcove. Just around the corner was a large temporary structure containing all sorts of information on the formation of star diamonds. This was one of the push-the-button-self-tour maze structures found in so many museums that felt so very out of place at the Louvre. Out of place, but oh-so-welcome to Mia in this particular moment.

The only challenge was entering the maze without being seen. There was twenty-five feet to the entrance, through an area that was very exposed and of course, brightly lit.

Hunkered down, waiting for any opportunity to practice her museum sprinting skills, Mia watched the icy blonde type in some kind of override code to the star diamond case. The thing opened with a whoosh of hydraulics. Then all three thieves leaned into the case.

This was her chance. Mia slid off her loafers and sprinted for the maze entrance. She slip-skidded across the slick marble floor, but entered the maze without a sound. Mia would have made her escape cleanly if her scanner hadn’t suddenly gone berserk, vibrating away.

Mia froze, her heart in her throat, waiting for the inevitable reaction from the trio.

And they did not disappoint.

“Did you hear that?” the blonde hissed.

“Bloody hell,” the older man said in a clipped British accent. “That’s the sound I heard with that blasted woman near the Mona Lisa.”

“The Asian?” the Belgian growled. “She interrupted me while installing slav cam.”

“Damn it, didn’t you check the entire floor?” the blonde demanded. The Brit tried to explain, but the blonde overrode him. “Find her.”

Mia heard the two men move off, looking for the source of the noise. The sound must have bounced and echoed, making her location more difficult to ascertain. Mia picked up her jade scorpion and pressed her lips on the stinger tail. A lucky break, just when she needed it most.

She could still get lost in the maze. Once the blonde had secured all the star diamonds, Mia was sure the thieves would high tail it out of here. The scanner activated again, vibrating so violently it nearly fell out of her hands.

“The star diamonds,” the blonde hissed. Then she raised her voice. “The Asian has found a way to track star diamonds.”

Mia froze. That couldn’t be true, could it? Had she someone stumbled onto a way to find star diamonds? Remotely? The concept wasn’t unprecedented. The dessert Jell-O was well known for emitting waves very similar to brain waves. Did the star diamonds do something similar? Is that why her scanner could pick them up?

Which would have been great, except for the whole fact that an international team of thieves now knew about it. And the heavy steps of men running didn’t help any. There was no way these people were going to just leave now. Not when the scanner in Mia’s hand was worth a thousand of those trifling baubles in the case.

There was only one real option here, but the thought of it was terrifying. Mia had to take control of the situation. Now.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Mia charged the wall, hitting the structure as hard and as low as she could. As she had suspected, the temporary wall was only magnetically sealed to the floor. The wall crashed into the star diamond display case, shattering the glass. Mia had just a moment to see the look of shock and recognition on the face of the Swede before she bolted back into the maze.

But the flare of alarms and flashing lights announcing a break-in did not materialize. Bars should have come down over the doors. Virtual security guards should have popped up in every corner. The lack of any response gave her severe pause. Clearly, this trio had disabled any and all alerts set in the exhibit. There would be no help from the outside.

But the die was cast. She didn’t have time to think of another plan. The tour guide had seen where Mia was heading, so she was effectively trapping herself inside the structure. What was done was done, though.

Rather than bury herself in a back corner somewhere, which her attackers would almost certainly expect, Mia went high, climbing up on top of one of the displays. Her movements were smooth, silent. Her sensei would have been proud.

And she listened. Soon enough, she heard the voice of the woman moving toward her. Her tone held more than a few traces of pain and irritation, giving Mia a perverse sense of satisfaction.

Mia pulled back from the leading edge of the display where she perched, waiting for the first opponent to come along. She was used to facing them in the ring. With rules and a referee. Oh, and barehanded.

The first person to appear was the older Brit, carrying some sort of ceramic gun. Mia took a moment to enter a code into her scanner and hide it on top of the wall before turning her attention back to the dapper thief.

The man was wary, and by the way he moved, it was clear that he had not allowed himself to go to fat. She waited until the man had passed completely by her display, then leapt out, her foot aimed right at the back of the Brit’s neck.

Some errant breath of air or sixth sense must have alerted the man, as he spun halfway around, catching Mia’s kick square in the side of his jaw. Rattled, but not down, the man roared, charging her. Mia dodged to the side, catching the Brit on the back of the head with her two fists knotted together. The hit sent the man careening into a wall where he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

Not quite as quick or as soundless as she could’ve hoped for, but Mia would take it. She darted out of the area, seeking another dark corner from which to attack next. As she rounded a corner, she found herself face to face with the Belgian, who took on a fighting stance, his mouth contorting into a feral grin. From the stance, Mia could see this would not be such a quick win for her. She glanced around, seeking some sort of additional help with a much taller, much heavier opponent. She saw none.

The man must have observed her failed search; his grin widened and he moved in with more confidence. Watching the man’s advance, Mia noted a hitch in his left foot and attacked just as it came around the second time.

Her punch fell on empty air as the man dropped to the floor and swept Mia’s legs out from under her. As Mia landed, her breath whooshing out of her, she realized she had fallen for a feint. There was no limp. The man followed up with a fist to Mia’s face, splitting her lip. Mia had been fooled, and now she was hurt…and down on the ground, vulnerable.

But so was he.

Mia was nothing if not quick. And limber. She flipped herself up to standing and was ready to catch the Belgian with a roundhouse kick to the side of the temple. Well, she thought she was ready. But apparently, so was he. He caught her leg, forcing Mia to flip herself over to escape the inevitable next move that would shatter her ulna.

She faced the man once more, respect for his speed and skill coloring her every movement. Her lip throbbed where it had been split. She wiped her hand against her mouth, seeing the streak of blood stark against her skin. The man’s smile became downright lecherous.

“The pain. You like? I give more.”

“Thanks, but not without dinner first.” The Belgian charged, but Mia was ready. She leapt upward, latching onto a hanging light fixture dangling from the ceiling. Her skin sizzled where it touched the hot metal of the lamp, but she kept her arms wrapped tightly around it.

The Belgian’s charge forward took him right into the cradle made by Mia’s legs. She encircled his neck with her thighs and squeezed, bearing down as hard as she could, cutting off his airflow. The assailant’s face turned red, then purple, then black, as he clawed at her legs before he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Second assailant down.

Mia dropped to the ground, feeling some of her skin peel off as she let go of the lamp. As she landed, she heard a soft pop and felt a lance of fire across her left obliques. She clamped a hand to her side and whirled around in time to see the blonde woman toss aside her weapon. Apparently, the forced air pistols they carried were one-shot wonders…and not terribly accurate. Mia’s hand came away dripping red, but she wasn’t dead, and the wound felt superficial. Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like a mother, though.

The woman circled to her right, toward Mia’s injury, and Mia felt her last hope fade. The woman’s movements, stance, and fluidity bespoke decades of martial arts training. At her best, Mia might be able to take her. But Mia was far from at her best right now. And the woman knew it.

There was no idle chit-chat. No knowing smile. These were two worthy opponents using every ounce of their concentration on taking down the other. Each knew the age-old saying that a white belt who focused would defeat the black belt who did not.

The Swede made a lightning strike with her fist toward Mia’s face, which Mia managed to block, only to find that the attack was not the primary one. The woman brought her right knee up and connected with Mia’s side, right where she had been struck by the bullet. The pain flamed up and out from her wound, hunching her over in agony. The woman then took a vicious sideways swipe across Mia’s face, knocking her to the side.

Mia fell against one of the walls, bracing herself to kick back with her foot at the blonde’s face as she advanced. The blow connected, snapping the woman’s head back. Mia followed up with a slicing thrust of her fist to the woman’s solar plexus. Impossibly, the blonde countered, knocking away Mia’s hand and slashing out once more at Mia’s left side. Pain blossomed anew, giving Mia’s sight a red haze that was difficult to focus through.

The blonde pressed her advantage, blow after ringing blow landing on Mia’s face and neck, alternated with savage thrusts to the bullet wound. Mia retreated back out of the maze toward the star diamond display, blocking every blow she could, but she was losing. Badly. This would not end well, unless she could hold out for a little while longer…

There. A beeping sounded from up above, where Mia had planted the scanner, set to go off in two minutes. The noise was enough distraction to cause the blonde to glance up.

A moment was all Mia needed. She thrust her stiff fingers straight forward, catching the Swede right in the larynx. The woman stumbled back, clutching at her throat, trying to pull air in where air was no longer welcome. Mia followed the blonde one step forward, two…then spun around in a full circle, her heel slamming into the Swede’s temple.

And then there was nothing in front of Mia but a smallish woman doing her best impersonation of a limp rag. Mia took a long moment to catch her breath, then leaned over to make sure the woman’s larynx wasn’t completely collapsed. She wanted the woman incapacitated, not dead.

After making sure the blonde would be okay, but not anytime soon, Mia checked the room, taking in the collateral damage. Other than the three human-shaped bundles on the ground, there was very little. A couple of holes in the drywall, a temporary wall knocked askew, a display case tipped over. Could be worse. Much worse.

Mia pressed her fist into her side, pushing against the pain that throbbed there. Time to go get the authorities. Mia began to shuffle toward the exit, not terribly anxious to continue with the next step.

Despite the pain, Mia shook the wall hard, causing her scanner to fall from its hiding place. Hurrying before the authorities got there, Mia swiped the scanner over the star diamonds. It vibrated against her blood slicked palm. It really could sense them. Rapidly she turned the device off. Commotion on the other side of the doors. The authorities. Regardless of the fact that Mia was guiltless here, she was almost certain she would no longer be welcome here. One more museum from which she was barred. Awesome.

That mattered little, anymore, as Mia hurried to find her purse and hide the scanner amongst the post cards and receipts. As the gallery doors opened, Mia felt a huge grin spread across her face in spite of the pain.

It was time for her to shoot for the stars.

Or, perhaps, the moon.

Rook: Let’s Stop the Apocalypse, People

PROLOGUE

General Samuel Houghlin watched out of the helicopter’s window as the craft bobbed and weaved, trying to stay out of the heated firefight below. The force of the helo’s blades allowed brief glimpses of the battle and bent double the leaves of the jungle’s trees. The army’s dark green uniforms and the guerrillas’ camouflage blended in with the tangled vegetation. Only the bright red smears of blood made it possible to see which way the fight was tipping.

Not their way, that was for sure.

Houghlin remembered an old sergeant’s warning when he took command here years ago. “Africa is a harsh mistress.”

How right the grizzled old man’s predictions were. Sympathies within the local governments were about as fickle as the governments themselves. With each coup, citizens got a whole new set of would-be dictators, or worse, the politicians calling themselves “reformers.”

Which was exactly how they landed in this incredibly untenable position. A rebel had declared himself king—and had enough fighters to put that claim to the test. Somehow, his forces had swept nearly fifty miles to the west within days, as the army proved ineffective to stop him. And that put this horrific fight just steps from an American archaeological dig.

Houghlin had no real authority here. He was an advisor only. With two Somalian pirate hostage situations off the coast and rioting in Cape Town, the soonest an American extraction team could get here was in forty-eight hours.

He had strongly urged the government to send a squad to extract the archaeologist, but it looked like Houghlin had just sealed these soldiers’ fates. The rebels had taken this evacuation mission as some sort of recon force and had dealt them a swift blow.

“Sir, we have got to pull out,” Emmeret, his assistant, stated as a bullet pinged off the helo’s metal rotor. “We just have to hope the team can stay holed up until reinforcements arrive.”

But after the garbled, frantic call Houghlin received from the lead researcher, Houghlin wasn’t sure if the greater danger to the archaeologists was outside the cave or within.

* * *

Professor Hoshi Sanu felt the claw sink into the flesh of his shoulder, and then tear. He screamed, but who could hear him over their own cries? Then the beast retreated into the shadows whence he had come. Clutching the wound, trying to stanch the bleeding, Sanu stumbled.

The cave’s damp floor crumbled beneath his feet, nearly knocking him over. Only crashing into the rough-hewn rock wall stopped his tumble. His glasses long ago knocked away and trampled in the chaos, Sanu squinted into the flickering torchlight. Maybe two other people were still in the cave with him. Where were their guards? But in his blurred world, he could not tell. Were the rest of his students dead? Or worse, had they been dragged into the shadows with the beast?

He had dug in Africa more times than he could count, encountering snakes the size of drainage pipes and lions so bold that they would stroll through his camp, but never had he seen any creature like that which attacked them now. It was more cunning than a wild animal and stronger than any man.

“Where is it?” whispered one of his students, Chad Fallon.

Before Sanu could answer, the beast grabbed hold of Chad and shook him like a rag doll. His student used the only weapon available to him—a backpack. With all the force the young man could muster, he swung the heavy pack and hit the beast squarely on the nose. It reared, blood pouring from its snout, and howled.

The beast looked like a hyena, only it walked upright like a man. But this was no human, as its eyes glowed red. It towered over the injured student. Sanu knew he had no chance, but he could not let Chad die while he crept along the cave wall. Sanu went to move forward, but another student screamed.

“Get back!”

It was Kadie Mannson. She held a sputtering kerosene lantern. She hauled back, and just as the beast lunged for Chad, she hit it squarely on the chest. The glass shattered, engulfing the beast in flame.

The cave lit up as the fire consumed the screeching, flailing beast. Sanu shielded his eyes from the sight, but slowly his arm lowered as he realized the wall behind the beast now glowed of its own accord. Detailed, scrawled etchings formed a circle within a circle within a circle. Sanu was a master of fifteen languages, and he did not recognize a single symbol.

The Seal of Deur Hel.

The myths were true. The entire reason they had begun this cursed mission lay before them. He had been right. Not that it brought him any solace as the beast’s wails threatened to shatter his eardrums.

Then, as suddenly as the fire started, it sputtered out, leaving no trace of the beast. Slowly, as if it had never been aglow, the wall, too, descended into black.

“Chad!” Kadie screamed, as she fell to her knees beside the unconscious student. “Oh, God! He’s hurt!”

Gingerly, Sanu knelt beside the young man, who lay face down. Bright red blood streaked his side. Sanu’s hand shook as he reached for Chad’s shoulder. The student’s back was badly injured. What would the front look like? Kadie helped to pull him over.

Chad flopped onto his back as Sanu and Kadie scurried away.

It could not be. It simply couldn’t.

Chad’s shirt lay shredded, revealing a glowing seal on his chest. The same seal upon the wall. The thing pulsed with his heartbeat, growing brighter by the moment.

Sanu held Kadie close as she sobbed hysterically, not knowing what else to do.

* * *

“Say again!” the general yelled into his mouthpiece, but the line had gone dead—replaced only by static. He could not possibly have heard what he thought he heard. The only thing he knew for certain was that things had gone south—way south—in the cave.

“Sir,” his assistant argued again, “the only other extraction team on the continent is bogged down in the Congo. We have got to pull out.”

Houghlin would actually like nothing better. However, there was a slight problem.

“So, I take it that you are volunteering to tell the vice president that we lost his nephew?”

His assistant looked sheepish, and then averted his gaze outside the window. But Houghlin knew that the sight would not give Emmeret any more comfort.

He patted the back of the copilot’s chair. “Get me Washington.”

“Whom are you calling?” his assistant asked.

Gritting his teeth, Houghlin prepared to make the call that he swore he would never make.

“Someone who can help.”

CHAPTER 1

Rook sat in a really uncomfortable kitchen chair, leaning over a large pewter and onyx chessboard. Of course, if he had known he was going to be playing a game for his soul, he would have chosen an overstuffed recliner or something with a bit of padding. But alas, here his butt sat on hard wood.

He moved his black pawn in front of another white pawn, taunting Dimitri to take the easy bait. But the figure sitting across from him, shrouded in a motley robe and hood, ignored his play.

“Rook, your moves are always so superficial.”

Instead of taking the pawn, Dimitri moved his bishop laterally across the board, endangering Rook’s knight.

“You should have listened to the czar, Dimitri.”

Rapidly, they made a series of moves. Pieces were removed from the board with frightening regularity—until there were only ten pieces left. Dimitri’s hand hesitated over his white queen.

“One would think that with all the time on your hands, you would have learned to play a bit better than this…” Rook taunted.

His words only seemed to steel Dimitri’s nerves. The Russian forcefully moved his queen into position.

“Check.”

Oh, why did opponents never see this coming? “Like I said…” Rook sighed.

Taking hold of his black rook, he slid it over and knocked Dimitri’s queen off the board. “Check and Mate.”

“No!” Dimitri bellowed, but it was far too late to change his destiny.

“Oh, yes.”

Dimitri’s form began to waver as his hood slipped back, revealing half the flesh eaten away. His cheekbone glistened a sickly red. “You tricked me!”

Rook shrugged. “Of course I did. Duh.”

A fiery whirlpool blossomed behind the mangy ghost.

“Rook, you can’t—”

Dimitri flailed as the whirlpool sucked first his robes, and then his legs, in.

“Sorry, dude. A bet is a bet.”

Finally, the ghost’s torso slid through the flames as Dimitri screamed.

“Don’t do the crime, Dimitri, if you can’t do the time.”

“No!” the ghost screamed, as the last of him was sucked through, except his head, which promptly exploded.

Rook wiped the ghostly remains from his face. “Seriously, there isn’t a neater way to do this.”

But, all in a day’s work. Humming “Oops! I Did It Again,” Rook got up and rummaged around his broom closet. Well, not exactly rummaged, given the fact that only three items graced the shelves. He’d only had this apartment for a week, and, given his line of employment, Rook hadn’t made time for some serious grocery shopping. He did find a broom and a dustpan, though.

Which turned out not to be all that helpful, given how moist Dimitri’s remains were. Rook was definitely going to need a mop for this one. Which meant a trip out. Probably for the best. Maybe he could actually buy some food while he was at it. He had been subsisting on ramen noodles and Red Bulls.

Before he could grab his keys, Rook’s fax machine whirred to life. Weird. He wasn’t expecting any communications today. The machine beeped twice, but instead of the usual connection sound, a high-pitched scream announced the fax. Acrid smoke billowed from the machine as the lights flashed an ominous red.

Definitely not his weekly update.

Putting his sleeve over his mouth, Rook rushed over and tried to turn the damned thing off, but to no avail. As a singed parchment slid from the machine, Rook kicked the power cord, but the smoldering machine sucked power directly from the socket.

This was not good. Costco had a pretty liberal return policy, but come on.

Using the end of his broom, Rook smashed the wood into the power outlet until it sparked, but then went dead. Unfortunately, it was too late. The parchment lay in the tray of the charred machine. Rook sat back on his heels. Carefully, he reached a hand out and picked up the rough piece of paper. Grotesque scenes of human suffering bordered the edges.

How delightful.… Not.

The inscription was not just in Latin, but an ancient form of the dialect. He translated it rapidly.

“There is nowhere you can hide. We will eat your intestines and feast on your… yada, yada, yada.”

Typical demon smack talk. All it was doing was making Rook hungry. He really did need to make a grocery run. Quickly, he scanned the page of insults and threats. Surprisingly, demons had an impressive understanding of human anatomy. Finally, he reached the end.

“Beware our ire, and know that we watch.”

Rook nearly dropped the parchment as the cell phone rang… with the theme of The Exorcist as a ringtone. Rook hated to admit it, but damn, that did startle him. Should he answer it? Would it light up as soon as he hit that little green “answer” icon? But it was Beauty’s number. He had to try.

Still, Rook held it away from his head as he answered. “Beauty, I was just about to call you…”

The smooth, sultry voice of his cross-dressing Arranger came over the line. “Heads up, darlin’. Your location has been compromised.”

“Yep,” Rook answered. “The little devils have been busy. Literally.”

“That is the least of our worries, though. We’ve got a Level Five breach in the Congo.”

Rook stood up. “Africa, huh?” He looked around his trashed apartment. “Just as well. I was getting in a rut with domestic assignments. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He disconnected the call before Beauty even had a chance to respond. Rook knew she would be there. She always was.

Grabbing his dark trench coat, Rook made his way to the door. With one last look at the place he had called home for a week—longer than most—Rook entered the code to the alarm system. Its steady green light changed to a frantic, blinking red. Closing the door behind him, Rook stepped into the hallway.

Unfortunately, his neighbor, the stout Mrs. Westley, entered the hallway with her yapping Yorkie, Sherlock. She hit the elevator button. Rook looked down at his watch, which counted the minutes down rapidly. With the sluggish elevators in this building, she was never going to get out of the way in time.

“Mrs. Westley, I’d suggest you take the stairs.”

With a scarf around her neck that only made her rather rotund face even more rotund, she turned to him. “Are you implying that I need to exercise?”

Um, yes, was what Rook wanted to say, but it would get him nowhere. He shrugged. “It’s just that the elevators have been running slowly today.”

He was about to walk off. He wasn’t exactly the chivalrous type, but he had a soft spot for that stupid Yorkie. Rook grabbed Mrs. Westley by the arm and urged her to the stairwell.

“Look, let’s just take the stairs.”

As Sherlock tried to sink his pint-sized teeth into his hand, and she beat him with her purse, Mrs. Westley screamed. “I’m being molested!”

“You wish,” Rook muttered under his breath, as he dragged them into the stairwell and down the steps. For a chick whose biggest exercise was lifting a gallon-sized jar of Twizzlers into her shopping cart, Mrs. Westley could pack a punch with her purse.

Half-stumbling and half-carrying the woman and her little dog, Rook rushed them down two flights of stairs. They were nearly at the lobby floor landing when an explosion knocked them all to the ground. Somehow, Mrs. Westley ended up on top of Rook. He doubted that it was by accident. She kissed him all over his face.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” she exclaimed as Sherlock licked Rook’s nose.

This was exactly why he did not do the Good Samaritan thing.

Extracting himself from Mrs. Westley, Rook shook off the explosion and the kisses. Rushing to exit the building before any inquisitive police or fire officials arrived on the scene, Rook hit the lobby door at a run, just as a pink limousine pulled up.

Beauty. At her best.

* * *

Beauty shook her head as Rook got into the backseat. “Must you always make such a scene, Puddin’ Pie?”

“Please!” he retorted, as he dusted off the dirt from his leather trench coat. “You just drove up in a pink getaway car, with hair to match.” Rook rushed on, “And if I am not mistaken, you have on a leopard-print bustier with six-inch stilettos. So please, spare me.”

Beauty glanced into the rearview mirror as she gunned the engine. Rook’s dark hair looked like he had slept on it for three weeks, but his blue eyes shone with amusement. The dark circles under them told a different story, though. How long had it been since he slept? Even Rook could only get so far with magical poultices and Red Bulls. Yet, even haunted, he was a looker. Not her type, but still a looker.

As she hit the gas pedal and pulled them away from the curb, she waved her fingernails in front of him. “Oh, please, these nails are just glue-on, and my weave? I’ve got to get over to Sholinda’s ASAP, or risk getting arrested by the fashion police. And the leopard print accentuates my dark skin.”

“Oh, well, excuse me,” Rook said as he put his hand out. “Whatcha got for me?”

Gunning the car around a right turn, Beauty grabbed a black folder off the seat next to her and handed it to Rook through the sliding glass window.

“Don’t worry. It’s right up your alley.”

Rook grasped the proffered file and flipped through its pages. “And that would be?”

“S.C.A.G.G.Y.” Beauty answered.

A smile spread on Rook’s face. “Supernatural carnage and gore? Ah, you know how to brighten a man’s day, my dear.”

Beauty flashed some pearly whites of her own. “A girl tries her best.”

She hit the gas even harder. The situation in Africa wasn’t going to wait on mid-town traffic.

* * *

Angela Morrey sat in the interrogation room as the detectives milled about, uncertain what to do with her. But she didn’t blame them. She didn’t know what to do with herself, either. She kept wrapping and unwrapping her tear-soaked tissues around her fingers. Even the crying had stopped. Maybe people only had so many tears for a lifetime. Once they were spent, were they done crying?

“Angela,” Detective Brian Hoffman stated kindly.

“Yes, sorry,” she said, wiping a stray blonde hair from her face.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said, as he sat down next to her and put his hand over hers. “You have been through so much.”

She just shook her head, though. “I just want to get this over with so that I can get home.” Once she got there, she had no idea what she would do, but she needed to get out of the cramped, dingy interrogation room, or she really would lose it.

Brian sat back and gave her a grim smile. “Okay, then. How well did you know your letter carrier, Mr. Nilen?”

“Not well. I mean, I said ‘hi’ if I saw him. He would also ring the bell to deliver packages, you know? He didn’t like to leave them on the step. He said he was afraid they would get stolen.”

Had that simple act of kindness gotten him killed? Did having her as a delivery stop doom the poor man?

“That’s good, Angela. Thank you. Now, are you sure that you didn’t see anyone suspicious around the neighborhood this morning?”

She looked up into the detective’s green eyes. How many times had they played out this macabre dance? Between the mail carrier, her cleaning lady, fitness trainer, and her boss, that made it four dead, just in this city. Before that, back home? Her mother, brother, two sisters, an uncle, and just for good measure, a fiancé.

She wasn’t unlucky. She was doomed.

Her postman’s death just confirmed it.

Brian’s partner, Detective Stakeland, paced behind them.

“I’m sorry, Brian, but don’t we want to ask something other than the softballs you’ve been throwing?”

Brian turned around and glared at his partner. “Stakeland…”

But Angela nodded. “Go for it.”

Brian squeezed her hand, but she shook him off. Seriously, what could Stakeland say or do that was worse than what had already happened? As much as Stakeland obviously wanted to grill her, he equally did not want to incur Brian’s wrath, so his tone was polite.

“I would like to discuss your alibi.”

Angela sighed. More of the same. At least if he was going to go at her, couldn’t he be a little more inventive? “I was online discussing a graphic design, switching out background images with a client. He can verify that I was on the call through the time-of-death window.”

How sad was it that she knew things like “time-of-death window”—and where she was during it?

“Your phone and online records do seem to support that,” Stakeland said, but then his tone sharpened. “But that does not rule out an accomplice.”

She could feel Brian tense next to her, but how many times had that allegation come up as well? “You must know that techs have combed through my phone, texts, and email records. I don’t talk to anyone unless it is work related, and even then I do so under an alias that you have access to.”

“Don’t be smug with me,” Stakeland growled as Brian jumped to his feet.

She hadn’t been trying to be smug or anything else with the detective. She had just been trying to get through this interview without crumpling into a heap of depression.

“Back off, Stakeland.”

“Brian, open your eyes, man. She is jerking you around! That chick has helped kill nearly a dozen people, and you are defending her.”

Angela watched as Brian’s hand balled up in a fist. He spoke through clenched teeth. “There is absolutely no evidence of that, and I am not going to have you harassing a victim of all of this.”

“Victim?” Stakeland snorted. “More like perpetrator.”

Brian shook his head. “Stop and listen to yourself, Stakeland. Why would she do this? Any of this?”

“Why does a chick need a motive for anything?”

“Well, the DA certainly does, so unless you are going to be constructive, I suggest you leave.”

Angela actually felt a little sorry for Stakeland as Brian pointed at the door. It wasn’t the detective’s fault he thought her guilty. She had even gone through hypnotic regression therapy to see whether she was sleepwalking and committing these terrible crimes. At this point, Angela actually wanted to be guilty. At least then, they would lock her away and stop the deaths. As it was now, she was a laser pointed right at the killer’s next victim.

Hadn’t she left Cincinnati to avoid the carnage? How could it have followed her here? She never should have listened to Brian. Her instincts after her maid’s death had been to move far away again, but the detective had convinced her to stay. That he would catch whoever was responsible. No matter Brian’s dedication, three more people were dead. And the poor mail carrier lost his life because he gave superior service? There was no way she could stay. Not here. Not anywhere.

Plus, she knew that Brian wasn’t just taking flack from Stakeland, but from his lieutenant as well. Angela couldn’t let Brian ruin his career while the dead kept piling up.

She just needed to get through this interview so that she could go do what she needed to do. Angela had known since she opened her door this morning and found Mr. Nilen prone on his back, those still, dead eyes gazing up at her. She couldn’t, just couldn’t, do that again.

Hopefully, her death would be the last death.

CHAPTER 2

Rook waited and watched from the shadows of the cave. He watched the professor, his remaining students, and several tattered gun-for-hire security guards. Group dynamics were always so fascinating, but never so much as when the group was confronted with not just the impossible, but after the impossible just kicked everyone’s ass.

The professor was—clearly—badly injured. His shoulder was swathed in bloody bandages. The rest of the group didn’t look like it had fared much better. Corpses were piled to the side. With the heavy fighting outside in the jungle, there was no way to dispose of the bodies there. Certainly, the group was far too afraid to move them to the rear chamber.

Reports were sketchy, but it seemed that all the action happened there.

Now, though, everyone was crowded around the young man on the ground. Presumably, the vice president’s nephew.

Perhaps it was time for Rook to make his introductions.

He struck a match. “Boo.”

The group jumped to their feet. The guards raised guns with shaking arms. Rook stepped into the room, but Beauty downright sauntered in—still in those six-inch stilettos.

“Oh, this is nasty,” she stated, picking up one foot and inspecting the bright red sole, and then the other.

Rook crossed over to Chad. “So, what have we got here?”

The stunned group, though, did not answer, so Rook looked at Beauty. “Is this our mark, or what?”

But Beauty slipped on the blood-slicked floor. “These are…” She scraped some brain matter off the sides of her shoes. “These were Guccis.”

Finally, one of the students snapped out of her shock and put a protective arm over Chad. “Who are you?”

Rook stood up. “Why, I thought it was obvious.” When the looks upon the group’s faces did not register the “obvious,” Rook continued, “We are the cavalry.”

Pointing behind him to the dark, tribal men entering the cave, Rook clarified. “Well, actually, they are the cavalry. I’m more the general.”

Each of the men wore tight loincloths stained red with the blood of a lion. Bright feathers lined the waistbands. Beyond that, the men were naked. So as much as Beauty was grumbling about her shoes, she was also getting her fill of eye candy.

Without hesitation, the tribesmen began dragging the dead bodies out of the cave.

“What are they doing?” the student pressed, worry crimping otherwise attractive features.

“Taking payment for services rendered,” Rook answered.

“What?” she asked.

But Rook grinned, amused by the growing horror on her face. “Come on. You look like a bright girl.” Perhaps she was bright, but not altogether quick. “A little snack for the road?”

The girl studied the tribesmen, then the corpses, and then Rook. “Cannibals?” she spat out. “You employed cannibals?”

“Um, who else was going to get us past the Apocalypse Now scenario you’ve got going on out there?”

Still horrified, Kadie rose to her feet. “You can’t expect us to let them take our friends and… and…”

Beauty stepped over a rather large piece of torso and squeezed the young woman’s shoulder. “It’s best not to dwell on details like that, sweetie.”

But the student jerked away from Beauty’s grip. “You are sick.” She indicated Rook as well. “You both are sick. I would rather take my chances here.”

The professor finally ended his silence. “Kadie, I don’t think we can be quite so hasty.” It seemed that the instructor was a bit more practical in these matters. Which wouldn’t surprise Rook, given that the guy’s shoulder oozed a yellow discharge. When faced with cannibals or sepsis, one usually accepted the help of the cannibals.

One of the rent-a-guards stepped forward and spoke in a thick Irish accent. “I’d give my own bloody arm if it gets us out of here.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” Rook said, indicating the large tribesmen. “They might take you up on that offer.”

The man stepped away from Rook, a look of repulsion on his face.

What? Rook was only trying to be helpful.

Kadie turned on her professor. “You can’t be serious! We should trust these… these…”

The older man put a protective arm over his student’s shoulder. “Kadie, what other choice do we have?”

By Rook’s count, that would be none. The girl’s lip trembled, and tears sprang to her eyes. Rook was just glad someone else was comforting her. Rook sucked at babysitting. Instead, he knelt beside Chad.

“Looks like it is time we examined the main attraction.”

Kadie fled from her professor and tried to shove Rook away. “No. He’s already been through enough.”

But one little grad student wasn’t going to dissuade Rook. He knelt, picked up a stick, and moved Chad’s torn shirt aside.

Rook whistled appreciatively. The man’s entire chest was now a seared mess of a seal. The outer edges were black and dry, but near the pulsing symbol, the flesh still oozed a red fluid. The body was trying to heal the affront, but how could it? Red and golden symbols flowed across his skin. One would rise, and then another would sink beneath the surface.

“Now, that you don’t see every day.”

Actually, Rook had never seen anything like it. It was extremely rare that something new was sprung on him. Which was just as well, since he was none too thrilled with the experience. He liked to have a plan of action. Even if it sucked, having a plan was better than nothing.

He turned to the professor. “So, how’d this happen?”

The professor nodded toward the back of the cave. “You’d best follow me.”

Rook instructed Beauty to sit tight with Chad. Her expertly red-lined lips curved downward. But Rook gave her that “don’t make me cause a scene in front of company” look, so she awkwardly knelt beside the student.

Before he followed the rest of the group to the back cave, Rook leaned over and whispered in Beauty’s ear. “Just make sure…”

“That the bodies are actually dead before your little ‘cavalry’ takes ‘em?”

“Exactly.”

Beauty nodded that pink weave of hers. “Oh, honey, I was already all over that.”

Rook allowed a grin to form as he turned to follow the others. Of course, Beauty was all over it. With gorgeous, half-dressed men on the premises, when was she not?

* * *

Angela signed yet another document that Brian placed before her. Who knew that death generated so much paperwork? She just wanted to get through it all. As much as she had hated the stale confines of the interrogation room, the noisy squad room was almost worse. The jangly telephone rings and the musty smell of aftershave and beer. The combination of odors nauseated her. And the last thing she wanted to do was make a spectacle of herself by puking on Brian’s desk. He had been so kind. She did not want to be another source of embarrassment for him.

“Here we go—just two more,” Brian said as he pushed the other forms her way.

Her pen was poised over it as she scanned the page. “What is this?”

“Oh, just the form to accept protective custody.”

Angela shoved the paper away. “No. Not again.”

She tried to rise, but Brian caught her hand and gently guided her back down to her seat. “There’s no other way, Angela. We have to assume that whoever is doing this will turn on you.”

“Good! At least it will be over.”

Brian squeezed her hands together. “I never, ever want to hear you say that again.”

His eyes were so intent. A dark, caramel brown. His square jaw was outlined by muscles strained with worry. At another place and time, perhaps she could have found him attractive. But right now, his chiseled features only reminded her why she must walk the path set before her.

Alone.

She could not go to the morgue to identify another body, let alone Brian’s. He must have taken her silence as acceptance, so he continued. “We will catch this bastard, and you’ll have a normal life again.”

“Normal?” Angela questioned. “With no parents? No friends? Just an endless parade of graves to visit? How will it ever be normal again?”

“Oh, Angela,” Brian said, his hand finding her face. His touch was warm, but Angela knew that gesture would never reach her heart. It had hardened over. But she could not let Brian know that. He was so determined to save her.

“Okay. Okay,” she said, leaning back, removing her hands from his grip. “Protective custody it is.”

Brian was about to say something when a voice called out, “Hoffman. In here.” They both turned to find the lieutenant standing in his doorway looking pretty pissed off.

“I’ll be right there,” Brian said to the lieutenant.

“Now,” the lieutenant stressed.

“On it, Lieutenant,” Brian responded as he rose. He turned to her. “I will be right back.”

As he rose, his holster caught on the desk. “Damn it!” he cursed as he unsnapped the holster from his belt. He must have forgotten to lock it away in the flurry of activity once the postman’s body was found on her doorstep. Rapidly, he placed the gun in the drawer, closed it, and put his key in the lock. It stuck a bit.

“Do you understand the meaning of the word, now, Hoffman?” the lieutenant bellowed.

Giving up on the lock, Brian rushed toward the lieutenant’s office.

Angela sank into her chair. She didn’t want to go into protective custody. To live in a series of no-name motels, and eating no-name fast food? The memory nearly made her retch. But if she refused to go, then Brian would insist on staying at her place. She would have no privacy. No time in which to carry out her plan.

Crossing her legs, her foot banged against the desk. Ugh. She couldn’t even change body positions without causing harm. Then she noticed that the drawer slid open an inch. The silver snap of Brian’s holster gleamed out at her. She wasn’t very religious, but if ever there was a sign from God, this had to be it.

Before her courage wavered, Angela rose, pretending to get a paper on the other side of the desk. Carefully, she opened the drawer a little more and lifted the gun out. Tucking the gun, holster and all, underneath her bulky sweater, Angela quietly closed the drawer again. As casually as she could, she headed toward the back of the squad room.

Halfway to her destination, Brian called out from the lieutenant’s office, “And where do you think you are going?”

Angela attempted a smile. “Just to the restroom.”

He nodded, before the lieutenant caught his attention again.

Hands shaking, Angela continued on her path. A flash of the expression on Brian’s face when he heard the shot filled her vision. It nearly stalled her feet, but she could not let one man’s feelings, no matter how touching or genuine, get another person she knew killed.

She just couldn’t.

* * *

Rook stepped around a pool of pancreas as he studied the large, blackened seal on the cave wall. Taller than he, the etched symbols showed no sign of life. Which, given what happened the last time it opened, was probably a good thing.

Professor Sanu pointed to the center of the seal. “There were rumors of an ancient rune buried deep beneath a landslide.”

“Hmm…” Rook commented. “And an equal number of rumors that said it should never, ever be disturbed.”

Kadie, the student, suddenly went into her haughty act again. Rook supposed it worked on those who liked her pretty face.

“We are scholars,” she said, really stressing the whole scholar thing. “The truth knows no boundaries. The world has a right—”

Rook couldn’t take much more of her holier-than-thou attitude. “The world has gotten along quite fine with this artifact buried deep in these caves.” Rook turned as the torchlight flickered and the air reeked of burnt flesh and dirt. “And for all of your education, you, my dear Kadie, have yet to learn that the only ‘truth’ is that the natives, in fact, do know best.”

As the student sputtered, her professor stepped in. “Looking back, of course, you are right,” he said. He motioned around the cave. “We found this chamber yesterday. Obviously, we didn’t understand its true importance.”

Rook allowed the professor to ramble on as he studied the seal. It was a mixture of so many art forms. And none were the classic derivation. He sensed some were a modified Germanic script, while others looked crudely cuneiform, and, just for giggles, they had thrown in some angel-speak. It would be quite the find, if it didn’t end up killing them.

“We were talking pictures for our stateside translator when the rebels attacked. All of sudden, we found ourselves in the middle of a firefight.”

Rook turned to the professor. “So, you thought… ‘Hey, I’ve got a little time on my hands, so why don’t we take a crack at an ancient buried evil?’ Am I in the ballpark?”

Kadie stepped forward. “This is an important artifact.”

“That just so happened to burst open and cauterize your boyfriend?”

By the way her cheeks blotched and her lips struggled to form a response, it looked like he hit the nail on the head with that guess.

The professor once again stepped in for his volatile student. “As you can see, a line of pictograms surrounds the seal. We were able to partially decode them.” The older man sighed. “We didn’t realize it was such a powerful incantation.… Then… Then, the beast… That creature sprang from the seal, and…”

Yes, Rook knew what happened next. He almost felt a little bit of sympathy for the professor. Rook could remember when he had seen his first demon. He nearly wet his pants. Of course, he had been ten months old at the time, but still.…

Any feelings of commiseration died the second Kadie took a breath to speak. This chick was really getting on his nerves.

“If we’d just had more time…”

“To do what?” Rook asked, as he turned to her. “Like you haven’t done enough damage already?”

But this time, Kadie did not back down. If anything, she seemed galvanized by their argument. “How were we supposed to know?” she demanded. “The seal didn’t exactly come with a warning label.”

“Actually, yes it did. Right here,” Rook said as he pointed to the pictograms above the seal. “Do not open. Hellgate. Bad, researchers, bad.”

Kadie was about to retort when Beauty entered the cave.

“Your expert is here.”

The professor urged Kadie toward the main cave, but she balked.

In an exaggerated bow, Rook stated, “Ladies first.”

Kadie glared at him, but at least it got her moving.

As they left the chamber, Beauty threaded her arm under Rook’s so that they walked out arm in arm. “May I just say one thing about your consultant?”

“Just one?” Rook asked, surprised. Usually, Beauty had way more to say that that.

“Oh là là.”

Even with just one phrase, Beauty could still speak volumes.

* * *

Angela crouched on the toilet seat, holding her breath as a female officer washed her hands at the sink. Not exactly the most convenient time for the most hygienic cop to use the bathroom. Finally, Angela heard the snap of a paper towel being ripped off the roll, and then the clang of the garbage can lid.

Her legs felt weak as she got up from the toilet and sat back down. She stared at the cold, hard metal in her hand. Was she really brave enough to do this? Could she really sacrifice her life for another’s? For Brian? Her mother had been a devout Catholic. Her father? Not so much. But both had believed suicide to be a sin. But how could her ending all of these deaths be wrong? Mr. Nilen had a pregnant daughter. He would never see his grandchild because of her.

It had to end. And end with her. If she couldn’t make death come to her, she would bring herself to its door.

Taking in three sharp breaths, Angela closed her eyes. It would be over quickly. A sharp pain, and then black. She could handle black. Even if she ended up in purgatory like her mother believed, could it honestly be any worse than the shuttered life she was leading now?

Opening her eyes, she cocked the gun. She had best hurry, before anyone discovered her gone. Putting the cold barrel into her mouth, she prayed for forgiveness. Her finger sweated against the trigger. Just one little pull.

Was the room lighting up? Had someone come in, and she didn’t notice? Angela snatched the gun from her mouth as the stall filled with the most brilliant light. So much light that the walls around her receded. It was like standing on a cloud at sunrise. Slowly, a figure materialized before her. Dressed in a robe with enormous white wings at the back, the angel floated before her.

He reached a hand out and caressed her cheek. The touch felt cool, yet calming. “You have suffered greatly, my child.” His voice sounded like butterflies’ wings and a tiger’s roar. “But to all, there is a purpose.”

“What?” she stammered. “How?” Angela did not want to believe it was true. Was this a dream? A way her brain was trying to protect her? Wasn’t she supposed to see the white light after the shot?

But the angel, with his golden eyes and white hair, began to fade. “You must be strong, Angela. That is all I may speak.”

She reached out to the angel, but the sound of the bathroom door slamming open broke the connection. Reality snapped back in place. The dirty tile floor. The grafittied wall of the stall.

“Angela!” Brian called out, as he tested each of the doors. “Angela!”

She didn’t answer. What could she answer? Finally, he kicked open her stall. “Oh, God, Angie…”

It was as if she watched from a perch high above as Brian carefully knelt beside her and gently took the weapon from her limp hand. Once the weapon was secured, he pulled her into a fierce hug.

“This isn’t the answer, Angie.”

Angela heard herself say, “Then what is?”

Because right now, she had no freaking idea. If she lived, she caused death. And if she tried to kill herself? Well, if she were looking for a sign from God, having an angel come down and give you a pep talk was pretty clear.

Brian released her from his hold and smoothed back her hair. His touch was so much warmer than the angel’s. Was there ever really been a figure floating before her?

Brian forced her to look at him. “But there is something I need to tell you.”

Panic replaced confusion. “What?” she asked. “Who else has died?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.”

“Well then what?” she asked, searching his face for clues, but all she found was a some stubble and a concerned look in his eye.

“Remember how they pulled your blood earlier this morning to see if you had been drugged?” She nodded. Of course, she did. She still had the bandage to prove it. Brian continued, “Well, we got the results back.”

Angela waited, but he didn’t finish. “And?”

“And, I don’t know how to tell you this.”

Angela’s mind went to cancer. Could it be cancer? Diabetes? What?

She laid her hands over Brian’s. “Just tell me.”

He looked into her eyes. “Angela, you are pregnant.”

“I can’t be,” she said, as her hands fell away.

“They triple-checked the test. You are pregnant.”

Angela shook her head, breaking from of Brian’s touch. “No, you don’t understand. I can’t be.” She didn’t know why she felt so ashamed when she said, “I am a virgin.”

Brian’s eyebrows created deep furrows. “But you were engaged.”

“Nick and I were waiting until we were married.” It all sounded so stupid now. After everything that had happened, clinging to her good Catholic girl upbringing had brought her nothing but pain.

“No one else?” Brian asked, obviously still not understanding the full extent of the word “virgin.” “An office party?” he suggested. “Did you go out drinking? Maybe someone slipped you a—”

Angela stood up. “With everything that has happened, with people dying around me like poisoned flies, do you really think that I would go out bar-hopping? Hanging out with strange men, let alone, let alone allow them to…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t even stand up on her own anymore. Luckily, Brian’s arms were there to catch her.

“No, Angela, of course not. I’m sorry.” He gently stroked her hair. “But the tests don’t lie. You are going to have a baby.”

As tears rolled down her cheeks, Angela guessed she did have so much more to cry about and no angel to help explain why.

CHAPTER 3

Beauty broke from Rook’s arm and positioned herself next to their “consultant.” But how could Rook be insulted? The witch doctor in his full tribal headdress made quite the scene. Beauty could not be crouching any closer to the man without touching him.

“So, do you always do house calls?”

The witch doctor smiled, showing his filed-to-a-point teeth. Yet his speech was a fine, clipped British accent. “For someone as beautiful and charming as you, always.”

Rook feared that Beauty would swoon, but instead, she retied a bandage around Chad’s neck like it was a fashionable scarf.

“TuTi, has Beauty briefed you?” Rook asked.

“No, I have not had that pleasure.”

Beauty opened her lips, which apparently had fresh lip gloss applied to them, but her cell phone rang. She answered, “The happiest Arranger on earth.” Instantly, her smile disappeared, and she offered the phone to Rook. “It’s Savage.”

But Rook waved her off.

Beauty’s expertly plucked eyebrow went up. “The Prime Tervian of the Cabal, the guy in charge of our illustrious organization, wants to speak with you.”

“So?” Rook responded.

“Your uncle isn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

Sighing, Rook accepted the phone from Beauty, then immediately hit the “end call” button. Grinning, he handed it back to her. As he knelt beside the witch doctor and Chad, Rook couldn’t help but notice that Beauty turned off her phone. Guess he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to talk to old uncle Savage.

TuTi sniffed the vice president’s nephew. The bone piercing his nasal cartilage vibrated with the effort. “Something is wrong. Desperately wrong.”

“Um, you could say that,” Rook said, as he opened Chad’s shirt.

The witch doctor let out a hiss and jumped away.

“Yep. That was pretty much my response,” Rook noted as Chad roused a little, but equally quickly, he went back into his stupor.

Like a cat approaching a snake, the witch doctor snuck forward to examine the symbols more closely. “Why didn’t the guardian stop this?”

“He tried, but he was killed.”

TuTi’s head snapped around. His voice was thick with shock. “How? I mean, Walter was such a nice… guy.”

Rook threw a thumb in Kadie’s direction. “Tell that to the overeager grad student over there. She’s the one who killed him.”

The witch doctor set his eyes upon Kadie. Rook knew that she was pretty damn lucky that TuTi did not have his curse kit on him, or her skin would be boiling off right about now.

Chad roused again. “What’s happening?”

Beauty put a hand on his shoulder. “Shh, darlin.’ We are trying to figure that out right now.”

Rook looked at TuTi. “Got any answers for him?”

“Best guess?” TuTi asked. “An ambulatory biphasic porticular vortex generator.”

Chad tried to sit up, but Beauty urged the student back down as Rook answered, “You mean a walkin’, talkin’ Hellgate of our very own?”

“It is unprecedented, but yes,” TuTi answered, leaning over the markings again. “I do believe so.”

Chad thrashed under Beauty’s hold. “Gawd, it hurts! Help me.”

“Can I give him something?” Beauty asked. From Rook’s nod, she opened her huge Chanel purse and sorted through an impressive array of medicinal plants and pharmaceuticals. “Let’s see, honey. Do you think Vicodin or Percocet would make you feel better?”

Chad lifted himself up onto his elbows. “Just give me something!”

Rook liked it better when the kid was comatose. He turned back to TuTi. “Any idea what will trigger it to open?”

The witch doctor shook his head. “Without the proper codex, it will be trial and error to sort out the portal’s sequence.” He pointed to Chad’s chest. “Plus, there are a few symbols that do not match the original seal. What those portend, I do not know.”

Rook frowned. “But the ancient wards will keep it from just… just…”

“Spewing forth hell? I’m not sure. The Holy Seal is intact, but it wasn’t blessed by an elder, nor was it sanctified by the blood of a dozen virgins.”

Rook nodded toward Beauty. “You heard it. Get on virgin detail.”

* * *

Beauty risked a few wrinkles as she frowned. “That’s certainly easier said than done.”

But, as always, Rook simply shrugged at her concerns. “Then start looking in countries that don’t get Jersey Shore.”

To her surprise and delight, TuTi rose to her defense. “Rook, Beauty is correct. We cannot take the matter of the virgins lightly.

Beauty really wished she could gloat properly. However, Chad refused to take the medications. But wasn’t he the one who asked for the pills? And didn’t he understand how hard it was to get double-prescription-strength Oxycontin? But the student’s head thrashed from side to side as the other men spoke.

“These cannot just be girls pulled from the streets. They must be cleansed and purified.”

Rook waved him off. “I’ll let you two lovebirds handle the quality control.”

Beauty should have been insulted by the comment, or at the very least miffed that Rook was shoving even more responsibilities onto her. However, the thought of working side by side with the witch doctor more than made up for any annoyance.

Rook rose to his feet, stretching out a kink. “Now, the question is, how do we find an elder with the necessary power to—”

Chad’s head snapped back, and a wail that felt like it came from the deepest bowels of hell rose from his throat. It was like a hyena’s cry, while a hundred evil little girls scratched their nails down a chalkboard.

“Um, trying to have a conversation here…” Rook said, as he nodded to the British guard. “Keep him quiet.”

The guard obeyed, but looked at Beauty as Chad’s entire body arched and the sound became a high-pitched buzz. “Exactly how in the bloody hell are we supposed to do that?”

Beauty had no idea, but at least Chad’s mouth was open, and Beauty was pouring OxyContin in as though it were pixie dust. “Get his shoulders.”

Leaning over, the guard tried to hold down the agitated student. Too late, Beauty noticed the symbols on Chad’s chest become a fiery red. The flaming portal sprang open, consuming the guard so quickly that he didn’t even have time to scream.

In horror, Beauty watched the witch doctor dragged toward the open maw. She snatched his hand, pulling back against the portal’s unnatural tug. TuTi struggled against the tide, but then found her gaze.

“You truly embody your namesake.” With that, the witch doctor let go.

“No!” Beauty screamed, grasping at air. Then she, too, felt the portal’s call.

“Rook!” she screamed, but he took a step back. “Help!”

She had known Rook for a very long time. Sure, he could be a dick, but was he really going to let her get an express, one-way ticket to hell? Beauty needn’t have worried. Rook was only backing away to get the speed he needed to jump over the growing portal. Once clear of the spinning flames, he raised a fist and punched Chad in the jaw.

The man’s head snapped over. The inhuman wailing stopped, and the portal snapped closed. Rising and falling on the unconscious student’s chest, the seal sat quiescent. Beauty reached out and touched the flesh along the edge.

“The good ones always slip away.” At least the witch doctor had known the risks. Poor Chad and the others did not.

Rook shook out his hand, feeling the sting of the punch. “Yeah, and from now on, let’s make keeping Chad happy and calm a priority, ‘Kay?”

Rising to her feet, Beauty couldn’t agree more. “I’m so on board.” She looked around. The cannibals had taken their dead and now stood ready at the entrance. “Time to make our exit?”

Rook was about to answer when Kadie stepped forward with a look of sheer horror on her face.

“What have you done?”

Without warning, she flew at Rook, fists flying. But Rook caught the student by the wrists and slammed her up against the wall.

“You know what? I’m really getting tired of your attitude.”

Suddenly, Rook pulled a knife from his belt and unceremoniously gutted Kadie. The remaining guards yanked their guns into firing position. What was Rook thinking? He would never… well, never was a bit of a stretch, but Rook wouldn’t usually stab an unarmed woman.

* * *

Rook felt the warm blood gush over his hands. Such a satisfying feeling. He heard a gun cock, and then Beauty yelled, “Don’t!”

His Arranger must have realized that the blood spilling out onto the floor was not a dark red, but a nice bright demon green. Even now Kadie’s face warped and melted away, revealing the scaly-faced creature beneath.

“Think I couldn’t smell the demon in you, Shivate?” he asked, grinding the blade in deeper. “Why are you here?”

The thing spat a vile wad of demon saliva in his face. “I will have my due!”

Damn, but Shivates were a strong bunch, even when gutted. She threw Rook back. He landed with an ungraceful thud. Quickly, he brought the knife to bear again as the Shivate shed the last of her human skin and grew her claws to their natural eight-inch length. Beauty would be so jealous. But as the Shivate pounced toward Rook, a spear pierced her side. Then another, and another, until the demon looked like a perverse shish kebab.

With one last rattling gasp, the Shivate slumped. The cannibals tested the demon, jabbing and chattering around her until they were certain that the she-beast was dead.

The eyes behind the professor’s thick glasses were glazed over in horror and denial. “What do we… What do we do now?”

Rook wiped the green blood off the knife. “Um, get outta here before the cavalry strikes up the barbecue?”

As the cannibals dragged the body of the Shivate out of the cave, the professor’s voice shook. “But what about…”

The demon that was once Kadie slid by, leaving a trail of green-streaked dirt.

“Looks like they found themselves some dessert.”

* * *

Angela allowed Brian to guide her to his car. She wanted to protest. She wanted to scream. She wanted to know how any of this could happen to her, yet she simply put one foot in front of the other. It was enough for now just to keep herself upright.

Brian pulled his keys from his pocket. “I am going to be staying with you until we can arrange something more permanent.”

Using every ounce of her strength, Angela shook her head. “I will be fine.”

The detective raised an eyebrow, though. “Look, I didn’t report your little ‘episode’ back there, but I will, if it takes you getting the care you need.”

When she didn’t fight him—How could she?—Brian opened the passenger side door. He rubbed her arm, obviously trying to reassure her. “I’m sure once you get some food in you and get some rest, this won’t feel so bad.”

She might be numb and despondent, but that didn’t make her naïve. Angela looked at Brian.

“Okay,” he conceded. “But at least you’ll be well rested and well fed.” His tone lowered to a near whisper. “And you won’t be alone. Through any of this.”

How she wanted to say she appreciated that fact. That she appreciated him. The truth was, she just couldn’t. Brian deserved someone so much more than she could ever be. He deserved his equal—not some broken, cursed woman who carried around God- only-knew-what in her belly.

“Detective Hoffman?” a man asked, as he approached from the other side of the car.

Brian eyed the guy’s crisp, dark suit. They looked like FBI to Angela but she was no expert. A second man followed closely behind. They both flashed badges. “I am Special Agent Moore, and this is Special Agent Conn.”

“Okay…” Brian answered.

“We are here to relieve you of Ms.—”

Angela curled her arms around her body as the second man reached out for her. Brian stepped between her and the man. What was happening?

“I don’t know who sent you, but no one is taking Angela—”

Angela screamed as Agent Moore pulled out a weapon. Brian went for his gun, but the Taser leads hit him the chest. The gun clanged to the ground, useless, as his body flopped on the ground.

“Run,” he said through gritted teeth.

Whether it was his words, or some survival instinct buried deep within her, Angela’s feet moved as she ran toward the police station. The second man grabbed her by the hair, abruptly ending her sprint. She clawed and punched and elbowed—all of the self-defense moves that Brian had taught her, but none fazed the man. He lifted her off the ground, covering her mouth with his broad hand.

Angela bit down hard, but did not even get a grunt from her kidnapper.

She could see people coming out of the station. Surely they could get to them in time, but a van squealed to a stop. As soon as the door slid open, the man tossed her inside. Angela hit her head hard on the bare steel floor. She tried to rush the door, but it slammed shut in her face. Desperately, she searched for the handle, but there was none.

As the van careened away from the station, Angela fought the dizziness and groped to her feet, clutching at the grating covering the back window. Brian too staggered up, gun in hand.

“No!” she screamed. He needed to stay down. He needed to stay safe. He shouldn’t risk anything more for her.

But Brian raised his weapon and got two shots off before he took a bullet to the chest. Angela saw the blood splatter across his shirt, and the look of shock and pain as he crumpled to the ground.

The van made a sharp right turn as Angela watched Brian bleed to death.

CHAPTER 4

Rook leaned his head against the leather airplane seat. He closed his eyes and tucked the thick goose down blanket under his chin. Perhaps later he they would offer warm towels. Ah, how he loved first class. Once he awakened from his nap, he would have to compliment Beauty on her “arranging” skills. From finding a cannibal tribe in the middle of a civil war to booking the best seats on the plane, Beauty should win the “Arranger of the Year” award. That is, if the Cabal gave out such things.

The only thing to taint the plane ride was Chad resting fitfully between he and Beauty, disturbing what could have been the most perfect flight in history. The student had already nearly knocked over Rook’s champagne.

“Are you sure he doesn’t need another pill?” Beauty whispered.

Rook didn’t bother opening his eyes. “If anybody needs more Valium, Beauty, it is you.”

Ever since her nearly betrothed witch doctor got sucked into Chad’s chest, his Arranger had been a little on edge.

He could hear Beauty take in a breath in retort, when her phone buzzed. Quickly, she snatched it from her purse. The one bad thing about being in first class was that the flight attendants were all over their passengers.

“I am sorry, madam, but you can’t use that device during the flight,” the woman said with a French accent.

Rook cracked an eye open and watched Beauty make quite a scene of “turning off” the phone. “I am so, so sorry. I must have forgotten to turn it off. Won’t happen again.”

The flight attendant smiled at Beauty. “Very good, then.” She moved off to the young couple to their left who wanted a few more blankets. Rook could probably guess what they wanted to do underneath them. He also guessed that their amorous feelings would be extinguished if they knew a Hellgate sat not two seats over. Talk about a buzzkill.

Beauty leaned over Chad and whispered, “It’s Savage on the line.”

Rook rolled his pillow up and propped his head against the bulkhead. “You heard the lady.”

“He says it’s urgent.”

Rook yawned. “Oh, when isn’t it? I mean, seriously, when?”

Beauty leaned in even closer. “First off, he says he can hear everything you just said, and that he will meet us in Lisbon if you don’t take his call. Right now.”

Emotional blackmail. That was his uncle’s strong suit.

He accepted the phone from Beauty. Savage was as brusque and direct as usual.

“Burgundy alert. You are heading home.”

“But you don’t understand,” Rook tried to interject, but his uncle simply talked over him.

The flight attendant turned on her heel. “I must insist that you turn your phone over to me.”

While Savage was still prattling away, Rook handed off the phone. “My pleasure.”

Rook got his pillow all nice and positioned again as he shut his eyes.

“Well?” Beauty asked. “Are we still taking Chad to Lisbon?”

“Change of plans,” Rook said, wishing he’d had that second glass of champagne. “We’re going to the States.”

“The States?” Beauty asked, rousing a few of the neighboring passengers.

“Yep. Something bigger has come up.”

Beauty leaned over Chad and smacked him on the shoulder. “Bigger than…” she said once Rook opened his eyes. “Jack-in-the-box?”

Rook simply shrugged as the plane banked sharply left.

“What’s going on?” Beauty asked.

He readjusted his blanket. His knees were getting a little chilly. “Like I said—We are heading home.”

The other passengers began to whisper amongst themselves as the jet accelerated in the opposite direction of Lisbon. Chad moaned as their seats vibrated from the thrust.

“But—” Beauty sputtered. “There’s no way.”

“That’s what I said.”

“But we don’t have enough fuel to cross the Atlantic. And to try to fuel a passenger flight in midair? That’s just…”

Rook shrugged again, wondering if he should ask for another glass of champagne before they ran out. “Hey, all of that is Savage’s problem.”

Beauty, though, still didn’t seem able to accept their new fate. “What could be this important to divert a plane in midair?”

Poor Beauty. She always asked questions that she really didn’t want to know the answers to.

“Just the warm-up act for the Apocalypse. No biggie.”

Relishing the look on Beauty’s face, Rook decided that he didn’t want another glass of champagne. With such a long flight, a nap was in order, and the drink would only give him fuzzy mouth. Not the feeling he wanted just before the Second Coming.

As he settled against the bulkhead, he heard Beauty shake out some pills. Rook was pretty sure they weren’t just for Chad.

* * *

Angela felt heavy and light at the same time. As though her burdens were lifted, but her arms were still bound. She tried to raise her hand, but something stopped her. This wasn’t an allegorical problem. She was physically strapped down to a hospital bed.

The memories of the abduction and Brian’s face as he tilted forward, clutching his blood-splattered shirt, hit at once.

“You’re sure we can’t use any of this equipment?” a man said.

Angela craned her neck, trying to look behind her. She found two men dressed in suits speaking with a much shorter and thinner man in a white lab coat. There was an entire panel of instruments in front of them.

Was this a hospital of some sort?

“As I told you over the phone, Mr. Carson,” the small man said in a heavy Eastern European accent, “there is a peculiar energy field around her.” Angela risked another glance over the bed as he pointed to an ultrasound machine. “We can’t use any of the typical electronic devices to confirm or deny that this is a normal pregnancy.”

They were talking about her, Angela realized. What exactly would an abnormal pregnancy look like?

“Doctor, the suits upstairs want to know, ‘yes,’ or ‘no.’ Not ‘maybe.’”

The doctor sighed as he cleaned his glasses. “The fact alone that we cannot get any clear readings from the instruments greatly increases the chance that this is not a normal gestation. Which is why I have repeatedly recommended that we move forward with my plan.”

“And if she got knocked up the usual way?”

Angela lay back down and feigned sleep as the doctor led the men out of the room.

“Then we have lost nothing. But if she is the one, then…”

The door closed before she could hear the rest.

Then? Then what, exactly?

* * *

Beauty cursed her advanced fashion sense as she nearly tripped on her stilettos while helping Chad up the gangway. Other irate passengers pushed past them, rushing toward customs, cursing in a motley mix of different languages. All angered that they were somehow in America.

Fine. Let them rush. They only rushed so that they could stand in the never- moving customs line.

As they stumbled out of the gangway, an airline attendant held up a sign. “Smith Family.”

Beauty angled them in that direction.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Rook sneered. “What are we? Daddy bear, Hot Momma bear, and drunk cousin Chad?”

“Shush,” Beauty urged as they approached the attendant. “The Smiths. That would be us,” Beauty announced to the attendant.

The lean man led them through a side door. “I have been instructed to assist you past customs.”

Thank goodness. How exactly would they have declared a Hellgate? But if Savage could arrange midair refueling, he could easily get them past Miami customs. Quickly, they passed through several sets of doors until they entered another section of the airport.

“Your private jet is fueled and ready for takeoff at Gate Number 87-B.”

“Thank you,” Beauty said, since she knew Rook was not going to.

Even though the gate was only four rows down, they guided Chad to the first available seat. Hellgates were a helluva heavy species. And in stilettos? My word. Beauty’s nose cringed at the terminal’s smell—a combination of bananas and body odor. Not the fragrance that she was accustomed to. In Miami, give her the beach, or give her nothing.

As Beauty made sure Chad did not fall out of his seat, Rook looked down the terminal away from their gate.

“You get Chad to the safe house in LA,” Rook said as he headed off. “I’ll meet you there.”

Beauty grabbed his sleeve. “Oh, no you don’t! You can’t leave me alone! With him? No way.”

Chad groaned and lolled his head over, murmuring something about fire and pain.

Rook wagged his finger at Beauty and spoke in an upbeat tone. “Remember, only nice, happy thoughts.”

Equally chipper, Beauty replied, “Rook, my darling, my love, the father of my imaginary children, where are you going to go, exactly?”

“Oh, Snuggums, I’m talented, but even I want a little backup when we face the End of Days.”

Beauty sat down next to Chad, leaning his head against her shoulder, soothing his hair, trying to quiet him before Miami became nothing more than a hellish sinkhole.

“Rook, sweetie, you know that I can send for anyone you need. It’s my job.”

Rook leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Sorry, but I’ve got to do this on my own.”

Beauty squinted. Rook was up to something. Which was the norm, but usually he filled her in. Well, at least with the ZIP code where he was headed. Rook urged Chad up and helped her carry him toward their gate.

“But you need to me to organize transportation and—”

A flight attendant from their gate took Chad from Rook.

“I’ll be fine,” Rook reassured her. “Now, shoo.”

Reluctantly, Beauty headed down the gangway after Chad. Rook gave a royal wave making her grin. Feeling slightly better about a cross-country trip with an active Hellgate, Beauty kicked off one pump, then the other. Her stockinged feet greeted the thin, worn carpet of the gangway like it was silk and butter.

She turned to say a final good-bye to Rook, but found him standing in the middle of the terminal staring out the window. Normally, Rook was a “man of action.” The guy who yelled carpe diem as their boat capsized. To see him so quiet and forlorn made Beauty realize that maybe escorting the walking Hellgate was the easier assignment.

* * *

Angela breathed in, and then out, trying to mimic sleep as the doctor hovered over her.

“I have an EEG reading, Angela. I know that you are awake,” he said with that thick, slow, and menacing Eastern European accent.

She opened her eyes to find his thin, sharp nose only inches from hers.

“How are you feeling?”

“Kidnapped,” she answered tersely.

“Good, good,” he said, nodding vigorously. “You know your surroundings. How else are you feeling?”

With Brian’s shocked look still in her mind’s eye, she answered, “Homicidal.”

“Your sense of humor is intact, I see.” The doctor patted her arm as if he had the best bedside manner. “But I was asking more along the lines of abdominal cramping or headaches.”

“What am I doing here?” she demanded.

The doctor stroked her cheek. “Angela, I think you already know that, no?”

Angela jerked her face away.

“Now, now,” he said, as he leaned in even closer. “I am loath to use drugs to control your temper, but I will if I must.”

Angela squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her face as far away from the bony doctor as she could.

“It is going to be a very long nine months if you insist on behaving this way.” He dug his fingers in her cheek and forced her face to his. “I could make it easier on you…”

Angela lifted her lip and bit down on the end of his finger. Salty, warm blood was her reward. The doctor backhanded her. Her cheek stung from the blow, but it was worth it. Her survival instinct seemed to have kicked in full gear. Brian would be so proud.

If he weren’t dead, Angela reminded herself.

The doctor sucked on his injured thumb. “Once you’ve given birth, you are mine,” he wheezed. “Just remember that.”

* * *

Rook gripped the dashboard of the beat-up pickup truck as they hit another pothole—while going forty miles an hour. His butt was lifted off the seat a good six inches, and then came crashing down. The old beater may fishtail on its bald tires at every turn, but they were making decent time.

Still, it had been a long trip. Another four-hour plane ride, and then he had to hop into a puddle jumper to fly this deep into the Rockies. They had landed in a small clearing in a wildflower meadow. Snow still capped the mountains surrounding the reservation, as clouds built up on the horizon. A late-season storm was forecast. Rook was lucky to have flown in ahead of it.

Rook glanced over at the older Native American driver. He seemed to take the jarring and jangling bumps as a matter of course. It was like his body had simply adapted to the conditions, and he rode the truck like a bronco.

Not soon enough, they pulled to a stop. The old man said nothing. He just nodded up the sloping hill to the sweat lodge.

“Thanks,” Rook said, but there was no response. Funny. He was usually the enigmatic one.

Rook got out and tried to shut the door, but it wouldn’t close all the way. Finally he hauled back and slammed the thing closed. The old man gave a grunt of approval, and then gunned the truck. Dirt and debris flew up around Rook in a hail of pebbles.

Sputtering, trying to get the grass blades out of his mouth, Rook conceded. “Maybe next time I’ll take Beauty up on her offer.”

Several loincloth-clad Native Americans walked by, looking at the strange white man dressed in a long black trench coat mumbling to himself. Spitting out some sort of pine nut, Rook let them stare. If everything went as planned, he would be out of here before they could say “Kemosabe.”

Bracing himself for the harsh welcome that was sure to come, Rook headed up the gentle slope to the split-timber sweat lodge. The building must have been constructed by hand, how their ancestors had, before the white man came and messed everything up. Rook might have appreciated the effort if he weren’t in black loafers with hay kernels in the folds of his shirt.

Rook opened the thatched door and entered the lodge. He waited a moment until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Rook knew that he was supposed to strip bare, dip himself in sacred water, but he just didn’t have the time… or inclination.

Perspiration beaded on his forehead as he walked deeper into the lodge. Several older Native Americans sat cross-legged, still as statues, as they sweat out their worries. The central fire was stoked high as the heat pressed in on Rook. People really found this relaxing?

But Rook put all that aside and found the person he came for. Younger by three decades than the others, Tomahawk’s burnished skin glistened from the sweat. His long hair fell straight past his shoulders. He was like a warrior from a politically correct Disney movie.

Sighing, Rook could delay no longer. He headed straight across the lodge and stood before his former teammate. “Tomahawk.”

The man slowly opened his eyes. Recognition registered, but then Tomahawk closed his eyes again, taking in a deep breath and letting it out again.

“Really?” Rook asked. “You really want to do this here?”

Tomahawk must not have as he silently rose, standing a good three inches taller than Rook. Damn, he’s forgotten just how tall the guy was. Not that Beauty didn’t stop talking about it, of course, but Rook had the whole “you are dead to me” thing tuning her out. Which Rook wished that he could have kept up, but when Savage sounded worried, he knew he would have to break a personal vow or two.

As they exited the building, Tomahawk grabbed a coarse towel and wrapped it around his waist. Rapidly, they climbed the rest of the hill until they came upon a small cabin perched upon the plateau. Tomahawk didn’t need a key to open the unlocked door and ushered them into the spartan interior. Rook glanced about. There were a few candles, a table, a chair, and a log-framed bed. Except for the fireplace and a few cooking utensils, that was it.

“I knew you were on a back-to-nature kick, but what happened to all your toys, Tommi? Where’s your laptop? Your tablet?”

Tomahawk tugged on a pair of jeans. “Computers no longer dominate my world, Rook.”

“Yeah, but damn, not even high-speed Internet?”

After donning a shirt, Tomahawk turned toward Rook. His tone was flat. There seemed to be no anger. Nor was there a hint of familiarity. “I am going to ask you once to leave my home and never come back.”

“Ah, you are so sweet for asking, but no,” Rook replied.

Rook honestly wasn’t ready when Tomahawk lunged at him, knocking him back and pinning him to the floor.

“So much for your oath of nonviolence, dude,” Rook said, just before he coughed from the impact.

“You bastard!” Tomahawk growled.

“Now, technically, my parents were married when I was—”

Tomahawk bounced the back of Rook’s head against the solid wood floor. “How dare you come here? How dare you—”

Okay. Rook had enough of the “how-dare-yous.” Locking his leg over Tomahawk, Rook used his elbow for leverage and tipped Tomahawk over, slamming the weekend warrior’s head against the wood. Tomahawk may have had the advantage in superior strength, but Rook had been out in the field battling hell’s reject. He had some skills of his own.

“In the last twenty-four hours I have played chess for my soul, been hounded by hell’s welcome wagon, and schlepped across the jungle while Beauty complained about her heels,” Rook listed, and then took a breath. “So I would not push me.”

With that off his chest, Rook released Tomahawk, who sprang to his feet and began pacing the small cabin.

“Let’s just get down to business,” Rook said, but Tomahawk did not stop. “We are kind of on a tight timetable here, so—”

“The answer is ‘no.’ No matter what it is,” Tomahawk stated rather defiantly. “The end of the world. The raising of Atlantis. I am out.”

Rook sat down on the bed, checking his hands for splinters. “I wasn’t asking, Tommi.” He looked up to find Tomahawk glaring at him. “We both know that when I push, people fall.”

“I’m done with being blackmailed, Rook. I’ve confessed about the hacking. I’ve—”

Rook shook his head. “That’s old news. I am looking into the new millennium.” Rook dug around in his coat pocket and pulled out several sheets of paper. “I heard that they discovered uranium on your reservation.”

Tomahawk eyed him suspiciously. “And?”

“After what happened to the tribe in Montana? Two-headed babies are something only a mother could love…but even then…”

Rook thought it had been kind of funny, but Tomahawk frowned. “Don’t toy with me, Rook.”

“Who is toying?” Rook said as he stood. “This is flat-out extortion. Help me, and I will help you.”

Finally, Tomahawk took the offered papers. He scanned them quickly. “How do I even know if these are legit?”

“I am many things, but I am not…” Rook thought about it, though. “Okay, I guess I am a forger too, but those are for real. Permanent transfer of the mineral rights to the tribe for the entire reservation and all lands upstream.”

Rook watched as Tomahawk soaked in the implications of the deed. Rook pressed his advantage. “Think about it. No more worrying about the corporations stripping your land and leaving you with the biohazard wasteland. No more Bureau of Land Management officials making shady deals in back rooms—leaving your tribe to foot the bill.”

Still, Tomahawk did not seem completely convinced.

“Come on,” Rook taunted. “What is the worst that can happen?”

Tomahawk lowered the papers and glared at Rook. “Let’s see? I could be killed, and my people become slaves to a demon-worshipping cult?”

“Well, yeah, but besides that…”

Tomahawk looked at the papers, and then offered them back to Rook. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Rook was about to argue when a keening wail rose from the sweat lodge. Crap. He knew that keening wail. They rushed to the front door to see men tumble, bloody, out of the lodge.

Tomahawk turned on Rook. “So help me, if this is your fault.…”

“Hey, I told you we were on a tight timetable.”

Another shriek, and a Shivate priestess in full battle armor strode from the lodge. Rook urged Tomahawk toward the garage. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“No, we’ve got to—”

Rook held Tomahawk’s gaze. “The best thing for your people is for us to lead it away.”

The logic must have penetrated Tomahawk’s hostility, because he crouched down and made his way along the wall.

“What’s a Shivate doing here, anyway?” Tomahawk demanded.

“Oh,” Rook said as he followed closely. “Did I forget to mention that I killed one of her sisters yesterday?”

Tomahawk looked furious, but kept sprinting toward the garage. A turn of the knob, and they were inside. Tomahawk threw Rook the keys to the dark SUV parked inside.

“Rev it up.”

But Rook threw the keys back. “You know better than that.”

Exasperated, Tomahawk got into the driver’s seat. “How do you have the ability to call forth the elements, but haven’t learned to drive?”

Rook opened the large garage door when a Shivate came at him. In a single swift motion, Rook pulled his knife and lanced it across her green, mottled face. She lurched to the side, screaming as Tomahawk gunned the engine and floored it backward, not stopping for Rook. With a well-placed kick, Rook knocked the demon away and used the momentum to jump, at least halfway, in the passenger-side window.

Climbing in the tight opening, Rook scowled at Tomahawk. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to ditch me.”

CHAPTER 5

Rook shielded his eyes from the sun as they exited the LAX terminal. Who would have thought that smog would be so damned bright? Tomahawk walked next to him, complaining, again.

“I really needed that coupler and replay switch.”

Rook shrugged. “I told you to carry it on.”

“I would have, if our bags weren’t so filled with your junk.”

How a private plane could lose luggage truly was a mystery. Between lost bags and lost socks in the dryer, Rook had more than enough proof that black holes, albeit minute ones, did exist.

They arrived at the curb, but no Beauty. Hopefully, she had arranged for a Bentley or a Rolls Royce. Maybe that would get Tomahawk to quit whining.

“Junk?” Rook asked, raising an eyebrow. “These bags hold the key to our survival.”

“Yeah, right,” Tomahawk snorted. “The massage oil and bananas?”

Rook searched the crush of cars, taxis, and buses that jockeyed for position like hogs at a feeding trough. “You’ve got your hobbies. I’ve got—”

A loud honk cut Rook off. The source of the obnoxious sound was an extremely old station wagon with fake wood paneling and a Woodstock bumper sticker. The driver maneuvered between a taxi and a parking shuttle to pull up at the curb. What the…?

A dark hand with zebra-print fingernails waved from the driver’s side. With a frown, Rook approached the car. Sure enough, it was his Arranger at the wheel.

“Um… Beauty?” Tomahawk asked.

“Don’t ask. Just get in.”

“But—”

Beauty waved her chipped fingernails at him. “Just don’t.”

“You heard the woman,” Rook said to Tomahawk as they moved to the rear of the car. Opening the rear hatch, they found Chad bound and gagged by a piece of duct tape. His left eye was bruised a dark purple, and he had a gash on his lip. Rook glanced toward the front seat, and found a set of very pissed off eyes in the rearview mirror.

* * *

Beauty held up her one remaining intact nail. “I said, ‘don’t.’ “

As the men loaded their gear into the car, Beauty leaned over and gave Tomahawk a peck on the cheek.

“Beauty,” he said as he returned the gesture, “I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

She shushed him as she drove the car into the Byzantine traffic. “Oh, please. I would see you under any circumstances, hon.”

Beauty went to push her bangs back, but got a nail caught in her weave. It took several awkward attempts to get it out, and in the process, she nearly ran over an old lady.

“So, I take it that the rendezvous at the safe house didn’t go quite as planned?” Rook asked from the backseat.

“You can say that again,” Beauty said, daring Rook to question her any further. “And I couldn’t exactly drag him in for a mani-pedi with me.”

“Is everything else ready?”

Beauty glared at them in the rearview mirror. She might need an emergency makeover, but she did her job. Rook must have read her expression correctly. He pointed to the freeway sign. “Great. Take the 405 North.”

Beauty didn’t turn off her right-hand blinker, although she was not quite certain it actually worked. “But the warehouse is to the south.”

This time, Rook gave her a glare that allowed no argument. Sighing, Beauty switched off the right-hand blinker and turned on the left. Today, it seemed nothing was going to go according to plan.

* * *

As they drove up to the Morganstern Mental Health Facility, Tomahawk leaned forward.

“No, no, no, man,” Tomahawk mumbled.

Even Beauty looked askance as she pulled the station wagon to a stop. “Why didn’t you tell me you were thinking of involving Fanny?”

Rook grabbed the door handle. “Mainly so we didn’t have to have this fight.”

“This is bull,” Tomahawk stated. “She’s just a kid.”

“She’s twenty-three. A legal adult.”

Beauty put her arm on the seat back and turned to him. “You know what Tomahawk meant.”

“Did you both forget that we’ve got a Hellgate in the trunk?” Rook reminded them as he opened his door. “If this goes south, how safe do you think she’ll be here? Or anywhere?”

Neither of them could argue, and Chad didn’t get a vote, so Rook exited the car and headed into the clinic. The place did not have the look, feel, or smell of an institution. Once through the door, you found yourself in a soothing atrium with a glass ceiling. Even the front desk was richly appointed. An orchid graced the desktop.

“Hello. I’m Dr. Lerhaven,” Rook announced. “I am here to transfer Fanny Hops.”

The two nurses exchanged glances. One of them turned and walked down the hallway, while the other remained, smiling a bit too cheerfully. “Yes. Dr. Metz would like to speak with you before—”

“I’m sorry. I am on a tight schedule. However, Dr. Metz can call me with any questions.”

“I believe she wanted to discuss the transfer, so if you could have a seat, I will page—”

Rook skewered the nurse with his patented “Does it appear that I am messing around?” look. “I want Ms. Hops, and I want her now.”

The nurse, though, seemed up for a challenge. Fortunately, movement down the hallway drew their attention. Dr. Metz walked toward them, while a young woman with her hair in four ponytails—all with a different color—skipped down the hallway.

Fanny.

Her clothes were a riot of colors, as though she had rolled around in tempera paint. She was like a fractured, chaotic rainbow of childlike exuberance. Fanny looked up. It only took her a split second to recognize him.

“Rook!” she screamed, dropping the doctor’s hand and racing to him. He braced as she launched herself into his arms. “I mean, Doctor… Doctor…”

“Dr. Lerhaven,” Rook reminded her. “And it is nice to see you too, Fanny.”

Dr. Metz trotted to catch up as Fanny covered Rook’s face with baby-pink kisses. It was a bit like being mauled by cotton candy. A little sticky, really annoying, but in the end, kind of sweet.

Still carrying Fanny like a baby monkey, with her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck, Rook turned to the nurse. “I assume Fanny’s release papers are ready.”

The nurse stalled, though.

Rook’s eyebrow shot up. “I’m the doctor who signed Fanny in, and I will sign her out.” Okay, so he wasn’t really a doctor, but he also wasn’t one when he checked Fanny in either, so he figured they were square. “Or, do I need to call someone who is further up the food chain?”

Reluctantly, the nurse put the papers on the counter. As he signed, Dr. Metz tried to get his attention. “Before you leave, can we please step into my office?”

“Sorry, but we really have to be going.” He was not kidding as he finished signing and headed for the front door.

Dr. Metz cut him off. “It will just take a second. I’m worried about Fanny’s stability outside of her familiar surroundings.”

“She’ll be fine,” Rook stated. “As I told your staff, I am on an extremely tight schedule.”

Fanny stopped kissing Rook long enough to add, “Boy, does he mean it! Next thing you know, there’ll be some monster crashing through the window.” Despite Rook’s attempts to quiet her, Fanny kept going. “And sometimes they breathe fire out of their eyes, or others have tails, and you can try to ride ‘em. You know, they are usually trying to eat you, but that just makes it all the more fun, right?”

Rook couldn’t help but grin. “That’s right, Fanny.” After Dr. Metz’s extremely concerned reaction, Rook whispered, “I will keep up her antipsychotic medications.”

Before the doctor could respond, Rook made for the door. Once their escape was accomplished, Rook tried to set Fanny down. She sprang out of his arms, and then jumped on his back, riding him like a horse. Sighing, Rook made his way to the car. It was usually easier that way.

“Where are we going?” Fanny asked, chewing her gum.

“To fight some bad men.”

“Yippee!” Fanny exclaimed as they reached the car.

Rook opened the back door, but Fanny wouldn’t budge. “Fanny, please. We’ve got to get going.”

“But I want to ride in the front with Beauty.”

Rook pointed into the car. Using his best tempting tone, “But look who’s in the backseat.”

Without getting off his back, Fanny peered inside the station wagon. “OMG! Tomahawk!” She launched from Rook’s back into the car. “I’ve missed you so much!”

Now it was Tomahawk’s turn to be showered in pink love. Rook used the opportunity to get into the front seat before Fanny turned her abundant affections onto him again.

“Onward to the warehouse,” Rook instructed Beauty.

“You got it,” Beauty stated as she pulled away from the curb. “I’ve already scouted it.”

“Oh, my gosh! Beauty! You’ve got pink hair!” Fanny exclaimed, wrapping her arms around the Arranger’s neck. “We are like twins!”

Beauty laughed. “Yes, honey. We are soul sisters.”

“I am so excited!” Fanny clapped her hands. “We’re all back together again! Do you know what that means?”

“What? Death and certain destruction?” Tomahawk asked sourly. However, Fanny did not seem to notice.

“No, silly! S’mores!” Fanny clapped again. “Rook always lets us cook ‘em once we are done!”

Rook grinned. Not even Tomahawk could stay sullen around Fanny. “Yes. That he does,” Tomahawk said.

A moan from the rear of the car must have caught Fanny’s attention. She leaned over the seat and giggled. Pointing, she asked innocently, as only Fanny could, “Who’s he?”

* * *

Angela tried to rest, but her foot twitched on its own. Even after the more-than-thorough exam, they still could not decide if her pregnancy was normal or not. She tried to push that from her mind. Did the origin of her pregnancy really matter if she was stuck in this prison?

The lights flickered overhead. Was someone in the corner?

“When you are freed,” the mechanical voice whispered, “you must run up. Always up.”

“When will I be freed?”

“Soon,” the mysterious figure answered, “but you must run up.”

“But why?” she asked, and then the lights stopped flickering. She didn’t need to crane her neck to know that the figure had gone. Still, hope flooded through her as surely as the fluids going into her veins from the IV.

Whoever was behind the voice obviously circumvented security. But could this person actually break her out? And, once out, what would they want with her?

Angela rested her head on the pillow. There was only one way to find out.

As she waited, she muttered, “Up… up and out.”

* * *

Tomahawk lay on his belly at the edge of the roof, sweeping the infrared binoculars over the building across from them.

“Is it my turn?” Fanny asked, for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Not yet, honey,” said Beauty, guiding the girl away from the edge.

“But that’s what you said thirty-seven seconds ago,” Fanny whined.

Tomahawk sat up and turned to Rook. “Clear so far, but I don’t want to make any bets on the type of security they’ve got in there.”

“Why?”

“See those wires?” Tomahawk asked as he pointed to a cluster of wiring that ran from a pole to the building in question. Rook nodded, and Tomahawk continued. “They are drawing some serious juice into the building. My guess is for some serious surveillance and defensive equipment.”

“Achoo!” Fanny announced behind them.

“Fanny, are you sensing something?” Rook asked the girl.

The girl sat hugging her knees, rocking back and forth, no longer jubilant. Her voice was lower and more somber. “There is something. It tickles my nose.”

“Forces of good? Or evil?” Rook asked.

Fanny though, seemed in a trance. Her eyes glazed over, and her head weaved of its own accord. “I sense only hunger.”

Despite the answer not being particularly helpful, Tomahawk watched Rook pat Fanny on the shoulder. “Good job.”

Rook straightened and looked at Beauty. “I guess we might as well get this party started.”

Then, with no further explanation, Rook headed toward the metal ladder.

“So, do you have a plan?” Tomahawk asked as he joined Rook.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Mind sharing it with us?” he pressed as Rook swung a leg over the ladder.

Beauty joined them.

“Pretty much, I am going to walk in,” Rook answered, “and snatch the Virgin chick.”

Tomahawk waited for Rook to flesh out his intentions, but Rook just started climbing down the metal rungs. “That’s it? That is your plan?”

“Pretty much.”

Tomahawk glanced at Beauty, who lifted her shoulders in confusion. He turned to watch Rook’s retreating form. “You are, like, the king of really lousy plans, but this is the worst. They are not going to just let you walk in there.”

Rook looked up at Beauty. “They will, once Beauty calls the Cabal. Tell them to pull some strings.”

“Strings? What strings?” Beauty demanded. “This is an ultra-high security—”

“Hello?” Rook said as he started climbing down again. “We just saved the vice president’s nephew!”

Tomahawk looked over at the student, who was bound and gagged.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say ‘saved’ is the right word,” Tomahawk retorted.

Rook hopped off the last rung of the ladder to the street below. He craned his neck to look up. “But they don’t know that. Just get me in there, and I’ll get our mark out.

Tomahawk turned to Beauty, who seemed equally exasperated. When he turned back, Rook was gone, melting into the shadows as usual.

Beauty flipped her phone open. “I hate it when he does that.”

Tomahawk could not agree more.

CHAPTER 6

Rook stood in the middle of the maelstrom that his entrance into the warehouse had created. He counted at least six guns pointed at him, and Rook was certain there were several more that he could not see. Nearly everyone was on some sort of phone to some sort of supervisor. Clearly, they did not have a contingency plan for a casual visitor.

Two large, black doors burst open, and a trio of very angry and sweaty-palmed individuals charged toward him. The pasty one in the lab coat seemed to be in charge, but the two muscle-bound men in suits certainly appeared to be with an agency not in the public record. They had pull, or they wouldn’t be here.

“What is the meaning of this?” the doctor demanded in a thick Slavic accent.

“Let’s see…” Rook stated. “Your supersecret facility isn’t nearly as supersecret as you thought?”

“I assure you that I have no idea—”

“Angela Morrey,” Rook stated the name that he memorized from the file Beauty had furnished him. The chick who dragged him halfway around the world. “I need to confirm the reports of an immaculate conception.”

That got everyone in the room agitated again. Guess that was supposed to be supersecret, too. There wasn’t much on this plane of existence, or any other that the Cabal was not privy to.

The doctor stammered, unable to articulate his rage. However, one of the men behind him turned off his cell phone. “Do as he asks.”

“But—”

“Do it,” the man with no neck said, glaring at Rook. “Then we will escort him out.”

Oh, how adorable security men were when they thought they had the upper hand. Sure, they both outweighed Rook by fifty pounds of lean muscle, but the Shivates had poisoned claws and bloodcurdling magic, and look where that got them.

“So I take it, she’s thataway?” Rook asked, pointing to the large imposing doors that announced, “No Unauthorized Personnel.”

The doctor bit back a retort and turned on his heel, stomping off. The guy didn’t just have a Napoleon complex. Rook feared that the man actually thought he was the French dictator. Quickly, the doctor guided them through three pressure-sealed doors until they entered an observation room. The window looked into a fully stocked hospital room with only one patient.

A woman was strapped down in soft restraints. He could only guess—Angela Morrey. She must have heard the activity or the doctor’s huffing and puffing, for she opened her eyes and looked straight at him.

Her gaze held him almost against his will. Even though her hair was plastered to her head and she had an ugly bruise on her cheek, Angela was stunning. The haunted look in her eyes caught him off guard. This woman had seen some life. She knew that stories never ended “happily ever after.” If anything, people simply hoped to come out with their souls intact. Rook assumed that they would show him some sobbing teenager insisting that she didn’t know she could get pregnant the first time.

Angela was none of that—and so much more. Her dark eyes seemed to say, “Bring it.”

Oh, he would.

The impatient doctor stated, “There she is. Now you can leave.”

Without averting his gaze from Angela, Rook responded, “I need to examine her.”

Rook didn’t know how he was going to get her out, but he needed to get close to her, and then he would improvise. As per usual.

“You will do no such thing!” the doctor exclaimed, pointing to the room. “Only five people in the entire world have permission to access that chamber. It is the most secure environment in the world.”

Of course, that was about the time a huge explosion rocked the building. Everyone dove for cover as the walls shook and the room plunged into darkness. Screams and shouts echoed throughout the facility. Within moments, the red emergency lighting flickered on. Dusting off yet more debris, Rook rose and looked through the window.

Angela was gone.

“Oops, doc,” Rook commented. “Looks like you lost another one.”

* * *

Beauty watched the thin tendrils of smoke rise from the warehouse. Tomahawk lowered his binoculars.

“You think Rook did that?”

“Rook?” Beauty chuckled. “Honey, you have been gone too long. Rook can’t find a light switch in a lit room, I might add, without help, let alone blow both the power supply and the backup generator. I don’t think so.”

Tomahawk put his binoculars back in place, scanning the surrounding area. “So someone else is assailing the place?”

“Looks like it,” Beauty commented as she pointed to an approaching swarm on the horizon.

Tomahawk turned in that direction, and then snapped the binoculars down. “Crap.”

Fanny’s loud moans caught their attention. The poor girl was rocking back and forth so hard that Beauty feared she was going to hurt herself. While Beauty tried to comfort her, Tomahawk took Fanny’s hands in his own.

“Who approaches?”

“Them,” Fanny sighed. Her eyes rolled back into her head so far that they could only see the whites. That could not be comfortable.

“Who, sweetie?” Beauty asked. “Good? Evil?”

“Both,” she moaned.

Beauty looked to Tomahawk. This operation just got a whole lot more complicated. He chewed on his lip, and then made some internal decision.

“Get Chad downstairs and rev up the car.”

She did not have to be told twice. “And you?”

Tomahawk knelt. “I’ll guard Fanny. We need this vantage point until we can figure out what we are up against.”

Beauty urged Chad to his feet. “All right. Up and at ‘em, Mr.-I-Just-Had-To-Try-and-Escape-Ruining-Three-Hundred-Dollars-Worth-of-Nail-Art.”

As they stumbled to the stairs, Beauty glanced at the horizon. What had just a moment ago been a speck was now spread out across the sky, blocking the evening sun.

Rook had better have a good plan or… Well, he had just better have a good plan.

* * *

The building rattled again as another explosion tore through the facility. Even the emergency lighting flickered as Rook kept hidden.

“Find her!” the doctor bellowed, but the guards milled about.

“Shouldn’t we be looking for the intruder?”

The doctor pointed toward the hospital room. “The only thing that matters is what grows inside the woman. Get her!”

This time, there was no hesitation as the guards rushed from the room. Then, with one last curse, the doctor left. Which was just as well. Rook’s arms were getting tired. Carefully, he loosened his legs’ hold on the pipes that ran above the observation room, and then he dropped to the floor.

He really should get more credit for his brilliant plans, like this one. Clearly, if the Cabal knew of this facility, then half a dozen major players did. Someone was bound to hit the place—and hit it hard. Rook just needed to be on the inside when that happened.

Now, he hadn’t counted on Angela “rabbiting,” but where was the fun if everything went according to plan? Of course, he would never know how fun or not fun it would be, since nothing ever went according to his plan—or any plan, really.

Rook opened the door leading to the hospital room. He crossed to the bed and put his nose to the pillow. It smelled of sweat, fear, and—surprisingly—of apricots. He liked apricots. They were his mother’s favorite pie. But he could not get distracted.

Fear was actually the most useful scent here. He doubted if Angela’s fear would lessen the deeper into the building she scurried.

Standing up, Rook sniffed the air. Sure enough, the lingering scent of terror led him to a large bank of machines. They were pushed just a little to the right, and there was a hole. Whoever broke Angela out knew this place—down to the most impenetrable wall deep within the complex.

Hopefully, though, they had no idea he was coming.

* * *

Angela ran, restraints dangling from her wrists. She clutched a scalpel. She’d already made it up two flights of stairs, but guards had blocked the last stairwell. There must be another. The voice had said to go up. She had to go up.

The floor shook as another bomb went off—this time closer. The emergency lights only worked intermittently, making it hard to charge full speed ahead.

She skidded to a stop when she heard voices. Ducking into a storage closet, Angela kept the door open a crack. Armed guards rushed down the hallway, heading back downstairs.

They were shouting something about a gas line breach. Like she needed any other reason to get out of there. Cautiously, she exited the closet and inched her way down the hall. Were those the guards who had been blocking the stairwell?

Without a map, it was her best bet. Back against the wall, Angela made her way back down the passage. She held her breath as she came to the corner. There weren’t any voices. Ever so slowly, she peeked around the corner. No guards. But there was a good ten feet of corridor where there was no cover.

She could do this. She couldn’t let Brian’s sacrifice go to waste. Footsteps sounded down the hall. She could wait no longer.

Taking a deep breath, Angela gripped the scalpel tightly, and then bolted across the empty hallway. It was only a few yards, yet it felt like the Boston Marathon. She hit the door at a run and careened into the stairwell. Grabbing the railing, Angela righted her course. She bounded up the steps.

Up. Always up.

* * *

Rook waited in an alcove as guards charged by. The explosions were happening less frequently. However, they were getting bigger. He wouldn’t be surprised if the whole place wasn’t meant to come down—but not until the attackers had Angela, he guessed.

He would just have to sneak in like the fox in the henhouse—a really sly fox searching for the one hen that could alter the course of history. Yep, that was pretty much the situation. And he was unarmed, of course, unarmed to boot. As sure as hell, those others sniffing around the henhouse were armed to the proverbial teeth.

Once the guards passed, Rook stepped from the shadows and snuck down the hall until a shout came from behind. “Get those hands up!”

Rook complied as he turned toward the guard.

“Hands behind your head!”

“My pleasure,” Rook stated as he laced his fingers together.

He might not have any weapons, but the guard? The guard had an automatic rifle.

“There’s a bounty of half a million dollars on you,” the guard sneered as he approached.

“Really? That is just insulting. Anything less than seven figures does not take into account my wine-tasting skills.”

The guard grunted as he pulled some zip-tie restraints off his belt. “Turn around.”

Gladly.

A quarter of the way through the turn, Rook lashed out with his elbow, catching the guard in the nose and shattering the thin bone. With his other hand, Rook knocked the rifle away and landed a punch to the solar plexus. The guard doubled over, gasping for air. Swinging back around, Rook used his elbow against the guy’s neck. The guard fell to the ground, unconscious.

Rook bent over and picked up the gun.

“Thanks. I was looking for one of these.”

* * *

Tomahawk did his best to comfort Fanny as she moaned in his arms. Occasionally, she would spasm and fight against his hold, but then fall fitfully back into his arms. This time, though, her whole body shook, and her skin broke out in hives.

Damn, he never should have let Rook bring her along. This was too much for anyone, let alone someone as “special” as Fanny. His heart ached each time she jerked. The girl tried to say something, but he couldn’t hear over her grinding teeth.

“Fanny, I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“They’re close,” she croaked out.

Thunder with no lightning rattled the building as the ground beneath them shook. This was no earthquake, or at least not a natural one.

“That’s it,” Tomahawk announced, scooping Fanny up. “It’s time to get out of here.”

“No!” Fanny exclaimed. “Something is in there with Rook.”

Tomahawk looked toward the warehouse. Fire smoldered in at least five different sections as black smoke billowed out. Past that, the flying horde approached with astonishing, unnatural speed.

And now something was inside the warehouse?

“What, Fanny? What’s in there?”

Too weak to hold up her head, Fanny leaned against Tomahawk’s chest. “I don’t know,” She had to take a breath before continuing. “But it stalks him.”

* * *

Angela came out of the stairwell, slipping on something slick. She looked down to find her bare feet treading through blood. She slowed. The liquid was still warm and wet. But there was no one in the corridor. How could there be so much blood without a body? She couldn’t imagine someone walking away from this huge blood slick. Casting her glance up and down the hallway, she couldn’t find another stairwell. She must be on the top floor. Now she had to find the door to the roof.

Continuing down the hall, the blood became thinner until her feet hit the dry floor again. That had to be a good sign, right? Hurrying, Angela came to a dead end. How could the hall just end? She would need to backtrack.

Footsteps echoed off the walls. She needed to obey the voice and go up quickly. Angela found an air shaft and tried to pry it off, but it was screwed tightly into the wall. Taking her scalpel, she rapidly unscrewed them with shaky fingers. Finally, the screen popped off, and Angela started to crawl in when someone grabbed her ankle.

Hauling back, Angela kicked as hard as she could at her attacker, but still she was pulled out of the duct.

“Damn,” the man said, and he wiped the blood from his nose. “Not the face, woman.”

Angela wielded the scalpel at the dark-haired man. “I’ll kill you if you try to stop me.”

But he just chuckled. “Funny, I was just about to say the same thing to you. Now, let’s get going.”

The man motioned back down the hall, but Angela knew which way she needed to go.

“Up,” the voice said.

Was it really here in the hallway, or did she just hear that in her head? But the man swung around, pointing his gun as the voice finished. “Always up.”

The voice repeated the phrase as a figure crept from the shadows, its form covered in a cloak. “Up. Always up.”

The man grabbed her wrist and tried to tug her down the hallway. “Come on.”

But Angela’s feet held firm as the emergency lights flickered, creating a nearly strobing effect. However, as the voice repeated the phrase, the more and more snakelike it became. Steam rose from under the cloak. What was happening?

“Up,” the thing hissed. “Always up.”

“Okay, dude, we got it,” the man said. “Now scamper home.”

Instead, the creature shed its cloak and rushed at them. Five rows of teeth glistened in the light.

Angela clutched the man’s arm, screaming.

* * *

Fanny screamed, thrashing in Tomahawk’s arms. He lost hold of the ladder. Luckily, they were only a few feet from the ground. Still, they hit pretty hard. Fanny’s screams continued as she clutched her ears.

“What, Fanny?”

“A ripper,” she moaned. “A soul ripper.”

“Shi—”

Thunder boomed, shaking the building’s windows. He covered Fanny as they shattered, sending glass into the street.

“Come on,” Tomahawk said, as he urged Fanny to her feet. “We’ve got to get out to the car.”

But the girl wilted against him, too weak to even stand.

He had to get her as far away from the warehouse as quickly as possible. Picking her up like she was a child, Tomahawk made a dash for the station wagon.

* * *

Rook fired repeatedly, yet barely stalled the beast. It charged, undeterred.

“Up,” it chanted. “Always up.”

“Dear Gawd!” Rook said as he shot off another twenty rounds. “Shut up.”

The only way he could be more annoying was to rap the slogan. His gun clicked on metal. The beast seemed to sense their vulnerability as it opened its maw even wider.

Rook turned toward Angela. “Give me the scalpel.”

But the woman was too stunned to respond, so he snatched it from her hand. The beast was coming fast, but Rook held his ground until the very last second. He let the scalpel fly from his hand, straight into the beast’s mouth. It tried to say “up” one last time, but all that came out was a garbled gurgle as black blood oozed from the wound. The beast attempted to take another step forward but toppled, letting out a death rattle.

“What…?” Angela whispered, and then repeated more with force, “What is that?”

Rook went over and extracted the scalpel. They might need it later. “It was a soul ripper. I think the name is pretty self-explanatory.”

He grabbed her hand and urged her down the hallway, but she was still fascinated by the soul ripper’s corpse.

“How did you know that would work?”

“They’ve got peas for brains. It’s just a matter of finding them.” Rook tugged on her again. “Now is science class over, so we can go?”

The woman ignored his pleas and stood rooted firmly in place. “Why did it want me to go up?”

“Probably because it’s got a few relatives up there, just waiting for your soul to be served up.”

* * *

Angela looked down at the ripper. Its fur wasn’t black, but a deep, dark blue. However, its blood ran black. Which was impossible, wasn’t it? But so was a virgin conception. So was everything that had happened over the past day.

“Angela,” the man said, “there are more of these, and others. We have got to move it or lose it.”

Despite his flippant tone, his blue eyes pinched with worry.

“What…” Angela had to gulp before continuing. “What is your name?”

“Rook,” he answered, as if that might mean something to her. “Now giddyap.”

This time, when he tugged on her arm, Angela did not resist. If up was not an option, she had no idea how to escape the building. At least Rook seemed to know where he was going. Quickly, they made it down the stairs to the main level. A dead body—that of one of the suited men—blocked the doorway.

Rook lifted the gun from the body.

“So much for Mr. Cocky,” Rook said before he carefully opened the door to the main hall.

The sound of gunfire and screams filled the air. Rook clicked the door closed. “Yeah, we’ve got ourselves a party out there.”

“Is it more of the soul rippers?” she asked trying to keep the terror from her voice.

“Nope,” Rook answered. “It’s much worse,” he added.

Angela could not believe that was possible. What could be worse than the ripper? Cautiously, she peeked out the window to find that Rook was not just correct, but had undersold the battle being waged.

Huge slugs reared up on slimy tails, sucking the heads off anyone they encountered, as another group of guards seemed to be battling huge, white yetis. She could take a picture of it all and put it in the dictionary under the term “impossible,” yet there they were.

Beyond it all, though, there was a bright green Exit sign. Of course, they would have to get past the frenzied battle. Which did not seem very likely.

Rook gripped her shoulders and turned her toward him. “I can protect us,” he said. “I can shield us both, but you must trust me.”

“Trust you?” she questioned. “You said you’d kill me.”

“Hey,” he said. “You said it first.”

She trembled under his grip. This wasn’t funny. Not at all. How could she trust him if he couldn’t even be serious?

Rook held her gaze. “I can do this.” His words might be sarcastic, but his eyes were determined.

Still, she glanced out the window to the mayhem beyond. “I don’t understand. How can you get us past all of… all of that?”

He did not answer her. Instead, he took off his coat and murmured something under his breath. When he swung it back over his shoulder… his shoulder disappeared. As Rook put the coat back on, his entire body shimmered, seemingly not there at all.

That could not be. She reached a tentative hand out and felt the leather of Rook’s coat and the hard muscles underneath the fabric. He was there, but she could not see him. Rook removed the coat and appeared before her.

“I have the power to hide both of us, but only if you hold on to faith.”

Faith? Angela had very little of that to spare.

Rook cocked an eyebrow. “Okay, chickadee. You come up with a better plan.”

Of course, she had no other plan. The path to the exit was a massacre. But to believe that invisibility was possible, and that her faith had anything at all to do with it? That wasn’t a plan. That was the first step toward insanity.

* * *

Chicks, man. They could never make up their minds. He needed to persuade Angela to put aside all the doubt and fear. She had to commit, or they were both going to die.

“All right. Best of luck to you,” Rook said as he put the coat back on.

A shimmer passed over his vision, casting Angela in a silver glow. Near panic, her eyes searched for him. Good. He needed reality to hit her a little harder to get her out of denial.

Civilians. They saw a little magic and got weak in the knees.

If a guy offers an invisibility spell, take it.

Rook put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. Angela’s eyes went to the knob, and then to the spot where he had been standing.

“Wait,” she said. Tears brimmed, dancing along her eyelids. “I believe.”

Belief wasn’t necessarily faith, but it was going to have to do.

He opened the coat and watched her eyes dilate as she adjusted to seeing his form again. “I need you tucked inside.”

Tentatively, she stepped inside the confines of the jacket. Their body heat mingled.

“Closer,” he urged. He didn’t necessarily need her closer for the spell to work. It felt nice to have her alongside him. With her apricot scent, she smelled good.

Angela wrapped her arms around his waist and tucked herself under his arm. Rook closed the coat, murmuring words of sealing. It would not do for the damn thing to flutter open halfway down the hall.

Certain that their disguise was light-tight, Rook opened the door. The battle had carried further down the hallway, and there was no clear path to the exit. They might be invisible, but if they bumped into any of the combatants, their presence would be revealed.

As a bullet whizzed past, ricochets also climbed high on the list of dangers they still faced. He guided Angela along the side of the hall, giving wide berth to the Theolan slugs. A guard nearly ran into them as he fled the hungry mollusk.

Rook clutched Angela’s waist and spun them around, as if they danced a deadly tango. A Yetian took a swipe at a downed man as Rook brought them around the other side—then stopped them abruptly as they ended up at the end of a gun barrel. The guard was about to shoot the Yetian.

Worse, the spell around them began to warp. Angela’s fear could be their undoing.

He held her close, letting the strength of his arms flow into her.

“Faith,” Rook whispered.

* * *

The hairs along Angela’s arm went up as Rook’s words caressed her ear. Pulling her weight to him, he pivoted them just as the gun fired. From there, Rook wove them through the fight as though it was merely a waltz. His steps swept them through battles and around claws.

Angela pressed up against him. She wanted to close her eyes to the carnage surrounding them, but could not. It was like a movie playing for just their benefit. Angela had truly believed that she had no faith left in her bones, yet she noticed that the spell protecting them had gone from sparkling silver to a nearly clear surface. She looked out at the scene as if underwater.

It would have been magical if it weren’t for the bloody cries.

One more sweeping turn, and they were past the fighting. Only a few steps separated them from the exit. Rook held her tightly, her toes still inches from the floor and their bodies pressed against one another.

“You saved us,” he whispered as he set her down.

How could she have saved them? She was the one who nearly panicked. Angela went to retort, but Rook put his finger to his lips and indicated the door. Angela got it. They could talk about it after they were safe.

Angela watched as Rook turned the handle on the door. It cracked open, and then an alarm blared. The entire hallway turned toward them. Monsters and guards. Slugs and Yeti. They might still have an invisibility cloak on, but everyone knew exactly where they were. Bullets flew as Rook hurled them out the door, and then slammed it closed behind them.

He looked up and down the alley.

“Damn it! Where in the hell is Beauty?”

Angela had no idea what he was talking about, but when Rook grabbed her hand and ran full tilt, she did not argue.

* * *

“Where in the hell is Rook?” Beauty asked Tomahawk as she slammed on the brakes, cranking the wheel as far as it would go as they careened around the corner.

Of course, the winged demons chasing them easily banked in the air and followed them, gaining precious feet on them. Beauty had to swerve to the right to avoid hitting a guard. The place was swarming with enemies, but they had yet to find Rook’s extraction point. He had been a little thin on that detail of his grand plan.

“Can you sense Rook?” Tomahawk asked Fanny in the backseat. Beauty glanced in the rearview mirror. Poor Fanny did not seem able to sense their presence, let alone Rook. She rocked compulsively, spittle at the corner of her mouth. To be so close to so many creatures that were rich in magic, the girl was on overload.

And things only got better as Chad sat up in the far back. “What’s happening?” he asked groggily.

“Darlin’, it’s just a nightmare. Lie back down,” Beauty encouraged, wishing it were actually true.

Luckily, Chad flopped back down and out of sight. Unfortunately, that allowed Beauty to see the winged, clawed, and fanged demon barreling down on them.

* * *

Rook held Angela’s hand as they skidded to a stop. The alleyway was blocked by a huge chunk of a demolished building. He turned to find several guards chasing them. The other alley, well, that wasn’t an option, since a large shadow moved of its own accord. They were cornered.

“Can they see us?” Angela whispered.

“The guards? No, they are just taking their best guess,” Rook explained. “But those,” he said, indicating the shadows, “Those can see us as clear as day.”

The Amiculum e’Felos spell worked pretty damned well against most talented creatures, but Night Shades? Their vision worked perfectly fine in pitch black. His spell was nothing to them. But since when did Night Shades act as mercenaries? The woman in his care must truly be someone coveted.

He had to face it. He was outmatched.

But not outsmarted.

He closed his eyes and pictured those colorful ponytails.

“Fanny,” Rook breathed out.

* * *

Tomahawk held on as Fanny went stiff in his arms, and then her eyes flew open.

“Rook!” Fanny screamed as she leapt from his hold, scrambling over the front seat, where she clenched the wheel with white knuckles and yanked it to the right.

Tomahawk grabbed Fanny by the waist and tried to haul her back as Beauty pried her fingers from the steering wheel.

“Fanny, you are going to wreck us!” Beauty scolded, but it did no good. Fanny forced them down a side alley.

“Rook. He’s this way!”

Ahead of them, a wall of black appeared. Not shadows, but darkness itself.

“Oh, dear!” Beauty exclaimed. “Those are Night—”

They plowed through the line of creatures as Fanny dove headfirst and pressed the brake with her hands, skidding them to a stop right in front of Rook and—who Tomahawk could only assume—was Angela Morrey.

Fanny’s head popped up. “See! Told you!” she said as she clapped.

Tomahawk helped Fanny into the backseat as Rook and Angela piled into the car. Beauty did not waste any time doing a donut, spinning them around one hundred and eighty degrees as the guards sprayed the car with bullets. Rapidly, they outran the gunfire. However, the winged horde was another story completely.

Rook looked around. “Is it just me, or has this been way too easy?”

* * *

A unanimous “Just you!” came from all of them. Rook didn’t buy it, though. Just a few soul rippers, Yeti, and Night Shades? You would have thought the forces that wished Angela for their own would have brought at least one cleanup hitter.

“Uh-oh,” Fanny said.

“Uh-oh, what-o?” Rook responded, as he turned around to look out the back window. A huge, at least two-story tall, purple lizard was barreling toward them.

“That’s not…” Tomahawk said. “That’s not a Tainted Dragon, is it?”

Fire shooting from the thing’s nostrils confirmed Tomahawk’s assessment without Rook having to utter a word.

“Okay, now this just got hard enough,” Rook informed the group. But they seemed none too thrilled. He looked at Tomahawk. “You got anything useful back there?”

Tomahawk tossed him an automatic rifle.

“No rockets?”

“We’re clean out,” Tomahawk stated as he, too, grabbed a rifle. “Fanny, get your head down,” he encouraged as they both fired out the back window.

They hit the thing about a dozen times, but the bullets only seemed to tickle the dragon. Seeing their compatriot take so many hits and not bleed, the winged demons swooped down, surrounding the car.

“Um, we’d better think of something quick,” Beauty said.

Um, what did Beauty think he was doing? Rook was about to retort, when a glimmer caught the corner of his eye. Great. Now they had an angel joining in the fun. Too late, he saw Angela’s hand reach for the handle.

“No!” he cried, but she opened the door. Angela was halfway out as he dove to her, catching her around the waist. Only Beauty catching his pant leg saved them both from getting smeared on the pavement as they sped along the street.

The angel floated alongside them.

Rook shouted to be heard over the harp strings. “Angela, now is not the time for this.”

* * *

Angela struggled against Rook’s restraint. “Let me go!”

“To what?” Rook asked, the muscles of his jaw taut. “To him? Look at what his kind have done to your life, Angela.”

Could Rook not see how beautiful the angel was? How calm he made her feel? All else—the dragon, the demons, and even the asphalt just inches from their faces—was washed away by the angel’s glow. Angela was cocooned in heavenly light.

Rook tried to pull her back into the car, but the angel extended his arm to her. “Come, my child. All will be well.”

Letting go of the door handle, Angela reached out for his perfect hand. She would have finally touched the divine if the car hadn’t skidded around a corner, nearly throwing both Rook and her out. She could not die. Not before she heard the angel speak one more time.

Rook, however, glared at the angel. “You know what, buddy, let’s show her what you are all about… Speak your true intent.”

The angel’s eyes flared golden, like the sun just before it set. “How dare you—”

“Stop!” Angela screamed at Rook, but he refused.

“Speak your true intent, or be gone!”

The angel swelled to double his size, filling Angela’s vision with a white so pure that it strained her eyes. Then it was gone.

“No!” she cried.

But Rook shook his head. “Typical.”

He tried to tug her back into the car, but Angela braced against the door. If she couldn’t touch the divine, what else could Rook offer her in the car?

Rook gripped her arm, forcing her to look at him as her hair streamed in the wind.

“Look, I don’t know what they offered you, but I can guarantee you it wasn’t milk and cookies.”

“But he said—” she retorted.

“That you had to be strong? That God acted in mysterious ways?” Rook drew closer, ensuring that they would fall from the speeding vehicle even more. “Babe, that’s the oldest line in the book.”

Gunfire rattled from the car as Tomahawk shouted, “We’d appreciate some help inside the car!”

Rook’s grip became like a vise. His voice was low and filled with intent. “I could let you go right now. Let you die.”

The dragon took another swipe at the car. A purple claw barely missed their rear tire.

“Trust me on this,” Rook continued, once the car stopped fishtailing. “Your death would make my life a whole lot easier, and end this battle.”

“Then let go,” Angela replied brusquely, tired of everyone and everything trying to manipulate her.

Rook brought his lips to her ear again and whispered, “If that’s what you want.”

Was it, though? Dying in a back alley and never knowing who or what had stolen so much from her? Was that really what she wanted?

* * *

Rook watched as tears sprang to Angela’s eyes. Her muscles went slack beneath his fingers. She didn’t need to say anything as he hauled her back into the car. As she began to sob, Rook shoved her to Beauty.

“Ah, come to Auntie Beauty,” his Arranger said, as she lifted an arm for Angela to take shelter in, even as she evaded yet another demon’s attack.

Rook turned to Tomahawk, who was still firing out the window.

“What’s the situation?” Rook asked.

“We are getting our asses kicked,” Tomahawk replied through clenched teeth.

Well, Rook had already figured that part out.

The dragon seemed immune to anything they threw at him, but at least the demons exploded into flesh shrapnel. Unfortunately, there were so, so many of the winged creatures. And at this point, they were all dive-bombing the car, tearing away at the roof of the station wagon. Kind of like opening up a can of sardines that the demons hoped the dragon would charbroil for them.

Even with a rocket launcher, they would still lose. Crap. Even if they had a nuclear bomb, they would probably end up as dragon food.

But wait… Didn’t they have a nuclear weapon of sorts all to themselves?

Rook climbed into the backseat next to Tomahawk and leaned over the seat.

He grabbed a groggy Chad and began shaking him. “This is all your fault! If it weren’t for you—”

Tomahawk clutched his arm and tried to stop him. “Rook! This isn’t helping!”

Rook ignored Tomahawk and slapped Chad across the face, rousing him.

“You got all of those people killed back in Africa,” Rook said, as Chad’s face blotched and he began to shake. “And now you are going to get us all killed!”

The seal glowed beneath Chad’s shirt, and then burned through the fabric. The marred flesh began to flow. Rook jerked the kid up and pointed the seal out the back window.

“Come on!” Rook shouted, as he shook Chad one more time.

The Hellgate burst open, creating a vortex that lashed out of the car, catching the dragon by surprise. His thick, purple claws tried in vain to clutch at the ground, but the Hellgate was tougher than asphalt. Along with the dragon, half the winged horde, beating their wings in futile effort, got sucked into the vortex. The rest of the demons banked, screeching, scattering to the wind.

“I knew you’d come in handy,” Rook said as he raised his fist. “So sorry about this.”

Rook punched Chad once, but the Hellgate’s vortex enlarged, churning and groaning as it grew. Rook punched Chad again, to no avail. Using all his strength, Rook punched him a third time. Finally, the student’s head slumped over, and the Hellgate collapsed upon itself.

“Damn!” Rook stated as he shook his hand out. “We have got to find another way to close that thing. My hand can’t take much more of this.”

Tomahawk seemed wholly unimpressed. “Rook, you can’t just keep pulling these stunts without warning us.”

“Really, you wanted a heads-up about that?”

Still angry, Tomahawk turned away.

Fanny, though, hopped onto Rook’s lap. “I kind of liked the Hell-thingy. It had pretty colors.” She poked Chad. “Can we do it again?”

Rook gently pulled Fanny’s hand back. “No, sweetie. Hopefully not for a long, long time.”

Beauty’s dark eyes flashed in the rearview mirror. “Where to now?

“Where do you think?” Rook answered.

Beauty frowned, but made the next right-hand turn. They needed to get to a safe house, but after tonight, with his knuckles stinging? Rook wasn’t exactly sure anywhere was truly safe anymore.

CHAPTER 7

Angela pushed herself up as Beauty slowed the car. From the trash in the gutter to the homeless huddled over steaming grates, it was pretty obvious that this was the “bad” part of town. However, after everything Angela had seen tonight, people might want to reassess how easily they threw the term “bad” around.

They cruised up to a tattoo parlor. Its sign blazed “Flesh Works.” Since there were no parking spaces, Beauty pulled the station wagon over the curb and onto the sidewalk. The others all piled out, but Angela stayed seated. What else would they find inside that horrified her? And most likely wanted her dead?

Beauty popped her head back into the driver’s-side window. “Come on, sugar. It is really best if we get you inside.” Beauty looked at the hospital gown that Angela still wore. “And dressed.”

Reluctantly, Angela opened the door and stood up. Every muscle complained, and she found a huge bruise on her arm where she’d torn the IV out. Her gown was smeared with red, green, and black blood. She had to look away before her stomach turned over again.

Angela glanced over to watch Tomahawk get Chad out of the car, then lift him over his shoulder. He made it look so easy, like Chad was weightless. Then the girl—Angela was pretty sure her name was Fanny—struggled to get several suitcases out of the back. Rook helped the girl.

“There you go.”

Fanny jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re the best.” Then she grabbed the bags and skipped off after Beauty as she headed to the tattoo parlor. Rook indicated that they should follow. From the bums to the biker gang hanging out across the street, no one seemed to turn an eyebrow up at their most unusual party.

Only one lady of the night sidled up to Rook.

“Oh, baby,” she slurred, peppermint schnapps blasting them. “You can do better than that,” she said, indicating Angela. Any other night and Angela might have been insulted, but tonight? Tonight the woman was right.

Rook gave the working girl the once-over. “Not tonight. I can’t.”

The prostitute spat at him, but Rook just shrugged it off, but Beauty looked back. “Always the charmer, Rook.”

“It’s a gift, I tell you,” he replied with a tight grin.

Angela couldn’t get a read on this man. One moment he was verbally cutting a woman down, right after he helped Fanny with her bags. Angela could still see his countenance when he threatened to drop her from the car. He had been serious. He would have done it. Then she remembered his arms around her, carrying her through the blood and bullets back at the warehouse.

Which Rook was he?

* * *

Beauty opened the door to the tattoo shop. That place was abuzz, literally. Tattoo guns whirred as clients clenched their teeth. The place was sprawling with at least a dozen chairs and several more private rooms.

Across the tattoo parlor’s main room, she caught the eye of the purveyor of the establishment, Ax-man. Nearly as tall as she, he strode toward her, his leather vest opening to reveal his entire beer belly covered in ink. An arrow pointed down his happy trail.

Bikers. Always going for the obvious. But he was sweet on her, and right now they needed a little sweet.

“Beauty!” Ax-man said as he hugged her. “How long has it been?”

The smile on his face fell, however, as he noticed who walked in behind her.

He pointed a burly finger at Rook. “That’s far enough.”

The entire room tensed. Only a few tattoo artists kept working, and only because they were more than likely weaving magic into the ink. If they stopped, they would die. They all might bite it anyway, as artists and clients reached for their guns.

Rook also pulled a shotgun from inside his coat. “Ax-man, let’s be reasonable. Let us through, or I’ll find out what your intestines look like.”

Ax-man fumed next to Beauty as she tried to console the biker. “Oh, honey, you know how Rook gets. That’s pretty darn reasonable for him. Especially since we just outran a Tainted Dragon.”

The biker raised his eyebrows at that. Finally, he kissed her on the cheek. “For you.”

Beauty returned the peck on the cheek. She certainly hoped that he did not expect any kind of favor in return. Or at least not until after he did some man-scaping.

Extracting herself from Ax-man’s embrace, Beauty joined the group. Even though there were five of them weaving their way through the tangled maze of tables, all eyes were on Rook. Well, not so much eyes, but death gazes.

She leaned toward Rook. “Again. So popular.”

Rapidly, they made their way to the back of the shop. Rook reached out and grabbed a very… well-endowed sculpture and yanked it down. A panel opened beside him. The most fetid odor wafted from the room. How long had it been since someone used this safe house?

Beauty put a handkerchief over her nose. Rook didn’t really expect them to go in there, did he? But, of course, Fanny rushed right in, gagging, but still excited. The interior was about as obnoxious as the smell. The couch and bed were moldy, and the table and chair looked like they had been through a hurricane… about a hundred years ago.

Fanny clapped, though. “Rook, you always find the coolest places!”

Rook grinned briefly, and then turned to Tomahawk. “Put Chad down on the bed. I need you to gather information ASAP.”

Tomahawk grunted as he set Chad down on the rickety rollaway bed, and then glanced around the room. “That’s going to be a little hard, since I don’t think this place has even got electricity.”

“Look,” Rook retorted, “I don’t care if you have to put your nose to the ground and sniff really, really long. We need to know who ambushed us back there.”

Beauty patted Tomahawk’s arm and stepped between them. She didn’t need the two old colleagues to get into one of their legendary spats. “Rook is right. Whoever was able to summon a Tainted Dragon is a major player.”

“No kidding,” Rook said, as he began pacing the tiny room.

Angela sat down upon the green-tinged couch, looking more than a little chartreuse herself. Arms wrapped around her waist, the woman closed her eyes, more than likely trying to wish all of this away.

“And I am sure,” Beauty replied, “that whoever that major player is, he is none to happy that you sent their extremely expensive conjure back to hell.”

Rook waved her off. “They can sue me for lost wages.” He turned to her. “And aren’t you supposed to be doing something productive?” Rook indicated Chad. “Like arranging for his pickup?”

Beauty’s eyebrow shot up. “You really want me to call Savage?”

Rook’s feet froze in place. He frowned, and then grumbled. “No, not until I have more answers.” He turned to Tomahawk. “Which, speaking of, Tommi?”

Tomahawk got up from his knees, where he was looking for an outlet. “Well, you had better start pulling juice out of your butt, because this place is dry. Plus, I am going to need a landline phone.”

Clearly irritated, Rook motioned toward the door. “Tell Ax what you need.”

Tomahawk answered slowly. “And then he will gut me for the sport of it?”

“He’ll give you whatever you want with Beauty covering you.”

Oh, how Beauty wished that wasn’t true. Alas, it was. She urged Tomahawk to the door. The sooner they got Rook the information he needed, the sooner he could climb down off his high horse.

Beauty could only hope that Ax didn’t want to barter for his services. But in the end, Beauty knew she might have to take one for the team. At the very least, she could get Ax to shave his back.

Oh, a girl could dream.

* * *

As the door latch clicked closed, Chad tried to rise, but instead nearly fell off the cot. Rook shook his head. Did the Hellgate-on-earth not realize that moving around was off the menu?

“Fanny, could you hold him down, please?”

She ran over, and, with a flying leap, jumped onto the bed. It wasn’t exactly what Rook had in mind, but it worked. He knelt and rummaged through one of Beauty’s many bags. Sure enough, he found a syringe full of Valium with Chad’s name on it—literally. Beauty was just that organized.

Rook walked over with the syringe, but Chad fought Fanny.

“No!” he cried as he struggled. “I deserve an explanation.”

Ignoring the student, Rook tried to find a patch of muscle to inject the Valium into, when another voice joined Chad’s cause.

“We both do,” Angela stated quietly.

Rook put a knee on Chad’s shoulder, trying to restrain him. “Yeah, well, unless you’d both like to visit Barney-on-Steroids down in the underworld, I would allow this injection.”

Fanny leaned over Chad. “He is right. You need to rest, you know… before you explode.” Wistfully, she added, “Although it would be really pretty.”

As Chad gave Fanny a questioning look, Rook saw his chance and jabbed the needle into the guy’s bicep, pumping him full of happy juice. Finally, Chad stopped fighting as Fanny stroked his hair.

“There, see? All better.”

Groggily, Chad shook his head. “Please… Just tell us.”

Rook let up on the guy’s shoulder and went back to pacing.

“They might be more cooperative if they knew the truth…” Fanny said, with a little grin.

Why was it that Rook could never say “no” to her?

“All right. For those of us who have just joined the program, listen up. I’m only going to cover this once.”

Pointedly, Rook glared first at Chad, then at Angela. Neither challenged him. Of course, Fanny made herself comfortable sitting cross-legged on the floor. She looked up at him, enthralled.

“Goody!”

“Okay,” Rook began. “You know Korea? The Big War? Split the country in half?”

Angela nodded, but Chad became agitated again. “What’s that got to do—”

Rook talked over Chad, who turned out not to be a very good student after all. “They set up a demilitarized zone to prevent hostilities spilling over the border, right?”

Fanny clapped. “Oh, I love this part.”

“That’s us. Earth. Terra firma. We’re the DMZ between heaven and hell. And guess what? Us humans? We’re the land mines. If they want to get to each other, they’ve got to go through us.”

Angela frowned, but who didn’t at this news? “Why would—”

Rook held up a hand. “I don’t make the rules, Babe. I don’t even pretend to understand them. I just play by them.”

“Tell ‘em about black cats and breaking mirrors and—”

“You mean superstitions are…” Angela couldn’t even finish her own sentence.

Rook shrugged. “Stuff isn’t so ‘supernatural’ or ‘paranormal’ when you see it in action. Know what I mean? Any other questions?”

Angela wouldn’t meet his eyes. And Chad, well, Chad had passed out again. You had to love fast acting antianxiety medications.

“All right. Lesson over. Now can—”

Beauty and Tomahawk rushed in the room, both looking flushed.

“Good news?” he asked, although he knew that was pretty much just wishful thinking.

“Not even close,” Tomahawk answered. “I can’t access the Cabal’s files. We’re completely locked out of the loop.”

Rook scoffed. “Bull. You are the kind of hacker that has Microsoft wetting its bed at night.”

“Given enough time, maybe I could crack the encryption. But here? With these resources?”

As Rook allowed that unexpected news to marinate, Beauty stepped forward. “Worse, the Prime called. He is sending a team to extract Chad and Angela… Right now.”

Rook turned to her. “And draw attention to this safe house? Is Savage tweaking?”

“And he wants each of us brought in for sequestered debriefing.”

“Did he give you a freaking reason?” Rook demanded.

Both Tomahawk and Beauty shuffled their feet, looking anywhere but at Rook.

“Well?”

Beauty glanced once at Tomahawk, and then sighed. “He said to tell you that you would be instructed on the ‘whys’ when it was time.”

Rage billowed up from Rook’s core. “That bastard!” He pointed to Tomahawk before he could say anything. “And Savage really is one.” Rook began pacing again. “Damn him. He’s cut us off and expects us to just run to his apron ties.”

Beauty tried to console him. “Rook, I know that you hate it when orders come down and—”

“No,” Rook interrupted. “I hate it when my uncle goes on a power trip from his ivory tower, without a clue of what is happening on the street. That is what I hate.”

He returned to pacing as Tomahawk mulled things over. “Well, after the violet Godzilla back there, they have a pretty good reason to—”

Rook stopped abruptly. “You’re right.”

Everyone seemed surprised that Rook had just agreed with Tomahawk, but he bet none of them knew why.

“About…?” Tomahawk hesitantly asked.

“Think about it. Savage wouldn’t yank my chain like this without a reason. They know the crap I am going to give them about it.” Rook knew his uncle all too well. “They have something in the works.”

“Something like…?” Tomahawk asked.

Rook wasn’t sure, but he could feel the kernel of truth deep within the situation. “Something that Savage knows that I won’t like. They are holding information back because…”

Fanny jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “I love this game! Guess what Rook is thinking! It’s the best!” Rook had to admit that she could mimic him down to the tone as she said, “Because I wouldn’t agree with their plan!”

Rook smiled. “Or more like I would refuse to go along with it.” Now they were onto something. “We just need to figure out what Savage is up to—”

The room shook as something slammed against the secret panel. Muffled shouts came from the tattoo parlor. “Beauty…?”

She avoided his gaze. “I figured. I mean I knew you wouldn’t just obey Savage’s orders, so I did some calling around.”

Rook glared. “And?”

Beauty rushed on. “It looks like the Cabal has been negotiating with the facility that we pulled Angela from.”

Not even Rook had seen that coming, but he should have. Savage really was a bastard.

“So my uncle’s plan is to return her to Dr. Slavakian, and in exchange, they will share their research with the Cabal?”

Beauty shrugged, eyes still averted. “They’re saying it is the most time- and cost- effective way to learn about what is happening to Angela.”

Everyone turned and looked at the Virgin as she backed away from the group.

* * *

“No,” Angela moaned as she backed into a wall. She couldn’t get any farther away from the door. “I’m not going back.”

She could remember the restraints. The lifeless, recirculated air. The stirrups. Perhaps she should have let Rook drop her on the pavement.

Angela spoke directly to Rook. “Go ahead. Kill me. I’d rather die.”

He met her stare, but she couldn’t read him. Did he, too, wish he’d dumped her out of that speeding car?

A loud banging drew his eyes away from hers. Was her plea enough to convince him that she was serious?

Rook turned to Fanny. “Who’s at the door?”

The girl closed her eyes and cocked her head. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Even Angela, so new to all of this, knew that Fanny was here, but no longer here.

Finally, the girl opened her eyes. “Yarden is definitely with them, and I think Sho-Sho, but she’s trying to cloak her presence.”

Tomahawk hit his fist against the panel. “Then it’s the Cabal. They couldn’t even wait for us to turn ourselves in.”

Rook turned away from the door, pacing again. Beauty caught his arm. “I know that you’re upset, Rook. But this is big.” Beauty looked at Angela with sympathy in her eyes. “I am so sorry, darlin’, but it’s true.”

A lot of good Beauty’s sympathy did Angela.

Beauty turned back to Rook. “This is beyond huge. This eclipses—”

“Please,” Angela interrupted. She could feel Rook being swayed by his friend. “You told me to trust you.”

She pleaded with her eyes. He had to know how bad it was back in that warehouse. The question was, did he care?

His eyes squinted as if he were trying to see into her soul. Angela let him.

Rook pointed toward the bathroom. “Everyone, come with me.”

The group looked around, clearly questioning what Rook was getting at. For Angela, as long as he wasn’t leading her to the secret panel, she was following. The rest trailed behind, holding their noses. The smell was putrefaction squared. The toilet overflowed a brown slurry.

“Man, who used it?” Rook asked.

Beauty removed the silk handkerchief from her mouth. “I don’t think that’s recent.”

Angela watched as Rook gulped, then dropped to his knees. Grimacing, he put his hand into the bowl and fished around for something.

He looked right at her. “You’d better be worth this…”

* * *

Beauty stepped closer to the toilet, even though she was certain that even if they survived this at all, the smell would never come out of her herringbone bustier.

“Rook, think this through. The Cabal isn’t perfect, but they’ve got a pretty good track record—”

He continued to dig around in the muck. “Tell that to the villagers in Hurra, Colombia.”

Beauty frowned, not liking where the conversation was going… not at all. “That was an accident.”

“The Cabal bartered away the Whaler’s Chalice, even though they knew Yarvar wanted it to open up the continental rift.”

“Well,” Beauty said, picking at the edge of her broken nail. “Nobody’s got a perfect batting record.”

Rook was now up to his armpit in sludge. “And Nepal? The Valdez? Turkey?”

“I know, I know, but—”

A loud clunk sounded as the toilet moved away from the wall. According to the floor plans, that exit was not supposed to exist. Rook stood up, walked over to the sink, and cleaned off his arm.

“Look, Beauty, I am not going to pull anyone’s hair out by the roots.” He motioned over to Angela. “But I am not letting them get her.”

The woman looked immensely relieved, but Beauty felt that reaction was a bit premature. There were worse things than being stuck in a creepy OB-GYN ward. Much worse.

“It scares me to agree,” Tomahawk said, beside her. “But Rook’s right.” He indicated the sleeping Chad, back in the main room. “Should we throw Savage a bone? Maybe get him off our backs a little?”

Rook shook his head. “No. We might need him again.”

Tomahawk took off to grab Chad as Rook guided Angela down the secret escape route. “Last one out, close the hatch.”

And with that, he was gone. Quickly, Tomahawk gathered Chad, and he too disappeared into the dark tunnel. That left Beauty and Fanny. The younger girl took her hand.

“We’ll still love you, no matter what you decide.” Fanny got up on her tippy-toes and kissed Beauty on the cheek. “Just go with your heart.”

She then skipped off and down the tunnel, humming a tune.

Go with her heart? Well, Beauty definitely wasn’t going with her nose. Behind her, the Cabal was very close to breaking through the secret door.

Finally, with a sigh, she put the silk handkerchief to her nose and entered the dark passage that led into the sewers.

There went another pair of Guccis.

* * *

Rook pushed up on the sewer grate, but damn, it was heavy! Or he was weak. At this point, it could be either. The day—make that days if you counted the time changes—was taking its toll. He bent his shoulder over and heaved upward, dislodging the metal cap. Quickly, he climbed out of the opening and put a hand out for Angela.

She scrambled up quickly, clutching her hospital robe around her. They definitely were going to need to get her some street clothes. And after that lovely little trip through the sewer, a shower as well. Actually, as Tomahawk exited with Chad, and Fanny and Beauty followed, looking fairly ratty themselves, they all needed showers.

“You really need to clear your ‘plans’ with me from now on,” Beauty grumbled as she pulled off her heels, revealing torn nylons.

“Ugh! I second that,” Tomahawk said as he set Chad down on the street. He turned to Rook. “Now that we dodged the Cabal, and are clueless, without resources, and hounded by every force on earth, how are we proceeding?”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Rook said as he dug deep within his coat’s inner pocket. He pulled out a long, snowy white feather.

“I’ve been saving this baby for a night just like this…”

Beauty looked more than skeptical. “A feather is going to uncover an international, no—inter-dimensional—plot?”

Rook smiled. “Just watch,” he said.

He put the feather in his palm, and then gently blew on it. The feather floated out, and then a gentle breeze tugged it down the street. It lazily rolled and tumbled along with the wind.

“If anybody says ‘life is like a box of chocolates,’ I will tickle them,” Rook said as Fanny opened her mouth, and then shut it again.

Tomahawk looked ever so serious, though. “Rook, the plan. We really need a little bit more than ‘a wing and a prayer’ speech.”

“Sorry,” Rook shrugged. “You are just going to have to follow, and you shall see.”

With a flourish, Rook waved his group on. “I swear, you are going to like…. Probably. I mean, Fanny is definitely going to love it.”

Beauty scowled at him, but took Fanny’s hand and followed the feather that now danced at the end of the block. Grumbling, Tomahawk got Chad to his feet and headed out as well.

Rook bowed to Angela. “Age before beauty.”

She didn’t smile, though. If anything, her frown deepened. “I need…” She took in a breath. “I just wanted to thank you for—”

“Don’t,” Rook said flatly.

“But, you have saved my life twice now, and—”

“It wasn’t for you, darlin’.” Rook stated. “I’ve got my own reasons.”

Her frown transformed into an angry, hard line. “Which could change at any moment?”

“Exactly,” Rook replied coolly.

Angela’s lips shook as she struggled against tears. As she lost the battle, she turned away from him, hurrying to catch up with the rest of the group. Rook opened his mouth to say something to blunt his harsh words, but simply couldn’t find the right ones to say.

What could he say to make the situation any less dangerous?

There was trust, and then there was trust. Rook’s was more of a situational kind of trust. It was best that she knew the truth from the get-go.

He didn’t need a dewy-eyed groupie, even one as beautiful as Angela.

* * *

Tomahawk didn’t know if it was his imagination, or if the Hellgate was actually getting heavier. Chad was on his feet, but he staggered to the left, forcing Tomahawk to correct course, again, he wasn’t sure if that was necessarily a good thing.

“Not that this hasn’t been fun,” Tomahawk said as he righted Chad. “But is there a point to our meandering the streets in the middle of the night?”

“Patience, grasshopper,” was Rook’s only response.

Tomahawk was about to retort when Angela came over and supported Chad’s other shoulder. “Thanks,” he mumbled, caught off guard by the woman. He hadn’t exactly been in her camp during the whole “should we turn her back over to her abusers” argument.

Beauty stopped and rubbed her foot. “You know when I’ll be patient? After a facial and a veggie burger.”

Fanny, though, jumped up and down. Her fingers were entwined, as if in prayer. “Please, Rook, please! Tell us more. I’m dying to know.”

As the group continued down the dark and lonely street, Rook grinned. For some reason, Fanny had their fearless leader wrapped around her little pinkie.

“Well, you see,” Rook started in a storytelling tone. “There was once a beautiful, beautiful angel in the heavens.”

Fanny clapped with glee. “What was her name?”

“Sheli.”

“Oh, that’s so pretty!”

“Yes it is. But then Sheli hooked up with a bad-ass named Lucifer and well, the rest is history.”

Tomahawk’s eyes narrowed, not believing what Rook implied. “So we are looking for one of the ‘Fallen?’ “

“Not exactly,” Rook explained. “More like one of the ‘chucked.’ “

“Ohh, I like ‘chucked!’ “ Fanny exclaimed, and then looked confused. “But what does it mean?”

“Well, you see,” Rook continued in his singsong voice, “Sheli swore she would support Lucifer in his battle, but when the day came, well, she was nowhere to be found. So when the big guy cast out Lucifer’s friends, she got to stay.”

“Wow,” Fanny commented. “She’s sneaky.”

“Ah, but not sneaky enough! The big guy found out about her betrayal and had her banished from heaven. I guess the ground broke her fall, so she’s been on this plane every since.”

Tomahawk readjusted Chad’s arm over his shoulder. The guy really was weighing a ton. Angela struggled on the other side. “Okay, Rook, but what does this have to do with the feather we’ve been chasing?”

The gossamer feather bounced on the wind until it hovered, rocking gently, back and forth in front of a strip club. Rook quickened their pace.

“When Sheli hit the Earth, or more like splatted, she dropped a few feathers. Seems like they act like homing pigeons. Going back to Momma.”

“So we’re looking for an angel?” Fanny asked, awe filling her voice. “A real one, not like the one in costume I tried to get an autograph from?”

“Yep. A real, live angel. And guess what? She has really, really long dark hair.”

Fanny’s hand flew to her mouth in astonishment. “Do you think she’ll let me braid it? Do you?”

Rook shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask.

Fanny nodded vigorously, but then she frowned as they made their way up to the door of the club. “But if she’s a real angel, then why can’t I sense her?”

“She’s cloaked in flesh, hiding her divinity,” Rook responded, and then with a wink, added, “Told you she was sneaky.”

Tomahawk watched as Rook paid the doorman and Fanny giggled in her giddy way. They might as well be going to Disneyland, in her mind.

“Oh, this is going to be so exciting!”

Ugh. How Tomahawk hoped it wouldn’t be. But how often were his wishes fulfilled?

* * *

Rook entered the club, and everyone followed. The strippers were hard at work up on their poles, but he ignored them as he watched the feather float from one patron to another. He’d let the feather find their mark once he got the group somewhere a little more private.

“This way,” Rook said, indicating a narrow set of stairs with the sign, “Peep Show.”

Quickly, they descended into the basement, where a rather large and greasy-haired bouncer manned the entrance. Rook motioned to Beauty. She grabbed a roll of $100.00 bills from her purse and handed it to him.

Rook tossed them to the bouncer. “We’d like a private booth.”

“All of you?” the man asked, as he raised his unkempt eyebrows. Rook bet Beauty just itched to get this guy in the vicinity of a pair of tweezers.

“Yes,” Rook responded.

The bouncer led them to a room. “Takes all kinds, I guess,” he mumbled as he unlocked the door. “And Lord knows you’ve got ‘em all with ya.”

“Great,” Rook said, ushering his group into the room. “Thanks.”

He shut the door and threw the latch as Tomahawk and Angela got Chad settled onto the bench. Rook turned to Beauty. “Just keep feeding dollar bills into that slot. I don’t want you guys kicked out before I get back.”

Tomahawk straightened, stretching his spine. “Want some backup?”

“Nah,” Rook replied. “I know her weakness. Just weave a binding rope.”

Rook didn’t wait for Tomahawk’s response as he unlatched the door and headed out as the peep show curtain parted. Fanny’s exuberant clapping carried out into the hall. “Oh, goody! We get a show!”

Although Rook doubted it was the kind of show Fanny expected.

He hurried past the guard and bounded up the steps. Rook hit the main floor and surveyed the room. The feather floated above a table with three punk-looking young women. The feather finally settled on the “punkiest” of the girls. It appeared that Sheli had embraced goth culture to the hilt. Piercing littered her face, leaving no feature unmarked. Her long black hair hung straight down with short bangs accentuating her face. The angel’s white blouse stood out starkly against the red and black plaid shirt. Short skirt. Guess Goths liked to show some skin as well.

Rook headed over to their table. “So?” he asked the trio. “How much for you all?”

Sheli sneered, causing her nose rings to jut out at an unusual angle. “We’re not for sale, pig.”

Rook made his way to her side of the table. How he wished to reveal her right here, but that would just create a spectacle, and until he knew what was going on, he needed to keep the fact that they were in the presence of an angel on the down low.

“Really?” Rook questioned as he put his hand on Sheli’s shoulder, snatching back the feather. “You’d think, if you dressed like that, you’d make some money from it.”

The three girls leapt from their seats, overturning their chairs. Sheli pulled a switchblade. “Back off, creep!”

Rook raised his hands in supposed surrender, and moved on. Walking away, Rook pretty much ignored Sheli, just stealing sidelong glances to make sure her group was settling back in. Once he was sure they were going back to their mojitos, Rook made for the bar.

He pulled the feather out and breathed her name across it. “Sheli.”

The angel’s head jerked in his direction as she clearly tried to find the source of her name. She stood abruptly. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

It didn’t take much prompting from Sheli to get the others up and moving. Rook waited until they were almost to the door, and whispered to the feather again, “Sheli.”

This time, the angel’s head snapped to the right and spotted Rook. Anger flashed in those dark eyes, and she looked ready to pull out her switchblade again. Rook flicked on his lighter and dragged the flame close to the edge of the feather.

Sheli’s eyes dilated to the point of blackness. Seething, she turned to her friends and hustled them off. Within moments, she was stomping over to Rook.

“You wouldn’t,” she challenged.

“Oh, I would, and I’d rather enjoy it.”

Sheli paused. Clearly, she had no idea who Rook was, or what he was capable of, but as worry passed over her features, she seemed to be a quick learner.

“What do you want?”

“That’s for me to know and you to anguish over,” Rook stated as he indicated down the steps to their private room.

Sheli radiated suspicion, but followed him down.

As they passed the bouncer, the burly man asked, “Another one?”

“What can I say?” Rook replied, winking at Sheli. “The more the naughtier.”

“All right!” the bouncer agreed, looking the angel up and down.

Rook slipped him a few more bills. “If you hear, you know… things, don’t worry about it.”

The guy looked at the hundreds in his palm. “For this kind of cash, you can demolish the place.”

“I might just take you up on that.” Seriously.

Rook guided Sheli past their booth. He knocked. No answer. Worried, he knocked again. What could have happened in the few moments he was gone? Had Chad woken up again?

He was ready to kick the door in when the latch suddenly gave way. Fanny opened the door. “Sorry! The show was just ending!”

Luckily for Rook, the curtain was coming down.

Fanny, though, jumped up and down. “Oh, Rook, you missed it! She had a bottle and a snake and—”

“I get the picture, Fanny,” he said as he urged Sheli in the door. He shoved her toward Tomahawk and Beauty.

“Bind our bedazzled angel to the chair.”

* * *

Angela watched as Sheli struggled. “I refuse to be—”

Rook put the lighter up to the white feather. Sheli screamed and dropped into the chair. “You will refuse nothing,” Rook said as he snapped the lighter off.

Sheli glowered, but did not fight, as Tomahawk and Beauty laced the woven rope around her wrists. Could she really be an angel? Angela wondered. The woman did not glow, nor were there harp strings rustling the air. Granted, two days ago she would have scoffed at the idea of heavenly beings. Angela was pretty darn sure this wasn’t one.

“Rook,” she said taking a step closer to Sheli. “This isn’t an angel.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rook challenged, and then grabbed a switchblade from Sheli’s belt. Flipping it open, he sliced up her back. The woman screamed as glossy white wings sprang from her skin’s constraint.

“Just because the flesh is borrowed, doesn’t mean that didn’t hurt!” Sheli hissed through clenched teeth.

Fanny stroked the feathers as Rook got in Sheli’s face. “Borrowed? Do you really think the girl you took that skin from is going to able to use it any time soon?”

Angela stumbled back a step. Having her family murdered around her had been bad enough. But this? This was all too much. None of it made sense.

“But the other angel glowed…”

* * *

Rook spoke to Angela, but studied the angel’s face. “Sheli, here, has spent the better part of the millennium begging, borrowing, or stealing the best cloaking that mankind can offer,” Rook turned his full attention to the angel. “Haven’t you, dear?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Sheli spat at him.

Rook stood up and wiped the spittle from his cheek. “I’m sure Lucifer and Jehovia could have thought of a few things. I hear Luci blames you for how the whole thing went down…”

Sheli wouldn’t meet his eye. So he was right. The devil did know how to hold a grudge.

“But you know what, Sheli?” Rook said. “That’s not why we’re here. We’re here to find out why, after the longest Mexican standoff in history, heaven and hell now have their fingers on the fast-forward button.”

Sheli turned her head away. Her perfectly curved jawline was tense and unyielding. Rook reached over and plucked another feather from her oversized wing. The angel flinched.

“I’ve got this room all night, and I’ve heard that angel-feathered pillows fetch a mighty high price…”

Sheli’s face flashed with anger. “And why would I tell you anything?”

“Because it behooves you to keep them in a stalemate. You can go back to your doomed quest to join Courtney Love’s band.”

“Never,” Sheli hissed.

What was up with the attitude? Why couldn’t Sheli see that the only way out was to share what she knew?

He looked up at Beauty and Tomahawk, who seemed equally perplexed. Then Fanny moved from the angel’s wings to her hair, stroking it gently.

“You see, Sheli, there are some bad men and… Well, I really don’t understand it all, but we have to stop them or the whole world goes ka-plooey, and that would be a real bummer.” More chipper Fanny continued, “Now someone who clearly understands hair product should be very worried. I mean, will there be hair straighteners in hell?”

“There’d better be,” Beauty mumbled behind Rook.

Fanny put her face next to Sheli’s. “Can I braid your hair?”

While Sheli didn’t say “yes,” she also didn’t say “no,” which to Fanny seemed to be complete and total permission.

Rook brought the lighter up again, but Sheli just sighed. She spoke, but it didn’t seem out of fear, but weariness.

“All I know is that something has shifted. What it is exactly, I honestly don’t know.”

“Um, a few more details?” Rook pressed.

“The dimensional barriers have buckled… warped somehow.”

Rook did not want to lose a moment while Sheli was in a chatty mood. “Which side caused it?”

“Neither—” Sheli said, and then she winced. “Ouch!”

Fanny smoothed the angel’s hair. “Sorry. Just trying to get the part straight.”

“Sheli, which side?”

“As I said, as far as I could tell, neither. It was a fluke. A natural phenomenon.”

“Such as?” Rook asked.

“I told you, I don’t know!” Sheli shouted, causing Fanny to drop the braid.

Fanny shook her head. “Darn it! Now I have to start all over.”

Rook wished that he had such patience. “Sheli, you better start figuring it out, because I am just itchin’ to start pluckin’.” He rubbed his fingers together.

But Sheli didn’t back down. She stared defiantly at Rook. “Go ahead.”

Rook plucked another feather as Sheli stifled a scream. He pulled another, and another. The angel breathed sharply through her nose and her cheeks flushed red, but she said nothing more.

Beauty put a hand on Rook’s arm before he plucked another. “Maybe she doesn’t know.”

“Yeah, right,” Rook snorted. “She’s survived centuries of ruthless pursuit by being naïve.”

He knew that she knew something else. She had to know something else. But he had a handful of feathers in his hand to say he wasn’t going to get the answers he needed this way.

He indicated Tomahawk. “Bring Chad over here.”

* * *

Tomahawk hauled Chad to his feet and brought him to Rook. He felt sorry for the kid, but this was, in fact, the end of the world they were talking about.

“I need you to do your stuff,” Rook said to the student.

“No!” Chad screamed trying to pull away. “Not this. Please, no.”

But the more Chad struggled, the more the symbols on his chest glowed an ominous red. Rook pointed out the seal to Sheli.

“Do you recognize this?”

The angel shrank back in horror. “He can’t be.”

“I like to think of him as our very own ‘Porti-Hell.’”

“Get him away from me,” Sheli cried as the symbols coalesced and merged with the flesh. Acrid smoke rose from the seal as Tomahawk’s eyes watered.

Rook pointed to the trail of red smoke. “It is about to open, Sheli, and I’m sure Luci is just drooling to see his old flame again.”

Sheli leaned back as far as she could in the seat. “I honestly don’t know what caused the imbalance.”

“Stick to your story and get a one-way ticket to hell. No refunds. No exchanges.”

As a moan not of this world filled the room, Sheli blurted out, “There are all kinds of theories. Solar flares, ion fluxing, and gravitational wells. You’d have to talk to the techno-geeks. All I know is that both sides are pushing to see if they can’t break through the weakened portal first. They thought your Virgin could be the key.”

Rook nodded toward Beauty, who stuck a needle into Chad’s arm, injecting him with sedatives. The student relaxed in Tomahawk’s grip, but not that much, since he still struggled to get away.

“You’re a bright girl, Sheli,” Rook said as he leaned over to be face to face with the angel. “Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place? It was no great secret. Given a few years, I could have come up with the same theories.”

Sheli squirmed under Rook’s intense gaze, but didn’t everyone? Tomahawk struggled to get Chad back down on the bench, but his skin was blotchy and the symbols still pulsed an angry red.

“Beauty? Do you have any more Valium?” Tomahawk asked.

Their Arranger dug around in her bag, but came up empty-handed. Guess she didn’t expect to be in a situation where you needed three whole syringes of Valium. How wrong she was.

* * *

Rook knelt next to Sheli. “Could your reluctance have to do with the fact that you made some arrangement with the big guy? Did you figure out a way to get immunity from your old homies?” He tickled her wing. “That if you scratched their feathered backs, they’d do the same for you?”

Sheli glared back at him. “It is going to happen. Nothing I do, nothing you do, will stop it. The Apocalypse is upon us. You’d best pick a side and pray that they win.”

Rook was about to retort when he heard the familiar sound of ribs breaking. Chad’s Hellgate was about to pop open.

“Will you calm him down?” Rook asked Tomahawk.

“What exactly does it look like I’m trying to do here?”

Balling up his fist, Rook prepared to punch Chad, but then noticed his scraped knuckles. “Sorry, Tommi. Your turn.”

Tomahawk frowned, but finally hauled back and punched Chad. The student slumped, unconscious, as the symbols faded back to their quiet, golden hue. Rook turned back to Sheli.

“So, what’s their next step?”

The angel straightened in her chair, acting defiant again. How brave one got when the Hellgate wasn’t in your face.

“Don’t think I won’t wake up Drano-boy. I’d like nothing better.”

Sheli searched his face clearly, trying to assess whether or not he was serious. Oh, he was serious. Besides, Fanny was right. The vortex was kind of pretty.

Finally the angel hung her head. “There’s a weakness at a node just north of the city.”

Rook watched out of the corner of his eye as Tomahawk pulled his laptop out and began typing. Sheli continued, “They hope to punch a hole in the dimensional barrier there.”

“Are you talking about the major energy nexus in the Los Angeles Mountains?” Tomahawk asked.

Sheli nodded.

“Why there?” Rook asked.

“Long ago, the area was a touching ground.”

Rook’s mind spun trying to put all of the tangle pieces of the puzzle together. “You mean that area was used as an angelic runway?”

Sheli frowned. “Crudely put, yes. Centuries ago the area was destroyed by an earthquake.”

“More than likely because of overuse?”

The angel shrugged. “LA wasn’t named for its scenic beauty.”

Rook turned to Tomahawk, whose frown only deepened. “If she’s correct… The spot she is talking about is right on the San Andreas Fault. If they mess with the energy nexus there…” Tomahawk raised his eyes to Rook as he finished, “It’ll make the Northridge earthquake look like… Well, let’s just say that Arizona is going to get some new beachfront property.”

“When?” Rook demanded of Sheli.

She looked away as she answered, “Sunrise.”

“Damn it!” Rook turned to Beauty. “Get out there and find us some wheels.” He motioned to Tomahawk. “And get Chad loaded up while I finish up here.”

Rook leaned toward Sheli. “It is over, Sheli.”

“Don’t I know it,” she responded.

“No, actually I don’t think that you do.” Rook whispered an incantation, and then kissed Sheli’s forehead.

“No!” Sheli screamed as her flesh melted away. Once the bloody remnants burned away, a radiant angel sat before him.

“You can’t!” she begged. “I’m like a beacon now.”

Rook allowed a satisfied grin to come over his face. “I know.”

Fanny clapped gleefully. “Yah! She’s pretty!”

That Sheli was, but he hurried Fanny out of the room. Only then did he realize that Angela hadn’t left, either. She just stood there dumbstruck, staring at the brilliant sight.

“Come on,” Rook urged.

“You can’t leave me tied up like this!” Sheli screamed.

“Oh, watch me,” Rook said as he closed the door behind them.

He got the girls moving down the hall, and as they passed the bouncer Rook gave him his last hundred. “Some rather rough-looking gentlemen may come by. If they ask for Sheli, let them in.”

The man answered as he counted the cash. “You’re the boss.”

“And if the room’s a shakin’…”

“Don’t bother knockin’,” the man finished, nodding. “I am the epitome of discretion.”

Rook seriously doubted that, but had no time to argue. They were up the steps and into the club when Fanny frowned as three rather large “men” entered.

“They are demons,” Fanny whispered.

“Thanks for the tip,” Rook said, but he did not need her third sight to tell him that those poorly disguised figures were demons. One of them even had his tail hanging down from his overcoat. Guess they were in a bit of a hurry. Spreading Sheli’s wings must have alerted them to her presence, but now that she was fully uncovered, they were making a beeline for the basement.

Before they could get down there, Rook hurried Fanny and Angela out of the front door as Beauty pulled up in a run-down van. Paint flecks flew off as the brakes screeched. Opening the sliding door, Rook was greeted with white, slightly sweet smoke pouring out, as though it were a glass bong crunched underfoot.

As he helped Fanny in, he turned to Beauty. “This the best you could do?”

“In this neighborhood?” Beauty questioned. “What did you expect me to find? A Jag convertible? Now get in.”

Rook obliged as people burst from the club’s doors, screaming. Guess those “men” found Sheli.

* * *

Angela crouched next to Chad as the van burned rubber down the street. Tomahawk was already working on his laptop, while Beauty and Rook argued in the front regarding which freeway would get them to the Angeles National Forest the fastest.

The casualness of their fight grated on Angela’s nerves. How could everyone be so calm after so much had happened? Rook had dumped so much information on her, but neglected to explain any of it. Then, back in the room… with Sheli.

“Would you like some tea?” Fanny asked, offering Angela an empty doll cup.

“That,” Angela said, gulping before she spoke again, “That… was an angel.”

“I know!” Fanny exclaimed. “Wasn’t that cool?”

“But… but Rook tortured her,” Angela said, still trying to understand the events of the last few hours. Had she been right to go with them? Or was being strapped to a table for nine months the better option? “Rook left her there, vulnerable and exposed.”

“You win some,” Fanny said, then took a sip of her nonexistent tea. “And you lose some.”

Angela recoiled from the girl. How could she be so nonchalant? How could any of them act this way? All the pain, grief, and terror came to a head.

“You’re insane,” Angela hissed, but Fanny just nodded happily. Raising her voice so that the entire van could hear, Angela stated, “You’re all insane.”

Fanny patted her arm like Angela was a child, though. “Oh, no, honey. I am crazy, but the rest are perfectly, legally sane. They’ve been tested.”

This was not helping. Angela’s body felt foreign to her. She wanted to get out of the van and out of her skin as well. Breathing became difficult as the van’s various vapors amplified her agitation.

Yet, Fanny smiled again. “But how would you know that, or any of us?” Fanny held out her hand. “So rude of me that we haven’t been properly introduced.”

Angela didn’t take the offered hand. Knowing everyone’s full name was not going to help get rid of this feeling of spinning down a rabbit hole with no end in sight.

“I’m Fanny Hops, and I’m the group’s Seeker,” the girl rushed on. “But don’t worry, I’m safe.”

What was that supposed to mean? Angela’s head hurt just trying to figure out what the girl meant. Tomahawk must have sensed her bewilderment, for he stopped typing and explained, “Most Seekers only last until their teens. They see things no human was meant to… and, well… they tend to go homicidally insane after a few years in the field.”

And that was meant to reassure her?

Fanny jumped in. “But I’m okay. I’ve been like this since birth. Rook says I worked out all of my problems in the womb.”

Dear God! The girl really believed what she was saying. Angela had a verifiable mentally ill girl trying to explain the impossible events that had assailed her. Angela did not want to believe what Rook had said. She didn’t want to believe that her world, everything she knew, was just the DMZ between heaven and hell. She didn’t want to believe that the final clash between good and evil was happening when the sun rose. Nor did she want to believe that she was instrumental in deciding who won.

Angela turned to Tomahawk, who typed furiously. “And you? Are you a Seeker as well?”

“Just an old-fashioned Sniffer. I can’t see things like Fanny, but I can make some pretty good guesses based on patterns of behavior and statistical analysis.”

“Don’t believe him!” Fanny exclaimed. “Sniffing is an art, and he is a master!”

The man blushed and went back to his keyboard. Honestly, Angela expected Tomahawk to give her some New Age explanation—not to reveal he was their tech support. With his tanned skin and rippling muscles, Angela had never quite seen a computer geek like him.

Angela nodded toward Beauty. “And her? Him?”

Fanny slapped Angela’s arm and whispered harshly. “That is Beauty, and you’ll hurt her feelings if you talk like that.”

Angela hadn’t meant any disrespect. When someone wearing a leopard-print bustier and has such a large Adam’s apple, you had to ask.

Fanny added, much louder, “Beauty is the most gorgeous and extraordinary transgender Arranger there is!”

“That is, after I get a fill!” Beauty responded, waving her ratty nails. “But after that, absolutely, sugar.”

Angela hugged her knees as she glanced over at Rook, who was still in a heated debate about the shortest route to the Apocalypse. “And him?” she asked Fanny.

“Rook? Oh, he’s the very best Caster in the whole wide world!”

Rook looked over his shoulder. “Just this world?”

“Nope,” Fanny said, giggling. “Every dimension plus one!”

Rook grinned and caught Angela’s eye as he turned to face forward. The amusement fell away and the hard, unyielding Rook made an appearance before he turned his attention to the road.

“A Caster?” Angela asked.

“Yeah. He casts stuff. You know. Magic, spells, and potions. A Caster.”

“You mean, like a wizard?”

Fanny snorted. “Like the ones with the glasses? Please. I mean, any Caster who needs a stupid wand to do spells would be laughed out of the Cabal.” She scoffed again. “Wizard. Yeah, right.”

Angela watched as Fanny set up her tea party. “If Rook is so powerful, then why did Rook have to torture that angel, then?”

“Because he had to,” she stated matter-of-factly. “She was dangerous.”

Angela still did not understand. “But Sheli was an angel.”

“Silly girl,” Fanny said as she offered a pretend muffin on a doll plate. “That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have killed us all, given the chance.” Fanny became suddenly serious. “You realize that the flesh she used to cloak herself had to be removed from the donor… while she was still alive.”

Angela set down the plate. Even an imaginary muffin made her nauseated as she imagined the suffering of that poor, nameless girl. How could an angel do such a thing? Even one who had sided with Lucifer.

“Around here,” Tomahawk commented, “you might not want to ask questions unless you are prepared for the answers.”

As she tried to quiet her stomach, Angela would definitely keep that in mind.

CHAPTER 8

Rook put his hand on the door latch as Beauty pulled the van to a stop outside a large, lonely barn. Moonlight illuminated the low, rolling fields surrounding the structure. All looked clear.

“I should only be in there a few minutes,” he said to Beauty as he opened the door. “Keep Roto-Rooter quiet and Angela secure.”

“Rook, we don’t have time—”

“Hey, I didn’t want to make this detour either,” Rook explained. “But if we’re going to do this, we’re going to need a vehicle that produces a little more oomph than a ‘70s Chevy,” said Rook, overriding Beauty’s retort. “You know that without the Cabal’s help, this is the only way.”

“But Vlad? Really? He works the ‘dark market,’ “ Beauty questioned. “Do we really have to stoop so low?”

“Who else could get us the equipment in under and hour?”

Beauty finally nodded as Fanny rushed from the back of the van. “Then I should come with you. Vlad loves me.”

“No, sweetie,” Rook said before he kissed her on the forehead. “We already talked about this. It’s best if you two don’t see each other for a while.”

“But I miss him…” Fanny pouted.

Normally, her look of complete and utter dejection would work on Rook, but not around Vlad. The vampire might love Fanny, but that didn’t stop him from ripping her throat out and drinking her dry. She spent six weeks on life support after that. Fanny didn’t remember any of it, and Rook intended to keep it that way.

“I know, sweetie,” he cooed. “Maybe if we survive Armageddon, we can talk about it.”

Fanny brightened. “Great!”

Of course, Fanny did not seem to understand exactly how poor the odds were of that outcome, or Rook never would have made the offer. Making sure her hands were inside the vehicle, Rook shut the van door and headed across the dew-soaked field.

Opening the creaky wooden door, Rook entered the old barn. The smell of old hay and rotting wood caressed his nose. After the bathroom back at the safe house, these putrid smells were practically fragrances.

Moonlight streaked in through the broken slats above him, making the ground appear mottled and shifting. Which, standing over a minor nexus, wasn’t necessarily untrue. This place, in the middle of the dilapidated barn, was a communication node. He could barely whisper, yet it could be heard at another node in Taiwan. Whether Vlad took his “call” was another question entirely.

Rook began the incantation. “The tides turn slowly. The wind blows—” He shook his head. He didn’t have time for the proper formalities. “Vlad Marier, I summon thy undead butt to my presence.”

It wasn’t exactly by the book, but it should get the job done.

Sure enough, green smoke slid through the space between the slats and coalesced into a dark, brooding, and handsome young man. Of course, the chiseled features and piercing green eyes were deceptive. Vlad was a little over a hundred years old.

“You might have the power to summon me, Rook, but you don’t have the strength to command me.”

Great. Vlad was in his “strut” mode.

“I don’t have to,” Rook stated. “I’ve got cash.”

Vlad’s eyes narrowed, clearly suspicious. Usually, their interactions ended in a firestorm of magic and blood. Rook pulled out several bundles of bills. That got Vlad’s attention. A slow smile spread across the vampire’s lips, revealing his fangs.

“How much?” Vlad, asked practically drooling over the profit margin.

“Enough to commission your services.”

Rook tossed a bundle across the barn. Vlad snatched it midair. Next, Rook tossed a small journal. “Beauty’s got all the specs written down.”

Vlad’s eyes darted back and forth as he read the document. Finally, the vampire reached into his pocket and pulled out a long form, in triplicate. With a flourish, he handed Rook a pen.

“It’s a standard form. Sign on the dotted line, and we’re set.”

Rook frowned. “Since when did you need a contract?”

“Since I stared working with the likes of you,” Vlad replied.

Rook bent his finger, and the document flew across the barn. He had to squint to read all of the fine print. There were clauses to “hold harmless,” and “insurance riders.” He missed the good old days, when he just handed a dark marketeer the cash, and he handed you the goods.

“Wait!” “Why does it say ‘pay in advance’?” Rook asked.

Vlad shrugged. “I know the damage you can do, Rook.”

This was ridiculous. The world, the entire set of multi-dimensions, hung in the balance, and he was negotiating with a vampire? He did not have time for this. Sighing, Rook just signed the contract and threw all three bundles of cash at Vlad.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Rook said, hoping each syllable dripped with the maximum dose of sarcasm possible.

“Sorry, I can’t say the same,” Vlad sneered as he tucked the cash in his pocket.

Rook went to turn away when the vampire’s demeanor changed. It was easy to forget how young Vlad had been when turned. Without the strut and attitude, he barely looked older than Rook’s Seeker.

“Is Fanny with you?”

“Spare me,” Rook answered. “Spare us both.”

“But I just wanted to know—”

“If you killed her? Scarred her for life? What?” Rook demanded.

Vlad could not meet Rook’s gaze.

“Just let her know that I am sorry,” Vlad said.

“Contrition from a vampire,” Rook stated. “How very touching.”

Vlad’s eyes flashed red before he dissolved into smoke, then was gone. Just as well. Rook left the barn and trotted through the field to the van. Climbing in, he handed Beauty the contract.

“Let’s get this disaster jump-started.”

Fanny popped up from behind his seat. “Did Vlad ask about me?”

Rook didn’t miss a beat. “Sorry, hon. No.”

Fanny sat back down, cross-legged and pouting, but it was for the best. “Star-crossed” didn’t even come close to describing Fanny’s and Vlad’s relationship.

* * *

Beauty let the van idle until Fanny went back to her tea party before whispering to Rook, “Are you sure you don’t want to find a nice safe spot for Hellgate and the Virgin?”

“I’m positive,” Rook answered, indicating that they should get going.

“But we’re delivering them directly to their doorstep.”

“I know,” Rook replied. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

Beauty went to open her mouth as she pulled the van out of the mud and onto the two-lane highway, but Rook’s scowl stopped her. Well, Beauty could put on a world-class scowl herself.

“Okay, maybe not brilliant,” Rook conceded. “But it is practical. We don’t have the manpower to effectively hide them and duke it out with the powers that be.”

Rook was right. Sort of. That was Rook’s greatest strength and greatest weakness. Rook was extremely talented at rolling the dice, but even he threw snake eyes every once in a while. Beauty had to be sure this wasn’t one of those times.

“It’s still a huge risk,” Beauty commented. “I know that it isn’t ideal, but we could call Savage, and at least—”

“At least what?” Rook demanded. “Have him craft one of his patented compromises that leaves everyone but him screwed? I don’t think so. We’re past negotiating.”

Rook gazed down the dark road. “No. Tonight. Tonight we fight.”

Beauty had been afraid of that.

* * *

Tomahawk steadied his laptop as the van pulled to a halt. Out of the window, a large sign announced, “The Devil’s Punchbowl Recreational Area.” Boy, did they have the first half of that right. The second half? Not so much. He saved all of his programs and sent the results of his research to his phone as the rest of the group exited the van.

“We are going to have to hike it in from here,” he announced as Beauty groaned. She really needed to invest in some fashionable hiking boots.

Rook struck off down the trail, and everyone hurried to catch him. Chad was all the heavier as he and Angela slung him between them.

“Um,” Tomahawk said. “Are you going to tell us the plan?” When Rook didn’t answer, Tomahawk asked, “You do have a plan? Even a bad one?”

“Absolutely,” Rook answered.

They made their way down the steep grade without Rook filling them in.

“Are you going to share it?”

“Nope.”

Tomahawk steadied Fanny when she almost tumbled down the trail, headfirst. “Careful.”

“Okay!” she said, and then took off, skipping again.

Beauty luckily snagged Fanny’s sweater and got the girl to slow down as she asked Rook, “Why not?”

“Because you do not want to know ahead of time.”

“But—” Angela tried to ask. However, Rook cut her off.

“Look, the plan disturbs even me.”

Everyone else stumbled to a halt as Rook marched on. A plan that disturbed Rook? Crap. It really had to be bad.

Beauty’s voice was shaky as she tried to reassure everyone. “It can’t be much worse than Budapest.”

As he got Chad and Angela moving again, Tomahawk raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

By Beauty’s frown, Tomahawk guessed not.

* * *

Rook reached the plateau as the earth beneath his feet rumbled. His hand lashed out and grabbed hold of the nearest branch. Pebbles jittered their way down from the hillside above. He caught Fanny as she skidded down the steep trail.

“That’s fun!” Fanny exclaimed, and then her mouth dropped open at the sight that lay before them.

Storms tumbled over themselves—as if they wanted to get the best seat in the house. Lightning danced above the narrow valley, but the bolts weren’t white. They were purple, red, and even black outlined in silver. Thunder boomed close enough to rattle boulders from their perches.

Tomahawk and the rest caught up.

Rook indicated the center of the valley. “That the nexus?”

“Yep,” he replied. Which truly was unnecessary, as the ground there oozed lava and the air above crackled with electricity.

“Fanny?”

She closed her eyes and her usually delighted features sagged from the pain. “Both sides converge.”

Again. No newsflash there.

“How many?” Rook asked.

“Legions.”

Rook held her hand. “Honey, is ‘legions’ a word you just like to say, or actual legions?”

Before Fanny could answer, the sky nearly split open. Blinding lightning struck, and thunder reverberated off the sides of the canyon. The lightning faded, leaving the night sky nearly translucent as the heavenly host was held back by the thinnest of barriers. Angels armored in gilded breastplates rode chariots pulled by winged horses straining to break through the barrier.

At the center of the Punchbowl, a wall of flame erupted from the cracks in the ground, and a host of red demons pushed and warped the thin veil that separated their dimension from Earth’s.

Trumpets blared from above as pounding drums boomed from below.

“Guess that was ‘legions’ in the literal sense,” Tomahawk commented.

Rook tore his eyes away from the impending battle. Now was not the time to get starstruck. “Tommi, you and Fanny stay here and monitor the situation for any late-comers. I’d rather not be surprised.”

Beauty frowned. “What could be more shocking than this?”

“With my luck today, do you really want to ask?”

Clearly she didn’t, as she helped Angela get Chad to his feet. “Where are we taking him?” Beauty asked.

Rook stopped them, though, and turned to Tomahawk. “Quick! Take a picture of the seal.”

Tomahawk pulled out his phone and snapped several shots. Rook pointed to the new symbols flashing on Chad’s chest. “While you’re waiting here with Fanny, try to figure out what those symbols indicate.”

Tomahawk nodded, and Rook turned to head down the trail when Fanny jumped up and into his arms. She hugged him tightly. “Come back, okay?”

He nearly lost his nerve as he hugged her back. Damn it, this was not the time to get emotional. “I’ll try my best.”

Fanny wiped a tear from her eye. “ ‘Cuz I really, really, really want a S’more.”

Rook chuckled and kissed her forehead as he set her down. “Me, too.”

Before things could get any more teary-eyed, Rook headed down the trail. The earth was no longer being jerked in fits and starts. Now it was simply rolling underfoot, never stopping its lurching motion. Quickly, he guided Beauty, Angela, and Chad to another small outcropping of rocks.

He instructed Beauty to set Chad down. “You two camp out here, but be ready to move on my mark.”

Beauty cocked an eyebrow. “Gonna share your plan yet?”

“Nope.”

Rook tried to urge Angela down the last bit of the trail to the valley floor, but she balked.

“I’m not going anywhere else until I know what my role is.”

“I thought Tomahawk warned you against asking questions when you weren’t ready for the answers?”

Angela cradled her belly as her lips trembled. But he gave her no sympathy.

How could he? Sympathy had ceased to exist about ten miles ago.

Now? Rook could only offer her harsh reality.

* * *

Angela’s belly churned. It felt like her insides intentionally convoluted themselves, nearly doubling her over. Was it the stress, or a reaction to her unnatural pregnancy? No matter the cause, she didn’t shy away from Rook’s gaze.

She knew that she probably didn’t want to know the answer, but she had to know the answer.

“Tell me.”

Rook shrugged. “You’re my insurance policy. With you and their precious bundle of joy, they will be less likely to strike directly at me.”

Angela ground her teeth, not wanting to sound as bitter as she felt. “Kind of like hiding behind a child hostage?”

“Exactly.”

Was there any depth that Rook would not sink to? Did he have any kind of moral compass, or did he spin wildly whichever way the wind was blowing?

Before she could retort, a sharp tremor hit the ground beneath them. Jolted, everyone was knocked from their feet. Angela went to rise, but her belly flared. It felt as if someone were wringing out her insides.

She hadn’t felt like this since… since last month.

Quickly, she calculated the days in her head. Twenty-eight days, to be exact.

She wasn’t pregnant. She was…

* * *

Beauty braced herself against a boulder as her world tilted to the right, and then to the left. When she said she wanted her world rocked, it certainly was not like this. And for every tremor, every jolt, the translucent barrier between heaven and hell became all the thinner.

Finally, she was able to get to her feet. Another pair of heels ruined.

Rook propped Chad up, but Angela was doubled over, sitting on a jutting rock. Beauty made her way over, having to steady herself each step of the way. Thunder rumbled low and threatening, like a jaguar that growled before the fatal pounce.

“Hon, what happened? Are you all right?” Beauty asked, checking for injuries.

“No. Yes,” Angela said. “I think… I think it is my time of the month.”

“Darlin’, it is all our time.”

Angela’s hand latched onto Beauty’s arm. “No. I mean, Aunt Flo is visiting.”

Beauty still did not understand what the woman was talking about. “Hon, house-guests could wait.”

“I have a visitor,” Angela stressed.

Immediately, Beauty checked the woman’s pupils. They seemed fine. “There’s no external signs of demon possession and—”

“I have my period,” Angela stated bluntly.

“Ohhh,” Beauty drawled. That was the only aspect of womanhood she had yet to experience. Thank goodness. “Are you sure it isn’t a miscarriage?”

But Angela shook her head firmly. “It feels like the same old garden-variety cramps.”

Beauty wasn’t sure if she should be elated or crushed.

Rook called over from where Chad was. “Hello? People, I’ve got an Apocalypse to stop.”

“This may complicate your ‘plan’ a tad,” Beauty replied.

Letting Chad slump over, Rook was by their side in an instant. “Is Angela injured?”

“No, it’s just that I am bleeding,” Angela explained.

Rook’s face clouded with confusion. “But you said you weren’t hurt.”

Angela seemed even more uncomfortable talking about this with Rook than she had with Beauty.

It was time for Beauty to step in. “Angela is menstruating.”

Rook stood perfectly still. His only movement was three eye blinks as he took in the information. “So she was never pregnant?”

“I don’t think so,” Beauty admitted.

Rook stomped to the edge of the ledge. “Great. Just f—ing great.” He stomped back, pacing between Angela and Chad. “This whole thing has been a damn ruse. A trap.”

Okay, so it turned out that Beauty should be crushed by the news. Rook’s plan had been tentative at best. Now, though? What did they have that could possibly stop the war about to burst into their dimension?

“What are we going to do?” Angela asked.

Abruptly, Rook came to a halt. A grim smile crossed his face. A smile Beauty had come to know and not really like because it usually foreshadowed doom.

“We are going to use this to our advantage,” he stated.

“How, exactly?” Beauty asked tentatively.

But Rook held none of her trepidation. As a matter of fact, he seemed energized by the new challenge. “As far as getting screwed, this wasn’t too bad.”

He knelt and ripped a sleeve off of Chad’s shirt and handed it to Angela. “Soak it in your blood.”

“What?” Angela asked, as she recoiled in horror next to Beauty. “I am not going to—”

Beauty went to comfort her. Yes, it was a wildly inappropriate request, but Rook must have his reasons. Right? One didn’t ask for a woman’s menstrual blood without a specific purpose.

Then, as the reason dawned on Beauty, she too stepped back in horror, realizing Rook’s next move.

“No, Rook. You can’t possibly be thinking what I think you are.”

He just shrugged. “What? The Cataclysmic Incantation was written for just this purpose.” Rook put the sleeve in Angela’s hand. “Now get going.”

Angela seemed too stunned to fight and went behind a large boulder to fulfill his request, which gave Beauty time to talk Rook out of his ridiculous plan.

“The Incantation was written by a madman over six hundred years ago, and—”

“Who prophesied this day coming?”

Oh, if he thought he could back her off so easily, Rook had another thing coming. “And he wrote it while raving at the moon from his dungeon as rats chewed out his eyes! He was not a stable cookie.” Rook seemed wholly unimpressed by her passionate speech. “Rook, please,” she pleaded. “You can’t be serious.”

Horizontal lightning danced in the air above the nexus, illuminating Rook’s face. His blue eyes took on the color of steel—hard and resolved. Rook was in fact extremely serious.

Beauty still wanted to argue, but Angela came back from behind the boulder. Thank goodness she had used the belt to her hospital robe to wrap the unseemly package. Angela handed it over to Rook.

“Do you still need me to go out there?” Angela asked, but Rook shook his head.

“They will smell the blood on you,” he responded. “I need you to head back to Tomahawk and Fanny,” Rook instructed Angela. “Warn them of what I plan to do. Tommi needs to get Fanny as far away from here as possible, and she needs to put up as many mental blocks as she can. Once the two forces are engaged, her mind could get trapped between them.”

Rook turned to Beauty. “You stay here and get Chad revved up. I’ll let you know when to let him rip.”

Then he was gone, hustling down the trail that lead to the valley floor. To the nexus—where he would be one man standing against the full forces of good and evil.

Good thing he had the ego for it.

Angela turned to Beauty. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Honey,” Beauty said, kneeling next to Chad and trying to wake him up from his Valium-induced slumber, “if this battle doesn’t kill us, Rook’s trick certainly will.”

CHAPTER 9

The ruddy ground beneath his feet pulsed as the sky above shone pure white. The air thrummed with the threat of battle as Rook made his way to the exact center of the valley.

The nexus wasn’t hard to miss, given the light show.

Settling into the spot, Rook looked down to find a familiar face pushing against the barrier, distorting it in his own mangy image.

“Practicing your moves, Dimitri?” Rook asked the ghost he had damned to hell.

“You are mine,” Dimitri threatened.

Rook sneered. “Do you want to bet on that?”

The face receded. Guess Dimitri wasn’t feeling all that lucky.

Pulling out the banana and oil, Rook prepared for the incantation. He poured the oil in a circle around him, but put the banana back in his pocket. He might still need it.

Once the circle of oil was complete, Rook breathed in deeply.

Brimstone and the scent of lilies filled his lungs.

Once he began, there would be no turning back. He would be trapped within the magic of incantation. In all likelihood, this was a one-way trip. But at the least, Angela was out of harm’s way, and with any luck, the rest of his friends too. Well, Chad would probably be toast, but the rest should be able to get out before the real fireworks began.

There was no point in delaying any further.

Rook snapped his fingers, igniting the oil and forming a protective circle.

Then, he opened the bundle Angela had given him and began the chant.

“Blood of a woman. Blood of a man.”

Rook felt along his belt for his knife, but came up empty. The ground trembled beneath his feet as the air crackled with energy.

“Fine,” he said as he put his finger to his mouth and bit down. His warm, salty blood hit his tongue. He let drop after drop of his blood fall onto the sleeve coated in Angela’s blood, flaring the fabric a bright blue until, finally, a flickering flame ignited.

He really needed to find a profession that didn’t require self-mutilation.

Once the entire cloth was afire, Rook raised it over his head.

“Power and Pride. Rage and Revenge, I call thee to me!”

As the madman predicted so many centuries ago, light swirled around him, tugging heaven and hell toward Rook without damaging the barrier between them.

Oh, yeah. That’s how you do it.

But the effect slowed until it plateaued, leaving the sides a good ten yards apart. This would not do. They needed to be touching for him to seal the realms.

Worse, each side must have realized Rook’s plan as they redoubled their efforts to cross the barrier before he could complete the incantation.

“Beauty, help me out here. Why isn’t the spell reaching completion?”

* * *

How was she supposed to know? But Beauty let poor Chad slip back into unconsciousness as she reached in her purse, grabbing her phone. Quickly, she scrolled down to the “Cs.”

“Cajun gumbo,” she mumbled. “No, but that was a great recipe.”

She scrolled down to where “Cataclysmic” should have been, but it wasn’t there. Crap. It must have been under Incantations. In the future, she would list everything in both places.

Beauty dragged her finger quickly down to the “Is,” and read from her notes. “The spell must be invoked with abject fear.” She yelled against the Armageddon warm-up show. “You must be totally and mind-numbingly afraid.”

Down at the nexus, Rook frowned. “I think I’m pretty freaking afraid.”

As thunder echoed off the walls of the canyon and Chad’s symbols began sparking a menacing red, Beauty shouted back, “Well, obviously not enough!” Then she muttered, “He should’ve let me invoke the damn spell.”

* * *

“I should’ve let Beauty do the damn incantation,” Rook mumbled as he tried to dig deep for some abject fear. But when your day job involves beheading Medusas and duking it out with possessed wolverines, the clash between good and evil just didn’t really move him to terror.

He had to try, though. It would be downright stupid if they all died and the earth became a barren wasteland because he just wasn’t scared enough. Rook tried to shake off his confidence. This spell really might not work.

“I’m terrified!” he shouted to the wind, but the two forces came no closer together. Rook tried to be startled by the demons underfoot. “Horrified, I tell ya! Downright petrified!”

The incantation was unimpressed, though.

“Rook! Look out!” Beauty screamed.

Rook turned as Sheli, on wing and looking ready for revenge, dove toward him. He felt his gut tighten and his jaw clench. So that was what real fear felt like. Clearly, it was, as the light whirling around him brightened and heaven and hell inched closer and closer together.

“You really shouldn’t have scared me like that,” Rook commented.

Sheli slammed into Rook, knocking him to the ground. She sprang up raising a knife, his knife, high above her head. Rook rolled just in time as it arced in the air and gained his feet. Sheli sliced and cut at Rook, who barely stayed an inch ahead of the blade. Her Goth clothes were a tattered mess and stained with blood, which wouldn’t have been so bad except for the glint of murder in her eye.

“You will pay,” she promised.

Rook felt the fire of the protection circle at his leg. “If I cross this line before the spell is completely cast, Armageddon will be unleashed.”

“Do I look like I care?” Sheli growled, arcing the knife up once again.

No, she certainly did not.

* * *

Angela clutched her midriff as she climbed the steep trail. The ground shook beneath her, though, making the ascent all the more difficult.

Finally she stumbled forward, onto the small ledge where they had left Tomahawk and Fanny. But neither of them could be found. She glanced down to the nexus where Rook battled Sheli. It did not look like it was going well.

At all.

But Angela knew she could do nothing for Rook except deliver his message and get Fanny as far away as possible.

Searching the ground she found a set of footprints going down a side path. Dear Gawd. More hiking? Pushing herself to her feet, Angela set out.

“I’m never leaving home without Midol again…”

* * *

Tomahawk practically carried Fanny down the narrow game trail.

“How much farther?” he asked, as the Seeker’s eyes drifted from right to left, and then snapped back to the right. “This is getting us dangerously close to the action, sweetie.”

“Closer,” Fanny mumbled.

Tomahawk slowed, though. “Rook left us up there for a reason, Fanny.”

“Closer!” she shouted.

Despite his better judgment, Tomahawk continued down toward the valley floor. Tomahawk could only imagine the turmoil within Fanny. He had learned long ago that when your Seeker told you to do something… you did it.

* * *

Rook’s arm shook as he held Sheli’s wrist, keeping the blade from slicing his head clean off. With the other hand he grabbed the banana from his pocket and whacked her across the temple with it.

The angel knocked the banana away, and then squashed it under her bare foot.

“Was that supposed to be a joke? Fighting with fruit?”

“No, it was just a perfect unblemished banana,” Rook noted. “Do you know how hard those are to come by this time of year?”

At the edge of his vision, Rook noticed the barriers to the two realms touch and repel, then touch again. He only needed a few more seconds.

Sheli must have noticed the same thing. “Never!” she sneered.

The angel launched at him, knocking him back several steps. That damn knife was up and down, then cutting across his arm. He had no business thinking he could fight an angel unarmed. But then Sheli missed widely with a blow, tripping on the follow-through.

Luckily, Rook was never without some form of a weapon.

Staggering, Sheli looked at him. “What have you done?”

“What any great strategist does,” Rook explained, kicking the banana peel away with his boot. “I prepare for all contingencies.”

“With a banana?” Sheli slurred.

“Genius comes in all forms, babe,” Rook said, as Sheli nearly toppled over. “That banana was spiked with M-99, the most powerful sedative known to man. Powerful enough to knock an angel on her ass.” He sidestepped as she lurched forward. “Now back off, and we might survive.”

But Sheli did the freaking exact opposite of backing off. With the last of her strength, she lunged at him. Her momentum carried them both over the protective circle. The energy currents caught Sheli’s wings and tore them from her back. As her screams pierced through the thunder, the currents tossed her high into the air, and then she was gone.

Just gone. Vaporized.

Rook tried to make for the hills, but the currents lashed into him as well, his body trapped in their vise.

“Beauty, open Chad!”

“But—”

“Now!” Rook yelled as the energy tendrils dug into his flesh, insinuating themselves into his very being.

* * *

Angela ran up as Tomahawk dropped to one knee. Fanny’s body spasmed. Tears streamed from the girl’s eyes.

“We have got to get her away!” Angela yelled over the chaos.

“She won’t let me.”

Fanny clutched Tomahawk’s sleeve. “They’re so close. There are so many!”

Angela knelt next to the girl. “Fanny, you’ve got to pull back.”

“I can’t,” she groaned. “They won’t let him go.”

Tomahawk’s eyes found Angela’s. “Damn it! Where’s Rook?”

The sky crackled with white, yellow, orange, and red, illuminating a lone figure buffeted by forces unseen.

Tomahawk held Fanny closer to his chest. “Never mind.”

* * *

Beauty prodded Chad again, even slapping his face. But the guy just wouldn’t wake up.

“Beauty, now would be a great time!”

Rook’s clothes were nearly ripped off, and his body was nicked and cut in a hundred different places. He wasn’t going to make it much longer. This was it. Beauty needed to pull something out of her hat.

Hat. Hair. Pins.

She pulled one out of her weave, and with her teeth pulled off the protective rubber tip. Using the sharp end, she stuck it into Chad’s nose.

“Acupuncture to the rescue!”

Sure enough, Chad startled awake, and the Hellgate seemed more than eager to spring into action, opening immediately. The fiery vortex shot out from Chad’s chest and hit the energy currents, pulling them into its maw.

“Should I close it?” she yelled.

* * *

“Not until they both withdraw!” Rook shouted over the churning of the most powerful forces in the universe.

Neither heaven nor hell was backing down. The host risked being sucked into the pit, and hell risked being caught in an unending current, yet both dug deeper into his flesh, wanting him to experience their pain. Rook fought against them, trying to untangle himself from their clutches.

Then a fractured and distorted figure appeared before him. He barely recognized the form as Fanny. Her skin cracked along her facial planes, and her eyes were bloodshot. Her spirit flickered before him, barely tangible.

“Stop fighting,” Fanny whispered, yet he heard her clearly above the snapping and snarling of the energy currents. “Let go,” she said, before she disappeared altogether.

That made no sense. Not fight? When did he not fight?

But struggling was not helping, either.

Could he really trust Fanny?

Rook closed his eyes and let his muscles go slack. He expected to get bucked amongst the ravaging winds. However, the air stilled around him, and the only sound was the Hellgate churning away.

He had become the point of connection between the two forces. Without his resistance, the barriers began to seal themselves.

Without warning, the two energy streams collapsed. Heaven and hell retreated to lick their wounds. Which was great, except now the Hellgate had a head of steam, dragging Rook into the vortex.

Okay, this… this he could fight.

* * *

“Now!” Rook screamed at Beauty.

She grabbed the bobby pin and yanked it from Chad’s nose. He crumpled like a doll, and the Hellgate sucked back into his chest.

She leapt to her feet as Rook plummeted from the sky. Arms flailing, he was about to crash into the earth, when he suddenly flipped over and his freefall slowed to a gentle descent.

The “light as a feather” spell. Nice.

He would have floated there for an eternity, but he must have reversed the spell as he slammed into the ground. Rook rose, rumpled but not mortally wounded.

“Get Chad to the rendezvous point!”

Beauty got the student up and stumbling, but Rook did not follow. Instead, he looked toward the east. Was that Angela’s scream Beauty heard?

* * *

Rook climbed the slope using weeds and branches as his handholds.

“Help!” Angela screamed again.

Even though the battle for this plane was over, that did not mean that heaven and hell could not vent their frustrations upon this valley. Lightning struck all around them, lancing the earth with its searing heat.

Finally, he made it to the crest of a hill to find Tomahawk knocked out under a fallen tree and Angela trying to rouse a limp Fanny. Rook rushed over, sinking to his knees by Fanny and checking her vital signs. There were none.

Angela’s hands flew to her face, trying to contain her sobs. “I didn’t get here soon enough. She was caught between them.”

“No,” Rook said, so stunned that he had a hard time breathing. His lungs suddenly went on strike. “She sacrificed herself for me.”

A lightning bolt struck not inches from them. The charred grass burned his nostrils. He turned to Angela. “Get Tommi out of here.”

“But—”

Rook shoved Angela hard toward Tomahawk. “I am not going to lose anyone else. Now go!”

The force of his words must have tapped into something deep within Angela, as she jumped to her feet and got Tomahawk moving up the trail.

Rook turned back to Fanny, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “Fanny, baby, you can’t do this to me.” His voice cracked. “Not now.”

Still nothing. He gave her a breath, but no pulse. He laced his fingers together performing CPR, but her heart did not beat. He couldn’t stop. How could he? It was Fanny.

“You can’t die. You’re the only one who—”

A lightning bolt struck so close that Rook smelled ozone, and the hairs on his arm stood straight up. Rook jumped to his feet.

“You want me?” he screamed to the sky. “You want me? Come and get me!”

Rook raised his arms to the sky, and the storm clouds were kind enough to oblige his request, striking him with lightning in the arm. As the electricity surged through his body, wracking it to the marrow, Rook fell to his knees and placed his other hand on Fanny’s chest. Her limp form arced, lifting Fanny from the ground.

He held his hand there until the bolt threw him backward, and he landed hard into a shrub. Using his burnt hand, he fanned away the smoke from his singed hair. Crawling, he made his way to Fanny. But she lay still on the ground.

Rook cradled her head in his lap. He fought the tears, possibly harder than he fought the vortex, but still they spilled over, splashing onto Fanny’s face.

A gasp rocked her frame.

“That’s it, Fanny. If anyone can find the way back, it’s you.”

She gasped a few more times as her face flushed. Fanny’s eyelids fluttered as she smiled up sweetly at him. “New hairdo?” She coughed, then finished. “Looks good.”

Rook pulled her into a hug as lightning danced all around them. The earth rumbled its discontent. He urged her up. “Sweetie, we kind of need to go.”

“I’m sleepy,” Fanny said, yawning.

“Hon, we’re in the middle of a lightning storm.”

Fanny giggled. “You should have said so, silly!”

Rook helped her up as the strikes intensified.

They were alive, but for how long?

* * *

Each footfall jarred Tomahawk’s skull, creating bright bursts of light, obscuring his vision. Or was that just all the lightning? It took him a moment to realize that it was Angela supporting him as Beauty dragged Chad up the ravine. They made it to the rendezvous point, the top of the foothills, but no one else was there.

“I thought we were supposed to have an escape vehicle?” he asked.

Beauty tossed up a hand. “I did not arrange this, that is for sure.”

Tomahawk squinted against the glare, both inside and outside of his head. Was that something approaching? Angela strained to see as well.

“I think it’s a helicopter!” she announced.

But it wasn’t flying like any helicopter Tomahawk was used to. As a matter of fact, it swooped in so erratically that it seemed more like a child’s remote-control toy—like one belonging to a very young child, on his or her very first day of practice.

But no one complained as it made an awkward, triple-bounce landing. Everyone loaded it, glad to be out of the maelstrom of wind and debris. Tomahawk searched outside for Rook and Fanny. As the clouds above seemed near to bursting and the Earth bounced and rolled under the struts, how much longer could they wait?

Then on the far side of the ridgeline, Rook and Fanny ran headlong toward them.

“Go!” Rook shouted.

“Move it!” Tomahawk screamed against the gale-force winds.

But Rook shook his head. “Lift off!”

That made no sense. Until Tomahawk realized that lightning wasn’t just striking around Rook and Fanny, it was hounding them, cracking at their feet like a white whip.

“Get us in the air,” Tomahawk directed the pilot as he revved the rotors.

“But—” Beauty stated until she took in the scene, then encouraged the pilot. “You heard the man.”

CHAPTER 10

Rook veered away from the chopper as it lifted off, a bit wobbly. He didn’t exactly have time to worry about the errant helicopter, as the lightning seemed eager to taste both of their flesh again. Instead, Rook headed to a huge oak tree towering over the landscape.

Winded, but protected by the tree’s huge branches, they pulled to a stop. He indicated to Fanny. “Get up there.”

Her eyes dilated. “Really? I mean, I really get to climb this?”

“You know it.”

The girl was scrambling up the branches in seconds flat. Good thing she majored in tree climbing. Rook, on the other hand, still had the wounds of electrocution, plus all the punishment Sheli had dealt out. And—oh yeah—that whole thing about being torn in two by the forces of good and evil.

His bones creaked as he made his way up behind Fanny. She was already at the top, waving at the helicopter. It banked over, and Tomahawk helped Fanny into the chopper.

Just a few more branches. Just a few more feet. Rook could feel the rotor wash and hear Tomahawk yelling for him to hurry.

Puffing, Rook made it to the top and reached his arm out for Tomahawk when the lightning took out its frustrations on the tree. With a loud crack, the giant oak split down the middle. As the branches began their descent, Rook threw himself from the doomed tree.

He totally missed the door, but his midriff hit a strut. His arms wrapped around the metal rail as the helicopter dipped from the sky, barely skimming the ground. Getting his feet under him, Rook let go of the rail and hopped into the chopper.

“Head west!” Rook yelled at the pilot as he turned to Tomahawk. “Weapons!”

Tomahawk tossed him an assault rifle. Rook caught it in midair and pointed out the door as those freaking winged demons caught up with them. Tomahawk joined him, firing into the horde.

If it wasn’t vengeful lightning, it was always something else.

* * *

Beauty tried to keep Chad calm as Fanny put her fingers in her ears to block out the sound of automatic fire… that didn’t seem to be making much of a dent in the demons.

“Can I shoot something?” Fanny asked, but Beauty shook her head.

“No, honey. Leave it to the boys.”

“But I’m really, really, really good at it!” Fanny insisted, wringing her hands.

Before Beauty could remind Fanny that then she was inside a video game, the helicopter pitched to the left, making a steep and scary descent. Beauty searched up front to find the pilot slumped over.

She made her way forward. “Are you—?”

Beauty touched his hand, and his index finger fell off.

“Rook!” she yelled.

“A little busy!” he shouted back.

Tomahawk, though, took a moment to glance over his shoulder as Beauty knocked another finger off. He tapped Rook on the shoulder.

“No, seriously, you need to see this!”

Clearly annoyed, Rook turned around as the pilot’s hand… fell off. You had to give it to the zombie’s work ethic. He tried to steer the helicopter with his knee.

“Take over!” Rook ordered Tomahawk, as Beauty did her best to stabilize the joystick.

* * *

“I can’t! I’m not qualified,” Tomahawk responded, squeezing off a few more rounds into the rapidly approaching winged demons.

“Why not?” Rook asked, firing equally as rapidly. “You can drive a car.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Tomahawk protested. You didn’t “drive” a chopper.

“Well, somebody had better do something!” Beauty yelled as the pilot’s knee collapsed at a ninety-degree angle, and his nose fell onto the dash.

Rook glanced over. “Do you really want me to try?”

Given that the last time Tomahawk tried to teach Rook to drive, it ended in a totaled Subaru and seventeen stitches, Tomahawk handed his gun to Angela. “Just squeeze the trigger.”

The woman looked askance, but took the weapon.

Tomahawk gently attempted to move the pilot from his seat, but first an arm fell off, and then the head rolled off and hit Rook in the ankle.

Rook glanced down, then kicked the head out of the chopper. “When I catch up with Vlad…”

If they caught up with Vlad, Tomahawk thought as he unceremoniously dumped the pilot’s torso and legs out of the pilot’s seat. Tomahawk took the stick, but the zombie pilot made it look easier than it was. They pitched forward, and then back. Tomahawk tried to stabilize their flight. Making matters worse, the demons had caught up with them, jostling the craft off any course Tomahawk tried to set.

Then Tomahawk realized that there was no more shooting. He glanced over his shoulder to find Rook smiling. Never a good sign.

“This is a military chopper, isn’t it?” he asked.

Clearly, from the markings and instrumentation, it was. “Yes. And?”

“Then let’s put the taxpayers’ money to work.”

Tomahawk did his best to work the joystick and use the weapon’s controls, but his effort was doomed.

“Here, let me help,” Beauty said, as she went to get into the copilot’s seat, but Fanny jumped in first.

“I’ll do it!”

“Fanny, I don’t think—” Tomahawk tried to warn her, but the girl already had the safeties off and was getting ready to fire.

“Now, rather than later!” Rook demanded.

“That’s funny! That’s almost the name of a candy!” She replied with great glee.

Beauty tried to move her out of the seat, yet Fanny refused to budge. Tomahawk struggled to level out their flight as Fanny flipped a switch and began firing.

“Take that! And that! And that! You meanies!!!”

At first, the beasts scattered upon the buffeting wind. But pretty darn quickly, they realized that Fanny had the enthusiasm, but very poor aim. Boldly, they struck at the craft until they parted, revealing a demon double their size, covered in armor.

Before Tomahawk could say anything, Fanny switched to the missile.

“Oh, so you think you’re the big boss?” She fired a missile, but missed by twenty feet.

“No!” Tomahawk yelled as he tried to stop her hand from firing the second missile.

“Kowabunga!” Fanny yelled, releasing not just the second but also the third missile—extremely wide of their mark.

Beauty wrestled with the girl. “No. That’s our last one!”

But it was too late. The missile rocked the chopper as it launched. Their last hope was sailing away.

* * *

Angela turned to Rook as his gun clattered to the grating and slid out the open door.

“Deliterea!” he shouted as he closed his eyes.

As the helicopter tilted right, Angela lashed a hand out, catching Rook before he nearly tumbled out the door. Angela had him only by the belt as his body stiffened. She wrestled with getting Rook inside the helicopter as the veins on his temple bulged and his numerous cuts began to bleed. His hands were outstretched, as if trying to guide the missile.

Which did not seem to be working too well. The demon boss screeched her victory.

Then Rook’s eyes snapped open and the missile turned on a dime, hitting the armored demon in the wing. The thing wasn’t mortally wounded, but neither could it fly. The swarm panicked, banking out of their way and fluttering down to their fallen leader.

The helicopter leveled out as Tomahawk seemed to get control. Rook, though, slumped in Angela’s arms. She guided him into the helicopter.

“I’ve got you,” Angela murmured as she lowered him to a sitting position. Fresh from the spell, Rook’s eyes were pained. Yet, there was an innocence about them—as though he were simply too tired to put on the jaded routine.

The rest of the group cheered as they flew up and out of the Devil’s Punchbowl. Instead of smiling, though, Rook frowned. The mask descended once again over his features.

“What?” Angela asked.

“Nothing.”

Angela cocked her head. Maybe she had only known him the better part of a day, but she already knew that look. Beauty must have noticed it, too.

“She asked you, ‘What?’ “

“I said, ‘nothing,’ “ Rook emphasized.

Fanny turned around in the copilot seat. “I can feel it, too. A pressure. Like when I stick jelly beans up my nose, and then try to sneeze.”

“Close enough, Fanny,” Rook said. “I think the barrier’s sealing must have—”

The helicopter was buffeted by the blast of a wave from an enormous explosion at the nexus. Suddenly, they were traveling at three times the speed that Tomahawk was already having trouble controlling. The nose of the chopper tilted down, nearly vertical, as everyone slid toward the front. Fanny practically stood upright, with her feet against the windshield.

“This is so awesome!” she said, giggling.

Straining against gravity, Angela stared out the window as a mushroom-shaped cloud formed over the valley. Only the smoke was blue, with flecks of red. Then as suddenly as the blast wave hit, it was gone. The helicopter slowed, the clouds parted, and stars twinkled overhead—as if nothing untoward had happened this evening.

“Is it over?” she asked Rook.

As he tenderly probed a wound on his side, Rook replied, “It had better be.”

“Well, um…” Tomahawk said as he struggled with the controls. “Hate to burst your bubble, but um… we are out of fuel.”

“Then land!” Rook ordered.

“Seriously, dude,” Tomahawk said as he strained against the joystick. “What do you think I am doing?”

The chopper skimmed over treetops as Angela clutched the back of the seat. She was no expert, but there was no way they were going to maintain altitude for much longer.

“Rook…” Beauty stated, but he ignored her, so Angela went over. “Is it just me,” the Arranger asked, “Or is Chad not looking so hot?”

Actually, Chad looked very hot. Too hot. As though his skin was burning alive. The portal symbols twirled and spun, faster and faster. Before they could get Rook’s attention, the helicopter lurched again.

“That’s it!” Rook yelled and got Fanny out of her seat. “Bring Chad over!”

He patted Fanny on the shoulder. “Just roll when you hit.”

For such a young, seemingly fragile soul, Fanny just nodded, and then dove out the window as they skimmed the ground. She hit, but she rolled. Tomahawk helped Beauty with Chad as they, too, jumped. Rook grabbed Angela’s hand as the chopper dove nose-first into a tree. As the gas tank exploded, they leapt out the door.

“Have faith,” he whispered in her ear as they sailed through the air.

They should have been caught in the blast. They should have been singed to their core as flames coursed around and between them, but the worst that happened was a warm flush over her body. Then Rook turned in midair so that it was he who took the brunt of the impact with the ground. He hit shoulder first as they plowed into the soil.

It took her a moment to realize that they really and truly were not scorched.

She gazed down at Rook. “Thank you.”

The tiniest smile played at the corner of his lips. “I was just returning the favor.”

He had done more than that, and they both knew it. His eyes searched hers. Was she just vulnerable, or did she wish he would reach out to her?

Angela would never know as Fanny clapped, pointing to their blazing wreckage. “We need to blow more stuff up! It’s so pretty!”

Seeming almost embarrassed, Rook moved Angela away from him so that he could hastily rise. Feeling awkward herself, she scrambled to join the group. Fanny might be a tad too exuberant, but she wasn’t exactly inaccurate. The helicopter wreck did light up the dazzling night sky.

* * *

Beauty watched the chopper burn. “Vlad is so not getting the second half of the deposit.”

Beside her, Rook tried to look innocent, which never, ever worked for him. “What?”

“Well… you see…” He said kicking a clod of dirt with his boot. “I paid in full…”

She waved him off. “No worries. I’ll just cancel the check and—”

Sheepishly Rook admitted, “In cash.”

All right. After everything that they had been through, it shouldn’t matter so much that Rook had just wasted over a quarter of a million dollars. Yet, almost soothingly, it did bother her. It meant that they were alive to bicker another day.

Of course, that didn’t get Rook off the hook.

Beauty grabbed the contract from her purse and tossed it into the air. “I’m the Arranger, but does he let me arrange?” She glared at Rook. “No, he doesn’t.”

Rook tried to console her as Fanny picked up the contract.

“But Beauty, Vlad sent us a damned zombie! And not even a fresh one! I’m sure you can… I don’t know. Sue him for breach of contract or something.”

“Well, in Vlad’s defense,” Fanny said as she pointed to the papers, “This doesn’t say anything about the pilot having to be alive—”

Rook tried to “shush” Fanny, but Beauty nodded her pink weave knowingly. When would Rook learn? “Um-hmm.”

“Guys,” Angela said as she knelt next to Chad, “Beauty was right. Chad’s not looking great.”

Okay, Beauty would rather have been wrong about that. Really wrong.

* * *

Tomahawk felt sorry for the guy. Chad had just wanted to learn a little bit about dark culture, probably as some kind of rebellion against his blue-blooded family. Instead, he ended up a Hellgate in sneakers.

Everyone gathered around as the seal morphed and melted deeper and deeper into the guy’s chest.

“Tommi, did you decipher those hidden icons?”

“Hello?” Tomahawk answered. “Got a little distracted.”

Not waiting for Rook’s retort, Tomahawk went to sort through the wreckage for his laptop, but Fanny skipped up to him. “Figured you’d need this.”

Yes, at times it really was nice to have a Seeker around.

“Ouch!” Angela said as she jerked her hand back from Chad. “His skin is practically boiling.”

Tomahawk sank to a cross-legged position and opened his laptop as Chad’s skin began to resemble a lobster. Unfortunately, the student roused as Tomahawk entered the new symbols into his computer’s database and asked for a translation.

“What’s happening?” Chad screamed.

Rook turned to Beauty. “Can you give him something?” But Beauty indicated the burning wreckage.

“We lost it all in there.”

Chad screamed as his clothes caught on fire. The group scrambled back as Chad erupted in flame, his body consumed within a flash. Within moments the only thing left was a charred outline in the grass.

Not sure if it really mattered, Tomahawk read the results.

“Yeah, those symbols were a countdown. It was preordained that after three openings, the seal would self-destruct…” As Rook became more agitated, Tomahawk added, “Sorry.”

Although what would it have changed, really?

CHAPTER 11

“So no Virgin and no Hellgate?” Rook repeated, trying to make sure he got the full brunt of exactly how screwed they were.

This news changed everything. Chad had been programmed to be a three-hit wonder. He wasn’t truly a Hellgate. He was, kind of, the free shuttle that got them from one place to another.

They had all been played, and played big time. Whoever was pulling the strings and could manipulate a coven of Shivate priestesses to dig up a Hellgate, conjure a Tainted Dragon, and fake a Virgin conception was bigger than anything he had faced. Worse, Rook had no idea of the endgame. Had they wanted to start Armageddon, or was that only the tip of a very deep and wide iceberg?

And what role had he just played?

Before he could stew much more about how his incredibly crappy day had just gotten worse, Fanny came up next to him and put her head on his shoulder. She looked down at where Chad used to be.

“Don’t you think we should say something?”

“What? He was crispy-fried.”

But Fanny’s frown tugged at his heart, so Rook took a deep breath and did the best that he could. “Chad. You were… Well, you were kind of whiny and really annoying, but we are sorry you are dead.”

He looked down at Fanny, who solemnly nodded. At least she appreciated it. Beauty was still pissed about the helicopter, but honestly, getting a zombie wasn’t on any of their radars. And Tomahawk was too busy screwing with his computer to care. Only Angela stood by Chad’s funeral pyre and held Fanny’s other hand.

A chill coursed over Rook. Too many times that burning pile of ash could have been any of them. He shouldn’t care about that. Emotions only slowed your reflexes, yet here he stood mourning a guy he didn’t even know yesterday.

“Rook,” Tomahawk said, “I guess Savage is over being pissed at us. The Cabal is sending me some streaming video of—”

Rook waved him off. He was bruised, battered and hungry. Whatever it was could wait. “Whatever. Just have Savage send us an airlift, with, preferably, a live pilot.”

A tree just over the ridge looked perfect for leaning against. He started to make his way there when Tomahawk taunted him. “Remember how you said we didn’t have a Virgin?”

Rook turned on his heel, still a little suspicious about what Tomahawk was talking about. “Yes…”

“Well,” Tomahawk stated as he turned to screen around for Rook to see. “They must be having a blue-light special on ‘em.”

The screen showed a world map with tiny blue lights popping up all over the globe. The others gathered round to watch the spectacle.

“Each one represents a report of an immaculate conception.”

Rook struggled to take it in. “But there’s—”

“Hundreds, maybe thousands,” Tomahawk responded.

Beauty shook her head. “What could they possibly need with so many babies?”

“No,” Rook said, getting everyone’s attention. “There’s only one.”

Fanny pointed at the screen. “But look how many there are.”

“Rook’s right,” Tomahawk agreed. “I bet 99 percent of those are like Angela. A smokescreen.”

* * *

Angela’s hand went to her belly. She had so little time to get accustomed to her pregnancy, yet in some small way she missed it. Or at least the idea of it. To rebuild a family would have required it to have been a normal pregnancy. She was relieved not to be the center of the maelstrom they had just survived.

She looked down at all those blue dots. Each one represented a woman whose life had just been changed forever. Had they all experienced such loss as she did? Were all born of such tragedy?

And were they as lucky to have people like Rook, Beauty, Tomahawk, and Fanny to look out for them? Angela still understood perhaps a sliver of a fraction of a percent of what was going on, but she had seen with her own eyes how Rook stood between heaven and hell to protect humankind. That kind of made up for his more “difficult” personality traits.

Suddenly, Angela realized that all eyes were on her. She removed her hand from her midriff and pointed to the dots. “So they are playing ‘find the needle in a haystack?’ “

“More like a Virgin-palooza version of Where’s Waldo?,” Rook replied. That look of mischief was back in his eyes.

“From what we know of Angela’s situation, I think I can write an algorithm that can weed out about 80 percent of the false-positives.”

Still, there were a lot of blue dots.

Tomahawk typed furiously but his laptop beeped loudly, his battery bar flashing red. He closed his computer. “Well, once I get power, I can. But we are definitely going on Virgin Vigil.”

“So we’re done with this mission?” Fanny asked.

They all looked at Rook.

“What,” he said. “Do I look like your boss?”

The others all responded, “Yes.”

“Fine,” Rook conceded. “Yes, Fanny, we are officially off the clock.”

“You know what that means?”

Angela watched Rook sigh his fake sigh for Fanny. “I have no clue.”

“S’mores!” Fanny shouted as she ran toward the smoldering helicopter.

Rook called out. “But we don’t have the supplies.”

“I betcha we do! I betcha, betcha, I bet!”

He went to go after Fanny, but Angela caught his arm.

“Let her go.” When Rook turned to her, Angela finished. “What is it you said? Have some faith?”

Fanny popped her head back out of the wreckage holding a box of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows, and some chocolate bars.

The young woman beamed. “I told you Vlad still loved me!”

And if that were the case, Angela thought, maybe they all did have reason to have some hope.

EPILOGUE

Rook warmed his hands on the fire they had stoked from the burned out helicopter. The rest formed a circle around the campfire as they waited for their extraction. He pierced another marshmallow for toasting as Fanny opened her mouth wide around a triple-decker S’more. She had chocolate drizzling down her chin, but he didn’t bother to tell her. She’d just say she was saving it for later.

For a moment anger rose again. Fanny should be able to eat all the S’mores she could handle without having to go through the dying and getting shocked back to life portion of her day. That they all had to risk their lives for people who would never know their names? Yeah, that part of the job kind of sucked.

Beauty seemed perfectly comfortable, however, as she ran everyone through their paces, getting them organized. She had a clipboard and everything.

“Tomahawk, are you confident that you will have the program up and running by morning?”

Tomahawk slowly rotated the stick with his marshmallow. “Yeah, there might be a few bugs to work out, but no later than midday.” He nodded to Angela. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but it would be very helpful if I could get some understanding of what led up to… Well… up to the events of the past twenty-four hours.”

Rook was about to step in when Angela readily nodded. “As long as you don’t expect me to understand it, sure.”

Beauty checked off a box. “Great. I’ll have to do some damage control at the mental institution on Dr. Lerhaven’s behalf,” she said pointedly at Rook, “But beyond that we should be ready to rock ‘n’ roll.”

“Nope!” Fanny announced. “We’ve got just one more thing to do!”

Beauty double-checked her form. “Fanny, we are set.”

Rook, though, looked at the young woman sitting next to him. Her eyes were bright and keen.

“And that would be?” he asked.

“Tell scary stories!” Fanny announced, as she cuddled up next to him. “Rook gets to start!” Everyone chuckled as she looked up into his eyes. “Tell the one about the guy with a hook for a hand and the teenagers in the car…”

With her eyes sparkling and her cheek against his shoulder, how could he refuse? And yes, many, many, many parts of his job sucked. This aspect, though?

Never.

“All right. On a stormy night—” Rook started.

Fanny popped her head up, and in all seriousness, told him, “Don’t make it too scary, though. I don’t want to get nightmares.”

Rook patted her hand as everyone settled in for a night of not-too-scary stories.

“On a stormy night… but not too windy,” Rook restarted as Fanny laid her head on his shoulder. “A man with a huge pointed hook, that wasn’t too sharp came up to a car…”

Ambush: A 30 Pieces of Silver Prequel Short Story

CHAPTER 1

Four kilometers outside the town of Xphil

Campeche Region, Mexico

Crunch.

Sergeant Vincent Brandt froze as a twig snapped underfoot. The rest of his team pulled to a stop, paused, waiting. The wilderness surrounding them seemed to draw in a breath, as well.

The multitude of insects stopped their persistent pre-dusk buzzing. Only a light breeze rustled the large leaves of the mahogany trees. Then even that died down. Brandt glanced up to find a toucan with its striped bill staring at him, cocking its head from side to side. Apparently, the gaily-colored bird was trying to figure out why in hell anyone would approach this close to a Los Zetas cartel’s campsite.

Brandt was beginning to wonder that himself.

It wasn’t the fact that a well-placed CIA asset’s cover had been blown. No, it was that the CIA hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about it. Not the DEA, not the DoD—hell, not even the Red Cross. The agency had gone all trigger-happy and mounted their own rescue mission of their asset. Which of course meant Brandt and his men now had to go rescue those captured CIA operatives, plus apparently a foreign operative who had wound up in the mix.

So here were Brandt and his team, deep in the Mexican jungle, missing the bulk of their leave, trying to avoid the cartel’s patrols and ending up another drug war statistic. They should have been in the Florida Keys pretending to fish, but really just having a moment to take a load off. “Blowing off steam” was what the head docs called it. Brandt called it second survival.

Out here in the jungle you stuffed it all down. The fear. The nerves. The fact that none of them had a successful relationship. Brandt’s mother was all about getting grandkids, however unless he stumbled onto some smart, funny, hot chick in the middle of the jungle, that was not very likely to happen.

The tension of all that had to go somewhere. Hence the fishing—priming the pump for the next mission. But no, instead they were in Mexican drug cartel-filled jungle. Awesome.

Svengurd, the team’s tall point man, swiveled his head from side to side, making sure that no one else had heard the snap of that branch. Finally, Svengurd moved them forward again, pushing further into the jungle, following his GPS signal, since there weren’t any trails leading to the Zetas’ back door.

Brandt waited until Lopez followed Svengurd. Usually the corporal was their vehicle procurement officer, or, as Lopez liked to call it, their “get, get, getaway driver.” Brandt had, of course, squashed that nickname.

Today they needed Lopez’s gun in the mix. If they couldn’t quickly and quietly get the hostages out of this makeshift camp, a getaway car wasn’t going to do them any good.

Svengurd’s fist clenched. Brandt stopped mid-stride. Had the point man spotted a sentry, or the camp itself? Glancing down, he checked his GPS monitor. They were still a good two hundred feet from the coordinates the CIA had given them. But then again, this was the same agency that had gotten at least two of their men killed and another two captured.

He would trust Svengurd’s instincts over any coordinates.

Confirming Brandt’s suspicions, the point man flashed fingers from his eyes towards a figure, no, make that two figures, in the jungle. Make that two young figures. Boys, really. Boys of no more than thirteen who carried M4 carbine machine guns with grenade launchers attached.

Brandt had discretion, of course. They could shoot the enemy combatants down without a warning. It galled Brandt, though. It wasn’t these kids’ fault they had been born in one of the poorest regions of the world and had been taken advantage of by the cartels for cheap, disposable security.

Svengurd and Lopez were set up to take the shot, but Brandt gave a sharp shake of his head. Despite their age and circumstance, the team still couldn’t have the child soldiers raising any alarms. There had to be a way to achieve a silent entry without harming the boys. He nodded at them to go east, around the guards.

The sounds of a jai alai game blasted from an old transistor radio. Clearly the boys’ team was winning, as they listened intently, whooping at each score. Just as well. The more distraction the better. Circling around, they approached from the boys’ backs.

As Svengurd kept watch, Lopez and Brandt slung their weapons and, step by step, came up behind the boys. They needed to be perfectly synchronized, or there would be blood on their hands.

Brandt counted down with blinks.

Three. He took his final step to the child soldier.

Two. His hands came up into position.

One. Brandt’s arm lashed out, grabbing the boy in front of him around the neck, lifting him from his feet. His gun clattered against the small metal table, knocking the radio onto the ground. The commentator’s words muffled by the dirt.

The boy flailed in his grip, fingernails raking down Brandt’s sleeve.

It’s way better than death, Brandt thought, but knew the kid wouldn’t understand. Silently he kept his hold, closing off the sentry’s windpipe until the child slumped in his arms.

Lopez had been equally successful. As his guard’s eyelids fluttered, the corporal whispered, “Cuando te despiertas. Ejectar.” Lopez tucked several hundred dollar bills into the boy’s pocket.

The money had been meant for bribing any local official a little too interested in the foursome of American men. Brandt agreed. The cash was better spent here. He nodded as Lopez did the same for Brandt’s boy. Hopefully the kids would find the money and get the hell out of Campeche. Start a new life that didn’t involve killing innocents to keep the drug cartels profitable.

Movement from the side brought Brandt’s gun up, but it was only Svengurd. Lopez handed the point man a fistful of dirt. The tall Swede looked confused until the corporal rubbed a bit of earth onto his own head.

Svengurd’s platinum blond hair, even shaved down to a half inch, stood out against the mottled jungle. They all wore camouflage face paint, but keeping the point man’s towhead under control seemed to be a bit more of a problem.

Taking a deep breath, Brandt gave the signal to move into the final stage of this operation. Breach and extract. It sounded so simple.

Yeah. Right.

Wordlessly, they broke formation, splitting off to surround the nearest building. Actually, “shack” would be a generous term for what stood in front of them. The CIA insisted the hostages were being kept there. Which gave them about a fifty-fifty shot they were actually there. But beyond playing paper, rock, scissors, it was the best shot they had.

Cautiously, Brandt made his way to the north side of the wooden structure. The walls bowed and the ceiling sagged. The rest of the buildings didn’t look much better. This wasn’t a resort. It was an outpost. One that moved every few days. One of the reasons why his team had to strike now. Today. Before they moved the hostages.

The guard at the door wasn’t much more attentive than the boys had been. He had an ear bud in that leaked the jai alai game. It must have been a championship match or something. An unfiltered cigarette drooped from the guard’s lips.

Even though his men were out of line of sight, Brandt counted down, trusting that they were doing the same. At exactly sixty seconds from the moment they split off, Brandt pulled his knife out, sliding it across the man’s neck. This guy had had a choice and he chose the cartels. Brandt didn’t mind the hot blood spilling across his hand. One less Zetas to terrorize the countryside. Pulling the man out of sight of the rest of the village, Brandt tested the door.

Locked.

Quickly, he searched the dead guard’s pockets and came up with the key. Right on time, Svengurd turned the corner, Lopez behind him. They gave a curt nod. Their guards had been dispatched, as well.

Sliding the metal key into the lock, Brandt twisted it. Once he felt the clunk of the lock giving way, Brandt backed to the side, his hand on the doorknob. Carefully, he turned it, then shoved it inward.

Svengurd burst into the dimly lit room. Brandt followed Lopez as Svengurd sank his knife into the gut of the inside guard. The man slumped over without a sound. Several figures scrambled back, cowed, frightened of the danger that rode into the room.

“Are you American?” one of them asked.

Brandt put his fingers to his lips, then signaled to the small group to follow.

“I don’t think he can get up,” a dark-haired man said, wincing as blood dripped down from his cut eye. He must have been Kirkland, one of the CIA field operatives. The other one kneeling by the downed man must have been Pollov.

Lopez knelt by the Latino on the ground. When the corporal turned over the CIA’s informant, Brandt was shocked at how young was. Not more than a few years older than the boy soldiers outside. His skin was marred by black, blue, purple, green and even yellow bruises. Someone had been tuning the kid up for days.

Anger welled. It was one thing to think about the cartel’s cruelty. It was quite another to see it firsthand. He wanted anyone Stateside who did cocaine at a party to see what their “recreational” use did in the country of origin. How many boys like this one and the ones out in the jungle had paid the price for someone’s high?

“I’ve got him,” Lopez whispered as he slung the young man over his shoulder. The teen tried to protest, but wasn’t exactly in any shape to argue.

“Brandt?” a familiar voice said, seeming almost as surprised as Brandt himself. He turned to find a mop of sandy blond hair and a crooked smile.

“Vanderwalt?” he asked, though he knew it was the British MI-5 officer. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Vacation, would you believe it?” his old friend said, then coughed. It wasn’t until then that Brandt noticed the blood on Vanderwalt’s shirt. “Just a few broken ribs,” the Brit tried to reassure him.

It looked like more than that, but they didn’t have time to assess his injuries. They could do that on the extraction helicopter, which was not going to wait for pleasantries. He draped Vanderwalt’s arm over his shoulder.

Svengurd cracked the door open. Apparently it looked clear, as he opened it more fully. Before he stepped through, gunfire sounded…from all around. Brandt slammed Vanderwalt down, covering him with his body. Lopez and Svengurd did the same to the other hostages.

Over the gunfire, Pollov said, “This is what happened to us. They use hostages as bait.”

Of course they did.

Brandt indicated to Svengurd. “Luckily, we came slightly more prepared.”

The tall point man pulled out the detonator. Inch by inch, the stoic Swede’s lips turned up into a rare grin. “I’d stay down,” he advised.

Brandt saw how much C4 Svengurd had packed in, so he believed him.

As bullets punched through the thin wood walls, the point man brought his thumb down on the red detonator button. An explosion ripped the shack to the south to shreds. Then another explosion sounded to the north. Lastly, the back wall of their shack blew out.

Funny how the shooting stopped. It was replaced by angry shouts.

“Move out!” Brandt ordered.

Svengurd, his gun already in position, climbed over the shattered wall and into the forest. Lopez, hauling the kid, went next. Brandt encouraged the CIA operatives to keep in tight formation as he helped keep Vanderwalt steady.

“Sorry, mate,” the Brit said. “You should leave me behind.”

Making his way out of the shack, Brandt shook his head. “And then who would buy me bangers and mash?”

Vanderwalt probably meant to flash a smile, but it ended up a grimace. No matter—they needed to haul ass before their window closed. Which seemed to be closing rapidly as the enemy regrouped. The Los Zetas weren’t the fastest growing cartel for nothing.

However, the cartel was at a disadvantage. Springing a trap was a delicate business. You had to know where your target was going to be. You had to know when they were going to be there. And, most of all, you needed to have your men in place in time.

For scouting, they knew that the Zetas had the bulk of their forces to the north, guarding against the narrow forest road. Brandt’s team had approached from the west, the most lightly guarded direction. Conventional wisdom would have them exit the same route.

Fortunately, Brandt wasn’t all that much into conventional wisdom. Instead, they headed straight for the north, meeting very little resistance. No matter if it was run by a successful cartel, every mission had a finite set of resources that got shuffled around the combat theater. Kind of like playing football, only with automatic weapons.

Just as Lopez had suspected, the Zetas had pulled their men from the north to fortify the west and south, leaving them a nice escape corridor. Svengurd guided them, as quickly as they could move, toward their rally point.

It was going great, right by the book. The cartel was heading after them, but through the thick underbrush, the Zetas couldn’t use any form of motorized vehicle, so they had to follow on foot. And, given the fact that they weren’t expecting this escape route, they were falling further and further behind.

Before the cartel could get their chopper in the air, Brandt’s team should be to their vehicle, and get the hell out of the vicinity, meeting their extraction.

If their luck held out, they should be safe within the half hour.

Too bad their luck never held out, as Svengurd pulled them to a sliding stop.

Was it the cartel? Had they placed an outer perimeter?

Then he heard the snarling. Tilting his head around the group, Brandt realized what was holding them up.

A jaguar.

* * *

Svengurd stood motionless as the large cat bared its fangs. The jaguar’s golden coat, punctuated by black rosettes, glistened in the filtered light. The beast’s broad head held jaws that could crush a man’s skull without really trying. A low growl grumbled in its chest as it stood over its prey, which looked like a tapir, given its stocky body and long nose.

Brandt came up alongside. “It’s alright,” he coaxed. “We do not want your kill.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lopez said. “Grilled tapir? Delicious.” He put his fingertips to his lips and kissed them.

Brandt glared at the corporal.

“Sarge?” Svengurd asked. This situation wasn’t exactly in the reg book.

The cartel was in pursuit, but they weren’t hot on their tail. If they fired at the jaguar, the guards would be able to pinpoint their exact location. Their slim lead would be cut to nothing. Brandt nodded for him to try a work around.

Slowly, Svengurd moved to the left, but the jaguar swiped at him, bunching its hindquarters. He’d never faced off against a big cat before, but Svengurd was pretty sure that was a prelude to an all-out attack.

Then he realized the real reason the jaguar was being so aggressive. Three pairs of little eyes shone from the underbrush. Babies—she was protecting her young.

Svengurd spoke in his great-grandparents’ language, reassuring her that his people had long believed in the sanctity of the forest. He spoke to her of the Valkyries. Not the angel-like creatures of modern cinema. No, he spoke to the jaguar of the Valkyries of old. “The choosers of the slain.” It was the Valkyries who decided if a hero lived or died.

Slowly, as Svengurd murmured in Old Norse, he moved to the right. He knew that she did not understand the words, but as a warrior herself, an apex predator, she seemed to understand his intent. She did not wish to attack any more than he wished to kill her. To launch at him would endanger her cubs. And neither wanted that.

Guiding the group around the kill, Svengurd told her the poem of the Njals. Once they were far enough away, the jaguar grunted once and the tiny eyes disappeared into the underbrush. That was their signal to book it.

Waving the others on, Svengurd watched as the jaguar sunk her fangs into the neck of the tapir and dragged the carcass back. Now that her cubs were safe, she needed to secure their dinner. In an amazing feat of strength, she pulled the tapir up and into the tree.

Once the team was at a safe distance, Svengurd bowed his head. “Tuck sa mycket.” Thank you so very much.

Catching up with the group, he went to move into the point position, but as he passed Brandt, the British operative patted Svengurd’s shoulder. “Nice work, mate.”

Svengurd gave a sharp nod and moved on. He wasn’t going to take any praise until they were on that helicopter.

* * *

Okay, Brandt thought, so they had avoided death by jaguar, but they weren’t out of the woods yet. Literally. Why did they call them plans when they never actually went as planned? Vanderwalt was getting heavy, and even Lopez stumbled over a vine.

They were way off course, going in nearly the opposite direction as the Jeep, and correcting course would take them directly into the path of the cartel’s main force.

“Stop,” Brandt whispered harshly. “Time to regroup.”

Vanderwalt pushed himself off of Brandt, leaning against a tree trunk. Lopez lowered the boy to the ground.

“I’ve got to get the Jeep,” the corporal stated.

“Agreed.”

There was just no way they were going to haul this motley crew out of the jungle on foot. Lopez took in several quick breaths, pumping himself up. “Meet you at the secondary rally point.”

Luckily, they knew that their plans rarely worked out, so they had a backup.

“Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” Brandt urged, knowing it was useless. Lopez’s middle name was “reckless.”

The corporal didn’t even bother lying as he charged into the forest. Alone, unburdened, Lopez at the least had a chance of threading the needle through the enemy forces to reach the hidden Jeep.

“Svengurd,” Brandt ordered, expecting the point man to move them out. But Svengurd knelt to pick up the boy. “No.” Brandt said. “I’ll get him.”

A blond eyebrow shot up. “Would you like me to carry you both, then?”

Right. Brandt clocked in at two ten, yet if there was anyone who would actually attempt to lift both the boy and Brandt, it would be Svengurd.

“All right,” Brandt conceded. Svengurd was the most logical choice to carry the boy. “Vanderwalt. It’s you and me again.”

The Brit groaned as he leaned into Brandt’s shoulder. “Not sure how much further I can hoof it, mate.”

“It’s not far,” Brandt reassured the MI-5 operative. Of course that was a lie, but a necessary one. Not just for Vanderwalt, but for the two CIA operatives as well. They swayed on their feet. Injured, dehydrated, scared. They all needed to believe that relief was in sight.

Even carrying the teen, Svengurd set a brisk pace. They moved as quietly as they could through the forest. How Brandt wished they had some kind of satellite feed of the area. Unfortunately, getting a live feed of this area meant going through the Mexican government, which basically meant they would be giving the cartel a feed of the area, as well. Corruption in this part of the world was just how life worked.

Still, it would be nice to know where the hell the cartel’s men were. His team was making good time, though, and not being shot at. Always a bonus.

Then they came upon a wall. An eight-foot wall. The stones of the ancient wall towered above them.

“Part of the plan, Brandt?” Vanderwalt asked knowing the answer already.

Brandt ripped the Velcro off his pocket and pulled out a map of the area. Crap, they’d hit Becán already. Their altered route had brought them to the base of the ancient Mayan ruin complex. He scanned the gray stone wall that ran in a curved pattern as far as the eye could see. And, unlike the forest behind them, the tall stone wall didn’t have a single patch of ivy or vines on it.

The tourism bureau must have recently cleared it. They were trying to encourage visitors to the sprawling Becán ruins, one of the largest intact Mayan complexes in Mexico, but having the Zetas in their backyard was not helping their tourism cause. Nor Brandt’s.

If they tried to get around the ancient barrier, their backs would be against the wall. They would be trapped, with very little maneuverability. There was no other option. They were going to have to go over it.

Damn it.

Svengurd must have figured that out on his own, and he tied the boy’s wrists together, then slung the barely conscious kid like a cape over his shoulders. The boy’s feet dangled barely past Svengurd’s rear.

The point man was tall, but could he really scale the stone wall with the added weight?

Guess they were going to find out.

* * *

Svengurd tested his finger hold between two stones. The rock was cool to the touch, and smooth. Almost too smooth, but his fingers felt solid. Next, he braced his feet against the base of the wall. With more effort than he had hoped, Svengurd scaled the first row of rocks.

The boy’s weight tugged him down, but Svengurd fought gravity, finding another good spot for his foot. Another heave and they were a good four feet up the wall. Only another four to go.

Beneath him, Brandt got the two CIA operatives climbing, as well. Their hands slick with sweat, they struggled to even get off the ground. Brandt lent his shoulder to the effort, making sure the two were on their way. Vanderwalt, however, backed away from Brandt, shaking his head.

Svengurd couldn’t linger to watch the argument unfold. His best course of action was to scale the wall, get the boy secured on the other side, and then come back to help Brandt get the injured Brit up.

The boy stirred.

“Stay still,” Svengurd encouraged, making it up another foot. The higher they climbed, the more difficult the ascent became. His muscles protested against the straight vertical rock face.

He ignored the tension in his quads. Not much further.

A bullet pinged against the stone, gouging out a mark. He looked over his shoulder to find two guards bursting from the trees, shooting away. Brandt returned fire, forcing the men to retreat a few steps, but anyone climbing was vulnerable, as even the wild shots sent chunks of stone flying.

Svengurd encouraged his muscles to hurry the climb, but a stray bullet hit the wall next to his foot, dislodging the tiny ledge he had been perched upon. His feet flailed against the stone as he tried to find a purchase. Hanging on by his fingertips, there was no way to swing his gun around in time. The worst was that he would not be shot in the back… it would be the boy. The child would pay the price for Svengurd’s lacking.

He could see the ledge. Just another foot and he would be there. But with sweat dripping down his arms, slicking his already precarious hold, the ledge might was as well be the Skanderna.

Another shot chipped a piece of rock nearly into his eye.

Brandt was doing his best to provide cover fire, but one of the gunmen hid behind a large tree. It would only be a matter of moments before a fatal shot found them.

Then a growl drowned out even the gunfire as the perfectly gold-and-black camouflaged jaguar leapt from the branches, knocking the man to his knees. She swiped his back with her huge claws, leaving bloody gouges. The other gunman couldn’t turn in time as she launched at him.

His scream was cut off by a bite to the neck.

Green eyes found Svengurd’s. He could see why the Mayans had worshipped such creatures. Then the jaguar was gone, melting back into the forest.

He didn’t have any time to thank her or even be relieved, as shouts carried through the forest. The rest of the Los Zetas guards were rapidly approaching. Gathering his strength, Svengurd pushed off with his legs and hauled his and the boy’s body weight upward. He caught the craggy ledge with one hand, then was able to find purchase with a toe to catapult them onto the narrow rampart. The CIA operatives were not far behind, scaling the rock wall and cresting the ledge at about the same time as Svengurd.

The only ones still on the wall, halfway up, were Brandt and Vanderwalt.

Svengurd removed the boy’s arms from around his neck and unhooked a line from his belt. “Kirkland, climb down. Then Pollov lower the boy to him.”

He didn’t have time to see if the CIA operatives followed his instructions as he unslung his gun, firing into the forest. He had to give Brandt every opportunity before the guards figured out they had two sitting ducks just waiting for them.

* * *

Amazing how adrenaline worked. Seeing that jaguar in action had pumped Vanderwalt up enough to climb the wall, but it couldn’t fix torn ligaments and severe dehydration. The Brit was flagging. He wasn’t going to make it up the wall on his own.

Brandt climbed up directly beneath Vanderwalt, trusting that Svengurd would provide cover fire. Making sure that his fingers had as strong a hold on the smooth rock as possible, Brandt braced himself.

“Put your foot on my shoulder.” He looked up to find Vanderwalt wide-eyed and flushed. The pasty-skinned Brit wasn’t meant for such heat, humidity, and torture. Brandt had to give it to the guy though. He caught on pretty quickly.

“I can’t. You could fall or—”

“Do it,” Brandt grunted, tiring himself on the sheer wall. He dug in as Vanderwalt put one foot then the other on his shoulders. “Go!”

The Brit pushed off, gaining precious inches up the wall. It wasn’t enough, damn it. Despite Svengurd’s best efforts, the Los Zetas were still taking potshots at them, sending flying limestone everywhere. It was like being in the middle of an exploding quarry—only not quite as safe.

Brandt climbed up to position himself under Vanderwalt again. “Brace!” The Brit’s eyes shone with worry, but he did as he was told. “Go!” Not bothering to wait for confirmation that they still hadn’t reached the top, Brandt just got into position. “Brace.” He took Vanderwalt’s weight as his arms started shaking. “Go!”

This time Vanderwalt must have made it to the top, as his feet disappeared from overhead. Time to do some climbing of his own. However, the ascent was slightly complicated by the fact that the Zetas must have realized their quarry was skipping town, and really put the pressure on. The sound of automatic weaponry filled the air. Brandt scrambled, pushing past the strong likelihood that he wasn’t going to make it to the top. At least not in one piece.

But what he should have been worried about was how slick his fingers had become. Just inches from reaching that precious ledge, his grip slipped. The foothold he’d thought was solid gave way. Brandt could feel gravity just sitting on his shoulder, ready to take him down.

Then there was a strong hand on his neck, grabbing him by the flak jacket.

“Gotcha, Sarge,” Svengurd said as he pulled him up.

Of course this meant that the point man couldn’t provide cover fire. As bullets zinged all around, Brandt’s feet found purchase and pushed him up and over the ledge.

And by over, he meant over. He and Svengurd sailed over the narrow rampart. Twisting mid-air, Brandt caught some stone on the other side. As he slid down the rock, his fingers desperately searched for a handhold. He did not want to end the day with a broken femur.

There! He’d found it. The tip of his boot crammed in between the seam of two rocks. Not much further down, Svengurd broke his fall.

Gunfire went from loud to ballistic on the other side. With his cheek against the cool stone, Brandt was so very glad that the ancients really knew how to build a retaining wall. However, it would only be a matter of moments before they realized they couldn’t shoot through the rock and decided to hop on over.

He was about to climb down when he caught something in the corner of his eye.

“Is that…?” Svengurd asked.

If the point man was talking about a hang glider, than yeah, it was.

The wide yellow wings flared in the late afternoon sun. The thing must have come from deeper within the ruins. While remote, the Becán site had become popular with “extreme” tourists. You know, those Yuppies who did things like mountain bike up ancient temples, bungee jump off stone bridges, and, apparently, hang glide off of Mayan step-pyramids.

Great, now they had some civilian flying into a kill zone.

Only it wasn’t a civie at the helm. As the glider expertly banked, Lopez waved. Sailing over their heads, the corporal shouted, “Don’t worry!” Tacking northeast, he finished, “I’m on my way to get the Jeep!”

Brandt hadn’t been worried…until now.

* * *

Svengurd watched as Lopez sailed over the ruins.

“Nothing we can do but follow,” Brandt grumbled as he descended the wall. The sergeant was correct. Lopez didn’t exactly follow regulations to the letter, but he did get the job done…usually.

Making his way down the wall was far simpler than the ascent had been. His boots hit dirt again. Brandt crouched next to him, aiming up, just waiting for the first brave Zetas to peep his head over.

Slinging his weapon, Svengurd gathered the boy into his arms. They would have to move out ASAP. He scanned the Mayan ruins. Broken walls and toppled temples littered the landscape. Trees lined ancient avenues and a step pyramid stood high above the rest of the city. Even in ruin, though, Becán was something to behold. The Mayans knew how to use rock. Many of the buildings had elaborate lattice work…in stone.

Carvings of skulls and crowned gods adorned many of the buildings.

They weren’t here for a history lesson, though.

Svengurd knew the layout of the plaza. They could leapfrog from temple to temple, using the solid stone structures as cover as they made their way to the rally point.

At least that was the plan—until Brandt yelled, “Incoming!”

A grenade sailed over the wall as everyone scrambled to get out of the way.

The thing landed on the ground. A dud.

The next one wouldn’t be, though.

He got the CIA operatives up and heading toward the cover of a small outbuilding just as the second grenade fell from the sky.

* * *

Brandt shoved Vanderwalt behind a low wall as the grenade exploded. The heat passed overhead, but the stone protected them from the concussive force. Brandt poked his head over the rock to find a charred spot on the ground and several trees on fire.

It looked like Svengurd had gotten his group to shelter, as well. Brandt went to rejoin them, when another grenade sailed over. Ducking down, he rode out the explosion with Vanderwalt.

This time when he looked over the wall, he gave Svengurd the signal to move on.

“We’ll catch up!” Brandt yelled when the point man seemed hesitant to leave them.

Finally, with a nod, Svengurd moved his group out, striking directly toward the Jeep’s location. Vanderwalt and he were going to have to go the long way around. Brandt indicated a small retaining wall with several trees growing out from the stone.

As the fourth grenade came over, Vanderwalt scurried across the open grassy plaza and dove behind the ancient stone. Brandt followed close behind, only when he landed, he spun and set up his shot.

One of the guards tried to crest the high wall. Brandt made sure he didn’t make it over. Svengurd must have had the same idea, as the second man pitched head-first to the ground.

That should give the Zetas something to think about.

“Let’s move,” Brandt said, urging Vanderwalt toward another cluster of ruins. This one looked like a small temple. The Brit tried, he really seemed to try to keep up, but he stumbled. Brandt caught him by the elbow and propelled the MI-5 agent forward, reaching the next set of stony protectors before the next grenade sounded behind them.

Though they were out of range, Brandt still fired, forcing the Zetas back even though he couldn’t hit a single one of them. That was the last time that trick was going to work, though. The guards were going to come over in full force at any second, and there wasn’t a thing Brandt could do about it.

At this point, their best shot at survival was speed. Brandt dragged the exhausted Vanderwalt through a thick grove of trees, angling for the large temple on the other side of the plaza. There were plenty of cubbies and hiding spots. The Zetas were going to have to split their forces. The more they could force the guards to play hide-and-go-seek, the better.

Brandt wished he could see where Svengurd and the others were, but he had to trust his point man. Svengurd knew the terrain even better than Brandt did. He would get the others to safety. The burden was really on Brandt not to screw up the others’ extraction.

Urging Vanderwalt up a stone ramp, they made it to the main temple. Ducking under the rocky arch, they hit shade. The temperature must have dropped a good ten degrees. Brandt resisted the instinct to flip on his light. The ruins had fallen into silence—the Zetas must have been climbing the wall and setting their trackers on Brandt and the others. The less evidence of their path, the better.

Vanderwalt sagged heavily against the stone wall. His breath was coming in heaves. Brandt really wished he could give his old friend a break, but they just couldn’t spare the time. Instead, he draped the Brit’s arm over his shoulder again.

“We’ve got to move out.”

The MI-5 agent gave a weak nod and shuffled alongside Brandt. They were moving half-speed at best. Svengurd was probably already at the Jeep. In all honesty, Brandt would rather be in the dark making his way through an ancient temple than sitting at the rally point wondering where the hell Svengurd was.

Light peeked out at the end of the long tunnel. Brandt quickened their pace. If they could cross the plateau unseen, they could cross behind the large pyramid, which would block any enemy eyes, making it a whole hell of a lot easier to get over the outer wall and reach the rally point.

Leaves played in the breeze just outside the tunnel. Their fluttering filtered the view of the enormous step pyramid, which was just on the other side of the common area. The place where spectators had gathered to watch the sacrifice. Human sacrifice.

Brandt could only hope that his and Vanderwalt’s blood would not join the ancients’.

They were nearly to the opening of the tunnel. Light streamed in, reminding them of the jungle’s heat. Vanderwalt visibly wilted.

“Not much further.”

Brandt got an incoherent mumble in response. He swung his gun up as they approached the exit. A single shadow was his only warning that they weren’t alone. He fired before he even thought. Blood splashed across the opening. Shoving Vanderwalt into an alcove carved with a coiled snake, Brandt fired some more.

The fuckers must have had someone up in the trees, monitoring their progress through the ruins. The Zetas were vicious, but smart. Vanderwalt crumbled to the ground.

“Oh no you don’t,” Brandt said, trying to tug the man to his feet. Yes, there were gunmen out there, but not that many of them. Properly timed, they could burst out of the tunnel and make it those few dozen yards to a new source of cover before they got shot.

“Sorry, mate,” Vanderwalt whispered. “I can’t go any farther.” He took a shuddering breath. “Leave me a gun. I’ll cover you.”

“Yeah, right,” Brandt countered. Leaving the Brit wasn’t an option. Leaving anyone wasn’t an option. “I’ve seen your aim.”

Vanderwalt managed that dopey grin of his. “Better than nothing, chap.”

Perhaps, but there had to be another way.

Then he heard the rev of an engine. The type of rev only Lopez could produce—it was more of a tortured automotive cry. Brandt peered between the leaves but couldn’t find the vehicle. It had to be close, though, as loud as the engine was. He risked popping his head out from the alcove. He got chased back by bullets, but confirmed that the Jeep was nowhere on the commons.

Where the hell could it be, then?

With one final screeching rev, the Jeep leapt over the top of the pyramid. The vehicle landed hard on the stone steps, then bounced its way down. The Zetas must have been as shocked as Brandt. Svengurd firing into their ranks seemed to startle them from their stupor, though. One ran across the doorway. Brandt took him down. Given the screams from outside the tunnel, the rest were injured or on the run.

Grabbing Vanderwalt by the collar, he jerked the Brit to his feet.

“Can you run that far?”

The Jeep rattled its way down the stony steps.

“Hell, yes,” Vanderwalt answered, surging forward.

That was what Brandt liked to hear.

* * *

Svengurd braced his legs on the dashboard and door, but even so he almost flew out of the Jeep as it hit one of the steps on the edge, nearly flipping them.

“Pyramid luging!” Lopez shouted. He truly did seem to be enjoying himself.

They had scattered the Zetas, but they would not stay down for long. These guards were no children. They had been battle hardened.

Finally, the Jeep was reaching the bottom. Lopez gunned it, sailing them off the platform and landing a good ten feet from the base. The grassy earth dulled the jarring, at least a little. Then they were across the commons. The corporal skidded them sideways into Brandt and Vanderwalt’s path.

“Keep going!” Brandt yelled as he pushed Vanderwalt forward.

The CIA operatives hauled the British agent into the back of the Jeep. Brandt ran alongside, then swung up, grabbing hold of the roll bars. With one last push, Brandt launched himself into the back seat. A heartbeat later, his gun was up, spraying bullets into the surrounding area. There were no Zetas to be seen, but clearly the sergeant planned to keep it that way.

Now, with the awkward rock steps out of his way, Lopez could really nurse some speed from the Jeep. The corporal angled them toward one of the breaks in the wall. They were nearly to the exit when another vehicle turned onto the dirt bridge, gunning right for them.

Lopez probably would have played chicken, but if they went much further, they would have nowhere to turn except into the flanking stone walls.

“Right, Lopez!” Brandt barked.

Even with certain death approaching and his sergeant’s orders, the corporal still seemed loath to give in to the Los Zetas’ challenge. At the last moment, Lopez braked, cranking the wheel to the right. Their tires spit up chunks of earth as dirt rained down upon them. The rear bumper barely made the turn before the Zetas’ SUV sped past them.

Svengurd joined Brandt in firing at the vehicle, which turned sharply to give chase.

The Jeep practically jumped out from under them as Lopez stepped on the accelerator. They streaked past the ancient ruins. The corporal swerved around burned out stumps and small stone structures. Svengurd couldn’t even identify what the markers were beyond grey blurs.

It took a few moments to realize that there were walls on each side of them. By then, the Zetas’ SUV was on their six, streaking along behind them. Then the walls opened up into a small area. An enclosed area. Not even Lopez could get the Jeep to jump the eight-foot-high stone walls that surrounded them.

Instead, Lopez yanked up the emergency brake, skidding them around 180 degrees—just in time for them to watch the Zetas hurl toward them.

* * *

“Bloody hell, mate,” Vanderwalt exhaled. “What do you Yanks say? Straight from the kettle and into the flames.”

“Yeah,” Brandt said, firing at the oncoming SUV. “Something like that.”

The enemy vehicle skidded to a stop, guns bristling out of every window. A hail of gunfire tore through the Jeep. Everyone ducked to avoid the bullets flying overhead. Getting brazen, the enemy exited the car, firing as they advanced on the Jeep.

The Los Zetas thought they had the upper hand. They thought they had them outnumbered. They thought they had them outgunned.

They were so sure of themselves that they didn’t even notice a man in the back of the group drop to the ground. Then another. Then a third. It took them losing four men before anyone noticed. Then the line broke and shouts rose on the evening air.

“Now!” Brandt yelled. Lopez and Svengurd joined him, firing at the now exposed enemy.

The Los Zetas scrambled, rushing back to their SUV. Only the windshield cracked, a bullet going straight through the driver’s chest. One of the guards shoved his deceased teammate out of the way and put the SUV in reverse, stepping on the gas.

The problem with that? Lopez had laid a tire spike string at the bottleneck. The SUV’s rear tires blew, then the front tires, grinding them to a stop. Another shot ripped into the radiator. Down to three men and a busted SUV, the Los Zetas weren’t going anywhere.

The survivors came out of the car, arms raised, tossing their guns to the side.

“Ha!” Lopez yelled, pointing at the disarmed men. He then turned to the two CI agents. “That’s how you do an ambush!”

Yes, that was exactly how you wanted to do an ambush, except for possibly the jaguar, hang glider, and Jeep down the pyramid diversions, but hey, it got the job done.

The after-action report would be a doozy to write up, though.

What had always been clear was that this mission was just one big trap. The fact that the CIA had known exactly where their captured asset had been held? Then, for them to know exactly where the captured CIA agents were? Come on. The Zetas should have just burned the letters A. M. B. U. S. H. into the forest.

Most of the time, the best way to handle a trap? Spring the sucker, with a plan. A good plan. Or, in their case, an adaptable plan.

And it all happened because they had one of the best perimeter specialists in the business. Brandt had to search the trees for several moments before he could make out his sniper, Davidson, and he knew where the kid was holed up.

A midwestern smile glistened in the waning light. Brandt waved, indicating that the kid could come down out of his perch. Whip-thin, Davidson barely stirred the leaves as he climbed to the ground. As Svengurd zip-tied the Los Zetas men, Lopez rushed to Davidson.

“You and the rifle, man? You are one!” Lopez exclaimed as he brought the younger man into a bro-hug.

While Brandt agreed wholeheartedly, he wouldn’t go so far as to hug the kid.

Davidson shrugged his way out of the embrace. “It was just a point-and-shoot setup. No biggie.”

Compared to some of the other incredibly difficult shots Brandt had seen the sniper take, Davidson was right, but to take down that many men that quickly? That was still something. As the sniper passed, Brandt did indulge in clapping his back.

“Still. Decent job.”

There was that easy smile. If only Brandt had so few cares in the world to be that relaxed. Maybe with a cold brew in one hand and a fishing pole in the other he could feel as carefree as Davidson.

The beat of rotors in the distance did cheer him up a bit. Their extraction helicopter was right on time. Their orders were to leave the Los Zetas secured for the Federales, then get the hell out of Campeche.

Which was perfectly fine by Brandt.

Within moments, the chopper dropped a back board for the teen and lines for the rest of them. In rapid order, they ascended up into the helicopter. The injured were taken to the back of the large transport helicopter, where a medic awaited them.

Brandt sat down hard on the metal jump seat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as the helicopter sped across the sky. They should be landing in Ticul and picking up a small plane to fly them to Cancun, then onward to Miami.

Lopez didn’t sit down, though. “Don’t worry, Sarge. I’ll get us home in a jiffy.”

“No,” Brandt said sharp enough it gave the corporal pause. He softened his tone. “Let’s let the pilot get us to Ticul. You can take over from there.”

“But—”

Brandt raised his hand. “No ‘buts.’ I do not want to referee a smackdown match between you and a Federales.”

“Okay, fine, but we’re flying in the wrong direction.”

“What?” Brandt said, rising from his seat. The sun was setting out the left window, rather than the right. Lopez was correct. They were going south. Exactly the opposite direction of Miami.

He made his way to the pilot, shouting over the rotors. “Your orders were to take us to Ticul.”

The man shook his head. “Did they not inform you?”

Brandt did not like the sound of that. “Inform us of what?”

“We are to drop the injured off in Ciudad de Carmen, where you will rendezvous with a jet to take you to Ecuador.”

“Ecuador?” Lopez said at his shoulder. “What happened to Key West?”

The co-pilot handed Brandt a thin folder. He didn’t like thin folders. It meant they were being shipped off with little or no information. Brandt opened it to find only one page. He skimmed it, which didn’t take a whole hell of a lot of time.

Slamming it shut, he headed back to his seat and strapped in.

“Well?” Lopez asked, sitting next to him.

Brandt pulled a lighter from his pocket and set the file on fire. “We’ve got to pull some researcher from the Amazon and get her to Paris.”

“Paris?” Davidson asked. “Why?”

“I don’t ask…”

“Because they won’t tell,” Lopez finished for him.

It was their life in black ops. Flicking the corner of the file to put the flames out, Brandt leaned back against the bulkhead.

“At least it sounds straight-forward,” Svengurd remarked.

“Easy peasy,” Lopez agreed.

After this extraction? Brandt could use a nice boring mission. And he wouldn’t turn down some R&R in Paris. However, instead of basking in the glow of the thought of some time off, a knot formed in his stomach.

His gut was worried about this next mission.

And damn it, if his gut wasn’t always right.

Anatomy: A Plain Jane Prequel Short Story

CHAPTER 1

Detective Nicole Usher gulped despite having every intention not to gulp. You didn’t get your gold badge without seeing some things. Gross things. Horrible things. Things no one should ever have to see.

Yet the body that lay before her, before them all, was just wrong. It wasn’t so much that the killer had dissected the woman, flaying open her chest and abdomen. Or that he had carefully teased ligament away from bone. The thing that made her force back bile was the series of little labels stuck into the vital organs.

Liver. Kidneys. Ovaries… Each word written in the victim’s own blood.

That was what made her gulp again and look away.

Around her, the crime scene was barely contained chaos, with every acronym in the book accounted for. EMTs, CSIs, MEs, FDs, PDs. Given that this was the serial killer’s sixth victim, when the call came over that another body had been found, all hands, whether they were needed or not, came on deck.

Nicole glanced to her partner, Ruben Torres, the lead detective on the case. All answered to him, which was what he wanted. What he had wanted for a long time. Their city was large enough to have its fair share of murders, but small enough that they didn’t have a Major Crimes division. Instead, the department had one detective that they turned to for their most difficult cases, the Captain’s go-to detective.

For decades, that had been Hatachi Nogamori. But after a long-overdue retirement, the door was thrown wide open, and Ruben had been the first to charge through. To Nicole’s eye, he had the skills, knowledge, and ambition to fill Hatachi’s shoes.

Now, though, with his jaw muscles rippling, Nicole wasn’t so sure that Ruben was all too enthused that he had stepped up to the plate. She knew the disgust on his face wasn’t from the gore. Even though the sun was going down, the mid-summer heat rose from the alley’s pavement, bringing with it a smell—so strong that you could taste it—of a poorly ventilated butcher’s shop, which someone had tried to clean up with formaldehyde.

The heady aroma turned Nicole’s stomach, but she was pretty sure it didn’t bother Ruben. He’d seen a tour in Iraq before the Green Zone was established. Her partner didn’t ever talk about his time in the Middle East, even to her, which pretty much convinced Nicole of exactly how grueling the tour must have been.

A flash of light cut through the dusky night.

Nicole blinked several times as the CSI photographer stepped around her and took another shot.

Ruben, too, seemed startled out of his thoughts, and grumbled, “Just make sure these pictures aren’t leaked to the press.”

The older photographer frowned, setting the heavy camera down against his potbelly. “We’re all here to do a professional job.”

Ruben bristled at the CSI’s tone. She knew her partner’s frustration. Those leaked pictures had revealed the one detail of the crime that they had been holding back…the organ labels. Now every crackpot in the city was claiming credit for the murders. It had taking days, if not weeks, to disprove their statements, sucking precious time and resources away from finding the real killer.

Before Ruben could counter the older man’s statement, Nicole pointed to the roof of an adjacent building. “Speaking of the press…”

An especially intrepid cameraman and news anchor were peeking their heads over the roof.

“Damn it!” Ruben barked, then turned on his heel toward a group of uniformed policemen. “If you are going to gawk, at least secure the perimeter!”

The cluster of blue uniforms scattered in the wake of Ruben’s anger. Which was so unlike her partner. Ruben was usually the good cop, negotiating the politics of the detective’s bullpen like a fish in clear water. Most of the men he’d just chastised were poker buddies.

Nicole stifled the instinct to lay a hand on his arm in comfort. While their relationship was no secret, she knew that the boys’ club gathered here would see her gesture as a sign of weakness. And with all of the media attention? She couldn’t risk a random cellphone snapshot of their intimacy.

This investigation had gone from a local police matter to a statewide manhunt to, now, a national cause celebre. And the longer the investigation stretched out, the more intense the media coverage became. Which wasn’t making any of this easier. It was a little hard to keep your head in the game when Nancy Grace was calling you an incompetent ham-fisted Fred Flintstone of detectives.

Nicole waved a fly away from her face. It persisted, landing momentarily on her shoulder. She tried not to think of what its tiny feet left behind on her blouse. The grit of the crime scene crept under her clothes, mixing with the sweat streaking down her back. There weren’t enough showers in the world to wash the desperation from her skin.

Ruben turned his attention from the roof to the medical examiner kneeling by the body. “Time of death?”

The ME chewed at the butt of a cold cigar and read from one of the labels. “Specimen collected at 9:52pm Central Standard Time.”

Her partner’s jaw muscles worked overtime, yet he somehow modulated his tone so as not to sound as exasperated as he clearly was. “That was her capture time. I need time of death.”

Shoving the cigar butt over to the corner of his mouth, the ME spit onto the pavement. Not exactly hygienic or conducive to a proper crime scene, but the ME was the oldest of the good ole boys. Dr. McGregor did as Dr. McGregor saw fit, and you’d best like it.

“I really don’t know why they haul my ass out here to the body,” McGregor grumbled. “When have I, or any ME ever in the history of crime scene investigations, been able to tell you anything but… ‘I’ll have to see once I get the body on the table?’”

“Anything you could tell us about the time or cause of death could be a help,” Nicole answered, as Ruben’s lips pressed down into a firm line. They both knew that the CSIs wouldn’t find any forensic clues. This killer was far too sophisticated to make a clumsy error. Their only hope to catch the killer was to jump on any lead they could get, such as time of death, and hope it opened up a new avenue of investigation.

The ME scanned the crowd, then nodded to an EMT as she gathered up her gear. “You.” Nicole had met the young EMT before. She had an androgynous name. Jaime, maybe? She had been one of the first responders at the crime scene.

“Me?” the EMT squeaked out. Her eyes darted around her, obviously hoping that McGregor was talking to someone else.

“Yes, you,” he said, waving her over. Reluctantly, Jaime came over. “Now could you please tell these fine detectives when and how this victim died?”

The EMT’s eyes flickered to Nicole, then Ruben, then the ME, then even to the photographer. She found no solace from any of them. “I wouldn’t know.”

McGregor didn’t let it go. “Shocking,” he mocked. “Why don’t you just guess? Apparently Detective Torres wants something, anything, Accurate or not.”

“We get the point, Dr. McGregor,” Nicole said, trying to get the poor EMT out from under everyone’s glare and close this conversation before Ruben said something he would regret. Hell, even she was getting to the point of wanting to test if McGregor could take it as well as he dished it out.

“No,” the ME said. “No, I don’t think you do.” He turned back to the young woman. “Well? No theories? Postulations? Informed guesses?”

Surprisingly, the EMT’s shoulders squared and she kneeled next to the body. “If this killing holds up to the others, she was lured to a remote location, injected with a cocktail of paralytics, then…dissected.” The woman gulped. Nicole knew how the EMT felt as the she continued. “Cause of death will most likely prove to be a combination of severe shock and blood loss. However, The Professor has gotten better and better at keeping his victims alive during the procedure, so her time of death could be hours after her capture.”

McGregor grunted in the EMT’s general direction. “See? You don’t need me out here.”

With a groan, McGregor rose and dusted off his cover-up. Again, not very crime scene-friendly.

“So?” a voice asked. “We’re thinking suicide?”

Everyone’s head snapped around to find a man in a tuxedo, tie casually undone, walking up to the supposedly secured crime scene.

“Who the hell are you?” Ruben demanded, but the man just put his hands in his pockets and leaned over the body, cocking his head from side to side.

“Did she leave a note?” the man asked.

Nicole had no idea what was going on, but as odd as the man was, he demanded attention, and Ruben seemed more than intent on giving it to him. Her partner nodded for a uniformed cop to frisk the tuxedo. Nicole braced for the man’s reaction, her hand straying toward her holster.

The man hardly seemed to notice, though. His hands stayed in his pants pockets as he studied the body and the cop performed the pat-down.

“Did she lose her job?” the man asked. “Her husband leave her? Is that what the trigger was?”

Even though he was making absolutely no sense, there was a smoothness to his tone that made him seem anything but wrong. The cop pulled what looked like a badge out of the man’s jacket pocket and read the name aloud, “Kent Harbinger. FBI.”

Nicole inhaled sharply as Ruben’s eyes narrowed to a slit. “FBI?” he repeated.

The cop nodded. “Looks like he’s attached to the BAU.”

Ruben went rigid next to her. Their mystery man was from the FBI’s vaunted Behavioral Analysis Unit. The most elite serial killer investigation division in the country. No, in the world. Their captain must have called in the profiler…behind Ruben’s back. The lack of confidence this showed was… well many a career had been destroyed this way.

Her partner recovered fairly quickly. Faster than she. “Perhaps, then, Special Agent Harbinger, you should read the file before you offer any advice.”

The profiler’s lips turned up in a subtle grin as his eyes took in the entire crime scene. “Oh, I’ve read the file, and the conclusions in there are nearly on par with chalking this up to a suicide.”

“We have a detailed profile already which—”

“23-35-year-old white male that has an anatomy teaching background?” The profiler sighed, shaking his head, although there didn’t seem to be anything sympathetic in Harbinger’s tone as he gestured to the body. “There’s nothing sophisticated about this killer.”

A flash of the camera went off, startling everyone but the profiler.

“A killer as amateur as the profile of him,” Harbinger concluded.

If Ruben had been on edge before, her partner was on the precipice, his toes dangling over. Nicole rushed into the void. Perhaps the situation could still be salvaged.

“We should start over,” Nicole said, putting her hand out. “I’m Detective Nicole Usher.”

The profiler accepted her hand. She found his palm cool to the touch. How she wished she’d taken a moment to wipe hers on her pant leg before shaking his. Harbinger had an average, medium strength grip, yet her palm tingled, like static electricity or the feel in the air before a lightening strike. The sensation wasn’t exactly pleasant, yet she didn’t necessarily wish it to stop. She looked up to Harbinger’s face as their hands pumped up and down together. His eyes held nothing but mischief.

Still holding her hand, he turned it over, his thumb tracing the veins just under her skin. “Large hands for a woman,” the profiler commented.

The moment shattered, Nicole jerked her hand back, then wished she hadn’t. His grin spread. Harbinger had clearly been testing her. Nicole was pretty sure that her show of insecurity earned her a failing grade.

Her partner stepped between them, shoving his hand forward to the profiler. “Detective Ruben Torres.”

Harbinger accepted the handshake then winced. “My, my, what a strong grip we have…”

Nicole frowned. Salvaging the situation might have been an overly optimistic goal.

* * *

While Kent hadn’t exaggerated the tensile strength of Torres’s handshake, the man’s physical prowess was of little concern. The detective’s palms had callouses most likely associated with a significant chunk of his day at the gym. Yet they weren’t rough. Quite the opposite, in fact. Torres must have had a manicure recently. Interesting.

Time to dig a little deeper.

“Compensating for something?” Kent asked Torres, yet his eyes slid over to watch Nicole’s reaction. The woman’s face flashed fear. How does he know about Ruben and my relationship? Kent could have easily answered that one if he wished. The two’s body language, feet pointed toward one another, the close interpersonal space, the casual contact of two people who knew each other’s bodies inside and out. Then the woman’s pupils constricted and her lips relaxed. There was his answer.

“Ah, so you are packing some heat,” Kent said, directing his attention back to Torres. The detective’s grip grew stronger. Not just packing some heat, but pretty proud of it. Again, interesting. “It must be that you just don’t know what to do with it.”

The blood vessels in Torres’s face opened, flushing his cheeks as his nostrils flared. Rage. You didn’t have to be an expert in micro-facial expressions to pick that one up.

Kent’s eyes darted to Nicole, who wouldn’t meet his stare. Interesting. Very interesting. Torres tightened his grip on Kent’s hand, as if brute force alone could stop him. Not very likely. Although he did have to give the detective a bit of credit. Most heterosexual males would have taken a swing at him already. And a Latino, at that? Keeping his rage under control while Kent dissed his equipment and his ability to satisfy his woman? Torres must have had some therapy.

Or was it the fact that everyone at the crime scene was now watching, or pretending not to watch, this little exchange? The wheels of the gurney stopped squeaking. The rustle of plastic of evidence by those that collected it, died down. The murmur of conversation reduced to a hush.

Ah, Kent always did his best work with an audience.

Unfortunately, the detective was attempting to crush a few bones in Kent’s hand. “So, quite enthusiastic…” Kent taunted, “However, not very creative.”

Okay, Torres’s shoulder flinched that time. Kent was ready to duck and throw a counterpunch, but Nicole stepped forward, putting a hand on her partner’s arm.

“He’s just testing us,” Nicole whispered. Her lips a dark pink, and not colored by lipstick or gloss. If Kent was correct, the woman was wearing Chapstick. Probably SPF 30 balm. And even though she wore her dark hair back in a tight ponytail, there was a hundred-dollar haircut under there. The carefully feathered tips swished at the nape of her neck.

They were all close enough together that Torres’s Drakkar Noir aftershave blended with Nicole’s kiwi shampoo. The scents were definitely not harmonious.

“More of a matter of convenience than compatibility?” Kent asked.

He was halfway to ducking. No matter Nicole’s restraining hand, Torres was on the verge of swinging. So why not pour fuel onto the fire? Give the people something to remember?

“Come on, big guy,” Kent said with a wink. “Let’s hug it out.”

* * *

Ruben froze as the profiler drew him into a bro-hug. Should he shove him back? Punch him in the face? Anything else but allowing the bizarre gesture to play out would create a scene. Not that this little confrontation didn’t already have all eyes glued on them.

Count to ten, Ruben. Count to ten. A little hard as each heartbeat bounded in his ear.

“Detective Torres?” a voice called out, slicing through the tension. Some poor uniformed cop walked right into the middle of the scene. The kid looked around, suddenly seeming to realize he had just interrupted something above his pay grade. “Sorry…I just…”

“Yes?” Ruben answered, pushing back from the profiler, glad to be rid of the man. The patrolman stared awkwardly. Ruben nodded, trying to encourage the kid to fill the awkward space.

“Um, yeah… I just wanted to let you know that the neighborhood canvass didn’t turn anything up.”

No surprise there. None of the previous sweeps had found a single person who had seen or heard anything. “Have tomorrow morning’s shift go around to the buildings again, in case we missed anyone tonight.”

The patrolman gave a sharp nod, which the profiler contradicted with a shake of his head.

“I wouldn’t waste my time.”

“Procedure is procedure,” Ruben stated, biting back a sharper, more curse-word-filled retort. But exploding, arguing, or otherwise engaging with Harbinger would be playing into the profiler’s hands. Instead, Ruben continued on with the patrolman. “And I want an update on the whereabouts of all of our POIs last night.”

The kid went to fulfill his orders, but Harbinger chuckled.

“Ah, Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” the profiler stated, putting his hands back into his pockets. “Kind of a metaphor for the whole case, wouldn’t you say?”

Ruben turned to find the ME and his assistant try to figure out how to put the body into the bag without disturbing the labels. You would think that by the sixth try they would have figured out that they just couldn’t do it. He ignored Harbinger’s taunt, however accurate. Ruben had an investigation to run.

“What do you mean?” Nicole asked. Ruben shot her a look but she must not have seen it, her eyes intent on the profiler.

“There is a body.” Harbinger shrugged. “There is a body bag. Ipso procedural facto, the body must go into the bag.”

The uniformed cop frowned. “What would you have them do?” Ruben shot the kid a look as well, but he, too, was focused on the profiler. “Rig up some kind of drape to keep particulates from falling into the body cavity?”

“Or…” Harbinger drawled out. “Use something that is already so conveniently body-sized? Rigid sides? A lid?” The profiler looked to Nicole then the patrolman. “A coffin?”

“Oh, yeah! Duh!” the uniform stated.

Even if Ruben hadn’t already instinctually disliked this profiler, he would have hated him by now. A coffin was such an eloquent solution to their problem. One that a dozen-plus law enforcement members hadn’t thought of. If only Harbinger could solve the crime so easily.

Ruben turned to the patrolman. “Make the arrangements.”

The cop hustled over to the ME, thankfully putting an end to the three-ring circus by the body. Hopefully giving the profiler one less target for his ridicule.

Ruben wished that he were so lucky, as Nicole turned to Harbinger. “What did you mean it was a waste of our time to expand the canvass?”

Oddly the profiler shouted, “Help!”

Everyone at the crime scene swung around at the strange outburst, but Harbinger pointed up to the apartments lining the alleyway. Not a single person came to the window. Not a single shade moved.

“In this part of town?” Harbinger questioned, “The residents actively don’t hear or see anything.”

“The perfect dumping ground,” Nicole concluded.

“And your ‘person of interest?’” Kent chuckled. “The anatomy instructor at the community college?”

Ruben’s hand made a fist of its own accord. It was one thing for the profiler to riff and poke at the crime scene. It was quite another for him to actively dis the core of his case. Ruben was so sure that the professor was involved that he had put round-the-clock surveillance on the man. They just needed him to trip up.

“You don’t think Professor Munz is involved?” Nicole asked the profiler. Clearly she was not picking up Ruben’s mental urging to ignore the man in the tuxedo.

“Oh, the professor is a necrophiliac, of course,” Harbinger stated.

Nicole turned to Ruben, the question clear on her face. Was the professor into dead bodies? Ruben had no answer for her. However, the profiler was more than happy to continue.

“But I mean, who hasn’t experimented?” Harbinger pulled a hand out of his pocket and pointed at the ME. “Am I right?”

The doctor responded by grinding the butt of his cigar between his teeth.

Harbinger looked like he took the aggressive gesture as a compliment and turned back to Nicole and Ruben with a grin. “Focusing on the most obvious suspects, those with a biology background, was your first mistake.”

Ruben tried to keep his tone calm, even though he was anything but. “If you hear hoof beats, you should think horse, rather than zebra.”

“With a serialist like this?” The profiler pointed to the body laid out it in its gruesome form. “You’d best be looking for Hyracotherium.”

Ruben was sure that he should know the reference, but it took Nicole to fill in the blank.

“The ancestor of the horse,” Nicole stated.

“And zebra,” the profiler interjected.

Nicole continued on. “It was the size of a dog and spotted.”

Harbinger gave a slow nod of approval to Nicole. “This killer obviously has a fascination with anatomy. However, clearly he doesn’t have any professional background in the field.”

“And how exactly would you know that?” Ruben demanded. The profiler sideshow had gone on long enough. Time to show everyone that it was only a man standing in front of them, not some kind of psychic.

“By the way he selects his victims,” Harbinger responded, sounding as if Ruben had just asked him if the sky was blue.

Nicole’s eyes darted to Ruben’s then shot back to the profiler. “So far there hasn’t been a pattern. The killer is choosing his victims at random.”

“Oh,” Harbinger said in a singsong voice. “You two are so adorable. Random? There is nothing random about any of this.”

Counting to five, Ruben simply did not have the patience to make it to ten. He responded. “Put it all down on paper, Harbinger, and I’ll have a look.” He turned to the knot of people standing just within earshot. “And let’s wrap this crime scene up.”

EMTs, CSIs, and cops dispersed before him, some bumping into others in their haste. Ruben did not feel sorry for them in the least. Focus was distinctly lacking today, and he intended to bring it back.

“What do you mean, not random?” Nicole asked. Jesus, she just wouldn’t let it go, would she? When did she forget the meaning of “having your partner’s back?”

“Best guess?” Harbinger said, although Ruben was beginning to fear that the profiler didn’t guess at anything. “Online dating.”

Finally the guy swung at a pitch and missed. “We’ve checked their computer search history,” Ruben rushed on, “including any hidden cached sites. I can say with absolute certainty they were not contacted through social dating sites.”

“Ah,” Harbinger cooed. “Absolute certainty. You almost make this too easy.”

Face burning, Ruben stifled the response he would like to give the FBI profiler. Before he could think of a retort that did not use the F-word, Nicole stepped forward.

“Beyond the lack of evidence, the victims are a mix of men and women.”

The profiler cocked his head. “And everyone is honest online? He could be posing as a women to men, or just be a man seducing another man, or offering up a monkey in a matador costume. People going to the sites I am thinking of aren’t looking for vanilla options.” Harbinger pointed to the only article of clothing the victim had left to them. “Look at those shoes. Tell me they aren’t date heels.”

Thankfully, Ruben’s cellphone vibrated on his belt. “Torres,” he answered with a bark. He would be grateful for any interruption that ended this performance. As Ruben listened, he became more and more grateful.

“Got it.” He snapped his phone closed. “They’ve brought in Munz and, once again, he does not have an alibi for the time of capture.” He gave a sharp nod to the profiler. “You, of course, are welcome to join us in his interrogation. They are bringing him in as we speak.”

“Naw,” Harbinger said. “I think I’m going to recreate the captures instead, but thanks.”

Well, that was a welcome relief. Ruben felt certain that the profiler would want to tag along, if for nothing more than to disrupt the interview as thoroughly as he had the crime scene.

Ruben turned away from the profiler and headed toward the car. He was a good six steps away when he realized he was alone. Ruben looked to Nicole, who wouldn’t meet his eye. “Something wrong?”

“I just…” Nicole glanced up, but only held eye contact for a fleeting moment. “I think I’m going to stay to see the direction that Harbinger is going.” She rushed on. “Just for a few minutes. I’ll join you at the station.”

Had Nicole just punch him in the gut? Because that was exactly what it felt like. And the profiler certainly seemed to agree, as a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin spread. Ruben wasn’t so insecure that he was worried. He shouldn’t be worried, should he? Of course not.

Pulling his tie out from his shirt, where it had been protected from the gore of the scene, Ruben shrugged. “See you soon, then.”

It was time to prove the profiler wrong.

CHAPTER 2

Nicole watched Ruben stalk away. He didn’t even look back as he opened his car door and got inside. She felt bad, knowing that he would see her interest in the profiler’s methods as some sort of betrayal. Ruben was big on loyalty. Really big on loyalty. Sometimes, though, it seemed he wanted blind loyalty. All for one and one for all. Where did that leave her, though?

With six dead, didn’t they owe it to the victims to explore every possible lead? Even one as bizarre as the one the profiler suggested? To her, the next five minutes represented an investment not only in the case but in her career.

She turned to find the profiler already halfway down the alley. Nicole glanced back over her shoulder as Ruben revved the car. Was it her imagination, or was he stalling in the hope that she would join him? Instead, she gave a wave. Nicole wasn’t sure if he’d seen it or not, as Ruben pulled the car away from the curb and peeled out down the street.

“Well?” Harbinger asked. “That internet café isn’t going to seduce potential victims all by itself.”

Trotting to catch up, Nicole noticed that the profiler ducked under the crime scene tape, but didn’t bother to lift it for her. Not exactly the gentleman. Though Harbinger seemed quite keen to analyze everyone around him, that didn’t mean she couldn’t gain some insight into his character as well.

Dipping under the tape, Nicole followed the profiler as he turned left out of the alley and onto the main street. Half a dozen doors down, he opened the door of an internet café. Bowing, he waved her in.

It was eerie. Almost as if he’d heard her thoughts about his lack of chivalry. She passed by him and entered the café. The denizens were of a motley sort. Some looked homeless while, strangely, others seemed like they had just left work at one of the high-rises a few blocks away.

Harbinger pointed to a woman’s shoes. “Those would be work heels.”

Nicole couldn’t argue. Since all of the victims had been found with only their shoes left on, they had of course thought them to be significant, however it had never occurred to any of them that the victims had been dressed to impress. Given the discrepancy in the victim’s income levels, it was easy to miss. However, no matter how broke a woman was, she usually found a way to have a “date” pair of shoes. They may have been from a Salvation Army store, but they were date-worthy.

Damn it, she should have caught that. On the job, there were few times when being a chick came in handy. This should have been one of them.

The profiler sat down in front of a computer. Nicole waited, but he didn’t type.

“We’re pre-pay only,” the clerk said from behind the counter.

Nicole looked to Harbinger, but he was certainly not reaching for his wallet. She walked over and handed the clerk a twenty. “I’m going to need a receipt for that.”

Once she was sure that she had something to give the reimbursement department, Nicole rejoined the profiler, who was already typing away. Why wasn’t she surprised that he already had a screen name? DrkLvr. Harbinger didn’t waste any time as he popped into a chat room. His eyes scanned down the right hand bar, studying the avatars.

“So which one should I lure first?” he asked.

“Try to lure,” Nicole corrected.

Harbinger grinned. “Sure. Try.”

The profiler’s cockiness should have put her off, but it didn’t. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to prove her wrong or if she wanted to watch him fail. Each seemed like an equally interesting proposition.

He nodded toward the screen again. “Which one?”

Her eyes darted from the avatars to the chat room, but the profiler put his hands in front of the screen. “Oh, no. No cheating. You can tell everything you need to from the avatars.” Nicole leaned in to study them more closely. “I will give you a hint,” the profiler said. “There are three good candidates, but one is just begging to get lured.”

Was Harbinger just making this up? Setting her up to fail? Sliding her eyes over, she watched as he studied the avatars. His expression seemed sincere. More than sincere. Intense. Like a predator watching his prey from the bushes.

Nicole pointed to Happy420, whose avatar had a marijuana leaf behind a smiley face. Not too creative. “How about him?”

“He is a lurker,” the profiler explained. “Way too much of a slacker to actually leave his bong and meet up with someone.”

“How about SexyMomma?” Nicole asked, pointing to the cartoon figure of Jessica Rabbit with an apron on.

“Your seduction muscles really are out of shape,” Harbinger commented as he pointed to the screen. “Desperation is like a bouquet. It has a scent, a feel, a look to it.” He read off three user names. “HopelessRom, WrkOnWood, and MelissaOTK.”

Nicole looked to each of them. The first had a heavily-airbrushed white rose avatar, the second had a graphic of a woodworking shop, and the other was a picture of a rather attractive woman. “I get the first two, I guess, but what about Melissa? She doesn’t look desperate at all.”

Harbinger chuckled as Nicole sat down next to him. “Because Melissa doesn’t look like that at all. My guess? Add ten years, a hundred pounds, and seven years’ bad luck to get an accurate picture.”

“But won’t anyone she meets recognize the fact that she completely lied about her appearance?”

“Detective, we are in a sex chat room. Lying is their form of currency. Lying to each other. Lying to their spouses. Lying to themselves.”

Nicole still wasn’t satisfied, though. “If her intent is to find a sex partner, isn’t she sabotaging herself?”

“Oh, you really have lived a sheltered life,” the profiler sighed. “She is betting on the fact that anyone she meets will be so, let us say, revved up, that they won’t care what she looks like.”

Wow, that was pretty desperate.

A ding came from the computer, and a request to join a private chat room opened up, from none other than MelissaOTK. The profiler didn’t even have to say “I told you so.” His smirk did it for him.

Harbinger’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Over your knee or mine?” Nicole was certain her confusion showed up on her face. The profiler explained. “Oh, and another hint was the OTK part of her screen name. Over. The. Knee.”

So Harbinger wasn’t psychic, he just knew the chat room lingo. Nicole didn’t feel quite as much like the dunce in the corner sporting the tall cone hat. Letters flew across the screen as Melissa responded. “How about we alternate?”

To Nicole’s surprise, Kent didn’t go along with that. Instead he typed out, “Sorry. Too much of a top for that.”

“I thought we wanted to lure her?” Nicole asked.

The profiler angled his body toward her. “We don’t just think about the serial killer’s motives. We think like the serial killer. Act like the serial killer.”

The intensity of Harbinger’s gaze took her off guard. Nicole had to suppress another gulp. But if anything, she was a quick learner. “The killer needs someone malleable. Someone he can manipulate.”

Then it hit her. The lack of defensive wounds. The lack of heavy restraint marks. Not all of that was because of the paralytics. The victims must have willingly submitted to the bondage, unaware that they were playing into a serial killer’s dark fantasy.

“He’s picking submissives,” Nicole blurted out.

Harbinger nodded. “I noticed a distinct lack of discussion regarding that aspect of the victimology in Mr. Handshake’s report.”

Actually, it was worse than that. Ruben was dead set against the notion that these killings were sexually motivated. He was so sure that the killer’s entire emphasis was on sadism. The concept had never quite sat right with her, however she had had nothing to back up her instinct. Until now.

Melissa’s response popped up. “Intriguing. So UR more Marquis than Don Quixote?”

“Marquis de Sade?” Harbinger typed. “In my eyes a man not very creative and in my mind a tad bit lazy. Don’t we think my fingers could accomplish so much more than IM’ing?”

Nicole shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She was no prude by any means, but this was feeling a bit too much like being a voyeur, even if the profiler’s part in it wasn’t real. Right? This was an act. A ruse. It had to be, right?

Before she could decide, Melissa’s answer appeared. “I will only meet in a public place.”

“Then onward to something a little more private?” Harbinger responded.

“We will see…”

The profiler leaned back. “Yeah, right,” he said, then typed, “Do you know the Decadence Café?”

Melissa’s answer was nearly instantaneous. “Intimately.”

Harbinger raised an eyebrow at Nicole as he typed. “10pm.” The profiler didn’t even wait for a response. He logged off, then pushed the keyboard away from him. “And that is how it is done.”

It couldn’t be that easy, could it? Was he really that skilled at luring, or had he just gotten lucky? Nicole was pretty sure she knew the answer, but she wanted confirmation.

“And how about luring a man?” Nicole questioned.

Harbinger’s eyes scanned over her face. Her skin felt like it was encoded with Braille. How much could the profiler read? Then the inspection was over, as Harbinger laced his fingers together and then cracked them. “Watch and learn.”

The profiler logged into yet another account. Mr9x5. Nicole cocked her head. “That seems a bit…mild,” she noted.

“Those aren’t hours I am referring to,” Harbinger stated as he found a male-male chat room. “They are inches.”

“Inches of—” Nicole stopped herself, unfortunately understanding the part of the body he was measuring. She was certain her cheeks were a ruddy pink. And they did not cool down any as Harbinger launched into his domination of the room. The men were lined up to join him.

Then, in rapid succession, the profiler switched accounts, hopping into chat room after chat room. He set up ménages. He set up foursomes. He even found someone who thought a monkey in a matador’s costume sounded like a good idea.

“I think you’ve made your point,” Nicole conceded.

“I do like to be thorough,” Harbinger answered then angled the keyboard toward her. “So? Your turn?”

Nicole pushed back from the object like it was a rattlesnake, not even caring that her face was probably showing every bit of revulsion she felt. Her head shook back and forth. “No, I’m good.”

* * *

Kent watched the detective sputter for a few more moments, not even listening to her words. They were meaningless. Her expressions, however, were fascinating. To watch her go from panic, to rejection, to her eyes flickering over to the keyboard. Did she even realize that her feet had changed position and were now pointing toward him rather than toward the door? Funny how people did not know what they truly wanted.

The body, though? The body knew. Her eyes were dilated slightly. Her eyelids wide. Her lips slightly parted. She was ready to take in whatever came next. Did she even know that her fingers were twitching slightly? Getting ready to type?

“You know you want to,” Kent coaxed, inching the keyboard toward her.

Nicole blinked once, then stared down at the keys. “I wouldn’t know how.”

“What do they say?” Kent made sure his tone was silky smooth. He did not want to intrude on the conversation going on in the detective’s head. She was doing more to convince herself than he ever could. “Practice makes perfect.”

She leaned forward ever so slightly, but to Kent she might as well have jumped up and down, shouting how eager she was to start. He didn’t say a word as her hands reached out and her fingertips hovered over the keyboard.

“How do I start?” she asked, licking her lips.

Kent was impressed. Most would not dare to follow where he tread. Before her conscious mind could convince her otherwise, Kent clicked the mouse and brought up one of his female personas, MissJustRight.

The detective bit her lower lip, then nodded. He loaded the account and found her just the right chat room. Her fingers pulled back, though, when she realized it was a female-female environment.

“I…I can’t.”

“Oh,” Kent cooed. “You can.”

With a deep breath, Nicole put her fingers back on the keyboard and typed. “Hi.”

Okay, maybe she couldn’t. At least not without some coaching.

“Remember,” Kent whispered. “We are seducing. We create a presence then allow them to come to us. We need to be the dominant.”

Nicole nodded. “Yeah, right. Sorry.”

As the seconds stretched out, Kent could feel her tense. Her fear that she had ruined the moment was palpable. There was no place for fear in a seduction.

“Which one do you think will respond?” Kent asked, trying to keep her mind off the blank screen in the private chat window.

The detective’s gaze scanned over the list of participants. There were over twenty five, yet, to his eyes, there was only one.

“Ready2Party?” she guessed.

That was not the one.

“Too many options,” Kent explained. “She’ll have plenty of girls hitting on her. We need someone a bit more complicated than that.”

Nicole shook her head. “They all seem pretty much the same.”

This detective had so much to learn. So many layers to peel back.

Kent pointed to a name. “Chastity4U.”

He watched as her eyes squinted, reading the name. Kent didn’t have to ask, he knew she was trying to figure out why he had picked that one.

“She calls herself Chastity, yet is in a sex chat room,” Nicole stated, sounding a bit unsure of herself. Off his nod, she continued. “So she is already lying.”

Kent didn’t have to affirm her theory, since Chastity IM’ed Nicole. The detective looked over to him and grinned. He had called it yet again. What could he say? He was on a roll.

As Nicole responded to Chastity, Kent leaned in. Too intent on the screen, the detective did not move away. He breathed in her kiwi shampoo as he watched the pounding of her carotid just beneath the skin. Nicole was an odd mixture of sweet and sweat. Tender and tenacious. Kent hadn’t expected to find that combination in this Mid-Western town.

The bell on the door jingled as another after-work client walked in. Who did these people think they were fooling? No one came to an internet café unless they wanted to hide something. The FBI might as well just put out a blanket search warrant on all café computers. It was well known that over fifty percent of the business conducted here was illegal in nature. The other half? Well, they might as well just hand the transcripts of their sessions over to their spouses along with a guide to quick divorce.

A ding brought Chastity’s response.

Kent leaned in even further—this was about to get interesting.

* * *

Nicole fidgeted in her chair. She read, then reread Chastity’s IM. “So what do you like?”

She had watched Harbinger navigate exactly this question half a dozen times, yet Nicole couldn’t think of a single response. “What should I answer?” Kent was at her shoulder. Somehow his knee was brushing against hers. When had he moved so close? She angled away a bit. “Well?”

“Tell her the truth,” the profiler said.

“I’m straight,” Nicole clarified. She didn’t have any problem with not being straight, it just wasn’t how she was wired.

“Tell her a fantasy, then,” Kent stated. “Those are actually more truthful than we like to admit.”

Nicole leaned back from the keyboard. “I thought we were creating a false persona. Acting out what they want to hear.”

“Ah,” the profiler said, leaning back as well. “But you won’t be convincing unless your seduction comes from a real place. Somewhere inside, you know exactly what both you and she want.”

It didn’t seem possible, yet Nicole’s fingers did know exactly what she wanted to type. “Role-playing.”

“I’m intrigued,” Chastity wrote back. “Who? Where?”

There were some pretty obvious choices. Going for the Marquis-type seduction or the standard two chicks in a hot tub, but Nicole didn’t want to be obvious.

“Clothes shopping,” Nicole wrote. “Two friends, same booth. I’m straight. You aren’t.”

Chastity seemed to take the bait whole. “I help you with your dress’s belt, smoothing the fabric over your hips.”

“Helping adjust my neckline,” Nicole prompted.

“My hand accidently brushes against your breast.”

“I don’t pull away.”

The profiler put his hand on the keyboard. “Okay, we don’t want to give away too much of the milk before she buys the cow.” Nicole jerked her fingers back, startled at his intrusion. She hadn’t realized just how intent she had been on the screen. Harbinger continued. “Let’s make the date and peace out.”

As Nicole complied, out of the corner of her eye she watched the profiler. Was he a little flustered? Was he really averting his eyes from the screen? Or was he just too busy taking notes?

Wait. That pad and pen looked familiar.

“That’s Ruben’s set!” she said, snatching the items from Harbinger.

The profiler didn’t even try to hide the fact he had stolen them from her partner. “The leather is so supple, and the pen? Glides across the paper.”

“I gave him that for Christmas,” Nicole exclaimed, retracting the pen’s tip and tucking it inside the small leather holder.

“Really?” the profiler stated his eyebrow arching. “Your first Christmas together and you get him a pad and pen set? How practical.”

Feeling the tips of her ears burning, Nicole was even more horrified to find that the profiler had transcribed everything she’d said to Chastity into Ruben’s notepad. Nicole ripped the page out, crumpling it, then shoving it deep in her pocket.

“What?” Harbinger asked. “I was just trying to give him some pointers.”

Before she could retort, the clerk called out from behind the counter, “I’m going to need another twenty if you want another hour.”

That couldn’t be. Nicole looked down at her watch. It had been nearly an hour. Ruben must be going ballistic by now, wondering why she wasn’t in the interrogation with him. She looked down to her phone to find two missed calls and four texts from her partner. How had she missed them?

“That’s it, I’ve got to get back.”

“I’ll drive,” the profiler said as he stood up.

It wasn’t until then that Nicole realized that she did need a ride. Ruben had taken the car, and by now all the patrol cars would be gone. She didn’t have time to argue. The sooner she got back to the station, the better.

Harbinger led them out of the internet café and to a dark brown SUV. He unlocked the door with a click of the remote. Nicole climbed in, getting seated and snapping her seat belt closed. To her surprise, the profiler turned on the ignition and pulled out into traffic without any hesitation. She half expected him to stall or tell her they had a stop to make.

Certainly he wasn’t giving her a ride out of the goodness of his heart. She’d only known him for a few hours, but that just didn’t seem to be how he operated. But they were making a beeline for the precinct, so she couldn’t complain. Well, maybe she could complain. The interior of the car smell like…cigar. Didn’t the rental car company clean it out between drivers? Harbinger didn’t strike her as the type to smoke, especially not cigars.

Then she noticed the parking permit swinging gently from the rearview mirror. A permit for the morgue’s parking lot.

“This is Dr. McGregor’s SUV!”

“I figured at some point we would need a set of wheels,” the profiler calmly explained.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

Nicole knew that panicking wasn’t going to help keep away the wrath that would rain down upon her from the Medical Examiner, but her panic was well warranted.

“We’ve got to return it. Now,” Nicole emphasized.

“All in due time,” Harbinger answered, leaning his elbow against the open window frame.

“No,” Nicole snapped. “You don’t understand.”

But the profiler smiled. “Oh, but I think I do.” Then he winked.

What had she gotten herself into?

CHAPTER 3

Ruben checked the clock. Again. Nicole was never late. His partner had a metronome in her head. If a waiter said the entrée would be out in five minutes, Nicole would not have to look at her watch to advise him if he were a moment overdue. Ruben even questioned why she even wore a watch in the first place.

“Yes, detective,” the lawyer who sat across from him said. “We’ve all got other things we would like to be doing.”

No doubt they did. Ruben returned his focus to the suspect sitting across from him. At first glance, you wouldn’t take him for a serial killer. The anatomy professor looked like, well, an anatomy professor. He had the air of a professional nerd. Black-rimmed glasses and all.

However, if he were so innocent, why was he always so cagey during his interrogations? Ruben had flagged him months ago, after the initial round of interviews. The man never answered a question directly. And his lawyer was no help.

Levinson closed his briefcase. “If we are done, my client would like to go home to his wife, who, I might remind you, has already given him an alibi for last night.”

Ruben had hoped to wait for Nicole before really getting into the meat of the interrogation. Her presence seemed to fluster the professor. However, he couldn’t wait any longer.

Slowly, he opened the folder with the latest crime scene photographs. “Look familiar?”

As always, the professor shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose and studied the dissected bodies. His eyes coursed over the organs as his lips moved without sound. Carefully, he lined the pictures up. The head at the top. The chest area next, then the abdomen. Finally, the pelvis and legs.

“I would have used more sharp dissection than blunt. It creates a better distinction between the muscle groups.”

Ruben had to constrict his throat as bile threatened. “She was alive when this was done to her.”

The professor looked up, frowning. “And for that I am sorry, but I had nothing to do with it.”

“Do you know how most people react when they see something like this?” Ruben asked, then answered his own question. “They are horrified. Revolted.”

Munz went to answer, but his lawyer laid a hand on his arm and spoke instead. “Unless the legal code has changed since we’ve been in here, being an outlier is not a crime.”

Ruben knew he was losing this round. Soon, very soon, Munz’s lawyer was going to insist that they either charge his client or let him go. Ruben could, of course, reveal that fact that they had surveillance on Munz which could break his wife’s alibi. But Ruben wanted to hold that back. Let Munz and his lawyer believe that they had nothing on the professor. All the better when they finally caught Munz in the act.

“So, as I said, I think this interview is—”

The lawyer’s words were cut off as Nicole rushing in. She mouthed “sorry” as she closed the door. Ruben noted that Munz sat straighter in his chair, his shoulders back like an English schoolboy.

“Detective Usher,” the lawyer said with a nod. If Ruben wasn’t mistaken, the guy actually thought he had a chance with Nicole. Like she’d ever go out with a defense attorney.

“Mr. Levinson,” Nicole answered as she sat down.

“Fashionably late?” the lawyer asked. “Or did you find some exculpatory evidence for my client?”

When she didn’t answer, Ruben looked to her. Nicole wouldn’t meet his eyes, but she did push his notepad and pen toward him. Weird. He didn’t think he’d given them to her.

Levinson’s eyes darted between them. “Something I should be aware of?”

“No,” Ruben stated. “But I would like to know your client’s exact movements last night.”

The lawyer sighed. “You do tape these interviews, correct? And since you already have him explaining that he was home all night with his wife about three times, I think you can just make a loop of it and we’ll never have to come in again.”

“How about one more time,” Ruben suggested. If he could just trip Munz up, he wouldn’t have to reveal the surveillance.

“As much as I would love”—Levinson emphasized the “love” as he nodded to Nicole—”to continue this conversation, my client pays me by the hour, and it would simply be highway robbery to go over it all again.” There wasn’t much Ruben could do as the lawyer rose, urging his client up. “So I think we are going to call it a night.”

* * *

Nicole watched as the two pushed their chairs back, getting ready to leave. She should have been here. But, really, would it have made much of a difference? Ruben was so certain that the killer was Munz, but after Harbinger’s demonstration, she wasn’t so sure. Her partner had no theory on how Munz would have met and seduced all of the victims. And the professor had always seemed so…obvious.

Yes, in common crimes it usually was the most obvious suspect. A wife turns up dead, you look to the husband. A child? You look to the parents.

But this crime was anything but common. So an anatomy professor being The Anatomy Professor seemed so out of character for the killer who went to such great length to cover his tracks.

The more time they spent on Munz, the less time they spent on finding the real killer. They needed to rule him in or out, like right now.

“Just tell us, professor,” Nicole said before she realized she was going to speak. “Tell us the truth so we can move on.”

Everyone turned to her. Ruben’s eyes questioning what the hell she was doing. Nicole’s gaze sought the two-way mirror, picturing the profiler standing behind it, watching her, judging her, urging her to get this over with.

“I have told you the truth,” Munz said. Did his words sound as hollow to him as they did to her?

“We have you under surveillance,” Nicole blurted as Ruben’s eyes dilated. She knew they wanted to keep that a secret, but why, if Munz wasn’t the killer? Nicole was pretty damned sure she knew what the professor was hiding. Well, she knew if Harbinger had been at all correct in his assessment. “And you weren’t home with your wife.”

The lawyer seemed concerned, looking to his client. “I wouldn’t say anything, Dr. Munz.” He urged his client to the door, but Nicole stepped in front of them.

“I get it that you want to keep your…activities private,” Nicole sympathized. “But people are dying. Your secret pales in comparison to another person being dissected alive.” Munz refused to look her in the eye. “I know you don’t want that.”

Ruben put a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe we should let them go and bring the professor back in when—”

“Or, you could tell us right now what you were doing last night.” Nicole shrugged off her partner’s restraint. “Your wife has perjured herself, Dr. Munz. We can prosecute her for that.” The professor finally looked up. She’d found the chink in his armor. His wife. “She knows, doesn’t she?”

Munz’s lips pursed together. Nicole was close, but not correct. “She suspects, then?”

“What are you talking about?” Levinson asked.

“Yes,” her partner added tersely. “What exactly are you implying?”

The professor knew, though. Nicole could tell, as his eyelid twitched and his hand trembled against his pant leg.

“I have the right not to incriminate myself.”

Nicole couldn’t allow the smile she felt inside to reach her lips. She still needed him to confess to his actual crime. “We aren’t interested in prosecuting you, Dr. Munz. But we do need you to tell us what you were doing last night.”

Still, the man seemed hesitant. She had to find something else to apply the right pressure to break the seal of shame. “My guess is that you disabled the cameras in the anatomy lab, but did you remember to turn off the ones in the hallways? The ones that will show your repeated after-hours trips to the lab?”

By the way his lips clamped down, she guessed not. “And are you absolutely certain we won’t find biologicals, your biologicals, on the cadavers?”

“It’s a victimless crime,” Munz blurted out.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Levinson intervened. “How about my client and I confer before—”

Nicole stepped around the lawyer. “What is, Dr. Munz? What have you been doing in that lab? At night? By yourself?”

“They don’t want anything. They don’t have expectations,” the professor stammered out. “They don’t fight.”

“Dear God,” Ruben whispered. “You’re a necrophiliac.”

Munz turned on his heel. “We prefer the term daisy pusher.”

Nicole didn’t have to hear anything more. The professor was a pervert, but he wasn’t their perp. She made for the door.

“Where are you going?” Ruben asked.

“To search for the actual killer,” Nicole stated, then left the room. As the door shut, her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the hallway. She found her captain standing at the observation window. Nicole glanced around, but he was the only one there.

“What the hell was that about, Usher?” Captain Glick demanded.

“Where’s FBI Special Agent Harbinger?”

Captain Glick frowned. “What Special Agent?”

“The one you called in to help with the case?”

Glick shook his head. “I didn’t call in any FBI agent. And back to why you—”

A laugh erupted before Nicole could stop it. Harbinger wasn’t even on official duty, yet was closer to solving the case then they had come in months. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve got to follow up a lead.”

“Without Torres?”

Definitely without her partner.

* * *

Kent sat at a corner table in the back of the Decadence Café. He blew on his hot chocolate, causing the whipped cream to tremble and dance across the dark surface. Everyone else around him was drinking an iced tea, or iced latte, or iced something aruther. Given the fact that it was ten o’clock at night and still ninety degrees with one hundred percent humidity, Kent didn’t blame them.

However, he found the warmer it was outside, the warmer he liked his drink. Call him a contrarian that way.

As he waited for his hot chocolate to cool just below scalding temperatures, Kent studied those around him. More than half of the patrons he and Nicole had lured here. You could tell them from their furtive glances and barely contained excitement and shame. He had made sure to tell each of them to order something different, with a twist.

Never before had café-goers been so interested in what everyone else was eating. Who would be brave enough to get up and introduce themselves to their supposed blind date? Kent had certainly manipulated each of them, but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t tried to match each of them with someone compatible. It felt like it was his civic duty.

He might be a puppet master, but he liked to think of himself as a benevolent one. Well, perhaps not benevolent, but at the least indulgent. The café door opened to reveal a petite brunette with a badge on her hip. Once again, he pulled a string, and look who followed.

Nicole spotted him and headed straight over. “Special Agent Harbinger.”

“Please,” he said, indicating to the chair across from him. “Once you’ve seduced together, I believe you should be on a first-name basis.”

“Kent, then,” Nicole said as she sat down. “You weren’t called in.”

Leaning back, Kent took a sip of the hot chocolate. The barista had been right. That shot of spearmint really did liven up the drink. “I never said I was.” Off of her frown, he continued. “Your paramour was the one that ousted me as a profiler. I was simply observing.”

She cocked her head. Both of them knew there was nothing simple about his presence here, but she didn’t push it.

“So how was it?” Kent asked.

Nicole shrugged. “It’s good that we’ve eliminated Munz and can move on.”

“That’s not what I asked though, is it?” he pointed out.

The detective shifted in her seat, her fingers playing with an empty sugar packet. “I could…” she stopped, then started again. “It was like I could sense his internal resistance, then the cracking of his composure. Not in a psychic way, just in a…” Nicole pointed to her midline, “Physical way.”

Kent knew exactly what she was describing. Most cops called it their gut, but really it was a complex set of visual and auditory clues, filtered and sorted by the brain, before the autonomic system sent the message down to the belly. There was very little instinct about it. For the most part, it was a learned craft that could be cultivated if one wished and was willing to risk opening themselves up to it.

“Again, not what I asked.”

Nicole let the packet go. “It felt pretty damned good.”

Kent grinned. That’s what he’d thought. “And what do you think of our handiwork?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look around,” Kent said. “Recognize anyone?”

Nicole turned in her seat, surveying the room. “I don’t—” She stopped herself, then swung back to him. “No. They can’t be.”

“Oh, but they are,” Kent said, then took another sip. “Can you guess who’s who?”

A smile flickered at the edge of her lips as she studied those around her. She pointed to the chubbiest of the bunch. “Chastity4U?”

“Very good,” he purred. “And MelissaOTK?”

Nicole nodded toward a redhead wearing a dark purple bustier.

“Now, knowing what you do,” Kent stated, “reimagine your profile of the killer.”

The detective’s eyes narrowed. “He certainly has far more social skills than we had anticipated.”

“Online,” Kent reminded her. “That is a whole other set of skills. But I was speaking more to his baseline personality.”

“What do you mean?”

How this reminded Kent of his days of teaching at Quantico. Okay, so it was only for one class, but still. There was a certain thrill to watching someone else’s mind expand.

“Talk to me about how he disposes of the bodies.”

Nicole opened her mouth, but shut it again. She thought a bit longer before answering. “He is a bit of a showman.”

“Exactly,” Kent concurred. “After all that work and flare, do you really think he would be content to sit back and let the police take it from there?”

“You aren’t suggesting…”

Kent was about to acknowledge that that was exactly what he was suggesting when the café door opened again. A tall, ravishing brunette entered, her long black dress hugging every curve. Her heavy eyeliner expertly applied, then smudged just enough to give that smoky look.

“Ah, but here is the showstopper,” Kent stated.

Nicole turned to take in the new beauty as the grin fell and was replaced by a frown. “Jaime? The EMT?”

Ah, if a picture was worth a thousand words, the look on Nicole’s face was worth a million.

“But…but…” Nicole balked. “Why would you lure her here?”

“Oh, my darling,” Kent cooed. “I allowed her to lure me.”

* * *

Nicole didn’t bother to open her mouth. Gibberish would just fall out. Her mind had to grasp the several bombshells that had just been dropped.

First Kent was suggesting, or, more like the profiler, telling her that the killer had inserted himself into the investigation. That someone she knew was the killer. Second, Jaime standing in that doorway. The EMT that had lured Kent here.

She couldn’t be the killer, could she? Everything about her was so wrong for the crime, yet here she stood, not looking a thing like she did while on the job. She had transformed from mousy to seductress in a few short hours.

The woman’s dark eyes passed over Nicole, then flickered back. Recognition registered. The smooth self-confidence was replaced by a look of barely contained panic. Jaime turned on her heel and headed back out the door.

Nicole knocked her chair over rushing to follow. “Police,” she announced as the room turned to her. Dodging past MelissaOTK, Nicole hit the door and burst out onto the street. No Jaime, though. Just her partner. He must have followed her here. Under other circumstances Nicole would have found that a bit overbearing—right now, though, it was a godsend.

“Ruben, did you see Jaime?”

“The EMT?” Ruben asked, glancing around the empty street.

Nicole didn’t have time to explain. “Did you see a woman in a long black dress? Hot? Smoking hot?”

“Yes, she hurried off to the south, but—”

Not bothering to answer him, Nicole struck off, knowing that Ruben would follow.

“I don’t understand,” her partner said as he hurried to catch up. “Actually, I don’t think I understand the last few hours.”

And Nicole really couldn’t help him, not while busy checking out side alleys trying to find Jaime. The EMT couldn’t have gotten very far. Not in those stilettos. Then she heard it. The click of heels against the pavement. Nicole took the next left, rushing down the alley. Was that a flash of red from the bottom of the EMT’s designer shoe?

Pulling her weapon, Nicole quickened her pace. While Ruben un-holstered his weapon, as well, he didn’t sound any more sure than he had been a moment ago. “We are chasing down Jaime?”

There she was! Nearly to her car. They couldn’t let her get away, but they were pretty damned far off. Then an arm reached out from a doorway and clotheslined the woman. Jaime flew off her feet, landing on her back, clutching her throat. Kent stepped from the shadows, adjusting his cuff links.

“What the hell is going on?” Ruben demanded.

Nicole got Jaime up, patted her down, making sure that she wasn’t carrying a weapon. “Jaime has been using chat rooms to lure victims.”

Ruben took a step back. “Do you mean that…”

Catching her breath, Nicole nodded to the profiler. “Kent thinks that the Professor inserted themselves into the investigation. Jaime was the first on the scene this morning.” Nicole found a small label in Jaime’s purse. It read “Ureter.”

Ruben read the label. “You crazy—”

“Wait,” Jaime croaked out, trying to clear her throat. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“We will see about that,” Nicole said, handcuffing the EMT.

“No,” Jaime said. “I just sold the crime scene photos.”

Kent stepped forward, “No, that’s not all you did.”

The EMT nodded slowly. “And stole evidence to sell to the murder memorabilia auctions, but that’s it.”

Nicole looked to Kent, who didn’t seem surprised. Nor did he correct Jaime.

“She isn’t the killer?” Nicole asked, feeling her heart sink in her belly.

“Oh, heavens no,” Kent answered. “I mean, we already know who the killer is. Don’t we?”

* * *

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ruben demanded, stepping forward, taking charge.

“It’s the crime scene photographer,” Kent answered, nonplussed. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“No,” Nicole snapped.

“Oops, my bad.”

Ruben felt like he’d just walked in on a Wagner opera halfway through, in its original German. “Nikki, what is going on?”

But she didn’t answer. Instead, her brows furrowed as she frowned. Clearly, her mind was whirring a mile a minute. Unfortunately, Ruben couldn’t wait for her to come up for air.

“What makes you think that Roy is the killer?” asked the profiler

“Um,” Harbinger said, acting as if Ruben wanted to know why the sun rose in the morning. “He had access. He had suppressed rage. He was the only one at the crime scene that reacted when I called the killer stupid. Clearly he has body image issues—do I need to go on?”

“Yes,” Ruben growled. “Yes, you do. Because no jury in a millennium is going to convict on that thin of, Jesus, it isn’t even evidence.”

The profiler didn’t seem shaken at all. If anything, the more Ruben pushed, the calmer Harbinger became. “Perhaps a routine internet search might show that the photographer’s biological mother, not the mother that raised him, was an anatomy professor at the local med school.” Ruben was about to comment on how that still wasn’t enough when the profiler continued. “The mother that left poor little Roy when he was a small child in order for her to go and have a sex change. That mother.”

As much as Ruben did not want to admit that Harbinger was on to something, he could not ignore a set of coincidences like that. He flipped open his phone. “Dispatch, I am going to need the address of—”

“Really?” the profiler asked. “You are going to the house of the mastermind? Like he’s going to have his killing grounds in that little apartment. The guy can’t even fit a full Foreman Grill. He had to buy the mini.”

“He’s right,” Nicole added, finally coming back to the conversation. “He would need somewhere much more isolated to set up a full anatomy lab.”

Ruben ignored the dispatcher, who was asking him to finish as he snapped his phone closed. Gritting his teeth, he asked what had to be asked. “And I assume, Harbinger, that you know where that is?”

“Well,” the profiler chuckled. “An educated guess might be his second cousin on his father’s side. Nice farm parcel of land on the outskirts of town which has had low electricity consumption except on the nights of the abductions and murders.”

If Ruben had had time to glower, he would have. Clearly that wasn’t an educated guess on the profiler’s part. He’d done his research and leapt miles ahead in the case. In a matter of freaking hours. Plus he’d nailed the fact that Murz was a necro, and had somehow caught Jaime as a crime scene thief. Oh, and he was, all the while, in a tuxedo.

Nicole got her phone out. “I’ll get us back up.”

Although Ruben wasn’t quite sure why. They had double-”O” profiler with them.

* * *

Nicole held onto the car door handle as Ruben took a corner way too fast. The tires squealed as they made the turn down a gravel road. Dust kicked up before she could roll up her window.

The sound of the siren wailed overhead as red and blue lights flashed. Ruben’s urgency had gotten them here before their backup. Nicole’s eyes found the rearview mirror. Kent’s reflection seemed oddly at peace. Eyes closed, his lips moved in what looked like a chant or meditation. The profiler was certainly unpredictable.

Of course, he’d captured dozens of serial killers over the course of his career. He probably didn’t have the same butterflies in his stomach as she did.

The tires crunched their way down the lane. Ruben cut the siren and lights as they took another right-hand turn. This road didn’t even have gravel. Kent had certainly been correct regarding the isolation of the farm. Trees lined the lane, blocking any view ahead until the road emptied out into rolling pastures.

A dark house sat in the middle of a field, with a large barn off to the left. It seemed empty. The only illumination came from their headlights slicing through the darkness. Ruben pulled them to a stop.

“I’m thinking the barn,” her partner stated, then looked over his shoulder to the profiler.

“What?” Kent responded. “I’m just along for the ride.”

Ruben shook his head, checking his weapon. “How long until our backup arrives”?

Nicole pulled her phone out. No bars. No reception. “They can’t be too far behind us.”

Ruben looked in the rearview mirror, to the profiler. “Aren’t you going to prep your weapon?”

“Me?” Harbinger asked. “I don’t carry a gun.”

“What?” Ruben exclaimed, then shook it off. “Then just stay in the car.”

The profiler shrugged, then closed his eyes again. Ruben glanced to Nicole. “We can wait.”

There wasn’t much worse she could imagine than sitting here waiting and waiting as her stomach churned while adrenaline sang in her ears. Her toe tapped against the floor of the car. “At least, let’s check out the barn.”

Getting out of the car, Nicole glanced one last time to the profiler, who seemed perfectly content to meditate in the backseat. Strangely, that bugged her. How many doors had she rushed though without a second thought? And with Ruben by her side? He’d take a bullet for her. No, make that an entire clip. Then why did her legs feel a little rubbery as she walked away from the car?

Perhaps it was the fact that they were going after a predator this time. Not some street punk or even a hard-core gang-banger. This was a man who had killed, then worked right alongside of them. He had lured half a dozen people to their death without raising a single red flag. Nicole wasn’t all that much in a hurry to see what he had in his barn.

Maybe waiting in the car hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

Then Ruben gripped the handle on the barn door and pulled. It didn’t budge. Carefully, they made their way to the small side door. Her partner turned the handle. It gave. Backing up, Ruben indicated for her to open the door. Nicole pointed her gun down and out to side as her other hand found the knob. She gave it a sharp twist, then shoved the door forward, her left foot sliding forward to stop the rebound.

Ruben charged through the doorway, his gun up and ready. Nicole entered swiftly after him, their flashlight beams crisscrossing the room. Which turned out to be rather small. Silver glistened back at them, but it wasn’t surgical equipment. Instead, it was halters and bridles. Tack. Horseback riding equipment.

Nicole hissed out a breath. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

Her partner crossed over to another small door.

They repeated the process, but this time, they entered a cavernous space. Instead of a barn with stalls and hay bales, they found a cement-lined floor and a fully functional surgical suite. Huge operating lights flooded the room, making the stainless steel equipment shine brilliantly.

The rows of scalpels. Trocars. Rib spreaders. Everything you would need to dissect a human.

Pinching her nose closed, Nicole tried to ignore the strong smell of iron and formaldehyde. Blood and preservative. She could taste it with each breath.

“Dear God,” Ruben breathed out.

Nicole joined him at a tray of labels. Each carefully hand written with the names of each organ. There were at least ten new sets. Ten new victims the killer had planned on dissecting.

In the still air, Nicole heard the faintest sound of dripping. She looked down at the ground. It had recently been hosed down. Nicole tried not to imagine what the killer had washed away. But if the drain was still dripping…

“He’s here,” Nicole whispered.

Ruben’s gun went up as his gaze swept the large chamber. There didn’t seem to be any other exit, and there didn’t seem to be any place to hide. Yet water still ran in small rivulets down the concrete. And if the tack room was the only way out, there was no way Roy could have slipped past them.

But where could he be?

She took the right side of the room as Ruben took the left. They checked behind and under each and every cabinet, table, instrument stand. Anything that provided the least bit of cover, but still they found nothing.

Ruben then pointed to a tall glass-lined cabinet. Nicole crossed the room, setting up on the other side of the object. She noticed small grooves in the floor where the hidden door must have been swung open and shut many times.

With a heave, Ruben shoved the cabinet away from the wall, revealing another doorway. This one led into a labyrinth of medical supplies. Boxes were stacked to the ceiling, blocking their view forward.

From somewhere deeper inside the storage area, the sound of scuffing filtered through to them.

Who knew what might be ahead, but they couldn’t wait. Not when the killer might be within reach. As they stepped into the maze of supplies Nicole wished, not for the first time, that the profiler had come along.

CHAPTER 4

Kent opened the front door to the house, glad that Roy had left it unlocked. Or at the least left a lock easy enough to pick. He wasn’t into splitting hairs. With one last glance over his shoulder to the barn, Kent entered the house. Nicole and Ruben had chosen to explore the killer’s dissecting grounds. He was far more interested in his seduction grounds.

Flicking on the light, Kent found a rather average-looking living room. Actually, it was a perfectly crafted average-looking living room. How long had it taken Roy to build this perfect balance of familiarity and individuality?

The furniture was arranged to make the fireplace the focal point of the room. The stonework gave the room an earthy, grounded feeling. The pictures that lined the mantle imparted a homey air. Everything you would expect of a country house. The house felt lived in. Quite the accomplishment for a psychopath to achieve.

Kent ran his finger along the back of the suede coach. How many men and women had Roy brought here before he actually got the nerve to do something about the urges he was feeling inside? Kent could imagine the number of potential victims that had bailed once they drove down that long, dark, dirt road. Others must have high-tailed it out of here once they realized how isolated the house was.

With each failure, though, Roy learned something new. All of those dry runs had taught him how to create an environment that soothed and comforted. He had also honed his skill at choosing victims that were either such extreme risk-takers, or so desperate for attention that they would actually enter the house.

Didn’t they notice the warning signs? No matter how cozy Roy tried to make the place, there were telltale signs of mental illness. The newspapers by the fireplace were stacked with precision. Not a page out of place. Kent would guess they were in perfect chronological order, as well. The wood in the fireplace was so neatly positioned that it could be in an ad for the Boy Scouts. Also, there wasn’t a phone to be seen. Not that house phones weren’t on the decline as cell phones grew in prominence. But way out here? There should have been some kind of antique rotary phone somewhere in reach.

And the lack of animals? Did no one notice that, on a farm, there wasn’t a single animal sound? Not a moo or a bray or even a bark? Kent was fairly sure that old Roy had practiced his craft on those poor denizens long before he ever made the leap to humans. That was how most serial killers started out. Really, animal control officers should just be allowed to make arrests on children guilty of animal cruelty. It certainly would stem the tide of adult serial killers.

Shots rang out from the barn, jarring Kent from his musings. He probably should go out there and see what the kids were doing, but why? Kent had already led them here by the nose. Did he really need to capture the killer for them, as well?

Instead, he closed his eyes and imagined that an unsuspecting victim sat on the couch. What would Roy do next? He didn’t have the social skills to fool anyone for long in person. He would want to immobilize his victim as quickly as possible.

The obvious next step in this process would be for Roy to offer his “guest” something to drink. He would want them to be at ease. Which must be why Roy had redesigned the house so that you could see into the kitchen from the living room. He would want to keep an eye on his victim the whole time.

The layout also served to decrease suspicion on the part of the victim. It was one thing to walk into a stranger’s house and sit down in their living room. It was quite another to have that stranger disappear into the bowels of the house. Left to their own devices, most would pick up the subtle clues that something wasn’t quite right.

By having an open floor plan, Roy could now keep talking to his victim as he went into the kitchen, keeping them engaged and unaware. That did lead to a slight problem, however. Since Roy was in full view of his victim, how did he get the syringe he needed to inject the paralytics?

Kent crossed into the kitchen, bypassing the oak kitchen table and going to the refrigerator. It was stocked with the usual suspects. Milk, lettuce, ketchup, cheese, grapes, etc. Plus a single bottle of chilled white wine. Kent pulled it out, setting it on the counter as Roy must have done. What next?

Opening the freezer, Kent took a step back. Well, at least he’d found the cousin. Or at least that’s what it looked like was stored there in a variety of plastic containers. Clever. It was a risk, of course, to have a dead body in one’s freezer, but Kent imagined how it made Roy feel each and every time he opened the door. To see his accomplishment right there. It was probably what got Roy through those first few killings.

Kent closed the freezer and opened the drawer closest to the refrigerator.

Ah, there they were.

Lined up in a nice neat row like a set of prized heirloom cutlery were syringes, each precisely filled to the three milliliter mark. Right next to them was a corkscrew.

How easy to grab a syringe as you pulled out the corkscrew. Again. Clever.

The slightest scuff alerted Kent that he was no longer alone. Grabbing a syringe, he twisted around just as Roy took a swing at him…with a trocar. Kent ducked, using his arm to block the blow. The stainless steel shaft clanged against the limb, hitting Kent’s radial nerve, numbing his hand. An expert blow by someone way too familiar with anatomy. The syringe fell, useless, to the floor.

Why did psychopaths always want to put up a fight? Kent didn’t know, but damn, they always did.

Using his only functional hand, Kent grabbed the heavy, solid oak kitchen chair, knocking it back, tripping Roy in the process. For such a tubby old man, Roy recovered quickly. That trocar, with its sharp tip, came arcing overhead, aiming for Kent’s jugular. His only option was to dive under the table. A loud whack sounded as the stainless steel hit the table, digging deep into the wood. That would have been Kent’s flesh. So far he had not been injured by a trocar, and he planned to keep it that way.

Nicole and her partner must have figured out by now that Roy had escaped using the Prohibition-era tunnels running from the barn to the house, right? Although the two detectives had not been too quick on the draw so far.

Roy, on the other hand? He was all too quick, pulling the trocar out of the splintered wood, getting ready for another blow. Kent pushed another chair out of the way and tried to make for the kitchen door, but Roy had anticipated the move. More than likely, a few of his earlier victims had tried that play.

This kitchen was its own little battleground—one in which Roy had the home court advantage. Kent changed course abruptly, spinning on his heel, grabbing for the freezer handle. Roy couldn’t correct in time, and he slammed the stainless steel instrument into the open freezer door.

Containers of cousin fell from the freezer, covering the floor like human ice cubes.

“Did you mean to kill him?” Kent asked, trying to distract Roy from the fact that Kent was unarmed. Roy didn’t seem like the talkative type though. Instead, the man lunged again, only this time his foot hit a slick spot and he careened toward the sink.

Kent snatched the syringe from the floor. Just as Roy turned, the trocar angled toward Kent, he slammed the syringe into the killer’s arm, pumping the contents into Roy’s flesh.

Still, the trocar’s sharp tip found Kent’s neck, pushing against his skin, trying to find his jugular. If that happened, Kent knew that he would bleed out before anyone could stop it. But the tip didn’t dig any further.

How could it, as Roy’s arm lost its strength and his muscles went lax?

“Was that a single dose in the syringe?” Kent asked as he pushed the plunger all the way down. By the way Roy’s eyes dilated, it hadn’t been. “Oh, so that was an overdose, then?”

Roy tried to speak but his lips just made a flapping motion.

“Is that how your victims tried to scream, Roy?” Kent grabbed the killer’s arm and turned the trocar away from his own neck and toward Roy’s. “Did they see it coming? Did they flail?”

Well, Roy certainly was. Kent took some grim satisfaction as the killer’s arms flopped around like fish just pulled from the water. Pushing harder, Kent brought the tip of the trocar up to Roy’s neck, letting the sharp edge lay against his skin.

“Could they feel the blood rush out of them? Did they know the exact moment they passed the point of no return?”

By Roy’s dilated pupils and fluttering eyelids, Kent guessed that they did.

Before he could help Roy really get in touch with his victim’s feelings, the door burst open. “Kent!”

* * *

Nicole raced over as Roy fell to the ground. Kent’s knees buckled and she caught the profiler while still holding her gun on the downed killer. “Are you okay?”

Ruben charged in behind her. He dropped to his knees, checking Roy’s pulse. “He’s alive, but barely.” Her partner glared at Kent. “What the hell happened here?”

“Self-defense.”

“With a syringe and trocar?” Ruben demanded.

The profiler shrugged. “You use the gifts that God gives you.”

Her partner flipped his phone open and tried to dial for help, but there was no signal. Luckily, sirens sounded in the distance. Their backup. Finally.

“I’ll flag them down,” Ruben said as he rushed from the room.

Kent leaned heavily into Nicole as he retorted. “You do that.”

She helped the profiler into a kitchen chair. She ran her hands over his arms, chest, neck. “Are you injured?”

“A few blows to my pride perhaps…”

How Kent could go into the ring with a vicious serial killer and come out of it without a scratch was beyond her, but here he was. The only thing out of place was a few hairs. She combed them back in place with her fingers.

“What took you so long?” Kent asked softly. It was only then that Nicole realized they were only inches apart.

Taking a step back, she couldn’t look the profiler in the eye. “We followed a noise into the storage area.”

“And the shots?”

“Um… A rat. But in our defense,” Nicole hurried on, “it was a really big rat.”

Kent smiled, his eyes softening as he chuckled. The expression was incongruent, yet oddly consistent with the profiler’s personality. “That’s when you figured out that Roy had doubled back?”

Nicole nodded. “We hurried back to the main room and I found the trap door under the surgical table.”

“You found it? Like it was hidden and you deduced its location?” Kent asked, narrowing his eyelids. Seriously, the guy was half psychic.

“Well, Roy didn’t close it completely shut,” Nicole admitted.

Her eyes shifted to the man lying, like a broken doll, on the floor, his legs askew and neck bent at an awkward angle. She couldn’t bring herself to straighten him out. To think, for all this time she had casually chatted with him. Thought of him as an okay kind of guy. He’d even bought her coffee, for Christ’s sake. And she’d returned the favor.

“What really happened?” she asked.

“You would like to know, wouldn’t you?”

The profiler’s gaze bored into her. His eyes scanning back and forth across her face almost like he was reading a book. Could he see that being a junior partner in a Midwest city’s police department hadn’t been her career goal? Could he see that she’d written down “FBI agent” in her kindergarten dream job book? Did he know that dream had been shattered when her father had been diagnosed with MS? How her brother had gotten to go off to Harvard law school, but Nicole had had to stay close by to help with her father’s illness?

A barely perceptible grin returned to Kent’s lips as Ruben and the rest of their backup rushed into the room. “Not here,” the profiler whispered. “Later.”

His voice had been so soft that it seemed like he hadn’t even breathed the words. Especially not as the room filled with the chatter of cops and EMTs. Ruben barked orders, trying to contain the chaos, but The Professor had been caught. There would be no containing that.

Yet the profiler simply watched the scene with what appeared to be a sense of amusement. Like it was just another day at the office for him. And it probably was. What would it feel like to have the audacity to go up against a serial killer, alone? And to have the confidence that you could win?

Nicole didn’t know, but damn if she didn’t want to give it a try.

* * *

Ruben signed yet another form as Roy was wheeled out of the house toward the ambulance. Out of the knot of first responders, Captain Glick strode up the steps of the farmhouse and entered the living room.

“Excellent job, Torres.”

Grinding his teeth, Ruben flicked his eyes towards Harbinger. “I can’t take all the credit, Captain.”

“Sure you can,” the profiler said as he leaned against the doorframe. “I just came along because I thought we were getting ice cream.”

Glick frowned. The captain wasn’t any too fond of humor, let alone sarcasm. “I don’t understand.” Ruben went to explain when Glick held up his hand. “I’ll read about it in the report.”

“Captain!” a uniformed cop called out from the back of the house.

Before moving off, Glick turned to Ruben. “A thorough report. A painstakingly thorough report.”

“Yes, sir,” Ruben answered.

The captain wasn’t two feet away when the profiler pushed off the doorframe. “Well, I’ve given my statement, so I think I’ll be off.”

“Yeah,” Ruben responded, more relieved than he should have been. “You do that.”

The dig just didn’t work when Harbinger looked ready to hit the town in that tux of his. Then Ruben noticed Nicole heading toward the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ruben asked, before thinking it through.

“Kent offered his expertise on a few of my cold cases,” Nicole said, although her partner wouldn’t meet his gaze. “And since he’s leaving in the morning…”

Expertise. Right.

Ruben knew enough about Nicole to know that he couldn’t strong-arm her into staying, as much as he wanted to. He tried a different tactic. “Whoever writes up the report gets the collar.”

She reached out and patted his shoulder. Patted. “You deserve it, Ruben. You put in all the legwork.” After giving his arm a little squeeze, she turned for the door.

Once she was past the profiler, Harbinger winked at him. “I wouldn’t wait up.”

Ruben tried to count to ten, however he couldn’t even think of what came after the number one. Glick came up from behind.

“Is Nicole leaving with the profiler?” Glick asked. All Ruben could do was nod. The captain squinted into the night. “And isn’t that your car they’re taking?”

“Yep.”

Why was it that on the night of catching his first serial killer, Ruben felt like the loser?

“Guess it’s best they get to know one another,” Glick said, clearly not in tune with Ruben’s inner landscape. “Harbinger’s requested to transfer here as a consultant.” Of course he had. Glick continued, “And the FBI has already approved it.” Of course they had. “The serial killers of this city are going to have to sit up and take notice,” Glick finished.

As the captain moved off, Ruben stared out past the knot of police vehicles and watched the lone car leaving the crime scene until it disappeared behind the trees. Ruben doubted that serial killers were the only ones that needed to take notice of the profiler.

Damn it.

Pet Holiday Miracles

Mr. Jack O. Lantern

A Halloween Miracle

What is it about holidays and pet miracles? It seems that our best friends like to really take it up a notch around the holidays, just to prove how special they are.

Halloween is no different.

Which brings us to Mr. Jack O. Lantern. But to really understand how this little Cairn Terrier helped save, not just Halloween, but a precious little girl, we’ve got to go back several days before Halloween.

A client who had turned into a friend called me, concerned for her young daughter. You see, she had leukemia, and was undergoing such high chemotherapy that her white cell count had dropped. Making matters worse, ever since they had lost their older cocker spaniel the month before, my client’s daughter had been bereaved. A low white cell count and depression could spell disaster for a child in her condition.

But her pediatrician was so worried about infection that he did not allow them to get a new pet. While I might not have agreed with him entirely on this point, I couldn’t fault his concern, given how low the girl’s white count was. She was so prone to infection that unless she was around her immediate family, she had to wear a facemask and gloves to protect her from something as simple as the common cold.

Which, of course, was cramping her plans to go trick-or-treating as a pirate princess (as you can imagine, Pirates of the Caribbean had just come out). How could she be a pirate, let alone a princess, with a facemask on? My client’s daughter refused to leave the house. She couldn’t even be coaxed out for ill-gotten candy.

I must admit to feeling a little helpless. Besides the usual, “Have faith, I’m sure it will get better,” speech, I didn’t have much else to offer.

I should really have believed my own advice, though, and had far more faith than I did.

My client was getting ready to go out with her son to trick-or-treat, (leaving her daughter and husband home), when they heard a rustling on the porch. Her daughter pulled up the top of their jack-o’-lantern and found a tiny cairn terrier puppy. Brindle colored. For those who don’t know coat colors, brindle is a mixture of orange and black. You really can’t get more Halloween-colored than that.

But how in the world had it gotten inside the pumpkin?

No matter, my client knew what her pediatrician would say, so she made the children stay back while she scooped the puppy up. Delaying their trick-or-treating, they rushed the puppy into my office.

She wanted their daughter to stay home, but after this find? No way, no how. She was coming, facemask and all.

I checked the puppy out and found him happy and healthy. I did just about every test you could imagine, but everything was telling me this puppy was perfectly healthy.

The daughter so wanted to hold the puppy, but even after a long call to the pediatrician, that was not yet an option. He wanted several other tests—which needed to be sent out to the laboratory—before he would even consider it.

Everyone seemed crushed. I, however, noticed that while the puppy was super loving, he wasn’t a biter, or even a licker. As a matter of fact, he was perfectly content sitting in the box they had brought him in.

I said, “Maybe you can’t pet him, but how about trick-or-treating with him?”

The girl looked to her shoes, disheartened. She didn’t have a costume.

Oh, please. Like I couldn’t whip up a costume in a few minutes? We were lucky that a colleague of mine had some children’s scrubs she’d bought for her own daughter the year before. Quite appropriately, they were pumpkin patterned.

And since the girl was going out trick-or-treating as a successful surgeon, the facemask and gloves fit perfectly.

But what about Mr. Jack O’ Lantern? I noticed the son had his small plastic pumpkin basket. I asked if he would mind, instead of candy, if we could put a puppy in there?

Mr. Jack O. Lantern took right to his new home, leaning over the side, wagging his stumpy little tail.

So off the family went.

The next day, my client called. I assumed that it was to find out about the tests. (Which had all come back negative. That puppy really was healthy!)

Instead, she had called to tell me how excited she was! Her daughter had gone up to every house, chattering behind that mask of hers all about Mr. Jack O’ Lantern. And even though they had said they didn’t need candy, the puppy was enough of a treat, both kids got so much candy that their father had to go home to get a pillowcase to carry it all!

Mr. Jack O’ Lantern had truly saved Halloween!

And her daughter’s excitement lasted straight through until the morning. She’d gone onto the Internet and researched Cairn Terriers, and had made her dad go out and buy the puppy all the bedding, food, water dishes, etc., that a puppy would need long term.

Quite the turnaround. I informed my client that the puppy’s tests had all come back negative. I barely got the words out of my mouth when my client hung up on me! I wasn’t offended, though. I knew her next call was the pediatrician.

I wasn’t surprised when she called me back a few minutes later. After all of the tests we had run, the pediatrician had still said that her daughter couldn’t touch or play with the puppy.

Well, that little girl had refused to take “no” for an answer. She had gotten on the telephone and spoke directly with her doctor, telling him how important a good mood was for her health.

The pediatrician finally relented. He was still worried, though, and gave them a strong warning. A single scratch could do serious damage. But at that point, my client was more worried that depression was already doing serious damage, and she decided to take the risk. Then the truly miraculous thing happened.

They tried to put the puppy into the girl’s arms, but he wouldn’t stay there. Instead, he would jump down, then hop into his pumpkin trick-or-treat basket. He loved getting petted, but he wanted all that attention to happen in the basket.

It was like he knew how fragile his new mistress was and didn’t want to risk hurting her.

Now, I know that many would roll their eyes at that statement, but I have seen this phenomenon many times before. With my own dogs, even.

My little 2-pound Chihuahua, Chief, loved to play. Even after a major bone surgery and being in a cast, he wanted to play. Now, I could keep him up in my arms to keep him safe from himself, but the problem was that he needed to be down on the ground to carefully use the leg to regrow the fragile bone.

Yet each time I tried to let him get some exercise, he wanted to play tug of war with his big brother, Orlin (all 38 pounds of him). Yet Orlin, who had never said “no” to playing tug of war before, refused.

Instead, he would curl up on Chief’s favorite bed and nudge Chief to lie down next to him. Chief finally gave up trying to play and went to sleep. For a month, the only thing Orlin would do with Chief was take a nap, or go outside to get a little walking-around time.

Certain animals truly do seem to know when their family members are vulnerable and take extra special care, so I was not at all surprised by Mr. Jack O’Lantern’s behavior.

I wish I could say that my client’s daughter’s recovery from leukemia was swift and smooth, however, it wasn’t. What was consistent, though, was her positive outlook.

As soon as J.O.L. (their nickname for him) was old enough, they got him certified as an “assistance dog” and a “therapy dog,” so that she could take him everywhere she went.

It was a hard year, but my client’s daughter finally went into remission. I expected her to be in a pirate princess outfit that next Halloween, but instead, she went as a surgeon again, facemask, gloves and all.

Even now, years later, whenever she escorts her younger nieces and nephews for trick-or-treating, she wears scrubs, mask, and gloves.

One year I asked her why, and she told me that she never wanted to forget how close she had come to giving up. She never wanted to forget how Mr. Jack O’ Lantern saved her life. I don’t credit that puppy for saving her life.

She does!

Halloween was not a holiday usually associated with miracles until Mr. Jack O’ Lantern!

Christmas

A Season of Miracles

I know this book is called Pups in Tea Cups and that I have already wandered off into tales of “Bigness,” but this next story had such a profound impact on my life that I just had to share it with you. However, I must warn you that this is a TEN-hanky alert.

I have been lucky enough to have witnessed so many miracles involving animals— Christmas and otherwise—but I thought I would share one during this season that is near and dear to my heart.

Years ago, a veterinary assistant and good friend of mine was in a bad car accident with her sister. Her sister came away with a broken wrist and sprained ankle, but my friend had been thrown from the car.

Even when the police and EMTs arrived, they simply couldn’t find my friend. It was a cold Christmas Eve, with snow on the ground, and everyone knew that if they did not find her soon (since it was clear that she must have, at the very least, been unconscious or unable to respond to the rescue team) we could lose her.

Everyone was combing the thickly wooded area when my friend’s sister heard the tiniest mewing. While she wasn’t in the animal field, she had been around her sister enough to know that it was a newborn’s cry.

So, even though the cry was coming from the opposite direction her sister should have landed from the accident, she simply couldn’t let a baby kitten die of the cold.

But when she followed the sound, she found a tiny, white kitten curled up with her sister!

Somehow, the kitten had found her! She was named “Christmas Miracle” right there on the spot (although we usually call her “Chrissy” for short).

They rushed my unconscious friend to the hospital for emergency surgery as I got the call about the kitten. Even though the hospital staff was reluctant, after they heard the story, they allowed me to try to treat the kitten in their waiting room.

With my friend’s entire family (she was Catholic, so there were A LOT of family members) gathered around, expressing their love and appreciation that the little baby kitten was cared for. But, sadly, no matter how hard I tried to save “Chrissy’s” pure soul, she faded. You would have thought that it would have been sad, but it was so joyous.

We all sensed that the little creature’s singular purpose was to come down, save my friend, and then be called home. Tears flowed, but in gratitude (as they are right now as I write this).

When my friend awoke from surgery, we told her the miraculous story of a kitten that lived less than twelve hours, yet had saved her life.

However, she wasn’t shocked in the least. As a matter of fact, in her traumatized haze, she had heard that kitten’s cry—and thought it was God letting her know everything was going to be all right. She didn’t know what was going to happen, but she said she wasn’t scared.

That was over fifteen years ago. Now my friend and I live states apart and seldom see one another. She has gone on to become a registered tech and a mom. I get a Christmas card from her each year, and each and every year, there is a tiny note at the bottom…

“With ever loving thanks to ‘Chrissy.’ “

And each and every year, I cry, remembering that little white ball of fluff and how she saved my friend’s life.

Even though I only knew you for a few short hours, I won’t ever forget you, either, “Chrissy.” That, I can promise you.

“Frick” and “Frack”

It Took Two to Pull Off This Miracle!

For the New Year, I thought I would tell you a tale of…two mutts.

Who knew that they would possibly save the life of one of my clients?

You see, my client had lost her cat, and had decided to not to replace her beloved feline. She and her husband were retired and really looking forward to traveling.

They had dreamed for decades about heading to Europe, Alaska, and Costa Rica. The farther away, the better. They wanted to stay for weeks at a time, really immersing themselves in the culture.

When she came back to pick up her kitty’s ashes, we said what we both thought would be our final good-bye.

Um…yeah…until later that day.

My client went to spread her cat’s ashes at a nearby beach when she heard whimpering from some bushes. There were two tiny puppies! They were skinny, filthy, and starving!

Of course, she rushed them to me.

And oh boy, did they have a LOT of health problems, but oh boy, were they cute!!! They were some kind of poodle, Shih Tzu, and Heinz 57 kind of puppy. All fluffy on the head and all wiry everywhere else—with little short noses, but long ears.

I started to go over our options, but I didn’t even get Humane Society out of my mouth when she said she would take full responsibility, and at the least, foster the pups until they were adoptable.

For once, I actually thought this client meant it. I mean, I had been hearing for years about these elaborate vacations. They had brochures. They had travel insurance already purchased. They were serious. I fully expected to find those pups another forever home.

So my client went home with the two pups and about twelve different medications (and several cans of food). But every day was a new problem…with both of them.

Seriously, it was if these two pups shared one body. If one sneezed, the other one sneezed. If one stopped eating, the other stopped eating. They walked in step. They played exactly the same. They came whenever the other was called.

So you can see how easy it was to name them “Frick” and “Frack.”

Then days turned into weeks.

These pups needed a LOT of care and attention, but my client’s first big trip to China was coming up. They had scant days before they had to decide to cancel the trip and eat the cost, (the insurance covered a lot of contingencies, but not supercute and fragile pups) or find the pups a new home.

My client’s husband then started feeling a little ringing in his ears. He playfully blamed it on the pups’ constant yipping. But they saw it as a perfect opportunity to have him checked by the doctor. Maybe if he had an ear infection, they would have a medical reason to cancel the trip and have it covered by the insurance.

Well, thank goodness he went to the doctor! That ringing wasn’t an infection, but a tumor on the bones in his ear!

Luckily, it was caught early enough that they were able to do surgery to save not only his life, but his hearing as well!

If it hadn’t been for those pups, and both of them wanting to stay home to care for them, my client may have ended up in a foreign country needing delicate, intricate microscopic cancer surgery! The doctors even said that had it gone on much longer, it could have broken through into his brain cavity!

So yes, “Frick” and “Frack” (who recovered as well as their owner did) possibly saved his life!

And even better yet, after the surgery and radiation therapy, my clients decided that they still wanted to travel! But this time, in an RV.

Now they and “Frick” and “Frack” cruise around the U.S., getting to know our country’s culture inside and out.

I get postcards from them several times a year. Each time with “Frick” and “Frack” sitting side by side, next to my client and her husband, with a national monument as a backdrop.

They could not look any happier.

Life seldom turns out how you plan it (even decades in advance) but it feels like when you let animals into your heart, it turns out just fine! :-)

Pumpkin Pie

With Whipped Cream on Top!

Yes, that is the name of a Yorkie puppy.

And the story behind it is even better than the name!

You see, my clients went down to Mexico for Thanksgiving vacation. They had a cat, and had lost their dog about a year before, so this was the first year that they could really travel for the holiday. I had no idea at the time that they were having marital problems.

Well, while they were down there trying to “spark” the connection, they actually made the decision to break up.…Um, until a tiny, scrawny, ragamuffin puppy trotted into the resort, and then promptly collapsed.

Oh my gosh! They knew enough to give it some Karo syrup to get its blood sugar up, but since there wasn’t a veterinarian for miles around, they decided to just jump in the car and haul his booty home to my clinic.

Now, this pup had EVERYTHING a dog could have wrong with it. Parvo, parasites, mange, kennel cough. You name it. He had it.

I warned my clients that I had no idea if I could pull the little guy through, but they wanted to try.

To make a very long medical story shorter, I helped the little guy through just about everything, and he should have been on the mend. But, he would NOT eat. I mean, we were feeding him through his vein, but he wouldn’t even tolerate force-feeding.

What were we going to do with the little guy? At some point, I needed him to well…eat!

Needless to say, the man and woman both spent hours at the clinic keeping the puppy company and begging him to eat.

I told them to take a break, go get some dinner, and come back so we could talk about our options.

They came back—and had generously brought back a piece of pumpkin pie for me. So there we were, my clients tempting the puppy with baby food, turkey, NutriCal, and everything under the sun while I munched on the dessert. I leaned over to check his catheter when, all of a sudden, he jumped up and took a HUGE bite out of my pie!

It all happened so fast. He downed the piece, and then jumped up for another one, getting a face full of whipped cream!

We all started to laugh. Little dogs will decide what little dogs want to eat. Or was it not so much what I was eating—or rather, that I was eating it off of a plate of my own?

We got another set of plates and each put “our” food (baby food, turkey, NutriCal—you know, all the stuff that the puppy wouldn’t eat a minute ago) and then pretended we were eating it.

Oh my gosh! He couldn’t get enough of it. We even “tried” to keep it away from him. No way! It was HIS!!!!

So that is how “Pumpkin Pie with Whipped Cream on Top” got his name.

And in the course of caring for the puppy, my clients somehow realized why they fell in love in the first place. A few months later, they renewed their vows…in Mexico. With “Pumpkin Pie” standing right between them!

Yep, you heard it here first. “Littleness” came to the rescue!

Rambo

Fashion Icon? Yep.

You see, my clients couldn’t decide on a name for their new Boston Terrier. They wrangled over names like “Twerp,” “Jazzy,” and “Pete.” But nothing would stick. And he wouldn’t answer to any of them.

Now, it wasn’t like “Rambo” didn’t have enough personality. He had TOO much. As a matter of fact, one of his favorite things to do was to pick out his outfit for the day.

And yes, he was macho enough to pull off a pink sweater occasionally!

But the one that was his favorite was…you guessed it—a red headband and leather pants.

So one day, he came in for some vaccines—dressed up as I described. Well, some of my other clients weren’t as understanding, and laughed at him.

Well, he barked right back!

In that moment, we knew we had a true “Rambo” on our hands!

Love Birds

A Valentine Short Story from the Animals Talk Back series

Wyatt winced as he took the left turn, the hand-over-hand motion pulling on his most recent injury. His finger still hurt from where Diablo, the aptly-named devil Chihuahua, had taken a chunk of flesh out of the protruding digit. Wyatt should really know better by now than to point at the tiny land-shark while scolding him. Or Wyatt could just stop scolding the little demon. It didn’t seem to make much difference.

One would think as a professional pet psychic, he could coerce the little rat, but no. Of course Wyatt wasn’t the real pet psychic, that was his uncle but with Bodhi laid up at the hospital, it was up to Wyatt to do his muddle through.

As Wyatt rounded the corner, he saw his assistant, Jazmine stepping out of the beat-up monstrosity she called a car. Jazmine flipped her red hair up and over her shoulder as she turned to look in his direction. She gave him a crooked smile, her teeth white against the deep red of her lips. His hand slipped a little on the wheel. He recovered and flipped her a quick wave before pulling up to the curb and launching himself out of the car.

“So what we got?” Wyatt asked, checking in the rearview mirror to make sure his hair was mussed, just so.

Jazmine opened a folder. “Looks like a problem with some Lovebirds that are fighting.”

“Right,” Wyatt snorted. “Fighting Love birds.”

Then that expressive eyebrow of Jazmine’s shot up.

“Seriously?” Wyatt asked. “Love birds fighting… on Valentine’s Day?”

He chuckled but that eyebrow just kept going up.

“Oh, okay. Dually Love birds it is.”

Jazmine flipped a sheet over. “The birds have been together for nearly six months and—”

Wyatt strode up to the house.

“Wait,” Jazmine protesting rushing to catch up. “I haven’t even told you half the—”

Wyatt held up hand. “I don’t like to prejudice my first reading.”

His assistant stepped in front of him. “More like you have no idea what to do with the information.”

“Tomato. Tomaato,” Wyatt said with a shrug. “Besides we need to a move on, I’ve got plans.” He checked his watch. Actually they needed to get through this appointment in under five minutes if he hoped to keep his first reservation.

“You?” Jazmine asked. “You have a Valentine?”

“Um, three.” Wyatt said as he rubbed his fingernails against his shirt, then snagged the dog bite on his button. “Ouch.”

“Three? Isn’t that a little… Big Love, even for you?” Jazmine punched his arm, deadening it from the shoulder down. Man, that girl seriously didn’t know her own strength. He worked his shoulder, trying to get the frog out.

“Not all at the same time, Sugar Ray,” Wyatt responded. “I’m spacing out the goodness. I’m meeting one for lunch, one for dinner, and the last for dessert at her place. And by dessert, I mean a heaping helping of Wyatt.” He spun around in his best James Brown impersonation. “‘Cause I’m all about the sweetness. Jump back. I wanna kiss myself. Heh!” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“I doubt if anybody is going to be asking for a second helping with those maneuvers.” Jazmine said shaking her head.

“Hey, Valentine’s Day is an important national holiday. I’m just doing what I can to spread the love.” Wyatt pointed to his assistant, “What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Whatcha got goin’?” Wyatt asked sure she had some swank dinner plans then a long slow, boring walk along the beach. You know, chick stuff. “What are your plans?”

“Um…” Jazmine wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Well, he’s older.”

“Oh, so you want to keep your guy a mystery. I feel ya.”

Jazmine turned away, heading to the house. “It’s about that time, yeah?”

“Definitely!” Wyatt began jumping up and down, slapping his arms around his chest, then did ten jumping jacks in quick succession.

Jazmine cocked her head. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready.”

“For what?”

Wyatt went into some hamstring stretches. “Remember the speed whispering event? Dumbo?” Wyatt shuddered. “I still have nightmares about that elephant’s trunk.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure a couple with fighting lovebirds is not going to require this much prep.”

“You may be right,” Wyatt replied. “But I’d rather be safe than sorry. Okay, let’s do this sucker!”

* * *

Walking up, Jazmine studied the architecture of the house. Anything to avoid watching Wyatt attempt deep knee bends.

The house was a salt box colonial, red brick with white trim. The lawn was neatly kept, the edging razor sharp, the grass an emerald green. A silver Mercedes station wagon was parked in the driveway. The entire place screamed understated wealth and attention to detail, especially in the renovations. While most of it appeared done, you could still see evidence of paint drops clothes and discarded scaffolding.

No wonder the birds were upset. Change like that, the noise of repairs and workmen streaming in and out the house could challenge even a lovebird’s affection.

As they reached the front door, a loud screech sounded. Wyatt turned to Jazmine. “See?”

Jazmine rang the doorbell not wanted to egg Wyatt on. How she ended up in this job still baffled her. To act as an assistant to a man pretending to be a pet psychic? But that one hundred thousand dollars in student loans needed to get paid.

“It’s open!” a voice called out. “Come in!”

From all the screeching maybe Wyatt was right. It did sound a little like a combat zone. Her “boss” puffed out three quick breaths then opened the door.

“Hurry,” the voice called out, “Close the door before—”

Jazmine slammed the door close just as a green and red bird streaked up, screaming all the way. Its bright plumage a blur. It banked over their heads then dove.

Straight for Wyatt. He ducked, covering his head but somehow the bird landed right in the middle where Wyatt couldn’t reach. He stood up abruptly as Jazmine tried contained her laughter.

“What?” he said, running his finger through his hair. “What’s so funny?”

She pointed to the bird on his head, but Wyatt just couldn’t find the little thing as it settled down on the top of his head. Jazmine’s eyes teared up from suppressing the laughter.

“You’ve… You’ve got…”

“Got what?” Wyatt exclaimed turning in a tight circle. “I’ve got a what?”

By now the lovebird was preening its feathers, right on top of Wyatt’s head.

“You’ve got a…”

“A what?” Wyatt demanded.

“I am so sorry,” their client, Mrs. Kaufman, said running up. “I don’t know what’s gotten into—”

Another huge screech and suddenly a second lovebird banked around the corner, zeroing in on Wyatt.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Wyatt yelled trying to duck, but the second lovebird came at him, talons out. “Um, hey! A little help here? Ow! What the—”

“Shoo!” Jazmine said waving at the two birds until they finally flew off, fighting all the way.

“I can’t possibly apologize enough,” Mrs. Kaufman said as she extended her hand.

“No, no you couldn’t,” her boss said, shaking his head, sending green feathers everywhere.

“I’m Ragan,” the client explained. “They have been going at it for weeks. I can’t understand why.”

Jazmine was about to reply when a male voice called out, “Ragan! Have you seen the Goltz brief? I put it down on the mantle and now I can’t find it.”

Ragan’s lips fell into a hard frown as she yelled back. “I put it in your desk, Dan. You know. Desk? The place where paperwork’s supposed to be kept?” She grimaced at Jazmine, apparently looking for some feminine solidarity. “But how about you come and meet the pet psychic and his assistant?”

“Yeah, yeah… I’ll be there in a minute,” the husband responded. “I need to make a quick call.”

“Quick call,” Ragan muttered then raised her voice. “It’s never a quick call.” Their client turned her attention back to them. “I’m sorry. I really thought that doing this on Valentine’s Day would make it so that we could do this all together.”

“Hey, yeah, no problem,” Wyatt said, still trying to get his hair back in place while eyeing the arguing birds. “They always so friendly?”

The woman sighed. “They used to be so in love. Grooming each other. They could barely be apart, but now?”

She indicated to the curtain rod. Each bird had settled on either end, glaring at one another.

Mr. Haufman came out of the office, setting both birds squawking at one another. “Satisfied?” he asked his wife. “A short call.”

Ragan did not seem satisfied at all especially with the two lovebirds high pitched cries. “And its only taken how many weeks to schedule a simple appointment?”

Jazmine stepped forward before the humans started fighting as badly as the birds. “Well, I think we will need to do a thorough history and then discuss—”

“No need,” Wyatt announced. “I’ve got this covered.”

She turned on her heel. Wyatt seldom had anything “covered” and this? They had barely walked into the house. Jazmine knew they had to keep up appearances that Wyatt had “psychic” abilities, but she comforted herself in doing their job properly. Figuring out all the environmental factors, making sure the pets had been to a veterinarian to be certain there were no underlying medical conditions, reviewing the pet’s diet, basically making sure that the clients got their money’s worth.

“Wyatt, perhaps we should take a moment—”

“Nope,” Wyatt stated. “I am hearing those lovebirds loud and clear.”

* * *

Wyatt, of course, had no real idea what he was going to say. When did he? But those lovebirds were looking a little twitchy, flapping their green wings and snapping open and closed their hooked beaks. Sure they might be weighed in grams, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t take a chunk out of you.

Besides he’d seen a couple like this before. Not the birds, but the humans. They looked just like his sister and brother-in-law. The way the husband was turned away from the wife, and the wife’s arms were wrapped around her waist. Add in this big rambling house, recently purchased as evidenced by the smell of fresh paint plus the station wagon out front.

A couple didn’t buy all that without an expectation of the pitter-patter of little feet.

“You see,” Wyatt started. “I think the lovebirds want to start a family.” Jazmine backed away, shaking her head, but he ignored her peculiarities and marched on. “They want to build a nest.”

Mr. and Mrs. Haufman frowned but not the scowl like Jazmine more like a frown you get when somebody is talking turkey or in this case, lovebird.

“And sometimes the guy—”

“Bird,” Jazmine interjected.

“Yeah, the guy bird feels like he’s got to build this amazing nest. Since he can’t lay the eggs, building a tricked out nest, that’s his job, ya know?”

Mr. Haufman nodded as one of the birds flittered down from the curtain rod and landed on his shoulder.

“He’s worried he won’t be a good enough dad,” Wyatt hurried over Jazmine, “Bird dad. That his kids, I mean, chicks, I mean hatchling, I mean… Oh, you know what I mean, will need more than he can provide.”

While Mr. Haufman’s head was bobbing up and down in agreement, Mrs. Haufman had adopted Jazmine’s scowl. Wyatt turned to the wife.

“And while the dad, bird dad, of course, bird dad, is off getting the nest ready the mom bird feels left out and lonely.” The second little green and red monster swooped down landing on Mrs. Haufman’s shoulder as Wyatt continued, “Then she starts to wonder if the dad bird even wants little love birds anymore.”

Tears sprang to Mrs. Hauffman’s eyes. “I can see why the birds have been so upset.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Haufman took his wife’s hand. “So the birds really should be building the nest together.”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Wyatt said giving Jazmine a knowing look, like “I know what I’m doing” look. Even if he did luck out a little on this one. “They are lovebirds after all.”

Ragan leaned her head onto her husband’s shoulder as the two birds took wing, flying together, swooping in and around one another.

“They just had to remember it,” Wyatt finished, looking to his watch. Like he said, under five minutes. “All right then, I think we are done here. Nice to meet you both.”

He put his hand out to shake but the lovebirds, the human ones, had eyes only for each other. Just as well. It was Valentine’s Day.

“We will let ourselves out,” he said.

They didn’t really reply so much as start making out. Time to exit stage left.

Once out the door, Jazmine elbowed him in the ribs.

“What?” Wyatt protested, rubbing his bruised side. “They’re happy.”

“Um, did you not notice?” she asked.

“Notice?”

“Those two lovebirds?” Jazmine said, that eyebrow on the move again. “They are both girls.”

Wyatt just smiled. Sometimes he even impressed himself. “So they are very progressive lovebirds, what can I say? I’ve got the magic touch.”

His assistant rolled her eyes as they walked to their cars. So what if he didn’t know a weevil from a weasel? He knew dysfunction when he saw it. He lived it. Heck, he made it a viable lifestyle choice.

Which unfortunately meant he picked up on the droop in Jazmine’s step. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Your older man not wanting to build a nest?”

She stopped, eyes downcast. “Yeah, about that, I kind of fibbed.”

Fibbed? That was Wyatt’s thing, not Jazmine’s. “About what?”

“I don’t have a date, per se.”

Ugh. Wyatt hated it when people used weird words. Was “per se” Spanish? French? Seriously, speak English for goodness sake.

“You don’t?” he asked hoping that was vague yet prompting enough to get Jazmine to say what she really meant.

“I…” she looked up and caught his gaze. “I was going to visit your uncle in the hospital. I didn’t think he should be alone today.”

Wyatt could feel even his well-gelled hair wilt. His Uncle Bodhi. After that stupid stroke he’d been in a coma. Wyatt had visited him every single day. Mainly because Diablo, the demon Chihuahua insisted, but today, today Wyatt had sworn off the hospital. He had three, count ‘em three dates.

And who could sit through another round of Where the Red Fern Grows? Which by the way, someone might put a warning label on that sucker because the ending? Dear goodness, they had kids reading that book? Then he thought they’d be safe with Bambi and what do you know? The momma dear gets shot. Again, this is kid’s fare? And don’t get him started on Marley & Me.

What was wrong with an animal story that was fun and heartwarming all the way through? Seriously? He didn’t want his uncle waking up to a blubber-fest.

“But you go have fun,” Jazmine said fighting with the rusted lock of her beater-mobile.

“Nah,” Wyatt said jiggling the door’s handle, opening it. “I’ll follow you there.”

Jazmine cocked her head. “But you’ve got three, count ‘em three dates.”

“Um, hello?” Wyatt stated making sure he sounded plenty exasperated. “Don’t you know what day this is?”

“Valentine’s Day?” Jazmine answered slowly.

“No. It is meatloaf day down in the cafeteria and who, I ask who is going to miss out on that?”

“Not you, I take it,” his assistant said chuckling.

“And not you either,” Wyatt reassured her. “But since it is Valentine’s Day, we are putting extra ketchup on that sucker to honor the occasion.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jazmine said as she hunched over to get in her tiny speck of a car.

“You know it,” Wyatt responded walking back to his car, then turned back to Jazmine. “So do you know how Old Yeller ends?”

“I think we might want to go with Free Willy.”

Wyatt stopped short. “That’s a animal movie?”

Jazmine’s dimples showed as she laughed. “Yes, Wyatt. Yes it is.”

Huh. You learned something new everyday.

Pet Whisperer…er…rrr: Book 1 in the Animal’s Talk Back Series

CHAPTER 1

Wyatt Stampley leapt up onto the coffee table, fleeing for his life. Well, at least fleeing for the life of his ankle. His attacker growled at the base of the table, all teeth and menace.

Granted his opponent weighed four pounds. Granted his opponent stood only six inches tall. Granted his opponent was a teacup breed. That did nothing to take away from the snarling, gnashing set of teeth ready to taste Wyatt’s flesh. He knew his opponent’s true nature. He faced not a dog, but a land shark.

A thirty one year old man should not have to be hiding on top of a coffee table from a dog. Okay, a thirty one year old man shouldn’t have to hiding from anything on top of a coffee table, but certainly not a dog. But yet here he was searching for an escape route from the jaws of the devil beast.

“Yeah, um, Uncle Bodhi?” he called out, but no answer came. “Could you like, save my life?”

“Just a moment,” the muffled response came from the kitchen. “I’m getting my ice pack.”

Ice pack? There were like a dozen of them in there. Bodhi’s trip to the kitchen should have been a grab and go. What could possibly be taking Bodhi so long? The apartment was what leasing ads called “cozy.” It might as well have been a studio with a couple of walk-in closets that some overambitious real estate agent had decided to label bedrooms. There was barely room to turn around, much less travel from end to end. Bodhi could have come to Wyatt’s rescue in a heartbeat.

The Chihuahua though, the Chihuahua was pleased that Bodhi was distracted. More than enough time for Diablo hatch his evil, evil plan. Never was a Chihuahua more aptly named. If you squinted, his perky ears almost looked like horns.

“I’m telling you, he’s getting ready to lunge!” Wyatt yelled, hoping to hurry his uncle along. “He’s tightening those haunches!”

Oh, to weigh so little and have such power. The coffee table wouldn’t be safe for long. Not with that glint in Diablo’s eyes. Wyatt had seen it before. And had the scars to prove it. He feinted to the side, hoping to catch the ravening beast off his guard. Diablo was not fooled for even a millisecond.

“Those rippling muscles!” Wyatt informed his uncle as Diablo’s growling hit a crescendo. Wyatt changed his audience to the uncaring universe. “This isn’t happening!”

Diablo jumped, hitting the coffee table chest high. His long nails dug into the faux wood surface, trying to pull himself onto the table. Wyatt scrambled back from the fury of the beast. Luckily gravity kicked in, sending Diablo back to the floor. But Wyatt knew that an anger like that only grew when thwarted.

Bodhi shuffled into the room. His shoulder-length hair was half in and half out of a loose ponytail. The guy used to be salt and pepper but now was more like salt, hold the pepper. Worse one side of his once grand mane was plastered to his head from a defrosting ice pack.

“Oh, let him have his fun,” Bodhi mumbled.

“Fun?” Wyatt asked, incredulous. “Fun?”

But Bodhi winced as he sat down in his well-worn recliner, placing the new ice pack over his eyes. “He’s just a little Chihuahua.”

Okay, Bodhi might be having a bad migraine, but deeming Diablo as anything but a demon’s spawn was akin to heresy. Still, Wyatt kept his voice down. “For the last two months I’ve slept with one eye open. The Viszine alone is costing more than I make.”

Diablo barked.

“It does so,” Wyatt said, glaring into those beady little eyes.

Well, that was the clearly the wrong thing to do as Diablo ran along the edge of the table trying to snag the edge of Wyatt’s frayed jean hems. Was there no depth to which this dog would not sink? Dashing across the table, Wyatt tried to find a safe haven, but the Chihuahua was relentless.

“Bodhi, you know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” Dang it. Diablo had him by Wyatt’s very fashionable hem. Wyatt tried to pull his leg back, but the Chihuahua clamped harder as he was lifted from the ground.

Oh no, you don’t, Wyatt thought. He was not about to help Diablo scale the table. Wyatt shook his leg but that only made his opponent growl all the more. Forget teacup Chihuahua, this was a teacup Pit Bull.

“Um, Bodhi, I don’t think this pet communicator apprenticeship is the gig I was hoping for.” Wyatt shook even harder, finally dislodging Diablo’s death grip and a good chunk of Wyatt’s hem. The little dog landed on his feet though, clearly ready for round two. “I mean, Bodhi, you promised me chicks.”

His uncle’s lips turned up in a faint smile, “And I delivered them right to you.”

“Not baby chickens!” Wyatt argued. “I was talking about chicks, babes, dolls. Whatever your generation called them.”

“We called them women and didn’t use tricks to get to know them,” Bodhi said sighing as he readjusted the ice pack over his eyes.

“Yeah, well,” Wyatt said as he tried to think of a really awesome come back. When that failed, he moved on. “I just don’t think I’m cut out for this pet whispering thing.”

“That’s not what you said after your mother finally kicked you out of the house.”

Kicked? Kicked? For a moment Wyatt scrambled for a come back. Bodhi had not, just said that. If it had not been for Diablo making another run at his hem, Wyatt might have just stood there slack-jawed while he absorbed the shock. As it turned out, Wyatt needed to dance on the tabletop to keep those vicious fangs from finding their purchase again.

“I will have you know, there was no kicking!” Wyatt countered. “I walked. I strode out of there.” Balancing on the edge of the table he continued. “A man’s gotta take a stand. I drew a line in the sand and she crossed it.”

Bodhi moved the ice pack from his eye and glanced to Wyatt. “Over the laundry?”

“She wants me to be more ambitious,” Wyatt said puffing out his chest until he almost tipped over and had to rush to the other side of the coffee table to avoid Diablo’s lightning fast counterstrike.

“‘Get a job. Get a career,’” Wyatt repeated in his mother’s lecturing tone, but Bodhi shifted in his seat letting out a low moan so Wyatt rushed on, “If that’s what she wanted me to do, then she needed to let me decide if I preferred silky smooth fabric softener or those crappy anti-static sheets.”

Covering his eye again with the ice pack, Bodhi sank deeper into his chair. “The poor woman was late to work waiting for the rinse cycle every morning.”

“What was she so worried about?” Wyatt admonished. “She’s the manager of the branch. They can’t get started without her. She’s got the key.”

“Yes, I believe that was the problem.”

“Hey!” Wyatt exclaimed to his uncle but then stopped stopped his soft shoe routine abruptly. Where was the dog? Wyatt peered over the table. Diablo had vanished. No growling. No barking. No gnashing. This had to be a trap. One that Wyatt was not about to fall into. Staying in the “green zone” of the coffee table, Wyatt turned his attention back to the argument.

“Bodhi, whose side are you on anyways?”

His uncle sighed deeply rubbing his temples. “I’m on the side of you going to the Perfectly Pets event for me.”

“You mean ‘speed-whispering?’” Wyatt snorted. “And wait a minute. Going for you? What happened to going with you?”

“This migraine isn’t letting go,” his uncle said.

“Perfect! We can both take the day off!”

This was the best idea his uncle had come up with since…well since forever. Now if he could just find Diablo and send him back through the Hell gate he came through…

“We can’t miss this event,” Bodhi explained. “It’s where I get eighty percent of my clients for the year.”

Wyatt got down on his hands and knees, trying to peer under the table as he tried to talk his uncle out of the worst idea since…well since forever.

“All the more reason for me not to go! They are never going to—”

Like a flash of canine lightening, Diablo flew out from behind the couch, snapping all the way. Wyatt flung himself backwards, nearly knocking himself out on the lamp. His feet scrambled to keep him on the table. Once he was done shrieking, Wyatt tried to make his uncle understand what an immensely awful idea this was. This whole multi-tasking thing was not really working all that well for him.

“Just smell that breath! Brimstone I tell ya!” Wyatt said pointing at Diablo’s set of finely pointed teeth. “And that’s just your pet. Then there’s all the birds with their cries and fluttering. And the cats! The claws. They just don’t like me.”

“I can’t imagine why…” Bodhi responded.

Oh, Wyatt wasn’t going to let that slide. The next thing you knew Bodhi would be asking him to get a haircut, just like his mom. But his uncle spoke over Wyatt’s stammered protests. “Do this one thing for me and I will let you quit.”

“Let me?” Wyatt asked. Oh, now Bodhi really was sounding like his mother. And if he walked away from the woman who cooked him racecar shaped pancakes every morning, he could walk away from Bodhi so fast his head would spin. Let me. “I will have you know that—”

“And,” Bodhi emphasized. “I will forgive that little ‘loan’ you took from my wallet.”

Wyatt stopped his frantic efforts to keep his jeans unmolested and possibly for the first time in his life was speechless. Bodhi wasn’t supposed to have known about that. The card game last night really should have turned out a whole heck of a lot differently than it did. I mean, how could he not win a game named five-card stud?

“I swear that I was going to replace—”

Bodhi removed the ice pack from his eyes and locked eyes with Wyatt. “Go to the Perfectly Pets event for your poor old uncle?”

Dang his elders. They knew exactly which strings to pull. He couldn’t let his uncle down. Not after he’d taken him in. Not after he was willing to forget that unapproved loan.

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever,” Wyatt conceded with an audible sigh.

Bodhi nodded then rose with a creak. Wyatt watched as his uncle shuffled off into his bedroom. But wait. Hold on a second.

“Um…” Wyatt said when he realized that Bodhi was not going to take Diablo with him. “Bodhi? Throw me a bone here?” Wyatt scooted back to the middle of the table. “I mean, literally, a bone so I can feed it to Diablo.”

But Bodhi’s only response was the sound of the bedroom door clicking closed.

“Oh dear God…” Wyatt said as Diablo’s lips curled up into a devious smile, his tongue lolling out, tail wagging. Whenever Diablo looked happy, that was the time you really needed to worry.

“No!” Wyatt screamed as Diablo lunged forward, clearing the side of the table, his nails clattering on the wood. What else could Wyatt do but jump onto the couch.

But Diablo could clearly smell Wyatt’s fear and set off in hot pursuit.

As Wyatt launched for the recliner he realized that this was going to be a very long day.

CHAPTER 2

The hotel looked like it had been built back in the fifties, when everything seemed designed to be quickly turned into a bomb shelter. Boxy, squat and solid, it mocked Wyatt and everything he stood for.

Worse someone must have decided to give the place a freshening up. Unfortunately they choose to do during the seventies. The wall paper was a swirling of peach and mint green that made Wyatt a little dizzy. He half expected a disco ball to be at the center of the ballroom.

While dabbing yet another wound on his arm, courtesy of the devil dog, Wyatt nearly running straight into the registration table. The bite wound stung, but nothing NeoSporin couldn’t take care of. He hoped.

The edge of a banner smacked him in the face.

“Perfectly Pets Presents: Find the Right Pet Communicator for You!”

Yeah, right.

Did these people really believe that someone could read pet’s minds? Wyatt loved his uncle and everything but come on. Looking out over the crowd taking their seats Wyatt’s fears were confirmed. Three ring circuses were less chaotic. The barking, hissing and squawking. And that was just from the people.

There was a lady with long blonde hair sitting next to her Afghan, all matchy-matchy. Not just their clothes, either. People talked about pets looking like their owners, but these two were so close it took Wyatt a second to figure out which was the human and which was the dog. Wait. Was the one with the pink burette the chick?

Then there was the guy that looked like an ex-fighter sitting next to a Bulldog. Wyatt had to be being punked. He wasn’t even going to comment on the naked Sphinx cat with his bald owner.

Yet the contestants for best in the freak show weren’t the clients. They were the other “communicators.” One wide eyed woman held up and mirror and growled at herself. There was an older, grey-haired man wearing camouflage shorts, flip flops, a and well, nothing else. Except for the large gold ankh necklace. Nothing inspired confidence like a bare chest in the middle of winter. And Wyatt was fairly certain the guy with a bundle of smoking weeds in his fist, waving them back and forth, was not in compliance with the fire code.

And everywhere, animals.

Dogs, cats and birds were to be expected, but there were species there that Wyatt had a hard time. What’s more he was relatively confident they didn’t… couldn’t… or shouldn’t occur spontaneously in the natural world. There was a pygmy hedgehog, three potbellied pigs and what looked like a cat-sized gerbil.

“Excuse us,” a voice came from behind.

Wyatt side-stepped just in time as an enormous iguana on a leash, led by a preppy guy in an Izod and topsiders walked past. At least the guy’s clothes matched the decor of the hall.

An older woman, grey bun tight upon her head, crossed toward him. Wyatt bit his tongue before he accidentally called her Mrs. Guthry, his junior high school librarian. Now that woman could have stood up to Diablo. Especially if he had a late book.

But this woman, while very prim with her glasses dangling down on a beaded necklace, did not have the look of world conquest as Mrs. Guthry had. A shiver went down Wyatt’s back just remembering when he returned a book with the corner of the cover ripped. Atilla the Hun had warmer receptions. Much warmer.

“Where in the world is Mr. Stampley?” the Mrs. Guthry look-alike asked her assistant.

“What would be me,” Wyatt answered stepping forward, making sure no reptile were in his way first. As she turned to him, Wyatt read her name tag. “Mrs. Crumpet, Organizer.”

He held his hand out, but instead of taking it, Mrs Crumpet’s eyes studied him up and down. Dang. She did have a bit of Mrs. Guthry in her after all. Wyatt repressed a shudder while tugging his sleeve down. The less battle scars she saw, probably the better.

“You are definitively not Mr. Bodhi Stampley.”

“Got me there,” Wyatt answered with his iconic win-’em-over smile. He made quite the show of bringing his thumbs to his chest. “But I am the pet whisperer extraordinaire that you are looking for.” He thumped the thumbs against his chest for good measure. There was no substitute for good marketing.

Mrs. Crumpet looked down at the myriad of nicks and cuts on his hand. Darn him and his sense of flair. He dropped his hands and amped up his smile.

“But Bodhi has been a head-liner at this event for over a decade—”

“Just point me in the direction of the ladies,” Wyatt reassured her. “And I’ll take it from there.”

The organizer’s lips pinched together in what Wyatt could only assume was relief that he was taking his uncle’s place. They then relaxed into a thin smile.

“Yes, let’s let you do that,” she said then turned to her assistant. “Please escort Mr. The-World-Renowned-Stampley to table thirteen, Scout and Ashley, would you?”

The assistant’s eyes dilated. Probably because, you know, she appreciated Wyatt’s sense of style and panache. He had that effect on women. She wordlessly nodded and guided him across the room where a woman stood facing away from them, studying the landscape painting on the wall. This goddess incarnate had on a draped scarlet dress that allowed you to view her perfectly sculpted back. She was tall, with shapely legs that just went up and up and up.

Wyatt straightened his bolo tie. “Now this is what I am talking about.”

He waved the assistant off. He could handle this introduction his own. He was in his element. A colorful and shiny fish in crystal clear waters.

Making his way up to table thirteen, Wyatt blew into his palm, testing his breath. Maybe this pet whispering gig wasn’t as bad as he had thought.

“Why, hello there, beautiful.” Wyatt liked to come off confident.

Ashley turned around to reveal a long handle bar mustache. “Why hello there, yourself,” he said in a deep, thick Texan accent.

“Oh my…” Wyatt said backing away. He could care less about how someone dressed or whether they preferred AC or DC current, but he did care that he just called this guy beautiful. That statement was a little hard to walk back from, ya know? Someone could have warned him. Wait. Someone should have warned him.

Wyatt glanced over to Mrs. Crumpet who had a more than satisfied look upon her face. World Renowned his booty. Just as he was going to make his apology-slash-exit, Ashley’s rather large Doberman Pincher ran up to Wyatt and stuck his nose right at the zipper.

“Oh dear!” Wyatt exclaimed as he tried to push the dog’s nose away, but the rather large canine with a snout at exactly the wrong height was determined to get in a good sniff. A good sniff, and to all appearances, as much long a sniff as he could get away with.

Okay, Diablo was a demon child, but at the least he couldn’t reach quite all the way up there.

“Now you know why we call him, Scout,” Ashley comments with a smile.

“Yes, he certainly likes to explore forbidden—” Wyatt’s voice cracked as Scout burrowed in deeper. “Wow. Maybe we could reel him in before he digs down to the family jewels…”

Finally Ashley, with his rather well-developed arm muscles, pulled Scout away, but as soon as Ashley left any slack, Scout’s nose moved right up against Wyatt’s booty.

“Okay,” Wyatt said trying to shoo the dog away. “I have to give Scout credit for persistence.” The way things were going, Wyatt’s next doctor’s appointment wouldn’t need to be quite as thorough as usual.

Out of the thousand different ways that Wyatt thought that today could go when he woke up on the sofa, this was definitely not one of them. How did Bodhi put up with this? There were insults here too great to be borne. Wyatt either found a way to ditch the Doberman’s nose or he was out of here.

Luckily the chair seemed the perfect escape. With one good shove, Wyatt extracted himself from Scout and had himself a seat. At first Scout seemed perplexed. With Wyatt’s legs tightly crossed, his all stage access pass was denied. Wyatt allowed himself a moment of satisfaction until Scout wrapped his paws around the chair legs and started humping.

Perfect.

Ashley sat down across from Wyatt a cheerful grin.

Wyatt waited, hoping either Scout would get tired of the incessant back and forth motion or Ashley would feel some sort of embarrassment and call the dog off. Apparently the two were quite happy with the arrangement.

“We do realize…” Wyatt said, trying to keep his tone a notch or two below shrill, “… that this is wildly inappropriate, right?”

Ashley shrugged. “I guess he likes well coiffed men as much as I do.”

Wyatt, once again, cursed his superb ability with hair product.

* * *

Martin Forlanker leaned forward in his chair. He needed to give the impression that he was paying rapt attention as Holly rambled on about her little Scottish Terrier, Something about McDuff’s habit of chewing her shoes. Her leather shoes. The ones that matched little McDuff’s. Everything about the two was in synchrony.

Their dark hair color, their red and black tartan sweaters. Although Martin did have to admit that Holly filled hers out a tad better. However, the young woman could talk. And talk. Time to step in.

Martin reached out and took Holly’s hand. She tried to pull back, but he gave it a tender squeeze. Not enough to alarm her, but enough to keep their skin in contact.

“Now Holly,” he asked. “Do you feed him from your plate?”

Martin’s guess must have hit the mark for the woman’s eyes fell and she studied the floor. However for a Scotty owner in matching clothes, his question wasn’t exactly a leap.

He gave her hand another squeeze. “Tell the truth, Holly. Because you know that McDuff will.”

She looked to the Scotty who did in fact look ready to spill the beans. Finally with a sigh, she shrugged like only pretty woman could. “Every once in a while.”

“Holly…” Martin coaxed.

“Okay,” she said biting her lip. “More like every meal.”

Martin smiled broadly, patting Holly’s hand as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, McDuff wants you to know how much he appreciates it.”

Her eyes widened when no reproach came. As a matter of fact she hugged that furry little Scotty tight to her. “Really?”

“Really,” Martin replied with every bit of sincerity he could muster.

This wasn’t about what the pets said. It was all about what the owners wanted to hear. And no one was better at telling them exactly that than Martin.

* * *

Wyatt had almost gotten used to the rhythmic rocking. There was something almost hypnotic about the way the chair moved. The part he wasn’t quite so used to was the dog actually humping the leg of it.

“Nope, sorry. Got nothing,” Wyatt said as he opened his eyes after “communicating” with Scout. He looked to Ashley, hoping against hope that the three-minute timer would go off and save him from this torment.

“But he likes you so much!” Ashley responded seeming quite put out that Scout was not communicating beyond the obvious body language signs.

“Yeah. Let me qualify,” Wyatt said with a clenched jaw. “I’ve got a lot to say, but not in mixed company.”

Of course Wyatt wasn’t exactly sure the “mixed” he referred to; he just knew if he said what was in his mind right now it might singe the feathers off the cockatiel next to him. And considering the amount of hairspray in its owner’s bouffant, keeping his mouth shut was probably safest for everyone involved.

For the thousandth time, Wyatt searched the room for an excuse, any excuse to leave this “appointment” early. But then he stopped. Wait a minute. Why wasn’t anyone else getting humped? Why was he the only one? Why was he so special? Okay, maybe he answered his own question.

Finally, finally, finally the jarring sound of the buzzer went off. Before Ashley could ask for his number or Scout could put a nose somewhere else it didn’t belong, Wyatt flew out of his chair and headed for the next station. Anything was better than this.

Unfortunately that meant running straight into another one of the pet psychics.

“Sorry,” Wyatt mumbled, trying to get around the guy.

“A whelp, I see,” the man stated.

“Huh?” Wyatt asked as he looked up to find the guy was dressed in a three piece suit. A suit. Around all these animals? How exactly did the guy expect to get the cat hair out of that wool tweed?

* * *

“I’m Martin Forlanker,” He introduced himself as the cur did not bother.

“Oh sorry,” the man said. “Wyatt Stampley at your service.” He held out a hand, but then wiped it off on his frayed jeans. “You do not want to know what that was.”

“And this must be your first time?” Marting was finding it hard to believe that this hipster had any relationship to the once great Bodhi Stampley.

“Yeah.” The shaggy man answered, still looking around as confused as a kindergartner at orientation.

“We always go clockwise,” Martin stated, but the man still seemed out of his depth. “To the right,” Martin explained, adding his finger as a visual aid. “We rotate seats by always going to the right.”

“Well, yeah. Duh,” Wyatt stated then promptly turned left, running directly into Martin’s pressed suit.

“That right,” Martin clarified, pointing to the next station.

Finally Wyatt seemed to understand the basic concept of clockwise motion and headed to the empty table. With a quizzical look he asked Martin. “Is there supposed to be somebody here?”

Oh, how you had to love a newbie.

Martin pointed to the signs announcing that Dumbo was waiting out outside. “Your next appointment is right through there.”

“There?” Wyatt asked, pointing out the glass doors that lead to the large patio.

Of course Martin could have warned him what came next, but truly what would be the fun in that? “Yes. But you’d best hurry.”

Wyatt opened the door with great enthusiasm, not knowing there was an elephant to greet him on the other side. A loud trumpet shook the glass doors, followed by a thump, thump, thump then a loud crash.

Too late, Wyatt must have realized his error for Martin heard him scream, “Dumbo, no! No!”

Having been within Dumbo’s clutches without his favorite apples, Martin might have sympathized with Wyatt had it not been for the strange stain the man left on his lapel. Of his freshly dry-cleaned suit.

“That’s not my trunk!” Wyatt yelled as Martin sat down at table number eight. “Dumbo, that’s not how we shake hands.”

With a satisfied grin, Martin found his next potential client. A prim elderly lady sat with her Himalayan cat stretched out across the wood. Impeccably groomed, the cat had far better manners than a certain pet psychic Martin had just run into.

Ah well, onward and upward. In a clockwise direction. Martin nodded politely to the aged woman as he sat opposite her and her fluffy feline.

* * *

Elephants were faster than most people gave them credit for. Well, more credit than Wyatt ever had. Of course he had never really thought he would have to put that assumption to the test. But now on his fifth lap around the fountain with Dumbo’s trunk within an inch of his belt, Wyatt was acutely aware of exactly how fast an elephant could run. And as an added bonus, it turned out that elephant’s trunks were nimble enough to unbutton shirts and unbuckle belts.

Who knew?

Well the handler running behind the elephant probably had a clue. But interesting new fact they discovered, an eighty-five pound guy can’t stop an elephant by pulling on his tail. Shocking, but true. Granted the handler was doing his best, but Wyatt’s legs were tired. Did they not know that he’d gone several rounds with Diablo already today? Dumbo was doing his best to give Scout a run for his money.

Water sloshed out of the fountain, almost tripping Wyatt as he rounded the corner. Feeling that ever so soft truck at his back, Wyatt surged forward. The glass doors weren’t far. He slammed into them, jerking on the handle, but they wouldn’t budge.

Locked.

Wyatt pounded on the glass. How could no one inside hear the Dumbo’s triumphant bugle as his truck grabbed Wyatt’s belt?

He clutched the door handle as Dumbo lifted him from his feet.

“Help!” Wyatt yelled. And low and behold that guy turned around. The guy who thought that moving “clockwise” was somehow going to help him get out the stick that was up his booty. But any port in a storm, right? “Help me!”

* * *

Martin watched with amusement as the boy who thought he was a pet communicator got pulled off the door and out of view. Life truly was poetic at times.

“Well?” Mrs. Houseman asked.

He looked back to the old woman with the laconic cat. This one was going to be so easy Martin almost felt bad. Almost.

“Do you really need to ask?” Martin nearly purred himself. “Of course Porsche wants a diamond collar.”

“Oh, but everyone says it is so silly,” Mrs. Houseman responded, petting Porsche’s long silky smooth fur.

No doubt it was her heirs saying such things. Her heirs that would undoubtedly stroke out if they heard the ideas he was putting into their benefactor’s head. Ah, but he had one weapon that they did not.

Martin laid his hand over Mrs. Houseman’s. “Porsche didn’t want me to tell you this but he is reincarnated royalty.”

The old woman’s eyes dilated to the point Martin worried that perhaps she would have a stroke with the good news. You wanted to hook the client, but not excite them to the point they needed long-term medical care.

“Yes, yes, yes,” She exclaimed. “I am always telling people that he must have been a prince of Persia.”

Some days this truly was easier than snatching a lollipop away from a babe. She was already convinced, now she just needed enough incentive to do as Martin wished.

“But you see, that isn’t the problem,” he said, his voice low and concerned.

“Problem?”

Martin nodded, making certain that his features were sympathetic. The trick was to match the expression with the vocal tone seamlessly. “You see his crown was usurped. He was stripped of all worldly possessions and banished. He wandered the desert for months before finally succumbing to the heat.”

“Oh my poor, poor Porsche!” Mrs. Houseman exclaimed as she leaned over, wrapping her arms around the Himalayan. The cat gave a single blink of annoyance.

Yes, well, luckily Martin was the one able to talk.

“So you can see why Porsche would want such baubles. He needs to find closure for that terrible, terrible memory.”

“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Houseman said in between the muted coral kisses she showered upon the cat’s head. She looked up to Martin. “You will come with us, won’t you, Martin? To the jeweler’s? I want to be sure to get him exactly the right collar.”

Ah, he could taste that stolen lollipop.

“It would be my pleasure.”

* * *

The bell, the sweet, sweet bell rang. Wyatt heard it. Even over his own screams. He’d lost his belt and his shirt would never be the same, but somehow he had survived. But how long could his luck hold out?

Then the most gorgeous sight came before him. The glass doors opened. Wyatt had never been so glad to see an old broad with her glasses on a necklace before this moment. He could even forgive her uncanny and unsettling resemblance to his former librarian right about now.

He made a dash for the opening, but Dumbo seemed to be a little psychic himself as he wrapped his trunk around Wyatt’s ankle.

“Dumbo!” Wyatt yelled as he shook his foot. “I know you’ve got separation anxiety, but dang!”

Finally though with a good old-fashioned tug, Wyatt broke free and stumbled into the lobby. Behind him Dumbo trumpeted his disappointment.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Wyatt said as he dusted himself off. “Quit your belly-aching.”

The organizer’s eyebrow went up, but then again she hadn’t exactly been on the “Elephant Chase” exercise regime, now had she?

“Which way?” Wyatt asked.

She gave one of those grins that old people gave when they really wanted to smack you upside the head. Or at least that was the grin Grammy always got just before her hand flew. It was strong enough that Wyatt had to stifle his ducking instinct.

“To the right, Mr. Stampley, to the right.”

Oh yeah. That whole right thing.

He made sure that he turned to his real right, not his other right this time. That seemed to satisfy the organizer, allowing her to rush off to help quiet the cockatiel. Wyatt was glad he wasn’t going to that table. That bird had a mean look in his eye and Wyatt was done with mean.

However when he arrived at his next “appointment” he found a large scaly head staring, unblinking, at him. Had he said “large”? The word he was looking for was gigantic. Its tongue flickered while its owner dug around in her purse.

You know what? He was kind of done with this day. He had told Bodhi that he’d come. He did not at any time tell his uncle that he would stay. A frisky dog and an over enthusiastic elephant was one thing. A snake was quite another. As a matter of fact he’d rather get back on the pachyderm track than deal with this.

“Sorry, lady but I draw the line at cold-blood serpents.”

Then the woman rose from her purse. Her long brown locks danced along the outline of her leather vest. A vest that revealed a chest covered in a cobra tattoo. The light gleamed off of a hoop earring circumnavigating her eyebrow.

“Unless, of course…” Wyatt said as he sat down, “they have Daddy issues.”

* * *

This businesswoman was hard to crack. Martin had tried charm. He had tried physical touch; however, this power suit was having none of it. And to top it off, she had a rabbit. Rabbits did not give you much to work with. They ate. They pooped. Well they did one other thing, but this bunny lived solo.

Despite her confident demeanor, Martin didn’t give up. After all, she had taken time out of her busy day to come to this event. If she was worried enough to miss a “power” lunch, she was worried enough for him to make a profit.

“And my veterinarian wanted to try Bunny Prozac.”

“No, no, no,” Martin exclaimed, thrilled to finally find his hook. “Your veterinarian wants to try mood altering medication? When will they learn?”

Ms. Trotten shook her head, disgusted as well. At last they were on the same page. A page Martin was very familiar with. He leaned in closer.

“I don’t like to advertise it, but I am an animal healer as well.”

“Thumpy hates that medication. It’s toxic, isn’t it?”

Martin nodded solemnly. Really veterinarians did half the work for him. “I can’t tell you how harmful putting dangerous, harsh chemicals into our precious companions can be.”

Ms. Trotten stroked the bunny’s back as he twitched his nose.

“May I ask you an important question?”

“Of course,” she said as her rigid body language softened with each passing moment.

“Might I ask how much you love Thumpy?”

She seemed to struggle to say the words. Her eyes kept darting to the table on either side of them as if they were eavesdropping. Martin guessed that her affections for her lagamorph were not exactly well received at her office.

“It is safe here,” he urged. “We understand.”

Like a dam breaking, the words rushed out, “I love him more than words can describe. He eats organic alfalfa that I have imported off of heirloom china.”

And Martin didn’t doubt it. Otherwise why would he have tried so hard to get through to her?

“The reason I ask is that these healing sessions are long and I’m afraid they take so much out of me that I just…” Ms. Trotten or make that Mandy, reached out and touched his arm. Martin pretended the contact gave him strength. “Only if you loved him, truly loved him could I even consider trying. And only for cash payment.”

Her fingers dug into his arm. “Please, I’ll try anything. I’ll pay anything. Just please, I don’t want his shakra contaminated with pills.”

Unfortunately the buzzer went off. As he rose Martin slipped her a business card. “How does starting tonight sound?”

She snatched the business card away, smiling. “Yes, please. I’ll stop by the ATM on my way home.”

Ah, how Martin loved a woman with a high credit score.

* * *

Wyatt plopped down into the chair at the next table. A table he got to by going to the right… all by himself, without prompting. That was cause enough for celebration. And then when no dog humped his leg, no trunk tugged on his belt, and no python showed his fangs in a display of “affection”, this was his lucky table.

He rubbed his hands together.

“Alright,” he said to the red head with a head full of curls seated across from him. “Whatcha got? Golden Retriever?” Wyatt hammed it up a bit to the little blond girl sitting in the woman’s lap. “They’re all about the ball. Ball this, ball that, ball everything.”

He glanced around the table. No dog.

“Okay, a cat then?” Wyatt looked to the young lady’s ring finger. Bare. “I’m going to go with he’s peeing on your pillow because he doesn’t like your new boyfriend?”

The woman shook her head.

“Bird? Iguana? Hamster?” Wyatt queried then tickled the little girl, “Are you hiding a cricket in there?”

The most he got out of the girls was a tiny little timid smile. Funny, Wyatt was cracking himself up. Ah well. He knew how to play to unappreciative crowds.

“This is Andrea,” the red head said. “And I’m Jazmine and we are sorry to report, but we do not have a pet with us.”

Wyatt frowned. This was a first. Granted he hadn’t been at this more than a half an hour, but that’s not how the event had rolled so far. He rose. Maybe he had enough time to run to the vending machine before the next buzzer. Running from Dumbo had really worked up an appetite.

“I’m not sure if you noticed the sign, lady, but we’re kind of ‘animal-oriented’ here.”

“‘Animal-oriented,’” the red head countered with a cocked eyebrow. “That is what you are going with in front of a little girl?”

“What?” Oh crud. “No, I mean, not in the bad way or anything, it’s just—”

“Look,” Jazmine said thankfully stopping Wyatt before he inserted his foot into his mouth, especially after what he probably stepped in out in that courtyard. “Andrea’s dog, Blackie the Wonder Beast…”

She stopped to stroke the little girl’s back as the cloud came over Andrea’s features again. That was one sad little girl.

Jazmine looked up with what seemed to be a forced smile. “Anyway Blackie died last week and we were hoping that you could—”

Wyatt put up a hand. He knew what she wanted. He just couldn’t give it to her. He leaned in so the organizer didn’t hear him.

“You don’t seem quite as whacked out as the rest so I can tell you that I’m just making stuff up here.” He eyed he organizer. If she was anything like Mrs. Guthry she had eyes in the back of her head and the hearing of a bat. “I’m just winging it. Riffing. White lies. White, but lies nonetheless.”

Jazmine’s answer was the one word he was not expecting.

“Duh.”

* * *

Jazmine allowed a grin to spread as the supposed “pet psychic’s” eyebrow arched nearly to his hairline.

“Really?” she queried. “You thought that I thought, that not only could you somehow read a dog’s mind…”

“Well, I, uhhh,” Wyatt stammered.

Normally Jazmine would have left it at that. Clearly the guy had no clue what he was doing, but he was the first person today, no make that this week, that Andrea had responded to at all. He was definitely better than that aging hippy chick that had offered to give them her recipe for “herbal” brownies. Or the guy in a full Native American headdress that thought channeling General Custer was somehow going to be helpful.

She cocked her head to the side, asking a question that had been on her mind a lot since entering this ballroom. “Which, by the way, would you be speaking dog to them or would they have to translate into English to talk with you?” she pressed, mainly to watch him squirm.

He was cute, she supposed, if you liked that type of I’m-trying-really-hard-to- look-like-I-don’t-care kind of look. If she had to hazard a guess, he’d spent more time perfecting bed-head look than studying animal behavior. And the artfully disheveled shirt with the cuffs unbuttoned? Please.

Jazmine cupped her hands over Andrea’s ears. “And then the kicker is that you can somehow do all of this communicating across the mysterious, unknowable veil between life and death?”

“It’s… it’s what the sign says.” Wyatt coughed, pointing at the banner… Speak with your beloved pet, mind to mind.

But even he didn’t look like he believed it. As exasperated as Jazmine was she had to admit that at the least he wasn’t trying to sell them anything. Not like the rest here. As a matter of fact, Wyatt had actually tried to warn her that he wasn’t a psychic. That had to count for something, right? Besides her main priority was Andrea.

“Look,” she said more softly. “I’m just the nanny, but her dad died last Christmas.”

Wyatt’s sad exhale caused Jazmine to pause. She hadn’t expected him to show any emotion let alone sympathy. He nodded solemnly to Andrea who sighed equally heavily in response.

“And now the dog…” Jazmine removed her hands from the little girl’s ears, instead stroking her hair. “Andrea hasn’t spoken since we took Blackie to the vet.”

Wyatt leaned over and patted Andrea’s knee. “That’s tough.”

“Her mom won’t allow any talk of…” Jazmine hugged Andrea close. “Well, of heaven or anything, so I thought if someone here could reassure her…”

“I hear ya,” the man replied softly.

Was he going to help? He looked like he was going to help. Bed head and all, but then he pulled back, his eyes scanning room like a coyote trying to get out of a bath. Jazmine watched as he seemed to struggle with himself then he abruptly stood.

“But I don’t think I’m your guy.”

She rose as well, “But you’re the only one she’s even remotely responded to though and I think—”

The buzzer sounded loudly, making the man across from her, her one hope for Andrea, jump like it zapped him in the pants.

“Sorry,” he said not soundly all that terribly sorry. “But duty calls.”

Jazmine watched helplessly as Wyatt sped to the next table, cuffs flapping wildly in his self-generated wind.

* * *

Bodhi surfaced from a haze of migraine pain to feel Diablo’s wet nose nudging insistently at his palm. He groaned as he rolled over in his bed, the pain impossibly blossoming into stabbing shards of glass. Diablo hopped over to Bodhi’s face, licked him twice on the cheek, then whimpered.

“It’s okay, little one, I just can’t get settled,” he murmured soothingly, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. He just needed to get back to sleep. If he could sleep this off, he would be fine. More than fine. He’d be able to get back up and maybe even make it to the event before Wyatt made a complete mess of things.

Good kid, Wyatt. Just a little self-absorbed. A bit more time with him, maybe some work with the animals. Animals could really turn a guy around. What better evidence for that than Bodhi himself?

Just a little more rest. Then he’d be up and running. No problem.

Diablo licked Bodhi’s face once more before snuggled into his neck. Now perhaps he could get some sleep.

* * *

Martin eyed the young lady that sat across from him. She had red hair. Some might call it cinnamon. He called it brassy. Not his tastes, per se, but he had been known to make an exception from time to time. He took his “concerned face” up a notch higher. Women loved to feel understood, and this look said nothing if it didn’t say, I understand. He really should trademark it.

She was saying something. Martin refocused his attention on her words rather than her locks.

“Anyway, I’m just the nanny and—”

“You’re the babysitter?” He retreated slightly from his compassionate-lean-in- posture. Well, this was an unpleasant bit of news. Not completely without remedy, however. “But your boss sent you with a check or a credit card perhaps?”

“Um. No,” the redhead stated. “She doesn’t even know that I’m here.”

Wait. Perhaps he should have paid slightly more attention to her situation before committing his I understand patent-pending pose. But all might not be lost. Au pairs could often exert enormous influence on an absentee parent worried about a child.

“So… no way to put down a retainer?”

“No,” the redhead stated firmly. Now why in the world would she become irritated by him? Yet she went on, “Like I just said, we’re just here for Andrea to grieve.”

“Your boss doesn’t want a sage cleansing ritual for the home?” Martin pressed. Surely there was an upsell in here somewhere.

“No.”

“A pro-biotic series of enemas?” All right, that was a long shot, but Martin could see the sale disappearing right before his eyes.

Her lips pressed firmly together, creating a most unattractive straight line. “Definitely not.”

A spark of inspiration caused Martin to glance at the morose rag-doll girl next to red head. Maybe the child was his ticket in.

“I can’t interest you in a lost pet séance for a slight fee?” He overrode the woman, going for the sale. “I’ll contact up to three animals.”

The woman crossed her arms. “That’s still a ‘no.’”

That was it. Crossed arms were the ultimate sale blocker. Martin knew when to cut his losses. Slouching back into his chair, he inspected his nails.

“Well, this is going to be a really long three minutes.”

* * *

Jazmine watched the man buff his nail against his sleeve. Okay, she got that this guy needed to make a living, but how could he be so… heartless? Yet there he sat, touching up his manicure when a heartbroken little girl sat right in front of him. And Jazmine could swear that his non-specific, vaguely European accent had dissolved into something distinctly more mid-western.

She glanced down at Andrea. God, that look of despair kicked Jazmine in the gut every time. Maybe Martin simply needed a little more promptly for his conscious to show up. Clearly her throat she started again.

“I was hoping you would help a little girl in pain…”

His dark, slicked back hair glistened as he turned to face her once more. His eyes scanned her up and down. Much like a person might survey a horse before they purchased them.

“Sorry,” he said with very little sympathy. “I don’t know. Something’s just not working for me.”

“What?”

“Maybe if you were younger or less red-headed,” he motioned to her hair. “Or maybe less curly, I’m not sure.”

Jazmine patted down a curl that had gone astray. “What are you talking about?”

“You want me to do you a favor,” Martin said as he leaned forward, that smooth accent working overtime again, “then I’d want…”

“You don’t mean—” Well, Jazmine couldn’t exactly say what he meant, at least not in front of Andrea. “You are such a—” Well, Jazmine couldn’t say that either now could she?

Martin waved his hand, chuckling, “Yeah, yeah,” The Ohioan in him coming out again. “You should have heard what the gerbil at table number nine just called me.”

Jazmine wasn’t sure if she felt better or worse that others felt the same about him. Before she could formulate an age-appropriate come back, Martin turned his attention to Andrea, taking his pitch straight to the little girl again.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any lunch money on you, would you?”

“No,” Jazmine snapped, pulling Andrea close to her. “She doesn’t.”

“Maybe I can interest you in an allowance payment plan?” Martin coaxed.

Jazmine couldn’t think of a single thing to say that was G-rated so she simply shook her head, sending those red curls Martin hated so much flying as she tucked Andrea in a hug.

Seriously. When were those three minutes going to be up?

* * *

Wyatt watched as the body builder’s massive bicep rippled up and down as he pet his… Shih-Tzu. His very small Shih-Tzu. His very small, very fluffy Shih-Tzu. His very small, very fluffly Shih-Tzu with a blue rhinestone collar.

Unlike most of the pets and their owners, who looked distinctly alike, this guy and his “dog,” - if you could call a Shih Tzu a dog. Really. Shih Tzu? It sounded more like somebody was in the middle of a curse when they sneezed – could not be more different. The contrast was well… shocking. And not in the good way.

Suppressing a chuckle. Wyatt responded “Soooo…” Um, how exactly was he going to put this without cracking himself up? “The other dogs are laughing at him, huh?”

There. Totally delicate.

“People laugh at him, too. It’s very upsetting to him.” The bodybuilder spoke with a light, pleasant tenor. “My girlfriend thinks—”

“Your girlfriend?” Whoa. Another curve ball. “Okay, you’re not a friend of Ashley over there, then?” Wyatt pointed to the mustached “lady.” They did seem like a natural pair.

The man’s eyebrows spoke his confusion much more eloquently than his response, “Ashley? Who?”

Wyatt regrouped. “All right, okay, good information.”

Girlfriend, huh? And a body builder? Those two things went together like a PBJ sandwich with the crust cut off. What didn’t go together was the extremely fluffy Shih Tzu and rhinestone-studded collar. Clearly Wyatt needed to take a slightly different tack.

“You see,” he started, motioning to the body builder’s muscles that bulged out from under his tank top. “You’re a big guy…” He waited for the gleam of understanding to appear. Nothing. So Wyatt did a Vanna White to the fluff ball. “And he’s a little dog…”

Wyatt let this one hang a bit longer. Still nothing.

“He’s really, really, really fluffy, and those little gems around his neck—”

“But they’re blue.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt answered. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that’s not really helping.”

The man’s slumped his shoulders in defeat. He stroked his pet dejectedly, his huge hands dwarfing the tiny dog’s head. These two were destined for years of being laughed at. Wyatt, unfortunately, could relate. Before he got his mojo and non-sticky hair gel, he had endured some heckling during high school. Clearly his classmates did not understand that he was years ahead of them fashion wise.

But then his uncle had come to rescue. Bodhi had suggested to Wyatt that instead of hiding in the bathroom every lunch period, that he laugh along with them. Or better yet find them something else to laugh about. Of course Bodhi had also promised that it would help him get chicks, but still. The dunking in the toilet had been reduced to a minimum.

If there was something Wyatt couldn’t stomach it was someone laughing at another. Granted this big body builder would probably have been one of those guys to shove Wyatt in a toilet, it still wasn’t right for people to be making fun of them.

Wait. Maybe that was the problem.

“You know,” Wyatt said, thinking on the fly. “I don’t get the sense that… Wooda-Baby?… That’s really his name?”

That tree trunk of a neck, nodded the body builder’s head up and down. “Yes, and sometimes, Wooda-Wooda-Wooda Baby.”

Really, this guy wasn’t making it any easier on himself or the dog. “Okay, well, my feeling is that Wooda doesn’t think they they are laughing at him.”

“Trust me, they are laughing.”

“Oh, trust me,” Wyatt said with a chuckle. “I don’t doubt that for a single instant. I just think Wooda is laughing with them.”

The man lifted his head. “What?”

“He’s a Shih-Tzu, right?” Wyatt asked. The man nodded vigorously. “Well, with a name like that… He’s gotta have a sense of humor.”

The look of defeat weighed down the man’s features. “I don’t know—”

“Come on, he’s sticking his tongue out all the time.” Wyatt said pointing to the aforementioned lolling appendage. “You don’t think a jovial guy like that can laugh at himself?”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched upwards. “He is pretty light-hearted.”

“Yes, yes. See? He’s fine. He’s good. He likes the attention.” Wyatt breathed a sigh of relief. People may laugh at little Wooda, but what they didn’t know was that Wooda was laughing right along with them. And if they happened to be laughing at the guy standing next to Wooda, well, at least the body builder would be none the wiser.

“Wooda, Wooda, Wooda,” the man said, burying his face in the dog’s fur. “I wuv, wuv, wuv you.”

Okay, even the little old man next to them with a Chinchilla on his head was snickering at the sight. This table may require a slightly more aggressive intervention.

“But ya know,” Wyatt added, feeling genius about to descend upon him. “Wooda’s looking for a little change.” Off the man’s frown, Wyatt rushed on. “Not much. Just a little.”

“What do you mean?” the body builder asked as his eyes squinted.

This next part was going to take a leap of faith.

“I’m getting the sense from Wooda that he’s like a little hair cut?”

The frown was back as the body builder stroked Wooda’s long and completely tangle free coat. “But he loves it when I brush him.

“Oh, absolutely,” Wyatt barreled on, riffing all the way. “He’s just thinking of maybe going short for the summer. A buzz cut, so those girl dogs can see his muscles.”

“Then the collar will be too big.”

Ding ding ding. Could they really get rid of the rhinestones? Could Wyatt really have had that brilliant an inspiration?

“Exactly!” Wyatt said, putting a finger on his nose. “Exactly, yes. Let’s get him a new collar.”

“Well,” the body builder said. “We were thinking of a blue leopard print.”

Yikes. Thank goodness this guy came to the event today.

“Really, that’s funny because I was getting a black,” Wyatt said. “A basic black vibe from Wooda.”

The reoccurring frown made another appearance.

“Wait, wait,” Wyatt said, closing his eyes and putting his finger tips to his temple. “A black collar but with a logo perhaps. Maybe Orange County Choppers?” Wyatt peeked his eye open. Still that frown. “The WWF?”

“WWF?” the guy nearly shouted as he pulled the Shih Tzu into embrace that looked more like a head lock than a hug. “Wooda knows how much I love the WWF!”

The buzzer sounded as the man cooed “Wooda, Wooda, Wooda,”

As he rose, Wyatt suggested. “And maybe let’s give him a nickname.”

How quickly that frown could reform. Didn’t the guy know that’s how wrinkles were created? “Nickname?” the man repeated. “But he Wooda loves his name.”

Wyatt once again put his fingertips to his temples. “Am I sensing Sultan of Sexy?” But the frown didn’t leave. “The Rock. How about the Rock?”

“He’s only my idol,” the man gushed.

Wyatt felt pretty damned proud of himself. “It is settled then. The Rock with a WWF collar and haircut! I think it’s going to transform both of you!”

* * *

Jazmine had never been gladder for three minutes to pass in her entire life. And that included some rather awkward break ups and finding her college boyfriend doing some “extra curricular” activities with her best friend. Yes, that is exactly how much of a jerk this pet psychic had been.

Martin rose from his chair, smoothing his tie, but he did not move on. Instead he scanned the crowd. “You know, looking around the room, there’s not much better, so if you want, we could—”

“No.”

“I’m not talking tonight.” He said with a roll of his eyes. “I’m booked this week, I was suggesting—”

“Dear God, no.” Jazmine interrupted, pulling Andrea close to her

“It’s not like I was going to take you to dinner or anything first,” Martin said shaking his head like Jazmine was the one way off base. “We don’t even have to have the lights on—”

Jazmine hopped to her feet. “For the love of all that’s holy, no.”

She wasn’t sure if she had ever emphasized a word quite so emphatically before. But Martin just shrugged a casual shrug as if she was the one losing out as he headed to his next victim.

Taking in a deep breath, Jazmine tried to compose herself but got bumped from behind. Her leg knocked into the table, knocking over the small flower vase. Jazmine snatched it up before the water poured out.

Annoyed she turned to the find out who could be so clumsy.

“Oh. Hey.” It was the guy from before, the one with permanent bed-head.

“Look Andrea,” Jazmine said to the little girl. But before she could even explain who the guy was, Andrea leapt from the chair and grabbed him by the leg, giving him a huge hug.

“It’s Wyatt, by the way,” he said as he tried to extract himself from Andrea’s clasped hands. “How’s… uhnng… it going?”

“Well,” Jazmine said trying to find the humor in it all. She ticked off each one with her fingers. “We found out that Andrea’s aura is black.” Another finger down. “She needs more fiber in her diet.” And a third. “And shockingly at a pet-whispering event, that dogs don’t have souls, so Andrea should just move on and get a new puppy.”

Wyatt had the decency to grimace. “Wow. That doesn’t…” He finally managed to free up his captive leg. “It doesn’t sound copacetic.”

“Or even civil,” Jazmine noted.

She would like to be upset with him to, but with the way Andrea looked up at Wyatt? Like he was their Lone Ranger? Jazmine had to take another stab at it.

“Look, Wyatt,” she asked softly. “Could you please just—”

He actually looked like he might give it a try but the organize flew in on a whirlwind of authority. Her features seemed etched static electricity. Lord knew her tone crackled.

“Mr. Stampley, there you are! Need we get you a watch so that you might understand the term ‘clock-wise’?”

With a bit of chagrined, Wyatt responded, “Yeah, sorry. I’m all about the digital.”

“Come along, come along,” the organizer said to Wyatt then turned to Jazmine. “And you two, have a seat. Your communicator is waiting…”

Jazmine turned to find a rather frightening looking woman waiting for them. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun with sharp sticks radiating our from her hair like spokes on a deadly wheel.

Jazmine glanced over her shoulder to give one final plea to Wyatt, but there was no sign of him. He must of Hi Ho and awayed.

* * *

Wyatt arrived at his next table slightly winded and with a bruised wrist from where the organizer had dragged him across the room. As he looked at his next “client,” a slightly rumpled woman, one observation surfaced rather quickly. There was no pet. Just a rather musty smell.

“Great. Another lookie-loo.”

Oh how he wished it was a lookie-loo as a small brown furry creature leapt from the woman’s lap and scurried across the table. Wyatt hadn’t been around that many exotic creatures but from the black nose, masked face, and long body, he was the center of a ferret attack. Wyatt tried to throw himself backwards as click-click-click of its claws sounded right before the creature leapt… right into Wyatt’s pants.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Wyatt scrabbled frantically at the fast-moving critter as it darted back and forth. Dang Wyatt’s fashion sense. Baggy pants had no place in pet communicating.

To her credit, the ferret lady jumped to his assistance. “Scamper, no! Get out of that man’s pants.” Okay, maybe the assistance wasn’t all that helpful. Wyatt was trying to play this whole ferret in the pants thing a little low key. He’d already pissed off the organizer enough. He really did not want her over her, lifting that Julianna Margulies-sized eyebrow at him.

“Wow, he’s got sharp little nails,” Wyatt commented as the paw shifted to the left. “Oh, my!”

The woman rushed over and tugged on the top button on his jeans. Okay, really not helpful.

“Okay. Please, don’t help. Don’t heeeelp. Oh my gosh, he’s very… Very agile.

Then thankfully the movement inside his pants calmed down. Just enough to maybe…

“I’m going to sit down.” Wyatt did. Hard.

He put a hand up to the woman who still seemed oddly gung-ho about getting his pants unbuttoned.

“Okay, we are going to be calm,” Wyatt said. Indicating that she should sit down again. On the other side of the table. “We are going to let him settle down. We are going to be fine.”

He wasn’t really sure who he was talking to, the woman or himself. He forced a calm smile to his face, which given he had a ferret down his pants was slightly harder to do than normal.

“Now, why did you bring Scamper here today?”

“Well… you see.” The woman seemed slightly embarrassed. “Scamper is shy.”

“Wow, really? Because I’m not sensing that at all,” Wyatt said getting the sense if anything the ferret was downright adventuresome. The ferret took a sudden zag, nearly causing Wyatt to fall out of his chair. “He’s a scamp all right.”

* * *

Martin stroked the quivering little Yorkshire Terrier’s head as the expensively coiffed, expensively dressed and very attractive blond held the dog up to her bosom.

You see, physical proximity was the key. It was also important that she think he liked her dog. It was not nearly so important that he actually do. Which was fortunate, really. Yorkshire Terriers were just so…sickeningly cute.

“His aura is very agitated,” Martin sympathized.

“My husband just doesn’t understand.”

“No, no, he doesn’t. How could he?” Martin soothed all the while taking in the information. A beautiful woman, a little dog and no husband in sight? Martin had a pretty good idea the landscape.

“He’s a workaholic, your husband. Isn’t he?”

The woman gasped. “Yes, how did you know?”

Ah, my dearest paycheck, Martin thought, it’s written all over your perfectly smooth, botoxed forehead.

“Why Little Leo told me, of course. Your husband’s away from home long, long nights, isn’t he?”

“Then on the nights he’s home, he gets so angry when I let Little Leo sleep with me,” she said with a pout.

Martin gave a tiny wink to the dog, making sure the woman could see. “Oh, Little Leo, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

As the woman leaned into him, Martin’s professional grin grew into a genuine smile. Who said you couldn’t mix business with pleasure?

* * *

Wyatt found it increasingly difficult to focus on what the ferret owner was saying. He was sure it was important, he just really couldn’t devote much brain power to his ears when his entire body was braced for Scamper’s next move. True, he and the ferret had found some sort of truce with the devilish little beast roaming around in his pants. However, that uneasy cease-fire was… distracting.

The woman, on the other hand, was riveted. “Normally he’s so shy he won’t even let me pet him.”

“Yes, his coat is surprisingly silky smooth against my—” Wyatt bit down as Scamper began scamping around again. “Oh, dear. And his tongue is warmer than I anticipated.” Definitely time to change the subject. Wyatt blurted, “Let’s talk baseball.”

“Why would we—?”

“Any sport. Basketball. NASCAR. Anything. Just anything.”

“But I don’t know about—”

C’mon, lady, help me out here. “Girlie sports. Ice skating. How’s that Kristi Yamaguchi doing?”

Finally the buzzer rang out, offering Wyatt some hope this diabolical may end. Carefully he shifted, preparing to stand, when he felt a sharp pain in a region where a man never wanted a sharp pain. Ever.

“Ow!”

Before he could catch the darn thing, Scamper wormed its way down Wyatt’s left pant leg, raced across the floor, climbed up the chair and wrapped himself around his owner’s neck. A tiny drop of blood on its muzzle. And if Wyatt wasn’t mistaken Scamper also wore a very satisfied smirk.

“I don’t know what you did, but thank you, thank you, thank you,” she gushed.

As she smiled, her eyes lit up. The drab woman-impersonating-wallpaper had disappeared. This new person in front of Wyatt was actually kinda cute.

“Don’t mention it.”

“But—”

“No,” Wyatt said standing up. “I mean it. We will never speak of this again.”

Wyatt turned and meant to stride off, except for you know that slight limp on his left leg.

* * *

There really should be some sort of standard for these events, Martin thought as he watched the lurching gait of that rumpled pet-communicator wannabe. The rookie unsuccessfully tried to get his pants straightened. Martin might not like the earnest Bodhi Stampley, but really this was too much.

“To think this is what the Stampley name has come to,” Martin commented, extremely wryly.

“Huh?”

“Next time,” Martin instructed with as much haught in his voice as possible. “Wear a belt.”

At least the whelp had the decency to blush. “They really should put that on the flyer.” He gingerly began moving off to his next appointment. “And a cup. They might mention wearing a cup.”

Again. Standards.

“Your uncle would be so proud,” Martin said before moving onto his next pay check. Oh wait. He meant client.

CHAPTER 3

Something had changed.

His pack-leader-that-walked-on-two-paws’ breath had the bad smell. Diablo whined loudly. His friend stirred but didn’t wake. Diablo knew he wasn’t supposed to, but this seemed like a good time to make an exception, so he began licking up the two yummy holes above his master’s mouth.

Bodhi groaned, “It’s okay, little one. Just a migraine. Nothing to worry—”

As Bodhi rose, his balance shifted. Instead of coming up to his back paws, he collapsed into a sad heap at the side of the bed, his front paws awkwardly splayed beneath him. He wasn’t moving.

Diablo began barking. He first barked to get his master to wake up. Then he barked to get someone, anyone, to help. Even that two pawed one that smelled like strawberries and kiwis. He barked and barked, but when he stopped, there was nothing but silence. No answering barks. No gentle, soothing voice telling him he was a good boy and everything would be okay.

He frantically ran back and forth in front of his friend, occasionally stopping to lick his face. There was no response.

After several rounds of licking, Diablo remembered the box. The box for when bad things happen. The dark box with the blinking light.

Diablo clambered back up onto the bed and from there leapt to the nightstand. There was the box. The box with the flashing light. He nosed the light over and over.

“What is the nature of your emergency?”

The voice squawking from the box almost toppled Diablo backward off the stand. He paused, then faced the box and barked distinctly three times.

“We’ll send someone immediately.”

That was the voice. Everything would be okay. Diablo climbed down from the bed and curled up next to his big friend to wait. Everything would be okay.

* * *

Wyatt took his place opposite the thin woman with the slightly oversized nose as the parrot clutching her right shoulder screeched, “Men suck!”

“Well, that’s what I call a great first impression,” Wyatt responded as he settled into the chair, careful to not put too much pressure on his left leg. He wondered vaguely if ferrets could carry anything contagious. They wouldn’t let a plague carrying weasel in would they?

“Couch potato!”

The young woman squirmed in her seat. “I am so sorry.” She turned to her bird. “Polly, stop yelling and be nice.”

“Stop playing video games!” Polly squawked.

Maybe if the setting were different, as in her parrot not harassing him, Wyatt might have found the brunette attractive. But with those pinched lips and haunted eyes and the harpy on her shoulder? No amount of eye shadow could get him interested.

“Loser,” the bird squawked.

“Please, please, please, can you tell me why she’s doing that?”

“Mooch,” the parrot broadcast. “Get out! Get out!”

All right now the parrot was getting a little too close to home. Wyatt didn’t come to this event to experience a bizarre case of déjà vu.

The woman looked so earnest though. “Why in the world would she say those things?”

“Um,” Wyatt stalled. She couldn’t be that oblivious could she? “Parrots. They mimic what they hear, right?

“Yes,” the blond said, but clearly she was just as confused as before. “And your point would be?”

“Cheater!” the parrot offered as counterpoint.

Wyatt wasn’t usually the “pull the bandage off” kind of guy. Well, obviously. He was more the “take a nice long bath and let the bandage soak off” kind of guy. But he only had three minutes and this chick didn’t seem like she was going to figure it out on her own.

“Let me take a wild stab in the dark,” Wyatt said as he leaned back in his chair. “And guess that you recently kicked your unfaithful and equally unemployed boyfriend out of the house.”

“How could you know that?”

“I’ve just heard those words before. A lot.”

Okay, more than a lot. Which was why he was living with his mom… And well, why he wasn’t living with his Mom anymore. Women. They always wanted something. Like this chick. She was giving him the funniest look.

Quickly Wyatt clarified, “I’ve heard those words from other parrots. Of course. Parrots, not people. It’s very common condition in parrots.”

“What triggers it?”

“Liar!”

The woman was so sincere it almost made Wyatt’s heart hurt. How could she really not know? And how could he tell her that her parrot was just, well, parroting her own words to her slacker boyfriend? That it really wasn’t the birds words, but her own, vocalized very loudly and frequently. And now those same words, telling the sad tale of this woman’s life, were being broadcast across the ballroom.

“I think… I think…” Wyatt struggled.

“Whose thong is this?” Polly demanded.

How in the heck was Wyatt going to soften this one? Then inspiration hit, again. “I think your parrot was very traumatized by your break-up.”

“Really?”

Okay, somebody was super traumatized. And did it really matter if it was the bird or the woman? Somebody had to do something before the bird’s squawk ruptured his ear drum.

“I think you… I mean she, Polly, the bird… really loved your boyfriend and was really hurt when he betrayed you… I mean her.”

This was not easy, but the woman’s eyes seemed to hold a bit of hope.

“What do we do about it?”

Darn. His plan didn’t extent that far. “Well, as you can imagine she is upset, but we have to get you, I mean her moving on.”

“Jerk!”

“How?” the brunette asked.

“Well,” Wyatt had to come up with something quick. “Maybe she needs a some new vocabulary.”

“Like what?”

“How about, ‘Men rock?’” Wyatt suggested. It seemed like a good enough place to start.

“Men suck!” the bird vigorously countered.

“Men rock, Polly.” corrected the young lady. “Men rock.”

The obviously confused parrot looked at Wyatt, looked back at her owner, ruffled her feathers and just screeched loudly.

Wyatt prompted gently, “Now try, ‘We can open our hearts again.’”

“Come on, Polly,” the woman urged. “‘We can open our hearts again.’”

“Open heart,” the bird muttered then ground its beak.

Progress. Actual progress. Wyatt added, “Now try, ‘Oh, yes, that feels good.’”

The woman cocked her head. “I don’t understand—”

“Hey, I’m just going off the bird, man,” Wyatt said as the buzzer went off. “I’m just going her vibe. Work with me here.”

As he rose, the woman crooned to Polly, “Oh, yes, that feels good.”

“Feels good.” Squawk. Then very pointedly the parrot looked at Wyatt. “Loser.”

“Batting five hundred,” Wyatt said as he moved on. “I’ll take it.”

* * *

As the last buzzer went off and the last communicator moved off, Jazmine sagged in her chair. Over two dozen “pet psychics” and Andrea was, if possible, even more dejected than when they came in. Although Jazmine didn’t blame her. That chick with the spikes in her hair nearly stabbed Andrea while she was trying to check the little girl’s heart chakra.

Jazmine’s gamble hadn’t paid off. At least there was little risk that that her employer would find out that Jazmine had gone against her wishes. At this point she couldn’t accuse Jazmine of anything beyond missing two hours of playground time.

“Come on, Andrea,” Jazmine encouraged. “We’ve got to get you lunch.”

The little girl scooted of the chair but didn’t respond.

“How about getting those chicken nuggets you like?” Jazmine asked but again, no spark ignited in Andrea’s eyes. And that little girl loved her chicken nuggets.

“Okay, if that’s not the ticket then how about if you eat all your veggies we’ll go get some Cold Stone ice cream?”

Not even a flicker of a smile.

If watching your ice cream get chopped up and M&Ms swirled in didn’t raise Andrea’s spirits nothing would.

She took Andrea’s hand and guided her toward the exit. Jazmine was supposed to turn in her “communicator” scorecards, but why bother? None of them were any help. Well, except for that brief moment with Wyatt. It was the most alive she’d seen Andrea since Blackie’s passing.

Jazmine scanned the crowd searching for those unbuttoned cuffs. Across the room she spotted Wyatt. He looked even more disheveled than he had previously, but there was something else different about him. Taller? Something.

Their gaze met. Jazmine begged, literally begged with her eyes for him to come over, but he only glanced down to Andrea then turned away.

Jazmine sighed one last time then guided her charge toward the exit.

A voice sounded from behind, rising above the clamor of the emptying room.

“Blackie?”

Jazmine and Andrea spun around to find Wyatt pretending to search the room. “Does someone know a Blackie?”

Andrea’s hand shot up as he waved it furiously.

“Quite the beast, I understand,” Wyatt said as he walked over to them.

Jazmine mouthed “thank you” over Andrea’s head. Wyatt gave a wink in return. She felt herself grinning with no desire to stop.

“Why, yes,” Jazmine said as she knelt beside the little girl. “We knew a Blackie, didn’t we, Andrea?

Andrea nodded so vigorously that Jazmine worried she might injure herself. But that was so much better than her rag doll impression from before that Jazmine didn’t even try to intervene.

* * *

You know what? Wyatt could get used to this whole knight in shining armor. The kid was smiling and even the red head looked happy. His job here was nearly done then he could go buy a hoagie in celebration.

“Well, Blackie just wanted me to tell you he’s safe and sound in Heaven.”

There that should do it.

But the kid’s lips feel from their lofty heights and the pain was back in her eyes. Wyatt didn’t know little girls very well, but even he knew that tear’s weren’t far off.

“Remember,” Jazmine prompted. “Her mom doesn’t believe in Heaven.” The red head gave Andrea a reassuring squeeze. Her mom says it’s a made-up place for made-up stories.”

Darn it. Wyatt had forgotten. And as the joy in Andrea seeped out, Wyatt scrambled to fix it.

“Hello! I didn’t say I was fluent in Labrador!” He declared. “Now a Lhasa Apso I’d have nailed the first time.” Jazmine gave him that “where are you going with this” look. Honestly Wyatt didn’t know, but at least they were going. “There are very subtle differences in inflection between the breeds.”

Wyatt let loose with a series of three barks and a whine that he hung onto for three seconds longer than he probably should have but it made Andrea’s smile grow, if just a little. He was onto something.

“See? That’s Labrador for Heaven.” He proceeded to give a loud bark followed by three short whines. “And that’s for never-ending field.”

Wyatt dropped his features into a completely dead panned expression as he looked Andrea. “You can totally see how I could get them confused.”

Andrea’s smile grew. “Field?” she asked with a little squeak in her voice, like she wasn’t used to using it much.

“Heck, yeah,” Wyatt exclaimed happy to have the kid talking again. “Acres and acres, as far as the eye can see of fields. Just like a huge dog park.”

* * *

Andrea’s smile flipped itself into a frown. Jazmine stepped to clear up the confusion. “Yeah, um, Blackie didn’t play with others so well.”

Wyatt much more smoothly covered his tracks this time.

“Hello? Dog park.” Not ‘dogs’ park,” Wyatt explained as if it were Jazmine and Andrea who were the confused ones. “In this park it is just Blackie running and playing all by himself.”

“Wouldn’t he be lonely?” Andrea asked with a quiver in her voice.

Jazmine started to bend down to comfort her, but Wyatt waved her back and knelt beside the little girl. He motioned Andrea to draw nearer. Wyatt gazed into her eyes intently and for the first time lost the I’m-an-adult-talking-to-a-kid voice.

“You know how I told you about that green, green field with grass up to Blackie’s ankles, just high enough to have fun rooting around, but low enough so he can run at full speed?”

Andrea nodded solemnly.

“Well, across the entire horizon there’s one tree and one tree only.”

“Is it big?” Andrea asked wonder in her voice.

“It’s huge,” Wyatt answered his arms stretching out wide. “And the shade? Ah, the shade’s just warm enough for short sleeves but cool enough you don’t have to wear icky shorts.”

Andrea’s grinned openly. God it was so good to see her happy again. Even for just a moment.

Wyatt tugged on the edge of Andrea’s shirt. “And that’s where your Dad waits.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah. Every day he just hangs out under there,” Wyatt explained, “Sipping on some iced tea, waiting for Blackie to get done playing.”

Jazmine brought her hand up to the golden locket that hung around her neck. Inside a picture of her own father lost so very long ago.

“Then what happens?” Andrea asked with wonder in her eyes as well.

“A little tug-of-war here. A little head petting there, and then they take a nap.” Wyatt explained. If Jazmine wasn’t mistaken his voice cracked a little at the end there. But whatever emotion had passed over him, he seemed to pull out of it. His voice chipper as he continued. “Every day. Just like clockwork.”

“Then I want to go there!” Andrea anguished.

* * *

Wait. This was not how this was supposed to go. Wyatt frantically tried to figure out how in the heck to get out of this one.

“I want to go play with Blackie and Dad!” Andrea demanded.

Jazmine knelt down beside them, stroked Andrea’s hair. “Baby, you can’t.”

“If I die I can.”

Dang it. When did kids get so darn smart?

“No, no, no, no…” Jazmine said, glancing over to Wyatt. She tilted her head toward Andrea. Like she expected him to do something. Had she not meet him?

But with Andrea’s tears threatening to spill over, what else could Wyatt do but wade into the deep end without a life jacket?

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Wyatt announced hoping that his brain was going to catch up with his mouth. “What are you… You think you can just going to the great green field all willy nilly?” He gave as close to a stern look as he could. “What? Huh?” he asked Andera.

The little girl looked more confused than anything but that was way better than her crying. Wyatt mock-snorted. “That’s just crazy talk. Like you can just plop under the tree!”

The beginnings of an idea started forming. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Six,” she said quietly, leaning into Jazmine for support.

“Well then, okay.” Wyatt said more light-heartedly. “That’s pretty young, so it makes a little more sense this ‘I’m just going to go to run in the field thing.’” He turned to Jazmine and chided, “Didn’t you teach her anything yet?”

“Sorry,” Jazmine said with a playful grin at the edge of her lips. “Why don’t you explain it to her?”

Great. And here he thought he’d tossed the ball in the red head’s court. Apparently Jazmine played conversational tennis very well.

“Wow. Just wow!” he said to Andrea. “‘Just go sit under the tree…’” Wyatt repeated as if he simply couldn’t believe the concept. “Did I not explain the hugeness of this field and the coolness of this tree?”

“Yeah…” Andrea timidly answered.

“All right then,” Wyatt said, the plan solidifying. “You see, ordinary people can’t handle that much awesomeness at once. You should have figured out that you can’t go to the great green field until you’re ready for it.”

“How do you know when you’re ready?”

Hmmm. How did you know? But this wasn’t a philosophical debate. This was him trying to get Andrea off the whole “I want to go to the field” idea.

“Did Blackie shake hands?” he asked Andrea.

“Yeah, really good.”

“Both feet?” Off Andrea’s nod Wyatt continued. “And how many years did it take him to really perfect that? Not just slapping you with his paw,” Wyatt said as he shook his own hand. “But really, really high-fiving you?”

He put his hand up and Andrea hit it.

“From before I was born.”

Wyatt grinned. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Blackie finally knew he was ready to show your dad something amazing.” He held the little girl’s gaze, “The perfect shake.”

“Yes, yes,” Jazmine added seeming to pick up on where he was headed. “Your dad’s going to want to hear about your first day in second grade. And your science fair project in fifth grade.”

Wyatt dovetailed seamlessly, “Your first soccer goal. The first time you get lai—”

“Get engaged,” Jazmine said over him. Okay, maybe high school prom was a subject for another talk.

“Yeah,” Wyatt conceded. “That.”

“Really?” Andrea asked him.

“Trust me. I’m looking forward to sitting under my own tree…” Wyatt said, having to keep his voice steady. He glanced up to Jazmine who fidgeted with her necklace. “It’s oak, if you care… but not yet,” he emphasized to Andrea. “Not yet, my little friend.”

Wyatt stood up, stretching out the kink in his left leg. “I’ve got way too much to do first. As do you, little Missy.”

He was about to ruffle her hair when she launched into his arms and squeezed as hard as she could. Wyatt wasn’t sure what to do. Was there some sort of child-hugging protocol? They really should come with a label or something. He looked up at Jazmine for help, but her gaze was fixed on Andrea. Were those tears in the red head’s eyes?

He opened his mouth to say something witty so he didn’t have two crying females on his hands when his cell phone rang with the theme to Bonanza.

* * *

Jazmine had never been happier to be wrong about someone. She watched as Andrea detached herself from Wyatt’s arms so he could answer his phone. Andrea moved back to her customary spot right behind Jazmine’s right thigh and nuzzled into her waist.

“Wyatt without the Earp here,” the pet communicator despite himself joked into the phone. Jazmine rolled her eyes a bit. But just a bit. “Sorry, you must have the wrong Mr. Stampley.” Wyatt’s grin evaporated. “Bodhi just had a head-ache, maybe a migraine. He couldn’t—” His hand flailed, useless at the end of his arm. Then Wyatt went utterly still. “Stroke?” He paused, the light going out of his eyes. “Which hospital? Valley Presbyterian. I’ll be right there.”

He turned to face them. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta—”

“Of course,” Jazmine said, putting her hand on his arm. “We’re fine. Go.”

He attempted a half-hearted smile at Andrea but then turned and headed to the exit at nearly a run, trailing his worry behind him like the tattered shadow of a boy who refused to grow up.

CHAPTER 4

Martin sauntered over to Mrs. Crumpet’s desk even before the organizer gave the announcement.

“If we could please have all of the pet communicators come to the main desk to receive their referrals.” He was first to queue up, as per usual. With the poise only several years of male cheerleading could give you, he reached out a hand for his stack.

The assistant gave him what appeared to be five small slips of paper. He stared at the tiny pile in his hand, then back up to the assistant. He gave a disdainful sniff.

“I believe you have given me the wrong referrals?”

The timid assistant quavered. “No, I mean, I don’t think so.”

“I normally garner three times this many,” Martin demanded, making the girl tremor before his eyes. “You must be incompetent.”

“I’m sorry… I don’t know—”

“Oh, I think we have another stack,” Mrs. Crumpet stated, urging the assistant on to some lesser communicator before turned her full attention to him. “Martin, let me take a look.”

Martin purred, “Much better.”

* * *

It was like coming up out of a dark hole filled with yucky mud. Everything looked bright, and there were so many colors.

Andrea smiled up at Jazmine. This was her best day since… well, since Dad and Blackie had left. She was still sad that she couldn’t see them yet. Really sad. But they were together. And happy. She felt like she had a hot air balloon filling her up inside. It hurt a little. But it was wonderful.

Jazmine smiled back at her. Andrea was sure she had never seen anyone as beautiful as her nanny. Her hair was so shiny, it looked smelled like the candles Mommy used to burn in the kitchen. Cinnamon.

Even Jazmine’s voice was pretty and warm, “See? I told you that Blackie was happy.”

“And with Daddy,” Andrea reminded her. Her Dad with Blackie. In the field. With the tree. The balloon grew.

“And with Daddy.” Jamzine’s smile widened, her green eyes glowing with warmth. Maybe Jazmine would be there with them someday. The balloon almost burst. Then she thought of something else and the balloon seemed to shrink a bit.

“Jazmine? Is Wyatt’s uncle going to be okay?”

Jazmine’s smile faltered. “Oh, Andrea. I’m not—”

A voice called out over the loud speaker, “Mr. Stampley, please come to the registration desk.”

“C’mon, sweetie. Let’s go up to the front.” Andrea felt Jazmine’s hand slip over hers. It was warm. It was safe. The balloon was full.

* * *

Jazmine held Andrea’s hand tight as they wove their way through the strange crowd of expectant pet communicators. Again, Andrea almost lost an eye when the lady with the sticks in her hair turned around abruptly. Perhaps the porcupine look wasn’t exactly best in a crowded room.

“My referrals?” Martin demanded with his hand held out as if he were waiting for it to be kissed. Or for someone to genuflect. Which seemed unlikely, considering to whom he was talking. Mrs. Crumpet.

She had to give it to the guy, she wasn’t sure she’d have the guts to even look crosswise at the organizer, much less confront her.

The organizer seemed to take it in stride though, with only a subtle tightening of her lips. “Patience, Martin. At the moment we are missing a communicator.”

“Where should we look?” the assistant asked.

“I’m sure somewhere to the left,” Mrs. Crumpet responded with a sigh.

Jazmine shimmied between Martin and the “herbal” brownie lady.

“If you’re talking about Wyatt,” Jazmine said. “He had to head to the hospital.”

All the ire drained out of Mrs. Crumpet as her hand flew to her chest. “Oh, dear. It’s not regarding Bodhi, is it?”

“I’m afraid so.” Jazmine felt rather than saw Andrea deflate next to her. “I’m sure everything will be fine, though.” She gave the little girl a quick sideways squeeze. Andrea looked up. Jazmine gave her a nudge with her hip. The corner of Andrea’s mouth turned up in a lopsided grin.

“We can only hope,” Mrs. Crumpet said in a lighter tone. “Right, young lady?”

Andrea nodded, seeming more than a little awed by the organizer.

“Right,” Jazmine answered for the tongued-girl.

* * *

All right. It was time for this after-school special to end. Martin once more presented his outstretched hand and politely, if pointedly, cleared his throat.

“My referrals?”

He had been more than patient. It was time for him to start being treated as what he was: a headliner. Really, how much time was he expected to have to wait for these… these minimum wagers?

Mrs. Crumpet’s nostrils flared. Clearly the stress of her position was getting to her. She turned to retrieve a rather large stack of cards. Martin glimpsed tightly packed writing scribbled all over the surface of the uppermost note. This was more like it.

“I was trying to do this in private, Martin. But since you insist.” She ceremoniously deposited the weighty stack into his outstretched hand.

Of course she would want to wait until the other communicators left. She didn’t want a bunch of green with envy pet psychics on her hands. Martin glanced down at the stack, wearing his equally-patent-pending Cheshire grin. Then he scanned the first card. Not only had the woman with the chameleon who wouldn’t change colors not chosen to hire him, she dared complain that he used “guilt tactics” to get her to hire him.

He riffled through the small mountain of note cards.

“These aren’t for clients,” he said still trying to understand what was happening. This could not be happening. Not to him. Never to him.

“No, as a matter of fact, Martin,” the organizer stated, his Chesire grin apparently leapt over to her lips. “They are your complaints.”

* * *

From the stunned expression on Martin’s face, Jazmine was pretty confident that he’d never actually heard the word “complaint” before. At least not in connection with himself. And she was fairly sure she had never seen the exact shade of red Martin’s face was displaying occur in nature before.

Martin spluttered next to her, his dignified demeanor fraying alongside his meticulous diction. “Wh… What? I… I have never—”

“You’ve always been such a big draw before that we turned a blind eye, but we simply cannot ignore all those…” Mrs. Crumpet indicated toward the rather large stack of complaints that threatened to spill out of Martin’s hand.

“Th… These? These… cards…” Martin slapped the notes into his other hand with a resounding smack. Andrea took shelter behind Jazmine’s right thigh as the pet psychic ranted on. “These cards represent tiny, close-minded, unenlightened—”

“They are pet owners who felt you were more reaching out to their pockets,” Mrs. Crumpet said with a ring of finality in her voice. “Than to their animals.”

Wow, Jazmine thought. Mrs. Crumpet knew how to shut a full of himself guy down. You could just see the wheels turning in Martin’s head. He was going over and over the best come back, but how could he? Mrs. Crumpet had taken him to school and she hadn’t even needed a ruler for it.

“Resolve them, Martin, or we won’t be inviting you back next year.”

“Well, I never… I mean that…” Martin sputtered and fumed until it appeared he gave up on verbal language and very dramatically knocked the trashcan lid open and hurled the cards into the garbage.

Andrea tugged on Jazmine’s sleeve. She was loath to take her eyes off of Martin’s imminent implosion, but she knew it had to be important if Andrea was reaching out. Jazmine looked down to find the little girl holding up a card. Written across it in a first grader’s handwriting were the words…

“You Are A Meany.”

Jazmine chuckled. That he was. As he turned around, hands free, Jazmine handed him Andrea’s card.

“There ya go,” she said with a far more satisfying feeling than she would have thought possible.

* * *

The girl with the clown-colored cut him off mid-rant handed him yet another complaint. Would the humiliation not end?

This was unconscionable. He would have her hide. And not in the way he had been implying earlier. She would rue the day she decided to lock horns with Martin. He mustered all the venom he had at his disposal.

“Oh, if I did not have a rabbit healing to get to…”

Perhaps that would have sounded better if it had been some sort of poisonous reptile, but one must work with what one had. Filled with righteous indignation that he hoped poured through his every movement, Martin turned in a slow circle, fastening his maleficent gaze on each set of eyes as he passed.

He made note of each suppressed smirk for the purposes of future retribution. As he completed the circuit, he gave one last haughty look to the crone and the frizz head while raising his index finger to the heavens.

“You have not heard the last of me!”

Martin turned on his heel and marched out of the hall, suitably satisfied with his last dramatic moment. Still, success would be his revenge. And he would have it. They would all rue the day.

Rue it.

* * *

Mary Marjorie Crumpet suppressed a sigh as she watched Martin stalk off. If only he would stay gone. But if he was half as arrogant as she thought he was, he would be back with carefully chiseled words dripping with honey.

She turned to find the rest of the communicators staring at her as if she had just killed the wicked witch. The entire room burst into applause. Blushing, Mary Marjorie waved them off, but had to admit it was difficult to suppress the urge to shout out “ding dong” in response.

The only one not clapping their hands together was the little girl who had recently lost her dog. Andrea, she believed her name was. While the child looked like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, there was still a tinge of sadness about her. No one so young should carry such burdens.

For not the first time today she missed Bodhi Stampley. If there was one person in the world who could reach a child like that it was Bodhi.

“Well,” the child’s caregiver said, “On that unpleasant note, I think we will be heading out too.”

“Wait, dear,” Mary called out, digging around under the desk. “Could you be so kind as to take these to Wyatt?”

The woman did not look one hundred percent convinced, but Mary urged the cards towards her. After a day like today, if Mary could avoid tracking down that little rapscallion, what was the harm in it?

Jazmine eyed the two piles. “Two stacks, huh?”

“Yes,” she said, letting a bit of mystery perhaps goad the young woman into taking on the assignment.

Finally the woman accepted the cards. “I’ll drop Andrea off, then swing by the hospital.”

The hospital. Yes. “Tell Bodhi,” Mary stopped herself. How many years had it been since she’d spoken his name so casually? “I mean, tell Mr. Stampley…” What would she tell him? If she could? But none of that could be spoken in a room full of impatient pet psychics. “My chinchilla misses him already.”

Jazmine smiled as she tucked the cards into her purse. “I will.”

Mary waved to little Andrea as they left. And to her surprise the girl waved back. Perhaps there was some hope for the world.

CHAPTER 5

Wyatt hated hospitals. There was just nothing about them that was ever pleasant. The smell of sickness covered by harsh cleaners and antiseptic sprays mingled with the aura of desperation. Not cool. Not cool at all. His feet moved even faster.

White walls broken only by a drab slate blue stripe surrounded him, twisting him around until he had no idea which way was which. Wyatt stopped at a nurses’ station.

“Room 502?”

The nurse nodded indicated to her right. “Down that hallway, take your first left and the second door on the left.”

Wyatt gave her a distracted nod and headed out. Of course he was pretty darn sure that he had been down this hallway and taken the first left, but hey, maybe the second time was the charm. It wasn’t until he had rounded the corners that it dawned on him that the brunette nurse had curves in all the right places yet he hadn’t given her the time of day.

Once Bodhi was feeling better Wyatt was going to make sure he knew exactly everything he’d sacrificed for him.

Wyatt raced past rooms and partitions, catching glimpses of blue hospital gowns and flashing machines as he counted down the room. 504, 503… 502.

He slowed to a halt before the door. He couldn’t go in. He couldn’t not go in. He felt like he had back in grade school. Perched on the edge of the high dive back with all of his friends looking up from the public pool’s edge. Unable to go back down, incapable of taking the step off the edge.

But here it wasn’t just humiliation he faced. Instead it was…

Well, he didn’t quite know. All he knew was that he needed to get through that door. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the gray drab door. It was far worse than anything he could have imagined.

Tubes and wires obscured his uncle’s face and torso. Every machine seemed to be either beeping furiously or flashing a dire warning in red LED lights. Diablo was there, but seemed a different animal, subdued and sad-eyed. He burrowed even closer to his master’s side, shivering.

Wyatt hovered at the door, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. He met gazes with the tiny Chihuahua. Diablo stared up at him, whined once, then nudged Bodhi’s hand. Darn it, if that little dog was going to stand strong in the face of all of this, so was Wyatt. Allowing the door to close behind him, he made his way to the side of the bed.

He sat down on the lone stool and took Bodhi’s hand in his.

“Guess you weren’t playing hookey after all.” Wyatt’s voice hitched as he finished the phrase, so he fell silent, looking at the age spots dotting the back of his uncle’s hand. When had Bodhi gotten so old? He had always seemed more granite than flesh. Solid. Unmovable. Unchanging. But now he seemed so small and frail. The hoses and wires threatened to crush him under their weight.

Bodhi had always been there for Wyatt. After his father’s death. After that “misunderstanding” with the police. Bodhi would always be there. The beeping intensified, mocking Wyatt, giving the lie to his hopes.

“You know that field you told me about after Dad died?” Wyatt’s vision blurred, his eyes swimming in a pool of tears. “And the big oak tree?”

Diablo lifted his head and gave a warning growl.

“I mean pine.”

Diablo sniffed and looked away, apparently mollified.

“You always were an evergreen kind of guy.” His uncle was. Bodhi was a mountain. A mountain covered with pine.

“Anyway.” Wyatt coughed a bit, swallowed hard and started again, “I know Dad’s there and Grandma Eleanor and Grandpa Bucky and heck, you must have a pack of dogs the size of Texas waiting for you, but…” A sob broke free, but Wyatt wrested it back in.

“You’re not done yet…” Wyatt choked out. “At least not with me.” God how he wished Bodhi would wake up. Squeeze his hand. Anything. “I don’t know if you noticed,” he said with a sniffle, “But I’m pretty messed up.”

Diablo barked in agreement. For once they were on the same page.

Wyatt bowed his head until his forehead touched the withered skin of Bodhi’s hand. He whispered, hoping that somehow Bodhi could hear him. “And I’m not sure how I’m going to un-mess-up without you.”

Tears flowed down his nose and splattered on the metal frame of the bed.

The door opened behind him. Wyatt wiped his eyes with his sleeve as he turned to see who had entered.

“Oh, you must be Wyatt. The nephew?” the doctor said as she offered Wyatt her hand. “I’m Dr. Leighton.”

He didn’t know why but he was comforted that Bodhi’s doc was a woman. She just seemed to ooze compassion even with that smarty pants stethoscope around her neck.

“Yeah.” Wyatt finished wiping off his face. “Hey, when they called they said he was up and talking.”

Dr. Leighton nodded with a frown. “Unfortunately, right after that assessment, he had another, larger stroke which has left him like…”

They both turned to gaze down at Bodhi’s motionless form.

“But he can still recover, right?” Wyatt asked or maybe more like pleaded. “I mean, he’s not tough like a pit bull. He is a pit bull.”

The doctor didn’t even grin though. “I’m sorry but the M.R.I. shows significant global swelling. It’ll be a minor miracle if he lasts the night.”

Wyatt sat back down hard. While the doctor’s voice was kind, it left no room false hope. This might be Bodhi’s last night on earth. It didn’t feel right. But Wyatt guessed that everyone visiting all the other patients felt the same way.

“Does your uncle have any family in the area?” Dr. Leighton asked.

“Yeah,” Wyatt said, snapping back to the situation at hand. “But nobody’s going to come. It’s just me.”

Wyatt wasn’t even sure what had happened all those years ago that had cast Bodhi from the family’s bosom, Wyatt just knew that not even his mom would come to her brother-in-law’s death bed. Guess Bodhi did know a thing or two about being a mess up.

“Ah. I see…” Dr. Leighton seemed hesitant to speak. “Well, then… the bad news isn’t over.”

Wyatt looked up from Bodhi to the doctor. “What do you mean?”

“Your uncle’s insurance card was… rejected.”

“How could they—?”

Dr. Leighton put a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, urging him back down onto the stool. Okay, yelling probably wasn’t allowed in a hospital, but none of this was making any sense.

“With all of his doctor’s care this year,” the doctor explained, “Bodhi has exceeded his yearly—”

“What doctor’s care?” Wyatt asked, certain that she was talking about the wrong patient. “Bodhi’s as hardy as a horse. I mean a Clydesdale. The big one in front. Pulling the beer wagon.”

“He didn’t tell you, then?” she asked.

Wyatt harrumphed. “Tell me what? Pick up my socks? Never feed Diablo scrambled eggs and salsa? What?”

The hand was back on his arm, both comforting and confining. “Your uncle has been struggling with kidney issues that caused extremely high blood pressure and optical migraines that left him very susceptible to… this…”

Diablo snarled at the doctor as she turned to look at the prostrate form of a once-hale man.

Wyatt rubbed his hand across his face, trying to take it all in.

“No. He didn’t.” Then the dominos started knocking into one another. He didn’t know, but he should have known. “That’s what the timer was for. Why he wouldn’t let me use his medicine cabinet.”

“I’m afraid he wasn’t taking very good care of himself,” the doctor said as she dropped her hand from his shoulder.

“Neither of us were.”

“If he didn’t tell you, you couldn’t have known.”

But Wyatt shook his head. Bodhi knew everything about him. His favorite breakfast cereal. How he liked to eat off of Toy Story paper plates. Even keeping Mad magazines in the bathroom. And Wyatt hadn’t noticed that his uncle was dying of bum kidneys? That was about as lame as it could get.

“It’s not your fault,” the doctor tried to reassure him. Even though she failed miserably, Wyatt nodded. They didn’t both need to be bummed out to the max.

“There’s just one other little problem left.” The doctor said as she gave a sideways glance to Diablo who promptly raised his hackles, glowering then gave a snarl from the back of his tiny throat. “You see, even though the pooch—”

“Diablo,” Wyatt supplied.

“Yes, even though Diablo saved your uncle’s life by hitting his emergency response device, and he is certified as a service dog which means in theory that he can stay in the hospital… He’s just a little…”

“Mean? Vicious? Werewolf-like?” Wyatt offered.

Diablo’s snarl grew to a growl.

“Yes, on all three counts, I’m afraid,” the doctor agreed as she edged a step away from the bed. Like Wyatt said, she looked pretty darn smart. “Ever since your uncle lost consciousness he hasn’t let anyone near. We really need you to run Diablo home so that we can treat your uncle at eight.”

Wyatt gaped. Literally gaped. “You want me, the one with the bull’s eye on his chest, to catch the spawn of Satan?”

The doctor shrugged which seemed a very undoctorly thing to do. “If you aren’t able to remove him, I think the nurses are going to have to call animal control. And with Diablo’s attitude, a tranquilizer gun is not out of the question.”

Wyatt looked to the little demon dog, who gave one last growl and then nuzzled in next to his uncle. He might be the son of Lucifer himself, but dang, he loved Bodhi one thousand percent.

He sighed as he answered. “I’ll do my best.”

The doctor went to leave, but then turned back. “He said you were a good nephew.” She paused, then continued with a grin, “He knew you’d do the right thing.”

Wyatt felt tears prickle against his eyelids once more. He refused to give into them again. Straightening his back, he replied, “Probably best if you move along. You don’t want to witness this. It might not be pretty.”

Dr. Leighton put her hands out in fashion of surrender as she backed from the room. “I will leave you to your Herculean task.”

* * *

Jazmine pulled into the gate and started up the drive to Andrea’s house in her beat-up gold ‘94 Honda Accord. Well, gold was kind of accurate. A bit more specific would have been gold with rust patches that Jazmine chose to call accents. She loved her car. He had seen her through some really tough times.

No more tough than what Andrea had gone through. Jazmine tilted her rearview mirror to catch the form of the almost napping girl. Her sweet face was still radiant, a slight smile quirking her mouth up at the corners. Jazmine needed kind of “talk through” aka get their stories straight about what had happened today with Andrea before her mother came home, but it could wait.

“We’re almost there,” she called over her shoulder to the sleepy girl, who was strapped into the most amazing booster seat available for purchase. Jazmine was not positive, but she thought the thing might be able to make her a cup of coffee if she could just find the right sequence of straps and latches to pull. The device had more bells and whistles than well… Jazmine’s beat up ‘94 Honda accord.

The wind must have blown as bright yellow and orange leaves swirled on the breeze. The gust shook off nearly the last of remaining leaves on the trees lining the drive. Only a few stubborn auburn leaves still clutched the branches, unwilling to give up their lease on life. Then the foliage disappeared, parting to reveal the stark lines and brilliant glass of the house.

As Jazmine rounded the circular driveway, she was startled to find Ms. Evelyn Stone, Andrea’s mother, stepping out of her Audi, briefcase in hand. Her employer wasn’t supposed to be home for another two hours at the earliest. Since when did Ms. Stone get home early?

As always, Ms. Stone was put together with laser-like precision, outfitted in a tailored charcoal suit with a deep blue blouse, accessorized with the most stunning pair of shoes Jazmine had ever seen. Those shoes probably cost as much as one month of Jazmine’s salary. Maybe two. Jazmine looked again. Okay, probably three.

The woman oozed attraction and intimidation in equal measures.

As Jazmine pulled to a stop, Andrea perked up and looked out the window.

“Mommy!” The girl unbuckled herself with preternatural speed and leapt out of the car, racing toward her mother. Jazmine followed on her heels, listening to the stream of words spilling out of her young charge.

“We went to this thing and there were lots of animals and weird people and some of them were mean but one of them was super nice and his name is Wyatt and he has messy hair but he’s really funny and we talked about Blackie and the field and the tree…”

Andrea’s mother looked down in confusion at her daughter.

“Hold on a second, Andrea. I want to hear all about it. But let’s go inside where it’s warm first.” Ms. Stone guided them to the large double doors that led to the foyer of the house. The businesswoman stated as Andrea ran on before them, “I see she is talking again. I told you it was nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about? Weeks without talking? Perhaps Ms. Stone could press wishes into reality at her business, however that wasn’t exactly working on the home front. Jazmine followed Ms. Stone into the entryway, stopping alongside her to pull off her shoes and set them in the precise row that her employer insisted upon. The rest of the house was as pristine as that row of shoes. Clean, sleek modern lines predominated throughout. The entryway had enormous vaulted ceilings, but with a sharpness typically not seen in the Midwest.

It was impressive. It made a statement. Jazmine hated it.

“So, Andrea,” Ms. Stone said as she straightened her daughter’s shoes. “Tell me all about your day,”

“Well, I was missing Blackie, so Jazmine took me to a place where people talk to animals and the animals talk back.”

Ms. Stone quirked an eyebrow at Jazmine in query. Jazmine, put on the spot, stuttered, “We… it… they’re called pet communicators. They’re supposed to be able to interpret for your animal. I saw it in the paper and figured there would be lots of animals there. I thought…” She trailed off as she saw Evelyn’s face cool.

“I see,” Ms. Stone said as she turned back to her daughter. “And what did you do there, Andrea?”

“We talked to people. Lots of people,” Andrea said, talking with her hands as they walked out of the foyer and into the huge living room. “We were seeing if anyone could talk to Blackie. But no one could.”

“That’s because Blackie’s gone, Andrea. We talked about this.” Ms. Stone’s mouth was pinched together, accentuating the lines around her mouth.

“But no, Mommy, then we met Wyatt. He’s funny. And he didn’t want to talk to Blackie at first, but then he did. And he told me all about the field and the tree.”

“What field?” Ms. Stone’s mouth pinched tighter.

“The field where you go when you die. Blackie’s there and so’s Daddy.”

OMG, Jazmine thought. Actually she thought something much, much worse, but she didn’t even like to have thoughts like that around Andrea. Jazmine gave the little girl every non-verbal signal to stop talking yet Andrea hurried on.

“They run and play together and then they rest under tree and Blackie shakes hands. I wanted to go there too, but Wyatt says I have to learn things first.” Andrea’s eyes shone as she beamed up at her mother. “Isn’t that awesome?”

Ms. Stone gripped the handle of her briefcase until her knuckles turned white. Jazmine feared the expensive Argentine leather would snap in her employer’s hand.

“Andrea, could you go to your room for a bit? I need to talk to Jazmine.”

The little girl didn’t seem to notice that her mother’s voice had lost all sense of warmth. “Okay, Mommy. Can I play some Wii?”

“That’s fine.”

“Can Jazmine come play with me when you’re done?” Andrea asked.

“We’ll see.”

Andrea gave Jazmine’s waist a big hug. Jazmine squeezed back trying not to allow Ms. Stone’s icy glare to unnerve her. Once released, Andrea skipped upstairs, heading toward a playroom that was bigger than Jazmine’s entire apartment. The little girl hummed the tune that had been playing in the car, “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow,” although at this moment Jazmine wasn’t so sure about that.

The sound of the little girl running down the hallway above them filled the room. Then the patter of her steps gave way to the snick of the playroom’s door closing behind her.

Silence. A long silence. A long, cold silence.

Evelyn Stone walked her office off the foyer and set her briefcase on the desk. With typical steady precision she opened the case and got something out. Jazmine wasn’t sure what it was, but she knew she better start talking. Silence from Ms. Stone usually predicted a litany in the making from Ms. Stone.

“Ms. Stone, I am so sorry. I just thought—”

“It’s alright,” Ms. Stone responded.

Okay, that was the last thing Jazmine ever thought that she would hear out of her employers mouth. Jazmine just stood there as Ms. Stone finished writing something down.

“Here you are,” Ms. Stone said as she handed Jazmine a slip of paper. A check.

“I don’t understand…”

Ms. Stone’s eyebrow cocked up. “Really? I guess I really shouldn’t be surprised given the fact you couldn’t follow the simplest of instructions.” She nodded to Jazmine’s hand. “That is your final check.”

Jazmine clutched the paper in her hand. She could not get fired. Not with rent coming up and this check not even covering half of it. “Ms. Stone, please, I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to what? Countermand my direct instructions? Override my express desires? Contaminate my daughter’s mind with wishful thinking and starry-eyed stories?

Jazmine almost wished Ms. Stone was yelling. Then there might be some hope of figuring this out. But with her employer’s cool, detached manner, Jazmine knew it was impossible. She’d heard that measured tone before. Usually on business calls right before Ms. Stone bought the company and then gutted it for profit.

“That will be all,” Ms. Stone stated before sitting down at her desk.

Jazmine’s lips trembled and she was pretty sure her feet had gone numb. If captains of industry couldn’t change Ms. Stone’s mind, how could she?

Then laughter, bright, tinkling laughter drifted from the room above them. Andrea’s laughter. “Don’t worry, Mario! Andrea’s coming to the rescue!”

With a spark of hope, Jazmine looked to Ms. Stone. Surely her employer must realize that Jazmine had only taken Andrea to the stupid pet whispering event to help her. But Ms. Stone didn’t even look up when she hit the intercom button.

“Andrea, please keep it down. Mommy is trying to work.”

Or not.

With a sigh, Jazmine folded the check in half and left without another word.

* * *

Wyatt dodged to the left. Diablo zagged to the right. They’d been in this Mexican Chihuahua stand off for a while. Another nurse passed by, camera phone in hand. Sure. Laugh. Take videos. Did they not know he was on a life or death mission here?

Turning back to the devil dog, Wyatt cracked his knuckles. “You can do this.” He said just like Richard Simmons had taught him on Bodhi’s old VHS tapes. “You heard the doctor. I’m a good nephew.”

However Diablo lifted his snout in an Elvis sneer then looked away in disdain.

“Darn it, Diablo. Look at me.” Wyatt pointed his index and middle fingers at Diablo’s eyes and then back at his own. “Eyes here.”

The pooch turned his malevolent gaze on Wyatt, glaring with such intensity that Wyatt stumbled backward, bumping into one of the machines, nearly knocking it over.

“Okay, okay… Maybe here.” Wyatt indicated a spot next to his head. Yeah, too close. “Over there.” Wyatt gestured to the far wall. Still not enough. “Way out in the hallway.”

Diablo settled back down next to Bodhi with what could only be referred to as a certain smugness. That was it. The dog was going down.

“You are my Everest.” Wyatt began edging around the bed toward the devil beast, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, “Now, look it. Do you know how heartbroken Bodhi would be if he found out you were in the pound?” Diablo growled deep in his throat, making Wyatt’s skin try to crawl off his body.

Wyatt straightened his shoulders, cracked his neck… and lunged. Diablo sprang into action, leaping up with perfect timing to clamp his needle teeth square onto Wyatt’s nose. Wyatt yelped, grabbed at his wounded proboscis and retreated until he tripped into the chair in the corner of the room.

Diablo barked in triumph, then scuttled down off the bed and scurried underneath, where he proceeded to growl and snarl, the sound magnified and reverberating off the metal.

“Seriously, dog, what is wrong with you?”

Wyatt crouched, looking under the bed. He sprang back ramrod straight when he realized Diablo’s fangs were inches from his still aching nose. He could feel his heartbeat throb in his offended appendage. He probably looked like Rudolph. Rudolph with great hair of course, but Rudolph nonetheless.

Wyatt got down on his hands and knees, well back from the demon’s den, and crawled to the other side of the bed. His hope was to get at the little tyrant diagonally. But Diablo matched him move for move. Everywhere Wyatt went, Diablo mirrored him exactly, cutting off every avenue of attack.

Wyatt rose, dusting off his knees. He had to admit that he was never going to win a straight out battle with Diablo. Who could? This was going to take some strategy.

He rummaged around in the room, staying well away from the bed, finally locating the materials he needed. He first stuffed wads of toilet paper into the sleeves of his shirt, buttoning them into place. He then took two thick stacks of paper towels and wrapped them around his hands, taping them in place with medical tape. Finally he emptied out the wastebasket and placed in on his head like a helmet. He looked at his reflection in the dispenser. He was ready.

“Come on, you little land shark,” Wyatt taunted Diablo now that he was fully geared up. “Show me what you got.”

Wyatt splayed himself out on the ground and wormed his way under the bed. Once again, Diablo proved too savvy. Instead of the head-on attack Wyatt was prepared for, Diablo darted from underneath the bed and ran up Wyatt’s back. The wiley little devil shoved his nose under the rim of the trashcan and nipped at Wyatt’s ears.

“Ow. Ouch! Hey!”

A dry voice remarked from somewhere behind Wyatt’s prostrate form, “Wow. Showing off your “animal oriented” skills, huh?”

* * *

Jazmine was doing everything she could not to laugh. There was Wyatt, sprawled on the ground, rolling around to escape from the tiniest teacup Chihuahua she had ever seen. And what on earth did he have on his head? The tiny pup barked up at her then raced around and up onto the bed.

Wyatt scrambled to his feet, ripping what appeared sheets of paper off of his hands. “What are you doing here?” Wyatt looked a bit crazed, breathing like he’d just run the New York and Boston marathons back to back.

“Hello to you, too. You left before—”

“Wait,” Wyatt said seeming realize that he was still wearing a trashcan on his head as he whipped it off. “Where’s Andrea?”

Jazmine’s mirth vanished. “I dropped her off at home.”

He ran his fingers through his mop of hair. “How is the little lass doing?”

“Great, just great.” Jazmine realized that might have come out a bit harsh. It wasn’t Wyatt’s fault what happened. She softened her tone. “She ran home right up to her mother and told her all about the field and the tree and…”

“And?” Wyatt prompted.

“She fired me.”

“What?” Wyatt stammered. “She can’t. She couldn’t just—”

Jazmine shook her head. “You know. Don’t worry about it.”

“Look, I’ll talk to her and—”

Although it was kind of sweet that Wyatt rose to her defense, there was no talking Ms. Stone back from the ledge on this one.

“It’s okay. I can find another job.”

Wyatt looked possibly more upset than Jazmine felt. She shrugged, “Besides, it was totally worth it. To see Andrea smile again…”

She had meant to just comfort Wyatt with those words but realized they were true. Even if she had know what was going to happen. Even if she knew going to the pet whispering event was going to leave her in the unemployment line and possibly evicted, she would have done it all over again. Jazmine knew what it was like to be bogged down in grief. She couldn’t let Andrea live like that anymore.

But that wasn’t why she had come to the hospital. She better get back to business before she lost this little moment of zen she’d found.

“Anyway, the event didn’t have your contact information, so I brought by your referrals.”

Wyatt snorted. “Yeah right. Not even that crazy bird lady wants me.”

Jazmine placed the cards in Wyatt’s hand as she joked, “Clearly they are much more gullible than you thought.”

Wyatt puzzled over the pieces of paper, turning them over a couple of times. “Wait, these are just phone numbers. Where’s the animal’s information?”

“Oh, sorry. Wrong stack,” Jazmine said, pointing to the cards in his hand. Who could blame her for sneaking a little peak? “Those are women who were hoping you’d communicate with more than their pet, if you know what I mean.”

Wyatt looked as befuddled as he sounded. “Chicks gave me their number?”

“Yes, strangely.” Jazmine chuckled as Wyatt set down his trashcan helmet. She reached into her purse to pull out a much larger stack of cards. “But here are your client referrals.”

* * *

Wyatt reached out and took the huge pile from Jazmine. None of this made any sense. Why would the ferret lady want to see him again? More importantly why would he want to see her? Okay, he got why Ashley and Scout wanted an encore performance, but the iguana? And Wooda baby? He meant Spike? How could all of these people want to hire him?

“Oh, no. I guess they don’t matter any more,” Jazmine said as she approached Bodhi’s bed. She turned back to Wyatt. “Although if it is any consolation, I think he’d be proud of the job you did today.”

Wyatt looked up at her. Jazmine’s eyes were hazel, with gold specks in them. Weird. He’d never noticed that before. A nurse bustled in with a tray full of meds, but Diablo growled ferociously at her, hackles raised. The nurse sprang back.

“That’s it,” she declared, fleeing the room, “I’m calling the pound.”

“Okay, Bodhi might’ve been proud,” Wyatt informed Jazmine. “But now I’ve got to get Diablo—”

“Hey,” Jazmine protested, cooing at the spawn of Satan like he was some sort of bunny rabbit. “Don’t call him that.”

“No, that’s his name. And his attitude.” Wyatt looked around for something to use to subdue the beast. “I just need to throw something over him, then maybe wrestle him to the—” The whole time Wyatt was prepping for the dog-napping, Jazmine was moving toward the prickly Chihuahua, murmuring sweet little nothings the entire time.

Then she did something crazy. She picked him up.

“Now, now,” Jazmine said, nuzzling against Diablo’s neck. “It’s just nobody understands. You just want love, don’t you baby? I know you want to protect your daddy, but we’ve got to get you home, darling.” Jazmine darted a look at Wyatt. “Some communicator you are.”

“How?” Wyatt sputtered, “Why? What? Huh?”

Jazmine flashed a mean set of dimples. “My mother’s a vet. I grew up around a clinic. Trust me, it’s going to take more than a Chihuahua’s growl to scare me.” She chuckled as she moved to hand the devil dog over. “Here.”

“Uh-uh. No way,” Wyatt said as he backed away. “He likes you.”

“Yes, but I’m allergic, so take him.”

Okay, there wasn’t much arguing with that. He didn’t want Jazmine to go all runny eyed and drippy nosed on him.

“Fine. Then here.” Wyatt went to hand the stacks of cards over to Jazmine, stopped, reconsidered, and withdrew the ones with the numbers on them. No sense this day was a complete loss. “I’ll be keeping those.”

“No,” she said urging the cards back at him. “You are keeping them all. They’re yours now.” She offered the dog once more. “Just like he is.”

Jazmine deposited the tiny animal in Wyatt’s arms. While Diablo allowed the exchange to happen, he beared his teeth to remind Wyatt exactly who was Alpha male in the relationship.

“Ummm. I’m not sure if you attended the same event as I did, but I ain’t got nothing going on in the communicator arena. Nada.” He made a chopping motion with his empty hand, jostling Diablo. Wyatt went completely still as the dog snarled. Diablo was way too close to his nose for comfort.

“True, but honestly, I’m not sure any of them did,” Jazmine explained as she pet Diablo. “You touched those people. You reached Andrea when no one else could. Or would.”

“Yeah, but—”

Jazmine held up her hand, cutting off his half-formed protest. “They felt you understood their concerns. Now they’re asking for your help.” She cocked her head. “I’m assuming you and your uncle need the income?”

Wyatt looked over at Bodhi’s still form. If the insurance wasn’t going to pay for these medical bills…

“Yeah, definitely.” He answered. “But look, I may be able to fake my way through three minutes, but a whole hour…” He stopped. He felt an idea itching at the back of his brain, just like it had with Wooda. If only he could scratch it.

Wait a minute. Hold the phone. He turned back to Jazmine.

“You seem to know a lot about animals.”

“Yes…” Jazmine stretched the word out, clearly suspicious.

“Are you feeling what I’m feeling?”

“What?” her eyes twinkled. “The remnants of the ferret attack?”

Ouch. “You saw that, huh?”

“Yeah. Everyone saw that.”

Okay, Wyatt couldn’t linger on that especially painful memory. “Well then, more proof positive we should work together.”

* * *

Seriously? Jazmine nearly choked. That was the worst idea she had heard since… well going to the pet whispering event in the first place.

“Excuse me? What?”

Wyatt beamed at her, excited though. “You need a job. I need someone who knows the difference between a weevil and a weasel.”

She responded automatically, “First of all, a weevil is a beetle, whereas—”

“Hey, hey!” Wyatt said holding up his hand. “Save it for when you’re on the clock!”

“I don’t know…” This was a crazy idea, right? An idea that really should be thrown out into that trashcan helmet, right?

“C’mon,” Wyatt wheedled, lifting up a pile of cards. “Right here are people needing—” He paused and squinted at the cards. “Okay, ladies needing a little Wyatt in their lives.” He switched stacks.

“People needing help, remember?” He said. “You like helping people? Huh? Huh?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you need the income?” Wyatt pressed, not letting up. “Am I right? Am I?”

Ugh. She really hated it that he was more than right. “Yes.”

“All right then! You be the brains…” Diablo turned his head to try to bite Wyatt’s gesticulating hand and Wyatt squirmed out of the way to save himself.

“And you’ll be the brawn?” she chuckled. “Really?”

“No.” Wyatt said taking on the air of a radio announcer. “I’ll be the pet whisperer…er…” Diablo growled, giving one last rrrrr to Wyatt’s self appointed title.

Dear God, had her life really gotten to the point where she was considering actually working with the wonkiest-haired pet whisperer that ever lived? Sadly, it appeared that it had.

“All right. For a week,” she conceded, but then rapidly qualified it as Wyatt’s grin grew. “We’ll see how it goes for a week.”

Before he could respond, the nurse poked her head in the door, glared at Diablo, then picked up her cell phone to dial as she scurried away.

“We should get out of here before animal control catches our scent.”

* * *

Wyatt too sensed that the time for getting out was getting good. First though he turned back to his uncle.

“I’m taking Diablo home, then I’ll be right back, Bodhi…”

His uncle’s skin had a sickly cast to it as the machines breathed for him. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

“But he—”

Wyatt turned to Jazmine. He knew how ill his uncle was. It was the tree that he didn’t want him going to yet.

“You’re right,” she said, seeming to understand. “He can’t go anywhere.” Jazmine grinned. “We’ve got too much work to do.”

Right she was. And the good news? She was now in charge of the clients. He took the correct stack of cards, the ones without the lady’s numbers and ceremoniously presented them to Jazmine. She smiled, her dimples popping up again.

He opened up the door like the gentleman that he was and let her walk out first. The nurse scowled at them as they walked past. Which was fine since Diablo scowled right back.

Wyatt indicated to the cards he’d passed Jazmine’s. “So, what’s going on there, anyway? That elephant guy didn’t book me, did he? Because that trunk…” He shuddered. “Let’s just say it wanders.” Oh the flashbacks. “It made me very uncomfortable.”

“No, Dumbo went with the wicked witch lady.”

“Good fit.” Literally. The chick looked very fit which was necessary for the stamina needed to run from Dumbo’s more than enthusiastic trunk.

“I think our first one should be this Dalmatian,” Jazmine said as she scanned the referral cared. Seems he’s afraid of sirens.”

“Being a police dog,” Wyatt said as he nodded sagely. “That would be a problem.”

Jazmine looked askance. “No. Dalmatians are the firemen’s mascot.”

Silly girl. “Where are you getting your information? Those spotted canids help fight crime.” He noticed that despite Jazmine’s outrage, the corner of her mouth twitched upward. Somehow out of this crappy day, that little grin made him feel better. Wyatt barked twice and gave a quick whine. “See? That’s armed robbery.”

“No, no, no,” Jazmine protested. “Dalmatians were trained to run alongside the firemen’s water trucks to keep the horses running toward the flames rather than away from them.”

“What? That’s just plain… well, ludicrous. And not the rapper.” Wyatt gave a growl and one short yap. “That right there is Dalmatian for grand theft auto.” Jazmine opened her mouth to protest, but Wyatt rushed on. “With a speeding violation.”

Jazmine shook her head, but that smile played at the edge of her lips. “Now that there aren’t water trucks, the fire department mainly uses the dogs to go out to schools to help teach fire safety.”

Wyatt whined with an upward inflection. “That’s Dalmatian for jay walking.”

“It is not jay walking.”

“It totally was,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster. “Look, if we’re going to work together, you’re going to have to brush up on your phonetics.”

Jazmine seemed to chuckle despite herself. “You are such a dork.”

Yes, yes he was. But a dork that could make her laugh.

Perhaps this pet psychic thing wasn’t so bad after all.

Hacked: An Encrypted prequel short story

CHAPTER 1

FBI Special Agent Zachary Hunt slammed his shoulder into the suspect, sending the guy reeling into the wreath hanging on the church’s door. Kind of served the suspect right after committing his crime right in front of the sanctuary, and on Christmas Day no less.

“Don’t even try to get away,” Zach growled as he put his knee into the suspect’s back, patting him down.

Zach’s partner, Ellard Macconi, trotted up, none too quickly, the gray at his temples slick with sweat. “Congratulations, Special Agent, you’ve caught yourself a jaywalker.”

“It’s a crime on the books that we are sworn to enforce,” Zach replied, although not exactly wholeheartedly. In his defense, the guy had ran. Who runs after an FBI officer yells for you to stop? “Have Warp run his name against outstanding arrest warrants.”

“Look,” Ellard said. “I get it. You’re a little frustrated that a three-day-long stakeout hasn’t panned out, but –”

“Are you going to take care of this?” Zach asked as he held out the suspect’s wallet. “Or should I?”

The older agent frowned, but accepted the wallet. “I doubt even Warp is in today.”

Zach cocked an eyebrow. Warp leaving his cyber den? Not very likely, even on Christmas Day. Ellard must have realized the same thing, as he got his phone out and called the field office.

“Come on, man,” the suspect whined. “It’s Christmas, dude. Lighten up.”

“Did you know that nearly three-fifths of all pedestrian deaths occur due to jaywalking?” Zach asked the guy. “Nearly five thousand deaths and one hundred thousand injuries annually. So, in essence, I just saved your life.”

“Yeah, right,” the guy snorted. “Do you know how pissed my wife is going to be if I’m late for dinner at her parents’ house?”

Zach ignored the question. He could only imagine the suspect’s wife would be as pissed as Zach’s fiancée must beright now, sitting, waiting for him at his mother’s apartment. So be it.

“Well, well,” Ellard said, walking back over to them. “Zachary Hunt, you were right again. This gentleman has an arrest warrant out, ironically, for failing to stop at a crosswalk.”

“I can explain that!” the suspect yelled. “You can’t lock me up. Not today of all days.”

“Watch me,” Zach said, guiding the suspect to the car.

“You realize we could let him off with a warning,” Ellard suggested.

“Yes, yes, a warning,” the suspect agreed.

Zach, again, ignored both of them. “And have him fail to appear, again? I don’t think so.”

“Jeez,” the suspect sighed. “Aren’t you supposed to be hunting down, like, super-criminals or something? Why are you picking on me?”

Ellard shrugged and patted the suspect on the back. “Sorry, kid, but you chose the absolutely wrong day to jaywalk in front of Agent Hunt.”

Protecting the suspect’s head, Zach helped the man into the car, then walked around to the driver’s side door. Ellard, though, lingered near the back of the car.

“What are you doing?” Zach asked. “We’ve got to drop him off, then get back out on the search.”

“The Robin Hood Hacker isn’t going to strike today,” Ellard said, bluntly. “Even world–class hackers take Christmas off.”

Jerking open the car door, Zach wasn’t so sure.

* * *

Ronnie, a.k.a. the Robin Hood Hacker, braced her feet against the metal wall and scooted up another foot up the shaft. It was slow going, climbing up the building’s small crawl space meant mainly for pipes and electrical cabling. Not a thirty-something hacker who was a tad bit out of shape.

“The FBI just posted another warning,” Quirk’s voice sounded in her ear. “They’re still describing you as a late-twenties male who probably lives in your mother’s basement.”

They both chuckled at that. Typical profile. The FBI really went more on averages than actual insight. Because, twenties? She wished she’d had this skill level a decade ago. Male? Her detailed, intricate work should have given them a hint it wasn’t a guy. And living in her mother’s basement? Not even close.

If anything, she was saving up to buy her own country with the tiny percentage of money she took out of each job. She was all about wealth redistribution for the poor, but come on. A girl had to keep a little something for herself and Quirk. There was altruism, and then there was just plain stupid.

“And nothing about an accomplice,” her assistant said. “Do they really think any one person could do all of this by themselves?”

Ronnie didn’t bother to mention that she had been doing pretty darned well on her own for eight years, but Quirk was right. The young man had brought her game up to a new level. They’d quadrupled their take once he’d come on board. Unicef could thank Quirk later.

“Just make sure they don’t get wind of us,” Ronnie said as she grabbed hold of a pipe, repositioned her feet and moved up another foot. “I’ll be in the penthouse soon.”

Quirk snorted. Even though they only had audio communications via her ear bug and sub-vocal cord implants, Ronnie could swear she could see Quirk’s meticulously-shaped eyebrow arch up. “Darling, you still have four floors to go.”

Damn Quirk and his heat sensing capabilities.

“How many times have I told you?” he continued. “Three days of weights, three days of cardio and some light Pilates on your rest day.”

Yeah, Ronnie was lucky to swing up and out of bed every day. But Lord knew that she didn’t want to start the fitness argument again. “Yes, Mom.”

Unfortunately, Quirk took that as a compliment. “That’s better.”

Ronnie stopped, pressing her ear against the metal wall. Christmas music drifted from the elevator on the other side. “Jingle Bells,” she thought. Yes, it was going to be a very merry Christmas for several NGO relief organizations. Funded by the rather Scrooge-like oil company that was hiding nearly ten billion – yes, that was billion dollars in a slush fund. The money should have been earmarked for cleaning up spills, but no, the corporation used it for private jets and raucous parties.

Not anymore. Not if Ronnie had her way with their servers.

“Um, are you actually going to hack something, Ronnie?” Quirk asked in her ear. “Or are you practicing for an audition for Cirque du Soleil?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ronnie said hefting her way up another foot. She would have made it farther, but a rather large set of pipes loomed above her. “Quirk, I thought you said there weren’t any junctions in this access tunnel?”

“There aren’t.”

“Really, because some nice copper fittings here are saying otherwise.” She took a picture with her phone and sent it to Quirk. Between her and her assistant, they could pretty much hack their way around anything. Except a physical obstacle such as a pipe junction. Unfortunately, she needed to get past the pipes to get to the penthouse where the main servers were kept. Guess the oil company figured no one would be looking for them in the CEO’s office. They were wrong.

Months of planning had gone into this hack. Everything down to the last detail mapped out. And now it was all to be undone by pipes? It was so…dumb.

“Well?” she asked, scooting up a few more inches to see if there was a way around the jumble of pipes. There wasn’t.

“Tasking.”

Quirk and his love of all things Star Trek. Normally, Ronnie found it cute. Stuck in a tight, humid crawl space listening to jolly Christmas jingles that mocked her life choices? Not so cute.

“We are going to have to go to Plan B,” Quirk finally informed her.

“Plan B sucks, though,” Ronnie answered, trying to keep her frustration in check. She had probably failed, but at this point she didn’t care.

“What can I say, darlin’?” Quirk shot back. “Unless you can get emergency liposuction in that access space, you’ve got to cut a hole in the wall and get on top of that elevator before the guards go on their hourly rounds.”

Just because Ronnie knew what she had to do didn’t mean she liked it.

Pulling out what looked like an ordinary laser pointer, Ronnie hooked it up to a small battery-powered supply in her backpack. The pen was no longer a laser pointer but an actual laser laser.

“Don’t forget your glasses,” Quirk reminded her.

“Please,” she responded, then dug through her pack to find the glasses.

Ronnie would never admit it to Quirk, but she was a tad flustered. She had to get her head back into the hack. Crap happened out in the field. That’s actually why she liked going out into the field. Why she didn’t mind having to break into the actual main server. She liked the challenges of working outside of the cold room. Until, of course, the challenges surfaced. Then the challenges just annoyed her.

Securing the glasses that would protect her eyes from the ultraviolet portion of the laser spectrum, Ronnie turned on the “pen” and began cutting through the metal. The gray wall heated up, turned red, and then metal dripped down, creating a seam.

“They’re going to be at the elevator in ten,” Quirk prompted.

“I’m on it,” Ronnie reassured him, even though she had a lot of metal to cut through and not all that much time.

“And just remember how much junk you’ve got in your trunk, girlfriend. Make the hole large enough this time.”

Ronnie would really have liked to argue that point, but when Quirk was right, he was right. Which meant even more wall to cut.

Note to self… Do not eat a macho breakfast burrito on the morning of a hack.

* * *

Zach opened the holding cell door. The guy hung his head and walked in. Zach felt the tiniest twinge of empathy for the guy, but rules were rules.

“Cases like this aren’t going to get you back to DC,” Ellard said softly beside him.

Locking the cell door, Zach replied. “Who said I wanted to get back to DC?”

“Perhaps it is your no-holds-barred pursuit of the Robin Hood Hacker?” Ellard’s face softened, though. “Your mom’s been in remission for how long, Zach?”

“That’s got nothing to do with it,” Zach answered, brushing past his partner and grabbing the forms they would need to book the suspect.

“You only left your skyrocketing career in DC to take care of her.” Ellard stepped in front of Zach. “Now that she’s better, maybe go someplace that values your…enthusiasm.”

Zach ignored his partner. He’d made his decision and he was sticking by it.

“I bet Julia would love to head back east again,” Ellard pressed.

Well, the older agent had hit that one on the head. It was a never-ending topic with his fiancée. If they moved to DC, they could take the train into NYC for the theater, opera, ballet, and the orchestra. She didn’t seem to quite get that her argument wasn’t exactly helping her case. Even if she’d tried to make her argument with sports, he wasn’t all that fond of the Redskins.

“Look,” Zach said, trying to find a pen. “If you want a new partner for the next few months before your retirement, just ask Danner.”

Ellard sighed. “I just hate seeing you spin your wheels.”

This conversation was so done. Zach turned to ask one of the other agents for a pen, when he realized the bullpen was empty.

“Where’s everybody?” Zach asked.

“Christmas, remember?”

“But there should be two agents on call.”

Ellard tilted his head toward the back of the field office. “Probably playing cards in the break room.”

The older agent was probably right. Whoever pulled Christmas on-call duty was usually a junior, junior, junior officer. Straight out of the academy. Young and unattached. But not exactly observant. Zach walked through the maze of desks to the fax machine and pulled off a sheet as it printed.

Another warning that the Robin Hood Hacker was more than likely going to hit today. Of course, the bulletin from Washington didn’t have any more information than that. They seldom had much information until after the most-wanted cyber-crime suspect hit, and even then, there was little forensic evidence to go on.

He turned to relate this to his partner to find him gathering a few wrapped gifts from his desk.

“What are you doing?” Zach asked.

“Going home,” Ellard answered.

“We agreed to continue the stakeout until tomorrow morning.”

His partner shook his head. “No, you agreed that you were going to continue it. I’ve already missed caroling with my grandkids last night. I am not going to miss Christmas dinner, too.” Ellard patted Zach on the shoulder. “Go home, Zach. Make your mom and Julia happy. If you really are going to stick it out here and get married, you’ve got to start balancing things better.”

Zach took a step back. He’d heard it all before from Ellard. Just because the guy had been happily married for over thirty years didn’t mean he had the corner on relationship advice. But he did mean well, so Zach offered his hand to his partner.

“Thanks, but I’ve got to see this through.”

Ellard shook his hand back, but Zach couldn’t help but notice that there was little enthusiasm in the gesture. He watched the old man walk across the office to the exit. With each step, Ellard moved more and more quickly with more and more spring in his step. By the time Ellard hit the door, he was at a near-run. The guy was like a high school student with senioritis.

Once his partner was out of the office, Zach shrugged off his partner’s lack of dedication and sat down at his desk. There was paperwork to be done, and the sooner he filed it, the sooner he could get back out on the street again.

Yet, as he began filling out the intake form and the canned Christmas music filled his ears, Zach was no longer quite as gung ho. His eyes scanned the room. It was so odd to have the place so empty and still. Even Supervising Special Agent Danner’s office looked lonely.

Zach had tried to convince himself that today was just another day at the office, but it wasn’t. He could imagine his mom cooking all morning, filling her apartment with the sweet smell of her special candied yams and the rich aroma of roasted turkey.

While he felt certain the Robin Hood Hacker would attack today, what were the chances it would be in El Paso? There were at least twelve more likely targets. Like Hong Kong. What would be served by him staying on alert when the hacker was probably an entire continent away?

Maybe he could do both. Run to his Mom’s, have an early dinner, and then, if the hacker hadn’t hit yet, go back out again. Zach wasn’t quite sure if that was the balancing act Ellard had in mind, but it was the best Zach could do.

Now to put his Rescue Christmas mission into action.

Grabbing his keys, Zach put his jacket on, then noticed a lone light on down the side hallway. Tech support. With a sigh, he headed down the hall. Sure enough, he found Warp, unkempt hair, baggy pants, and all, sitting in front of three video monitors.

“It’s Christmas, Warp.”

The tech nodded but didn’t answer.

“Even you’ve got to have plans for today,” Zach said.

“Sure,” Warp said, never taking his eyes off the monitors. “There’s a whole group of us pagan RPGers meeting at the vegan restaurant on Montrose, but this is way cooler.”

“What is?” Zach asked, even though he usually couldn’t understand half of what Warp was saying.

The tech turned. “Oh wow, Agent Hunt, when did you get here?”

Zach took in a deep breath. Warp suffered from some kind of split persona—personality disorder, or absorbed a twin in utero syndrome or something. Zach was kind of vague on the details. All he knew was that it made Warp twice as difficult to deal with. Hence why Zach seldom came down this hallway.

Already regretting coming into Warp’s lair, Zach tried to back out. “Just saying goodbye.”

“No, sorry,” Warp said, shaking his head, which kind of undercut his apology. “With everything going on, and then the Special Agent Zachary Hunt coming in, we got a little spooked.”

Not knowing quite what to say, Zach smiled pleasantly and took a step back. “Well then, I will leave you to it.”

“It will be amazing to see the Robin Hood Hacker in action,” Warp said.

Zach should know better by now, but the mention of the hacker intrigued him. “What do you mean ‘in action’?”

“Oh, the hacker is going to hit today, and with any luck we’ll be able to monitor some of the action.”

“You mean you’re watching a feed from Washington?” Zach asked. Though the El Paso office might be shuttered for the holiday, the techs in DC were on high alert. When Warp didn’t answer, Zach pressed on. “They are monitoring Hong Kong, right?”

Warp snorted. “Hong Kong? Like he’s going to hit Hong Kong.”

“Why don’t you think he’ll target there?”

“Why would the hacker attack on Christmas in a country that doesn’t celebrate the holiday?” Warp asked, what seemed to be a rhetorical question. Fingers racing across the keyboard, Warp brought up a map of the world. Across it were tiny points of light. “If he is going to attack today, he is going to make the most of it and hit an area with an extremely large Christian population.

As Warp spoke, some of the lights extinguished—those in Asia, Africa and India. “Which leaves us with some South American locations, two in Eastern Europe and seven in the good ol’ USA.”

If Warp was right, the tech had just cut the pool in half. That couldn’t be, could it? Still, there were a number of possible target cities. “So you’re monitoring these?”

The tech’s head whipped around, his eyes dilated as if he were startled. “Do you have clearance?”

Zach didn’t bother to explain the fact that Warp had known him and his clearance level for two years. He just answered, “Yes.”

“Okay, then.”

Warp went back to typing, and typing, and typing.

Zach tried to be patient, but there were candied yams to be considered. “So there are twelve possible targets?”

“Twelve?” Warp repeated, as if it were the most stupid thing he’d ever heard. Then he looked to the screen. “Oh, that was before I applied my pattern-discerning algorithm.”

On the monitor, the tiny lights extinguished, leaving only one. El Paso.

“You mean to tell me that you are sure the Robin Hood Hacker is going to hit here? In our town?”

Warp shrugged. “With a ninety seven point two percent probability, yes.”

“Did you tell Danner about this?”

The tech’s fingers stopped typing as he frowned. “Yeah, he pretty much said I could spend my Christmas sitting around here if I wanted to…off the clock.”

Yeah, Zach had pretty much gotten the same speech from their boss. Before, his theory that the Robin Hood Hacker would hit here had just been something in his bones. El Paso had just been one city on a long list of cities the hacker might hit. But now that he had actual scientific proof? Or, at least, Warp’s algorithm?

“This is great work, Warp.”

The tech patted the chair next to him. “Wanna stay and watch?”

A smile, his first in a long time, spread across Zach’s face.

“Watch?” He asked. “How about we go catch the son of a bitch?”

CHAPTER 2

Ronnie used the back of her sleeve to wipe the sweat from her brow. This was not going nearly as fast as she had hoped. Either the steel wall was thicker than anticipated, or the laser was weaker than Quirk had promised. Either way, she was barely going to make it through in time.

“God I could use some music other than Taylor Swift’s version of Silent Night,” she grumbled.

“Ask and ye shall receive,” Quirk said. “Say hello to your Christmas present.”

“I’m stuck in an access shaft,” Ronnie snapped, then realized it wasn’t Quirk’s fault. She tried to lighten her tone. “Besides, you already got me the Panic at the Disco CD.” Ronnie said, blowing a stray hair out of the way.

“Oh, Scrooge, just turn on your MP3 player.”

“My hands are a bit full, Quirk.”

Her assistant’s sigh was loud enough that Ronnie could imagine him right next to her. “You really do know how to ruin a surprise gift, don’t you? Just say, ‘music, please.’”

Mainly just to shut up her assistant while she worked on cutting the last of the square out of the metal wall, Ronnie said, “music, please.”

The MP3 player in her pocket vibrated, turning on. Impressive. “Quirk, thanks. You made it voice activated.”

“Voice activated? Please, like that wouldn’t be a Christmas-level gift. Just give it a few seconds. It is documenting your heart rate, ambient temperature and blood pressure to decide which music is best suited for you.”

Ronnie waited, but she wasn’t holding her breath. As good as Quirk was, he was also known to slightly exaggerate his toys, especially the prototypes. Just take the laser pen in her hand. In this case, she should not have doubted him, as The Gossip’s song, “Catfight,” cued up, and its all-girl punk rock thrummed in her ear.

Just what a girl trying to laser through a metal wall needed.

“Brilliant. Truly brilliant, Quirk.” Ronnie gushed. The CD had been nice, but to be honest, she’d been surprised he had given her such a lightweight gift, as he was the self-proclaimed present-whisperer. Now she felt a little bad about the gift she’d given him. “You shouldn’t have, though. It’s too much. So much more than yours.”

“No, no, no,” Quirk said, as the Gossip still wailed in her ear. “I love the classic phaser you got me. It will go great with my Ka-Bar knife and Bat’leth blade.”

How was it that gay men were able to profusely lay on praise while making it quite clear they were disappointed? It truly was a marvel to see, unless, of course, you were on the receiving end.

“Hey, that was a prop used on set, and I made sure it had been touched by William Shatner,” Ronnie defended. It hadn’t been the most outlandish gift—however, she was a girl on a budget. She had that country to buy.

“Of course it was,” Quirk said in that pseudo-honey voice of his. “Those of us with birthdays on December 25th are used to one combo gift. It’s all good.”

Okay, now Ronnie really did feel bad. And, even worse, she knew that while Quirk was getting bounced around from foster home to foster home, he probably spent a lot of Christmases not getting any gift, let alone a separate one for his birthday. Maybe she should tell him…

“Uh oh,” Quirk announced, the fake honey gone from his tone.

“What?” Ronnie asked, tensing. If Quirk wasn’t being sarcastic, the news was usually bad—really, really bad.

“Yeah, it looks like the guards are giving themselves a little Christmas present and knocking off early.”

“What do you mean early?” Ronnie heard herself ask. It couldn’t be possible, they had logged and checked and confirmed the guards’ every route. They took no lessthan fifteen minutes per floor. They were like clockwork.

“I mean, you’ve got maybe three minutes, at most.”

Ronnie didn’t answer. There was no way she could cut through the rest of the metal and climb through in three minutes.

“I’m going to have to wait until the next guard sweep,” she said.

“And what about if they don’t go next hour?” Quirk asked the question that had already popped into her mind. “What if they take the rest of the day off?”

From a break-in thief’s standpoint, that would usuallybe a good thing. Now, however, when she needed the guards to activate the elevator? Not such a good thing.

“We can abort,” Quirk said, sounding more than a little hopeful that she would agree. He was not that fond of her working out in the field.

“So, what happens if I let the laser get hot to the touch?” she asked.

“You mean like how it could blow up in your hand and take not only take you but the entire wall?”

Ronnie gulped. “Yes, like that.”

But she had to risk it. Those billions weren’t going to transfer themselves into Greenpeace’s account by themselves.

As the pen warmed in her palm, she could only hope Quirk was exaggerating. Still, she kept her eyes squinted, just in case.

* * *

“No way,” Warp said for the fifth time as he fidgeted in his ergonomic chair.

Zach grabbed the tech by the shoulders and held him still. “Warp. You can do this. We can do this.”

“But, but, but,” Warp said pointing to the dot on monitor. “I am certain the Robin Hood Hacker will strike El Paso, but I don’t know where in the city.”

As the map zoomed in, that tiny point of light over El Paso broke off into half a dozen smaller lights.

“So those are the companies that the hacker has pinged during his ramping-up period?” Zach asked.

Robin Hood was good. Weeks before the actual job, he would hack into a wide range of companies’ financials. The hacker would test dozens of firewalls, never tipping his hand to which company was the target. So it was great they knew Robin Hood was in El Paso, but with so many targets, how could Zach hope to hone in on the one that was being hit today?

“Come on, Warp. You’ve come this far,” Zach encouraged. “You’ve got to have a way to narrow down the pool.”

“We’re not even the cyber crimes division,” Warp whined.

“Who needs those pussies?” Zach countered. “If the Robin Hood Hacker is in town, we are going to bring him down. Think of the bragging rights.”

Warp’s eyes scanned back and forth over Zach’s face. “It would be nice to hold my head high the next time I’m in DC for a tech conference.”

“For a conference?” Zach snorted. “They will call you to DC permanently.”

Zach knew that the computer array in Washington was like a geek’s mecca. Just the thought of the banks and banks of computer servers brightened Warp’s expression.

“You are a world–class hacker,” Zach added.

Unfortunately, the tech didn’t take that as a compliment. “Hacker? You think I’m a hacker?”

God, how Zach hated having to talk with the tech staff. It was like they lived in a different world. Operated on a different wavelength, and seemed to get pissed off at random stuff.

“I am a cracker,” Warp stated proudly.

Again, what did you say to that? As Zach knew it, “cracker” was derogatory slang for a white person. He really needed to bring in an interpreter with him.

“Okay, honky,” Zach responded, just trying to get Warp back on track.

“No,” Warp said, shaking his head so hard that his mini-fro swayed back and forth. “I don’t hack. That is an illegal entry into a system. I crack. I break through code to pursue hackers.”

“Whatever,” Zach said. “Can you crack this case?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try,” Warp said. “Right?” Although Zach was pretty sure the tech wasn’t talking to him. To prove his theory, Warp cocked his head as if he were listening to someone, then answered himself. “Right.”

Zach clapped Warp on the back and nearly knocked the kid over. “That’s the spirit. Now, how are we going to do this?”

The tech bit his lip as he called up each possible target. “I have a theory.”

“Of course you do.”

That got a wavering smile from Warp. Zach needed the tech confident. They needed to figure this out fast. Christmas was rapidly waning. This might be their best chance…ever to catch the Robin Hood Hacker.

“You see, I have tracked his last twenty jobs and found that in a median band width, he—”

“Warp,” Zach stopped the tech. “If you’ve got a hunch, let’s hear it.”

“I don’t do hunches,” Warp said, scratching his arm like he was about to get hives. “I deal in statistics and relative factors and—”

Zach gave the tech’s shoulder a squeeze, trying to infuse every ounce of confidence Zach had to share. “Warp, today we deal in hunches. So hit me with yours.”

Still, the tech didn’t seem so sure.

“What are hunches, Warp?” Zach asked. The scraggly-haired man looked at him with a blank expression. He was probably having a lengthy conversation internally, so Zach pressed on. “Your brain is the most sophisticated computer known to man. A hunch is just your subconscious working faster than your rational mind. So let’s get cracking.”

Warp slowly nodded as his fingers went back to his keyboard. He brought up a single company. The B & L Oil Refinery Holding Company. Zach stepped around the tech to get nice and close to the large monitor.

“I can find another one,” Warp offered, seeming to slip into his insecure persona, but Zach shook his head. He liked this one.

“No, this is inside the hacker’s wheelhouse,” Zach explained.

An ecologically unfriendly company with a history of evading clean-up laws and taxes. But most of the other companies the hacker had pinged were nearly as bad. A pesticide consortium, a bank known to still be issuing high risk mortgage loans, a cigarette retailer specializing in selling to the underage market. All of them perfect targets for a hacker who thought himself some kind of underdog financial vigilante.

Stealing from rich companies and giving to the poor. Although, Zach noticed, he also kept a tidy sum for himself. Not exactly a purely altruistic Robin Hood. Even if he didn’t take that cut, Zach would still bring him in.

Laws were laws.

And this oil company had probably broken most of them, but the business wasn’t the one under investigation. The Robin Hood Hacker was. If he had a target in El Paso, the oil company would be it.

“Let’s do this,” Zach said.

Warp looked around. “Do what?”

* * *

Ronnie shifted the hot laser from one hand to the other. Even though she’d wrapped her sleeve around her already gloved hands, her palms burned. “Seriously, you didn’t install some kind of heat sink in this thing?”

“Oh dearie,” Quirk replied, not bothering to cover his irritation. “What? In all of its six inches long and half an inch wide I didn’t somehow cram in a complicated heat conducting system never before created by man? That is what you thought you were holding in your hand?”

“Still, I think you might have anticipated—”

“That you couldn’t fit your booty-licious self past some pipes, then have guards completely abandon their professional code of honor?” Ronnie waited for Quirk to think that through. He didn’t sound nearly as haughty as he continued. “Yeah, okay, that should have been on my radar. Point taken.”

Ronnie might have taken more pleasure in Quirk’s realization had it not been for the red hot metal beating waves of heat at her. Not cool. Not cool on so many levels.

“You’d better hurry, girlfriend,” Quirk encouraged. “They are making a beeline for the elevator.”

It was a little hard to hurry physics, though, however Ronnie tried. She stopped going in a straight line and, instead, heated the metal in a perforated line. There just wasn’t time to melt it all.

Ronnie could hear the rattle of the elevator doors opening. Turning off the laser before it liquefied itself, Ronnie put her shoulder against the metal square and shoved.

“You did put a magnet on it before you punched it out, right?” Quirk reminded her a second too late.

Good news, the metal square gave, strings of heated metal dripped from the edges. Bad news, the square was about to fall on top of the elevator. And no matter how much spiked eggnog the guards had consumed, they were going to notice that.

Ronnie lashed out, grabbing the metal sheet, feeling the heat through her gloves. She tried to hold on, she really did, but damn.

The metal slipped from her grasp, falling down the long elevator shaft, ten stories. It hit the cement bottom, clattering. She held her breath as the sound reverberated up the access tunnel. The guards entered the elevator seemingly unaware.

Thank god for Celine’s “Little Drummer Boy.”

“They’re pressing the floor button,” Quirk informed her. “You’d best hurry.”

Only she couldn’t. Her stepping on top of their elevator? That they could hear. Ronnie had to wait until that first jerk of the cable to mask her movement. However, if she waited too long—well, goodbye, leg.

Cocking her head to listen to the motor grind, Ronnie teetered on the thin rim of metal. Balance bar wasn’t exactly her greatest gymnastic event. Okay, neither were uneven bars, floor work or vaulting, but that wasn’t the point. She more sensed than heard when the cables snapped tight.

Just as the elevator jerked upward, Ronnie’s foot came down on the elevator’s steel bracing. She allowed the rising car to lift her past the hole she had made and rise up one floor. With a loud, eggnog-induced laugh, the guards exited the elevator.

“Who knows how long they’re going to be,” Quirk said.

Ronnie turned on her laser. She had to get back into the access tunnel. There was no way to breach the penthouse from the outside.

“Maybe a distraction of some sort?” Quirk asked. “I could turn on a motion sensor on the other side of this floor?”

“We can’t alert them,” Ronnie said, wincing as the laser heated up. “This has got to be a clean entry and exit.”

“Like they ever are,” Quirk murmured in her ear.

How she hated when he was right.

* * *

Zach stepped on the gas, but then had to slam his foot on the brake as a blue minivan cut him off. Holiday traffic was really cramping his hot pursuit of the Robin Hood Hacker.

Speaking of hackers… “Warp, you can do this.”

“Of course we can,” the tech answered into Zach’s earbud.

Awesome. The confident Warp was showing up. “ETA until you are in the oil company’s computers?” Zach asked.

“You do realize that I am having to crack my way in behind Robin Hood, right? I have to tread just as carefully and not set off any alarms.”

Traffic piled up ahead. Seriously, did a blaring siren and flashing lights mean nothing to these holiday travelers? Zach jerked the wheel to the left, went up onto the embankment, and gunned it, despite being tilted nearly twenty degrees.

Over the sirens and rattle of the tires, Zach asked, “Are you trying to tell me that the Robin Hood Hacker is better than you?”

“Of course he is better than me,” Warp answered. “Everyone is better than me.”

Great. Now the insecure Warp showed up. “We just need you inside the first layer of—”

“Turn left!”

“But I’m—”

“Left!” Warp yelled, as lights flashed ahead at a train crossing.

Braking, Zach spun the wheel to the left, found a hole between oncoming traffic, and sped down a side street. Buildings with their red and green decorations flashed by. He felt a bit guilty for a moment, imagining his mother and fiancée waiting dinner for him. Not very patiently.

Maybe Ellard was right. Maybe Zach should go all-in again. Go to DC and see how far up the ladder he could go. His mom was healthy. He’d done his duty. Plus, moving to DC would make Julia happy. He would get far more a dose of culture than he would like, but during the day he would be working on cases far more intricate than check fraud or jaywalking.

“I’m in!” Warp exclaimed.

“And?” Zach asked, the thought of dinner slipping away.

“Nothing yet, but I am going to see if I can’t re-task a border satellite to El Paso for a more detailed picture of the area.”

Zach wished he had a dozen agents at his back, but that wasn’t going to happen. And maybe it was just as well. Because bringing in the Robin Hood hacker with only Warp would feel pretty damned good.

* * *

Ronnie backed out the last of the screws that held the penthouse access door in place. Before she finished the job, Ronnie made sure to attach one of the magnets to the panel, preventing it from falling and clattering down the elevator shaft.

Moving the door out of the way, Ronnie looked down the shaft. That was a drop. She didn’t mind heights. She just wasn’t all that fond of the fall.

Luckily, she had a secret weapon. Pulling two other magnets out of her bag, Ronnie got ready to make her journey around the periphery of the shaft. The magnets in her hands weren’t just “hold them tight” magnets. Oh no. These were more of Quirk’s prototypes.

“You’re sure this is going to work?”

“I’m sure if you don’t use them there is a greater than thirty percent chance you are going to fall down that shaft,” Quirk answered.

Not exactly reassuring.

In theory, these were traveling magnets. Not the kind you got for your fridge, but magnets that actually moved. Ronnie grabbed each by the handle and pressed them against the metal wall. Due to simple magnetic attraction, they stuck there. Now came the fun part.

She pulled up, clicking the handle out of its locked position, then turned it to the left. A small charge alternated the magnetic field. Through microscopic cycling of the repulsion and attraction, with the leading edge rotating through the positive cycling more frequently, the magnet moved to the left, while still maintaining enough grip on the wall to keep Ronnie safe.

In theory.

The metal beam she stood on barely supported half her foot. And as was well documented, her sense of balance was not the greatest. Without the magnets, well, Quirk’s estimates about a potential plummet were not far off.

Slowly, she allowed the magnets to do their work as they practically dragged her across the beam. Imagine that. A Quirk prototype that actually worked. Then one of the handles went wobbly, spinning around under her hand. Suddenly, one magnet was going left, while the other right and up.

“Quirk, your magnets are going rogue,” she growled.

“Don’t blame them. You must have done something.”

What did it say about their relationship that Quirk always sided with his toys?

As her foot lifted off the beam, Ronnie needed to do something or let the magnet go before it carried her up and off the beam. And what usually worked was hitting something. She lifted up her hand, pulled the magnet off the wall and slammed it back down again.

“Inanimate object abuse!” Quirk yelled in her ear.

“However, it worked,” Ronnie answered, guiding the magnet back to its rightful place.

After the little rebellion, Ronnie swiftly made her way around to the elevator doors. She paused, turning off the magnets before forcing the doors open. “Are the penthouse’s pressure sensors down?” Ronnie asked.

“Modified,” Quirk corrected her. “I reset their sensitivity so that they still show functional on the control panel in the security office, but will only trigger if, say, a horse steps onto the penthouse. Or, you know, a hacker who hasn’t exactly been faithful to her diet.”

Ronnie didn’t bother to take the bait. “Motion detectors?”

Quirk sighed. “Yes, Miss Micromanager. All the security features of the penthouse are under our control.”

With a deep breath, Ronnie placed a small hydraulic expander into the seam between the doors. With a single flip of the switch, the doors were parted and held open by the device.

“Quirk, you really are a genius.”

“I know.”

Ronnie smiled. The two had originally bonded over their mutual self-assurance during a game of Gauntlet. There really should be more cooperative video games. Nothing brought kindred spirits together like killing ogres.

Stepping out into the office, Ronnie lingered, making sure no alarms sounded. Once she was sure that Quirk really was as good as he said, she removed the device from the doors and allowed the elevator to close behind her.

Lacing her fingers together, Ronnie cracked her knuckles. Time to move onto some actual hacking. She did need to live up to her reputation. Ronnie slid into the CEO’s leather chair. She couldn’t help but spin around in it once. The thing wasn’t a chair, it was a work of art. But she hadn’t come here to appreciate the extravagance. She was here to extract some cash and give it to the charities the company should have been donating to.

Booting up the computer, Ronnie rolled out a gel keyboard onto the mahogany desk. The thing was state of the art, using subtle fluid movement to track her keystrokes, but it still wasn’t what she really wanted.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if I didn’t even need a keyboard,” Ronnie asked.

“Oh. My. God,” Quirk exclaimed. “Get over it. We are not implanting a keyboard in your brain.”

“Maybe not,” Ronnie said as the computer screen came to life. “But wouldn’t it be cool?”

“Of course,” Quirk answered. “Duh.”

Ah, they truly were two peas in a pod.

Rapidly, Ronnie entered the security code into the pop-up window. They’d figured that out weeks ago, then pinged the system again this morning, pretending to be the company’s backup server. It worked like a charm. Once the correct code was entered, a panel slid open behind her, revealing a wall of highly secured servers. The sleek black cases with their blue indicator lights flashing made her feel right at home. This was her playground.

Getting to the DOS prompt, Ronnie threw down some angle brackets and started with her first arg. She found a nice wormhole and took it as far into the code as it would allow.

Running up against the first firewall she couldn’t skirt, Ronnie raised her shoulders up and down, preparing for the hours it could take her to dig into the company’s financials.

“Um…” Quirk said in her ear.

Ronnie didn’t like “ums.” Not when they were so close. “You wanted to say something, Quirk?”

“Hold on, checking another traffic cam…”

While Ronnie didn’t stop the hack—she was in the middle of parsing out a patch—she did frown. What in the hell could Quirk need with traffic cam footage?

“Yeah, this is real,” he said.

“What is real?”

“We’ve got an FBI car hauling ass in your direction.”

“What?” Ronnie pressed. “Did you trip an alarm?”

“No! Did you?”

“No,” Ronnie shot back. “Of course not.”

“Well, I didn’t either,” Quirk sniped.

Distracted, Ronnie almost zeroed out some important files. “Are you sure the agent is coming here?”

“That would kind of be the reason we are monitoring all law enforcement vehicle’s GPS signals. And I am not sure where else an FBI car would be traveling over sixty mile an hour to in this part of town. There’s nothing else on the police scanner.”

Damn it. Was the guy just late for Christmas dinner, or had something in their approach to the hack tip off the FBI? They had been so freaking careful.

“Wait,” Ronnie said. “You said one car?”

“Yes. And now it is going seventy miles an hour.”

“If the guys in DC had figured us out, wouldn’t they have sent a fleet of black SUVs?”

Quirk paused. Ronnie kept typing. Even though she loved the feel and give of the gel keyboard, she kind of missed the clicking. It would normally soothe her in moments like this.

“I’m double-checking,” Quirk said. “Wherever he’s going, he doesn’t have any backup. It is just the one car. No new alerts beyond that lame all-points bulletin fax that went out earlier today.”

“Okay, so this may have nothing to do with us,” Ronnie said, relaxing, getting more into the moby of the hack.

“Except for the fact that he just pulled into the oil company’s parking lot.”

CHAPTER 3

Zach jumped out of the car and rushed to the building’s main door. Two security guards sat behind a large granite desk. Zach put his badge up against the window.

“FBI.”

The guards looked to one another, then shook their heads. Who the hell shook their heads at a federal officer?

“Let me in!” Zach shouted through the glass. “Now.”

One of the guards cautiously came around the corner of the large desk and stepped out onto the checker board pattern floor. The guy wasn’t exactly steady on his feet. Zach waved for him to hurry up.

“What do you want?” the guard asked when he finally arrived at the door.

“Open the door.” The guy was wary, though, squinting his eyes, body angled away from Zach. “Look, I don’t care that you are wasted on the job. I just need in.”

“Why?”

“There is a high probability that you are being hacked as we speak,” Zach answered, trying really hard not to threaten the guy with his gun or start talking about how obstruction of justice was a felony.

The guard looked back to his partner. They exchanged a few words—Zach couldn’t tell through the glass what they were—but both men shook their head.

“Controls are showing green lights,” the guard responded.

“Of course they are. It is the Robin Hood Hacker.” That got the guy’s attention. So Zach pressed on. “You won’t know Robin Hood was here until the billions are missing from your boss’s back account.”

Gulping, the guard got out his key and opened the door.

Zach charged through the door as he checked in with Warp. “Where do I need to go?”

“The penthouse would be the most likely point of entry, since the main servers are located up in the CEO’s office,” the tech answered.

Zach turned to the guard. “I need to get into the Penthouse.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the guard said, backing away from Zach. Even the other guard came out from behind the desk. “No one goes up there.”

“Don’t you make security rounds?”

“We’re not allowed up there, not even for rounds. There’s a double key system that has to be triggered to even get the elevator to go up that far.”

“There’s got to be another way,” Zach insisted.

The guards shook their heads. “Not without authorization from the top.”

Zach turned away from the men, moving out of earshot. “Warp, I need clearance.”

“I’m trying,” Warp said. “But it’s Christmas. I can’t get ahold of anyone with the authority to grant you access. I think they are in St. Barts…But…”

“But what?” Zach asked.

“I could fake the—”

“No,” Zach answered, interrupting Warp.

“I know you are the straightest of the straight arrows, but, Agent Hunt, if we were able to ask the owner of this company if we could go up to stop billions from being stolen from him, what do you think his answer would be?”

Zach shook his head. “Doesn’t matter until we actually get his permission.”

“Or I could just…”

“No.” The law was the law. “Besides, I thought you were a cracker?”

Warp must have heard that in his voice, because the tech backed down. “You’re the boss.”

Although Zach certainly didn’t feel like one right now. He wasn’t going to let that slow him down any, though. “Be sure to check with secretaries, janitorial staff. Someone besides the board of directors has got to have a way up there.”

“I’ll try,” Warp answered, not sounding all that hopeful.

Zach didn’t blame him. How could he, while standing in the lobby of the company that Robin Hood was about to hack and not being able to do anything about it?

Hold on. Maybe there was something he could do.

Force the hacker into an error.

He turned and found the closest security camera in the lobby. Zach walked up to it and stared straight at the camera.

“I’m coming.”

* * *

“OMG, he is hot,” Quirk said.

Yes, this agent— Zachary Hunt, if Quirk was correct in his identification— was easy on the eyes, okay, he was extremely easy on the eyes, however he was still a FBI agent in the lobby of this building.

“Options?” Ronnie asked, as she rooted under yet another firewall.

“What options?” Quirk asked. “We’ve got to abort.”

But that wasn’t an option to Ronnie. They had worked too long and too hard on this hack to quit now. It would take months before they could strike again. She couldn’t let a G-man, no matter how hot, stop her.

“There’s another option,” Ronnie stated.

“What do you mean?” Quirk said, then hurried on. “No. Ronnie. No.”

Ronnie pressed on, though. “The only reason this hack is taking so long is that fact I am staying under the radar. That I am tediously avoiding sounding any alarms.”

“No,” Quirk said. “Means no, Ronnie.”

“The FBI is already here,” she reminded Quirk. “I might as well bring the house down and extract the money.”

Quirk tsked in her ear. “I think you just want an excuse to meet the hunk.”

She ignored her assistant’s barb. She wasn’t interested in meeting anyone, especially not an FBI agent. That pairing would make Romeo and Juliet look like a John Hughes high school romantic comedy. Pretty in Cuffs is what hers would be called.

“I am doing it,” Ronnie said.

“Wait!” Quirk yelled in her ear. “At least let me get the secondary protocols in place.”

While she waited, Ronnie watched the video feed of the lobby. Special Agent Zachary Hunt paced across the black and white floor. He looked like he was arguing with himself—however, she could guess he had a geeky tech in his ear, as well. But no one was as good as Quirk. Which is why he worked with her.

Even so, could the world’s best two hackers steal over ten billion dollars with the FBI in the house?

Ronnie cracked her fingers again. It certainly was going to be fun to find out.

* * *

Zach strode the length of the glassed-in lobby. Clearly, the hacker hadn’t taken his bait. Everything still seemed hunky-dory at the company. Which meant they had to wait to get permission to get up to the penthouse.

What was taking the tech so damn long? “Warp, have you made any headway?”

“Like we said. It’s Christmas and there isn’t a Buddhist in the bunch.”

Zach had never been pissed off at Santa Claus before, but this was getting ridiculous. Just thinking about Robin Hood sitting over his keyboard, looking out over El Paso from the Penthouse window, thinking he was above the law, stuck in Zach’s craw. But it still wasn’t enough to get him to break the laws he swore to protect. Although Quirk’s offer to lie their way into the penthouse was looking more and more attractive. It was a siren song that Zach had to resist.

Alarms went off all around. Zach spun on his heel, pulling his gun in the same motion. “What’s going on?” When Warp didn’t answer, Zach yelled louder, “Is this you?”

“No!” Warp yelled shouted back. “The Robin Hood Hacker is inside the company’s mainframe.”

Maybe this was his Christmas present after all. He owed St. Nick a few apologies, but they would have to wait. Charging past the desk, Zach hit the button for the elevator. Nothing lit up.

“It looks like Robin Hood has overridden the elevators.”

“You know what?” Zach said, jerking open the door to the stairwell. “I think I like the stairs better anyway.” The sound of his boots pounding against the concrete steps filled the stairwell, making it hard to hear Warp. “Come again?”

“The stairs don’t go all the way to the penthouse. They stop at the floor below.”

“No worries,” Zach answered, passing the second floor. That gung ho attitude got him up to the sixth floor. After that, he started to feel the strain in his thighs. He really needed to install that stationary bike in his basement.

“Any progress on the hack?” Zach asked, sounding a little more winded than he’d like.

“The crack is going pretty well. I think Robin Hood is a little flustered. He didn’t close several backdoors. I think I can stop the flow of funds.”

“Good,” Zach commented, passing the eleventh-floor landing. One more to go. Twenty-six more steps. Twenty-five. Twenty-four. Damn, these last few burned.

Finally he made it to the twelfth floor’s door. Aiming his gun, he pulled open the door and swept into the hallway, checking his corners. There wasn’t a sound. Nor should there be. He raced over to the elevator and pried open the doors.

Flipping on his flashlight, Zach surveyed the elevator shaft. “Looks like he came up the access shaft, then breached through the penthouse’s elevator doors.”

“That would be the route least likely to trip the alarms.”

Holstering his gun, Zach braced the doors open, then leaped to the cabling. Catching it, he wrapped his legs around the bundle. His suit was trashed from the grease and soot, but that was a small price to pay for being hot on the Robin Hood Hacker’s trail.

Hand over hand, Zach climbed the cabling. Now it was his arms’ turn to ache.

Once level with the penthouse, Zach said, “I need those doors opened.”

“I’m trying, but I think you’re going to have to manually open them.”

Easy to say when sitting in an ergonomic chair half a city away. Not so easy here. There was barely a ledge to stand on, let alone enough room to really get the leverage he would need.

Then he saw it. Two large magnets with handles. It must have been how Robin Hood had climbed across the elevator shaft. Now, of course, he just had to jump across the wide open space, catch onto the handles and not fall several stories. A risk that he was more than willing to take, knowing that the Robin Hood Hacker was just an elevator door away.

Zach climbed up several more feet on the cables. Best to try this stunt with gravity on his side. Bracing his feet against the metal, he shoved off. Twisting mid-air, he caught one handle and narrowly missed the other. Worse, the handle turned under his weight and the magnetic disc started moving to the left.

What the hell?

Quickly, he swung his feet, maneuvering his body over so that his other hand caught the second magnet. This one held. Once his feet were firmly on the beam, he turned the handle of the magnet and got it to stop its wandering. This hacker had some weird-ass toys.

No matter, he had a job to do. Releasing the magnets, he stepped onto the elevator door’s ledge. Now all he needed to do was open the elevator doors. Which, apparently, was harder than it looked. On the inside, there wasn’t enough space between the doors to even give his fingertips leverage. And simply pushing them apart just wasn’t happening.

“Warp,” Zach whispered harshly. “There’s no way to get these open?”

“Sorry, no.”

He could not come this freaking close and miss the hacker because of a stupid door. Then he looked to the magnets. Carefully, he turned the handle all the way around. It released its hold on the metal so fast that Zach nearly dropped the thing. He reattached the disc to the elevator door, then repeated the process with the other disc.

Taking in a deep breath, he turned the handles in opposite directions. Between their force and his upper body strength, the elevator doors cracked open. He shoved a foot between them and pushed. With a creak, the doors opened all the way.

Jumping through, Zach released the magnets and pulled his gun. He landed hard and dropped to his knee, sweeping his gun in an arc.

“FBI,” he announced…to no one. The office was empty.

How?

“Well?” Warp asked in his ear.

Zach rushed over to the desk. The hacker seemed to have abandoned his keyboard and everything else during their hasty escape. The computer screen had been left on the company’s bank account page.

“You stopped the transfer?” he asked.

“Holding at ten point one eight billion,” Warp said with a distinct sense of pride.

With the money safe, Zach could go after the hacker.

“I’m following him down the access tunnel,” Zach said, sprinting back to the elevator doors. “Do you think you could round up some back up now?”

“Oh, you know it.”

* * *

“Where’s the helicopter?” Ronnie asked, turning her back to the wind. Of course there had to be a storm coming in. That was just her rotten luck today.

“Darlin’, he is en route, you’re just going to have to shiver for a while.”

“Why isn’t he here now?” Ronnie demanded. She was a little short on patience after having her hack interrupted.

Quirk tsked her again. “Remember how you wouldn’t let me prepay for his services? Remember how you said the chances we would need a helicopter on this job were so slim that you wouldn’t waste the double overtime?”

Oh yeah. She did say that. Sometimes her frugalness did interfere with a speedy exit. But hey, she had an island country to buy. “Fine. ETA?”

“I don’t know,” Quirk stated. “How long does it take to make your apologies from Christmas dinner, get suited up and fly over?”

Ronnie stifled a scathing retort. This was her fault. Sort of.

“So how did the FBI know we were here?” she said tightening her collar around her neck.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Quirk said, although not with his usual snappy tone. She knew that he was as affronted as she was. This just didn’t happen to them.

“Uh oh.”

Every muscle in Ronnie body tensed. “What?”

“Okay, which do you want? The bad news or the really bad news?”

“Quirk!”

“The Feds have called for backup. Just about every on-duty cop in the city is heading for you.”

Ronnie’s body trembled and it wasn’t all from the cold. “And?”

“The helicopter pilot is in the middle of some kind of gift exchange that may—” “Double his pay,” Ronnie interrupted. She wasn’t going to get to use her own private island if she was incarcerated. There was a delay on the other side of the line. “I mean it, Quirk.”

“Oh, trust me, I love to spend your money, but even if he left right now…”

Ronnie didn’t have to ask Quirk for clarification. Not as sirens sounded on the wind. Red and blue lights flashed in the distance. The building would be swarmed within minutes.

“You’ve got to use it,” Quirk said.

“There’s got to be another way.”

“Nope,” Quirk said flatly. “We’re on to plan C.”

But Ronnie hated plan C. Okay, she’d loved plan C when they were thinking it up, but now that she had to implement it? Not so much.

“You better start stripping, or even plan C isn’t going to get you out of this mess.”

Ronnie knew her assistant was correct, however she was having a hard time putting that knowledge into action. The sirens helped, though. And knowing that an FBI agent might be barging through that rooftop door got her fingers moving. Quickly, she stripped out of her outerwear to reveal her “swallow suit.”

Skin tight, the aerodynamic body suit had another feature. “Wings.” Not really wings, but flaps of resilient fabric under her arms and between her legs. She zipped each of the pieces into place.

“Do you like the embellishments?” Quirk asked.

Ronnie hadn’t even noticed the tiny swallow stitched onto her shoulder. Somehow that gave her resolve. “Yes, I do.”

Still, looking over the side of the building, preparing to jump with just a glorified yoga outfit, Ronnie hesitated. “You know what to do if this doesn’t work out.”

“Oh please,” Quirk said in her ear. “Don’t be so maudlin.”

Wind whipping all around, Ronnie stepped onto the ledge.

It was now or never.

CHAPTER 4

“He’s on the roof!” Warp screamed in Zach’s ear.

Zach clutched the pipes. He’d just gotten around the junction and was on his way down. Now the hacker was on the roof? Damn it.

“No. Wait.” Warp said, then screamed again, this time much like a little girl. “He’s jumped!”

Jumped? Nothing in the hacker’s psych file indicated suicidal tendencies. If anything, his survival instinct measured off the charts.

“No, he’s flying!”

“Warp, damn it. Which is it?”

“The satellite feed is coming in at a low angle, but the dude is in some kind of hang gliding outfit, only without the hang glider.”

Zach had no idea whatsoever what that meant, but it did mean that he had to get out of there, pronto. And there was only one way to do it. No more “walking” his way down the pipes.

Instead, he released his grip and slid down the copper. He gained speed rapidly. He must have passed several floors by now. Looking down, the end of the tunnel rapidly approached. Braking with his feet, his shoes squeaked in protest. That floor was coming up pretty damned fast.

He hit way harder than he’d wanted to, but knee pain was a small price to pay for getting back onto the Robin Hood Hacker’s trail. Zach burst through the access door and into a small electrical room. Jerking open the door, he charged across the lobby, not even bothering to answer the shouting security guards.

Hitting the front door at full speed, Zach ran out into the parking lot. He looked up to find a figure in a black suit, with armpit wings, no less, sailing overhead.

Screw that.

Hopping into his car, he gunned the engine and squealed out into the street. Leaning forward, Zach watched the figure bank right. Sure the guy was high-flying now, but he had to come down sometime, and when he did, Zach was going to be right there.

Zach skid around the turn, keeping the suspect within sight. “Warp, are you tracking this?”

“He’s about to move out of range of the satellite, but I should have an image back within a few moments.”

Did it matter, though, since Zach had eyes on the suspect? Then bright flashes came from the suspect’s hands and the guy made nearly a U-turn…in the sky.

“Were those…?” Zach asked as he skid the car around.

“Yes, those were mini, handheld jet packs,” Warp said. “But I’ve lost him.”

So had Zach. He searched the skies above him, but no show. The hacker had gone between the highest buildings in El Paso.

“We need that satellite in position.”

Zach could hear Warp typing as he talked. “Border Patrol is already pissed off we’re realigning it. I don’t think they’re in any hurry to help us out.”

“Well, make them hurry!”

“Maybe I’ve got another way,” Warp commented.

Zach took his foot off the gas. Just a little. There was no point in rushing in any one direction when the Hacker could have doubled back. Zach had to give it to the guy. He was inventive and adaptive out in the field. A rare quality in a hacker. Most just sat behind a desk and got pasty white. This one climbed pipes and jumped off buildings. What were the FBI shrinks going to make of that?

“Okay, okay, okay,” Warp said. “We’re flipping through the traffic cams and I think I’ve got a location.”

“Where?”

“Turn left at the next block.”

Zach was more than happy to. Of course, due to traffic, he had to go up onto the sidewalk. Seriously, people still didn’t seem to catch onto the lights and sirens. And, with every cop in town was now descending onto the oil company building, Zach was on his own once again.

He followed Warp’s directions to the letter, driving deeper into the city.

“Robin Hood should be overhead!” Warp announced.

Only he wasn’t. There wasn’t anything in the sky. “Warp, he isn’t here.”

“But, but, but…” Warp stuttered, then the line went quiet. “Oh no,” the tech groaned.

“What?” Zach could tell by the guy’s voice this was bad. Really, really bad. Worse than just losing sight of the suspect. “Warp?”

“I’ve been…” the tech gulped loudly in Zach’s ear. “We’ve been hacked.”

“That can’t be,” Zach stated. “The guy is up in the air.”

“He must have an accomplice,” Warp said. “Because they have been feeding me fake traffic cam images, leading you astray.”

While Zach was pissed, mighty pissed, so much made sense. This wasn’t a single person executing these elaborate cyber heists. It was a team. Something the profilers back in DC never detected. Of course, Robin Hood had never been spotted before. Their crimes were elegant in their conception. Apparently, two heads did think better than one.

“Oh no,” Warp groaned again.

What could be worse than losing the suspect and having the FBI field office hacked?

“Oh god.”

Zach’s stomach dropped. There could only be one other aspect of this case that had gone wrong. “The bank account?”

“Gone,” Warp answered.

“How much?” Zach asked, although, from the tech’s tone, he pretty much knew already.

“All of it.”

That was billions and billions of dollars. “How?”

“They let me hack into a ghost account. It looked like I’d stopped the transfer, but the money has been siphoning the money all this time. They just got the last of it.”

And right under their noses.

Zach gripped the wheel and stepped on the gas again. “Tell me when the satellite feed is back up.”

“Where are you going?” Warp asked.

The only place the hacker would be going after stealing over ten billion dollars.

* * *

“We’ve lost them!” Quirk announced. His tone glowing with pride. “Hah! Take that, G-men.”

Ronnie would have smiled, except for, you know, the wind slapping her in the cheeks. Her only thought was getting to the rendezvous point. If the helicopter couldn’t come to her, she needed to get to it.

Using just her wings, since the jet packs, much like the pen laser, had rapidly overheated. Quirk really shouldn’t call them prototypes. He should call them use-it-once-before-it-overheats-types.

Ronnie glided over El Paso, passing over the FBI building.

“Kind of ironic, right?” Quirk said in her ear.

Yes, it kind of was. Banking in the wind, Ronnie headed out of town and toward the airport. Her target? The large parking garage. The tiny spot in the distance rapidly approached. She just needed to land, change clothes, and head out to the helicopter, then meet up with Quirk. As the garage loomed ahead, this C plan really might work.

That was, until a bullet ripped through her right wing. The torn fabric flapped wildly, throwing her off balance. Tilting askew, Ronnie was headed straight for one of the garage’s concrete pillars. Pulling her arms together, she cut her lift all together, falling from the sky. Tucking into crash position, she could only hope that she had enough velocity to make it through the pillars and into the garage, otherwise…well…otherwise, she was going to make a very artistic statement on the street below.

Her foot hit a pillar, spinning her around as she sailed through the large concrete opening. She hit the floor on her shoulder. Pain shot up her side. As she lay there on the third parking level, trying to figure out if all of her bones were intact, bullets chipped away at the ceiling.

“And he’s shooting left handed,” Quirk said, sounding slightly too impressed. “While driving a speeding car.”

“How the hell did he find me?” Ronnie croaked out, still guarding her ribs.

“No idea, but girl, you better get on the move.”

Catching her breath, Ronnie pushed up from the pavement and unzipped the fabric that connected her legs together. She didn’t have time to tuck the extra fabric in the pocket Quirk had made for them. The screech of metal as the FBI agent’s car bounced over the entrance to the parking garage kind of told her that Quirk was right, she needed to haul ass.

With her “wings” now nothing more than flapping fabric, Ronnie knew that she looked like some kind of drunken mermaid making a run for it, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about pretty. She cared about practical.

But trying to outrace a car, uphill, was not going so great. Ronnie ducked her head over the side of the retaining wall to watch the FBI car pass the second turn. Damn the guy could drive.

“I’m not going to make it,” she said, as much to herself as to Quirk.

“Then honey darlin’, you better come up with a plan D.”

* * *

Zach laid on the emergency brake as he took yet another curve. The hacker couldn’t be that far ahead.

“Do we have satellite coverage yet?”

“Trying,” Warp answered, with that far-off voice of his. Either he was concentrating really hard, or having an internal argument that involved whether Big Bang Theory was a satire or homage to science fiction. Zach was learning you could never quite tell the difference with the tech.

Coming out of the curve, Zach punched the gas pedal, flying across the third level, aiming for the up ramp to level four. He was about the make the turn when his headlight bounced off metal. Slamming on the brakes, Zach laid down rubber, skidding to a stop just inches from a car parked sideways in the tight space of the up ramp.

He didn’t bother to curse or hit the steering wheel. Zach just popped his car door open and jumped out. He slid onto the car’s hood, then hit the ramp running. The hacker must have been heading for the roof, because that was exactly where Zach would run, and so far, he was batting a thousand on what the hacker was going to do next.

Except, of course, for Robin Hood stealing the oil company’s money, but honestly, Zach didn’t care about that. He was sure the oil company could take care of itself.

This was now personal.

The Robin Hood Hacker was going down.

* * *

Ronnie charged up the steps to the last level. Given that it was Christmas, the place was packed, end to end with cars. But no helicopter.

“Where’s my ride?”

“He says he’s en route,” Quirk answered.

“Okay, en route and being here are two distinctly—”

A shot rang out. Ronnie ducked behind the nearest vehicle. The bullet missed her—however, her back was covered in paint chips from the car that was hit. She dove behind the next car, trying to make it to the cover of the large electrical room at the corner of the garage.

“God, he’s hot,” Quirk breathed out. “You should see him, striding across the garage, arm out, firing shot after shot.

“Quirk!”

“Well, I mean, if he weren’t shooting at you, he’d be hot.”

She had little time to worry about Quirk’s crush. There were a good twenty feet between the last car and the electrical room. And with how rapidly the FBI agent was firing, she was not going to make it.

“I need a plan E,” Ronnie admitted.

“You do realize how crappy our plans C and D were, right?”

“Yeah,” Ronnie said, putting her hands over her head as the FBI agent shot off the side mirror of the car next to her.

Then the sweet, sweet sound of rotors filled the air. Her helicopter. It rose next to the garage in all of its escape-possibilities glory. There was no pretty way to make her escape. She was going to have jump for it and pray the FBI agent wasn’t going to shoot an unarmed person in the back.

“Tell the pilot to hold steady,” Ronnie shouted above the noise. The wash of the blades whisked away her words. Had Quirk heard her?

Taking a deep breath, Ronnie hopped onto the car next to her, then launched onto the edge of the ledge. A shot pinged off the cement.

Crap. Guess the FBI agent would shoot her in the back. One of the risks one took when they were the FBI’s most-wanted cyber criminal, but there was no turning back now. Then the sound of the firing pin hitting metal filled the air. Then another. He was out of ammo.

Not wasting a moment, Ronnie jumped for the helicopter. Her foot found the railing as she grabbed for the handle of the door. The only casualty was her body suit, which ripped along the shoulder. Ronnie went to haul herself into the helicopter when it tipped precariously. Her body swung out, facing the FBI agent full on as he replaced his clip.

Ronnie really wanted to close her eyes if she was going to be shot to death, but Quirk was right. The agent really was just that hot.

* * *

Zach slapped the clip in and raised his weapon, but stopped as the hacker’s body suit ripped even further, revealing the curve of a breast. What the hell? Then Robin Hood’s blond hair tumbled out of its restraint, flying around her head like a halo.

“The Robin Hood Hacker isn’t a guy,” Warp said in his ear.

By no definition of the word, Zach thought as she looked into his eyes.

Then the helicopter righted itself, reminding him why he was here in the first place. To arrest the hacker, chick or not.

He raised his weapon, going for the good shot, but the hacker made her way into the chopper, slamming the door shut behind her. Zach shot, but he hit the door. Then the helicopter was hightailing it away. Maybe he could hit the gas tank or a rotor, but the chopper rapidly flew out over the desert. Zach fired until he ran out of ammo.

“The hacker is a woman,” Warp whispered into his ear, as if the tech were afraid to say it too loud.

“How quickly can we get our chopper in the air?” Zach asked.

“Again, it’s Christmas. I can’t imagine getting someone—”

“Then contact the local PD,” Zach ordered as he watched the chopper gain more and more distance. “They’ve got a rescue chopper.”

“But it’s out at a major accident on the I-85, and, before you ask, the news choppers are all out there, as well.”

This could not be happening. He could not have come so close to lose the hacker now. But that was exactly what was happening. The chopper was flying way under any radar. Once they made it past the outskirts of town, they could head anywhere. Including south, to Mexico, where they could lose themselves before you could say extradition.

Zach holstered his weapon and leaned against the concrete ledge, doing the only thing he could…

Watch the Robin Hood Hacker fly away.

EPILOGUE

Ronnie watched the sun set from the window of the train. The Mexican desert streaked past as they entered night. Freshened up and changed into actual clothes, the stress of the near miss slowly melted away.

Quirk opened the door to their compartment. How did he always look like he had walked off a Milan runway? The only concession to their anonymity was the hat he wore to hide his perfectly raven-black hair. And even the damned hat was high fashion.

“I thought we said ‘low key,’” Ronnie complained.

“What?” Quirk retorted. “I am not wearing feathers, sequins or appliqués, so, I repeat, what?”

Ronnie didn’t bother to argue the point. Or mention the fact that his pants were faux snakeskin or that his boots were orange. She could never win. However, she did stop him from sitting down.

“Nope,” she said. “We’re going to the dining car.”

“Ugh,” Quirk groaned. “I just want to sit down, apply some apricot exfoliating cream and take a nap.”

“After dinner,” Ronnie insisted, turning him around and nudging him through the door.

As the train rattled underfoot, they made their way down the hallway and into the dining car. The place was empty, except for one person sitting at the far end of the booth.

“I thought we’d bought out the car?” Quirk asked.

“We did,” Ronnie said, urging him forward.

The figure stood up and walked toward them.

“Oh my god!” Quirk squealed, then threw his hand to his mouth. “It’s William Shatner.”

Ronnie laughed as the sci-fi icon joined them. “Yes it is.”

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Quirk repeated, over and over again.

Shatner extended his hand, but Quirk could only mutter his fanboy chant. The star chuckled, clearly used to the reaction, then offered his hand to her. She was pretty much in awe, too, but managed to return the handshake.

“Thank you so much for making the trip,” Ronnie said as their hands parted.

“Can I call you Captain?” Quirk blurted.

Shatner nodded. “With the payment your friend made to get me here on Christmas? You can call me anything you like. Kirk. James T. Your call.”

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

Ronnie waited, hoping that Quirk could pull it together enough to say something coherent, then realized that was not going to happen. She turned to Shatner.

“When we reach Hermosilla there will be a private plane waiting to fly you to Los Angeles, where you will meet up with your new horse. There will be a climate-controlled trailer there you can drive up to your ranch at Three Rivers.”

The star cocked his head. “How did you get the imperial family to sell the stud? They swore they’d never part with him. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Ronnie shrugged as Quirk continued his shock-induced mantra. “A girl’s got to have some secrets.”

“Well, I can’t thank you enough,” Shatner said, then eyed Quirk. “Just an hour of face-time, though, right?”

“Yeah,” Ronnie assured him. “Normally he’s a bright, articulate firebrand,” she said.

“They all are,” the star said with a smile.

Ronnie patted Quirk’s shoulder as she passed by. Hopefully he would come to his senses before the sixty minutes ran out.

“Wait,” Quirk blurted just as she was about to exit the car. He trotted up to her. “Thank you!” The normally glacially cool hacker wrapped her in a bear hug. “This is the best Christmas present ever.”

“Oh, but it’s not,” she said. “Meeting Shatner is your birthday present. Happy Birthday, Quirk.”

Tears filled her assistant’s eyes, and damn if her eyes didn’t respond. Years ago she’d sworn off feelings, or relationships of any sort. A hacker’s life was a life lived best alone.

Until now.

“Thank you so much, Ronnie,” Quirk rushed on to say. “But I’ve only got fifty eight minutes left and there are twenty-nine episodes—”

“Thirty, if you count the original pilot,” Shatner commented.

Quirk’s face lit up like a sci-fi super nova. He pointed his finger at his hero. “Just one of the things we’re going to debate.”

Ronnie pushed him toward his present. “Go.”

With one last quick hug, Quirk was gone. He was pelting Shatner with questions before she could even make it out the car. The star was going to wish for the “oh my god” mantra to come back after a few minutes of Quirk’s geekery.

Despite the near-death experience in the elevator shaft, the swallow suit nearly burning up and getting shot at, Christmas had turned out pretty damn good for once.

* * *

Zach walked up to his mother’s apartment. It was way later than even his usual. The aftermath of nearly catching the Robin Hood Hacker had taken far longer than it should have. But when you shatter the law enforcement’s worldview on the number-one most wanted cyber criminal, there was some serious paperwork to be done.

He’d wanted to head home, but when he texted his mom, she’d hear nothing like that. It was still Christmas, and they were having dinner. End of story.

Before he could knock on the door, though, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He would have ignored it, since he’d already given like five different statements, but it was his boss, Danner.

“Yes, sir?”

“Sorry to bug you, Hunt, I know I said you had the rest of the night off, but what are we supposed to do with this guy in holding?”

Crap. Zach had forgotten all about the jaywalker. “Let him go.”

“Did I hear that right?” Danner asked. “Special Agent Zachary Hunt is letting a suspect walk?”

“The Christmas spirit has overcome me, sir,” Zach chuckled. “But tell him if he misses another court date, I will lock his ass up for Valentine’s Day.”

“Will do,” Danner said before the connection clicked off.

He didn’t even have time to knock as the door burst open. “Zachary!” his mother exclaimed as she launched into a hug. “It is so good to see you.” Wow, it looked like, for once, she was going to let his tardiness go—until she rubbed his back. “Finally.”

There it was. His mom’s patented guilt-inducing zinger. Luckily, he was too tired to really care. “Yep.”

As they entered the living room, Zach glanced around. “Julia left?”

His mother snorted. “Oh please, she didn’t make it through the first hour of waiting.”

“She’s gone home then?”

“Home? Julia? When she’s mad?” His mother was shaking her head. “No way. She joined some girlfriends who were going to a bar for eggnog shots.”

Yes, that did sound like Julia. He couldn’t blame her, though. It was Christmas, after all. Ellard had warned him.

“Son, that girl is absolutely beautiful, but high maintenance. If you want to keep her you’ve got to—”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted his mother, guiding them to the dinner table. “I’ll make it up to her.”

His mom put a hand on his arm. “Dear, using sexual gymnastics to solve the problem will not work forever.”

“Mom…”

“I’m just saying that pleasing her in bed isn’t going to make up for—”

“Mom!”

His mother waved him off, then straightened the tablecloth. Most of the food was already plated and ready. “Just because I’m a senior citizen doesn’t mean that I can’t remember what it was like to be young and engaged.”

Zach sighed. “Mom, I was going to give her a ten pack punch card for her favorite Pilates studio.”

“Oh my,” his mother said frowning. “You mean sexual gratification isn’t working anymore?”

“Mother!” Her prying was bad enough. And when she was on the cusp of being right? “Can we just eat?” he begged.

“Of course,” she said, a smile replacing the frown. “I’ll get the turkey.” Zach started toward the kitchen, but she urged him to a chair. “No, no. You sit down. I’ll be right back out.”

He didn’t argue. His legs were tired. His arms were tired. His brain was tired. It had been one hell of a day. Then his phone dinged. He’d meant to turn the damn thing off, but he found the text was from a blocked number. A link to a video.

It took a few seconds of the film running for Zach to realize it was a compilation of satellite footage of the chase after Robin Hood. The hacker flinging herself off the oil company building. His car chasing her through El Paso. Then, finally, their confrontation on the garage roof.

The final shot lingered on the Robin Hood Hacker’s face just before she turned to board the helicopter. A smile flickered at the edge of her lips. With her hair flying around her face, the hacker looked a little like Julia in one of her old photo shoots. Only this woman wasn’t in a harness or strapped onto a dozen safety lines. She was actually riding the side of a helicopter in the air, tilting over nearly on its side, for that matter. There was nothing fake about that shot.

Below her picture were the words, “Better Luck Next Time.”

“Ta da!” his mother announced as she carried out the turkey on a platter.

Zach turned off his phone, slipping it back into his pocket, but not before thinking to himself…

Game on.

Afterword

Thank you so much for sampling some of my favorite work. I hope you enjoyed reading them as much as I did writing them.

If you did enjoy A Reader’s Feast, I would ask you a favor and have you head back to Amazon and leave a review. We indie authors live and die by our reviews!

I’d also like to ask that if you find any typos/errors to please contact me directly. Even though this and all of my books have been put through a gazillion rounds of edits, we are all just human. It really helps if you catch anything to email me at authormccray@aol.com

Want more of Carolyn’s work? Check out the next section…

Other Works You Might Enjoy

The Betrayed Omnibus Series – Carolyn’s controversial historical thriller series

Have you read the entire Betrayed series? From the prequel short story, Ambush to the post-Shiva EXCLUSIVE short story Mayhem?

Want them all in one place? Check out The Omnibus Collection - it is a $19.00 value for just $9.99!!!

Praise for the Betrayed series…

“Carolyn McCray’s 30 PIECES OF SILVER proves that Dan Brown’s crown is up for grabs. Part minefield and all roller-coaster ride, here is a story as controversial as it is thrilling. Hunker down for a long night, because once you start reading this book, you won’t be putting it down.”

NYT Top Ten Best Seller

James Rollins

Devil Colony

“With twists and turns galore the pace of Havoc never slows down, you are propelled along like an avalanche. Havoc is an accomplished thriller. I sort of hate to use the word “interesting” which sounds like a book report, but this novel IS interesting as well as being a great read.”

P.B.Sharp

Amazon Reviewer

I am hooked on this series …a great mix of religious history, action, and old fashion love. I know there is a sequel. I can nearly wait.

Niecy733

Amazon Reviewer

To purchase the Betrayed Series on Amazon, click on the links below…

The Omnibus Collection | 30 Pieces of Silver | Havoc | Shiva

* * *

Got Thrills? A Boxed Set With Your RDA Allowance of Thrills

From the Carolyn McCray, #1 bestselling author in Technothrillers, Men’s Adventure, Action/Adventure, and War comes a pack of thrillers to get your blood pumping!

AMBUSH

The prequel short story to the extremely controversial 30 Pieces of Silver.

ANATOMY

See where the Harbinger Mystery series began… The Plain Jane prequel.

HACKED

The prequel short story to the #1 action packed Encrypted techno thriller

GAUNTLET

The action packed prequel short story to the bestselling Mystery/Horror novel All Hallow’s Eve.

DEVIOUS

The shocking prequel to the blockbuster 9th Circle.

MOONRUSH

Carolyn’s action-packed full length techno-thriller novel set in the near future.

CAUGHT

The prequel short story to the second cycle of the Betrayed series.

Praise for Carolyn’s thrillers…

“Everyone of these books is fast paced and exciting. All deserve a 5+ Star rating. Carolyn McCray is a magnificent writer!! She has easily become my number 1 author!!”

Guinevere

Amazon Reviewer

“I read these stories and really enjoyed them all for different reasons. She is definitely got a great way to tell a story and I have bought her other books that are available and are reading them now. Not sure why she is not more widely known her stories are the same caliber as other more famous authors. Highly recommend!”

Lisa Kubin

Amazon Reviewer

“I found this book to be just as the title said an action packed techno thriller. I read at least a book a week but this was one of those impossible to put down books. It was well worth the money and based on this book I bought her other book and will be placing the next in her series on my wish list.”

Scott Powner

Amazon Reviewer

To purchase or sample Got Thrills, simply click here.

* * *

Love is in the Air – A McCray romance collection

From the #1 bestselling Romance/Paranormal Romance/Contemporary Romance author Carolyn McCray comes a collection for all romance readers: Love is in the Air. It includes over 150,000 words from some of Carolyn’s bestselling romances novels.

Praise for McCray’s romances…

“Read all-each is totally different-she is my favorite writer-anything she writes is great-wish she would write sequels to these.”

McKinnley

Amazon Reviewer

“From Carolyn McCray comes a historical romance, Fated, that will leave you hoping that for once, fate will be kind. You will be gripped from the first page to the last, caught in a love that spans eons and an ancient political intrigue whose consequence still reverberates today. This is truly a masterpiece that stays with you long after you’ve turned the last page.”

Emma Gilbertson

The Writer Bites Back

“I love this story…it’s so touching, beautiful & fulfilling. Thank you Ms McCray for sharing such a beautiful love story.”

Luv2Read

Amazon Book Reviewer

“This is such a cute book. I love how Ms. McCray had me laughing out loud and at the same time, was able to touch my heart with a softer side. When I first met Wyatt, I connected with his sense of humor. I love the beginning scene where he and his uncle Bhodhi are talking about ‘chicks’. Too funny. The animals and their personalities make this book special, but the development of the main character and his relationship with family and friends touched my heart.”

The Book Goddess

Amazon Reviewer

To sample or purchase Love is in the Air, click here.

* * *

The Harbinger Mystery Thriller Collection

Hard-boiled mysteries not for the faint of heart

Anatomy

The greatly anticipated prequel short story to Plain Jane. See where the Harbinger Mystery series began!

Plain Jane

Harbinger’s first novel the #1 Bestselling (Police Procedurals and Hard-Boiled Mysteries)

Dark Lullaby

Is a 12,000+ word stand-alone short story (with no spoilers) that takes place after the Plain Jane: A Patterson-style thriller with a dash of Hannibal.

Soul to Keep

A post-Plain Jane supsense short story.

Wallflower

Pray you aren't noticed - (Book 2 of the Harbinger Mystery Series)

Shallow Grave

A 15,000 word Harbinger Mystery Series short story

Praise for The Harbinger Mysteries…

“Wickedly macabre and blisteringly paced, Plain Jain marks the debut of a thriller for the new millennium. Brash, funny, terrifying, and shocking, here is a story best enjoyed with all the lights on. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

NYT Top Ten Best Seller

James Rollins

Bloodline

“This book is so creepy. I made the mistake of starting in one night before bed. Not only did the story line keep me turning pages, it freaked me out to the point that I didn’t want to turn off my light.”

The Book Goddess

Book Reviewer

“If you think you know what is going to happen, your wrong. I have read so many suspense and crime books that guessing the end gets easier and easier. NOT this time. Be prepared to be hooked from the fist page and loose some sleep because you just can't put it down.”

Michelle Delgado

Amazon Reviewer

To purchase of sample the Harbinger Collection, just click here.

* * *

The Robin Hood Hacker Series – Carolyn’s action packed techno-thriller series

Praise for the Robin Hook Hacker Series…

”Writing a successful sequel is never easy, but in this case Carolyn McCray nailed it! Non-stop thrills and action combined with great new gadgets and more bad guys. Lost in all of this is the witty and humorous dialogue as well as the character development and the blossoming romantic relationships. If that was not enough, she also left us hanging and wanting more. Bravo! Cannot wait for the next installment. Definitely 5 stars.”

Romano Rubusto

Amazon Reviewer

“From the moment I started reading this book, I was in awe. Encrypted is action packed from the first sentence. I couldn't turn the pages fast enough. From hackers, special agents, to the plague, you won't be able to put this one down until the end!”

Book Goddess

Book Reviewer

“I've read all the books and this box set is amazing value. Whether you're a fan of action, suspense, techno thrills or its outside you're normal reading patterns, I would definitely recommend this set as the series has something for everyone and will blow your mind...I didn't know what to expect but I got an exciting roller coaster read that was fast paced and thoroughly enjoyable. Hence, I couldn't stop reading the rest of the series! Do yourself a favour, save yourself some time and money by buying the set.”

Kizzle79

Amazon Reviewer

“What I love about a boxed set is they are in order, on e-book it is just so much easier to not miss a book or be out of order. In the Robin Hood series I would so suggest staying in order. Carolyn McCray is a talented writer that brings you right into the action; you are so with the characters and what is going on. Yes crime is wrong, but sometimes you got to wonder if only this could be real and we could stop the bad guy in their tracks. And these books sure give a feeling of satisfaction. Full bodied story full bodied characters and full bodied action. You will not be disappointed. Well except for wanting another book to keep on reading.”

Shirleen Miller

Amazon Reviewer

To purchase the Robin Hood Hacker Series on Amazon, click on the links below…

Robin Hood Hacker Collection | Hacked | Encrypted | Binary | Cipher | Zeroes (exclusively in The Robin Hood Hacker Collection) | Code (pre-order) | Ones

About the Author

Carolyn has been a huge fan of fantasy since a little girl when she gobbled up Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy. And she never stopped seeking new and exciting fantasy novels.

Then one day as she was daydreaming of a fantasy she had just read, Carolyn stopped short. Um… she hadn’t read that fantasy! She was writing a new one in her head!

It was time to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and hence 7 Folds of Winter was born!

And it probably wouldn’t surprise you to know that besides being a writer, Carolyn is also a veterinarian with her own menagerie of five cats and four dogs! She also rode horseback competitively so her love of horses shines through on every page.

Copyright Information

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Reader’s Feast

An Off Our Meds Project/published by arrangement with the author

FIRST EDITION

Copyright 2012 by Carolyn McCray

All rights reserved

Kindle Edition

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Any inquiries can be made to:

3524 South Star Lake Rd

Auburn, WA 98001
authormccray@aol.com

Acknowledgments

So many people contribute to any book that it is hard to list them all. However, I intend to try!

This book would never have come into existence without, of course, Jim. Ever cool. Ever there.

Ben, who faithfully edited the manuscript through its many, many, many incarnations.

Dee Dee, who has believed in me for so long it is almost impossible to remember a time without her. #andnothatsnotadissonyourage

Contact Information

Carolyn McCray can be found just about everywhere social media exists (and some that are just in her head).

Her personal social media links:

Twitter

Facebook
www.carolynmccray.com - Sign up for my newsletter here and get entered to win a $25 gift card!

authormccray@aol.com

Contents

Start Reading

Afterword

About the Author

Copyright

Other Works by Carolyn McCray

The Betrayed Omnibus Collection – Extremely controversial historical thriller series

Got Thrills? – Need your RDA Alloawance of thrills? Check out this collection!

Love is in the Air – McCray’s softer, romantic side

The Harbinger Collection – A Patterson-style thriller collection with a dash of Hannibal

The Robin Hood Hacker Collection – Carolyn’s action-packed techno-thriller series

__________________

The Feast

7 Fold of Winter

A YA+ Epic Fantasy

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36

The Rush

A prequel MoonRush short story

Rook

Let’s stop the apocalypse, people

Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | Epilogue

Ambush

A 30 pieces of Silver prequel short story

Anatomy

A Plain Jane prequel short story

1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Pet Holiday Miracles

A short story collection of inspirational holiday Miracles

Mr. Jack O. Lantern | Christmas | “Frick and Frack” | Pumpkin Pie | Rambo | Love Birds

Pet Whisperer…er…rrr

Book 1 in the Animial’s Talk Back series

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Hacked

An Encrypted prequel short story

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Epilogue

Return to Main Menu

Table of Contents

First Page

A Reader’s Feast

7 Folds of Winter: A YA+ Epic Fantasy

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

The Rush: A prequel MoonRush Short Story featuring Mia

CHAPTER 1

Rook: Let’s Stop the Apocalypse, People

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

EPILOGUE

Ambush: A 30 Pieces of Silver Prequel Short Story

CHAPTER 1

Anatomy: A Plain Jane Prequel Short Story

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

Pet Holiday Miracles

Mr. Jack O. Lantern

Christmas

“Frick” and “Frack”

Pumpkin Pie

Rambo

Love Birds

Pet Whisperer…er…rrr: Book 1 in the Animal’s Talk Back Series

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

Hacked: An Encrypted prequel short story

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

EPILOGUE

Afterword

Other Works You Might Enjoy

The Betrayed Omnibus Series – Carolyn’s controversial historical thriller series

Betrayed Omnibus Collection

Got Thrills? A Boxed Set With Your RDA Allowance of Thrills

Love is in the Air – A McCray romance collection

The Harbinger Mystery Thriller Collection

The Robin Hood Hacker Series – Carolyn’s action packed techno-thriller series

About the Author

Copyright Information

Acknowledgments

Contact Information

Contents