“What in the Fell happened, Teller?” Omish shouted, as best he could at least, he was laying flat on his back still. And coughing. And spitting.

“I don’t know! How the fuck would I know?” I shot back, my right hand felt… heavy. It was distracting. My gauntlet looked the same as always, when it was off. I sat up and gently flexed my fingers within, making sure my hand still worked (for the third time).

It did. I exhaled heavily.

The memory flashed briefly of that unlucky goblin walking through the Demark from Bay Blue, one arm missing and covered in soot… that was an hour ago? Two?

“Because you are the dumb ass that launched your Gob ass at the glowly pearl of death, Tell.” Grunk followed with a grimace. “Although… in hindsight, that may have been dumb taking it out of the box.”

Omish turned his head and glared. “Ya think? Grunk? Aren’t you supposed to be the most experienced out of all us? Like aren’t you the guy that should know better?”

“I am still just a Gob, you lank.” Grunk sighed, holding his britches up. “This old Gob is going to go wander to the nearest water n’ waste room and clean up. There should be one down the way.”

“If you find a dubndub, try not to intentionally step on… ANY TRAPS ON THE WAY!” Omish yelled after him.

“Om, if you stay so high strung, you are going to have a heart attack or a stroke,” I said. I would need a dubndub too if I needed to wash any wounds once I got my hand unstuck. “But to be fair, Grunk, try to avoid traps, eh?”

Grunk just waved at at us with an extended middle finger as he wandered off with an apparent mess in his pants.

“We can’t fix an entire room collapse!” Omish whined. “And our portal back to the hub was in there! What the hell are we going to do?”

“Yeah, I am thinking. Give me a minute.” I put my finger to my chin and scratched absentmindedly. My other hand remained locked in the inert fist, and once again, I flexed my fingers. So what? I am paranoid.

You know what goblins are called by the Dungeon parties?

Cannon fodder. Yeah. Paranoia is a good thing.

We had a couple options. Grunk would know better than most, he probably had done it himself at some point. It wasn’t impossible, it was just rare… and dangerous. Any party that we come across wouldn’t think twice about obliterating us on sight.

And that’s the trick. We would have to work backwards to get behind an advancing party without being obliterated. Find a damaged room (there should be many) and wait for one of the many Dungeon Management Teams to portal in. Then hitch a ride home. Easy.

The last part was easy.

The first part was un-fucking-believably hard.

Not to mention, finding the way back meant that we would have to head outward in the dungeon design, and we, against our well established regulations (thanks Fat Tits), had dove inward during the collapse of the room behind us (thanks me).

The Underfell had a design. It had a well multipathed structure. It had connections between floors and between areas, so one caved in room would not mean that we were stuck going in only one direction. Explorers all had different reasons to explore the Underfell. Some were looking for wealth, others for action, others for glory. I have no idea how the surface worked, but I would guess that they were all crazy.

Who would volunteer to come into this? Like honestly? You had to be nutzo. I didn’t want to be here and I was born and raised in the Underfell. And I work here! For two measly glints a day and the promise of a sublevel homestead back at the Gob villages if I survived my contract.

And I thought the places I had visited so far were obvious places to die. So if the surface was thaaaaaaaat bad that you just had to come down here to make your way, you have my pity.

So I knew going forward was problematic, but it was really the only choice we had.

Grunk shouted down the hallway, “Dubndub here, lankheads. There is a spike pit to the left, don’t walk into it.”

Omish made a face and yelled back, “Its amazing you didn’t!” He turned to me, his young face still wide with the aftershocks of fear. “What do we do, Tell?”

“Well we have our wits, our limbs, and most of our asses. So that tells me we find a path outwards and try to slink behind whoever is working their way this way.”

Omish’s blood drained from his face.

“We will be fine, Om.” I added encouragingly.

“It won’t be. It will be that party that is causing the ruckus. The one with crazy Fire Mage.”

“You don’t know that.”

“We will be blown to smithereens. Black, crusted, ill shaped bits of ourselves smeared all over a wall.” Omish continued as if he had ignored me outright. He dragged his hands down his face theatrically.

“Om!” I shot with a bit of heat.

“Yeah?”

“Get off your ass and get to the dubndub. We can figure it out with Grunk.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Omish stood up, groaning as he got to his feet.

He tottered off unevenly, and I stood to follow, pulling my heavy right up hand behind me. With the gauntlet in a tight fist, I couldn’t free my hands from its depths. I pulled it up to my waist with a sigh (again flexing my fingers within to ensure they had not been reduced to burnt jelly) and flicked the buttons for the start up sequence with my other hand. Same old routine I always had.

Nothing happened.

It did not hum.

It did not glow.

It did not even vibrate.

It was a hunk of inert metal at the end of my arm.

I felt a wave of emotions all at once. (Gobs have emotions, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.) Fear, doubt, anger, regret all washed through me at once. I had one of the greatest enchanted power gauntlets ever made and I had cocked it up so bad that now it was one of the heaviest useless gloves you could imagine. Without the enchantments powering the glove, the sheer mass of it was going to strain my shoulder socket until my arm popped free.

It wouldn’t, but it felt that way. I would chuck it in frustration, BUT IT WAS ATTACHED TO MY FUCKING ARM.

I followed Omish to the dubndub, cursing under my breath the entire way. I did not see the spike pit to the left, but there was a sense of deepness in the soft dark that spoke of a hole in the floor. Humans would have torches or a mage to light the way. Goblins have exceptional vision in the dark, and depending on the part of the Underfell, there was light to be had, you just had to know how to look. Or you said fuck it and shot a flare at the ceiling with a lighttosser. Either way.

In the muted dark the hallway, the stones reluctantly issued their fell light, and the pit became obvious to my goblin eyes. I did my best to look for pressure plates and tripwires, but the designers had thankfully thought only a silly spike pit would be sufficient. Idiots. Any party would consider this hallway a damn blessing. They could set up camp here, it had a dubndub and everything!

I pushed the door to the dubndub open to find a well appointed washroom. Omish was drinking heavily from the tap, and a half naked Grunk was wringing is pants out over a drainage grate.

There were pairs of eversconces on each wall, giving the space a warm, welcoming light. I never had understood why the Underfell Wizardking had thought that while building a subterranean fortress city for himself and his minions, he should include accommodating and aesthetically pleasing bathrooms along the way. Thank goodness he did.

I wasn’t so thankful to see Grunk’s wrinkled ass as he wrung out his pants. He looked over his shoulder and gave me a wiggle of his hips.

“Don’t be jealous of handsome backside, youngins.”

“Grunk, your backside wasn’t handsome when you first shot out of your mom and I assure you it has only gotten worse since,” I said.

“You’re jealous.” Grunk hummed. He pulled his damp pants back up with a smile of satisfaction. “Your gauntlet?”

“Still stuck.”

Omish looked up from the basin, a concerned look on his face. “Stuck?”

“Its fine, Om. Not a big deal. Happens all the time.”

“It does?” Omish pushed back with worry all over his gob.

Grunk and I exchanged a knowing look, but I lied anyway. “Of course it does. Not a big deal. Sit for a minute while Grunk takes a look.”

“Pull up here and lay it on the basin counter.” Grunk tapped his fingers on the surface and shifted his knapsack from his back. He pulled some more tools from its depths as I tried to lay the inert metal fist as gingerly as I could on the stone surface. “I don’t have the tools or skills to fix this, but there is usually an emergency latch to decouple the mechanisms. I think the Mark4’s had them. Pretty sure at least.”

Grunk looked over the gauntlet, and grabbed a small screwdriver (normal, nothing enchanted about it) and started tapping the knuckles.

“Roll it over, let’s look at the hexgrid,” Grunk said.

I rolled my forearm so the back of my hand was raised to the ceiling. With a start I realized the controls that I normally would use to control everything…

“The hexgrid is gone?” Grunk’s eyes went wide.

“No wonder nothing was happening.”

“Yeah no wonder.” Grunk tapped the knuckles of my gauntlet again, and put his ear to the back of it. “I don’t hear the cores.”

“What?”

“Listen.” Grunk tapped his screwdriver against it for emphasis.

I put my ear to the metal, and sure enough, there was nothing. The signature resonance was completely absent.

“Easy fix. We get back to dispatch, then we stop off at Torino’s shop, he pops in some new cores, and you are back in the races.” Grunk smiled.

“What about the grid? I can’t operate it without a way to… operate it.”

Grunk made a strange face. “It is odd. The grid is a part of the metal, from the first forging of the artifact. It can’t be just blown off.”

“So where did it go?” I tried.

“Great question. One you should ask Torino.”

Omish finally piped up, “If we ever make it back to dispatch.”

“What’s his problem?” Grunk asked me first, then he looked at Omish pointedly, “What’s your problem?”

“We are going to die,” Omish whined.

“We are not going to die.” Grunk looked at me and lowered his voice. “We are not going to die are we?”

“Why are you asking me?” I asked increduously.

Grunk shrugged. “This is my first time.”

“What do you mean this is your first time?” I added with some extra sauce.

“I have never been cut off from a portaling.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” I groaned. “You are kidding, right?”

“Uh. No?” Grunk shrugged innocently.

“We are going to die!” Omish repeated.

“We are not going to die.” I said, repeating Grunk’s sentiment. “We can do this. Come on, Om. Get your ass in gear.”

“What about your hand?” Omish crinkled his nose as if something was obvious.

“What about it?” I shot back angrily.

“What are you going to do?” Omish flinched like he was about to get hit.

I sighed heavily. A release latch would help nothing. I pulled my hand away from Grunk and shook my head. “Nothing, Om. Come on.”

Grunk packed his shit back up, and pulled his enchanted hammer from his belt. He flicked his fingers over its side, and I noted the runes shifted from glowing blue to a soft red. I raised an eyebrow.

“We don’t have much for weapons do we? So I set it to Obliterate.”

“You mean demolitions?” I laughed.

Grunk tilted his head. “I figured if it explodes stone, it will explore a skull or two.”

“Om, pull out your lighttosser and nock a flare,” I said.

“So we can see?”

“No, so you can shoot something if you have to, kiddo,” Grunk smirked. “Its like a crossbow. Except your bolts have a hot pokey bit at the end.”

“Oooooh, smart.” Omish nodded and put a bolt from his belt in.

“How many of those do you have left?” I asked.

“Counting this one? Eleven.”

“Well that just leaves me.” Dead fucking weight, Teller. I kept that thought inside. I pulled my knife from the small of my back, its gleaming six inches looking all the more pathetic than usual. I might as well been holding a fork. “Let’s go.”

Grunk opened the door from the dubndub, and a massive fucking tentacle grabbed his face and pulled him out.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Omish screamed and he fired a flare wildly in the direction that Grunk was pulled.

“Careful, Om. You could hit Grunk!” I shouted. I put my knife between my teeth and yanked the door handle.

To find Grunk on his back, being whipped back and forth, swinging his hammer wildly, futilely trying to make contact, as the tentacle’s thrashing was preventing any such event from happening. Thankfully the flare had hit the far wall over the pit, illuminating it brightly, and it was imminently obvious that it was definitely not a spike pit. It was a lair. For something that appeared to be made out of nothing but tentacles. The fucking designers of this hallway could suck a dick.

A bag of dicks. And they all should be Orc dicks. Sweaty ones.

I pulled my knife from my teeth, and launched myself towards the closest part of the tentacle. As I flew towards the tentacle holding Grunk, I realized that my gauntlet was not just dead weight, it was a cudgel too. I let it drop along side my knife hand, and the noise it made as it made contact was satisfying. It was like a scrunching, squelching sound, and my knife went in like the tentacle itself was made of butter.

The tentacle went slack for a hot second and Grunk finally swung true. The hammer hit the tentacle and the entire end of it exploded outwards and upwards, covering Omish and I with blue slime.

“FUCKING GROSS!” Omish kind of screamed (as his voice was subdued since it had to travel through the slimy bits).

More tentacles whipped upwards and started to seek us out, as the injured explody one was pulled back with a deep whispering groan winding its way out from the pit.

“To the doorway!” I shouted.

Grunk stood, his eyes wild, a sucker mark or two across his face like he had gone on a wild bender and had made a terrible choice for a facial tattoo. He started to run, his little gob legs moving faster than I could have imagined for the old guy.

“Come on, Om!”

We ran for the doorway, and thankfully, did not encounter the trip wire that a real asshole designer would have put in the way. This was the challenge that we had to face as we moved inwards. Traps were designed to face one way, and we were running in that very direction.

We caught up to Grunk, who appeared to be flagging. I could hear him muttering the same curse word under his breath the entire way.

“…fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.” With each step, as if he was chanting his way to success.

The three of us crossed over and I ventured a glance. Thankfully whatever was in the pit could not reach much further than what we had encountered coming out of the dubndub. I looked Omish over (covered in goo), I looked Grunk over (sweaty and puckered), and then I looked down at myself (also covered in some goo). Thankfully the goo was not acidic and actively melting us down to our bones.

“Man, we just left the dubndub!” Omish muttered sorrowfully.

“The smell might help ward off other nasties,” Grunk observed.

I looked around the palely-lit room and frowned. “Its a puzzle room.”

“Goddammit.” Grunk agreed.

“My mom told me about a puzzle room she had to repair once. It killed every single party that had wandered into it? Something about vaporization.” Omish observed thoughtfully.

“Not helping, Om.” I said. “At least we have three doors. That means at least one of them goes backwards. And that means at least one of them is less valuable than the others…”

“Why does that matter?” Omish looked at me funny. Like I had a booger for a head.

“Because that means we only have to be half-right. The most expensive option is the path forward, and we don’t want that.” Grunk explained patiently. “We only have to solve half of the puzzle or solve the wrong part. Stakes will be lower.”

“Ohhhh.” Omish said.

“And no monsters.” I added.

“Yet.” Grunk appended quickly.

I shook my head and appraised the room.

Four columns were arrayed around a square in the center. The columns did not reach the ceiling, but they were far taller than a human. The room itself was a square, and each door had a symbol above it. I could throw a rock from one wall to another (reminder, I am a goblin), so it was not a huge space by any means. Not quite cozy, but not quite airy.

The fell light from the roofstones was enough to make out the parts and pieces. The columns were the puzzle. The symbols were the paths. It was most likely the one straight ahead was the way inward, and one, maybe both of the side doors were outward. There was a chance that the designers were dicks and had intentionally made it harder, but we were only on the second level. Nefarious shit was deeper down. Level one was easy. Level two was a step up. Going outward and upward should make things easier as we go…

Hopefully.

“What do you think Grunk?” I asked.

“Simple logic puzzle. I am guessing an elimination game. Each column describes a path, but you have to discern all four columns to understand which path is which. And the warning of what is next room is given. I bet…” Grunk walked around the first column. “I bet that the least dire one is the one we want.”

I walked around the column to the left and noted symbols at regular intervals. The second to the right and furthest third one were the same. The fourth one, the one that was closest to the entry door, it was different. It was a series of arrows. I looked back at the symbol over the arch that we come in through.

Grunk apparently had arrived there at the same time. He said, “A circle with a slash.”

I ran my eyes up the column. There it was. “And that is the first symbol. Arrow to the right.”

Omish picked up on the process and pointed at the top of the column. “It’s a square.”

I looked down for a square on the first column. It was a… “Arrow to the left.”

Grunk moved to the other column. “Moth? Or may be a mirrored footprint?”

“Got it. Arrow to the left again.”

“Uh…” Grunk tilted his head, looking it over. “A couple fingers crossed?”

I looked down the column. There it is. “Yeah, like a promise breaker?”

“That’s it,” Grunk confirmed.

“Arrow straight on.” I said.

Omish moved over the to the fourth column. “Its a picture of the room we are in? A circle with four circles, in a square shape.”

“That’s it. We came in from the circle marked arch, so we follow the pattern to the door you want.” I confirmed it as I said it out loud. “So the circle lead to here. Makes sense. Which door, Grunk?”

“Righty tighty?” Grunk offered.

“Sure. Its a toss. The right one is a… square?”

“What’s in it?” Omish wandered closer. “It looks like an ant? Or a termite?”

My gut sank. “Fuck. What’s to the left?”

Grunk squinted and sighed. “Its a square again, with a chicken claw?.”

My gut sank further, now it was pressing against my abdomen firmly. “I am going to regret asking, but what is above the last door?”

Omish laughed. “A square with a tree.”

“Square with a tree?” Grunk’s brow furrowed. “Weird.”

“Well I would bet that way is a fire ant colony. And that one is a cockatrice.” I said pointing to the side arches. “What’s worse?”

“What about the tree?” Omish ventured. “That sounds easy.”

“That is what makes it the worst choice.” Grunk and I said in chorus. I added, “It is probably something really nasty, like a Dryad or a Tree Golem or some shit. That’s part of the trick. Make the explorers pick the worst thing thinking it was the best thing.”

“I say we go ants. At least we can step on them.” Grunk thought out loud.

“Omish? Big cock wanting to slice you to pieces or billions of boiling death bugs to sting you to death?” I asked.

“Uh… bugs.” Omish frowned heavily.

“BOILING DEATH BUGS IT IS!” I shouted. “That is an arrow to the left.”

“Frowny face. Like a fairy.” Grunk pointed.

“Got it. Arrow straight on.”

Omish ran his eye down the column. “Like a boat? Upside down?”

“Yep, arrow to the left again.” I said.

“Smiling face, but definitely a human. It has exes for eyes.”

“Hilarious,” I grinned. Dead explorers were the best. “Arrow to the right.”

Omish jogged to the other column, “Uh… oh here it is. It is a fish?”

My column only had one thing on it that looked like a fish. I pushed it. The door in the archway to the right swung open slowly, gratingly, as if it was just trying to sound ominous.

“Alright. Bugs.” Omish said to himself as if he was psyching himself up. “I can handle bugs.”

We all gravitated to the center of the room and stared at the door, expecting a flood of ants rushing out to meet us, but nothing happened.

“I guess we have to go to them?” I said.

“If I was an ant minding my own business, a door wouldn’t bug me.” Grunk waved a hand as if it was obvious.

“Pun!” Omish grinned.

“Pun.” I concurred. “Let’s go.”

As we crossed the doorway, we found ourselves in a tunnel. Not another room, but a tunnel? Like a…

“Ant tunnel.” Grunk said.

“Ants the size of wolves.” I said. The ceiling was only inches from my head. At least I did not have to duck. “Hopefully they are busy. Anting. Somewhere else. Let’s get through quick. We may get lucky and this will dump us on the first floor.”

“Wolf-sized ants? I changed my mind, I can’t handle bugs.” Omish said.

I scratched my ear, pulling the tip down to my shoulder absentmindedly. Dried goo flaked off.

“Quick. Quiet.” I retorted. “Follow me.”

I pulled my knife out and headed in. The tunnel curved slightly to the right and up. We followed it upwards, stopping every so often to listen for the ants. All we heard was our own ragged breathing and the internal paranoia whispering sweet somethings along the lines of ‘you are going to die‘, and ‘the ants will eat you‘, and don’t forget the all time classic ‘you are a failure of goblin and terrible leader.‘ The last one was special to me as it was an all time hit. Top 10.

I wanted to shush myself, but an internal monologue runs whether you want it to or not. Also I was distracting myself from the death bugs that we were about to encounter. The tunnel curved left suddenly and I turned it carefully to find an ant a few meters further on. It was the size of a small dog, maybe one of the witches’ cats. It did not sense me, thankfully. It didn’t do much of anything, except stand there, its antennae wiggling back and forth and up and down.

A sentry? It did not see me, or at least it eyes couldn’t pick me out in the dark.

I hugged the wall and sidestepped towards it slowly. The antennas did not reach the wall, and they would let me pass if I timed it right. I watched the pattern. Flick, flick, wave, wave, flick, flick, wave, wave, and… go.

I stepped past confidently. The ant did not move.

Grunk was next. He watched the pattern, and stepped past. The ant did not move.

Omish looked like he was shaking. I waved him forward, trying to encourage him.

He watched the pattern, closed his eyes and stepped past. We all collectively sighed. Thank god ants did not have a sense of hearing. Turned out that must be just as bad as their eyes.

I kept moving forward and the tunnel opened into a vast cavern, crisscrossed with bridges and entryways going for what looked like thousands of meters deep and at least a hundred meters above us. Lines of ants crisscrossed all the flat areas, sometimes in both directions, if there was room enough on the bridge or ledge, sometimes in one direction as if every ant had agreed on the flow. The ants were all the same size as the sentry, except for an occasional ant that was about thirty percent bigger with huge pincers held upwards at the front of their mouth parts. Those were soldiers. Surrounded by drones. Annnnnnnd… any touch would alarm them all.

We were going to die.

And this was the exact moment that my gauntlet decided to turn back on. There was a loud hum, a crackle of purple energy across the knuckles, and the entire thing grew warm.

Huh, that’s new.

My arm was suddenly light again. The hex cores were alive!

I was so elated that it took me a hot second to realize that both Grunk and Omish were feverishly tapping BOTH of my shoulders.

“What!?” I whispered.

Grunk and Omish both just pointed. I looked all around, and illuminated in a wash of soft purple light, every single ant had stopped in place.

They were all looking at the three of us.

“Fuuuuuuck.” I sighed defeatedly.

There was a heavy pause.

“…UUUUUUUUUSSSSSSS…” The ants hissed back in unison.

So that means that generally… typically… most often-ish… the Master of the Underfell does not care what we do. As long as our jobs get done.

But that doesn’t mean that our boss, Fat Tits, extends to us the same level of disdain. Oh no, unfortunately, his unctuous ugliness, the grandiose Fattest of the Tits, makes it his life mission to ensure that us goblins stay under his thumb. Supposedly, if he does a good job, he will get a bonus.

Do we get a bonus?

What do you think? My boss’s nickname is Fat Tits! Of course we don’t get bonuses. We get kicked. And hit. And whipped.

“GET OFF YOUR ASSES, BREAK TIME IS OVER, YOU SUBPAR TINY PEEN JACK OFFS!”

That was our Orc boss, Fat Tits. Yelling (normal). Slobbering while yelling (also normal). And his big bouncy oversized orc-boobs were bright red (not normal).

Omish elbowed me lightly in the ribs, an impish grin on his wide face, “Look at Fat Tits. He must be in trouble.”

“I hope so. I *hate* that guy…” I replied. I pushed the last of my simple Moo sandwich into my cheek, chewing the last of the spicy delectable preserved meat sandwich thoughtfully.

Grunk smirked, “Who doesn’t?”

“Whoever butters his tits,” I joked, still mid-chew.

“GET OFF YER ASSES AND GET OUT TO LEVEL TWO, WITCHES ARE CONJURING AT BAY ORANGE.” Fat Tits continued to loudly slobber (again normal).

How that fat bastard managed to even talk around those massive lower incisors of his, I will never understand.

I hastily dropped my canvas lunch sack back into my small locker, grabbed my tool belt and my Enchanted Power Gauntlet Mark 4 (the best) and heaved a huge sigh at Omish, since he was still fiddling with his salad (gross) and not getting his shit together (dumb).

“Bay Orange, Omish, come on!” I rolled my eyes at him as I buckled my tool belt across my chest. “Fat Tits is going to beat you.”

“Fat Tits won’t notice me. He is stalking down Team Snake.” Omish waved me off. “I will catch up.”

I glanced in the general direction Fat Tits was headed, and sure enough, he was chasing down Team Snake. Fuckers. They were our biggest competition. I mean Team Ratking was close too, but Snake really rubbed me the wrong way. Their lead, Dizzi, was hot as hell, but a total see-you-next-tuesday. Power hungry and just… plain mean.

“Forget your salad, Om. We gotta roll to stay on top of Snake. They are having themselves a slowdown.”

“Fine.” Om shook his head and gathered his things. “Maybe we can take the leaderboard today.”

As if on cue, Grunk shouted from the break room doorway, “You dumbshits coming?”

I pushed my right hand into my oversized EPGmark4 (again, the absolute best), and I felt the hum as its hex cores spun up and tickled my fingertips. My gauntlet was nearly an antique, but it had been made by a master hexsmith, the greatest of my grandfather’s generation, Mickroof the Resolute. There was a rumor he created a Mark 5 EPG before his death, but I think that was wishful thinking for those diehard Mickroof fan boys. Sure I was one of those too, but I was at least realistic that what I had was the absolute best.

“YOU GOBLIN FUCKS NEED TO MOVE OUT!” Fat Tits yelled from the other side of the break room.

Omish tapped my shoulder, and we jogged to catch up to Grunk. Grunk grinned at two of us like a loon and we headed to the demarcation room (what we all called the Demark).

“Think we should add a fourth?” Om asked again. “We are the only Gob team without one.”

“There is no replacing Dink, Om.” Grunk shook his head, his pitbull like jowls shaking in emphasis. “We do just fine as a three Gob team.”

“But we are the *only* three Gob team… how can we expect to keep our lead?” Om complained.

I held up my gauntlet, its knuckles glowing blue. “We beat the shit out of them.”

“I don’t think we can beat up our competition, Teller.”

I laughed. “We could…”

Grunk turned into the cavernous Demark and beelined toward the massive bowl of the orange bay. Omish and I followed closely behind. The entire area was a hum of activity. Other Goblin teams filed through the space, either heading towards their work assignments or coming back to have their break. The conjuring bays were arrayed around the circular cavern hall evenly, each bay was like a carved out vertical bowl in the wall, each wall painted its designated color. A team of witches stood at each one, their projection crystals between them, sometimes lashed to wood trusses, sometimes nestled into a stone base, it depended on the witch team leader’s preference. Bay Orange was manned by Clementine, a human witch with a mostly Elvish coven. The three elves were named after flowers, but I could never keep them straight. Something like Rose, Orchid, and Tulip? No, that wasn’t it. Daisy, Poppy, and Lily? Fuck. It didn’t matter.

“Hey Ms. Clementine,” I yelled.

The tall human witch turned, and like most witches, she was a knockout. Even my Goblin boy parts felt a tingle looking at her. I knew it was the enchantment she held, but still. So hot. The tight clothing helped too. Goblins and humans are not so different. Outside of the skin color. And the height. And the weight. And the facial features. And the smell… ok, just about everything was different. But woof. Like all the witches manning the bays, Clementine and her elves were sex on a stick.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite Gobs. How is Team Kelpie this fine morning?”

Omish grinned like a schoolboy. “Good ma’am.”

Grunk just made a noise that sounded like he either was about to orgasm or take a dump in his leather shorts. Either way, he turned away embarrassed.

“Ready to go, Ms. Clementine.” I said. “Send us on our way.”

There was a loud boom from the Blue Bay, and we collectively turned to see a team of Goblins pour out of the shimmering portal, with smoke billowing inwards behind them. A couple were limping, and another was missing an arm. The fourth was cursing up a storm, punching the ground. He was *pissed.*

“Damn it, third team today. Word is that there is a party of adventurers wrecking havoc on level one. Some hotshot mage is in the party. Apparently, he really likes using fire magic.”

“We are headed to two, right?” Om said, his nerves showing. His father had died in a confrontation with an adventurer.

“Yes, yes, you will be safe my little Gob.” Clementine winked, and I almost lost my composure. Omish definitely lost his, and he turned away, following Grunk’s earlier example.

Clementine giggled, and started her incantation. Her elvish cronies joined in on the chant, the air wavered, the rocks vibrated under our feet, and then their crystal flashed brilliantly as the cusp of the portal flared to life. It was taller than a troll’s height, easily fifteen feet tall as it was wide, and it took on a mirror-like sheen.

“Good luck, boys.” Clementine crooned.

We stepped through to find…

Chaos.

Two walls had caved inwards, and a wide blue shimmering pool between them had an entire colony of Kappa arguing loudly between. The ceiling did not show any damage, so all in all, it appeared to be highly salvageable. I couldn’t make out what the group of Kappas were gesticulating at each over, but it sounded like they were debating on how to save their families from an imminent collapse.

“Oy!” I shouted raising both of my hands into the air. “We are here to salvage the situation. Who is in charge?”

An elder Kappa limped towards us with a cane in one hand and carrot in the other. He took an absentminded bite of his cane before he realized the carrot was in the other hand. He spat out1 splinters.

“Oh thank the Underking. You are the damage control I requested?” The old Kappa asked aloud, having to shout over the arguing that had continued even with three goblins stepping out of nothing into their midst.

“We are Dungeon Management Team Kelpie. We prefer the term Dungeon Management.” I said.

“Oh sure, put on airs,” the Elder Kappa grumpily turned his lip. “Can you fix the walls?”

“Yes.” I replied.

“Is the wall damaged?” He asked.

“Yessss?” I trailed off.

“And you will control it?” He added.

This old fuck can get bent. “Yes,” I sighed.

“Then damage control it is.”

“Thanks. Can you get your people out of the way?” I asked with a sneer.

The elder Kappa turned and whistled loudly, and the entire cohort dove into the pool, heading for the deeps. He waved his carrot at me like it was his dick and jumped in last, quickly disappearing from view.

“What an asshole,” I grumbled. “Oy, Omish. Lights?”

Omish pulled his Lighttosser from his back holster and cranked it back. He gently placed a triad flare into the slot and fired it towards the ceiling. The flare spread widely, and each dart hit a different part of the ceiling, throwing off a bright yellow light.

The space was wide, the bright blue pool was lit from within, even though the depths were just a black as any pool of deep water. The walls that had caved inwards were encroaching the edges, the light of the water illuminating the lower half of the walls, while the flares cast their yellow light in a diffused way, only being noticeable once the blue light faded to nothing.

Omish made a face, “Wonder what caused them to cave inwards like that?”

“Pressure,” Grunk nodded knowingly.

“Pressure?” Omish was younger, so he hadn’t seen as much as Grunk had. Grunk was nearly twenty, which was ancient in Goblin years. Omish was only nine. I was between them, at fourteen years old, so a full adult. Om had a year or so before he would be considered an adult himself, stature and thin black hair on his upper lip aside.

“Think of the room like a box. If you squish the top, the pressure has to go somewhere. The ceiling transferred the load to the walls and the weakest walls caved first. The other two held… we need to check them out but see how the ceiling is braced? Those stanchions and arches? Then look over here,” Grunk pointed. “These arches were put in to be wider, fewer stanchions, right?”

“I see it.” Omish nodded.

“Those were designed to fail first. Warning the inhabitants to get out. Dwarves know what they are doing. Great engineers.”

“You ever met one?” I asked.

“A dwarf? No.”

“You wish you could be an engineer, Grunk?” Omish followed.

“Ha. No. I fix things. Over time, you learn to appreciate good design. Because when we have to fix bad design, our jobs are much, much, worse,” Grunk grinned his trademark veteran smile.

“I will clear the rubble,” I said. Not like Grunk or Omish had anything to say, as we each had our role to play. I was the earth mover, hence my EPGmark4. Grunk was the builder, and Om was the apprentice, which meant he held shit, levered shit, and shot shit when we told him to. He had nothing enchanted on his person, except maybe a talisman or two under his clothes, but we all wore those. Basic safety in these parts.

I ran my left hand over my oversized gauntlet on my right hand and flicked my fingers deftly over the nubs and runes that told the limited intelligence of the hex engine designed in the metal on what I needed it to do. In this case, I selected two hexes, Earth Melt and Shift To. Earth Melt would take the rubble, and aggregate it into super heated floating balls of molten earth. Then Shift To would push them into block shapes, set to a standard size that Grunk preferred. Then Grunk would use his enchanted hammer and chisel to carve and place the bricks in quick successive series to rebuild the wall while I braced it where needed. We would iterate this way multiple times until the walls were back to what they had looked like before. No one would have ever known they had collapsed.

I sighed. I guess we were damage control after all. Dumb Kappa with his stupid carrot got in my head.

“But where did the pressure come from?” Omish shook his head. “I mean, something had to create that pressure, right?”

“What’s above us, Grunk?” I asked, using my fingers inside the gauntlet to select which piles of rubble to start with. The first chunks started to accumulate a few feet above their resting place, and the heat increased. Heat waves rose from the mass as it took on its round orb shape. The first blocks emerged from the side and landed near Grunk.

“Probably that fire mage Ms. Clementine mentioned, if I were to make a guess. Probably a big explosion. Air expands rapidly, all that force has to go somewhere. Up and out. And in this case, down.”

“If I was a fire mage, I would just melt my way to the bottom of the Underfell,” Omish joked.

Grunk pulled his hammer from his belt and tapped his chisel against its wide side, inscribing what he wanted. He swung at the top block, and it flew upwards to where the stanchion columns had failed, pushing their way in and re-adhering in place as if they had their own self contained mortar, which they kind of did, since they were still so hot.

I grunted as my hand became exceptionally heavy, which meant there was something stuck in the pile of rubble. “Om, take your crowbar, and push it under that column section, eh?” I pointed at the stuck piece.

Om nodded, and Grunk continued. “You wouldn’t be able to melt your way down. The walls, the floors, the ceilings, all of it was crafted to prevent that from happening. And to blast your way through with explosions would fail quickly. You would end up either blowing yourself up, or exposing something that kills you just as quick. Imagine opening up a floor to find a deep well underneath you? Or a sleeping monster? Or the Underfell Wizardking himself? No… adventurers know that if they want the loot and the want to live to enjoy the loot, they will need to play by the rules.”

“What if they aren’t in it for the loot?” Omish pressed as he tried to find a place to place his crowbar.

“Like if they are after the Underking?”

“Yeah.”

“They die. There is a reason the Underking has been the Underking for three hundred years…”

“Ha, true!” Omish laughed as he pushed down on his bar. The column shifted upwards, and I felt my gauntlet lighten.

There was a huge crack, and the column split at the top. Omish scrambled backwards afraid he was about to be crushed, and I waved my gauntlet forwards to ensure I pushed any remnants away from him. Our fourth, Dink had died in a collapse. And it was too soon to lose another team member of Team Kelpie.

“Om? You ok?” Grunk called.

The dust settled, and Omish was sitting on his butt staring at the column. It had been hollow.

“What the hell?” I said. “Who in their right mind builds a hollow column?”

Grunk put his hammer back into his belt and helped pick Omish off the ground.

Omish smiled sheepishly, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

I lowered my gauntlet after the last rubble chunk shifted to a white hot brick and floated to its waiting spot among the others. I stepped up behind Grunk and Omish and looked on. In the hollow of the column, there was a small white chest. It looked like it was crafted from wood, but the surface nearly glowed it was so white.

“Its hailstone.” Grunk breathed heavily, his voice full of wonder.

“No.” I said. It couldn’t be hailstone. That was rare. Rarer than rare. That was like Wizardking bedroom chambers kind of rare. “Surely, its just a trick of the light.”

Grunk stepped cautiously over the rubble, doing his best to make sure it didn’t shift. He laid his hands on the chest and lifted it from its hollow.

“What if it had vaporized you?” I asked.

“Then you would know not to touch it, eh?” Grunk said flatly. “This is hailstone. Look at the etching. Its old. Ancient.”

My gauntlet seemed to vibrate as I drew closer, like I had an angry bee in my palm.

Omish stood and looked on in awe. He had been raised on stories of the magic of the Underking, the power that he had wrought in the Underfell. Hailstone, the living rock of the dwarves, said to have built the very foundations of the Earth. What was a chest made of hailstone doing on level two of all places!? It would be like going to the surface and finding a chunk of moon rock just sitting in your garden. Not impossible, but highly improbable.

“Should we open it?” I asked Grunk. “What if your face melts?”

“Then don’t put your face over it,” Grunk replied in his flat monotone.

“Gee thanks, Grunk.” I laid it out as sarcastically as I could.

Without recognizing my tone, Grunk flipped the clasp and pushed the lid open slowly.

Inside there was a jewel about the size of a hex core sitting on a small wire enclosure affixed to the bottom of the box. The stone glowed with a purplish light, not the customary bluish light that I was familiar with from my own EPGmark4.

“What is it?” Omish whispered.

My gauntlet felt like it was about to vibrate off my hand. I ran my fingers over the controls worryingly, instinctively turned everything off.

“I have no idea.” Grunk picked it from its wire cage and turned it between his fingers. “It looks like a core?”

“Uh…” I muttered. My gauntlet was vibrating even more violently. I had turned it off, but it was not off. It was violently asserting to me that it was still on. Omish and Grunk where staring at the core between Grunk’s fingers, and not paying attention to me at all. “Guys?”

“Teller…” Grunk turned in time to see my eyes go wide as my right hand, wearing my EPGmark4 literally lifted me off the ground. “Let go!” Grunk yelled.

“I CAN’T!” I yelled at no one in particular. I tried to yank my hand free, but it was like my fingertips were glued to the inside surfaces of the gauntlet, the knuckles were glowing so bright, I had never seen my EPGmark4 do anything like this before. I yanked and yanked, but it ended up with me jiggling about like a marionette, bouncing around on invisible strings, the tips of my large goblin toes inches from the ground. I felt panic. Goblin level panic.

Let’s pause here and explain something critical to understand.

See… most folks have all sorts of emotions. Intelligent beings feel things. Shocker, right? Even Goblins. But some intelligent beings feel things much more distinctively than others. Elves are really good at disassociating, and with long lives, they feel the same feelings over much longer time spans. So they may have mind blowing sex, but it also takes days, so its really spread out. Not worth the time, if you ask me.

A goblin’s life is a fraction of a humans. And we are small, so we die easy. So when we feel things, it tends to be explosive in nature, and very much in the moment. A human feels panic, they figure they either have to fight or run away. When a Goblin feels panic, we figure we either take some motherfucker out with us or we die screaming so at least our killer is deaf for their rest of their life.

I felt Goblin level panic. And the only choice I had was to start screaming.

Omish started screaming.

Grunk started screaming.

GOBLIN PANIC FOR EVERYONE!

And like reality was unrolling in slow motion, I witnessed everything with perfect clarity as it unfolded before my horrified point of hanging-in-the-air observation. All at once, Grunk’s hand inadvertently tossed the purple core upwards in his panic as if the core was a stick of lit dynamite. Omish dove for a pile of nearby rubble, pulling Grunk along behind him as if the old Gob was a bag of oats. An elderly dick-waving Kappa head emerged from the blue pool, his eyes growing wide as the same scene unfolded. And I, my legs dangling like an aforementioned dick, was launched through the intervening space, being pulled by my EPGmark4 (scary as fuck right now), as if I was a smoke trail of a projectile (and that projectile being my aforementioned SCARY AS FUCK EPGmark4).

My gauntlet encased hand flew in front of me, the fingers closed of their own accord around the purple core, and there was a blast of purple light without sound. I landed on the ground roughly, feeling my ribs get bruised against some rubble. Serves me right, right?

It was absolutely quiet, except for the sound of sizzling. I cautiously opened my eyes and noted that all the piles of rubble were smoking, the surface of the pool was steaming, and a headless Kappa elder floated at the surface. There was no blood. His neck had been cauterized shut. Ew. Gross.

“Om? Grunk?” I mumbled, pushing myself upright. My right hand was still folded over into a fist. My EPGmark4 looked the same as it did when it was off, just an inert hunk of armor.

“We are here,” Om called out. “We are ok. You ok, Grunk?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Grunk mumbled. “My ass feels flash fried.”

“Not as bad as the sunburn the Kappa has,” I snickered. It was terrible. But it was also hilarious? I was so confused.

There was an ominous crack from above. The kind of sound you don’t really hear, you mostly felt. That was the sound of bad shit about to happen.

“The ceiling!” Grunk shouted.

I spun my chin from shoulder to shoulder and quickly noted that the other two wall’s arches and stanchions were not only cracked, but crumbling like old paste. This room was about to cave.

“FUCK!” I screamed.

“What? You hurt?” Om yelled back.

“No! There goes our fucking lead!” I shouted.

“Run to the doorway!” Grunk picked Om up and we started to run towards the dark entry way closest to us.

With dawning horror, I realized the entry was was going inwards. Regulation said we should never leave our assigned work area. BUT… our assigned work area was about to cave in. Regulation said we should never head inward, as that is how traps get set off. BUT… were not only heading inward, but running as fast as goblin’s legs could carry them. Double side of holy hell with the fuck sandwich.

I managed to catch up to Grunk and Omish, and the three of us cleared the entryway as the ceiling gave way behind us. We collapsed in the hallway (thank god, its a hallway, traps are usually halfway down), and the reverberations were intense as everything behind us was swallowed by the earth. And we sat, exhaling heavily in our desperate panting as if we had just outran Death himself, and somehow had managed to escape the guy, while he stood there staring dumbly, his hands in his underpants clutching jewels.

“Well not only did we lose our lead,” Grunk sighed. “I think I shit myself.”

I let my head rest against the cool stone. Goblin level panic and all had taken its toll. I sighed, “That’s fun too.”

Grandpa’s body had already been reduced to ash by the time Rory and his parents arrived to Branson Gulch three days later. What was left of him now sat in a decorative vase, surrounded by pictures of his life, artifacts of his career, and flowers that Rory thought looked both expensive and exotic.

He kept his head bowed in the chapel, unsure of where to look. The soft crying among the crowd was uncomfortable, because it made him feel like he was uncertain of how he should feel. He loved Grandpa. So much. Grandpa was awesome. So… why wasn’t Rory crying himself?

What was wrong with him? He shook his head lightly and kept his eyes downward, hearing the soft sobs of his mom to his right.  His dad was next to her, his arm draped over her shoulders like a shawl, squeezing her occasionally. He glanced to his left at Nana, and she was sitting stoically, her face was like an imitation of her real face. She was a marble bust dressed in black, staring miles into the distance, perhaps over an entire lifetime, through the wood and stone of the chapel, perhaps the very earth beyond. And yet, she was beautiful in her profound sadness, as if it could not touch her. Not the way that it touched Rory’s mom, or the others arranged haphazardly in the pews behind.

Rory reached over and put his hand on Nana’s folded hands, she did not move her face or her eyes, but her hand shifted over to squeeze his own.

Pastor Clemens waited for the music to stop, a Simon and Garfunkel song that Grandpa had loved but Rory did not know the name of. He knew who it was, but that was about it. The last note trailed away amongst the soft murmuration of the crowd.

“How can one measure grief? The progress of it? The movement and shift and sway of it?” Pastor Clemens said, folding his bible closed, and touching the podium thoughtfully. “The way that grief overwhelms in a single breath when it had been on lock down just moments before… there was that sense of assurance it was so far away, like knowing that rain is somewhere out in the world, but you needn’t see it or acknowledge it to know that it existed. Then, as if by invocation, it rains! Torrential, end times sort of downpour that breaks the levees, drowns the weak and infirm, and sends wildlife scurrying for parts unknown. That grief that threatens to overwhelm, the real shock of it is the terror that accompanies it… will I feel this forever? Will I ever be free? Will the sorrow eat at me until I am nothing?”

Pastor Clemens took a step back from the podium and shook his head. “Time heals all wounds. But we should never consider ourselves free of it. Grief is part of us, and we have to make it our own… internalize it and take solace in the knowledge that grief is just proof of how much we loved him. He was a good father, a loving husband, a reliable friend, and a great ecologist. At this time, if anyone would like to come up to the microphone and say a few words, you are more than welcome.”

He sat down in the front pew, among the people, and the chapel was silent but for the rustling of clothing, an occasional cough, and the sniffles as people dabbed at their leaking eyes and noses.

An older gentleman limped up to the lecturn, swinging behind the wood podium carefully as if he was about to topple over. Rory realized the man was probably drunk, his nose was the color of dozen roses, and his cheeks matched, but above them, his eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark pits where his bright blue eyes sat, red and watering. His face was heavily lined, his hair was long but kempt, brushed and slicked back. A few silver streaks started at his temples and wove their way backward. He appeared to be barely keeping it together.

“Morning all. My name is Hugh Tobias. I knew Robert there as Bobby and he called me Toby. And Bobby was a spitfire the moment he blew into my life at Evarist Academy. He had that nickname ready to go in his back pocket, not even two seconds into the introduction. It was a declaration that my identity was wrong, and he was correcting it. When I met him, I was all of eighteen? And I thought I knew so much about the world, the way things were, and the way things should be. I was so certain! And Bobby… it was his nature to set things as he saw them, eh? He set my life on fire. Both figuratively and literally. Bobby was my roommate, and a bit of a wild one, wasn’t he?” Tobias laughed lightly, and a few in the crowd joined in. “My favorite memory of Bobby was when we were on assignment, field work for Botany. Many of you know how hard Dr. Tell was.”

Another smattering of laughter.

“So Bobby grabs me in the middle of the night and informs me that he found some Leckerweed. Now most people would know that young people do stupid things when they smoke the Leck, and I assure you that is what I would have done. But not Bobby! No. No. No. Bobby thought it would be a great time to light up that Leckerweed and pump it into Dr. Tell’s tent instead.”

“No…” Someone exhaled loudly from rear of the chapel.

“Oh, sorry Dr. Tell, I didn’t know you were here.” Tobias squinted out into the crowd. “Man… you were sooooooo high. Dr. Tell is a great sport, but I have never seen such a hard-assed straight laced professor that… uh wild, man. He woke everyone in the camp up, dancing around a fire he had turned into a bonfire claiming he was communing with his ancestors through the flames. Half naked too.”

“I knew it was him!” Dr. Tell shouted defensively. “I knew it!”

Rory glanced back at the a withered old man in a simple green flatcap, round spectacles on his large hawkish nose. He appeared to be smiling widely at the recollection.

Dr. Tell added proudly, “One of the best nights of my life! The hangover on the other hand… and I was so hungry after.”

A few more laughs ran through the crowd.

Tobias nodded with a smirk. He continued, “He was the life of the party, wasn’t he? One of those people that just make the best of those around him? He made me so uncertain about the world. He made me ask different questions, look at things in a new way. He helped me see possibilities where I did not see them before. He helped me find my partner, Charles. Bobby was my best man at our wedding. And he always found the fun in things, even when he struggled. He was a good friend and I will miss him terribly.”

Tobias wiped at his nose with the back of his hand and walked back to his seat, shuffling his leg as if it didn’t quite work the way it should. What was it with Grandpa and his friends? That they all seemed to have injuries even though they looked not much older than his own dad? Rory wondered about it. Even Nana did not seem as old as she actually was. Rory appraised her profile again, and then to his own mom. They could have been close sisters if Rory did not know any better.

A middle aged woman with bright red hair draped over angry looking burn marks on her neck nimbly strode up to the lectern and blew a kiss at the oversized portrait of Grandpa. She moved like a dancer, nimble and fast.

“Hello. My name is Glory McMahon, and I had the privilege to work with Robert for thirty years?” She looked over at Nana, and Nana shrugged and nodded at the same time, in some form of hesitant affirmation. “Thanks Vera. Yes, about thirty years! Wow. Time flies. As you know our job is not the easiest or safest occupation. Being an ecologist takes bravery and strength, both of which Robert had in spades. I don’t have a single story, I have hundreds. I can’t share any of them up here because not a single one would do on its own. Just know that Robert was one of our best. I don’t know if we will be the same without him. I… uh…” Glory McMahon looked up at the ceiling of the chapel, blinking furiously. “Grief, huh? Just like the good father was talking about. I… guess I do have a story. But it is not about Robert. It is about the Clochan Green we have up at the Howards Conservatory? She is a beauty named Miss Fleck, and Robert is the one that saved her. They had a bond… as happens sometimes.”

Glory paused heavily, swallowing to regain her composure.

“Miss Fleck knew. I don’t know how she knew, but we found her sullen that morning. Like she was grieving a sibling or mate’s death.” She paused again, her eyes shifting downward as she reflected on some truth. “With all of our knowledge and all of our history… and we still don’t know these fundamental truths of the universe beyond the recognition that they exist. And above all that, the universe knew that Robert Ryanson Blue had left our world, and that Clochan Green? Well, our Miss Fleck grieved. That is something profound, isn’t it?”

She stepped down and hugged Nana in her seat before making her way back to her own. An ancient looking man got up and very slowly made his way to the front, using a long cane with a practiced ease. His foot came up with a shuffling step, then his cane, then his other foot would nearly make the same distance with a little stomp. It was a percussive beat as he made his way to the podium, shuffle-tap-stomp, shuffle-tap-stomp.

“Hello Vera,” the old man addressed Nana from the lectern, pulling the microphone closer to his gnarled face. The man looked older than time itself. “Hello all, I think I know most of you, but some of you may not know me. I was one of the teachers that falsely assumed that we had tamed Robert, but to my utter delight, I discovered that I did not tame him at all, I merely redirected his wildness to the wide world where it belonged. As many of you know, my own last name means ‘of the wild’, and to think that Robert deserved that name more than I did was a revelation of its own sort.”

Rory marveled at the man’s accent. It was either Irish or Scottish, but it was fierce, like it had to be its own thing, and neither of the two. You would think it would be hard to understand, but it wasn’t. It was clear and vibrant, completely mismatching his old, twisted form. There were thousand year old trees out in the world that looked younger.

“I met Robert when he was only an ornery toddler. His mother, another prior student of mine, had visited for tea, and she brought this absolute terror of a child along with her. I believe her thinking at the time was that a rabid boy like that needed to meet someone that could eventually temper him into a strong young man that he could become. Here was a promise of a man that he could be… if you will, but I assure all of you right now with God as my witness, that he accomplished all of that by himself and through his own choices. He was a force of nature, much like his wife, Vera here, and all I did was proudly marvel that the world continues to bear these young folks of such talent. In short, he was brilliant. I shall miss him as well. We thank you, Robert. For the good you did, at the time you did, acting for all of us when we couldn’t.”

Rory marveled that a man that old sounded as young as he did. It was if the voice and the temper did not match the frame it was contained within. He leaned over to Nana and whispered, “Who was that?”

“That is Professor Myrddin. My boss. And he taught your grandfather and I, years ago. Saying he was a brilliant man does not even begin to cover it.”

A familiar face took the podium next, and Rory could not place where he had seen her before. She was an older woman, stooped with age, but she had a caring face. A face… the recognition made him feel like his head rang like a bell. It was Mrs. Givins. How did he forget Mrs. Givins? She was here when he was a little kid. His bike… the… path?

Rory shook his head confusedly. He caught Nana looking at him strangely, and he tried a weak smile.

“Robert! I can speak volumes. He worked for my father you know… conservationist to his absolute core. An ecologist like none other! And, if I may say so, a wickedly talented dowser. I watched him scrub lines and create lines like they were putty in his hands. Sure, many of us can do it… sure, many of us are good at it even. But Robert? Every single one of you know that his talent was beyond compare! Robert was able to shift lines like he was out for a stroll? Any of you remember when the Department had to redirect the ley fault in Wyoming? The entire fault! A hundred years ago, that would have been a team of talented folks, and Robert flew in, made the changes like he was turning a knob and flew out the VERY next day! My father knew he was a talent. Absolute talent…” Mrs. Givins blotted at her eyes with a tissue. “I… uh… I wish that we… uh…. had the courage… the..”

Mrs. Givins stopped dead after trailing off, her eyes locked on the back of the chapel. Her face went through a wave of emotions, and Rory didn’t understand what he was witnessing. A pulse of something like fatigue washed over him for a split second, but then it was gone. It was like a suggestion of tiredness, but he knew he wasn’t actually tired, so he ignored it.

“You don’t belong here!” Mrs. Givins shouted, raising an incriminating finger at whomever just entered through the doors.

There was a slight commotion at the back of the room, and rough murmurs and isolated muttering emanating outwards like ripples in a pond. Rory went to lift himself out of his seat to look, but Nana pushed his leg down with a firm hand and shook her head warningly.

“Eyes front.” Nana whispered insistently. “Do not look.”

A genteel honeyed voice rose from the back of the room, “I came… to pay… my respects.”

It sounded like a man’s voice, deep and resonant, but the tone was strangely feminine, soft at the edges, with a lilt in intonation that did not feel natural.

Mrs. Givins face was turning red. “You turn around right now, Lumen. This very moment. Or so help me God, I will call on every power of earth and heaven to turn you into a pillar of salt where you stand.”

“So informal. In a chapel, Merry!? Holy ground!? Aren’t we all the same in His eyes?” The voice called out. His voice sounded reasonable… as if it made all the sense in the world. “You won’t. Coward. You are all cowards.”

Rory really wanted to turn his head to look at the source of the voice, but Nana’s eyes were locked on his profile. She was staring at him like her life depended on it, and for some reason he felt as if he didn’t dare move. His joints were like ice, his muscles had become steel.

Mrs. Givins made a face. Disgust. “Lumen, if you are a child of God, then you have, uh, pardon my French everyone… you have absolutely fucked it sideways. It is said not to judge others, but you are remiss to believe that you are beyond our collective judgement. You are quite literally the antithesis to everything that Robert stood for. And you… dare… to come here?”

There was a shuffling of noise behind and another familiar voice spoke with authority. Rory knew it was the older gentleman Nana had named Myrddin.

“Mr. Lumen, say what you need to say and then leave.”

“Ah. Myrddin! You deigned to show up here? For this sap? All the way from your foggy highlands? How absolutely wonderful. It is like a family reunion…” The honeyed voice dripped with sarcasm, and something underneath. It felt malicious. “Is that Robert in that jar over there? Excuse me, sir.”

The ‘sir‘ was said as an epithet. The insult was dripping with disgust.

The man’s feet could be heard on the carpet runner as he approached the front of the chapel. Each step was soft, but there was a weight of reverberation that could be felt through the floorboards. It was if he weighed a thousand pounds and every movement was a warning to world around him. It said, flee.

Rory felt as if he shouldn’t attract the man’s attention. He ventured a glance to his right and with a shock realized both of his parents were asleep. Dad’s head was straight back so he was looking upwards, snoring gently, and Mom had her head on Dad’s shoulder, a bit of drool at her bottom lip. Rory felt his eyes go wide and he turned to look at Nana, but her hand was still on his knee, and she squeezed firmly as if warning him.

Rory didn’t know what to do. The man in the aisle finally strolled past laconically, and the scent of vanilla and mesquite wafted over Rory. The man was very tall, towering at what had to have been seven feet tall, and was lithe as a kickboxer. His skin was as white as snow, with a long silver ponytail bound at the back of his head. The man approached the table, and raised a hand as if trying to get Grandpa’s attention. He had rings on many of his fingers, and number of woven bracelets around his wrist at the cuff of his silk jacket.

“Robert? I have come to pay my respects. And to gloat, of course. I am allowed, right? When one wins, they should be allowed to celebrate their hard earned victory?” There was more rustling and murmurs in the pews behind. “You were a worthy opponent. I still to this day am not sure how you managed that whole thing on Hokkaido? That was deft! Brilliant even. I cannot deny brilliance, even when it is not solely my own. And… I shall miss our little talks. The ones that measured each of us, although, in our last meeting, you were found wanting, eh? Never recovered? Such a shame. I know you are not here, Robert. I know that this jar is not you. I know that your pattern has retreated back to the waves above and below. But still, if a glimmer of your pattern remains, know this… you are a fucking loser.”

The man turned and faced the now absolutely silent audience. A dog barked outside lonely and stark, while somewhere in the distance a car horn sounded. Rory noted the man’s eyes were so dark brown they almost appeared to be black from iris to pupil. It was a stark contrast to the porcelain white skin and tightly bound silver hair. He was strikingly handsome, with a cut chin, sharp cheekbones, and a high brow. He looked like a royal elf from the Lord of the Rings movies, if an elf wore silk suits that David Bowie would have envied. And his smile was like an imitation of a smile. He didn’t look human. He looked like something that ate humans. What was that called? The uncanny valley? Not quite human enough to trick his animal mind in accepting that he was one. This was a monster. A real monster.

Rory felt a shudder run through him.

The man’s eyes wandered the audience, as if taking it all in for a delicious memory. He took a deep satisified breath and headed the way he came, and the chapel door slammed lightly as the piston closed it at his passing with a wheezy relieved cough. A couple human coughs followed, also in relief.

A monster, like a dragon. Dragon? Memories came roaring back, a flood of impressions were unlocked simultaneously. Rory sifted through his memories of what had actually happened with Mrs. Givins. The memories of his visit all those years ago had popped into his head as if they had been wrapped up and hidden away. The more he thought on it, the more things unvieled themselves. How did he forget? How could he forget? Wella! He had seen a dragon. A goddamned cockatrice! He had seen a dragon and her eggs. He had looked her right in the eye!

Nana shifted in her seat and leaned over hurriedly to whisper in Rory’s ear. “You are rippling, Rory. Calm down… I will explain later. Deep breaths! Now!”

Rory felt a whip of reluctance and then a quick glimmer of rebellion, but Nana’s firm hand was still on his leg, and her stare was made of fire. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it, and then exhaling slowly. After a few rounds of breathing, Nana finally lifted her hand from his leg.

“Good. Now, act attentive. Your parents are waking up.” Nana observed.

“Oh god, did I fall asleep?” Mom said aghast, wiping at her mouth. “Mom, I am so sorry.”

“Hit your husband, dear, he is snoring.” Nana replied, facing front.

There was a light smack and the snoring cut off abruptly. A grunt of something, it could have been an apology, it may have been a protest.

It didn’t seem to matter. Rory could only focus inwardly. Her eye. In the clearing of the trees… Wella had looked at him and had known.

The dragon knew.

Rory woke up in a panic, strangling in his own sheets, mired in the octopus-like constriction of untucked sheets, blankets, somehow coupled to his own clothing. He angrily pulled the wrapped corner of his sheets from around his neck. It flickered away like a dismayed python.

Sweat beaded at this forehead and the back of his neck, and his heart rate was running a mile a minute.

The nightmares had gotten worse. He would wake up and then couldn’t remember what they were about. Just flashes of impressions that provided nothing more than a fleeting glimpse of something… wrong. Something that he could not fix no matter how hard he tried. He squeezed his eyes shut, fiercely attempting to pry something loose from his mind, some clue as to why he was on his second straight week of shit sleep.

He had his last final tomorrow. It did not matter nearly as much as his SAT had, but they were still important to close out the senior year of high school. Not getting the rest he needed was going to take its toll. Rory sat up, freeing more of his body from the wrath of the unintentional slumber knot that used to be his bed. He pulled his leg free and a sock stayed locked up in the sheets.

“Fuck it,” Rory mumbled, yanking the matching still attached sock off his other foot. He stood, lengthening his frame upwards, feeling the muscles stretch and hit their limit, their release flooding his nerves with some form of remotely felt satisfaction of their own. His heart finally had slowed, and the sweat was evaporating quickly. His well-tuned runner’s constitution at least made recovery fast.

The clock on his phone attested it was 2:17am on Thursday, May 14th, and Spotify had a new release from one his followed artists.

“Great. Thanks Spotify,” he mumbled.

There was a missed phone call too. His grandmother. Fifteen minutes ago?

Rory felt his stomach drop. He hadn’t been able to get his Mom or Dad to spring for a visit to see Nana and Grandpa. There was always an excuse. Some reason they couldn’t visit. Some other trip or vacation always took precedence. As a result, it had been literally years since he had seen his Nana and Grandpa. But Rory had made a habit to call them every week. Every Sunday, after dinner, religiously.

Grandpa had some sort of injury at work a couple years back and had been forced to retire. He had been sick the last few weeks? Right? Not the flu. Not covid. Something else? Nana had been dismissive two weeks ago, and they had not answered their phone this past Sunday. Rory had thought it odd, but sometimes they missed each other. It happened. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Rory rubbed his eyes, cracked the door to his room to look for signs of activity in the house. Something that would assuage his gut feel or at least confirm it? Something? Anything? But the house was silent as a crypt. His parents were not pacing the house, Mom was not calling anyone, and Dad wasn’t sitting at his customary position at the end of the kitchen island furiously tapping on his laptop.

It was eerie, actually. Like time had stopped. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. Not even the typical house noises of a fan running or the furnace cycling could be heard. Rory shook his head, attributing the weirdness to the nightmare. He closed his door slowly, letting the latch catch its home silently and then he paced back to his phone, unplugging it from its charger.

He flipped to Nana’s contact and hit dial. It did not even ring once.

“Rory? Is everything alright?” Her voice was far away. Tinny. Like she was in a tunnel of aluminum foil.

“I’m fine, Nana. It’s two in the morning? You called me.”

A sigh at the other end. A heavy sigh. Then silence.

“Nana?” Rory tried.

“Your, uh, Rory, your grandfather passed.” Her voice was solemn, but not a sound of emotion. Her voice was carved from granite.

Rory realized what that meant. Nana had cried every tear she could harbor at the moment. She was exhausted. This was the sound of his strong, powerful Nana exhausted. Something he had never heard or seen before.

“Did you call Mom?”

“I…” Silence again, like Nana was trying to think of how to say something that she knew had to be said. “Your mom. Yes. I will call her later.”

“You called me first?” Rory felt his heart pick up its pace again.

“I had to know. I mean, uh, I have to know. Did you… did you feel it? The tear?” Nana’s voice was low, like it was secret that would be made real if spoken to loudly. “The last two weeks?”

“What are you talking about?” Rory said. “Tear?”

Nana ignored his question. “Have you felt… off? Sick? Bad dreams?”

Rory felt a chill climb his arms and turn into a shiver that made him want to curl into a ball under his messy covers. “I… yes… I have been having nightmares. Bad ones. For about two weeks. I thought it was end of year crap. How did you know?”

“You have your finals tomorrow, right?” She asked tentatively, uncertain with her own words.

“Yes. Nana, are you ok?”

“Rory, dear. I have lost the love of my life and the father of my only child, so no, I am not ok.”

“Nana, you know what I mean.” Rory smiled over the phone as best he could.

“Yes, I am ok. There is just so much to do. I thought I would have him longer. …That we would have him longer. I needed him, I needed your Grandpa, Rory.” Still no tears. No hitch in her voice.

“How?” Rory asked the dreaded question. “I know he has been sick… but he sounded good a few weeks ago.”

“That is why I need you to come stay with me after your finals are done. I… uh… I will think of something to tell your Mom. When are your parents dropping you off at Drummond?”

Nana was asking about drop off at his chosen college in the Fall. “Mid-August, sometime?”

“And your heart is… nevermind. We can talk about that later. When you get here. Love you, Rory. I am going to call your mom tomorrow. Later in the morning. Try to sleep. Good luck on your finals, dear.”

“I will try.” Rory did not sound confident.

A pause, no goodbye. “Take a deep breath,” Nana said instead.

“What?”

“Take a deep breath. Hold it. Do it. Now.”

Rory inhaled loudly and held it.

“Close your eyes. Imagine the dark around you is holding its breath too. Every corner of your room is collectively holding it, waiting for you to breathe. You are going to release your breath, slowly, counting to five. When you release it, imagine your breath filling the room and the ripples returning to you, reinforcing you.” Nana paused. “Now breathe out.”

Rory exhaled slowly, again loudly so Nana would hear it.

“Good. Now. When you lay down in bed, I want you to repeat that, think of nothing else. Understood?”

“Yes, Nana.”

“Promise.” She ordered.

“I promise.”

“Sleep fast, dear.”

“‘Night.” The call ended with a click in his hand. It was strange that his Nana did not have a smart phone. She had an old land line, and it clicked so loudly when she hung up. It always sounded so final.

He tried to not think about Grandpa. The final click had happened two weeks ago and Rory hadn’t known it at the time. He fixed his sheets and his blankets, tucking them at the corners like his Grandpa had shown him when he helped with chores all those years ago. He folded them tight, making sure the crease followed the angle it should. He could almost see Grandpa smiling in the dark.

Rory laid down, breathed in slowly, imagined what he was told to imagine, paused and exhaled slowly. He did this a few times and awoke suddenly to his alarm going off, its cascading volume getting louder with each pulsing tone.

He got up, got dressed, skipped his customary breakfast, instead grabbing some bars from the pantry, and immediately headed to school before his mom got the phone call that he knew was coming. He did not want to be in the house when that phone call came. His mom was an ugly crier. It was uncomfortable. His dad made it worse. He just hovered around mom like an uncertain pet, not knowing whether to run in for comfort or flee in terror.

As instructed, Rory left his phone in his locker with the ringer off and tried his hardest to focus on the last few official steps of high school. He went through it in a daze, as if he was on autopilot. He did what he was supposed to, took his final, then sat down with his counselor, signed off his paperwork, was made promises about transcripts and the graduation ceremony… and he knew he didn’t care. He knew that he wasn’t going to graduation, but he signed all the forms anyway.

Mr. Nunez shook his hand and made a comment. Rory smiled and replied, knowing that the real trial was about to start and not entirely sure his response matched what Mr. Nunez had said. It didn’t matter. His phone was sitting in his locker, waiting for him. The future was sitting in his locker, resting calmly on a shelf of bent metal, painted gray, with the small carved figures of someone’s initials nearby. Walking down the hallway towards his locker happened in slow motion, even his on-again, off-again ex-girlfriend Casey, in her short cheerleader shorts and her tight ribbed tank top, did not distract him. She probably didn’t even notice his lack of usual attention… hence the reason they weren’t together anymore. She was a bit of a bitch. Unintentionally, it was just who she was. Rory thought there was a chance she would grow out of it.

Rory’s fingers alighted on the dial to his locker. He turned it once, twice, then reversed it, and reversed that until the combo was in. He lifted the latch and paused.

This was the end of his high school life. This moment. It wasn’t walking out the doors. It wasn’t saying goodbye to friends or making empty promises to meet up at some point over the summer. It wasn’t getting in his car and driving off the senior lot for the last time. It was right here. When he pulled this door open, and picked up his phone, the next step would arrive like a specter on the wind. Blown in furiously into his life, ready to pick him up and carry him back to Branson Gulch. Back to the Blue’s house at the end of Fairview Lane, where Mr. Robert Ryanson Blue had lived, slept, had a happy marriage, raised a daughter together, and had passed away last night.

Rory knew him as just Grandpa. He felt the heat on his cheeks, the flush, the brimming of unbidden tears at the edges of his eyelids. He tilted his head down and let the silent drips fall. He pulled the latch, swung the door open, and grabbed his things for the last time.

He flipped his phone over and the screen had a myriad of notifications, but only one mattered.

It was from his mom. ‘Nana told me you know. Hope your test went well. Packing now. Love you.’

He typed a response, ‘omw home.’ Hit send, and the little icon for being unread stayed there, forlorn. She was busy as usual.

Rory turned on his heel, dumped the last of his papers in the trashcan and headed to his car.

High school was over.

There came well known sounds that required no investigation. The garage opening. A truck pulling in slowly, a rough idle turning to silence. The muffled whump of a door closing. The garage closing, its terminus leaning into a resounding echoey thump.

Grandpa walked in from the garage looking exhausted. He glanced at Nana, then to the table set for dinner, and sighed contentedly. Yet, he shook his head sadly, patted Rory on the head, and headed upstairs without saying a word. His boots lightly thumped up the stairs, and each foot fall sounded like he carried a weight that he wanted to put down, but simply couldn’t.

“What’s wrong with Grandpa?” Rory asked.

Nana looked concerned for a fleeting moment, but smiled brightly in spite of whatever she was thinking about. “He had a long day… I am sure he just needs to shower and have a nice long sleep and he will be his normal self in the morning. And tomorrow is Thanksgiving! Aren’t you excited to see your parents?”

Rory fiddled with his napkin.

“Rory?” Nana pressed. “Aren’t you excited to see your Mom? Your Dad?”

Rory came to a sudden conclusion as if his mind was being driven by someone else. “No.”

“No?” Nana grinned as she put the finishing touches on the salad at the kitchen counter. “Why do you say that?”

“I can’t leave. I don’t want to leave? I…” Rory furrowed his brow, and his napkin tore. “I am confused. Mad. Thats it. I’m mad.”

Nana put the salad on the table, next to the bread, and squatted next to Rory. She pulled him into a hug. Rory hadn’t realized he was crying, feeling the wet tracks smear against his cheek was a surprise.

“Hey, hey, hey, no crying in Nana’s house,” Nana whispered and held him tightly. “You have to go home with your parents, love. It is ok to miss Grandpa and I. We will see each other again.”

“But what about the… the…” Rory waved his hands around.

“Oh is that what you are worried about? The Touch? Think of it as a present, Rory. You are at the start of an amazing journey… but, for right now, you are only a kiddo. Enjoy it. Be a kid! We can worry about the other stuff down the road.” Nana pulled away but kept her hands on him. She looked in him over carefully. “In a few days, it won’t feel as strange. And in a few months you will barely remember why it felt weird in the first place.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Nana patted his head. “Let’s eat! Then maybe play… a game?”

Rory’s eyes lit up. “Sorry?”

“Sure. We can play Sorry. I am just glad you didn’t pick Monopoly.”

“Monopoly?” Rory amended with a grin, wiping at his eyes absentmindedly.

“Hey mister. You said Sorry first. Sorry it is.” Nana teased.

After a light dinner and a game (Rory won, of course), Rory got ready for bed. He said his good nights, falling asleep quickly. And like magic, he rolled over and discovered it was four in the morning. He laid in bed, unable to find the blanket of drowsiness again after waking up to a very early morning yet to find the sun. The wind outside was insistent upon itself, informing the neighborhood that a front was moving in. The uncharacteristically warm weather was about to turn and the chilly nights were only going to get colder.

It was not the wind that kept Rory up. It wasn’t the creaking of the house, nor the scrape of the tree branches, nor the shifting call of the wind blowing through the eaves, measured from a fierce howl to a muted muttering.  It was the unseen Cockatrice deep in her fortress of tree stands.

Rory felt it through and through. He had to see the cockatrice. He felt it deep in his bones as if it was calling to him. Her. Wella. Wella had to be calling to him on the wind. Rory thought it over. Turning it over and over in his mind. If he was super slow, super sneaky, and stayed upwind… he would be safe. Mrs. Givins had mentioned that Wella was lethargic. But once the weather changed, that would opportunity would be gone. Because she would have to warm up to keep her eggs protected.

First thing in the morning, he could sneak into the stand of trees. He could make sure everything that had happened in the last few days was… real. It didn’t feel real. It felt strange, like he was having a fever and just hadn’t woken up yet. Rory wasn’t sure, but that sinking feeling that it was all his overactive imagination made his stomach flip over. He wanted it so badly to be real. Any of it. All of it.

Rory slunk out of bed and changed his clothes in the dark. He had to take his pants off and put them back on when he realized the pockets were on his butt. His jacket was in the mud room, and then he could sneak his bike out of the side garage door. The door was quiet enough. He tied his sneakers and tip toed towards the kitchen, the mud room, and the promise of escape through the mud room door.

He slid down the hallway, and the shadows were familiar, safe. The walls held their secrets and the pictures hung kept their vigilance in the early morning silence. Only the roof made any protest, and it was a complaint to the winds of the sky, not the house beneath. Rory turned into the kitchen to find Nana sitting in a chair in the dark, dressed and ready to go outside.

“About time,” Nana whispered. “Did you put your pants on backwards the first time?”

He had, but he didn’t want to admit it. All he said instead was, “Nana?”

“If you want to see Wella, you must listen to me. And you obey me. If I tell you to stand still, you stand absolutely still. If I tell you to run in front of me, you run in front of me. If I tell you to fall to the ground and play dead, you play dead. Understood?”

“Really?” Rory whispered.

“Yes. Really. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Rory nodded once as if he was signing in blood.

“Good. Grab your coat. Here are some of Grandpa’s old gloves and hat. Bundle up.”

Rory did as he was told and Nana pulled the weird twisted walking stick from the hall closet.

“Out the side door,” Nana waved him forward. “Let’s try not to disturb your grandfather.”

They walked out the gate and towards the sidewalk. Nana laid a hand on his shoulder.

“What?”

“Grab here,” Nana lifted his hand to grip the walking stick.

“Uh, ok?” Rory clutched the walking stick below his Nana’s hand. He wasn’t sure why or even how two people could operate a walking stick at the same time.

“Alright. When I tell you step forward, step in time with me. I will count. Three, two, one… step.”

Rory lifted his foot and when he put it down he stumbled forward as if he had been pushed. He was dizzy.

“Take a deep breath. Let me know when you are caught up.” Nana laughed lightly.

Rory looked around and realized they were not one step down the sidewalk, but at the end of the street. “What? How?”

“Turn toward the Gulch. This way. Ready? Three, two, one… step.”

Rory lifted his foot forward and stumbled again, trying not to let go of the stick and instead using it to balance. Now they were no longer at the end of Nana’s street but a mile and half down the path to where it branched towards the Gulch.

“Better. See? You are a natural,” Nana winked proudly.

“How?” Rory reiterated.

“Energy is prevalent. It abounds. We can harness energy to do all sorts of neat things. Like farwalking.”

“But its not speeding us up?”

“More like tricking the world that this step and our next are in the same stride. Like folding a piece of paper, we fold the way forward. It snaps back and we alight over the hump.”

“That is why it feels like I am falling in the direction we are facing.” Rory thought it made sense. It was consistent to how it felt, the stumble as his foot touched the ground, like running too fast down a hill.

“Good observation. Let’s see here,” Nana licked her finger and lifted it into the air. “Breeze is coming in front the north today. The prevailing is typically west-by-northeast. So we will need to go into the stand from that side of the Gulch. Ready? Three, two, one… step.”

Rory stumbled forward, but was able to maintain his balance better than before. “You far can you walk like that?”

“The longest step is about five kilometers. Past that will lead to… injuries.”

“Five kilometers?” Rory raised an eyebrow.

“About 3 miles.” Nana continued. “You could walk a very long way in a single day, but most of the time, taking a plane or a car is easier. Now. Stay close, stay quiet. Try to step where I step.”

“Ok.” Rory nodded once again, but this time if felt as if he was about to march into battle.

The sun was an hour or two from cresting the horizon, but the moon was full and reflecting its light brightly through the trees.

Nana stepped down into the gulch, the wet dead leaves allowed her to gracefully slide down the side of the hill in relative silence. Rory copied her and discovered that is was easier than he had thought. As he slid, the smell of old leaves and rotting wood assaulted his nose heavily as if it was mist sulking against the ground, upset it had been launched towards the open sky. A pressure slid over his ears and he felt a faint ringing as if he had heard a firework go off days ago.

“Nana?” Rory whispered and pointed to his ears with confusion on his face.

“I will explain later. Keep moving. Stay close.” Nana started creeping between the trees, waving her hand near her knees.

Rory realized she must have had her cadaceus, doing something to the ground at her feet. From here, it looked like she was waving off invisible mosquitos from attacking her kneecaps. Rory stayed a step behind, putting his feet in her wet footprints. The ground was not frozen, but it could have been in places, the leaves were firm underfoot as if they were carved from wood.

Nana walked for what felt like fifteen minutes, pausing occassionally, holding an open palm out towards Rory’s chest as if she was preventing his movements. He realized that he only thought that he was stopping of his own accord, he tried to lift his hand, but it was like it was tied at his side. Nana side-eyed him as she shook her head and he did not dare to try again.

He heard Wella before he saw her. It was like a humming noise, deep and resonant amongst the trees. He could almost feel it more than he could hear it, as if a part of him was also her, vibrating in time. Nana knelt at a tree and slowly Rory crept up next to her to look.

There was a nest. It was set into the ground as if it had been dug out, and the edges of the nest were formed by woven branches and sticks. Each looked like it had been sharpened to points, but Rory realized they had been chewed, like how a beaver takes down a tree. Each stick had been carved away from the tree it belonged to. In the nest, curled in a tight circle, a feathered form laid in a tight circle, a brightly plumed head tucked under one wing. The plumage was brown and white, with streaks of red feathers forming a pattern of lines radiating from her shoulders.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Nana whispered lightly at Rory’s ear.

Rory nodded and realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it slowly, and a branch moved along the edge of the nest, and a clump of feathers followed. It was her tail. It settled around her in the nest, like a soft sigh. The skin was not the snake skin he had imagined. It was supple and brown, more like the skin of a cow, with small bristles… but Rory noticed they were larger at the clump. They were feathers. Tiny little feathers. Her breathing was so slow, and that was what the vibration in the air was. She was purring like a kitten. He grinned.

Nana smiled and leaned over again. “She hasn’t thermoregulated yet. She is going to be very sleepy… nestled in like that. I think we are can get a little closer. You want to take a peek at her clutch?”

“Is it safe?”

“No.” Nana shook her head solemnly, but her eyes were bright and shining in the early morning twilight. The sky above was shifting to a dark blue, and somewhere to the east, a glimmer of sun was near cresting. “But you will never get a chance like this again.”

Rory thought it over but found himself nodded enthusiastically regardless of what his brain concluded. He discarded it before a decision even formed.

Nana stood cautiously, and waved her hand at her knees again. She stepped very carefully, but her steps were completely silent. Not even her clothes made noise. Rory stepped were she stepped and they crept up nearer to the nest.

Wella was not some small snake crossed with a chicken. She was much larger than she had appeared from the trees behind them. Her side went up slowly, and Rory realized it was like a car door raising into the air and then falling back down for a long stretched pause before rising again. Wella was larger than any dog he had ever seen. Her legs looked powerful, and the end of her foot, a long bone white dagger from the middle toe, cocked upward. From here it looked like it could slice through anything. Her wings were draped around her like a cloak, hiding most of her form, but with each step he realized that anything that Wella wanted to eat probably did not stand a chance.

His gut dropped. He had been crazy to think he could do this on his own. He would never stray off the path ever. Never. Ever.

Nana pointed excitedly. At the edge of Wella’s neck, just under the wing, Rory could make out two oblong shapes. They were a dull red color, speckled with white dots. He glanced at the eggs, then up to Wella’s face, most of which was still buried under her wing.

The eye facing him was open. And staring right at him. It did not blink. It did not move. The eye looked like it was made of crystal, bright red of a stop sign, with a corona of blue at the edges. The colors were in a spoke pattern in her eye, each radiated outwards from the black iris. And it beheld Rory with careful scrutiny.

Rory snatched Nana’s hand and dared not to breathe.

Nana made eye contact with Wella, and squeezed Rory’s hand lightly. “Bow slowly. Look at the ground. Now.”

Rory immediately bowed, ducking his head slowly and holding his glance at the edge of his boots.

Nana squeezed his hand again. “You can look up but keep your face pointed down.”

Rory raised his eyes to come face to face with Wella. Her head was only feet away from his own. Her beak was the length of his arm, its edges scalloped like a carving knife. Wella’s head swung back and forth between the two of them, and Rory could feel her exhales over his neck. Wella was sniffing them. He was being measured and weighed by a dragon.

Finally, Wells made a soft chirp as if deciding something and put her head back under wing. She did not close her eye.

“Back up, slowly. Once we get to the trees we can turn and walk the way we came. No running.”

Nana pulled him along gently, and sequestered him behind the nearest tree. The cockatrice did not move.

“This way, Rory.” Nana walked slowly, retracing her steps. Rory did exactly what he had been told. He glanced back occasionally, but there was no movement from the nest hidden there.

The sunlight above finally shifted the sky to a purple and a flutter of pink upon some far off clouds. Rory’s heart felt like it had been going a million miles an hour, and yet his feet felt like he was walking on air.

Nana took his hand and put it on her gnarled, knuckled length of walking stick. “Three, two, one… step.”

Rory stumbled forward and found himself on the gravel path at the top of the embankment. Rory felt like he had just stepped off a roller coaster. “Nana?”

“Yes, dear?” Nana’s face was bright, and her eyes reflected the dawn.

Rory exhaled heavily. “Best. Thanksgiving. Ever.”

Nana laughed brightly as the birds in the trees seemingly agreed.

Rory sat on the edge of the overlook, his new shiny bike parked against the stout rock and mortar wall. His feet dangled out over the space of the grasses, shrubs, and occasional cotton tails that clumped together in the old lake bed. The cotton tail heads were bent, broken, and splayed, most of their dark brown fluff lost to the wind.

Mrs. Givins walked up slowly as not to startle the boy, her cane clumped and her orthotics crunched over the gravel path. She could move fast when she needed to, but she was feeling her one hundred and forty two years today. The air had the snap of autumn, the end of the harvest season was drawing to the close, and the elderly like Mrs. Givins often felt the coming of winter like death was standing near, looking on in empathy.

As it was, Old Cross was always in the corner of her vision now, his arms interwoven with each other across his chest, a soft sad smile on his face. He never waved, he never changed his expression, as if the image was a moment in time hidden within the waters of time, and her perception was just the same moment carried forward like a burst of light that never faded away from her vision.

Odd thought that.

That timelessness was nothing but a single moment to her as she was stuck within the flow of time. Old Cross would probably think it funny. He was a bastard. A kind bastard, no doubt, but still a force of nature as harsh as a storm and unrelenting as the tide. Mrs. Givins had spoken to him twice before. Once when her Gerald had passed, and again when her own son Michael had lost his battle. Both times Old Cross had sat there, or stood there, and allowed her to speak with him. She did not see her husband or her son behind him, but she knew. She knew they were there. And yet, she could only pierce the veil so far. There was a limit, even for the ones that Touched the fabrics of reality. Because human nature was both human and nature. An indelible connection that could not be broken… until it was. And Old Cross would be there to take your hand and lead you onwards.

She did not want Old Cross to get this boy. And Wella could give a shit less if the boy was innocent or not. Wella could be hungry, and an easy meal is an easy meal. The boy needed a reprimand, even the edge of the wall was not safe. He had to be on this side of the curtain that hung over the Gulch.

Mrs. Givins prepared her admonishment, opened her mouth to say something, and then stopped dead.

Rory was different today. His center field had shifted downwards, attuned and aligned to the earth. Mrs. Givins felt a smile spread across her face. Vera must be ecstatic! After all these years! Why did it take so long? The boy was nearly ready to hit puberty? And the Touch manifested now!? An oddity out of all the oddities in Branson Gulch to be certain.

She let her well formed criticism fade from her mind and instead tapped her cane against the bench to get his attention.

“Rory, child. Be a dear and get off the wall.” She smiled warmly as he turned and made eye contact. He was so young.

Was she ever that young?

Old Cross nodded once out of the corner of her eye. She had been, a long time ago. On a different continent, in a different country, looking on a field of green where a herd of sleeping Axaoras drowsily nibbled on the leftovers of their recent livestock kill. She loved watching the black dogs with the faces of hooked tentacles hunt in those early days of her life. With a pang of remorse, she remembered that they had been extinct by the time she had married Gerald. Such a shame. Beautiful creatures. Proud. Strong. But not survivors. The world had changed too fast.

Rory spun around, and yet stayed on the wall as if performing a level of defiance that was new to him. “Hey Merry. So… you are like my Nana.”

Mrs. Givins slowly lowered herself to her bench and exhaled heavily. The cold was quick to leave, but for a moment, her butt felt a chill like she had just sat on a block of ice.

“Yes, I am.”

Rory looked over his shoulder at the stands of trees that populated the old lake bed, covering it from end to end. “I keep looking for Wella, but I haven’t seen her.”

“She is in there, I assure you. Just quiet for a key reason… but near the solstice, her calls rattle the trees. Her species, Draconis Galliformae, have a unique adaptation for surviving both harsh winters and sweltering summers. Can you guess what that is?”

“Uh…” Rory thought through some guesses. “They hibernate?”

“Ah! Very close. It is very similar to hibernation, but instead of reducing their metabolic rate where they fall asleep for months, her species shifts their blood chemistry to a point of being either cold blooded or hot blooded. Cold blooded, or ectothermic, creatures like snakes, lizards, and the like rely on their environment to help regulate their metabolic rate. Endothermic creatures…”

“So warm blooded?” Rory added as if on cue.

“Right. Endothermic creatures self regulate their metabolic rate, so they maintain a level of a steady body temperature, like you and I. Wella is in a near ectothermic state with the change of seasons, so she is feeling lethargic.”

“Lethargic?” Rory jumped off the wall and walked to the bench to sit next to Mrs. Givins.

“Sleepy. She is going to shift from ectothermic to endothermic, typically once the nights get cold enough that her two eggs are at risk. Any day now.”

“Then she won’t be slow and sleepy.”

Mrs. Givins nodded at the boy. He was intelligent. “That’s right. She will actively hunt, and populations of other creatures in the area will drop until they can replenish their numbers in the spring. Hibernation, for them at least, is a survival benefit. Hibernating creatures won’t fall prey to a hungry cockatrice.”

“Does she hunt… us?” Rory asked timidly.

“You mean children, dear? Or just people in general?”

“People in general, I guess.”

Mrs. Givins shrugged, and out of the corner of her eye, Old Cross nodded enthusiastically. “Not so much. If she gets a person it is because that person did not follow the warnings.”

“Like staying on the path.” Rory’s voice dropped.

Mrs. Givins realized her admonishment was not needed after all. He understood intuitively. The flows were waking up within him. “That’s one of them. One should stay on the path. Wandering into that stand of trees would be a one way ticket.”

“Ooh, ooh! Does she breathe fire?” Rory’s eyebrows were high.

“Not her species. She lacks both the organs that can digest the fuel and create the gaseous or viscous flammable materials. She also lacks the tongue.”

“What does the tongue have to do with it?”

“The source of the flame is not from the dragon. They produce the flammable materials, depending on the species, but all of them have to create the spark. Can you imagine walking around with fire inside of you? Even for hardy creatures, maintaining any temperature above a certain point would be evolutionary suicide. Its all in the tongue.” Mrs. Givins flicked her hand out like she was snapping a towel. “The sides of the tongue lay down a crystalline lathanide over time. They flick their tongue against their rear teeth and that material flakes off and oxidizes very rapidly. Sparks! A heavy exhale, and fwoosh! Fire!”

“Wow,” Rory’s eyes were wide. “You know a lot about dragons, Merry.”

“I should. It is my life’s work.” Mrs. Givins smiled. “I have been studying and protecting them for a very long time.”

“An ecologist?” Rory said. “Like my grandpa?”

“Ah, yes. I am an ecologist. But no… your grandfather does something even more important. He is a Ranger. They go out and find the ones that need protecting. It is hard work. Dangerous work. What I do is simple in comparison. I am a scientist. Studying. Making notes. Observing. Your grandfather is out there doing a bit more than that. Most of us conservationists are very boring in comparison.”

“And this is the only dragon you study?”

“At the moment. She has a special place in my heart. My father helped raise her mom, Ember. She had been abandoned as an egg, and my father took it on himself to help her hatch. Crazy man. But somehow he was successful. And Wella out there is alive because my father decided to help a poor creature on a cold night. So I… guess… watching her connects me back to my own dad in a way.”

“You have studied others… not just Wella and her mom?”

“Oh, yes. I am a draconist by trade and I spent decades helping the conservation reserves get built and then populating them with complimentary species.”

Rory grinned. “That sounds cool.”

“Oh it was quite ‘cool’. Best job ever. But it was hard work, hence the limp.” Mrs. Givins tapped her cane against the bench again. “You have a lot of questions today. You rode off in such a hurry yesterday, I thought I had scared you off permanently.”

Rory laughed nervously. “I, uh, was a little scared.”

“A little?”

“Yes, just a little,” Rory said defensively. “I thought you were teasing me about Wella, and then hearing that noise, it made me jumpy.”

“I would say.” Mrs. Givins agreed. “She is a big girl.”

“How big is big?”

“Sixteen feet in wingspan, half that in length from beak to tail, and probably about four hundred or so pounds at this point in her brooding cycle. We can estimate her size well enough, but it is just an estimate. Her species is protected, meaning that we don’t get close to her unless absolutely necessary. We have protocols not just for our safety, but mostly hers.”

“I wish I could see her.”

“Oh you will. Most folks don’t. You will. It’s inevitable.” Mrs. Givins stated matter-of-factly. “You will see her because you are looking for her. On the other hand, we can direct behavior of these creatures and the ones that aren’t looking, but it takes time and effort. It takes patience and hard work to protect them from the plebians and vice versa.”

“Plebians? Is that another kind of dragon?”

Mrs. Givins laughed, a deep chuffing sound that was nearly a cough. “Oh my goodness, no Rory. Those are all the humans. The people. The terrible masses that cover the world.”

“But I am people?”

Mrs. Givins sighed. “We all are. The problem isn’t that we are human, Rory. The problem is that we aren’t one tribe. We all have different experiences that lead to different beliefs and opinions, and that is why the plebians do what they do… and ultimately that is why we do what we do.”

Rory silently sat in the sunlight, watching the stands of trees next to Mrs. Givins. Birds twittered in the distance, and the occasionally there was a buzz of an insect on the air.

“Do you have a caduceus?” Rory asked, breaking the easy silence.

“Of course I do. Its my cane, silly.”

“But… I can see your cane?” Rory observed.

Realization dawned on Mrs. Givins face. “Oh, the actual rod… that is inside the cane, dear.”

“So I really can’t see them? I thought Nana was pulling my leg.” Rory sighed.

“How much did your Nana explain? I don’t want to misstep here, Rory. Your grandmother is one of the best, you should listen to her.”

“One of the best? Best what?”

“We each have our roles to play, Rory. Some of us study and document. Others go out and preserve. And some of us… teach. Your grandmother has been teaching the Society’s talented for many decades.”

“I didn’t know she was a teacher. I guess I never thought about it. She is just my Nana.”

“Ah well… I suppose that is about to change, isn’t it?” Mrs. Givins nudged Rory. “Lots to learn now.”

“I guess? My mom and dad are on vacation, but they are coming to Thanksgiving and then I think we leave to head back home. Our flight is on Friday night I think. I don’t know how much she can teach me in three days.”

“You have the rest of life to learn, Rory. And…that could be a very long time indeed.”

Rory burst into the kitchen, leaving the mud room door to the garage wide open.

“Hey hey, there mister… shut that door. We don’t want Bixby getting out!” Nana admonished from the sink, elbow deep in pie making adjacent mixing bowls.

Meanwhile, and notably not moving a single muscle, Bixby laid on her customary memory foam mattress near the sliding patio door and barked once loudly as if discounting the whole idea of any escape.

Rory turned on his heel and in a smooth spin slammed the door shut and faced Nana in a panic. He held his hands out as if he was about to stop the room itself from spinning.

“A DRAGON? SERIOUSLY. NANA!?” Rory was yelling. His eyes were wild, and his hair stood at strange angles from yanking off the bike helmet so roughly. A small line of spittle was dripping from his lip, dangling precariously.

If Grandpa had been within earshot, he probably would have smacked Rory for yelling at Nana. Rory did not care. There was a capital G, capital D dragon in the capital, underlined, heavily emphasized F-ing neighborhood. And to be clear, while a raised voice felt appropriate at the moment, using actual swears would definitely be the wrong choice.

“Its barely a dragon,” Nana laughed dismissively. “You have a little something hanging from your lip, dear.”

“Yeah I puked,” Rory wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked over her shoulder again, her eyebrow raised. “You puked?”

“Don’t worry about that! Nana! The draaaaaagon!?” Rory felt like he was the only sane one. What would his mom and dad think? “What would my mom and dad think?”

Nana shook her head. “Well considering your mom was raised in this house, she would probably think that her son puking is a bit of a concern, silly. Your dad did think it odd, but I think he had the hots for your mom, so it didn’t really matter.”

“Oh my god, I must be crazy. Why am I the only one that thinks this is crazy?” Rory was walking in circles in the kitchen, pacing without even realizing it. “Does the military know?”

“Out of all things that are crazy in this world, young man, having some neighborhood wildlife is the least of all of them.” Nana said, ignoring his other questions as she shifted rinsed bowls to the drying rack. “Where did you puke?”

“In Grandpa’s trashcan,” Rory looked over his shoulder as if looking towards where he did the deed. “Its fine. Its just… Nana! Its not a flock of turkeys.”

“I know, she is definitely not a turkey. She eats the turkeys.” Nana rinsed off a platter, moving it to the rack. She wiped her hands on a towel at her waist and turned to face her grandson. “You will need to hose it out.”

“What?”

“The trashcan.”

“Oh my god, Nana. Can you please forget about my puke. I’ll clean it up. But. What. About. The dragon!?” Rory tried again, he felt flustered that there was not a bigger commotion about this.

“A cockatrice, Rory love, and her name is Wella. She is mostly harmless.” Nana shrugged.

“Mostly harmless? Doesn’t she eat kids?” Rory felt his voice rising again.

“Oh that was decades ago, she has plenty to eat.”

“Nana!” Rory stomped his foot. Angrily.

Nana tried to suppress her grin, tucking her lips between her teeth and clamping down.

“ITS NOT FUNNY.” Rory exclaimed, his fists shaking at his sides.

“From where I am standing, love, I would say otherwise. This is a show.” Nana teased. Her tone shifted to something more authoritative. “Go clean out the trashcan and then come back when you are calm. I will be glad to tell you everything you want to know. I have some cookies that Grandpa doesn’t know about. Good ones.”

“Nana!”

“Rory!” Nana imitated him and she did not budge. Her hands were on her hips, which meant she was all business.

“Dammit.” Rory groused.

“Trashcan.” Nana raised a singular finger and with it waved him out of the house.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He trudged out the door and let it close behind him. He went about cleaning out the puke like he was washing a dog against his will. He threw the hose down, he threw the trashcan down, he threw the nozzle to grass, and the universe allowed him to throw his little fit without interrupting.

He could see the trees that were standing over in the other lake bed over the top of Nana’s house, and they seemed to move in the wind. Or did they? Was that actually wind? Was it the dragon moving around? What if it got hungry? He was out here all by himself, hosing out a trashcan into the runoff drain, a tasty little snack in a jacket and jeans, just ready to be stripped clean. They would find a running hose, an empty, mostly clean trash can, and maybe a singular sneaker, just lying there alone in the browning grass. Accusingly.

He shook his head, clearing the thought away. Nothing but the breeze spoke in the distance, and the call of far off birds was carried upon it.

Rory finished rinsing his crime down the storm drain. He tipped the trashcan on the rocks to dry out in the afternoon autumn sun of late November, and put everything away as he had found it, just like Grandpa told him time and time again. Rory trudged in, kicked of his wet shoes in the garage and sat at the kitchen table, where a plate of cookies and a glass of milk was sitting and ready.

Nana sat on the other end, drinking a cup of tea and reading her book. She took a heavy sip, marked her spot with a clipped coupon and set the book down. She watched Rory carefully as he sulked to his seat, huffed as he sat down, and ate a cookie in sullen silence. Not for the first time she was reminded that her grandson was a lot like his mom had been, but for some reason, even more adorable? The volume of personality contained within the child was nearly volatile.

“So you are obviously fine. Why did you vomit?” Nana asked with a smirk.

“I went too fast.” Rory grumbled around another bite of chocolate chip.

“Too fast?”

“Adrenaline? Got all excited? Scared? I don’t know. The trees moved… and Mrs. Givins spooked me, I guess.” Rory tried. “I pedaled home as fast as I could, and I must have… ah… overdid it.”

“Oh?”

“And Mrs. Givins says hi,” Rory added.

“Ah, well that is good.” Nana said. “But you didn’t see her? Wella?”

“No. I didn’t see her.”

“Ah. But you did see or hear something,” Nana ventured. Her face was making an odd expression.

“I heard it.”

“That will do it,” Nana smiled at some form of confirmation. “Have another cookie, love.”

“Have you seen her?” Rory looked up from his cookie.

“Of course. It is hard to miss a dragon, Rory. She sometimes flies over the house to get to the big lake.”

Rory’s eyes went wide. “How is this not national news? Isn’t a dragon… I don’t know… a bit of huge deal, Nana?”

“No, silly. Lots of things happen every day and never make it to the news. Too many news stories about fat old white men stealing power and money from other fat old white men… and then everyone gets all fired up about which political party is doing what when they never stop to think that all the parties are there to protect the fat old white guys on both sides. Who would ever care about a dragon? Especially a good girl like Wella? She minds her business, we mind ours, and everyone gets along fabulously.”

Rory leaned back and nibbled the edge of his cookie, thinking it over.

“Probably lots of dragons in the world, but everyone is too busy fighting over the silly things. They never look up to see it fly over their house.” Nana smiled graciously.

Rory frowned and nibbled another bite from his cookie. He felt famished all of sudden… the excitement was starting to wear off and it was turning against him.

“Is it a secret?” Rory’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Wella is a ‘she’ not an ‘it’, and no dear, she is not a secret. What your grandfather does is a secret, but Wella, she is no secret. How would one keep a Cockatrice a secret?”

“I suppose,” Rory thought it over. “Does she really eat kids?”

Nana laughed brightly, looking years younger than she should have been. “Only the naughty ones. She has good taste.”

“Wait.”

“What?” Nana raised an eyebrow.

“What does Grandpa do and why is it a secret? I thought he was a Forest Service Ranger? Isn’t that like the ones at the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone?”

“You have to keep this a secret.” Nana finished her tea and set it down on her place mat.

“I promise.”

“Your grandfather is a Ranger, yes, but he is not employed by the US Forest Service. He is a… different… sort of Ranger.”

“The park kind still?” Rory said.

“Oh yes, most definitely. Still the park kind. He is a… conservationist.” Nana smiled as if waiting for a reaction.

“That doesn’t sound like a secret.” Rory admonished is grandmother. He was disappointed.

Nana reached over and pulled a drawer open, she pulled out a stubby length of wood, something that almost looked like a burnt length of tinder.

“Do you know what this is?” Nana asked, handing it over to Rory.

Rory held it in his hand, feeling the texture of it, the weight as it rested between his fingers. It was strange. Like it was delicate in one moment, but unbelievably heavy the next. He had the impulse to drop it, but it was locked to his fingers like they were sticky. The length was nearly black, but he noticed a fine webbing of cracks all along its length, they flickered like they had gold nestled in its hidden folds.

“Is it a pencil of some sort?”

“The technical name is a caduceus. In make believe books, it is called a wand. We most often refer to it as a rod.”

“Like a magic wand?” Rory’s eyes went wide.

“Sort of. Wands give the wrong impression. This is not used to wave around and cast silly spells with funny words. No, this rod is a conduit for energies. The energy is prevalent all over, but in some places it is stronger. It collects. It attracts certain types of creatures, plants, and… people to it.”

“Like a Cockatrice.” Rory made the connection.

“Yes. And…” Nana’s voice trailed off.

“Like you and grandpa.”

“Yes.” Nana appeared to be very proud of something all of a sudden.

“And grandpa protects those places… doesn’t he?” Rory asked. But he knew the answer. It was like a light turning on in his head. “He is a Ranger for creatures like Wella.”

“We both are. In our own way. Especially Mrs. Givins… And most other folks around here.”

“That’s why.” Rory sunk back in his seat. The world returned to a sudden level of normalcy in nothing but a mere moment for him and he felt a sense of peace about it, still holding the rod in his hand.

“What’s why?” Nana asked.

“That’s why you are all acting so normal about it. Because it is normal.”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

“Is it normal for my mom? Or my dad?”

Nana shrugged. “I love your mom and your dad, but sometimes, modern life snatches our family away from us. Your parents don’t see things the way we see them, Rory. Which is fine, it just makes us a little bit different.”

“Like what do you mean?” Rory’s brow furrowed.

“Like that caduceus you are holding.” Nana waved her hand. “Your mom can’t see it. Or your dad. But you see it. You are even holding it correctly. Over the centuries, they have been called all sorts of things. Divining rods, dowsing rods, holy staffs…”

“Ca-de-se-us?” Rory tried the word, it felt strange on his tongue.

“That’s right.”

Rory waved the strange rod around in his hand, feeling the weight change as he moved it. It was like it was attached to something at one end. He yanked on it a little, and Nana’s hair fluttered around her head.

“Huh.” Rory grunted. He felt a set of senses that overlaid his own like he was seeing, smelling, hearing, and touching with a new set of limbs and sensory organs he had never used before. He felt duplicated in place, like there were two Rory’s occupying the same seat. At first, he felt a sense of panic rush over him, but the next there was a sense of peace, as if it was supposed to be this way and somehow he had just forgotten that fact somewhere along the way.

He felt ageless. Like he had always been here. But at the same time he knew that he was nine years old.

Nana watched on quietly, her lips pressed together in the semblance of both pride and happiness. She looked fit to burst.

The ancient at the hearth watched on passively. He wanted to say something, but it would break the bounds of his altar, which would decouple him from his vessel. So he watched as well, carefully taking in the scene so he could give his opinion later on. Aron wasn’t surprised that Vera’s grandson had the Touch, but it was odd that it had taken this long to manifest. The Touch was usually present from birth, not something that came on later. That was exceptionally rare. Aron knew that if the boy pointed the rod at the hearth, the boy would inadvertently satisfy the conditions of the altar and Aron could finally say something aloud. His voice bubbled in his head like a geyser needing to fount.  

Nana sensed Aron watching and turned her head towards him as Rory played with the rod, sensing the currents in the room. She shook her head softly as if telling him to relax. Aron would have curled a lip if he had a lip, but he was just a skull in an ornate box.

She held her hand out to Rory and took the rod back, she made a strange movement and the rod was gone from sight. “Tell me what you felt?”

Rory’s head felt like it was spinning again. The cookies and the milk sat forgotten, and he was staring at his palm in wonder.

“Nana, I could see you. But not with my eyes. It was like I could see…” Rory tried, but he found he didn’t have the words to explain it. “When can I get one of those?”

Nana laughed again, her joy was sparkling at the corner of her eyes, something that Rory had never seen before. Nana wasn’t just happy, she was jumping out of her skin happy.

“You have to make your own.”

“Like a lightsaber?” Rory’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Are you and grandpa like Jedi?”

“I suppose we are. I have never thought of it like that, though. Because what we are is far easier to understand. We are ecologists.”

“Is that like a tree hugger? Dad is always saying that the tree huggers are ruining this country.”

Nana rolled her eyes. “Yes, I would expect that, I suppose.” She paused. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Can I hold it again?” Rory asked instead.

“No. You won’t be able to. The test was passed, and that caduceus was not meant for you. You will have to make your own to hold one again.”

Rory growled. “That seems like a stupid rule.”

“A rule? Not a rule, just a fact.” Nana waved an arm like she was shaking a bug off, and held out her hand. “Take it.”

Rory looked at Nana’s open, empty hand and then to Nana’s face. She was serious. “There is nothing in your hand.”

“My caduceus is right here, Rory. In my hand.” Nana nodded to emphasize she was telling the truth. “You will see it again someday, when you make your own.”

“But I saw it once!”

Nana nodded patiently as she waved her hand away again. “You did.”

“I want to see it again.” Rory argued.

“You will.”

“Why not right now? I don’t understand.”

“Do you understand the rising of the sun or the position of the moon?” Nana’s face was serious again. “Do you know the tides? The shift of the mantle beneath you? Do you feel the forces that act on your body, right now, as you sit there, Rory Masters? Do you know the gravity that pulls at your mass? Do you approve of the magnetic orientation suffusing your cells? Do you allow the bouncing of light waves in this room? Or agree to my voice reaching your ears through pressure changes in the air?”

“Huh? Uh? No?” Rory tried again. He felt unsettled. Nana’s eyes were fierce all of a sudden, far different than the joy and happiness she was radiating a moment ago. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, love.” Nana softened. “It is just important for you to learn these things in order. There is a reason that most people can’t see or feel or understand the whole of reality as it is. It would cause madness. The human mind is structured to survive… while the human soul is designed to connect. It takes time to build the understanding that allows one to bridge wholly to the other, and to do so in right way. That is why some things are as they are. It is the glimmer that we see on the edge of our vision… the sensation that something is just on the edge of our understanding, but then we ignore it and go about our day.”

“I… I…” Rory paused. “Does mom know?”

“No.” Nana’s voice was soft and brittle. “She does not have the Touch.”

“But I do.” Rory finished.

Nana looked up. “What?”

“I do. And that is good, Nana. You don’t need to be sad about it anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly as if she was evaluating her grandson for the first time. “No, I guess I don’t. Your grandfather should be home any moment. Go wash up for dinner. You can help me and cut the lettuce. Hurry up. I need my sous chef.”

“Yes, Nana.” Rory pushed away from the table and ran past her towards the half bath to wash his hands.

Vera picked up the plate of cookies, took one in her hand and thoughtfully took a bite. “I know it is killing you stay quiet, but I think for the time being, you should keep your mouth shut, Aron.”

The box on the mantel rattled once, but it stayed mute.

He definitely would remember this birthday because of the new bike. Nana had given him fair warning before he set out for his first ride.

She grabbed him by the shoulder and looked him over carefully, her brown hair and barely lined face made her look like she was only but the older sister of Mom, something that Mom always grumbled about saying that Nana just had great jeans. Rory had no idea why blue jeans made Nana seem a lot younger than Rory’s friend’s grandmothers.

“Wear your helmet and mind my neighbors’ cars.”

“Yes Nana,” Rory replied dutifully.

“Ring your bell if you pass anyone, even if they see you ahead of time.”

“Yes Nana,” Rory repeated. He just wanted to go ride his new bike. Dad had set it up for him before they left for their mom-n-dad holiday. Lots of hugging and giggling involved, Rory had rolled his eyes every time they said it.

“And whatever else you do, remember to stay on the path around the Gulch.” Nana tugged on his shoulder sleeve to get his attention. It was straying like a kitten. “What did I just say, young man?”

“Stay on the path at the Gulch. Is that the first one or the second one?” Rory always got the ponds confused. They were called lakes, even though they were just ponds, but they all had different names, even though they were nearly the same. It didn’t make any sense.

Nana smiled kindly. “The big one across the street is Reservoir Three, that’s called Prince Lake, the dried out one behind the neighborhood is Reservoir Two, that’s Branson’s Gulch, that has the paved path around the big wooded area.”

“Where is Reservoir One then?” Rory shook his head. Another reason why it was confusing.

“There is no Reservoir One. Only two and three.” Nana stood up straight and adjusted her apron. She was baking a bunch of pies for Thanksgiving. “Stay on the path.”

Rory’s mom and dad were coming back from their holiday for Thanksgiving, and eventually, trudge back to the city to return to normal life. And that meant he had to go back to school. School was ok, but not going to school was way better.

“Yeah, yeah, I will stay on the path, Nana.” Rory wrinkled his nose and made one of his classic faces.

Nana grinned and lovingly patted his head. “I will know if you don’t. Grandmothers are given special powers when their grandbabies are born. We see everything.”

Rory was already running to the garage by the time she finished her declaration of grandmotherly super powers. He snapped the helmet around his chin, pushed the kickstand up, and tore out of the open garage and down the long driveway. Wind whistled through his handlebars and he turned towards the first lake. That was actually the third lake. Prince Lake. The other one wasn’t a lake because it was dried out, but it was still called a lake, but also Branson’s Gulch.

Rory shook his head. Adults could be silly with such things. They said odd things that just did not make any sense.

He turned down the street, and looked both ways for traffic (even though there were rarely any cars on the street), and pedaled his way towards the gravel path around the lake. He could see the other side, so it was not a like an actual lake that he was used to, the kind that disappeared at the edges as it carried onwards, blending into a fuzzy horizon. This lake was too wide to throw a rock across, but big enough that riding around it took a good twenty minutes or so. Prince Lake was also a wildlife sanctuary so there was no fishing allowed, no boats allowed, and there were birds everywhere. Little tiny birds all the way to owls, hawks, and storks… but the most of it was stupid geese and those mismatched ducks where the girl is an ugly brown and the boys have all the bright colors.

He biked all the away around the lake on the wide rolling gravel path, and turned between neighborhoods to follow a pavement path to the other reservoir that was not a reservoir, but still had a number, but was not a lake at all, just a wide forested area. It was about the same size as the actual lake though. If Rory squinted, he could imagine it filled with water.

Strange thing was this empty lake that was called the Gulch had hardly any birds. Just grasshoppers, crickets, and those invisible bugs that buzz buzz way up in the tree tops. The path was mostly paved on one side, with houses on the far side, and long empty creek bed that blocked off another side. It was nestled in between things, like it was a forgotten place. That is why Rory liked riding around it… it was ignored by all the moms with strollers and the fat joggers and the old ladies with their tiny white dogs that barked too much. It was just Rory, the stands of elm and cotton trees, and the thick tangled brush that kind of looked like a tree and a bush had babies all over the place. It looked like a place to have an adventure.

There could be treasure out there! Something like a long lost castle crumbling above with a kingly sum hidden deep in the earth somewhere in it’s courtyard. There could be a secret encampment of thieves in that brush, hiding away while they plan their next big job!

Rory pulled off the path onto a small overlook and pushed the kickstand with his toe. The overlook has a statue of what looked like angry chicken. He walked up to it, and laid a hand against one up raised claw, letting his hand rest on the burnished bronze. He glanced out among the brush and the trees, listening to the murmur of a breeze moving among the convoluted twisting maze of intertwined branches.

“The statue is a local legend…”

The voice came out of nowhere and Rory jumped nearly out of his skin. He spun in a quick half circle to find an old woman reading a book on a secluded bench peering at him with sly smile on her face.

“Sorry to startle you, young man. You must be Dennis and Leanne’s grandson? Rory is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rory finally managed. “I-I am.”

“You like the statue? My father made it.” She peered curiously at Rory over her half-moon spectacles.

“It is a nice statue. But why is that mad chicken a local legend?” Rory dropped his hand guiltily from the raised talon as if suddenly remembering it was there.

The old woman laughed brightly. “That’s not a chicken, its a dragon.”

Rory glanced back to the statue and studied closely. He had not noticed before, but the chicken was longer than it should have been and it looked like it had a long tail with a clump of feathers at the tip. Those details were hidden in the base if you weren’t looking for it. At first glance, yeah, just an angry chicken. Beak open, claw extended, and one wing raised in the air as if it was warning a rattlesnake off. The wing had talons too… that was odd.

“A particularly clever dragon species at that,” the old woman touched the side of her nose. “A survivor! Most places have their local wildlife… racoons, coyotes, maybe a bear or a mountain lion. Here at Branson’s Gulch, we have ourselves a Cockatrice.”

“That sounds like a bad word,” Rory grinned.

“I suppose it does.” She nodded thoughtfully. “My name is Mrs. Givins. But you can call me Merry, I don’t mind at all.”

“Merry?” Rory’s eyebrow went up.

“Like Christmas. Are you staying for a while?”

“I am out riding my bike… Merry.” Rory replied hesitantly.

Mrs. Givins laughed again. “I meant for the holiday, not here at the overlook. You are welcome to stay here as long as you want though. You are not bothering me… feel free to ‘hang out.’ Is that what it is called still? It has been a long time since I have ‘hung out.'”

“Yeah. I hang out all the time,” Rory grinned.

“‘Cool’ still a word?” Mrs. Given winked. “It was when I used it in the sixties.”

“Yes.” Rory nodded appraisingly.

“Cool,” she nodded in return.

“Why is the Cocka… Cocker… Coker-” Rory tried.

“Cockatrice.” She finished for him.

“Cockatrice, right. Why is it a legend?”

Mrs. Givins folded her book carefully into her lap and set it aside. “In Kenya, if you can across a Giraffe… would that be weird?”

“No?”

“And if you were above the arctic circle and came across a polar bear?”

“Definitely not. That would be normal, right?” Rory shrugged.

“A long time ago, other creatures roamed the world, and those creatures would be right at home in a place like this. Humans learned very early on to leave them alone, just like a human would avoid a mountain lion or grizzly bear. Some creatures are not worth disturbing.”

“Dragons aren’t real.” Rory grinned.

“What about dinosaurs?”

“Those are real, but they are not around any more. They died out millions of years ago.”

“Some dinosaurs died out, but some just changed along the way,” Mrs. Givins smiled a secretive smile, one that implied she was letting something slip. “You think all those birds at the Lake are there because birds have been always been around? They are just miniature dinosaurs, millions of years removed from their ancestors. And some didn’t die out or change.”

“Like the Cockatrice,” Rory said.

“Yes. Exactly. A little imagination and wonder is good for everybody, Rory. Even us old folks. Imagining that there are bigger, scarier things in the world helps us remember our own pasts when there were those scary things beyond our hut. There is a reason the dark is a primordial fear for all human beings. Because we are wired to remember that there are bigger things out in the dark. Things with sharp teeth, sharp claws, and large stomachs.”

“But not any more.” Rory smiled hesitantly.

“Maybe. Did your grandmother tell you to stay on the path?”

Rory felt uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Yes?”

Mrs. Givins raised an eyebrow and made a humming sound. “Good advice for Branson’s Gulch, Rory.”

There was a soft rumble as if on queue from deep in the tree stands, something that sounded like the earth had resettled itself arbitrarily.

She smirked at Rory again.

“And that is Wella. Her mother,” Mrs. Givins pointed at the statue, “was called Ember. Dark red feathers, like crimson. Nearly. Wella has beautiful plumage, but not like her mother. Wella should be fairly active while you are here.”

“What.” Rory asked deadpan. He felt like Mrs. Givins was teasing him, but there was something in her voice that sounded like she was not teasing at all. Like a teacher sounded. Reliable. Truthful. It kind of made his stomach do a loop and then fall into his knees.

“She is brooding. Most likely there are two eggs in the clutch. They both hatch, the strongest one survives. Life goes on. Sometimes there are three and the strongest two make it, but it has been a lean cycle. Cockatrices are nothing but survivors, so three is very unlikely.”

“What.” Rory repeated. His stomach was now somewhere in his shins.

“She hasn’t eaten any kids for decades, but it could always happen. So stay on the path?”

Finally something broke in Rory and he jumped for his bike. It was mad. “Uh, bye, Mrs. Givins.”

“Say hello to your grandmother for me!” She called after him.

Rory rode like hell. His legs pumped until he screamed into the driveway, climbed off his bike in the garage, and puked into Grandpa’s garbage can.

Milos craved Areti’s paintings as a diver craved air. It went beyond a desire or an impulse. It was a part of himself that would die without her. A primal fear awakened, thrashing about, knowing that if all things were kept equal, it meant death.

Remembering her hair, her smile, her skin, he felt a crush in his chest. A desperate longing from lifetimes ago that he had thought he had forgotten. It must have only been slumbering, waiting for the right time to emerge from its dark hiding place deep in his core. Milos had to have her paintings. He was but an addict with deep solace that knew he was finally gazing upon his next score. He was nothing but a series of moments from where he was without to where he would be within.

Captured by bliss. Elated and floating. Above all things… because he would have her back. At least the memories of her would belong only with him.

It was a comforting thought that each of the crew longed for an object in a similar way, even if they didn’t feel the visceral emotions as Milos did.

Shirin desired her first Domain, a relic that had been passed on from King Solomon and as important objects typically are, lost to time. Not the best of her Domains, but easily her favorite. And so many of her Domains had already been irretrievably lost to the unrelenting grinder of history.

Then Al, who longed for the comb from his first nation, the First Nation of what would become British Colombia once the colonizers had their way. It appeared to be silver inlaid whale bone carved into a simple hair comb, but it was much more than that. It was said to carry the touch of the Old Ones, a touch that would be like a salve on the open torment of his condition. The Old Ones were long dormant powers that may have been the Creator himself, but then again, they may have only been the lucid dreams as the Creator had slept on the seventh day.

Shirin could have known, since she was one of the Fallen, but she had been cast out long before God had the breathing room to dream about rest in the first place.

And finally, there was Liz, who coveted the necklace of her eldest cousin, Lady Eleanor, the one and only true love of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, the Last Leader of Wales. The death of her cousin had basically had given birth to what Liz would become. If Eleanor hadn’t died, the crucible that Liz had fallen into would never had been fired to life in the first place.

Each of them finding something that they had thought lost only to realize it was just out of reach. Because of the fucking Accords.

Out of all of them, was the abject denial of desire the worst for Milos? He pondered the question as he walked the halls of the Met.

Vampires were not human. They were once human, yes, obviously. But being a vampire was like being an artist’s imitation of a thing. The result is only a creative representation of what came before, because the created objects was its own thing, a reflection of a thing, but still a thing of its own. Vampires looked human, could pass for human, but they were not human. Any more than a painting of a rose is also a rose itself.

Human and Vampire are inextricably connected, but one is not the same as the other, and the transition leaves little if anything of what came before intact. Vampires could be held akin to humans that had become grossly obese or extremely geriatric. The changes that lead to the outcome happened by degrees. Small changes over time.

A thin human does not wake up suddenly fat, shocked to find that they had tripled their bodyweight overnight. No, it is a battle of attrition, admitting to oneself every day that they should do something about it, but never fully committing to what it will take. Instead, continuing the pattern of behavior that leads to the small daily measures of inevitable weight gain. They wake up fat because they had woken the day before deciding that the comfort of food was worth more than a healthy body weight. Not the best example, but aging does not align wholly either. Obviously, one does not wake up in a body of ninety year old, wondering where the preceding seventy years had wandered off to since they had been in their prime. Aging is not a choice, where as consuming too many calories is. The uncurable condition of vampirism falls somewhere in the middle.

It is not a choice. But at the same time, it very much is. The changes are miniscule, taking place with every feeding, slowly evolving what was the prey into what will become the apex predator. The virus was an animamorphic curse, meaning it was both physical and spiritual in nature, the physical manifestation acting on the cells and systems of the human body, and the spiritual manifestation twisting and adapting the spirit of the person. Vampires have souls too. But they are unbound souls after the virus does its job… when the host dies, the spirit goes with it, released back to the cosmos. Only oblivion awaits a vampire at their end. As the virus propagates through the body, it is fed by the act of hunting in both ways, and it in turn morphs the carrier from their previous self to the next self. Every day, every hunt, it is small measure of iterative change. Vampirism is a slow gradual descent towards the impenetrable darkness of becoming ‘other’. Something that is forever apart from what it had been before.

Being a vampire, there is a day where one wakes up and realizes that they are as much a human as a fucking unicorn. Milos had hit the ‘I am a fucking unicorn’ stage somewhere around Ottoman conquest of Athens. By the time he met Areti, he had been a divergent ‘other’ for centuries.

Did Areti care? Did she look at him and think of him as a vile monster? Did she wonder how God could exist if this fucking thing was allowed to stalk and kill thinking, feeling, human beings such as herself?

No. She has looked through him, penetrating him with but a glance. It was if his severed soul was a mere plaything that she could pull from his chest and inspect any time she wished. She would look over his heart, his mind, the very threads of his being and come to the conclusion, that yes, this peculiar being was worthy of her love. She had loved him selflessly, with passion and fervor, and had loved him from the day they had met to her last shallow, rattling breath. A cruel joke to watch her spirit so freely fly from the world of men when his own was forever bound to the shell he was born into. A handsome and powerful shell thanks to the virus, but it was a dead end. There was no continuing on.

Perhaps it was being up past his bedtime, knowing there was an obliterating sun hanging in the sky outside, and that it would only take one thing to go wrong among a thousand possibilities of things going sideways for everything to be fucked… maybe all that weighed on his mind and it made him introspective. Thinking of his own death and the unfortunate consequences of the wisdom gained from a long age spent on the Earth.

What would the human version of Milos think? That version of himself was definitely not to be found in the wide halls of the Met. There was no method to pull the old human Milos up in some form of a memory and ask him either. That version of himself was lost to time, much like Shirin’s many Domains. Milos would like to think that his human self would not be horrified, but he knew that wasn’t true. It was horrifying.

The moments prior to death. A stretching conflated canvas of tumbling moments that feels like an infinite amount of time that lasts only a few breaths.

The moment of death. By itself, one of the few places in the universe where no measure of time exists. Nothing but an indivisible point on the timeline.

The moments after death. Measured by overwhelming moments of madness, despair, and wonder that has lead to every moment, every choice, every event afterwards. How does one measure a single lifetime, much less the span of a thing that lives for many lifetimes.

Milos had lived for nearly a thousand years. His memory did not stretch that far.

That was horror, wasn’t it? Knowing that you had known something, and that it was gone. Just gone. Evaporated in place, fleeing the sanctity of the pure mind, an inmate no longer contained by the walls built to contain it. Neurons surely had the shape of the memory somewhere, and they had forgotten how to retrieve it.

Memories like books of an abandoned library, moldering on a shelf never to be perused again. As Milos passed through the Armory exhibit, he laughed to himself, realizing that he had more in common with the Met than he had realized. Most of the collections were not on display, hidden from view. Just like his memories.

What was it about Areti? What made her so singular?

Milos strolled through the crowds, feeling the ache of being awake during the day deep in his bones, the dragging fatigue of daywalking grasping at his limbs like the air itself was water and he was a deep sea explorer figuratively out of his depth. Even his teeth ached. He groaned at the imposition of physical discomfort and tightened the straps of his simple backpack.

He listed and made small comments into his earpiece as the team performed their work, but he was lost mostly in his own mind, counting random things… the number of tiles in an alcove, the sconces in a hallway, the number of Flemish knots on a particular piece of armor, the number of eyes on the paintings in a single room. His mind flashed with arithmetic formulas for aggregating and collating data as his eyes drank in everything around him, yet he was disassociated from that as well, thinking about life, death, and the meaning to be had when you are lost in a world that does not want or need you.

He heard Al torch vampires at the offsite Network Operations Center. He heard Shirin disable security in the local office in the Met. He heard Liz confront an old front and handle him like the amateur he was.

Did he ruminate on what the Family would do when they found out about the room of torched vamps at the NOC? Did he wonder why the Watcher was no longer a consideration for Shirin? Did he marvel at the long history that Liz carried around with her, but so effortlessly, he should be feeling a sting of jealousy?

He didn’t. Because he had absentmindedly wandered right back to Areti.

There she was.

Hanging on the wall.

She was the sun.

She was the sea.

She was the light and the foam and the crest and the wash and the crash and the spray and the glimmers of flying beads of water as they scattered the light like laughter.

She was in every brush stroke. Every dot. Every tap from a brush that had turned to dust centuries ago. Yet here she was.

Liz’s voice sounded far away in his ear, but his name pulled him out of his trance like state.

“Milos. Are you ready? When I let go, our comms will be offline. Everything will be offline, at least until the Wards realign.”

Milos looked at what was left of Areti and smiled widely, letting his teeth show like the predator he was. “I am ready. See you all at Liz’s tonight.”

The lights flickered all at once.

Milos pulled the earpiece from his ear and slid it into his pocket. He crossed to the front of the small alcove of the gallery and pulled the rope across to block anyone from entering. He stepped into the larger hall and took in the chaos unfolding.

Like a herd of cattle looking upwards at a stormy sky wondering what thunder was, the humans had no idea that the Wards regurgitating the flow of their interrupted magic into the real world was epically fucking the devices that they so depended on. Like a wave of confusion, every person with a smart device pulled it out, looked over it in dismay, and compared the results to their neighbors.

Mutters and harsh whispers started, wonderings and assumptions flowed between human minds that were not equipped to understand the chaos the Wards were dumping throughout the entire Met. Small quiet voices overlapped in suppositions.

“It isn’t a terror attack, you think? Some middle east whackadoo?”

“No, no, I bet it is just an outage… it will come back up any second…”

“Power outage? Did you see all the lights flicker? They have generators?”

“I bet it the Governor’s fault, he is a Democrat. They can’t do anything right.”

“I bet a backhoe jockey hit something over on 5th. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Con Edison is ran by Republicans, and you know they can’t get anything right.”

“Attack on the power grid. I bet it is China.”

“Oh I read about cyberattacks, it could be one of those.”

Milos wondered through the comments like they were floating bits of ash on the wind. The humans couldn’t feel or see it, but the reverberations of the Wards were wild to witness first hand. Milos watched as ultravoilet flickered like fairy light amongst the metal objects in the room, sparks jumping into being as quickly as they faded away. The pressure waves against his psyche was like air pressure changes from a fan the size of an airplane propeller, washing over him and enveloping him in its propwash. His other senses, the ones that made him what he was, shirked in the onslaught, but in its own way, it was a glorious show of power. Real, absolute, unassailable power that most humans could only dream of.

Watch a tornado for fun up close and one might understand.

But it was a tornado that Milos could fucking ride. His smile stretched wider, and his mulling over the deep questions were washed away in the baptism of redirected power.

Milos pulled on the fountains of free energy the Wards were dumping off, as they shook the very fabric of the building and everything contained within it. Milos’s lethargy faded away as if it was nothing but a bout of anxiety.

Daytime outside? Who gives a fuck?

Sun in the sky that can end you permanently? Not today, Sun.

Surrounded by terribly fragile humans in a place of protected sanctuary? Who cares?

Protected under the Grand Accords of All That Occupy? Not rules per se, more like guidelines.

Milos unleashed himself from the constraints that humans have to deal with. He moved faster than their cow eyes could understand, rippling through crowds as if they were nothing. His feet did not touch the ground, and no part of his body brushed against any person he passed. He was like a ghost given flesh, tempted to interact with the world, but ultimately disgusted by the physicality of it all.

To the young boy in the Native American exhibit, a man materialized out of nothing, like a magic trick. Then, like a whole another magic trick, he lifted a display case with one hand like it was made of air, took a white comb out from the display and without any effort, put the case back. By the time the little boy got his mother’s attention, the man was gone again as if he had never been there. Just like the comb that had been in the case. The little boy gave up on his mom, who was enraptured with her malfunctioning phone, and he slowly read the tag in the case.

‘Whale Bone Comb with later inlaid silver, First Nations of North West Coast, British Columbia, circa. Comb 15000-25000 BCE, Silver inlay unknown.’

In another part of the Met, the lights popped in order from the entrance of the Hall to the other end, as if a ripple of a power surge took every light and rendered it useless. The crowds yelped and shrieked with timid smiles as they left the space in a hurry, rushing for the exits. His fingers smoking from smashing the lights in quick succession, Milos moved aside the glass, gently retrieving Liz’s necklace in a movement that was so fast, it was near breaking the sound barrier.

In yet another hall, a man wandered in casually, passed a plinth, and then wandered out just as casually. No one noticed that the small exceptionally detailed Assyrian vase that had been on the plinth had been replaced with a replica from the gift shop. There happened to be a naked woman nearby wandering just as casually and everyone watched her warily as a large crowd of security guards followed closely behind wondered what to try next.

And as if no time had intervened, Milos stood again in front of everything that represented Areti.

He shifted his backpack off, careful not to damage the vase, the necklace, or the comb within, and reached out to take the small paintings from the wall to add them quickly to his haul.

“Stop.”

Milos looked around the small gallery. Not a single person stood or sat nearby. Was it his imagination? The power of the malfunctioning Wards was making him giddy.

He reached out again, and he felt her hand on his own. He stopped and his sharp breath tore at his chest. How could he have forgotten her touch?

“My love. Stop.” Her voice was unmistakable. He felt a tear form at the corner of his eye.

Milos cleared his throat, feeling like a child. “Who is this?” He asked foolishly.

“Stop, Milos. They are where they belong.”

Milos spun in a quick circle in panic, looking everywhere for his assailant. He was alone in the closed off gallery, no one outside the entrance was even looking in on the olive skinned man standing alone appearing to have a panic attack.

Milos rubbed his hands together in frustration and reached out again for the small painting of the ocean sunrise.

“They are where they are meant to be, Milos. Just as I am. Don’t you remember?”

The tears came unbidden, the tightness in his chest rushed up his throat, and attacked his eyes. Milos realized these were the first tears he had since before the founding of United States. Everything is too long.

Milos felt her touch on his face, one hand on each cheek, just as she had all those centuries ago.

“I am my paintings, Milos. I am here.” A hand, invisible, traced the path of his tears and touched his forehead gently. “I am also here.”

“I will never get another chance, Areti. I have to take them now or I never will.” Milos managed through the first hitch in his chest. He forgot how physical grief was. It manifested itself in his body painfully.

“Then you will have to come here and remember me. How many do I touch now? How many will I be with in the future? How many people need me and not know it? I did not paint for only myself, my love. Milos. I painted for you. For them. For everyone.”

“I needed you. I need you.” Milos managed. He gently fingered the edge of the painting, temptation electrifying his fingertips.

“Yes. Yes you do.”

Milos waved his hands around trying to touch the untouchable. He wanted to grab her and pull her close.

Another touch on his hands. Stilling them both. “Stop.”

“And leave?”

There was no answer. Then he felt the presence of her immediately in front of him, at the tip of his nose, and her lips brushed his own. He felt her kiss.

He kissed her back knowing his answer. Then she was gone.

Milos gave another longing look at the paintings and sighed knowing he would be back to look at them until they were moved somewhere else. Then he would look at them wherever that was. And so on, until time either ended or he was lost to the cosmos.

He would never forget Areti again.

He grabbed his backpack and headed for the basement. No one saw him pass and no one saw him exit.

When the security systems finally came back online and a young naked woman was taken away by ambulance, and the security team finally reconnected to the NOC, and the consultants finally showed up…

That is when someone finally noticed something was missing.

It was four days later. And Milos had already been back twice to sit on his bench, wave at Martha as she wandered by on her duties, and stare at the paintings, knowing he was with her.

And she was there. In her own way.

Arglwyddes yr Wyddfa, the Lady of the Mountain, was a typhoon of power completely defined by, and paradoxically in turn defined the true meaning of femineity. Not the soft, weaker sex that feigned distress and played coy games behind folded hands in Court, no, she was everything that women were in the long history of the Earth. That being primarily in the appropriate management of men, the co-opting of leadership opinion, and shaping of world events. Nothing that would be as what men proclaimed to be as a ‘woman’s place.’

‘A woman’s place’ was but a worldview of sad men that was solely defined by the pathetic men that believed it, and they were the ones that made their worldview real for the rest of the civilized world. The women had to be kept in check, in their place, behind the chair, off to the side, in the bedroom, working the kitchens, or minding the children, that was the natural order of things. They were weaker, softer, and more emotional than the men, so of course, that had to be the natural order.

Might made right.

Yet, most men would acknowledge that women held some form of power, even if it was not the open power that men flaunted without care and with unexcused privilege. Woman had power. But it was a silent one. A reserved one. It managed quietly at the neck. The head could not turn without a neck. Men were loudly arrogant about their power, real or imagined, swinging it about like their sexual member, proud of themselves for nothing that warranted pride.

Both in might and pride, the Arglwyddes yr Wyddfa was nearly a man by both measures. She was unrepentant and brash, wholly herself and willing to swing her power wherever she felt it was necessary or needed. She had many roles across Wales, Scotland, England, and further abroad in places like France, Austria, and Italy. Her locus was within Mount Wyddfa, and was always bound to it, but she flung herself where ever the winds of her soul bid her to go. In the great houses of the European powers she was the Lady Snowdon, and she was a force to not be taken lightly or who’s counsel was to be discounted.

Lady Snowdon was a brazen force of fyccin nature personified. And by consequence, she was greater than any man. And so far, every man that Liz had encountered in the presence of Lady Snowdon knew exactly what the Lady represented.

Terror.

After watching her teacher at work, Liz was certain that the imps of hell would refer to the Lady as their Queen. The Lady Snowdon did not suffer fools, which included Liz. In becoming her pupil, Liz’s world had opened up like a lightning torn sky that had unleashed the floods of the Old Testament. The heavens, the earth, and things behind and beneath them were slowly unveiled through the tumultuous, and often painful, instruction.

Trauma is a powerful rogue wave. Like a rogue wave, it often appears to come from nowhere, a fist of a swell that towers over the oblivious ones that preceded it and the meek ones to follow. It crashes against the beach, the wall, the cliff with a fury that the land is not capable of withstanding. Caves collapses, arches fall into the ocean, and entire beaches get swallowed by the tumult. Trauma is the same.

The death of a loved one. The diagnosis that no one expected. The fall of a powerful trusted leader. Trauma comes in many forms.

For Liz, trauma was watching her beloved cousin die in childbirth. Watching her bleed to death right in front of her, while everyone rushed to help a situation that could not be real. And in it, Liz was taken by the rogue wave. It picked it her up, buried her head beneath the foam and froth, and dared her to occasionally take a breath in order to survive the tumbling wash. Liz felt her head break the surface every so often, and she would gasp for a breath of normalcy, for routine, for the comfort of the life that came before, and she would realize that the air was poisoned by the very wave she was carried by. It was nothing but salty spray and bitter remnants of a life destroyed.

Her madness of being lost within her trauma set her up for something either terrible or something profound.

Liz had a touch of madness in all of her learning with the Lady. It was if she was a tiny whirlwind of her own creation that spiraled in the wake of the great storm that Lady Snowdon created. The Lady perhaps witnessed that in the dark, on the edge of a dying fire all that time ago… a young woman that was spiraling in her trauma. Not downwards towards destruction, but instead something much more rare, a thing that was spinning upwards in power, ferocity, and impact. Liz’s madness was ever nearby as Arglwyddes yr Wyddfa invested of herself into Liz, keeping lockstep with Liz’s ardent stride towards learning the ways of the deeper universe.

Liz discovered that reality was but an angry scab that settled on the fervent energies that lay below, churning and interlacing in the deeps of all of creation. Most humans were content camping idly on the mantle of reality, but there were a few that were either born of that chaos, or yearned to reach for it, to seek it out. Liz learned just how far her reach could go. And it turned out the madness was necessary component to keep her world in order with that reach. And because of that… the overwhelming regret that the Lady Snowdon had promised at that same fireside never seemed to arrive.

Liz’s teacher was just as shocked as Liz was. Regrets are often borne of trauma, and instead of discovering them, she released them. The trauma started to fall away in bits and pieces and the rogue wave retreated sullenly back to the sea from which it arose.

Liz discovered power. She fell in love with it. And in turn Liz became a lover to magic, as a nun gives themselves to the Church. Had the Lady Snowdon foreseen this? Could she have known what she was going to create through the process?

Liz had always wondered. And to her fault, she had never asked. By the time she discovered all the questions she had never had the time for, her teacher’s own time had given out. Whether by cruel circumstance, a choice of God, or the proverbial luck running dry, one witch carried on while the other had been destroyed, sacrificing all she was to save the mad girl she had found by the fire on a cold Welsh moor.

Ironically, the aforementioned regret did eventually arrive in some form. But it was not a profound wave of destruction, but the slow etch of a river on a mountain, more of a widening scar than a traumatic wound.

All of this had occurred before the one two punch of the Great Famine and the Great Mortality descended upon Europe with fury. Both of which gave Liz a reason to believe that she had been born at the highest point in Mankind’s history. When the Famine arrived in Northern Europe, she was already a solid 100 years old. Being 130-ish when the Great Mortality arrived, (she would be about 500 years old before it was called the Black Death,) she felt she had made all the right choices.

Any additional Regrets were few, and most were men.

She settled in Cardiff after the fall of King Ne Peris in 1315. Very few understood that the Great Famine was not caused by a shift in the planet’s tilt or by a variation in sun exposure or a change in atmospheric composition… It was because one of the major kingdoms of Fairie, under the auspices of Fairie King Ne Peris, had been completely eradicated by a great human host. An army of ten thousand men had vanished into the forest in France, and when they successfully executed their revenge and slaughtered the Fair Folk on their own lands, the stupid short sighted humans found themselves unable to come back home. Every portal between the realms snapped shut, and the reverberation on the natural world was cataclysmic. Every plant, every animal, every living thing felt the implosion of that connection, and the world would feel its effects for hundreds of years.

After that, human beings swept the world like a virus, exploding in numbers with their advances in technology, and in revolt, the other beings of the world tried to fight back. They fought with famine. They fought with disease. They fought with monsters. They ended up hiring people like Liz.

Work, work, work all the time.

But word would get out that a certain King had hired a certain person for that kind of work, and then the other opposing King would hire their own person for that kind of work. An arms race of a sort, long before there were superpowers and nuclear weapons, there were the other forces one could bring to bear to keep enemies at bay.

That is exactly how Ysabella “Elizabeth” de Montfort, now the Lady Snowdon, met Anton de Lionne for the first time. Unfortunately, Liz remembered the day down to the minute details.

It was spring. Versailles was in full bloom, and the rampages of the late winter had finally worn off. However it was France, and it was a royal palace, so of course the place smelt like shit. Liz was in a far corner of the gardens pretending to listen to some pompous ass that had some provincial holding that apparently had other courtiers lifting their skirts.

Liz desperately wanted to turn the vile little man into a toad and leave him in the fountains. If that were to occur though, others in attendance would probably intuit that Liz was a witch. And not just some random witch, but one of immense power, because they would all be turned into toads as well. Then Liz would use the pompous ass’s cane and see how the Scottish sport of golf played out on the palace grounds. She was daydreaming splendidly about hitting green and black toads as far as she could imagine, painting statues and walls alike in viscous remains of high velocity amphibians, when a strange blond gentleman took her by surprise.

He knew her name and his command of French was exquisite.

“Pardon the interruption, my lady. I have it in on good authority that you are the exceptionally famous Lady Snowdon? Your family line is something of a legend to my own. Not to be presumptuous, of course.”

Liz narrowed her eyes shrewdly, glad that she had aged down the last few years, appearing to be in her mid-twenties and not a day of her four hundred years. She could use the inexperience of her apparent youth to gain advantage with a handsome, as she sniffed, well-smelling… strapping young man.

Her interest was piqued to say the least. And at worst, she was immensely glad for the interruption. Anything to save her from the astoundingly boring country nobles pretending to flout about in fancy dress. She was the Lady Snowdon for god’s sake, she had more class in a single fingertip.

“One should not leave an introduction one-sided?” Liz nodded politely, dipping the edge of her unfurled umbrella in acknowledgement. “If one were to do such a terrible thing, wouldn’t I be at a terrible disadvantage with such an impolite introduction?”

The gentleman doffed his hat and bowed at the waist, a tightly flourished hand flair at his right knee as he dipped downwards in a formal bow. He had been well trained. Liz was still enjoying how clean he smelled, it was a rare delight to her senses.

“If such a disadvantage existed for the Lady Snowdon, which I sincerely doubt, why wouldn’t one take advantage of it? It is said she withers strong men down to their bones, and shatters all conceptions that would normally have any other person evicted from Court and wasting away in a pit somewhere. But I hear it said that the Lady Snowdon continues her consequence free reign. I would dare to maintain such advantage if it was to be had.” He smirked with only the corner of his mouth, tilting the edge of his full lip upwards devilishly.

Liz felt certain parts of herself start to warm up. She did not appreciate how her animal brain was reacting to the handsome man with the silver tongue. She walked down a path of the garden, and the gentleman followed a half pace behind.

“But alas, dear sir,” Liz curtsied formally in response, stepping away from the currents of conversation that carried on amongst the previous group. “I would say you are being presumptuous, counter to your previous assertion. I am indeed the Lady Snowdon, as my mother was before me, and while I have more titles than most men currently sweating in these gardens, I would think it would be any of their interest to not leave me wondering whom I conversing with.”

His smirk lowered as he worked through the veiled insult. Then as if a decision was suddenly made, it reversed course and his smile was wide and welcoming. “Anton de Lionne.”

“Choosing not to use a family name? No titles? Pray, what sort of Court am I attending?”

“One could say it does not fit the work,” Anton shrugged. “I find it better to trade on my own name these days instead of relying on my stout and oppressive lineage. Also, I should note that coming from the family that I do, such lineage is not the best help to my endeavors. This country is imprisoned in a regime that is slowly and painfully willing itself to death.”

Liz walked away from the group, and Anton followed at a respectful distance to her side. “And what endeavors are those, sir? “

“Have we already arrived at that level of trust with one another, Lady Snowdon?”

“Categorize it as discovery.”

“Ah! In the interest of discovery then. I am in employ of the King as an Advisor. Particularly in the location, isolation, and destruction of foreign agents that seek to undermine his Crown. One could say that I am a witch hunter.”

Liz’s breath caught in her chest, but felt she managed to hide it well enough. “A witch… hunter?”

Anton laughed. “Yes as crude as it sounds. Sometimes you just have to find the witch, or warlock, whichever it may be. Those nefarious agents of Satan himself abound.”

“And then what?” Liz feigned ignorance. Liz turned her head and she caught the shimmer in his aura. He has prepared to confront her. He was wearing a ward. Something old. This fucker had just twisted his chance of getting the best lay of his life into having his insides and outsides switch places, preferably through this pores of his skin.

“Well I usually start by binding the witch to an object, as to remove them from their locus, and then forcing a confession of sorts, for the courts of course…”

“Of course, of course.” Liz amiably agreed. “It is critically important to have legal standing in such things.”

“And then we convert them to faith, assist in the repenting for sins, and commit them to God.”

“You splash them with water, have a priest pray for them, and then execute them, if I am translating correctly.”

“Often all three at the same time,” Anton shrugged. “As the good book instructs, ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.'”

“Yet.” Liz nodded sagely.

“Pardon?” Anton stumbled at the interjection and had to quicken his step to catch up.  

“One must be a part of what they hunt, no? A hunter must understand their prey. And that implies that one must suffer a witch to live.” Liz took the chance to look him over more closely, acting coy, all the while as she folded her fingers out of sight and uttered a small invocation under her breath.

‘Seven brushes by seven folds by seven depths, all untold. Six to witness, five to lie, four to death, three to sign, two to follow, and one…‘

“Divine.” Liz said aloud. The trigger rang like a bell in her head, and power flowed through her attacking whereever the nearest threat was.

Anton stopped walking. His hands lifted suddenly, scratching at his throat as if he was being licked by fire underneath his jacket.

“What ever is the matter?” Liz asked in a haughty tone.

“Damn necklace under my clothes. By the devil, what is this?” Anton ripped his buttons, one hand pulling his tunic open while the other threw his jacket to the ground. “My sincere apologies Lady Snowdon…”

He pulled a glowing necklace from his chest and dropped it on the ground. He blew on his fingers with a look of dismay.

“My father is going to kill me.” Anton whispered. The necklace curled in on itself, the metal fusing into a series of molten pellets, clicking lightly as it cooled.

“That is a protection ward?” Liz played up her ignorance all the more. Was was this Anton de Lionne’s game? He was either the stupidest man she had ever met, or this was the cleverest ruse she had ever been a victim of. He was an an admirable package and probably had an admirable package to boot. Her mind wandered back to the chances of a romp. It had been a while.

If she was going to get caught by a witch hunter, she could have some fun first. Right?

“It was a protection ward. Damn. My father carries a notion that I become some version of his uncle. He was a great hunter, worked for the Church, found some notoriety in Eastern Europe eliminating vampires or some nonsense like that.” Anton pointed at the ruined amulet. “Supposedly that was my great uncle’s.”

“Well congratulations, Mr. De Lionne, you have found a witch in the Court! You are a success!” Liz curtsied as sarcastically as her tone.

Anton’s eyes went wide. “Well, shit.”

…

“Well, shit.” The same voice, hundreds of years later, but the response was an exact match to her memory of the day she inadvertently made Anton de Lionne both a convert and an unlikely, yet strangely formidable, competitor.

Liz hated competition. Especially when they were people that were exceptionally resistant to her normal charms. Like Anton having a thing for his own gender. That made it all the worse. She would have to play nice.

Gag.

“Hello, love,” she replied from her alcove table in the Grand Gallery of the Met. Her fingers were smoking from the work on the Wards, and let them glimmer and spark as she took a small sip from her coffee cup.

“You are the one that is fucking with the Wards.” Anton smiled. His retinue of three assistants spread out behind him, taking flanking positions on every side they could to keep her from escaping. “After all these years, I find the one time Lady Snowdon fucking about with my shit. You know this is my job, right? I get paid for this, Ms. Montfort.”

“Elizabeth, please. And you must calm down, Anton, and have a seat. How many fellow gays you got running with you these days?” Liz turned her head slowly, getting small reads on every person he had with him. “Mixing work and pleasure? Do you take turns fucking each other? How does that even work?”

“You know, my sexuality aside, I remember a time when you thought I was worth a turn in the grass, Ms. Montfort.” Anton pulled a chair out slowly, and settled into it like a leaf on the wind.

Ignoring the fact that Liz had asked for first names was an annoying move. She deflected her anger as best she could. “Don’t remind me. It still irks me.”

“Versailles?”

“Forget about it,” Liz rolled her eyes.

“Come on.” Anton insisted.

“Yes, Versailles, obviously. How was I supposed to know? Now, can you let it go?”

“Sure, Ms. Montfort. Now tell me why you are fucking with the wards on my fucking building.”

“Anton, dear, the wards are intact. If you took a half measure to look, you would see that nothing is wrong.”

“At this point, if the Wards were to grow mouths and scream obscenities at our guests, I would not be surprised. I am instead fucking surprised to find Elizabeth de Montfort, of all people, sitting here, with her trademark shit eating grin spewing lies in every direction. Why are you trying to break them? I mean that is asking for an epic shit storm.”

“Break is such a harsh word. I am not going to break anything. Like so many of the works in these hallowed halls, the Wards are works of art themselves. I am only admiring them.” Liz smiled innocently.

“Yeah, right.” Anton scoffed. He waved one of his assistants over. “‘Admiring’ them. Keep your hands were I can see them, please.”

Liz rested her wrists on the table, setting her coffee cup down gently. “Now Anton. We don’t want to make this… problematic.”

Anton raised his own hands in response. “Look at my hands, Ms. Montfort. Now look at your hands. You have been caught red-handed. Literally.”

“It’s only literal when it is written down, Anton.” Liz eyed the assistant approaching the table.

“Then I will write it down and I will tack it to your fucking forehead. Stop what you are doing. Now.”

The nearest assistant pulled what looked like loops of hair from his satchel. Liz was impressed they were so well prepared. How many witches did they incarcerate at the Met on a yearly basis? To have Bindings of Morgane prepared and on hand to tie a witch up to restrict the flow of magic? Liz nearly wanted to ask who made the rope of hawthorn and the yew bark, since the person that makes it determines just how effective it is. But since she was not here for the pleasantries…

“If you want to write it down, perhaps, you should write this down,” she said instead.

“What is that?” Anton held his hand over his shoulder for his assistant to hand him the bindings. He sounded borderline annoyed he was having to interact with her.

“You. Are. An. Idiot.”

“Duly noted.” Anton sighed heavily. The assistant handed over the Bindings and stood behind Anton’s chair glaring.

“You didn’t write it down.” Liz said in a teasing voice. She noted the assistant was cute, in a confused Greenwich Village teenager sort of way. More rebelling against his parents than a true pupil of the art. His stylish pomp of curly hair was definitely ensorcelled. And once she got the smell of it, she knew those Bindings were his as well. Amateur hour at the Met.

“Kindly fuck off, Ms. Montfort. Now I am going to put these on, and I am going to escort you off the premises, and if you come back, I will notify the New York Accords Chapter to file a grievance.”

“Oh, no, a grievance. How terrible.”

“I mean it, Ms. Montfort.”

Liz dropped her voice to an sharp grating whisper. “For the last fucking time, Anton. You. Can. Call. Me. Elizabeth.”

She shifted her right hand to her left wrist in a blur, sending the half full coffee cup skittering across the table and falling to the floor. She laid her middle finger on the bracelet’s emerald. She winked at Anton and she knew Anton’s assistant would remember this day for the rest of his goddamn life.

Liz felt the dump of stored magic across her chest, a flash of warming through her lymph nodes as the energies she had carefully stored unfurled themselves through her nervous system. Her blood felt like it was sparkling under her skin, and she reminded herself that she did not have to pee, it was just a sensation.

Sure as the sun rising, she felt the urge to release her bladder. Liz pushed the urge away and instead… touched Anton’s hand.

Three things happened.

The assistant leaned forward in surprise, probably trying to invoke something idiotic while one hand pulled his boss out from harm’s way. Anton looked at his own hand as if he was just introduced to static electricity for the first time. And lastly, the spell hit the Bindings as if they were made of high yield detonation cord.

Magic is a powerful flow, like a river. It is the first thing a student of the art learns. It was the first thing Liz had learned. It is the movement of energy from all things, through all things, to all things. It is both of the world and apart from it. Magic flows through everything because it is separate from it. Like light passing through glass. The glass is real, and light is real, but because of the properties of both glass and light, one passes through the other. Magic flows through. Some things can handle it. Others… well, not so much.

Magic flowed through Anton. It flowed through the Bindings. It flowed through the assistant. And all of it was lashed to Liz’s will. Her eyes flashed, her retina’s glowed red momentarily as she released her invocation word.

“Calanthe,” Liz exhaled.

The Bindings had not been meant for this level of power. They were fashioned by an amateur that was not prepared to meet someone like Liz. She refactored their creation, and they flowed down Anton’s arm and up the assistant’s arm as if they were alive. Their eyes went wide as the bindings flowed under their clothing and around their bodies. Other strands leapt through the air as if they had been loosed as arrows from a bow, their sinews hitting the other assistants in a flash, writhing down underneath their clothing, to nestle against their skind and surround them as well.

It was over in about half a second. Human brains typically don’t process information that fast, but in the realm of magic, it could have been a lifetime. For the four of them, it probably had felt like a lifetime as they were put into submission in every single way that mattered.

To all the other patrons crowding the Met, nothing had happened. Three people were chatting nearby, two sitting and one standing. One moment, it looked as if someone had spilled their coffee, knocking if off the table as they were talking animatedly, and the next, the woman was apologizing for the spill.

“I am so sorry, Anton. But I was telling the truth, I am not trying to break anything.” Liz stood slowly, making eye contact with the other two assistants nearby. They were standing just as still as Anton and the assistant behind his chair. All of them were eerily still, as if they were waiting.

Which they were. Liz wiggled her fingers and all four of them wiggled a bit where they either sit or stood.

“Honestly, having marionettes is so much fun.” Liz grinned as she stood. “I should find a cliff.”

Anton could only blink and move his eyes. He did both a lot. Liz knew he must have been freaking out.

“Oh you shush, you will be fine,” Liz admonished.

She waved her hand, and the other two assistants wandered over. They were walking stiffly, but no one noticed. She made them pull chairs up and sit at the table clumsily. She stood and commanded the nearest assistant with the curly hair to take her previously occupied seat. “There. Now you are all the best of friends! You can sit here, stare at each other, and think about what you have done. I will let you all go when I am done admiring the Wards. Anton. Admiring them.”

Liz walked towards the core of the original building to finish her work. She was nearly done before she had been so rudely interrupted. Shirin had done her part. Al had done his.

Now it was her turn so that Milos could do his part. The vampire thief.

Liz laughed to herself. That sounded like a book title. The Vampire Thief by Anne Rice. Milos was about to do something that had never been attempted since the Met had been built. Oh sure, things had been stolen, and likewise, things had been recovered.

All of that was by humans. And normal humans were oblivious. Oblivious to the real world. The underlying complexity of it all. The ones that cared, the ones that figured it out, those humans reached a nirvana of sorts. They turned into familiars and scholars, into witches and warlocks, some turned into other things, all of the groups defining themselves for the very Accords that were written to maintain the balance between them. But most humans just assumed their reality was actual reality and blundered about in their sad little lives, waiting for payday and binge drinking their upcoming weekend away.

Those that were within scope of the Accords, that were the sorts that the Met was designed to keep out. The primary target of those protections were against the Fey. How does one keep the Fair Folk out? Especially since they typically ignored such preventions?

The Sentinels were there to detect them if those bound by the Accords tried to enter. Thanks to Al, and a little help from Liz, the Sentinels in question were quite crispy and unable to perform their duty.

The Watcher was there to trap those bound by the Accords if they attempted to sneak in. Thanks to Shirin, the Watcher was no longer watching anything.

And lastly, the Wards had two functions, one to repel those bound by the Accords if they had any intent to defy the Accords, and second, to contain them if they violated the same Accords. Breaking or destroying the Wards would have massive consequences, again, because of the Accords. It is a self referential trap that would collapse on anyone trying to fuck with it.

Liz thought about how silly it all was. How it simple it was in the end.

Magic is a flow. Technology is not counter to magic, per se. But magic flows. Technology is man’s attempt to infuse rocks with lightning and force the rock to think on their behalf. Of course, if you submerge something as delicate as micron level integrated circuits into a directed flow of any sort energy, then of course, things are going to get wonky.

One would wonder how a thief would steal anything in a well protected museum. It was about timing, preparation, and execution.

Liz could feel the Wards trembling. She had overlaid the same spells on top of them, inverting them in layers, subverting them by small degrees. Her work was ephemeral in nature, temporary and fleeting. The underlying work of the Wards worked into the very fabric of the building, carved into the stone and arrayed with design, that would persist. Her own work was meant to redirect it.

The flow. She was redirecting the flow of a powerful river, and it just so happened that the building was full of technology. Technologies that normal oblivious humans put so much stock into.

She knew it was ready. She just had to push. Liz pushed the commlink connect button on her ear.

“Milos. Are you ready? When I let go, our comms will be offline. Everything will be offline, at least until the Wards realign.”

Milos came back instantly, his voice sounded like he was smiling ear to ear. Which would be bad in the company of humans, even in his weakened daytime state. She didn’t know his part, but Liz assumed he had it covered.

“I am ready. See you all at Liz’s tonight.”

Shirin and Al both vocalized their sign offs and Liz did the same. She pulled the commlink from her ear and threw it into the nearest trashcan she passed.

Liz closed her eyes, waved her hands in her final invocation, and released the framework she had built. Mentally, it was like a powerlifter completing a rep and setting the bar down. She just released it.

The Wards gasped at the strain instead. All the weight that Liz had been shouldering in her work was immediately transferred to the ancient Wards, and the energy that flowed through them stopped, and instead went sideways.

Every single light in the Met flickered at once.

Liz turned on her heel, walked through the Grand Gallery, and out the front doors as every single cell phone, computer, camera, laser, sensor, server, and network collectively decided that lightning in rocks should not, would not, and could not work at the whim of any mortal human being.

Because… fuck ’em. That’s why.