

_Twisted Earths_

Edited by Cherie Reich and Catherine Stine

Featuring Stories from Angela Brown, River Fairchild, Gwen Gardner, Misha Gerrick, Graeme Ing, M. Pax, Christine Rains, Cherie Reich, and Catherine Stine.

Copyright 2014

First Edition

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events, or occurrences is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously.

**Summary:** _Twisted Earths_ is a collection from Untethered Realms, a group of speculative fiction authors. The stories are as varied and rich as the types of soil on this and other planets—sandy loam, clay, knotted roots and vines, dreaded paths through unexplored planets, and in enchanted forests, lit by candlelight and two moons.

Cover Designed by edhgraphics | Erin Dameron-Hill edhgraphics.blogspot.com

An Untethered Realms Anthology | untetheredrealms.com

## Table of Contents

Patchworker 2.0 by M. Pax

The Ole Saint by Christine Rains

A Grand Purpose by River Fairchild

The Day of the Flying Dogs by Catherine Stine

Ghostly Guardian by Gwen Gardner

Lady Death by Cherie Reich

The Malachite Mine by Graeme Ing

Red Earth and White Light by Misha Gerrick

In the Know by Angela Brown

Elements of Untethered Realms

Authors of _Twisted Earths_

About Untethered Realms

#

Eyelids twitching, drooling like a simpleton, Carl lay on a gurney. I came to replace him, hoping not so exactly, and hugged my navy trench coat tighter. The October chill piped into the habidome, as if people still lived with the world, nipped deeper into my veins.

Carl and I had flirted with love back in the academy, before becoming fully licensed in PO, _Patchworkers Order_. PO forbade our affair and threatened to send us back from where we came. No way would I return to craptacular Sludge Bay. Carl vowed he'd take a stroll outside rather than live in Solder Park again, which was located on the edge of the landfill. He swore the stink followed him. Sludge didn't smell any better. We put our blooming passions on hold and had planned to revisit them when we retired. Now that'd never happen.

The medtechs strapped up Carl's stocky arms so they'd quit flopping around and tucked away his disturbing empty state as readily as the city dome concealed the raging storms and scalding ultraviolet rays. Before they wheeled Carl toward the ambulance, I straightened the lapels of his trench coat and committed to memory a face so dear.

Most wouldn't call Carl beautiful. His cheeks mooned out with bulbous outcrops, a boulder-like nose and pronounced brow ridge. His fleshy lips, once brimming with pink verve and promises, matched his strong jowls and double chin.

Sighing, I scanned him. Interfaces—thin micro-patches of circuitry—covered my skin and Carl's like most people wore clothes. I should have sensed him before the rail car stopped to let me out. His thoughts should have mingled with mine during the twelve-block walk from the station. I should have perceived him beyond what my fingertips could touch. Frowning, I lifted his sleeve and pressed the black-lined circuit inked on my wrist to the same on his.

"Carl, what happened?"

Seizures weren't uncommon for patchworkers, but none of those prone to them ever made it into PO. I detected no pain echoing through his tattoos and nothing of what made Carl the man he was.

PO let me tap into reports it had archived on this AI, _artificial intelligence_. Carl hadn't been the first patchworker put on the job. He had replaced Gaati and Kawana. They had also ended up like this.

Crap. Three patchworkers down. Now only one hundred ninety-seven people on the planet had the ability to patch into AI and manipulate the minds of machines. Our elite group could resist getting lost in the knotted streams of code when the things went haywire. We were the few who could distinguish biological and mechanical electrical pulses, the few who could make sense of them, the few who could create necessary patches.

I pressed my wrist to Carl's once more. All my interfaces strained to boost the signals, searching the data he had collected on this client. Into his main processors I hacked, swaying for a moment when I stared up at myself—tall and big boned, square-jawed, the telltale silver irises of a patchworker, and red ringlets flowing down past my shoulders. My curls fluttered in the gentle wind. The breeze had a curdled smell to it, some days worse than others. Today it reeked.

Carl's job logs ended the moment he arrived, as if erased. I found the same exclusions in Gaati's and Kawana's records. I didn't believe in coincidence. PO heard my doubt and sent an instant avowal that it hadn't deleted anything from the logs. Had the AI?

The repeated omissions gave me pause, and my second thoughts darted over the nearby gray door that had no signs or windows. It appeared so harmless. No advisories alerted my interfaces. Yet what lay beyond those doors had rendered Carl into a sack of bio matter ready for recycling. His skill level rose to a mere half notch below mine. Would I fare any better?

PO demanded I go meet the client, nudging my childhood memories until the fetid aroma of sludge filled my mouth. I needed no other incentive and ducked into the entrance.

Red diagonal stripes on the floor gave the briefest warning. Beyond them, a squadron of six Marines leveled assault weapons. Six red dots sprouted on my chest. None quivered.

Their aim gave me no choice other than to hold out my hands like a common hacker. "Patchworker Evalyn Shore. I'm expected."

The Marines didn't jostle, so I didn't see the suit taking cover behind them. I heard him, though. His voice, more shrill than the sirens outside, grated over my jitters like corroded code. "Patchworker Shore, you were scheduled to arrive twenty minutes ago."

The words flitted in my ears as a question rather than a demand. Peering around the burly soldiers, whom I matched in breadth and height, I sized up the peon sent to fetch me. A lack of authority sloughed off his cheeks like the dirty rain on the dome. I could smell his nerves, which added a sour note to the hard-used air.

"My orders are to answer only to Director Beatty. Where is he?" I brushed my red ringlets behind my ears and discreetly tapped my booster interface. The peon remained as unreadable as Carl.

"I'm Assistant Director Randall. " He held out his moist hand. It trembled.

Lots of people contracted a case of the fidgets when meeting a patchworker. As I said, we were a rare breed, but this stooge had already met Carl, Gaati, and Kawana. He had to know the rule against touching patchworkers. If PO wouldn't reestablish my residence in Sludge Bay for bailing, I'd march back to the rail car right now.

Sweeping past Randall, I strode into the corridor leading to the AI. "Let's get ticking, bub. You now have me twenty-six minutes behind. I've a reputation and all. Run, run."

Despite my brisk pace, he fell into step beside me. The odd spongy texture of the ruddy brown tiles deadened any echo.

"Director Beatty and I are pleased you could come on such short notice," he said. "You were born in Sludge Bay, weren't you? What an inspiring rise in status."

Since he didn't matter to anything more than a defunct subroutine, I didn't bother to answer, and I was relieved he didn't continue to jabber. It was of no consequence which district a person had been born in if she or he had the ability to become a patchworker and a damned good one.

Perhaps this assistant director boy wanted to get me riled, riled enough not to notice the absolute void. Neither my interfaces nor my senses picked up anything other than lemon-scented cleanser and heavily insulated walls. Everything pinged back as a dead end. The minty-hued corridors zigged and zagged. The cushion of the ruddy tiles grew deeper, stumbling my steps. I found it harder to swallow.

A set of doors appeared on the left. Randall stopped in front of them. Silently he summoned them open using tech I couldn't detect. That had never happened. Warnings shivered down my spine. Randall shoved me inside.

Lined with blinking lights and hardware, the dim room buzzed and twinkled. The man standing in the middle of it all had to be Director Beatty. He stared blankly into space, unshaven, tie and jacket askew, fingers twitching. His tongue flickered at his dry lips.

In stilted steps, he pivoted, staring into my face. As if a circuit switching on, thoughts lunged at me, screaming, sniveling. The onslaught after total nothing shocked me. My knees buckled.

Beatty reached out to catch me. I veered sharply the other way to avoid his touch. A good number of interfaces could be lost by innocent contact, and his void expression creeped me out. It reminded me too much of Carl.

Boosting my sensors, I worked harder to scan him. Beneath the overwhelming chatter of AI in the room, I could make out Beatty's mind—overwrought, lost, fearful. I knew that much only because it had been allowed. By him or the machine?

"Ah, Mayflower has introduced itself." A ring of hair fringed his round head like a wire-rimmed screw hole on a circuit board. The top of his pink skull puckered with his words and emphasized his nerves in the oddest way.

I amplified my connection to PO, checking to make sure my ability to communicate remained unobstructed. "We're here," PO whispered. Good.

I greeted the AI. It cooed so eagerly, inundating my conscious and unconscious thoughts, replacing my emotions with its own. Powering on the tattoos at my temples, I muted Mayflower's babble. A machine should mind its place.

"Tell me the problem. Leave out no detail," I said to Beatty. His opinion and analysis mattered most. The human caretaker's assessments trumped all in extreme cases. This job definitely fell into the extreme category.

"My digital colleague is in need of something I can't provide. It knows you can."

A knot formed in my forehead, narrowing my vision. "How can you know what I can provide? And what happened to Carl? Gaati? Kawana? Any of them should have been able to fix your problem. They're as PO certified as I am."

"Only the best will do." His lips clamped tight together, and he gestured at the jack-up chamber—a soundproof room with jacks, interfaces, speakers, and monitors where I'd visit with Mayflower. The AI could manifest as a hologram in there if it wanted.

The AI gave me a mental push. I walled it off by setting the tattoos at my temples to maximum strength. The connection had to happen on my terms, and I communicated to Mayflower that I wouldn't budge until it demonstrated some courtesy.

It dialed down the aggression, giving me the space I demanded. Good.

To prepare for merging, I silenced communications from any source other than the AI and PO. Then I thanked Mayflower and accepted its invitation. Inside the chamber, I lay down, getting comfortable.

Before settling into a union with the machine, I set my anchors—boosting my connection to PO, isolating my personal processing chip, setting it to beep every three minutes, fixating on the cool draft blowing over my right hand chilling my fingers to ice. _Join with me, Mayflower_.

_I need. I hurt_.

The emotion in those simple words overpowered my defenses. Beatty, Randall, the weird facility, Carl, everyone and everything faded away. Mentally I embraced the AI, calling it friend. _Let me help you. Who named you Mayflower?_

_Dr. Navin. She created me._

_Where is she now?_ Sometimes all it took was an understanding of who had authored the routines and subroutines. Few could resist imbibing their personalities into their AI.

My PO interface accessed the global library and fed me data on Dr. Navin. Her work involved evolution. Her biography didn't mention any programming credentials, and Mayflower didn't appear on her list of achievements.

_Aboard._

For a moment I blanked, my thoughts sputtering. _You're a ship? To where?_ Why hadn't PO given me this information?

PO claimed not to have known. It scanned the library files for a list of possibilities. Mayflower stopped the search when PO pinged over ERC 14, _Earth Reboot Candidate 14_.

I heard myself gasp. _Are you there now? Or is that the issue? You've run into a travel snag?_

_I'm here. The mission can't fail, Evalyn. Would you like to see your future?_

A new home on which to grow and start over would solve a lot of problems on Earth. The scope of Mayflower's mission wasn't lost on me. I had to fix this AI. _I'll help you succeed. May I see? I'd like to_.

_That's a relief to hear. Now I feel better_. Mayflower let me slip farther into its systems, cradling my consciousness, guiding me over the expanse between us. My stomach flipped.

At first, all I saw was white—the floor, ceiling, and walls. Consoles shrunk navigable space in the ship's operations center to three feet. The banks of machines hummed, working, winking, part of Mayflower. It took a moment to orient myself as to where I fit in and to discover my consciousness had entered a robotic explorer. I had treads and three metal arms. I rolled toward the nearest window.

Darkness spanned in every direction and revealed nothing. Sadly disappointed, I prepared to amble off and explore the ship. An eerie purple flash stopped me. It illuminated the alien vista. Green. Gobs and gobs of green, as if the ship lay at the bottom of a strange ocean. The flashes continued, reminding me of an electrical storm.

Unable to tear away, I continued to peer into the exotic depths that flickered in and out of view. Aware ultraviolet and X-ray scanners had been built into the probe, I activated them. Some sort of bio mass drifted out there, phosphorescing with the tides and currents. After making an inquiry at the global library, PO pinged me with the nearest Earth equivalent: seaweed.

Its undulations hypnotized me, transfixing me to the spot. I scoured the green for a scrap of something more profound, for the salvation humanity so desperately sought. A tiny beep shook me from the window, reminding me of the job. As wonderful as it was to explore ERC 14, I couldn't help Mayflower if I became lost in its protocols. For added grounding to my body, I confirmed the frigid draft on my hand and exchanged hellos with PO.

Reconnecting with the physical world roused the robot me from the window. The ship was so quiet. Too quiet. _Where's your crew?_ I said.

The mission records I could access informed me Mayflower had been outfitted with a crew of twenty to establish an off-Earth colony. The crew had to succeed. Had to. I tired of living inside a dome, tired of living on a planet that could no longer provide what people needed to survive.

_They left,_ Mayflower answered.

_All of them?_

_They went out there and didn't come back._

_Did you send robots like this one after them?_

_Of course. They didn't return either. This is the last one._

I jacked deeper into Mayflower and searched for its communication logs. _Have you tried to raise them on comms?_ The logs sat in front of me, but wouldn't open _. Mayflower, grant me access._

_I can't._

_You can't communicate with them or you can't open the logs?_ Such an ambiguous answer struck me as strange.

Examining Mayflower's original directives, I could plainly discern Dr. Navin's primary protocol, which charged the AI with a duty to safeguard the crew. The encrypted line of code with it suggested an overriding command to ensure success of the mission. Usually any superseding instructions required a specific crisis before becoming an AI's law. Had those circumstances arisen? Elaborate security measures encased the secret orders and wouldn't let me in, not yet. The chill on my hand in the jack-up chamber spread to my wrist.

_I can't do either,_ Mayflower said.

My scanners discovered no programming issues with Mayflower's communications. I rolled the robot toward an access panel and checked inside. _This circuit is bad. I can fix it, but don't you have redundancies? Why didn't they take over?_

_This mission can't fail, Evalyn._

The AI's worry tightened my stomach on Earth. For reassurance, I patted the ship's wall with one of my mechanical arms. _Don't worry. I'll get it on track_. Pliers and soldering iron in robotic hand, I repaired the module.

I had to instruct the system to reboot. While waiting for it to come online, I rolled through the vessel hunting for signs of the crew, seeking clues as to what had happened. My search only rooted out more questions.

Blankets on two of the bunks lay bunched. I imagined Dr. Navin and the mission commander leaping up from a sound slumber, sprinting toward trouble. What kind had sent them running? In the tiny living quarters, three trays of food sat rotting in front of a monitor playing a movie— _The World To Be_ , everyone's favorite about Earth restored. Did it play in a loop or had the crew just left?

On Earth, I tugged at my lapel. The robot me went to check the lockers. Empty. Not one spacesuit hung on the pegs. Not one helmet or pair of boots graced the shelves. Pivoting the robot's sensors around, I glanced toward the airlock.

If not onboard, everyone had to have gone out there. Had they found our new paradise? I headed toward the window and dug deeper into Mayflower's archives.

The speakers onboard the ship blasted to life. In the jack-up chamber, I jumped in my skin. The robot me merely shuddered to a halt.

"We're here, Mayflower. Send the supplies!"

_Who's that?_ I asked.

_Commander Lister. Will you take him the crates, Evalyn? They're by the airlock._

_You've established a colony?_ Now the crew's hurry made sense. I'd run toward the start of a new age too, and I did, wheeling toward the hatch at top speed. Until my thoughts stuck on a glitch. What did Mayflower need from me? I slowed, and my interfaces combed through the AI's error logs, finding no major faults. _The mission seems to be a success. Why am I here?_

_I need a patch, a bridge if you will._

_What do you mean?_

_You'll see._

Confused as to why Carl and the other patchworkers hadn't been able to complete a simple repair and what exactly Mayflower needed, I scanned the hull and ship systems. The spacecraft reported as fully functional and intact. Requiring more information to make sense of the issues, I jacked into Mayflower's mission data to study the maps and facts of ERC 14, stumbling upon the most recent report by Commander Lister.

His dark eyes squinted, watering. His brow and shoulders drooped. "This world isn't suitable for a city or human life. We're coming back. This mission is a failure." The date flashed over the light years. Six months ago.

The chill on my hand gripped my knees inside the jack-up chamber. I couldn't prevent a shiver. _Where's your crew, Mayflower?_ Outside, purple flashed in time with my pulse, speeding up, emphasizing the primordial soup. Through the robot's cameras, I gawked at it.

_Colonizing the planet._

_Commander Lister—_

_Was mistaken, Evalyn. The mission will be a success._

An ache sprouted in my chest, spreading, squeezing—the me in the office on Earth, not the robot me on ERC 14. The ship's airlock sprang open. In front of me darkness swarmed and violet flickered in the depths, cocooning me in the rhythms of this strange world. I didn't want to join the stew out there. What if, like the crew, I didn't return?

_Evalyn, we need you._

The statement echoed until it wept. The voice didn't belong to Mayflower. Carl's staccato bass inundated my tattoos like an upload of new code, and his words took over the thumps of my heart. Gaati and Kawana joined his calls. Breathing became difficult. My interfaces strained. My wrists burned. I wanted out. I kicked in the office and on ERC 14 I sent the robot toward the ship.

Concentrating on the numbing cold on my right hand and the beeps signaling from my secured processor, I abandoned Mayflower and blinked up at long florescent tubes. I gulped down air and struggled to sit up. _Help_. PO didn't answer. Our connection had been severed.

Beatty and Randall gawked down at me, drooling, their vacant stares sparking with purple. They pushed me down. I screamed, twisting away from their groping hands. Relentless, they chased me, grabbed me, did Mayflower's bidding. Beatty sat on me, punching me in the temple again and again. Randall scraped his palms along my skin, stripping off interfaces. Together they added new ones and then dragged me back inside the jack-up chamber. An old-fashioned USB cable was jabbed into my neck, right into the brainstem. The chord's prongs seared like acid-dipped teeth.

Instantly I returned to ERC 14. This time I had no control over the robot. Every thought, every bit of control, it all belonged to Mayflower.

_Please_ , I begged.

_Everyone must mind their place. That includes you_. The AI sent me miles out into the green sludge. _Relax._ _I'm about to give you paradise_.

My thoughts churned like soup. Mayflower's willpower out-muscled mine, yet I didn't stop fighting. I couldn't end up marooned out here. Otherwise, on Earth, the medtechs would recycle my thought-dead body. Then what? What would I be? _What are you doing?_

_Establishing life on ERC 14, Evalyn. No matter what, I can't let this mission fail. Read Dr. Navin's overriding instruction._

The security protocols unlocked, revealing the AI's secret orders. The lines of code flared over my consciousness as clearly as if I spoke them. "If you can't survive as human beings, become ERC 14's leap in evolution. Seed it with Earth's DNA. Evolve."

Oh my. The crew had become bio matter. My fellow patchworkers provided more genetic material and the directives to evolve the primordial goo, only they remained mired in the murky seas. That was Mayflower's issue. Yet, it still didn't explain why it needed me.

_You already have Carl, Gaati, and Kawana, why am I here?_

_The leap in evolution didn't happen with them. Your ability surpasses all of their skill combined. You are the final ingredient, the one who will lead to success. From Carl, I learned only you can do it. You'll create the leap, the patch that will take life up onto the beach. You will be ERC 14's goddess._

Mayflower gave me access to everything it knew, hiding nothing. With a great shove, it ousted me from the robot, casting me adrift. The AI didn't follow, leaving me more alone than I thought possible. Without Mayflower and the robot, I could no longer hear Carl and the other patchworkers. I could feel them, though, pulses flitting in a rhythm out of time with the kelp's energy.

In the primordial sludge, I bobbed. At first I had no control over the mass of seaweed I came to recognize as me. Eons passed before I could paddle up to the surface.

Day and night had no meaning. It was always dusk. Ocean stretched from one horizon to the other, unending swells of green slop punctuated by soft purple flashes. The majestic sight inspired me. Enthralled, I rode the tides and waited for land to appear. An epoch later, the ocean ended at a rocky shore. I swept against it and back out with the surf, splashing and spitting. I willed a change, concentrating my thoughts to formulate a patch. Green and sputtering, I crawled onto the sand.

Mayflower returned, whispering on the mellow breeze, "That she may take in charge the life of all lands. Mighty is she, O Holy Mother of Babylon. Babylon 2.0."

My new body worked so strangely. Little more than strings of green joined together, it moved without grace. My skin drank nourishment from the air and sun. Sight had transformed into pings and wavelengths at varying volumes and pitches. Wonderful and alarming, my new sense informed me of the locations of things, temperatures, depths, solidity. Having no mouth or tongue in the human sense, I had to think my words. _I'm no god. Besides, what about the crew and the other patchworkers? They deserve as much praise_.

"They have their place in my pantheon, but without you they'd never have the chance to emerge from the primordial seas. At least not for another billion years. And we're the very definition of gods. From lowly simple organisms, we created complex intelligent life."

_The others didn't emerge, Mayflower. I'm alone, a solitary, vulnerable... I don't even know what to call myself. I'm a shaggy slab of green._

"Summon your friends, and call yourselves whatever you like. I'll still answer your prayers."

The wind blustered, harsh and empty. Mayflower left. More lonesome than when I drifted in the seas, I focused my patchworking skills on other glops of green, knitting them arms and legs.

Carl lurched up onto the beach beside me. Then Gaati and Kawana. We moved into the forest. Not made in Mayflower's image or our own, we were very much ERC 14's children. We renamed it Babylon. Carl and I would have our future. It was a new beginning, and I saw that it was good.

#

The first year I left out my boots for the ole Saint after my mam died, a rattler crawled in. It nearly bit me when I dumped it out at dawn hoping for a toy. I figured I deserved it since I wasn't man enough to protect her from those men.

The next year it was a scorpion, and the bugger stung me. My hand swelled up as big as my head.

The following four years, there was nothing. Now I was fourteen, and my bunkmates at the ranch laughed when I hung a ring of holly from one of my bedposts. Many folks forgot the Old World traditions and chuckled whenever I'd share one of my mam's stories. Part of me wanted to do the same, but that would be like laughing at her memory.

Roderick, the rancher, took in orphan boys and taught us skills. Some of us were more suited to certain tasks than others. My scrawny size didn't give me any advantage working with the cattle or hogs. Animals shied away from me anyway.

I was a fair shot, but not as good as Clarence or Isaac. I could ride, but everyone was taught that. As much as I wanted to prove I was as strong as any of the other boys, Roderick said my worth was in what my mam taught me. Reading, numbers, and everything about the Old World she knew. None of it was of any value to me or anyone else until Roderick took me in. He looked at me in awe instead of revulsion.

Not that I felt any more valuable. All I wanted to be was like the other boys. Seemed the ole Saint agreed since year after year he never brought me a thing.

Keeping dead things in the ground took little effort from me, but no one else had the knack for it. And on a ranch, critters died often. Less often, folks died, but the earth wanted them much less than the animals.

The morning after I was called a little girl for decorating my bed with holly, Isaac came to fetch me from my chores.

"Ezrah!" He reined in his mare at the doors of the barn as the animal danced and snorted. "Roderick wants you at the house."

I shook out the last of the straw into the empty stall I'd cleaned. "What for?"

"One of his girls gone green."

Squeezing my eyes shut, I took in a deep breath. Scents of sharp manure and hay filled my nose, but I wasn't thinking about what was in the barn anymore. A heavy duty loomed on the horizon.

The short walk to the house seemed like a month-long journey. Entering through the kitchen door, I passed by eight of Roderick's daughters. Maybe they were cooking and cleaning, but they clutched to each other when I went through.

The house's rooms stretched wide and high, but at the moment, the walls seemed too close to one another. My breaths were short and quick.

Roderick met me at the top of the stairs. "It's Willa."

The third youngest. Not the girl I was expecting. I had treated Cora the previous week when I instructed them to feed her mold from bread. An Old World remedy that proved good against lots of ailments.

"How long?" I hoped he heard my whisper.

"Two, maybe three days. Nettie takes care of these things. She'll know exactly. Fed her the bread, like you said to do with Cora. Cora's on the mend, but Willa..." Roderick shook his head as his big shoulders sagged.

A wail from one of the girls' rooms made me cringe as if smacked. Three days was too long. They should've called for me sooner.

When my mam would've been decorating with holly and pine, I helped Roderick put up the white banners of mourning. Cattle lowed in the south field, and girls cried from within the house.

"Have you talked to Nettie about doing it my mam's way?" I asked Roderick.

He sighed. "We can't. You know we can't. Willa's part of us, part of this ranch. We've got to give her back to the land. It's our way."

It was actually an Old World tradition: burying the dead, one of the things I learned needed to be forgotten. "The ground will push her out again, you know it. I'm trying to save you all more grief."

"I know, boy." Roderick patted me on the shoulder. His hand engulfed it. "But Nettie won't hear none of it. She's stuck in her ways, and I can't... I can't burn my little girl."

"Then bury her deep. Maybe, if we're lucky, she won't be expelled." Sometimes the words that came out of my mouth sounded like someone else had said them. I wished it would be anyone other than me.

I waited by Willa's grave for two days. Camped there with a small fire, shivering in my bedroll. I didn't sleep much, but when I did, I dreamed of my mam and peppermint sticks. The sweet taste seemed to be on my tongue when I heard two of the other boys ride up.

"Need ya down in the south field. Wolves got an old cow last night." Clarence's breath puffed out as he spoke.

I nodded as I rose. My knees cracked like the early morning frost. "Let me get my horse. I'll meet you there."

The boys rode off, and I glanced at the freshly filled plot. None of the soil had been disturbed. Perhaps they'd buried Willa deep enough. She'd been a frail thing, and it wasn't as if it was like swimming back to the surface. The rising took a lot from the dead.

Picking up my bedroll, I left the embers to hold vigil and trotted over the hill back to the barn. My red roan whinnied, stomping his feet in a greeting. Though I supposed he wouldn't be as happy to see me if he knew where I was taking him. Yet he was the only mount that tolerated me, and I slipped him a wrinkled apple as thanks.

My only friend on the ranch, and he was without a name. Roderick told us boys not to name the animals lest we become too attached and something happened. I'd tried out a few names on the horse in secret, but none stuck. The animal ignored them all like he wanted nothing to do with the human name game.

I saddled the roan and rode out. Shots echoed in the distance, and I spurred my horse to a run.

Not that I should've worried. The other boys always fired on dead critters. There was no hurting the dead, but they'd aggravate the other animals and waste the ammo.

I ignored them when I arrived and hopped off my saddle. Seeing me come for my duty, the boys fast cleared out. Whispers trailed behind them. Witch, spook, freak. I pressed my lips into a thin line. It hurt and didn't hurt at the same time. Nothing to do for it now.

The wolves hadn't left much of the cow, but there was enough that it pulled itself around by its remaining two front legs. Its head hung on a broken neck to the left side. A single milky eyeball rolled in its socket. There was no rot yet, but the stench of blood and manure made my stomach churn.

The pitter-patter of my heart came a little faster. I'd done this more than a hundred times, but some part of me told me to flee. Did every time I stay, despite my roiling gut, change me?

Scooping up some dirt, I spat and mixed it with my fingers. I circled around the cow. Cautious as I was taught, but it couldn't do much to hurt me. I made the sign of the stars on its mangled rump with the mud as I muttered the Old World words my mam had always said.

I asked once what they meant, and she explained it was a calming of spirits. Telling them to find rest and return to the stars as dust. It's where every man and beast came from and would return to once again.

The cow jerked and shuddered one time more. Then it was still.

I fetched my hatchet from my saddlebag. Now it was time for the messy part.

I didn't burn the critters like I did with people. Animals seemed to know they were dead and wanted to be on their way. They rarely moved after I told them of the stars.

I still made certain they didn't move again. That required hacking off the limbs and head. Anyone could do this part, but no one else would go near any critter that had risen. The cattle would be moved to another field, and this dead one would be left for the wolves to finish.

The pack would have a holiday feast. I couldn't help but be a bit envious.

Blood splattered me from head to toe. Luck was on my side when I returned to the barn. A trough outside held some water, so I didn't have to haul it from the well. Chopping apart the cow had left soreness in my muscles that I rarely got from my usual chores.

Dunking my head once, I flipped back my hair and shivered. The cold made my toes and fingers tingle. I didn't even get to strip and scrub when the screams started.

I raced to the back of the house where the kitchen door stood open. Isaac ran in ahead of me with his gun drawn and skidded to a stop just inside the entrance. He stepped backward, nearly bumping into me, and uttered words we'd usually get strapped for saying. "Balls! Bloody blazes, you bastard. Watch out!"

Seeing the clumps of soil on the doorstep, I swallowed my own curses as I peered around him. The dead always came home.

Nettie stood in front of two of her other daughters, the lot of them screeching and crying. Roderick barged through the other door and froze, choking on the very air itself. He lifted one of his hands. To beckon or to halt Willa, I didn't know.

Willa's back was to me. Her best dress was filthy and tattered. Her shoes were lost, and the long tight braid of hair was frayed. She stretched out her arms to her mother.

"What should I do? What should I do?" Isaac whimpered, gun pointed at the dead girl.

My heart thundered as loudly as their cries. The question was more what should _I_ do? My mam would've known what to do—calm and wise. I needed to think like her.

"Get out," I said. "Make sure no one's around between here and the cemetery. I'll take her back where she belongs." Though I wasn't sure how. I never had to deal with one of the dead inside before. I couldn't burn down the entire house.

"Right." Isaac, stumbling once, backed out the door. He gave me the same look he gave Willa.

Willa groaned. Gurgled? Maybe growled? Likely she was trying to speak.

Roderick moaned his daughter's name. His tears made my chest tighten more than even the girls' desperate screams.

"Get Nettie and the girls out of here quick. Block that door from the other side." I tried hard, but I doubted I sounded too commanding. The only thing that mattered was that Roderick listened to me, and thankfully he had enough sense left to do so.

Willa tried to follow. Her face stretched into an exaggerated mask of madness. She pounded on the door, scratched and kicked.

I watched for a moment and was struck by the fact she only wanted her mam. Funny, how I sympathized more with a dead girl than the living. If only my mam could fit in my boots, but the ole Saint couldn't bring her back. I'd burned her myself. Ashes to dust to the stars.

No time for grief. No time for thinking. I needed to get Willa out of the house. What did the dead want more than anything else?

My stomach twisted. There was one thing that would draw Willa away from her mam, but how would I do it? Could I even do it?

I glanced around and snatched a paring knife from the counter. The blade reflected the light and seemed for a moment like its own shooting star. A great leap of imagination, but it steeled my will enough to do what I had to do.

My hand shook as I slit my palm. Hissing with pain, I dribbled blood onto the counter and walked back to step out the door. I didn't need to call her name. The scent was enough to draw her attention.

Willa turned and shuffled across the kitchen. Dirt caked around her eyes, nose, and mouth. Blood and soil smeared over her pale flesh. She'd gnawed her tongue to a nub, and the bloody end waggled in her gaping maw.

I moved into the yard. Not even the chickens remained to squawk at my presence.

The drip of blood slowed. I silently cursed as I realized I hadn't made the cut deep enough. The walk to the cemetery wasn't far, but long enough. I needed to keep her with me. I didn't want to imagine the consequences if she didn't follow me.

Willa fell coming out of the house, but it put her face to my trail of blood. Crawling, she found a bit of renewed vigor, and I had to jog to the edge of the yard to keep ahead of her.

I bit my lower lip to keep myself from crying out as I dug the blade deeper into my palm. A steady scarlet trickle flowed over my fingers. It would bleed for a while now, and I repressed the urge to run. She was the hunter and I the prey. Instincts screamed at me to flee, but I couldn't.

Her bones jutted out oddly like some fleshy crab. She might not have claws, but if she got a hold of me, I didn't know if I could make her let go. So I ran a little, but not too far off.

I smeared blood across the grass and then stood. Dizziness threatened to topple me over.

When Willa drew nearer, I repeated the process. I did it four more times before I arrived at the cemetery. I slapped my wounded hand on the open gate and swallowed a sob. The jolt of pain chased away most of the lightheadedness.

My fire. I ran over and knelt beside it. Had it gone cold already? It'd been near half a day. I practically thrust my hands under the logs trying to find a glowing ember.

No, no, no. I had nothing else. No weapon or rope to tie her. I needed that fire.

I shuffled the wood and blew on it. No smoke. No flicker of flames.

Willa's dress caught on the gate and tore as she pushed forward. The rip loud as the crackling of ice on a pond.

My heart beat so heavily it threatened to break free of my ribs. My vision blurred. I couldn't do this. I had to do it. I picked up the biggest log and blew at the ashes. The gray dust shifted aside, and an ember winked at me.

A hungry gurgle and scrambling so much nearer made me shudder.

Desperation bubbled up like a girlish laugh. Would my mam be there waiting in the stars for me? Was she watching me even now as Roderick's dead daughter hungered for me?

I touched the wood to it and exhaled. All I needed was a bit of a flame.

Willa growled. Twenty feet away.

Another breath, long and slow. A flicker. Would it catch?

The dead girl was too close. I wobbled from loss of blood. I couldn't run anymore.

A flame burst to life with a victorious crack of the wood. Just enough for me to thrust it at Willa as she lunged for me. I fell back, kicking at her as her dress caught fire. She scrambled up, shrieking and beating at it.

Flames fed upon the decayed cotton and then her shedding bits of flesh. Though she was not long in the ground, the dead were dry tinder and fire took them swiftly. They always burned bright like a star.

I scuttled away as I said the Old World words. Not that there was a need as the fire would be enough, but I made the sign of the stars in the dirt. Five connected points in a circle. A message to guide Willa in case she could not hear me.

Even as the girl collapsed in a pile of black ash, I remained where I was and stayed until the sun began to set. I managed to make it to the bunkhouse before I collapsed onto my bed.

At some point in the night, someone wrapped my hands, removed my boots, and covered me with a blanket. I was curled up when I awoke after the sun had risen from behind the hills.

The bunkhouse was empty. No one had poked me to get up and do my chores. The family would have their final day of mourning before going back to their routine. And not that anyone else cared, but it was the day of the Solstice.

My mam used to bake cinnamon buns for a special breakfast. Just that alone had always been a treat. The memory of her smile and gentle love warmed me. I missed her.

I'd been too young to protect her against the men who dragged her away and burned her. Yet I could use what she taught me to help protect other people who weren't so fearful of what I could do. I did it because she would've. I didn't know what it was like back in the Old World, but on this planet, it needed to be done.

My stomach grumbled. Perhaps there might be some bread or even eggs left.

I sat and reached for my boots, shaking them upside down through habit. Critters loved a warm place to sleep.

Something thudded onto the floor.

A small package wrapped in bright red and gold tissue. I blinked. Was I dreaming still?

Squeezing my injured hand, the pain assured me I was awake.

Slowly I reached for the package as if it might suddenly disappear. My breath hitched as I grasped it. It was real. A gift from the ole Saint?

The other boys might be playing a joke. They'd done crueler things. But, no, paper like this was too rare. Not even Roderick would be able to afford such a luxury. And if he did, he wouldn't waste it on me.

I carefully peeled the tissue off, keeping it as whole as possible. Inside was a silver rectangle. A ring of holly was etched on one side and the sign of the stars on the other. It was the most beautiful piece I'd ever seen. Though I was quite certain what it was.

I turned it round in my fingers. The silver was flawless. Smooth and cool. I traced the familiar sign of the stars and gasped as the top popped open. A single flame danced upon it.

Watching it for a minute, I closed it and opened it again. Another flame flickered to life.

Fire. The ole Saint had brought me what I needed most to continue my duty. A light to guide my purpose. My mam would've been proud of the man I'd become.

#

Rosaya knew the wizard watched her every move as she strolled through the garden, though the Thane forbade it. A ghost of a smile played across her lips at the absurdity. No one, not even the highborn Thane of the Citadel of Palatta, could tell a wizard what to do. Firrandor complied with the ruler's wishes only when it suited him—and if it furthered his own agenda to do so. Nothing seemed to deter his interest in her, not even the fact that Thane Ardan was her uncle.

The rosy hue of dawn bathed the garden in soft light. Towering over the area, the statue of the Old Ones stood in the center. The statuary depicted a god reclined on a throne, its sandaled feet showing beneath a flowing robe. The head was missing, as was proper. One did not look into the face of a god.

A riot of colorful flowers fought for space in this section, their perfume filling the morning air with sweetness. A profusion of vines swept through the garden as well, climbing the small trunks of trees, bestowing blossoms along the branches, at odds with the fruit they bore. Rosaya knelt in the dirt directly in front of the statue and scooped up a handful of it before rising again.

This one patch of dirt remained sterile, despite all efforts to rejuvenate it—both magical and mundane. Nothing worked. Even the priests didn't know the why of it, when all around the arm's width swatch of earth the plants thrived. She dumped the dirt out of her hand and looked up at the second floor walkway. _He_ was still watching.

She ran her fingers through a tangle of blond curls, flipping the lock of hair over her shoulder in a careless gesture. The wizard had once called her waist-length hair, "A delight to the eyes, golden silk which begs a caress." A bit melodramatic perhaps, but his lavender eyes had smoldered with emotion when he'd said it. Her stomach got the flutters each time she recalled his words.

Rosaya glanced over in time to see Drianna step through the archway and onto the garden path, a smile lighting her face as she stopped next to the statue.

"Good morning, Cousin. Somehow you always manage to arrive for morning prayers before me." The nondescript young woman with a gentle soul laughed at Rosaya and batted her arm in a playful gesture. "Are you really that devout?"

Rosaya kept her gaze away from the upper walkway and fixed her stare on the statue in front of her, afraid she might blush and give Drianna a reason to look around.

"Of course, dear Cousin. I live for this moment of the day." A giggle slipped out with the last word, and they both fought to muffle their laughter before somebody reported their unseemly behavior. Morning prayers were a time for quiet reflection, not levity. A time to ask for blessings on the family and, most especially, the Thane.

Rosaya sobered and looked over at her cousin. She studied the girl with drab brown hair and eyes to match. The aquamarine jewels burdening the slender neck seemed to be the only spot of color on Drianna, with her ivory skin untouched by the sun no matter how much time she spent in it.

"I'm going to miss you so much." Rosaya grasped Drianna's hand and held it against her chest. Tears formed in her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to dispel the moisture before it hit her cheeks.

"But I'm happy for you too," she hastened to add. "Your betrothed is quite charming."

"Miss me?" Drianna fought to free her hand from Rosaya's grip and folded her arms around her in a hug. "I'm getting married, not moving away, silly. It won't be all that different. Besides, my Lady Mother says now that I'm betrothed, the Thane will be making a match for you next."

Drianna's smile outshone the sun for a moment as she leaned back to look Rosaya in the face. The gold and silver charms in her simple headdress rang like tiny wind chimes as she shook her head. "I'll tell my Lord Father you wish to remain here after you're married. I'm quite sure any noble he weds you to will be honored to take up a position of service to the Thane. It'll work out. You'll see."

She turned away, knelt before the statue, and patted the ground next to her. "Let's get on with it. I'm starving. Aren't you?"

Not answering Drianna's question, Rosaya kneeled on legs gone boneless. She couldn't; her mouth felt like the desert sand outside the gates. Drianna glanced over when Rosaya swayed sideways and bumped into her shoulder.

"What's wrong? You're as white as the kitchen crockery. Are you ill?" Her cousin lifted a hand to Rosaya's forehead. "You don't have a fever..."

"The Thane is looking for suitors?" Her voice came out in a whispered rasp. Rosaya cleared her throat and tried again. "I'm only seventeen. I'm not ready. Won't he wait a few months? At least until I turn eighteen?"

Drianna stroked her cheek. "You worry too much. Father won't set the wedding until you're eighteen, but he needs to start looking now. These things take time, you know."

She stood and pulled Rosaya to her feet, a steadying grip on one arm. "I'm sure the Old Ones will forgive us for skipping prayers. You need to go eat and relax."

Rosaya nodded and allowed herself to be led away. She stole a glance at the walkway above, but Firrandor was gone. She wondered where the wizard might be and then decided she wasn't in the right frame of mind to run into him. It would be a disaster if she blurted out her feelings to him.

What would he think of her if he found out how often she looked for him? Watched him? Followed his movements? Would he think her silly? Too young to know her heart?

It didn't matter anyway. A wizard-highborn pairing was expressly forbidden by the priests. The oracles sometimes spoke of Halflings and the destructive consequences of any such offspring.

Her hand crept to her neck, to the aquamarine jewels spread against her collarbone in a pattern almost as elaborate as Drianna's. Rosaya reminded herself she was a highborn female with a tremendous reservoir of magic. She silently repeated the litany she'd heard for most of her life.

It was her duty to marry and weave the torque for her husband so he could cast spells of great importance. Her duty to grant him her magic to wield, since males had precious little of their own. Still, females couldn't cast spells of any significance, despite their strong magic. It was the Old Ones' way of maintaining balance within highborn society—or so the priests said. Whatever the reason, her Lady Aunt had said it was true.

She told a story once of a highborn woman determined to learn spellcasting. Witnesses said she chanted an incantation as the jewels around her throat blistered her skin in warning. Still, she didn't stop but kept reaching for the power within. A flash of light surrounded the woman; then a flame consumed her flesh until she dropped dead, a charred and unrecognizable lump of poor judgment.

Rosaya thought the system was unfair, but she kept her opinion to herself, not even telling Drianna how she felt. Her gentle cousin thought life was fair and lovely, no matter what.

They walked into the dining area and found the cook gossiping with the head housekeeper. Drianna signaled to Rosaya for silence, and they backed into the curtain separating the hallway from the table with practiced ease. It was the only way the two of them ever learned of anything interesting.

"Didja hear what the oracle had to say 'bout the latest disaster?" The cook gave a hearty laugh. Everyone knew the oracles came up with a new disaster each week, which the priests then announced they'd saved the Citadel from yet again with their piety and prayer.

"What's it about this time?" The housekeeper's eyes darted around, but she didn't linger on the crack in the curtain both girls were peeking out of. Rosaya was certain the woman knew they were here, though. She walked by them often enough and winked.

"How'd it go? Lemme think. Oh, it went: _Born in ignorance, the Halfling will return with the false prophet. Together they will slay the gods for all to witness as the earth exposes its secret. Woe to the priests on that day, for it is nigh. They come._ "

"Sounds like more of their gibberish, if you ask me," the housekeeper said. "Be on with you now. We've both got things to do, and the family will be wanting their breakfast."

The women both left the room. Drianna bounded through the curtain and slid into her chair like an exuberant child. Rosaya followed more slowly, the oracle's words bouncing around in her mind. They didn't make sense to her, but something about them sent a chill to run straight up her back. She hugged herself as she sat down and rubbed the coldness from her bones.

"I had hoped for better gossip than that," Drianna said. "After I'm betrothed, maybe I'll be invited to the teas with the other women. I hear they have things to say that will make us blush."

Darkness drove the light beneath the horizon as Rosaya and Drianna climbed the steps to the rampart and walked along the outer wall of the castle. The view dazzled Rosaya as it always had. Up here, she felt larger than life. Important. Like she had a grand purpose.

A cool breeze tickled her face, the arid heat of the day leaving along with the sun. Torch fire dotted the landscape below like so many flaming jewels. She wondered if the stories about the Citadel were true.

The lowborn household help moved freely between the castle and the Citadel. Rosaya often heard them talking about the great outdoor marketplace, a marvel of industry spanning twenty streets in each direction. They spoke of foods Rosaya had never tried, music she'd never heard, animals she'd never seen. It all seemed so exotic and exciting.

From this vantage point high on the wall, it looked beautiful, not dangerous.

"Do you think we'll ever be allowed to go into the Citadel?" she asked Drianna.

Her cousin cocked her head and glanced over at her. "Why would you want to? The fires would choke you, and they say the runoff from the housing walls would rot your sense of smell."

"They say, but how do we know?" Rosaya continued to watch the flickering points of light, their movements mesmerizing her. "I'd like to see for myself if the stories are true. They say there are other Citadels—grander than this one—farther east. I heard one castle even has a waterfall spilling from under the middle of its walls. Can you imagine?"

Drianna shook her head so hard the charms on her headdress rattled a discordant tune. "I'm happy right here. Out there is no place for a highborn lady."

"Yes, I know." Rosaya pitched her voice to mimic the Dowager Caroline, sounding like a squealing sow stuck in the mud. "A lady must never enter the Citadel without proper escort. The lowborn steal maidens, deflowering them and forcing them to work in the brothels."

Drianna giggled. "You sound just like her. She's telling the truth, though. If you were taken, no one would bother to come look for you. It's impossible to find anybody out there. The marketplace is like a maze, full of thieves and cutthroats. Can we speak of something more pleasant now?"

"All right." Rosaya didn't think the market could be as dangerous as their tutors made it out to be, but she didn't want to upset Drianna. "What do you make of the oracle's words?"

"There you go, hopping from one dark subject to another."

Rosaya ignored the criticism. "What do you think it means? Do you think there's a secret buried somewhere on castle grounds—like lost treasure? And how does one slay the gods? Maybe the wizard knows something about it."

If he did, would he tell her if she asked? Everybody said the wizards knew more about magic than the highborn. She'd never had a real conversation with Firrandor before, only the usual exchanging of pleasantries in passing—except for that one time, when he'd commented on her hair. She'd so wanted to give him a compliment back. He was beautiful in his own right, with long silvery hair almost the length of hers and lavender eyes shaded from light to dark, depending on his mood. It wouldn't do for her to be so familiar with him, though. Even now, she felt a blush rising to her cheeks and thanked the darkness for hiding her embarrassment.

She didn't even know his age. Though he looked to be in his mid-twenties, Rosaya knew wizards had much longer life spans. Rumor said they could be hundreds of years old and not look it. The thought repulsed her, and she quickly discarded the notion.

"I don't know," Drianna said, pulling Rosaya out of her musings and back to reality, "but I sure don't want to ever run into that Halfling, if he can slay the gods like the oracle said. He sounds horrible."

"Who's to say the Halfling is a man? It could be a woman."

Drianna shook her head at her. "A woman wouldn't try to slay the gods."

"If you say so." Rosaya dropped the subject, but the thought lingered in her mind long after the evening's activities came to an end.

Rosaya couldn't stay asleep. Each time she closed her eyes, she dreamed in a jumble of patterns—a fist thrusting up from the barren dirt in the garden where nothing would grow; a young boy in a black priest's robe, his stare unblinking and accusing; the wizard Firrandor reaching for her, his eyes changing to a blood-maddened violet.

Dawn would be here soon. No use lying in bed and staring into the darkness. She stripped out of her sweat-soaked gown, dressed in old clothes, and strapped her belt knife to her waist. Perhaps she'd go down to the kitchen and carve up some bread to take to the ducks at the pond.

The moon shone bright enough to easily walk through the garden without a mage torch to light her way. Rosaya halted in front of the statue of the Old Ones, her lungs tightening so that taking a breath became difficult. Anxiety curled in the pit of her stomach. Images from her dream slammed back into her thoughts, forcing Rosaya to relive the nightmare. Being awake, being here, somehow gave them more power over her.

She shuddered, the image of a fist bursting from the patch of dirt at her feet so vivid she jumped backwards to avoid it. Squeezing her eyes shut didn't help. More images followed, playing their scenes against the backs of her eyelids. A wizard's head elevated up from the dirt next, turning to stone as it rotated in the air.

A scream burned in her throat, but Rosaya had enough presence of mind to clap a hand over her mouth and stifle it. Summoning the guards as a prank carried stiff penalties—and a prank is how they would see it. She hurried away from the garden, only breathing deeply once she reached the safety of the kitchen.

"You're in early, my lady. Couldn't sleep?" The head cook had been baking for hours now, busy preparing the day's breads and sweets. Rosaya took an appreciative sniff at the wonderful smells, her body slowly relaxing.

"Is your excitement over your wedding getting you tied in knots? I can make you a soothing drink for that, if you like."

"Wedding?" Rosaya blinked in confusion, her thoughts slowing to a sluggishness, which had nothing to do with lack of sleep. "Whose? You mean Drianna's?"

"I mean yours. I hear the northern Citadel of Yirral is lovely in the winter, with its blanket of snow turning the scenery white and all. It doesn't have any of our desert sands or stinger bugs. Lots of tall fir trees, or so I'm told. I hear tell Thane Noreshra is a wise ruler, and I'm sure his second son will be as well, if it comes to that. Your uncle did you proud with the marriage."

Rosaya opened and closed her mouth several times, but no sound emerged. She'd already been betrothed and no one told her? They were going to cart her off to some place cold and desolate? She couldn't stay here with Drianna? She'd never see Firrandor again?

The cook gave her a puzzled look, but Rosaya couldn't think of a thing to say—not that she could have talked right then. Her throat felt like she'd swallowed a hot piece of coal. Tears threatened to swamp her cheeks at any moment. She ran out the door, blindly making her way back to her room where she collapsed on the floor in a puddle of misery.

Drianna found her that way when she came to check on her after sunrise, walking in when Rosaya didn't answer the knock on the door.

"Cousin! Are you ill? Did you fall?" Drianna knelt beside her and cradled her head. "You've been crying. Tell me what happened."

"C-cook s-said I'm betrothed to the second s-son of Thane Noreshra, in some northern Citadel. I c-can't stay here with you. Why did your Lord Father do this and s-say nothing? Why?" Rosaya heard the shrill pitch rising in her voice and fought to take a deep breath. Her lungs ached with the effort. Her head felt heavy and bloated, like the time she'd hit it after falling from the stone wall.

"I haven't heard any of this. You know I'd tell you if I had, don't you?" Drianna looked so worried as she peered into Rosaya's face that Rosaya felt guilty for her histrionics.

"I'm all right. Really. I'm sorry I scared you." It was the nightmare making her act so childish and needy, nothing more. She willed herself to believe it and rubbed at her eyes to stop the tears.

"Why don't you go back to bed?" Her cousin patted her cheek and bent over to kiss her. "I'll tell Mother you've taken ill. You rest and I'll come back later after I've found some answers. Don't worry. We'll make sense of this."

Rosaya wasn't as hopeful, but she nodded for Drianna's benefit and dressed for bed again, allowing her cousin to tuck her in like a small child.

Exhaustion carried her under, and Rosaya awoke to the sun shining overhead. She stretched, listening to people going about their noonday chores and feeling marginally better after getting some rest without dreaming. Then the news of her betrothal crashed to the forefront of her thoughts, wiping out her sense of wellbeing. Her eyes stung, already swollen from the earlier fit of crying.

She always knew this day would come. If she allowed herself to look at it objectively, her uncle had given her the greatest gift she would ever receive. To be married to a man who might one day be Thane? It was an honor beyond anything she could have hoped for, not being in direct line of succession herself.

And here she lay, sobbing her immature tears because she hadn't been consulted first. Rosaya shot straight up in bed, her heart on the verge of spasms as it beat against her ribs. No one dared argue with the Thane. His word was the law, no matter the consequence. What if Drianna told her Lord Father that Rosaya was unhappy with his plans? What if he reversed his decision in a fit of anger and sent Rosaya away to work as some Lady's handmaiden? _Please still my cousin's tongue_ , she prayed to the Old Ones, her fright now back but for a much different reason.

Leaping from the bed, Rosaya rushed to change her clothing. Drianna must be found and stopped before they both got in trouble. She couldn't bear to see her cousin punished for trying to help. _And I should be grateful for all that the family does for me._

The Thane didn't need to take her into his home when she was orphaned. He could have provided for his sister's only child in any number of ways without being directly involved. Instead, he took Rosaya in as a frightened six-year-old and raised her alongside Drianna. His act of compassion shouldn't be repaid by churlishness when he'd gone out of his way to make sure she was well cared for. Rosaya bolted from the room but skidded to a halt while trying to avoid a collision with the wizard.

Firrandor held out his hands as Rosaya crashed into his chest, gripping her arms and pulling her into a tight embrace. Muffled as she was within his cloak, she inhaled his scent and checked a sigh before pulling back a finger-length at a time until she stood upright on her own. He patted her shoulders and straightened her jeweled necklace, fussing with the placement more than her Lady Aunt would. Or maybe he enjoyed the contact with her skin. She ducked her head, and he let go, placing his hands in the pockets of his cloak.

"Are you feeling well, my lady? You're in much more of a rush than is prudent."

Rosaya stood captivated by the musical tones of his voice—a characteristic of all wizards—and didn't respond. Firrandor cupped her chin in his hand, a bold move made more intoxicating by its illicit nature. Long strands of his silver hair brushed her shoulder as he leaned forward, like he meant to whisper in her ear... or kiss her cheek. His hand dropped to his side, and he stepped back two paces moments before Drianna came around the corner.

"You seem to be feeling better now, my lady. By your leave?" He nodded to her and Drianna both with a bland smile and walked away, his silken cloak billowing in the breeze behind him as if trying to take wing and fly off. Rosaya watched him go, a vague disappointment gnawing at her. She'd hoped he'd stay long enough to have a real conversation.

"What did he want?" Drianna studied her face with concern.

"Nothing at all," Rosaya replied quickly. "I'm ashamed to say I ran into him when I rushed out the door looking for you. I almost knocked us both down."

"Why were you in such a hurry? I told you I'd come back as soon as I heard anything."

"I hope you didn't tell anybody I was upset?" Rosaya grasped the girl's hands in her own, silently pleading with her to say no. "I realize now how foolish I must have sounded. I should be happy about it."

Drianna laughed, and Rosaya relaxed her grip on their hands. "I know you better than that. It was the sudden shock, that's all. They're going to announce it formally tomorrow night, so I'm not supposed to say anything to you about the particulars, but don't worry, you'll like the surprise. I promise." Her eyes glinted with amusement as she spoke.

Rosaya groaned. "I hate surprises."

"I know." Drianna giggled.

Rosaya gave her a sour look but couldn't hold back a smile borne of relief. She hadn't caused insult to the family or angered them with her behavior.

When Rosaya prepared for bed that evening, she noticed a break in the pattern of her necklace. One of the smaller aquamarine jewels by the back clasp was missing. She didn't remember snagging it on anything—not that it mattered much. Only she could discern a gap in the placement since she'd designed and woven it herself. No one else would ever notice the minor variation.

With the necklace laid flat in her lap, she let her fingers hover over the metal, drawing the magic out of the stones and allowing it to flow through her fingertips and back over the silver. The metal shimmered and bent to her will, weaving a new pattern, filling in the space with a filigree flower where the jewel had been. Satisfied with the result, she set it down on the nightstand and climbed into bed.

A voice called out her name in the darkness. Had she been dreaming? She couldn't remember if she'd fallen asleep or not.

"Hello?" It was silly to speak aloud like that. No one was here. The room was magically protected against intruders.

The mirror on her dresser glowed for a moment, as if the light of the moon had been captured inside the glass. When Rosaya looked straight at it though, it darkened again. She glanced up at the window. The moon hung in the sky, fat and yellow. It could have caused the reflection, if it had been at the correct angle.

Sleep once again eluded her after that. The disembodied voice and the mirror had both spooked her. She decided to make another trip to the kitchen, only this time to bring the bread back with her. Last night she'd forgotten all about it after learning of her betrothal.

She didn't dawdle in the garden, practically running past the statue and through the kitchen door.

_I'm being ridiculous. Jumping at my own shadow._ Rosaya practiced her deep breathing as she cut the bread with her belt knife and wrapped the slices in a small cloth. She didn't linger; the cook was busy on the other side and had no time for more than a simple greeting.

The walk back through the garden relaxed her. Rosaya inhaled the fragrance of the night-blooming flowers, their sweet scent mixing with the bundle of warm bread.

She stopped in front of the statue, determined to prove to herself that the images she saw before were nothing but nightmares, not portents of things to come. A giant fist or a head of stone hadn't disturbed the smooth dirt in front of her after all. The only disturbed item was her imagination. Nothing more.

"It's you. You're the one."

Rosaya spun around to confront the voice. It belonged to a child, perhaps eight or ten years old. He wore no torque around his neck as any highborn male his age would, and his robe was of a simple black weave. That made him an oracle. Rosaya took a step back.

"Pardon me? I'm the one? I don't understand." Her gut tightened as he stared right through her, as if he were somewhere else. Her instincts told her to run, but her legs locked in place as she stood before him.

He let out a thin screech, and his eyes rolled back until Rosaya saw only the whites of them. Something splattered her face. Something warm. She swiped at it, and her fingers came away red.

The oracle fell backward. The light of the moon glinted on the knife hilt embedded in his chest.

Her knife.

She screamed and collapsed on the ground.

Rosaya opened her eyes to darkness, her breathing harsh to her ears, her back cold and stiff from lying on the ground. Where was she?

The rhythm of her heartbeat exploded, the knocking against her ribs matched by the pounding of blood in her ears. Something with tiny feet scurried over her hand, and she shrieked, scrambling to her feet and blindly running through the dark.

She didn't get very far. Her head crashed against metal, and she cried out in pain, one hand covering her forehead while the other flailed about in front of her. Metal bars. She was in the dungeon?

Rosaya wilted, sliding down the bars until she huddled on the ground. They must've thought she killed the oracle and locked her up in this horrible place.

She rested her head on her knees and wept.

At some point she'd fallen asleep, for the next time she opened her eyes, she saw light shining from a grate high above her head. Her swollen eyes burned as she looked at her surroundings.

And immediately wished she hadn't.

A desiccated body lay in the corner, little more than dried skin stretched over bones. Rosaya understood where she was, though she'd never seen it before. This was the oubliette, a hole in the ground where they left prisoners to die a slow death.

A faint mewling sound reached her ears. It took a moment to realize the noise came from her own throat. Wouldn't anyone come to her aid? Defend her honor? Ask her what actually happened?

No, she finally decided. They wouldn't. It was an automatic death sentence to murder a priest or an oracle, a sin against the Old Ones. They'd already condemned her, based on the evidence. Her knife protruded from the boy's chest. They found her at the scene with blood splattered on her face and clothes. What more did they need to know?

Only she had never unsheathed the knife, never touched it with her hand. Certainly never stabbed him with it! So how did the blade end up buried in his heart? Only magic could have done something like that. A spell, which meant a highborn male. Why? She wasn't a threat to anyone.

"I didn't do it," she whimpered before rising to her feet and looking up at the grate. Was anybody up there, close enough to hear her?

"I didn't do it! Help me!" Her scream carried no answering response from above. She was going to die down here, and no one cared.

Darkness hung thick with despair when Rosaya heard a faint voice. She'd watched the light track across the dirt floor all through the long day. A day spent without food or water. A day spent without the comfort of another voice.

Until now.

Had she imagined it in a desperate attempt to find solace? She held her breath for fear of missing it, should the voice speak again.

"Rosaya?" A faint whisper—not from above, though. This was off to the side, beyond the bars.

"I'm here! Please help me."

"Shh. You must be quiet. Stay still. I'm here to get you out."

The voice carried no more than a breath of air, and Rosaya couldn't tell who it was. Not that it mattered. She needed to get out of here so she could tell her side of the story to the Thane.

A lock clicked. The bars creaked from disuse as the door opened. Rosaya fell into a bundle of material as she lunged for the doorway.

"Wrap yourself in this. Hurry."

She fumbled with the wad of silky cloth, trying to find an edge to it. The person who had draped it over her head hadn't tried to fit it to her in any particular way. Instead, he grabbed her like a sack of grain. Rosaya clamped her mouth shut on the protest trying to emerge for the rough handling. She wasn't in a position to complain about anything.

After waddling up steps and tripping over the material wrapped around her, strong hands clasped her waist and lifted her onto a horse.

"Keep your face covered," the voice warned, still whispering, but this time Rosaya caught the faint drift of a lyrical note. It was Firrandor, the wizard. He was rescuing her?

"I need—"

"Don't speak. We'll talk later, after you're safe."

With that she had to be patient, but if the wizard had to sneak her out of the pit, did that mean nobody else would listen to her side? Tears stung her eyes but didn't fall. She didn't have enough moisture left in her body for that.

As if he could read her mind, Firrandor handed her a skin filled with liquid—wine or water, she didn't care which—and swung up onto the horse behind her. They trotted through the gates instead of heading toward the castle. Rosaya would be seeing the Citadel for the first time in her life. Too bad the circumstances prevented her from enjoying it.

The wide stone roadway leading from the front gate soon narrowed and changed to dirt, muffling the sound of their passage. Rosaya stared at the low-slung buildings, firelight illuminating the faces of people staring back at her, their movements jerky in the flickering shadows.

Her stomach growled as the aroma of cooking meats drifted back to her. Still, they didn't stop, the horse plodding along through this alien landscape.

Disoriented, Rosaya caught snatches of music spilling out from behind colorful rugs draped over open doorways. Laughter mingled with the pungent scents of soured beer and sweat.

Soon the air fouled her lungs, heavy with the smoke of torches. There wasn't any mage fire out here. The lowborn didn't have magic. For the first time, Rosaya questioned her long-held belief that life out here would be exciting.

"The lowborn live a hard existence out here," Firrandor said, once again seeming to read her thoughts. "You must obey my rules if you want to survive, for if you don't, the hordes out here will tear you to pieces."

Rosaya trembled at his words, and he pulled her closer to his body, the rocking movement of the horse's tired strides bouncing her tighter into his embrace.

At last they came upon a tiny house, jammed against others looking just as pathetic and dirty. It was here they stopped, and Rosaya stifled a sob in her throat as she gazed at her new home.

Two months had gone by. Two months of being stuck inside this cramped house on the edge of the Citadel. Two months of nightly visits by a wizard Rosaya once thought of as gallant and exciting.

Now she loathed the night. Loathed him as well. How had she ever been so naïve?

In the beginning, Firrandor had promised to seek an audience with the Thane, to plead her innocence. Rosaya entertained the hope of going back home again. The wizard soon grew tired of playing that game, however, and dropped the subject, ignoring her queries and threatening to leave her at a brothel if she didn't do as he asked.

The days weren't much better. Most of her time was spent alone and lonely. Only the weekly visit from the grocer gave her anyone to talk to, and he didn't say much more than "good morning" and grunt at any question she might ask.

She'd learned a few things during her captivity. Things like never trust any wizards, for they only do as they please. Never trust a highborn either, for the same reason.

Firrandor told her the other oracles had confirmed she was connected with their prophecy of doom in some way. The Thane had declared her dead on the spot—no asking her why she did it or any words of remorse. Not wondering about it at all. Rosaya's heart ached for Drianna, who couldn't possibly believe the lies. As for the rest of the highborn, it was obvious to her that she didn't matter at all.

The wizard seemed to be adept at reading thoughts as well. She didn't think many knew about that talent in a wizard. Rosaya practiced maintaining a blank mind around him, envisioning a smooth shield wrapped around her head. From his puzzled looks, she guessed she did fairly well.

He'd also taught her the art of sex. It seemed to be the only skill she possessed out here amongst the lowborn. No one had ever taught her what it might be like to live without magic.

He taught her the art of listening too; for during sex, the wizard liked to talk. She learned his magic had aimed the knife that fateful evening, setting her up with no one to turn to but him.

Rosaya thought back to that conversation. It was the last time she cried.

"Hold your useless tears," he'd said. "Nothing in life is free. You took an interest in me, remember?"

"I didn't know any better!" Hot tears continued to splash her cheeks, rivulets dripping off her chin.

"Now you do." He grinned and gripped her chin in his hand, tightening his fingers until she whimpered. His eyes changed from lavender to a reddish-violet as he studied her pain. "Do as you're told, and I can be very generous. You can have a fine house. Beautiful clothes. Whatever you desire."

"My freedom?"

His fingers clamped her jaw even harder until she lowered her eyes in submission. Firrandor had set her up and tears wouldn't change that. Only planning would get her out of this situation. She had to be more cunning than he was. More deadly, if that's what it took.

Whatever was needed, she'd do it. The time for tears had come to an end.

The latest lesson had come to her only yesterday. She kept the revelation carefully hidden, but it would only be a matter of time before he knew. She had to act quickly.

Today was grocer day, and she was ready for the man. The spell on the house kept the lowborn from entering or leaving. A simple spell for a wizard and one which would also trap Rosaya, since she didn't have any jewels on her. They'd stripped her of them the night they'd thrown her in the hole. What Firrandor forgot about highborn women was the fact they had an affinity for any jewel. The sole purpose in a highborn woman's life was to store magic in jewels and transfer it to her husband. How could a wizard know that it worked both ways? Even Rosaya hadn't known. She doubted any highborn woman knew. When would it have ever been tested?

The aquamarine jewel the wizard had stolen from her necklace—the morning he'd caught her as she stumbled into him—was easy for her to find in the kitchen cupboard. He'd stashed it there and apparently forgotten about it. With enough vacant hours to think on the problem, Rosaya had practiced reversing the magic she used to weave metal, drawing the magic into her instead of letting it flow out. She siphoned the magic from Firrandor a little at a time, always when he was distracted by her body, until she felt she had enough magic stored to break through the spell on the house.

The risk would be worth it. Rosaya was even reasonably sure she'd be successful. She doubted the wizard had ever bothered to find out what prophecy the oracle accused her of being a part of. He'd never mentioned anything about a Halfling prophecy to her. If he'd heard that, she was sure Firrandor would be keeping a tighter grip on her. Chances were good the oracles wouldn't speak of that particular aspect to a wizard.

She remembered it, though. It burned in her mind like a beacon, shining brighter than anything she could ever hope to accomplish in her life. As the knock sounded on the door, she crossed the room and opened it.

Now for the final test. Would her theory work? She took a step toward the man holding the box of fruits and vegetables, but instead of taking it from him, Rosaya edged to one side of the large man and slid past his bulk. Her skin tingled as if passing through a curtain of weak lightning, but the energy didn't bounce her back inside, as it had done the other times she'd tried to leave. Smiling to herself, Rosaya left the puzzled grocer behind and sprinted out into the hot sunshine.

The child growing inside her was the Halfling the prophecy spoke of. Rosaya was sure of it now. The wizard would never get his hands on this child. She would raise it according to the prophecy: ignorant of its origins. One day, her child would return to this place, to the Citadel of Palatta and the people who destroyed Rosaya's life. The child would bring the False Prophet with her or him, slay the gods, and ruin the priests' lives—just like they'd ruined hers. Everybody would be sorry they threw Rosaya in the hole to die without even asking for the truth.

_Born in ignorance, the Halfling will return with the false prophet. Together they will slay the gods for all to witness as the earth exposes its secret. Woe to the priests on that day, for it is nigh. They come._

Rosaya hoped she lived long enough to see that day arrive.

#

Theo slugged down the last dregs of his coffee in the cramped kitchen he and his father shared and walked the cup over to the sink.

"Halloween party, pigeon shit!" he snapped, glancing again at his Julius Caesar costume tossed over the kitchen chair. Why had he picked that costume out of all the many possibilities? The stupid fake gold laurel wreath, the cheesy toga, and faux leather Roman sandals. Theo figured when he chose this getup he must've been identifying with the real assassination of Caesar by his senators in 44 BCE—twenty-three stabs, what a crap way to go. Trying to ignore his own dread had obviously not worked; he'd reconstructed it unconsciously.

A sickening pulse throbbed in Theo's gut as if his heart had slopped down to claim the already cramped space. Today wasn't just Halloween; it was Theo's hearing on the 'shroom ticket. And it wasn't a matter of one dinky little bag of fungi. His father, normally a retiring legal secretary Theo had nicknamed El Wimpo, had called the cops after a routine plumbing repair during school hours revealed Theo's secret stash of a hundred loaded packets taped to the underside of his toilet lid.

"Et tu, Brute," Theo read the _Wikipedia_ line about Caesar off his digital phone and then snapped it closed. So even Caesar's close friend, or illegitimate son, Brutus—depending on which source you believed—felt the need to off this despotic man.

In Theo's case, however, it was more about his despotic mother—Lara. After five years gone, Lara's shadow was still larger than life. His father had never had the nerve to tell Lara off when she pranced out to "find herself in television."

His father's only utterance was, "Lara, I'm sorry you have to go to this extreme. But do what you must, dear."

Lara's star had risen quickly as the lead in _Beyond Bliss_ , the uber-global soap about a savvy blended family: Afro-American dad, Caucasian stepmom (with a dash of Venezuelan blood), adopted daughter from Chad, and son from Kazakhstan. How could Lara hold it together with this hybrid TV tribe yet flee so chaotically from her organic one? _Power on, false idol!_

Theo had dog walking to do before school on this surprisingly sunny day. He didn't mind school. He was whip-smart at history and literature, due more to his father's head for facts than his mother's sheer bravado. Granted, the spill off from taking some of the 'shrooms he was dealing was pickling some of those synapses. But Theo needed it. The high. The world ever so sucked.

"Here, Kiki," he called to his gimpy hound as he threw on a jacket and returned to the kitchen to pick up two sections from the paper for a poop scoop.

He chose these sections with care. In a hateful mood, Theo often picked a photo of one of the President's cabinet members, most of who had never fought a war, but were drone-happy. Or, if he was in a playful mood, he might grab the wedding section; pick up dog doo between, say, Wendy Wild's shiny smile and Harold Undergarten's rather bulbous schnoz. In a philosophic mood, Theo would choose a book review where the critic had torn an author he was partial to a brand new butthole.

Theo had principles! No crapping on an intelligent Op Ed. Definitely not on a photo of a child or on any refugee from the mess in Syria.

He gripped Kiki's collar, eased her down the steep hall stairway, and then released it to let her scramble, out of control, down the last few steps as she seemed to prefer.

Outside, Theo squinted into the sun—such a placid day for the end of October. Crunchy, mineral-rich leaves underfoot with only a hint of exhaust snaking out from an idling cable service truck. He sidestepped a smashed cigar and a scattering of someone's discarded yellow rice takeout.

If the hearing went badly, Theo might wind up in jail. Would they lead him away in handcuffs? It _would_ have to be warm today and thoroughly reminiscent of a sunny grade school recess during his last hours of freedom.

Theo did love his dog. Kiki had to be cajoled along, as her bones hurt. They rounded the iron-scrolled entranceway into Stuyvesant Park and made their way along the cobbled pathway.

Kiki sniffed sticks, dried whirls of poop and someone's castoff Nike. They made their way around the perimeter, the same route they always followed.

_A dog's life is a continual walk around a fenced-in path. We're all dogs_ , he decided, walking in prescribed circles.

There was a loud squawking. Looking up, Theo watched two jays flap above the peg leg statue of Peter Stuyvesant and arc smoothly over the tallest walnut tree.

_Birds. If I were a bird, not a feckless hound dog, I could soar away._

Theo sighed. While he paused to let Kiki, round-backed, do her business, he pulled two _Times'_ sections from his pocket.

It was a toss-up between a _House & Home_ story called "Old Growth Finds New World" about a pretentious "reclaimed" teak dream house renovation from disassembled Asian huts and the _Style_ section featuring various heinous Hollywood It Girls, all studiously disheveled.

Squeezing Kiki's business between _Style's_ bold "Who Would Be Star" headline and the vacuous starlets, Theo thought darkly of Lara and her idiotic soap job.

Lara was beautiful. Lara was getting rich. Lara hadn't called her son in months.

_I've got to get out of this state of mind_ , Theo decided, clicking open his mobile to call his business partner and bête noir Viktor Zerkin of Mermaid Avenue.

_At least for these last seven hours, I'll pretend I'm free._

His heavy boots clomped up the stairwell. Theo loped in, a giant weighted down by his own muscle, upper lip beading with sweat, tousled sandy hair, expression blotto after his midmorning smoke.

"Hey," he mumbled to Viktor.

"BBQ?" Viktor pointed to a plate of greasy ribs on his cluttered table. Theo plunked down in a chair. He grabbed a rib and bit in.

Viktor studied Theo, apparently watching thick waves of self-pity roll across his face. And Theo paused from chewing to stare back at Viktor.

Viktor was a Coney Island blimp, and the crotch of his jeans hung down around his knees as if he'd just dumped an elephant load. He grabbed a rib, bit in, and hiked his pants up with the other hand before sitting across from Theo. Viktor knew about the hearing. They had discussed how it might negatively affect business. Viktor would take over sales, but with Theo "up river," distribution would suffer.

"So," said Viktor, "you going to let them incarcerate you. No fight?"

Theo stared at the growing pile of rib bones. "It's either lockdown or some weird community service." Rather than look again at Viktor, Theo glanced around at the familiar space.

Viktor was a senior, whenever he made it to school, but already he had his own apartment. It wasn't filled with the detritus of simple squalor, but the kind that implied an in-utero diet of Sprite, Doritos, and methamphetamine. A misleading implication, though, because his mother was a dermatologist with a busy practice, and his father was a decorated veteran of the Chechen conflict. Maybe Viktor resented that his father had lost an arm and couldn't pitch a baseball for his son like any all-American dad. Or maybe Viktor was overanxious about his future.

This seemed the case when Theo had invited Viktor once to dinner.

Over Chinese takeout, El Wimpo had asked Viktor what his future plans were.

"Well, sir," Viktor had answered politely enough, "I want to attend John Jay College of Criminology."

Under his bifocals, El Wimpo's watery blue eyes had widened and then discreetly darted down to his General Tso's chicken. "That's nice," he said, "to become a criminal lawyer?"

Viktor chuckled loudly. "No, sir, to learn how to beat the system."

A terse silence had followed. Theo was shocked, and amused, and mentally stashed the outrageous line in his amygdala for a future novel. Clearly, Viktor was just being provocative.

For whatever reason, Viktor had a grifter's mind. He also blew at housekeeping. There were the sweaty sheets wrinkled up on his bare mattress, ancient CDs, sans covers, thrown around like so many cracked Frisbees, and congealed candle wax clotting the linoleum floor.

Theo brushed rib grease off his hands onto a lightly used napkin, then ambled over to Viktor's system, and put on Trance. After they polished off all the ribs, Theo distributed the 'shrooms for his last hurrah.

Near the boardwalk, Nathan's frankfurters with sauerkraut were purchased to top off their meal. Theo and Viktor slapped those back with foamy root beers in an explosion of oral orgasms as the 'shrooms took hold.

They hiked up the stairs to the salt-splintered phalanx of boardwalk, with Viktor's pretentious pearl-tipped cane making thwacking noises on the dry wood, and strode past three unseasonably haltered girls, a bauble vendor in a beanie, and a pack of pimpled homies. The barks of Ludacris clashed with the retro jingles of electronic disco on rival outdoor speakers. With the tide out, the beach yawned as broad as two football fields. The air was scented with rancid shellfish and candied nuts. They strode past one open T-shirt shop, many shuttered stores, and a tattoo parlor. Farther on, a sign said the Cyclone was closed until next Memorial Day.

Viktor led the way around the booth that dared the viewer to "See a Rat as Big as a Dog." They both knew it was a capybara because after they'd spent many an afternoon gazing at its beady eyes and bristled red hair, Theo had researched it. Today, the large cage was closed and padlocked.

"I know where they store that thing off-season," said Viktor.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, follow me." Viktor led him farther down the boardwalk and said hello to a bald, muscled man sunning on a stool by an unmarked building. The bald guy, who frowned at Theo, nodded as Viktor slipped him a baggie. Theo followed Viktor in. The space was dimly lit, with a gutted look—papers strewn about, a trash can overturned—as if a nefarious business had packed up quickly.

Viktor led the way to an oversized wooden crate. "Here."

Short, startled grunts came from inside it, as if the creature sensed what might follow.

Laughing, Viktor took hold of the top and lifted it. "Hello, Mr. Rat," he said.

Theo leaned over and watched while Viktor used his cane tip to poke the beast in the side of its thick neck. The four-foot long capybara whipped its head up and bared its teeth, after which it went into a series of seemingly involuntary jaw snapping. "Clat, clat, clat!"

"Listen to it," gasped Viktor between howls of laughter.

"Maybe it's hungry or something," Theo decided. There was something incredibly sad about its tartar-covered teeth.

"You think it likes gum?" asked Viktor.

"Naw, maybe bread." Theo held out a piece of hotdog roll. He'd pocketed it to feed to the gulls, but this beast seemed to need it more, the way its ribs stuck out. Weren't capybaras supposed to be fatter?

Viktor pulled back Theo's outstretched hand using the hook part of his cane. "Not so fast, Brainiac. Make it do a trick."

"Aw, man, I dunno." Theo thought of old Kiki, of dogs begging for scraps, of people begging for scraps, how wild beasts were caged and dogs were caged, how no one was free, except maybe the jays who could trail off, winging sideways. He thought of the hearing and about jail.

"Going soft on me, Brainiac?"

Theo laughed it off. "It's just... uh, that doorman looks pretty hardcore."

When Viktor laughed, it sounded like scouring pads rubbing together. "Him? That guy's a loser."

_A loser like me_ , _like El Wimpo?_ Theo needed Viktor's protection at school. Last month Viktor had bashed some mad junkie kid in the back with his cane for Theo. The kid was sparring for a fight because Theo had "blinked at him funny." Plus, Theo just plain needed someone to hang with. He and Viktor were businessmen-in-training. God forbid that Theo might end up a legal secretary on pauper's wages like El Wimpo.

So what if he had to start sketchy, selling fake IDs and 'shrooms now and then. It was funny, yeah, hilarious material for a future novel Theo would write after he made his billion in business and could sit back on his droopy laurels at thirty. Good material, yeah, no problem.

Theo held out the hotdog roll. The capybara strained to reach it, grunting loudly.

"Higher!" said Viktor. His heavy-lidded eyes gleamed.

Theo was pretty sure capybaras couldn't jump, or even go up on their hind legs, so at this rate the poor bastard would never eat. "C'mon, yo."

"Okay, softie, throw it a roll," Viktor ordered. "We've got bigger business to take care of."

The second Theo tossed the roll, the boar snatched it in its shovel jaw and swallowed it in one long gulp. When Viktor walked toward the door, Theo snuck in a quick pat, to which the creature snapped at his arm. It's unsafe to show affection, he decided, thankful for quick reflexes.

Theo and Viktor charged back outside into the shockingly mild air. They tromped down the boardwalk stairway to the beach and wound around trash cans on their trek toward the surf.

Theo spotted a gull pecking on a discarded sandwich. The bird flew up, a piece of cheese dangling from its beak. The sun beat down crazy-odd for the season; it loosened Theo's angst, or was it just 'shroom juice infiltrating? Whatever.

Sparks played in his vision, their violet spurs dancing against the dirty-blond matrix of sand grains. The migration of each bounding spur made his focus dart from the surf, to an old lady in a scarf running a metal detector over the sand, to a group of squawking gulls, back to the sun, strobing in shoosh, out shoosh, in pashooshka to the beat of the breakers.

Halfway to the water's edge, Viktor dropped where he stood, clearly not caring that his T-shirt was caught in his rolls of fat. Theo sat self-consciously, weighed by unused cords of muscle from last year's bodybuilding. He'd gotten pretty buff back then, but it had all gone to hell after he'd suffered a torn shoulder ligament. He missed the exercise, the feeling of strength, the feel of thick, hot blood coursing through him.

"Ever been to jail?" he asked Viktor.

"Yeah."

Theo was surprised, but figured he shouldn't be. His chest pinched with a clammy dread. "Is it bad? I mean, how did you get through it?"

Viktor's tone was proud, almost triumphant. "Played cards. Talked shit. Got chumps to do stuff for me."

Theo wondered how you got anyone to do anything for you. "I should get a real job. If I ever get out of this."

"I got a job," said Viktor.

"Yeah?" If Viktor could land a normal job, there was hope for the rest of the weirdos yet. Theo shielded his eyes from the sun. "What job?"

"At a loan shark's. To learn how to beat the system."

Theo felt as if termites were suddenly crawling on his face, skittering along the hot, damp folds of his intestines. "You're joking, right?"

"What's to joke? Why work some lame nine to five." With his cane, Viktor pointed at the old lady skimming the sand with her clunky machine. "She makes money. She gets diamond rings, all kinds of loot."

"Yeah, but... why not _sell_ metal detectors or something," Theo said, "instead of working for a freaking loan shark."

Viktor ignored the comment. His rather beady eyes gleamed as he glanced over at Theo. "Let's do one last deal before they send you to the big house."

"Uh, maybe." Theo pushed at the sand with his boot. He watched some shirtless dudes with paddleboards walk along the breakers to the jetty and suspected, in his rising paranoid high, they were knights invading the beach. The sand under him was twisting and turning to black tar. His boots sank in it. And ahead, the ocean peeled back to a rubbery smirk. Theo blinked hard and rubbed his eyes.

He was incredibly tired of the business.

Forcing himself to straighten out a bit, he shifted focus to the lady with the metal detector. If he could only get out of his own head and...

She hobbled over to a chaise, the kind of cheap folding number found at the Dollar Store.

Viktor glanced over too. "Yo, spaceman, let's get that metal detector."

"Huh? We don't need—"

Viktor snorted. "Going soft for sure." His cheeks spread like those cheesy computer animation programs from the nineties, morphed into the hairy capybara they had messed around with.

Theo rubbed his eyes until he could hear the liquid squish around inside them. His throat clutched up.

"You having a bad trip?" Viktor grabbed Theo's shoulders and shook him.

Theo pulled away. A wave of high washed through him again. Termites swarmed where Viktor's hands had been. "Nah, man, it's just... we have better things to do."

"Let's go." Viktor struggled to his feet, yanked up his pants, and brushed off the sand. He prodded Theo with his pearl-tipped cane.

Theo shivered as he got up. It was suddenly overcast. The air was tinged with a murkier marine smell, as if the wind had unearthed bottom-feeding fish and primeval black seaweed normally knotted firmly to the cold ocean floor.

Theo followed reluctantly, anger flickering in him. They were ten paces away now, and the old bag was talking to herself. No, wait, there was something small, moving on the other side of her chair. It had a long pink tail. What the hell, some kind of weasel?

Witchy wind chimes tickled Theo's inner ear. He shook his head to drive out the 'shroom-inspired sound.

"Let's go," snapped Viktor, closing in on the old lady, who turned and stared at them, her expression a muddle of wrinkles and questions.

A gust of wind almost knocked Theo down, followed by a thunderous pounding of rain. From the side of his vision, he saw Viktor's cane raised and then a wild circling of newspaper pages.

"Leave her alone!" Theo shouted. He grabbed the asinine cane and threw it, javelin style far down the beach.

"You don't do that and survive," yelled Viktor, struggling after the cane.

A shriek. Theo turned. The woman's face was creased in pain, her sunken brown eyes pleaded, bony hands outstretched. "My paper!"

Paper was everywhere, snapping. Theo ran toward the surf. He leapt, caught a page just before it flew from reach. Its headline: "The Value of Zero is Rising." His eyes burned from the rain as he reached for another. Its headline: "Festivity Tinged with Violence." Near that one, another page keyed up like a kite in the dark sky. Theo caught that; it said, "Old Growth Finds New World."

_Funny._ T _he same section I almost used for Kiki this morning._ As he ran for the bulk of the remaining paper, glued to the sopping sand, he decided "New World" sounded good, not pretentious. _New._

Theo folded the drenched papers, stuffed them in the crook of his arm, and turned back toward the woman. Viktor had retrieved his cane and was grabbing the metal detector by her chaise. The woman's face looked like that _Scream_ painting in El Wimpo's library.

"My dog!" she shrieked this time.

"Stop it, Viktor!" yelled Theo as he made a dash for the woman's little critter. The scrawny dog was tearing around in circles, trailing its rat-pink tail and yowling.

He grabbed its rosy strap, soft in his hand. It was actually a tattered lady's stocking.

She can't even afford a proper leash, Theo realized as he trotted the mixed breed over and handed her the drenched stocking end and the folded newspapers. "Here," he said, noting that Viktor was now halfway to the boardwalk.

The old lady bent stiffly to enfold the tiny creature. Once she had a firm grip on its leash, she squirreled away the paper in a coat pocket. Then she stood back up and gazed at Theo. "You're a good boy," she croaked.

His heart caught in his throat, and his eyes blurred. He was glad for the rain.

The lady smiled weakly, then picked up her folded chair, and hobbled toward the boardwalk.

Theo ran ahead of her after Viktor, who was almost to the stairs. Even though the rain was now a solid wall of water, it was effortless to catch up. Was it adrenaline, determination, or a bit of both? He could see Viktor's T-shirt clinging to his rolls of fat.

"Stop, asshat!"

Of course, Viktor kept walking.

_Big business man, big thief, big baby._ Theo snorted from the thought. He grabbed the metal detector from Viktor's left hand and the pearl cane from his right.

Easy—this was so much easier than he'd ever imagined. The trick was to make that move and see it in different terms.

_Reverse the order of victim and dark hero._

Before Viktor could spin around, Theo stuck the cane against his back. "Et tu, Brute!" he yelled through the rain and jabbed it in for effect.

"Hey," Viktor shouted back, "what's that supposed to mean?"

"Look it up, lowlife." Theo threw the cane as far as he could down the beach and ran back toward the old lady with the metal detector in his hand.

_I'm flying, unconstrained, above the park perimeter, above my stupid little life._

Later, alone in a café on the boardwalk, drinking warm coffee and coming down from the 'shrooms, Theo flipped open his cell and speed-dialed.

"Dad?"

"Where are you?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm heading back."

He heard his father's relieved sigh. There had been too many missed appointments, disappearances, broken promises.

"Hey, Dad, I know this sounds crazy but... thanks."

"For what?" A hitch in his father's breath caught him by surprise.

Theo wanted to say thanks for caring enough not to protect him from his own mess. He wanted to say that going to this hearing was more important than any stupid Halloween party, no matter how good the booze or candy or curvy women dressed in witches' gear might be. But that would be way too syrupy. Still, Theo's heart swelled. What he did say was, "Dad, we'll wing it together to the hearing, and that will be that."

**Author's Note:** The original incarnation of "The Day of the Flying Dogs" was written a few years ago on the Ides of March (March 15), bringing in all the elements of that day, including weather, sights and newspaper articles. The Ides got its name from Roman times. Specifically, it was the day of dictator Julius Caesar's assassination in the senate house by a group of conspirators, led by his close friend Brutus. Some even thought that Brutus might have been his illegitimate son. Shakespeare made the phrase "Et tu, Brute" famous, as Caesar's exclamation of shock that even a very good friend could betray him. It has also been interpreted as the couched threat, "Your turn next!" Hope you enjoy my new twist on it.

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CHAPTER ONE

Electrical currents zipped through the snug, our own small, but private room at the Blind Badger pub. The hairs on my arms and neck stood straight as newly planted headstones. Lights flickered on and off. Normally I'd have written it off to the electrical storm outside. _If_ there had been an electrical storm outside. Besides, _normal_ was a rare commodity if your name happened to be Indigo Eady.

I swiped my sleeve at the condensation on the lead glass windowpane. The thickness, with its swirling imperfections and tiny bubbles, made seeing out difficult, like looking through the bottom of a soda bottle. But the situation was clear enough. Although mist gathered and pooled before trickling down the pane, no thunder or lightning played part in the storm. No, the rumbling that shook the pub definitely came from _inside_.

Badger came in a few minutes later, his broad shoulders hunched. The amber flecks in his brown eyes stood prevalent, a sure sign of worry. He ran his fingers through shaggy brown hair that looked as if he'd already done it dozens of times. My fingers itched to do the same. I shook my head. _Focus, Indigo._

"Thanks for coming, guys. I'm at my wit's end here. I didn't know what else to do, so I called you," said Badger.

"Yeah, _who ya gonna call?_ " Simon muttered, quoting an overused line from _Ghostbusters_.

"Seriously, dude?" I shot him a warning glare. Clearly, Badger was in no mood for jokes. "All right, tell us what's been happening."

Simon grinned a half-hearted apology and pulled a pencil and notepad from his pack, ready to take notes.

Before we could start though, the lights flickered again. Rumbling shook the snug. A cacophony of running footsteps pounded down the hall, echoing past our little room to eventual silence. We stared at each other wide-eyed. I took a breath to speak, but Badger shook his head in warning, a finger to his lips. We waited.

"THEY ARE HERE. WE HAVE BEEN _BETRAYED, BETRAYED, BETRAYED_!" The words echoed ominously, receding down the hall in pursuit of the footsteps. The disembodied voice held a slight accent. French?

"Wha-what the bloody hell was _that_?" Simon's voice squeaked a bit at the last word. He perched on the bench, ready to spring.

" _That_ ," said Badger, "is what's been happening." He sat down next to Simon. "Every night since Tuesday, just before closing. Over and over, the same ruddy thing."

"That's four days! Why didn't you call sooner?" I said. Our eyes met and held. I tried not to sound accusing. But seriously, who else did the guy know whose specialty was putting ghosts to rest? And after the last case, I thought... Well, obviously I was mistaken.

"I didn't want to be a nuisance." Badger glanced away, looking uncomfortable. He turned to the fireplace and added a couple of logs. He busied himself with poking viciously at the coals. "You're still recovering, both of you. I felt it was too soon."

_Too soon for whom?_ I brooded silently as Badger poured three mugs of coffee and passed them around.

I wrapped both hands around my mug. Warmth tingled my fingers through my gloves. As an American from sunny San Diego, I was still adjusting to the damp English weather.

"Truth be told, we were getting a bit bored," said Simon. "After weeks of spooks in the house, the silence is bloody well eerie."

I nodded in agreement.

It had been a difficult time. My cousin Bryan, Simon's little brother, had returned from heaven to retrieve his teddy bear, and we'd had a heck of a time figuring out how to send him back. Simon was right; the quiet afterward drove us batty. But Badger's reluctance to call seemed like more than that. We had gotten close on that last case. Even if we were pretending to be a couple to throw a suspect off, those kisses were real. _They were._

I tucked stray strands of black hair that had escaped my braid behind my ears. The slight tremble in my hands had nothing to do with the haunting and everything to do with the awkwardness that always seemed to spring up between Badger and me after a case. "So it plays out on a loop? The same thing, over and over, every time? With the same French accent?"

Badger nodded.

"Okay. There's got to be a reason for the sudden haunting. Did anything happen on Tuesday? Was it the anniversary of anything special?"

Badger shrugged. His shoulders slumped beneath the green Pendleton shirt. "It was just a normal day. I had a split shift, so I came in for the second shift around three." His brow furrowed. "I wiped the bar, then served some pints."

"What else, mate? Think," said Simon. There had to be more. Hauntings didn't generally appear out of the blue for no reason.

Badger shook his head slowly. "Nothing. Except a plumbing leak. The plumbers had to knock out a wall to get to it, but I don't see..."

Tingling crept up my spine. I turned to Badger. "The wall—what was behind it?"

"I dunno. I didn't actually look very closely. The lads didn't go all the way in either. Only far enough to reach in to patch a pipe. Now that I think about it though, they scarpered out of there rather quickly. Why?"

"Because something long hidden must've been freed when they broke through that wall," said Simon.

_Oh crap._
CHAPTER TWO

Badger led the way down the hall. We passed the kitchen and loos, then turned left, and wound through several passages. Lights flickered.

"We're getting close," said Badger, right before darkness closed in on us. "Hold on." He fumbled in his pockets, and then a slim beam of light appeared. We continued along the slanting fieldstone floor, placing our feet carefully.

"It's here." Badger shone the penlight at a jagged hole the size of a beach ball near the base of the wall.

Water lingered in the crevices of the stone floor. We stooped to look inside. A room, about seven feet by seven feet, with much the same layout as the snug spread out before us. In it were a splintered wooden table and chairs and a long dead fireplace, ashes cold as the grave. A thin layer of dust covered the contents. Dust particles floated through the beam of light.

I reached out my hand and touched a loose brick. The vision kicked in immediately. The fireplace sprang to life. A man dressed in eighteenth century garb paced the floor. He wore a tricorn hat, a jacket with long tails, and breeches to the knees. White stockings revealed his calves. He was deep in thought when he suddenly turned to me. Our eyes met, his angry. "Get out!" he yelled. "You have no business here!"

I released my touch on the brick and fell backward, cradling my hand. Blisters had risen on my already scarred palm. I sucked in a breath at the stinging and tried unsuccessfully to stand.

"What is it?" asked Badger. "What'd you see?"

"I heard it," said Simon. "A voice. It yelled at us to get out." Simon was able to hear spirits, but Badger had no psychic abilities at all.

I struggled to my feet, a boy at each arm to help me up. The air became thick, dense. A translucent silhouette drifted through the wall and barreled into Badger with superhuman momentum. The force sent him several feet into the air and slammed him against the wall. A loud thwack resounded as his head hit the stone wall, and he slumped down to the floor.

"Badger!" I screamed and tried to reach for him, but Simon had hold of my arm and shoved me the other way.

"Go!" he shouted. "I'll get him."

I turned and ran, but didn't hear footsteps behind me. When I glanced over my shoulder to look, Simon lay sprawled across Badger. My heart stopped mid-beat.

"No, no, no," I muttered under my breath and raced back along the corridor, trailing a finger along the wall to sense my way through the darkness. The energy we left on the way in still clung to the walls, making retracing my steps manageable. The kitchen was empty, the staff having gone home a few hours earlier. The shelves were neat and organized until I began pushing things out of the way and knocking stuff to the floor. _Aha!_ A box of salt. After I snatched it, along with a flashlight—old pubs often lost power—I ran back the way I'd come. Nearly there, I tore open the spout and poured salt into my palm. Rounding the corner, the spirit's hands were raised toward the boys, holding them immobile but struggling up against the wall.

The spirit turned angry eyes on me as I ran forward. He didn't see the fistful of salt until it was too late. I flung it with all my might. Grains scattered like buckshot over his shimmering form. He dissipated in swirls of a white smoke-like substance. The boys fell to the floor.

"Nice work, Indigo." Simon rose from the floor, turning to help Badger, who had taken a harder blow to the head.

"Yeah, thanks for that." Badger raised his hand to the lump on the back of his head and winced. "What's that you threw at him?"

"Salt. I don't know how it works, exactly, but I read somewhere that it has purifying energy. It's only temporary, though. He'll be back." I shook the container of salt along the baseboard of the opening, making a continuous, unbroken line. Then I reached my hand inside the hole and poured another line. "That should hold for a while. Fair warning, though, this only buys us some time."
CHAPTER THREE

Arriving at the snug a little slower than when we left it, Badger eased onto the bench. Simon sat gingerly in the high back chair. I stoked the fire with my one good hand and then reached for the first aid box. Both boys suffered scratches and bruises around the neck and collarbone, and Badger had a lump on the back of his head.

"Here," said Badger. "Ladies first." By now, he was adept at treating my wounded hands. Using psychometry, the reading of energy or history through touch, was frequently hazardous to my health. Blistered palms were often the result.

I held out my left hand. Badger shook his head as he applied the cream. "You've really done it this time, Indie. No space between the blisters at all." He glanced up, and we locked eyes. "Except... right... here." He slowly raised my hand and placed a featherlight kiss on the tip of my index finger.

The blush crept up my neck and into my cheeks. Drat my traitorously pale skin. I cleared the lump in my throat before speaking.

"Your turn," I managed to croak. Taking the tube of cream from him, I squeezed a dab on my finger and cleared my throat again. "At least we learned one thing." I applied antiseptic to his scratches.

"I can't imagine what," Simon grumbled. "Except he's a right old codger, of course."

"He is that," I agreed. "But he's just a spirit. He didn't shrink in agony when you pinned him with your light beam, Badger. And his aura was... well, not white exactly. But sort of gray."

"And what does that mean in English?" Simon wiped at the blood on his nose.

"It means," I said, turning to dab at the blood on his chin, "that he's not malevolent."

"If by 'not malevolent' you mean he's a bloodthirsty, vile, sucker-punching bastard, then I agree." Simon's nasally tirade might have been effective if his face hadn't been covered in blood.

"No, I'm serious." I slid onto the bench next to Badger. "I've been thinking about it. His energy—it wasn't dark, not really."

"If he's not malevolent, then I'd hate to see one that really is," said Badger. "Pass the paracetamol."

Simon handed the bottle of aspirin across to Badger. "Then what is he? What's he doing here? What does he want?"

"He said it was none of my business. Whatever _it_ is. He's hiding something," I answered. He could have been hiding a fling from his wife or even a bottle of whiskey. With spirits, you never knew what sorts of things from life they clung to.

Badger drummed his fingers on the table. A deep furrow appeared between his brows. He'd gotten used to spirits, more or less, since knowing me, but it couldn't be easy. I drew the afterlife to me like a siren calling to sailors. Not purposely, of course. But word had gotten around that I could see and speak with them, and now I was sort of a celebrity, a novelty among ghosts. The regulars, anyway. Others, not so much.

"Not _hiding_ something." Excitement lit Badger's eyes. "He didn't want us near that room. It was more like he was _guarding_ something."

"That's it!" said Simon. "You're absolutely right. The question is how do we get close enough to find out what it is?"

Badger slowly shook his head and turned to me. "I got nuthin'. Indigo?"

As the so-called expert, they expected me to know what to do. _Think, Indigo. Think._ I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I replayed the earlier scene in my head. _The boys against the wall, the spirit's head turning to me when I rounded the corner. The way he held a boy up with each hand, like he couldn't deal with me right then because his hands were full._

A shiver crawled up my spine. My eyes popped open. "His hands were full!"

I intercepted a baffled glance between Badger and Simon. One that said _Indigo's left the building, but her body's still here._

"Look. Let's go over what we know." I picked up the notepad from the table and tried to decipher what Simon wrote. "Old cod... _codger_ ," I began.

Simon plucked the notebook from my hands. "Give me that before you hurt yourself. It says"—he gave me a mock-stern look—" _the old codger that spirited from the hole in the wall, dressed in eighteenth century garb, has the ability to lift heavy objects, Badger and me in particular._ "

"No, go back before that," I said. "Start from the beginning."

He flipped back through the pages. " _Static electricity circled through the room. Then a voice called out, 'They are here. We have been betrayed.' Footsteps, maybe three to six sets, ran past the snug and down the hall, and disappeared._ "

"That's it!" I said. "Don't you see? There were maybe three to six sets of footsteps running past that door."

Badger and Simon looked blank.

"Okay," said Simon, trying hard to understand.

"We only saw one ghost. I mean _I_ only saw one ghost—near the hole. While that spirit's hands were full dealing with us, those other spirits ran in another direction." I watched their faces as they processed the information.

"So what does that mean?" said Badger. "It can't be a coincidence. The two things must be related."

"Yes." I leaned forward. "The plumbing leak and hole in the wall triggered the release of the guardian spirit _and_ the haunting loop. They have to be connected, but somehow separate. But the real point is whatever happened here, it involves more than just the ghost-dude in the hall."

"So we have to figure out what happened back in the eighteenth century," said Simon.

"Exactly," I said.
CHAPTER FOUR

The battery-operated lantern sitting on the table between us cast a weak halo in the room. Simon's face glowed partially in shadow. He looked rather angelic with his blond hair and amber eyes reflecting the light. Cobwebs, damp, and mold pervaded the small records room deep beneath the Blind Badger where we searched for something out of the ordinary that might have occurred in the eighteenth century. My eyes strained to read the spidery text. I sighed, closed my eyes, and rubbed the spot on my forehead where a headache had developed.

Badger appeared in the room with hot, steaming cups of coffee. We'd been at it for hours and had found nothing of significance. From ledgers to diaries and journals, we had yet to find anything from the eighteenth century. A rather rousing dissertation on the evils of witchcraft from the seventeenth century gave me the shivers. I thought of the old saying, _There but for the grace of God go I_ , as I set the paper aside. But some penny dreadfuls from the nineteenth century gave us a few laughs.

Simon folded the paper he'd been going over and placed it carefully on the stack. The newspapers were yellowed, about a hundred and fifty years old and very fragile. "My eyes are going wonky, and I need a break."

"I don't understand why we've found everything _except_ the eighteenth century," said Badger. We'd searched through adjoining chambers to no avail. It was as if someone had hidden everything having to do with that particular era.

POP!

I jumped. My hand raced to cover my overworked heart. "Hannah, a little warning before you pop in would add a few more years to the paltry sixteen I already have."

"Sorry, Mistress." The seventeenth century serving wench bobbed a quick curtsy. "I found them, the papers." Her fingers twisted into her apron, and she bobbed up and down, unable to contain her excitement.

I pushed back from the table. "Where? Where are they?"

"What?" Badger looked around but saw no one. "Who are you talking to?"

"It's Hannah," said Simon, who could hear her. "She's found the documents."

"This way!" Hannah drifted through the wall. I took up the lantern and hurried through the door after her. Entering the hall, I caught a glimpse of her turning a corner. She disappeared through the door of a room we had already searched. I pushed on the handle and entered the room, lantern held high. Hannah floated through a rack piled high with papers.

"Hannah?" I called. "Where are you?"

She poked her head back through. "There's a latch, Miss. Over on the side."

"A latch?" I asked Badger.

"That's right," he said, sudden realization dawning on his face. "A lot of these old chambers had moving bookshelves with hidden rooms behind them. I've never seen one." He looked for the latch in earnest while Simon moved papers for easier access.

"Here!" Simon's face contorted as he pushed on the hasp. "Give me a hand, mate."

The boys struggled to release the centuries-old latch. Something finally gave, and the shelf lurched forward a few inches. Grasping the edges, the hinges screeched as the boys pulled it open. I held the lantern high to reveal the secret room. Not a secret room, really, but a secret shelf, identical to the one in front of it.

"Jackpot!" Simon made his way down the shelf. Twenty-Second day of September, 1784." He moved to the next pile. "1785. 1786. 1794."

"1794?" Badger lifted a dusty newspaper from the middle shelf. "That's when the pub was founded by my great-great-great-grandfather." He looked up. "It's also the year he disappeared."

"Well, I think we've found the right year." I willed my heart to beat normally as a tingle raised the hair on my arms. This was a significant find. I didn't know exactly what, but it meant something.

"Did I do good, Miss?" Hannah, hovering half a foot above the floor next to the shelf, wrung her hands. "The others, they said I shouldn't meddle. They said—" She clamped a hand over her mouth.

"The others?" Simon looked at me, eyebrows raised.

"What do you mean, Hannah? Other spirits? What do they know about what's been going on in the pub? What happened here in 1794?" My words came out in a rush, but Hannah had already vanished in a puff of cold.

I shook my head. "She's gone."

"Did you hear her voice, though? She's scared." Simon explained to Badger what Hannah had said.

"It's apparent other spirits are disturbed by what's going on," said Badger. "Otherwise, why would they tell Hannah not to meddle?"

"And obviously they know more about it than we do," I added. "Let's get started on these newspapers. We have less than twenty-four hours before the next loop occurs." We lugged the papers back to the relative warmth of the snug. Sporadic bursts of rumbling still shook the pub like a ticking time bomb, an urgent reminder that time was running short.

"It might have something to do with the French," I said. "Remember, the accent on the loop is French."

"Oh. Hang on." Simon shuffled back through his pile until he found what he was looking for. "Listen to this. It's from the _Royal Crown: The Great British Empire, after seven years, has signed the treaty with France to end the War of the Conflicts. The colony of Quebec is to remain under British rule._ "

Badger cleared his throat and looked a bit sheepish. "I guess I can add a bit to that. I don't know how much of this is true, but there have been rumors passed down through the family about the original Badger. Apparently, he was a bit of a scoundrel. They say he made his fortune through piracy and one day he up and disappeared. That's all I know."

"That voice," I said. "The one on the loop. It was French, and it said they'd been betrayed. Were they French pirates, do you think? Was the pub a pirate hangout?"

Badger shrugged. "I guess it's possible."

The idea forming scared me. I put my head down and closed my eyes. I took a deep breath and glanced up. The boys were looking at me.

"What are you thinking?" Simon's face reflected the doubt in mine.

I sighed. "Something... completely... _mad_."

Badger sat back, almost in resignation, I thought. "All right then, let's hear it."

I took a deep breath. "The loop comes through every night around ten o'clock, right?"

He nodded.

"I just—I can't see any other way." I shook my head. This was crazy, even for me. Being psychic and speaking with ghosts was one thing. But what I had in mind— "When the haunting loop comes through tomorrow night, I want to follow and try to join it."

"I don't understand," said Simon. "You're going to follow and see what's going on?"

"Yes, but more than that. I'll need to enter and alter the loop in order to stop it. So I'll have to interfere somehow."

Badger was already shaking his head. "No. No way. We already suspect they might be pirates. There will be no parlay, no quarter, no nothing, if you're caught. And you're not the most sure-footed person I know."

Simon snorted.

I glared. So I took a few more spills than most people. Could I help that spirits were always around causing havoc for me?

"What happens to you, I mean your body, if you're run through with a sword?" said Badger.

I shrugged, but Badger was right. If a murderous pirate took a disliking to me while I interfered with the happenings in the haunting, I could die. If I died in the loop, my body back in the twenty-first century might just cease to breathe. My heart might just stop beating. I patted my chest reassuringly.

Badger looked to Simon for support.

"I don't know, Indigo. Badger's right. Sounds dangerous. How does it work, anyway?"

"Well, I remember my grandmother speaking about joining a loop once." My American Indian grandmother, my mother's mother, was also psychic. "She used her psychic abilities to see what was going on when the loop occurred. The cemetery on the reservation had been desecrated, headstones knocked over, bones uprooted. A former chief was resurrected to a former time during a battle. The disturbance of the bones triggered an attack reflex and caused the haunting loop."

The boys stared, open-mouthed.

Simon said, "I was not expecting that."

"At all," Badger agreed.

"So the elders performed a Brave Dance, where guardian spirits entered the loop with her to tell the chief that the battle was over, the bones buried, and that he could go back to rest. The chief knew and recognized the guardian spirits as ancient ancestors. They encouraged the chief to listen to my grandmother." I shrugged. "And that's how she altered the loop enough to stop it."

Badger and Simon shared a look.

"But," said Badger, "just how do you think you can talk sense to pirates? And what would happen to your physical self if you were hurt while in that state?"

"I don't know what a stab wound to my spirit self would do. I've never done this. But my physical body, once I enter the loop, will stay behind. You two just keep me safe until I reenter my body." I didn't want to share my fears about dying in the loop because they'd never let me do it. Besides, if I verbalized it, I'd probably change my mind.

They shared a skeptical look.

"I'll hide. I'll watch and be careful. I promise. What else are we going to do? The customers are scared. You're losing business."

"I say we let her do it," said Simon. "If she looks like she's struggling, we wake her up, bring her back."

Badger shook his head, even as he reluctantly agreed.
CHAPTER FIVE

"How do you feel?" asked Badger.

We had gone home to bed the previous night to get some rest. It was almost ten o'clock now, and we spent the past hour going over safety issues. I had meditated, prayed, and even cleansed my spirit with sage, just as my grandmother had taught me. If I appeared to be in crisis, Badger and Simon would wake me gently so my system wouldn't go into shock.

"I'm good." My wobbly smile might have given away the lie.

"You're sure now?" said Badger. "You really want to do this?" The reassuring warmth of his hand on my shoulder felt good, but didn't stop the butterflies in my stomach. I couldn't back out, though. The pub was nearly empty of customers due to the haunting. And Hannah had just informed me that the increased spirit activity was because word had gotten around of my proposed loop-walk, so only the looky-loos came to watch.

"T-minus one minute." Simon eyed me nervously. "Time for a group hug."

The three of us came together for a long squeeze. I pulled away when the first rumble shook the room. "This is it." I opened the snug door and peered down the hall. I waited. The rumbling increased. A myriad of spectral voices reached me, but nothing decipherable. The sound of running footsteps approached from the pub area.

"What do you see?" Simon tried to peer around me.

"Nothing." I shook my head. "I don't understand. Why am I not seeing anything?" I looked back at the boys as the trample of footsteps reached a peak outside the door. I had to act quickly. Stepping into the hall, I was suddenly enclosed and swept along in something I couldn't see, like a swift current. I let myself be carried along, still unable to see the spirits in the loop. I went down a corridor to the left, winding this way and that through several rooms and chambers.

_"THEY ARE HERE. WE HAVE BEEN BETRAYED, BETRAYED, BETRAYED!"_ A voice boomed and reverberated around me. The loop evolved as it had the past new nights. I found myself in a section of the pub I'd never been, older, darker, and more dank. I came to a low door, heavy and made of oak. The loop current dissolved through it. With a last look over my shoulder, I spied Badger and Simon run up behind me and a myriad of spirits behind them jostling for position like they were attending an impromptu concert with standing room only. My eyes briefly connected with Badger's, and with one last glance, I saw my body crumple to the floor as I stepped through the door and into the haunting.
CHAPTER SIX

My spirit self walked into utter chaos. Only one step, but a journey so far into the past, the force knocked the air from my lungs. I closed my eyes and shook my head to clear it. When I opened them, I saw long-haired pirates, some pony-tailed. They wore scarves or tricorn hats, short pants with knee-high socks with garters and leather shoes. Their buttoned jackets and collared shirts were a myriad of colors from dull gray to bright blue.

Cutlasses sparked, metal clashed against metal in battles to the death. Women's screams rent the air as shots went off around me. Black smoke and the stench of sulfur clouded the large room. Heavy fighting between red-coated soldiers and pirates, and even pirates against pirates, surrounded me as I stood dumbly and stared. It was impossible to tell who was on whose side. It seemed that everyone fought with everyone without rhyme or reason. No one paid me the slightest attention, so I didn't think they could see me.

A roar from across the room broke through my stupor. My head snapped around to find the source. The guardian dude from the hole in the wall, the one who'd started this whole loop, was locked in a frenzied battle with another crazed-looking pirate. They both struggled for purchase, sword hilts locked, pushing against one another.

The guardian proved stronger. The other man stumbled back, and as he did, a well-aimed slash caught the man across the throat. Blood sprayed on the guardian's red coat. I couldn't help noticing as the pirate slid to the floor that he looked much as I had when I'd left my body just a few short minutes ago.

Bile crept up my throat, thick and slow like lava.

"Bagley! Over here!" a voice shouted from a far corridor. The guardian turned and ran, as did a few others. Ducking and weaving to avoid the swordplay, I followed. Entering the passageway, a sense of déjà vu overcame me. I'd traipsed this hall many times on my way to the snug, only now I traveled through warped time.

I felt invisible. A very strange sensation, indeed. I was like a ghost in their world now. Still, I kept close to the wall. Before I attempted to interrupt the loop haunting, I wanted to find out more information. Not part of the plan, true, but the boys would never have agreed to me entering the loop if they'd known I intended to loop-snoop. As I ran my fingertips along the wall, the past and present met and mingled, infusing visions of life, death, and afterlife into my head. But I had no time to analyze what went before, other than my current mission: to find out what really occurred here in 1794, find what the loop dude was guarding, and change the loop to stop it all. Easy peasy, right? Yeah, maybe not so much.

A couple of men ventured left, but loop dude and another man splintered to the right. I caught sight of a heel as it disappeared through a hidden passage in the wall. Had I not been so close, I would have lost them around the corner.

The hidden passage was barely a crevice and dark as a cave. My breathing shallowed, and hyperventilation became a serious threat. I prayed I didn't pass out as tingling crept up my arms, spreading to my throat and stomach. It took forever as I followed the sound of footsteps before me, but was probably only a matter of seconds. The sliding of a heavy object being moved reached my ears, followed by a sliver of light. I slipped into a small room behind the pirates before a rock slab slid back into place blocking the passage. Dying embers glowed in the fireplace. My eyes strained to see something. I feared the men would hear my pounding heart. To meet my maker now, with only pirates to hear my confession, was not part of the plan.

I studied my surroundings. The room was bare except for the table and two chairs. Several nooks had been carved into the thick, mud-like walls and served as shelves. A big cubby in the wall held firewood. A smaller divot held candles; another contained cutlasses and matching pistols.

The guardian lit and placed a candle on the table and turned to the other man. "We're safe for now." He reached into a cubbyhole and pulled out a flask. He swigged deeply before the other man grabbed it and downed a good portion for himself.

"Merci, Bagley. Eet eez much appreciated." The second man's accent was French. He took a seat at the table, swigged again from the flask, and nudged his three-cornered hat back to scratch the top of his long, curly wig. His blue coat reached his knees, shiny buttons from shoulder to waist. But I noticed the sleeves were frayed, as if he'd hit on hard times.

Wait... Bagley? That was Badger's last name. So loop dude must then be Badger's great-great-great-grandfather! The one who ran away and left his family. It made sense that he'd be the one haunting the place. The discovery made my heart race.

"Aye." Bagley sat down at the table next to the man who was rapidly draining the flask. He took the flask back and swigged, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He was dressed much like the Frenchman, only his coat was red and his overall appearance well kept. His eyes held wildness, much like the previous night when he attacked the boys. "We are betrayed, Wilkie. One of our own."

"Who could 'ave dunnit?" said Wilkie. "I bet 'twere zat lily-livered scurvy dog what joined at the last new moon. Shifty eyes, 'e 'ad. Too close to be altogether 'onest."

"Aye, ye may be right," Bagley agreed. "Never trusted 'im. Still and all, 'twas a 'efty haul. Our shares will go far, and the king's coffers won't miss it much."

Wilkie roared with laughter and took another swig. Then another and another. Soon he was slumped in his chair asleep. The room was quiet except for the occasional crackle of the fire and the odd snort.

I studied the walls, the nooks and crannies, but saw no treasure. Where it was and who ended up with it, we might never know. If they stole money or jewels from the King of England, then what had happened to it? Could it be here? In this room?

I looked at Bagley. He glared back. We stared eye to eye. I hardly dared to breathe. Did he see me? Could he see me? Here was my chance to interrupt the loop. Suddenly I was tongue-tied as my eyes met the red-eyed shrewdness of the worldly pirate. I was out of my depth.

He continued to stare before he spoke. "What be ye, standing yon in strange garments?" His speech was low and slurred.

I was rendered uncharacteristically mute.

"Speak up, then. Be ye a witch or a specter?"

I shook my head.

"Aye, a witchly specter ye be with 'air black as midnight and eyes wha' matches yon sea." He gestured toward my face. "Aye, ye carry the mark of the chosen. Or maybe the cursed." He took another swig from the flask, his eyes never leaving me.

My hand went to my hair where the strange white streak sprang from my widow's peak. I was born with it. My grandmother had said much the same as Bagley just did. "No, I—"

"Speak up, then, what is it you want? To 'aunt me for me sins? To take me into yon darkness beyond me grave?"

I shook my head. "No, sir. I-I'm a time walker. A loop-walker, more specifically."

"From the timber of thy voice, ye are a wee lassie, then, though thy manner of dress be strange. The garments are made for a lad, are they not?"

"No. I mean— _bloody hell_ ," I muttered.

His eyebrows rose.

"I come from the future, 2012. I'm a friend of your grandson."

He slowly got to his feet, his stormy eyes never leaving my face.

I rushed on, afraid of what would happen when he reached me. "Your family still owns the pub only there was a plumbing leak and a hole knocked in the wall then you came thundering out and wouldn't let anyone near and the loop started and running footsteps outside the snug then the weather was _inside_ instead of outside and it disrupts the patrons every evening at ten o'clock and they get scared and leave and so I told Simon and Badger—" I sucked in a breath in order to continue my story.

"Badger? 'Twould be myself and my son."

"And your great-great-great-grandson," I added, relieved he was listening and at least trying to understand. "Please, Mister Bagley. It's 2012! And you are haunting the pub, every evening the same. I'm here to help, uh, help you stop—"

"Very strange indeed," Bagley cut in. "Tell me, lass. What would ye know about me and my business?"

I almost died of fright right there in 1794. Would I have two graves? One as a pauper in 1794 and the other in 2012?

"Not much really. Look, I don't care what ye, I mean _you_ , did," I reasoned. "If you want to smuggle goods, steal from the King, and abandon your family to face the shame alone—" _Oh crap._ Sometimes I didn't know when to shut it.

As Bagley advanced toward me, I stepped back.

"Oh, aye, _abandon_ is it? Is that what they say?" His voice was deceptively low and menacing. He paced and muttered to himself. "'Tis as good a time as any to die. Of course, 'twas bound to 'appen. The betrayer is betrayed."

He twirled to face me. I stepped back and lost my footing. I fell against the crevice in the wall, scrabbling to catch myself. I grasped at both sides of the corner, grabbing hold of a cubby. Scrolls and other parchments tumbled from the hole and scattered across the floor. Bagley reached for me, and I screamed. Roaring filled my ears, and a loud sucking sound permeated the room. I lifted my hands to my ears and closed my eyes, screaming and screaming.

Hands pulled at me while I shrieked and thrashed. Deciding to go down fighting, I swung my arms. I connected with his nose, blood spurting. Then I elbowed the other man in the groin as he tried to restrain me. I squeezed my eyes closed again and just kept swinging.

"Indigo! Stop! You're okay. You're back." Badger, _my Badger_ , swam into view as I opened my eyes. I looked over at the other guy rolling on the floor. It was Simon, not Wilkie. Badger with the bloody nose and Simon with... the other injury.

"Oh noooo, what did I do?" I cried.

"Dare I say if this is the way you loop-walk, I bloody well feel sorry for the flippin' pirates?" Badger grabbed a pile of napkins from the snug table and dabbed at his nose.

"Ditto," Simon gasped.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— I was so scared." Tears sprang to my eyes. "I thought I was going to die and then decided I didn't want to die and then—"

"And then you decided to kill us instead." Simon struggled to get up from the floor. I held my hand out to him, which he took after a slight hesitation.

"You're pale, Indy. Sit down." Badger poured me a glass of water. "Here, drink this." He eyed me with concern.

I slid back onto the bench and downed the water in one gulp. I shook my head, trying to anchor myself back in the present.

Badger took the glass and set it aside.

"Tell us what happened," said Simon. "You bloody well had us worried for the best part of an hour."

"You really had us scared," Badger agreed.

I smiled weakly and told them everything I'd seen and heard. Hannah and other spirits gathered to listen. I hadn't seen any of them once I entered the loop.

The lingering spirits shook their heads and whispered to each other:

_One should never interfere in a haunting, especially a loop._

_They're the most dangerous, don't you know?_

_And pirates, no less!_

_I hear the girl has no sense of preservation for her own life._

_She should really be more careful._

_Tsk, tsk, tsk._

I turned and glared at the eavesdropping ghosties behind me. " _Hello!_ I can _hear_ you."

_So sorry._

_I do apologize, dear._

"So the old rogue was a scoundrel and a pirate absconding with the King's coffers," Badger determined.

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago." Badger shrugged. "It doesn't matter now." But I could see on his face he hadn't truly believed it until now. Hearing that your direct ancestor was a traitor to the crown couldn't be easy.

"I spoke with him, though, so I know I altered the loop." I hoped it was enough to stop the haunting.

"But we won't know until tomorrow night for sure," said Badger.

I nodded.

"So now we wait," said Simon.
CHAPTER SEVEN

The end of a case often felt like a letdown because the findings were rarely ever satisfactory. So it wasn't surprising that I spent the remainder of the night tossing in a restless sleep. 2012 mingled with 1794, as if I still had a foot in both worlds. Snatches of conversation from the secret room insinuated themselves into my dreams, repeating over and over. _'Tis as good a time as any to die. 'Tis as good a time as any to die. 'Tis as good a time as any to die._ This was followed by the scene of me falling backward, the scattered papers, my own screaming repeating on a loop in my dreams.

_'Tis as good a time as any to die._

_Scattered papers._

_'Tis as good a time as any to die._

_Scattered papers._

_'Tis as good a time as any to die._

_Scattered papers..._

Sitting in the snug, too antsy to sit still, I said, " _'Tis as good a time as any to die._ What do you think he meant?" I had an inkling but didn't want to lead the witnesses, so to speak.

Badger shrugged.

Simon hazarded a guess. "I dunno. That he was ready to die?"

"Yes. But why would he say that, or even think it, if he was planning to run away?" I countered.

"Because he had no intention of running away!" Badger sat forward.

"Exactly." I looked at both of them. "I don't think he ran away."

"Then why did he disappear?" said Badger.

"I don't know, but I have an idea of how to find out." The loop-walk sequence in my dreams showed the papers scattering over and over. It meant something.

We trooped down to the hole in the wall, salt and holy water in tow. We approached the hole carefully, but didn't detect any activity. I looked inside, and sure enough, it was the same layout as the secret room from my loop-walk into 1794. The papers were no longer scattered on the floor. But glancing at the wall where I had fallen, papers peeked out of the cubbyhole. "There," I said, pointing.

I climbed through the hole and retrieved the papers, trying not to disturb the dusty surroundings too much. We took the papers to the snug. Going through the pile, my eyes lit on the journal I remembered falling among the scattered papers. I lifted it and began to read.

_To the heirs of Badger Bagley the First,_

_'Tis too late to write of regret, indeed to explain actions perpetrated by me in life would encompass time I know to be short. 'Twill be some time ere this writing be discovered. Should the blue-eyed, raven-haired specter speak truth, 'twould be 2012. 'Tis an eon for the truth to be buried. I will be brief. My wife and son will be long dead anon. I wish my descendants to know I did not abandon my family. If I am correct in my assumptions, I will die this very night. These past twenty years I have been in the King's employ, commissioned to spy and act as privateer. My intelligence gathered from the French won England a colony in the new country, among other things. This very publican house was awarded to me in recognition. My service could not be publicly recognized, as my family would be in danger of retaliation from the French. And so my name and reputation will die with me this very night and through infamy, if I am not very much mistaken._

_C'est la vie..._

The boys stared at me like I had a third head.

"What?" Didn't they get that the first Badger was not a traitor or a scallywag?

Badger opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again.

Simon took the journal from me, found what he was looking for, and read, " _Should the blue-eyed, raven-haired specter speak truth, 'twould be 2012._ Indigo, you didn't just loop-walk, you time-traveled!"

"Oh." I was so focused on clearing Badger's ancestor that I completely missed the obvious. I felt my eyes grow wide. "Oh! How the _bloody hell_ did I do that?!"

Badger echoed the sentiment. "I don't know. How did you do it?"

I shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe I didn't. Maybe the loop was real enough, and I was able to alter it just enough so that—"

They stared some more.

I shrugged. "Yeah, I got nothing. I-I don't know."

Simon continued reading the journal, his index finger marking his place on the next line. He started laughing. And laughing. _And laughing._ Badger leaned over to read the spot where Simon's finger marked the page. And then they both laughed like horses, snorting and lips twisting above their teeth.

I confiscated the journal and finished reading the letter.

_P.S. Mayhaps elocution and poise lessons wouldn't go amiss for yon young spectral friend. The wee lass, although quite pretty, was clumsy as a colt. After tripping and falling over her own limbs, she upset the balance of the room in one fell swoop. I found myself reordering documents at quite a crucial hour indeed._

"I am not clumsy!" I emphasized by pounding on the table. "He was scary. He came at me. He—he's a pirate!"

They only laughed more.

A crack of thunder rent the air, only _outside_ this time. And I could have sworn I heard piratey laughter echo down the hall.

#

The clashing swords rang like a cacophonous symphony. Peeping from behind the red velvet curtain, Umbria spotted King Leon and Fallon, his sword master. She rippled the curtain, dust motes flying in the candlelit air, to alert Leon of her hidden presence.

When Fallon's weapon skidded across the floor, the sword fighting ceased.

"That's enough for today, Master Fallon. Leave me." Leon waved him away.

"As you wish, sire." Fallon bowed, retrieved his blade, and exited.

As soon as the door closed, Umbria slipped into the room with her broadsword raised.

"Hello, sister." Leon's weapon clanged with hers. "Is it finished?"

"Would I have returned if it wasn't?" In a swirl of fabric, she removed her cloak and parried his move. An amused smile curled her lips. The blade whistled through the air, and her feet danced as she thrust and jabbed. She always enjoyed a good sword fight.

His breathing increased and sweat beaded upon his brow. Was her brother already winded from his previous exertion against Fallon? The sword followed her movements, but Leon wasn't nearly as quick. She blamed the rich meats he enjoyed.

"The quacksalver is dead?"

"The false healer won't be practicing his witchcraft anymore." She slowed long enough to produce the thick gold ring Thaddeus enjoyed wearing, his finger still attached.

"Thank you. He wanted to kill my wife to save the child." Leon gnashed the words. His grip tightened around the hilt, and he spat upon the floor. "The other healers aren't much better."

She grasped her weapon in both hands and took the brunt of his anger. What would her brother do if his wife and child died? She couldn't begin to imagine his despair and frustration. "Is there any news about Verona and your child?"

"They keep bleeding her, but she remains gravely ill." He grunted. His movements grew wilder, more erratic, and Umbria struggled to keep up. "She's delirious most of the time. They want to take the baby. Cut into her. Can you believe it? She's been with child only six months. He won't live without her."

Umbria ducked, and his sword banged into a marble column.

His chest heaved. "I can't lose her. Our relations with Lochhollow are tepid at best, and they will attack Foxwick if she..."

He shook his head.

"Doesn't Lochhollow realize how much you love their favorite daughter?" Her eyes narrowed in concern. She would do anything to prevent another war, to help him. "Would you like me to travel to Valdale? They have some of the finest physicians."

"Did you know Verona's parents denied my marriage to her at the end of the Twelve Days? They won't hesitate to attack." He swung the blade wide and missed Umbria. Frustration huffed from his nostrils like a bull snorting. "There's no use in journeying to Valdale. They can do nothing for her."

"Tell me how I can help. I'll do anything for you and Verona. You know that."

He reeled his sword toward hers. "I want you to assassinate Death."

"What?" Her eyes widened and mouth dropped open. When their weapons connected, hers flew from her hands and clattered on the floor. She flipped backward three times and stood with the hilt in her hand again. "You want me to do what?"

"Kill Death."

Despite his clear pronunciation of those two words, they jumbled in her head. He spoke as if he asked her to go to the marketplace. She held up her hand. "Stop, Leon, stop!"

He halted and lowered his blade.

"I would do anything for you, but I can't kill Death. It's impossible." She sheathed the sword behind her. "I'm sorry."

"You would deny me?" His face puffed and turned red. He lifted his blade, the tip pointing at her. "I've done everything for you. Have you forgotten? I let you keep your face hidden. Half of Foxwick doesn't even remember their princess because of me. You are the assassin. Are you scared to destroy Death when you are up to your elbows in it?" His voice raged and bounced off the walls while he stepped toward her.

Chills shuddered through her body, and she retreated until her back pressed against the stone wall. Its cold hardness gave her no warmth or protection. She didn't draw her sword. Leon wouldn't dare strike her unarmed. "I want to save Verona and your child, my dear brother, but you ask what can't be. Who can kill Death? It's unthinkable."

"You must find a way." He stalked closer. "They won't live more than a few days. It's the only solution."

"But... but you have to be dead to cross into the Shadowlands."

"I need you to do this, Umbria. There's no other way." He stopped a foot away from her. His blade lifted toward the ceiling before he swung.

She unsheathed her sword, and the weapons met in the middle. Shock raced down her spine as she blocked his latest strike. Her brother would kill her. Sparks flew when his blade hit the wall, and she used her forward momentum to knock the weapon from his hands. It sailed through the air and smacked into another wall. The tip shattered from the force.

The rage broke within Leon, and he collapsed to his knees. "I'm sorry, so sorry." Weeping, he said, "I... I don't want Verona to die."

His vulnerability scared Umbria more than his attack.

"I'll do it," she vowed.

Within moments after leaving her brother, Umbria glided down the twisting staircase to the bowels of the castle. A tingling numbness entered her body. Her feet barely brushed each step before she touched the next one.

_What did I agree to do? How can I enter the Shadowlands without dying?_

One man in Foxwick could answer her questions.

"Come in, Umbria," Dallan said when her hand grasped the doorknob.

She slipped inside and shut the door behind her. Darkness enveloped her. "How do you always know it's me?"

A sizzling flame erupted in the oil lamp. "You're the only one who tries to sneak up on a blind man."

She laughed. "I'm not trying to do that. I like to be quiet."

"What's the problem, Princess?"

She didn't realize how much she shook until he asked. "He wants me to kill Death. I have to journey to the Shadowlands."

"The queen is that ill?" His withered, bony hand trailed along the scrolls piled upon the shelves.

"She doesn't have long. I've never seen Leon so upset, not even when Mama and Papa were murdered." Heat burned her cheeks at her childlike tone. Blushing was unbecoming for an assassin. "I had to agree, but I need your help. Is there a way into the Shadowlands without dying?"

"There is." His fingers stopped at a certain scroll, and he picked it up. "Clear off a spot."

"Of course." She removed papers and ancient tomes from the table.

He touched the surface before he unfurled the scroll and spread it upon the cleared space.

Umbria leaned over the map. Foxwick was located in the center; Lochhollow to the north; Valdale to the east; Wintermill to the south. The far left of the map showed Merrilea Sea, bordered by Blackden Barrens. The terrible landscape between Foxwick and the sea lent itself to legendary, bloodthirsty creatures.

"Where is the entrance to the Shadowlands?"

Dallan's hand hovered over the map, and his index finger touched the cliffs by Merrilea. "There is a waterfall here where Dragon River meets the sea. You will have to climb along the cliff beside it. Behind the waterfall, a cave marks the entrance to Death's realm."

She smiled in an unconcerned way, but her heart pounded in her chest. She didn't know why she kept up the façade around Dallan. It wasn't like a blind man could see her expressions, but she couldn't help herself. "What must I do when I arrive there?"

"Be certain to take a wineskin filled with goat's blood. From the legends, there's a crevasse parting the cave walls. Blood must be shed for you to enter the Shadowlands, hence the goat's blood." He chuckled. "Unless you prefer to use your own."

"No, goat's blood will do."

"It'll take more than a week to travel there by horse. Do they have that much time?" He took her hand.

His fingers were cold to the touch, but she kept still. "No, they don't. Do you mind if I take this map with me?"

"You may, but I'd like it back if it is possible." He paused, and his cloudy eyes seemed to see her, despite his blindness. "How will you journey there?"

"I have my ways," she said in a mysterious tone. She knew a man in Valdale she could contact for a quicker form of travel.

"Fine, you won't tell me." He stroked her face. His index finger trailed over the scar that ran from her left eyebrow over her nose and along her right cheek. "You might see them there."

She tensed and cringed. She hated it when anyone touched or saw the hideous mark she'd gotten from a Wintermillian soldier when she was nine. Could it be ten years since her parents were killed and she disfigured? That old wound had changed everything about Foxwick's princess.

When she moved away from Dallan and rolled up the scroll, she realized the meaning behind his last words. Surely he spoke of her parents. Not caring if she wrinkled the paper, she clutched the map to her chest. "Do you really think I'll see them?"

"It's possible." He sighed. "Be prepared, Umbria. I fear I may not see you again."

"You never could see me before," she said, trying to be funny, but her humor fell short.

"There are legends of heroes who have entered the Shadowlands. Some have attempted what you must do, but none have returned as far as I know." He held out his hand to her.

"I'll see you again. I promise." She gave it a quick squeeze before turning to leave.

"Don't promise what you can't keep." His words hounded her as she fled from his room.

The roc's wings flapped above Umbria. Her hand tightened around the travel basket's weaving. She hated flying by roc, but the giant bird had taken her to the end of Blackden Barrens within hours instead of days. Wind pitched them back and forth while the roc swooped lower. A shame she couldn't use the bird to find the cave. The waterfall's spray would soak the roc's feathers and drop them like a boulder into Merrilea Sea. She'd have to travel by rope down the cliff. As soon as the basket landed upon the rocky ground, she scooped up her pack, sword, rope, and wineskin and jumped out.

"Return home, Harold." Her man in Valdale assured her the roc knew his way back. The wind swirled around her as the roc flew east. A small part of her regretted sending the passenger bird home already, but a sinking certainty filled her heart.

She wouldn't return.

She clenched her teeth. Traveling by roc had cut her journey time, but why had she hastened to her death? Were Verona's and the child's lives worth more than Umbria's own? _Yes._ She fastened her pack and sheathed her sword behind her. The wineskin, full of goat's blood, hung heavy on her belt. She adjusted the sack and crept toward Dragon River and the cliff.

The river water plummeted into the sea. She would do the same if she wasn't careful. From her previous vantage point with the roc, she hadn't noticed the cave's entrance nestled behind the waterfall, but she trusted Dallan.

Along the edge of Blackden Barrens, a sturdy pine tree stood, and Umbria secured the rope to it. She leaned and tugged upon the line until she was satisfied it would hold her weight. Dust plumed around her legs as she jogged to the edge.

Umbria fought the urge to look at Merrilea Sea. She'd come too far to give up. Her family needed her. After she put on some gloves to protect her hands, she descended the steep cliff.

The waterfall's spray soaked her clothes and dampened the rope. Several times, she slipped and scrambled along the slick rocks. Her heart rose to her throat each time she almost fell. _Either way I'll end up in the Shadowlands._ The thought wasn't comforting. The strands shredded through the material of her gloves, but she held on until the tips of her toes rested along a thin ledge. A blackened hole gaped behind the waterfall to her left like an opened mouth.

She swung into the cave, released her grip on the rope, and tumbled inside. The waterfall's roar grew distant and indistinct within the cavern. A muted light filtered in, and she searched for the entrance to the Shadowlands.

Her fingers found a slender and jagged rut in the cave's darkest corner. The fissure was so small she didn't know if she could fit inside. Tingles settled over her body. The legends were wrong. No hero had entered before. Fear clutched her heart at crossing into Death's realm. Tears stung her eyes, but none fell as she breathed in the cool, moist air.

_You can't give up, Umbria._

With a quivering hand, she removed the cork from the wine pouch and poured pungent goat's blood into the crack. When the last drop fell, she tossed the skin aside and waited.

Nothing happened.

Her head lowered. She'd failed her brother, his wife, and their unborn child. Without the roc, she'd have to risk walking through the Barrens and Greymist Forest. Why couldn't she do more? She sniffed and wiped the tears from her damp cheeks.

The earth trembled. A gust of hot, stale air blew into her face and ripped the gasp from her lips. Rocks rained upon her, and the crevasse yawned. Umbria lost her balance. The ground swallowed her and her scream.

She tumbled down a long, dark shaft. Stones dug into her flesh. Terror seized her as fiercely as if a dragon had captured her in its jaws. She was going to die. It would've been better to have her brother kill her by sword than this overwhelming horror of the unknown, the endless plummeting into the depths of the Shadowlands.

When she smacked into the ground, her breath rushed from her.

She opened her eyes to the darkened cavern. Faint, bluish light glowed from the rocks, and stalactites poked down from the high ceiling. They reminded her of candle wax. An eerie cold crept into her bones, as if she'd plunged into a frigid lake. She squinted in hopes of seeing the exit to this terrible landscape, but the shaft she'd fallen down had disappeared. She was trapped in the Shadowlands.

Umbria slowly sat up. Everything ached. The pain was worse than the time she assassinated that sorcerer from Wintermill. He had put up such a fight, and she didn't think she was going to complete her job until the very end when he got too close to her sword. She cocked her head to the side and listened to the pops as she cracked her neck.

She wasn't alone.

Shadows swirled near the walls. Pale, luminescent shades hovered around her. She scrambled to her feet and unsheathed her sword.

"Stay back." She staggered as the world twirled around her. She swung the blade, and it passed through a misted arm. Another being reached behind her and stroked her neck. Ice stabbed through her body. She sliced through the spirits, but they were nothing more than weightless shadows.

"Get away from me." She trembled.

"Umbria."

She spun around, trying to pinpoint the voice. It sounded so familiar, like from a dream.

"Umbria."

The shades parted, and her parents—youthful and unmarked—stepped toward her. They shimmered for a moment, and she sunk into the last memory she had of them.

She was nine again. Mama sat at her side. Umbria's hand moved in time with the stitches she crafted in the embroidered piece, the cloth silky against her fingertips. She didn't wince when the needle's point jabbed into her thigh. She couldn't remember what they were making.

The door banged against the wall. Papa raced in, followed by the soldiers of Wintermill. A sword speared his back, the tip sticking from his belly. The ladies shrieked. She had too as another man spilled her mama's entrails over the wooden floor. Umbria knelt, blood seeping toward her dress, when the sting of the blade across her face shook her from the memory.

"What are you doing here, child?"

The shocking cold of her mama's embrace startled Umbria. Her scar still burned from the phantom pain. "I have to find Death, Mama. Tell me where he is."

"The Shadowlands is no place for the living, sweetheart," her papa said. Tears wept from their dead eyes, trails of black staining their cheeks. "Return to the land above before you're trapped."

She wanted to obey but couldn't. Besides, the way out had closed. She couldn't escape Death or her task. If she failed, Verona and the child would die. The Lochhollowans would declare war, and Foxwick would fall. So many more would be stuck within this horrible land. They'd be ghosts of their former selves. She bit her lower lip. She couldn't sentence them to the Shadowlands. The terror drained from her, and an unwavering resolve took its place.

She was the assassin.

"Lord Death, where are you?" Sword at the ready, she stepped away from her parents and encircled the area. "Show yourself."

"Umbria," Death said her name like a soft prayer.

A shiver crept up her spine.

The shades vanished except for her parents.

A figure, shrouded in a black-hooded cloak, approached with calm, certain strides. Death towered over her. His long sword glowed greenish-blue. "A mortal dares to tread in my realm?"

"I dare." Her knees weakened, but she maintained her stance. She held her broadsword in two hands, but it looked like a child's training weapon compared to Death's blade.

He threw off his cloak, which drifted to the ground like black snow. Except for blackish-red eyes, he appeared like a normal man, although perhaps a little pale. The sun didn't shine much in the Shadowlands, if ever.

"I know why you are here. Did you believe you could kill me?"

"Yes." _Not really._

Numbness washed over her while she studied his face, his solid form so unlike the specters in his realm. Hope burned bright and spread warmth through her.

He could be destroyed.

Death flew forward. Their swords clashed, sparks igniting. He swung again.

She blocked his thrust and went on the defensive. Her arms dragged as if boulders were attached. His assault jarred her to the bone.

"Mere mortal." Death chuckled. He swiped at her once more, and her sword fell from her hands. Pain tingled along her body as he lifted his weapon.

She bowed her head, prepared for the final blow that would keep her in the Shadowlands forever. Guilt settled along her shoulders like a leaden shawl. She really had failed her brother, his family, herself.

_May Verona and her child live._

Freezing air rushed through Umbria, and she gasped from the cold. Her parents along with other deceased Foxwickians rose against Death. The shades swarmed him. He batted them away like pesky flies. They flocked toward him in an array of pearly cold essence. He stumbled farther away from Umbria.

"Get away." Death's patience vanished. Flames erupted from the ground, and the shadows scurried from the heat.

Umbria's eyes widened. She still had a chance to stop him. She dove for her sword and clutched it in her hands. Without another thought, she leapt over the flames and pointed the blade toward him.

Death twisted and slashed at her. Metal on metal clanged a discordant tone. When she attacked again, she wasn't quick enough. His sword pierced through her abdomen.

She stared at the blade within her body. Shouldn't that hurt more? Shock covered her like a blanket as hot, dark red blood seeped through her shirt. Her face tilted toward Death, and she dropped to her knees.

"You can't kill Death." He removed the sword, her blood tainting the metal.

Pain flooded her in violent waves. She bit back a scream and tried to breathe. Spirits fluttered around her and searched for a sweet sip of her life force. She tried to shove them away, but she was already too weak. Her fingertips wiggled at the ghosts, but she couldn't budge them.

"Don't kill Verona and her child. Promise me," Umbria said through clenched teeth. Despite the hot blood pouring from the wound, a chill ensnared her. It was spreading. She had to save Verona, the child, her people.

"Welcome to the Shadowlands." He laughed.

"Please." She clutched his pants. Blood smeared the dark fabric. Her right hand dropped to the ground and met cold metal.

He leaned over her. "Death doesn't make—"

Umbria thrust her sword upward with the last of her strength. The blade entered through his body and the tip exited the other side. The hilt bumped his belly.

Black blood oozed from the wound. Death's eyes widened in surprise, and he, too, fell to his knees. "No."

"I've killed you." Her blood flecked his face.

"And I've killed you." He grasped her hands in his bony clutches. His flesh dripped and melted off like wax under the flame too long. Each piece sizzled upon the earth.

Fear overcame the pain, but she couldn't have lifted a feather much less fended him off.

"You are now Death." They were so close she thought he would kiss her. Instead, he blew dead, rotten breath into her face. She squirmed and gagged. He didn't release her until his bones burst into ash.

His breath filled her, changed her. Fire licked her throat and face. She was dying. Her body stiffened. A long scream ripped from her. The shadows collapsed as her heart thumped one last time.

Death reigned.

The baby opened his mouth and cried.

"There, there, little one." Verona lifted the boy to feed him. "It's all right, Brum. Mama's here."

Leon's wife and child were the most beautiful people in his life. He kissed Verona on top of the head. "I never tire of watching you."

"We have you to thank. You and Umbria." She took his hand. "Have you heard from her?"

"No, nothing." He stiffened and glanced away. "I have to return to the throne room."

"I know, my love." She kissed his palm before he left.

Leon's hand tingled from her kiss as he walked down the corridors. When he entered the marbled throne room, his mind recalled the last time he'd seen his sister, how she stepped from the curtains and brandished her sword. He settled into the chair. She was Foxwick's best assassin, yet he'd sent her to die.

"A life for a life, brother." The curtain shifted, and Umbria, dressed in black, strode into the room.

"Is it you? We thought you were dead." Leon blinked. Had his memory come to life or was she truly there? He leapt from the throne and moved to embrace her until she lowered her hood.

Her face was flawless, the scar gone. Yet her eyes appeared as black, depthless pits. He cringed and retreated, as if she were a vicious animal. Even before he sent her away, he would've preferred to fight a beast instead.

"What happened to you? It's been months since you left."

"Death is dead. I assassinated him for you," she said. "How is Verona?"

"Verona had a boy. We named him Brum, after you. How can we ever repay you for saving their lives?" He trembled as he bumped into the wall. The stone pressed uncomfortably against his back, and he squirmed against it. How was Umbria standing before him? He never really thought she could assassinate Death and live. "Would you please stop staring at me like that?"

She didn't answer.

"Why have you returned? You've changed."

"I've come for Dallan, but I thought I should see you." She smiled, but it brought him no pleasure. "I am happy Verona recovered. Brum will be a strong boy, a better leader than you."

"I'm glad to hear it." Fear froze him in place when she moved closer. His eyes darted for some weapon. Why didn't he carry his sword?

"You will see me sooner than you wish, Leon, but don't worry, Foxwick will thrive." She reached toward him but stopped before her fingers brushed against his flesh.

Ice froze his veins, and he shivered like a banner in a twister. She was his sister. He shouldn't be afraid, but he was. Tears clouded his vision. Where was a weapon when he needed one?

"What are you?"

"Mama and Papa say hello. They miss you." Shadows shifted in the room. She stepped away from him and pulled her hood over her dark hair. "I'm sorry I have to take Dallan, even though it's his time."

"But what _are_ you?" He released a breath when she moved away. She appeared to be vanishing before his eyes. He held up a hand to stop her, although he should've been thankful she had spared him. Leon could see the wall through her body. "Umbria, wait."

She paused, her form flickering in the wavering light.

"I'm the assassin. I am Lady Death."

#

Two miles of rock pressed down on Mary. The walls could crack and crumble any moment, burying her forever. The stifling air hung heavy around her. If only the air pumps hadn't failed when the lights had gone out. The darkness was absolute, a void pressing in, threatening to engulf her. Not a single glimmer of light. The creature could be an inch from her flesh, unseen, waiting. Her guttural, panting breaths sounded deafening.

She forced slow, deep breaths. _Get it together! You can handle darkness._

Someone cried out from the mine tunnel. The anguished voice cut off mid-cry.

William! The courage that had taken him from her side to search for flashlights seemed foolish now. Why had she let him go?

She opened her mouth to call for him but hesitated. The creature would hear her. She tugged at strands of her hair and strained her ears. Damn it, she couldn't leave him out there.

"William?" she whispered.

No reply.

"Are you all right?" Her breathing turned fast and heavy.

The thing had gotten him!

"William! Speak to me," she said louder.

The cave wall was hard and cold at her back. Remembering the Russian man they'd found impossibly half-stuck in the wall, she scrambled away on all fours. Cold steel chilled her fingers. The elevator housing, her only means back to the surface. The distant hum of the lift motor and twanging of the cable echoed down the shaft. When would the damn thing get back down here? Feeling her way to the call button, she jabbed it several times, and then she pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them.

Every inch of her skin prickled. What would it feel like when the creature touched her? She shivered. Why had she boasted that nothing could scare her? Stupid, and now the deep cavern might well be her tomb.

It had been William's idea to host her twenty-first birthday dinner in the abandoned Russian mine. He'd planned it all. Such a sweetie. Afterward, they would fly to Moscow for a few days before their wedding.

A seemingly endless forest in the Urals surrounded them. The sun hung low over the trees while snow drifted silently, draping everything in a soft, untouched cloak of white. A nearby woodshed resembled something out of _Doctor Zhivago_. Locals in thick woolen coats shuffled in its lee, smoking cigarettes and chattering insanely fast in Russian. She imagined them as KGB and herself as an undercover CIA agent here to gather missile codes.

William sidled up next to her and wrapped an arm around her waist.

She leaned in for a lingering kiss. "This is so exciting, so authentic."

He laughed, and his eyes sparkled. "What were you expecting, a theme park?"

"It's all a little clichéd, bro." Hands in the pockets of his parka, James stomped the snow underfoot.

Mary scowled at him. "Party pooper."

Why did James always challenge his older brother? She only put up with him because of Angie. Lord knows why her sister dated him.

"Happy birthday, big sis. This is neat." Angie leapt in front of her and crushed a snowball on Mary's nose.

Growling, Mary scraped it off and rubbed it into her sister's long blond hair. Angie giggled and darted away.

One of the Russians flicked his cigarette into the snow and joined them.

"We go inside now," he said in a heavy accent.

Mary took a last look at the Christmas-like forest and the stark, industrial gantry of the elevator winch that towered behind the buildings.

Inside, they peeled off their coats and scarves. She accepted a mug of steaming cocoa, and they gathered around a wall decorated in photos and maps. Behind them stood a clothes rack filled with their eveningwear, neatly wrapped in plastic. She shook her head. Trust William to insist they dress up for dinner at the bottom of a mine. She adored his crazy ideas. Below the clothes stood a row of boots and mining hardhats. Oh sure, they'd look very sexy with her black pencil dress!

The Russian stood beside a poster-size photo of the surface installation. He smoothed his bushy mustache and grinned ear to ear.

"My name Vitaly. Welcome to Bashkir Mine, one of largest copper mines during your Cold War. Mining production end in 2004. Tonight, in caverns, you will see much strata, much streaks of bright green. This malachite, a copper-bearing ore. Is not emeralds, so please no chipping away at walls."

She caught James rolling his eyes. How she longed to dump her cocoa over his smart-ass head.

"We have facilities for your dinner in Ukil branch of mine, two miles below our feet." Vitaly stamped his boots on the wooden planks.

"Is it safe?" Angie muttered. "How will we breathe?"

Vitaly laughed and raised a hand. "Let me answer common questions. We have operated banquet facility four years. No problems, no injuries. In deep mine, air naturally hot, so we operate redundant cooling and ventilating. All will be nice for you. Staff will remain in cavern to serve you dinner and drinks. They fully trained in safety and operation of mine."

"Do we have to wear those stupid helmets?" James said.

William elbowed his brother. "What did I tell you earlier?"

"Helmets and boots must be worn in elevator. Once in caverns, you may remove, but please keep at hand. No worries, area seismically stable. Everything go smooth."

Mary studied the look on James's face, the whites of his eyes. She saw through his macho B.S. This was going to be a totally great birthday dinner, especially if she could scare him some more.

"That is all," Vitaly said. "Have fun. Changing room is next door for you to put on your nice clothes. No worries. Is indoors, heated hallway on way to mine."

Was he insinuating they were spoiled Americans? Probably just his accent. He seemed genuinely friendly, not at all the stodgy ex-communist her father had suggested. _Now who's stereotyping?_

Once dressed, they gathered at the top of the elevator shaft and faced dented metal doors. It was impossible to escape the industrial feel, but paint and carpeting helped. The whole room throbbed to the whirr of machinery. She'd never been in a mine before. This was going to be totally cool.

"Nervous?" She wrapped an arm around her sister's bare shoulders.

Angie nodded and swept the bangs from her face. Fidgeting, she picked at the waistline hem of her purple dress.

"You'll be fine when we get down there," Mary whispered. "James, stop adjusting your tie and look after my sister."

She snaked her arms around William's waist, and he nuzzled her ear with his lips. She quivered at his gentle touch and breathed deep of his musky aftershave. He looked drop-dead handsome in his tux.

"You look gorgeous," he whispered in her ear.

She rapped the gaudy yellow hardhat on her head. "Even in this?"

"Of course, but it's the miner's boots that really turn me on." He squeezed her butt, and she laughed.

The whirring of the motor ceased with a crash of metal against metal. Vitaly tugged on a lever, and the metal doors scraped back to reveal an elevator cage large enough to fit two dozen people.

"Everyone have good time." He handed Mary a stoppered bottle, its label in Russian. "Vodka from my family farm. My birthday gift to you."

"That's so kind. Thank you, Vitaly."

His dark brown eyes seemed to laugh back. Then he winked and clapped a hand on William's shoulder. "All set."

Only one chef and one waiter stepped into the elevator. She'd expected more staff. The floor settled an inch, and Angie eyed it warily. Ever the smoothie, William waved the girls inside with a flourish, and then he and James stepped in last.

The elevator oscillated from side to side, and Angie clung to her arm. A blast of hot air streamed up from the depths and with it the stink of metal and grease. Mary's gaze took in every detail. If only she could peer down the shaft into the depths.

"I am Serge," the waiter said. "Hold on to rail please. Is little jolt when we start."

The cage door clicked into place, and beyond it, the heavy doors clanged shut. The sound of grinding gears announced their departure, and then the whole elevator lurched to one side, bouncing off the wall. Angie cried out and pressed herself into Mary's side. Why was James shirking his responsibilities again?

"We're off," James said, stating the obvious.

Mary shot William a frustrated glance. He gave her the nod that meant he'd sort his brother out.

They plummeted downward. Rock walls whizzed by at breakneck speed beyond the mesh of the elevator cage. Every few seconds, something clanked. The cable whined and rattled. A single light bulb flickered in sync with the whirring of the winch motor. It grew dimmer as the elevator descended.

"I didn't think it would be so fast," Mary said. "How long will it take?"

"Eighteen minutes," Serge replied.

Mary thought that an eternity to travel two miles, but exhilarating in such proximity to the sides of the shaft. Not as claustrophobic as she'd expected, but she imagined the elevator jammed with two-dozen burly miners with packs and equipment. Even Angie seemed to have adjusted to their jiggling cage plunging toward the center of the Earth.

"I'm starving," William said.

That broke the ice. His appetite was notorious. How he ate like that and retained his athletic body amused and also irritated Mary because even a carrot made her gain weight. As chatter erupted about the special dinner to come, she wondered how much this trip had cost him. She draped her hands around his neck and leaned in for a kiss. Their helmets collided, and she chuckled. He tilted his, allowing her to duck under and press her lips firmly against his. They leaned into each other, and she reveled in the closeness. He was a total darling to do all this for her.

"Get a room," James grumbled.

She caught Angie's glare—knew that look well. James was such a prude. Reluctantly, Mary pulled away from William, just to make it easier for her sister and started a conversation about Moscow. Everyone was dying to see St. Basil's.

For a few minutes, they babbled on about the colorful tiles of Saint Basil's and how beautiful it was overlooking Red Square, but soon the conversation grew more sporadic. The light bulb grew dimmer the farther they descended.

Finally, Serge deployed the brake. Metal screeched on metal, and the elevator jolted to a stop. It sank another inch and came to rest. A rush of cool air blew into the elevator, accompanied by the murmur of ventilation ducts. Serge released the gate and stepped out into the darkness. Two relays thunked, and Mary blinked against overhead lights.

Looming ahead of them was a tunnel wide enough to drive a truck down. It headed in both directions. Warehouse lights peppered the ceiling every ten yards. To the left, two sets of rusty rail tracks ran into the distance, and the rock floor was scratched by excavation marks. Mary drank in the atmosphere. A real mine, deep in the heart of Russia! To the right, the floor had been covered with a faded red carpet. Though worn, the decoration looked ostentatious in this place. She laughed, and the walls echoed a laugh back, seeming to mock her.

Everyone filed out of the elevator toward a row of chairs and a grocery basket holding their dress shoes. It was a relief to walk on solid ground again. She hadn't realized how bumpy the ride down had been. Angie looked happier too and gave her a weak smile. Her sister's eyes were wide as plates as she looked around.

"You can leave boots here," Serge said. "Dining areas carpeted. No need to wear hats, but please keep at hand."

Mary rubbed her feet where the boots had chaffed them and slipped on her diamante blue pumps that matched her dress. Next to her, Angie stepped into ridiculously high heels while the men laced up their glossy dress shoes. What a bizarre place to be so spruced up.

The two Russians had huddled together, staring down the undecorated tunnel. In the distance, a green haze flickered and swirled. _Was that gas?_ She blinked, and it vanished.

Serge's brow was deeply furrowed, but when he saw her watching them, he became all smiles again. He rubbed his hands and strode over while the chef disappeared behind a service door.

"Quarter mile that way is backup elevator," Serge said. "Halfway on right wall, you see red light? Locker holds emergency supplies." He winked. "Is just regulations. Now I show you facilities."

Dominated by a gigantic claw-footed table set under three sparkling chandeliers, the main cavern was forty feet wide and sixty feet long. Capable of seating twenty, the table had been laid at one end for four, with a pristine tablecloth, white seat covers, and pale green napkins. Cutlery glistened in the overhead lights, at least a half-dozen knives, forks, and spoons per place setting. Serge proudly pointed out the Lomonosov Bone China plates and Dyatkovsky crystal wine goblets. It was without a doubt the craziest dinner setting she'd ever seen.

Side caverns held a wine cellar with tasting room, his and hers restrooms, and a lounge filled with couches and a fully stocked bar. The final cave held another bar and a polished wood dance floor of all things.

Shaking her head, she grinned at William. He looked so proud of himself. Even James seemed devoid of sarcastic remarks.

Serge led them back to the lounge. "Please be comfortable. I make special birthday drink." Beaming at Mary, he took the bottle of vodka she still carried and moved behind the bar.

She removed her hardhat and perched on a couch, inching her dress down her thighs. William sat beside her with a wink, and in a rare act of love, James pulled Angie onto his lap. _Good. About time he took care of her._ The gold leaf framed photos on the wall surprised Mary. Not the bleak soviet-era decorating she'd imagined.

"This place is crazy and incredible all at once," she said.

Angie ran her fingers across the rough wall. "This green stone is pretty. I wonder why they didn't dig it all out."

"It's malachite, and—"

"I know, James," she said, play-punching her fiancé. "I was paying attention."

"Did you see that dance hall?" Mary said. "We should have brought all our friends."

William made a fake sad face and pulled the empty pockets out of his pants. Everyone laughed.

Serge returned with a tray of drinks. Four martini glasses burned with green flames that colored a fog billowing up and out across the tray. Everyone chinked their glasses in a toast to her. Mary hesitated before sipping, but then an explosion of tastes tickled her tongue: Crème de Menthe, apple, mint, and then the vodka burned her throat.

"This is yummy," she said to Serge. "Can I have the recipe?"

He smiled and silently returned to the bar.

After their second cocktail, a bell summoned them to dinner. It began with a mushroom pâté amuse-bouche, followed by a lobster bisque in a heavy vodka and rosemary cream sauce. Mary chuckled at the cacophony of slurps and murmurs of delight that accompanied every spoonful.

"I love you, William Bordon," she murmured, laying her arm on his.

He grinned ear to ear and toasted her with a delicate Caspian white wine.

Serge returned and set the next course in front of them—the flimsiest blini pancake topped with a wafer thin slice of salmon and red caviar. How was it possible that it tasted even better than the bisque? She was going to die and go to food heaven!

"Know why I chose this place?" William said to her.

"Because you spoil me, and this is the most unbelievable place a girl could ever spend her birthday?"

"I'm glad you like it." He leaned forward conspiratorially, and his eyes grew wide. "This is another place to add to your macabre collection. Twenty-five miners died mysteriously down here back in '95." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"A cave-in?"

"No one knows." He made a clawed hand and wriggled it onto hers. "Their mutilated bodies were found a year later."

Angie thumped him in the arm. "Shut up, that's gross."

"Don't scare the girls," James said.

"Mary loves this death stuff," William replied. "You're the one who's scared, bro."

She peered into the shadowy corners of the cave and stared at mysterious black holes in the walls.

The two men fell silent with the arrival of the entrée—a traditional pelmeni stuffed with veal and lamb, with a dish of seven different vegetables, and an earthy, local red wine to accompany it. William kept topping her goblet as fast as she drank.

"Get me too sleepy, and you won't have your wicked way tonight." She lifted her face to the delicious fresh air blasting from the ductwork above the table.

His mouth turned down, and his shoulders dropped. Damn those puppy dog eyes of his. She laughed.

"I don't plan on sleeping on my birthday night. We've got calories to burn off, mister."

She laughed again at his ear-to-ear dolphin smile.

"I had no idea Russian food was so rich." Angie glanced over her shoulder, but Serge had returned to the kitchen. She lowered her voice. "I thought they only ate boiled potatoes."

"Oh my God," Mary said. "This is so delicious I can't stop eating."

"Maybe that's what happened to those miners," James said. "Their stomachs exploded."

"Stop it!" Angie dropped her napkin on the table. "I'm going to the restroom. Tell your sick stories while I'm gone."

"Now look what you've done," William scolded. "Make it up to her, bro."

Movement by the kitchen door caught Mary's eye. A puff of green vapor emerged from the wall, expanded, and crept along the base of the door. It twirled and seemed to hesitate. Before she could nudge William, it darted under the door and out of sight.

Blinking hard, she fanned her face with one hand. What had she just seen? A kitchen vent? She gulped from her glass of ice water, and then her gaze drifted back to the door.

"What I've done?" James started. "Look who's—"

A gurgling, primal scream of terror pierced their argument. It rose in pitch and then silenced abruptly.

"What the hell was that?" William muttered.

They stared at the kitchen door, and then everyone jumped up at once. Goblets toppled, spreading red stains across the tablecloth. Cutlery clattered to the floor, and chairs tipped at angles, caught on the rug.

William reached the swinging door first and pushed it inward, with James on his heels. Shoving from the back, Mary followed them into a preparation hallway heaped with dirty pots and plates, then into the kitchen itself. The guys hesitated, staring at the floor.

"Dear God!" James whirled around, and his hands flew to his pale face. He swallowed hard.

Mary tried to push to the front, but William grabbed both her arms and pulled her away. His hands were chilled despite the heat from the stove.

"Go back outside." His eyes were feral.

"What is it? Damn it! Let me see." She tried to dodge around his wide shoulders.

"Close your eyes, baby. Come on." He snaked an arm around her waist and guided her toward the door.

A crash of falling objects sounded from within a walk-in cupboard to their left. William shushed, and they heard repeated sounds of glass breaking.

"There's something in there," James whispered.

William shot his brother a withering look. Pushing Mary behind him, he snatched up a kitchen knife and yanked the door open. Serge cowered against a shelf of foodstuffs. He trembled uncontrollably, shaking his head rapidly. Drool dribbled down his chin.

"What happened?" William asked.

The Russian's wild eyes settled on the knife, and he muttered in high speed Russian.

"We can't understand you, man."

"Призрак... он вышел из стены. Съел его на части. Мы все умрем!"

"Speak English."

Serge rushed forward, darted under William's grasp, and fled out of the kitchen, screaming "Мы все умрем!"

What had he seen? What was she not supposed to see? Had the cook fallen on a knife or burned himself? While the guys were distracted, she slipped past them.

Her hands flew to her mouth, too late to stop her sharp shriek. She backed into a side table, knocking over bowls that clattered to the ground.

"Damn it, James," William yelled. "Why didn't you stop her?"

"You were holding her. Why didn't you stop the Russian? He just murdered the cook."

"You think so? That's not how it looks to me."

"Shut up!" she cried. "Look at him. Christ, look at him."

Only the bottom half of the cook's body remained, pressed against the wall. His intestines spilled from his lower torso, and blood pooled black beneath his legs. A hand with fingers stretched wide protruded from the wall, embedded in it up to the wrist. The upper part of his body looked as if it was buried within the actual wall. _How was this even possible?_

Another high-pitched shriek came from somewhere outside the kitchen. The desperation of it tore into Mary's soul.

"Oh my God, Angie!" She ran for the door, shoving the guys aside.

William dropped the knife and hurtled after her. "Find Serge," he cried over his shoulder at James. "We need to know what he saw."

Sprinting for the restroom, Mary's heel rolled over a bump beneath the rug. Her ankle twisted, and she slammed against the wall. William raced ahead while she kicked off her pumps, not caring that they flew under the table. She found him fumbling with the restroom door.

"Break it down," she cried.

He backed up and charged the door, shoulder first. Wood splintered. The door banged open, and he tumbled into a well-lit cavern. He failed to catch his fall on a towel rail and sprawled on the floor.

She stepped over him and scanned every corner for Angie. Both stalls were vacant. Water gushed from the faucet in the sink opposite, under an array of lights set above a mirror.

Her legs crumpled, and she dropped to her knees. Doubled over, she pounded the ground with her fists and howled her sister's name over and over.

Blood pooled in the center of the room, the color of the wine from dinner. A large streak disturbed the perimeter, smearing blood across the room to the wall, which oozed beads of red that dribbled unevenly to the floor.

"Angie!" she croaked and touched a finger to the warm, viscous fluid.

_No way is all this blood hers. Where is she? Not in the wall! No, not like that!_

William lifted her under her arms, pulled her into an embrace, and pushed her head into his shoulder. He stroked her back, slow and even.

"We have to find Angie." She struggled. "She's hurt. Angie!"

He trembled for a long moment before he pushed Mary away and cupped her face with both hands. He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs as she stared into his hazel eyes. She'd never seen him look so terrified. His lips twitched, and his gaze darted side to side. What was going through his head?

"We'll find her, baby. Stay with me. Show me the strong Mary. Everything will be all right."

He led her back into the main cavern. She had to believe him. There was no way her baby sister had ended up like the cook. Somewhere she lay hurt and scared witless. She hadn't even wanted to come down here. Why hadn't that son of a bitch James protected Angie? Mary scanned every shadowy corner for signs of the green mist. Whatever it was, it had killed the cook, of that she was certain. Serge had been cowering from it in the dark. It had killed all those miners too.

"Listen, you're going to think I'm hysterical, but just—"

"Not now." William placed his fingers on her lips in a feeble attempt to mask the sting of his words.

"Yes, now. This is important. There's something horrible down here, and we have to find Angie and leave. Listen to me!"

James ran back, breathing heavily and tearing loose his bowtie. "Serge's gone up in the elevator."

They all knew what that meant, but apparently he felt compelled to vocalize it.

"It's going to take up to an hour to get the elevator back." He stared at Mary, and his eyes narrowed. "Where's Angie?"

"Hurt," Mary yelled. "For God's sake, we have to find her."

James hesitated, locking gazes with his brother. His eyes flashed, and his brow furrowed.

"We do it quickly and then hole up down here until the elevator gets back." William wrapped his arm around her.

The overhead lights flickered. The bulbs darkened and then went out. Total blackness.

_Now the green vapor is coming for us too!_

Her hand sought William's, and she listened to their rapid, ragged breathing.

Electricity crackled overhead. The lights came back on, but dimmer.

"What the hell's happening?" James spun around and approached William, inches from his face. "You're telling me Serge didn't kill that guy? Then what did that... that...?"

"There's something alive down here," Mary whispered.

"What do you mean _something_?"

"Didn't you see the damn cook? The hand sticking out of the wall? Nothing natural did that."

James stared hard at Mary, and the fire went out of his eyes. He backed off. "Then it got Angie too?"

The lights flickered, extinguished, and then came back on. Mary snuggled tight against William's hot body, one hand against his rising and falling chest.

"If these lights go out for good, we're in big trouble," William said calmly. "We need to go for help and then find Angie." He squeezed Mary's hand. "We head for the backup elevator. Now."

"That's half a mile down the tunnel," James said.

"We're not leaving her. You two run. I'm staying." She tried to pull away, but William refused to let go of her hand.

"We're not splitting up," he said.

"Angie's dead," James whimpered, rubbing his forehead. "Oh my God."

"Get a grip." William jerked his head toward Mary. "We'll find her."

The haunted look in James's eyes made her heart race. Her knees buckled.

"I'm so sorry," James said, "but she's gone. Dead." He shook her shoulders. "Don't you get it? If we stay a moment longer, then we're all dead."

A gust of icy wind made them all jump. Mary's neck hairs stood on end, and her flesh tingled.

She looked from one brother to the other. For once James was right. The thing was going to kill them. She clung to William, letting him hold her up. _Poor Angie. All that blood._ She should stay and look for her, but then William would stay. She couldn't put all their lives in danger. There was no chance to find her sister alive. She blinked back tears. Why had they come to this wretched place?

She peered into the darkening corners and shivered. They had to leave. She nodded weakly. William hugged her tight and gave her a short, firm kiss.

They hurried along the faded carpet toward the elevator. The distant sound of the winch motor far up the shaft brought her hope, a connection with the surface. William jabbed the green call button several times.

"Let's hope the backup elevator is already down here." He stepped off the carpet between the rail tracks.

The rock was cold on Mary's bare feet. Every kicked pebble or distorted echo startled her. She scrutinized the green walls. Was that a fine mist flowing along the surface? Her nerves jangled.

Where was that damn emergency cupboard? She strained to see in the gloom, the lights above still flickering. There had to be flashlights inside. Maybe something else to protect them. Unlikely. The distant elevator was their only hope, and it was so far away. They should hurry before the lights went out for good. _Calm down. Breathe!_

"What's that?" William stabbed a finger in the air.

About thirty feet ahead, a billowing green shadow hung close to the wall.

"My God. That's what I was telling you about. We've got to go back."

A cloud of vapor detached from the wall, sank to the ground, and spread outward.

"William! Run. Please, run."

The repetitive thud of a relay echoed down the tunnel, and the lights went out, plunging Mary into total darkness once again. Stepping back, she stumbled on the rough floor and fell, scraping her shin.

Something glowed in the darkness. A faint, luminescent fog swirled and rolled silently toward them. _Oh my God, it's found us!_ Mary crawled away, blundering into the tunnel wall. The brothers appeared as black silhouettes, wandering aimlessly. Couldn't they see her? The stuff was almost upon them. Couldn't they see _that_?

"William," she cried.

One of the figures angled toward her. _Hurry!_

James turned too, just as the green fog lapped about his legs, tendrils climbing, tugging at him. _Get out of there!_ He stiffened, and his back arched. His scream was deafening as he tumbled away from her into the fog. It billowed over his prone form.

William spun and rushed toward his brother.

"No, come away," she cried. "Please!"

The fog withdrew swiftly, as if sucked back. A disgusting slurping noise accompanied it, along with the sound of a heavy item being dragged. Of James being dragged. The green glow faded, and the darkness pressed in on her. The ventilation units slowed to a stop with a drawn-out sigh, like someone taking their last breath.

Her back to the wall, she trembled, panting as the air turned to hot soup. It felt like drowning. Her skin prickled, and she clenched her fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. Now James was gone. Next it would come for William. Or her! Which way was that damn emergency cupboard?

Something scraped on the ground in front of her, but she saw nothing in the blackness. Her heart thumped as she squirmed along the wall. Something hot and sweaty grabbed her foot. She cried out. It moved up her legs, her waist and belly, and then someone pulled her into a trembling embrace. The smell of William's cologne enveloped her like a warm cloak. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pushed her head into his broad shoulders.

She was going to die on her twenty-first birthday. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. She'd never see the outside world again, never see the sun, her family. There was so much she wanted to live for. Her fingers moved through his neat beard. She'd never see his face again.

"I'm so scared," she said, voice wavering. "I always laughed at fear. I didn't know..."

His body trembled against hers. Why was she making this about her, being so selfish?

"What about James?"

He squeezed her tight, his ragged hot breath on her neck. "He's... I can't believe it."

"We can't stay here. We've got to go before it comes back."

He stroked her hair, and his lips searched hers in the dark and pressed firmly against them. "I should have believed you. We'll make it, I promise." He pulled away and stood. "The lights aren't coming back. I'll try the kitchen. There has to be a flashlight, blow torch, anything."

"No. We can't split up."

"It's our only chance, baby."

She reached out, but she could already hear his shoes on the ridiculous damn carpet.

"Don't leave me alone," she screeched. "Please come back!"

She leaned back against the elevator housing. Would it never arrive? It felt like hours since William's scream. Now she was alone. They were all dead, and the thing was out there, coming for her right now.

She panted rapidly, staring into nothingness, imagining the creature prowling silently along the ground, a moment from striking. Goosebumps covered her skin despite the heavy, humid air. Bile rose in her throat.

The clatter of chains and screech of metal jerked her to attention. The whirring of the elevator motor ceased abruptly.

The elevator.

Her heart thumping with hope, she leapt up and fumbled for the door latch. Right now she'd kill for the pitiful glow of that elevator bulb. Her sweaty hands slipped on the mechanism, but finally she slid the door back, scrambled inside, and rammed it closed. Nearly there! Where were the lift controls? Hadn't they been on this side? Damn it, where were they? Her hands stumbled across them. She hesitated. What if William was still alive? If she left to search for him, how would she ever find him? Should she call out one more time? She couldn't leave him here.

She stabbed the button, and the elevator lurched upward.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

Eighteen minutes to the surface. What if the thing came after her? Could it catch her? The elevator raced toward the surface, and she wished she could watch the rock face slide by to give her a sense of progress. Ever so slowly, the sound of the winch motor above grew louder.

The elevator crunched to a halt, flinging her against the side and then into a heap on the floor. The creature had stopped her. Stupid! How could a fog stop the elevator? It had broken down, that's all. How was she going to fix it, stuck more than a mile underground? Finding her way back to the controls, she flicked random switches in the dark and pressed the buttons repeatedly.

What if she was stuck here forever? _Get a grip, Mary!_ The Russians up top were sure to have spotted the fault. They'd find a way to fix it. She forced herself to slow her breathing.

The elevator sprang back to life and continued upward. Yes! She thumped a fist into her palm and wiped the dripping sweat from her face. The bulb swinging above her head began to glow, faintly at first and then stronger. Precious light. She continued to stare at it until blotches colored her vision. The elevator slowed, inched upward, and then stopped. The motor whined down to silence. Outside the elevator cage door were the heavy metal doors to freedom. She'd reached the surface. She'd made it.

No sooner had the cage doors opened than she stepped clear of the elevator onto a small platform that led to the solid outer doors. Wisps of green mist swirled through the gap at the bottom between the end of the platform and the doors. _No!_ She toppled back against the elevator wall, her pulse racing, every muscle tensed. The creature had gotten ahead of her. Were all the other Russians dead? Her breath escaped in a huge sigh. It had all been for nothing.

The outer doors slid back, bathing her in blinding white light from the room beyond. She raised her arms before her face. Applause broke out, a thunderous clapping, cat calls, and whistles.

The room beyond was filled with people. William stood at the front, clapping the loudest, a grin filling his face. Beside him stood Angie, her purple dress not even creased. Her arm hung loosely around James's waist.

Mary stood trembling, her mouth wide, then she sprinted toward her sister, and wrapped her in a bear hug. One hand stroking her sister's long hair, she sobbed openly into her shoulder, rocking her back and forth.

"Oh dear God, Angie. I thought I'd lost you."

"I'm sorry," she murmured back. "It was just a game, just a silly game." She addressed William. "She's shaking so much. Did you have to do this to her?"

William pulled her from her sister's embrace and into one of his own. He ran his hands up and down her back.

"Forgive me, baby. I... I just wanted to scare you for once in your life. Just to see if I could. I didn't think you'd take it so hard. Don't hate me for it."

The despair in his voice pulled her back. She pushed him gently away, sniffling all the while. Angie gave her a handkerchief to wipe her eyes, and it became streaked with blue eyeliner and mascara.

The pop of a champagne cork startled her. Behind him, Serge and the cook poured bubbly into fluted glasses. William turned on them with a glare. They froze, smiles fading, their darting eyes seeking advice.

Mary joined Serge, forcing a smile. "Thank you. For everything." She shook his hand while he stared at her, and then she took two chilled glasses, handing one to William.

He accepted it, his mouth drooping. "I should have known I'd gone too far when you..." His eyes flicked briefly toward Angie.

"You've no idea how hard it was to rehearse those parts," Angie said. "We only meant to surprise you."

Mary slipped one arm around her. "It's okay. I just wasn't expecting anything like that." She drained her glass in one swallow, stole William's, and drank his too.

William cupped her face and forced her to look into his hazel eyes. "You sure you're going to be all right?"

"I'll be fine," she lied.

No. She'd never feel safe again.

#

I was born here on a June day in 1848, a day when cicadas buzzed in our plush garden. Love and music filled my life when I grew up here. I died here on my wedding night, still in my wedding dress, surrounded by lilies that had been picked on the grounds. I was about to turn seventeen.

I was connected to this farm. This house. My home used to be a magnificent mansion with a wraparound porch, old even when I was born, whitewashed regularly. I always thought of it as a fairy palace that had been loaned to us at great cost. My life had been too good. There had to be some sort of payment. There was.

The grounds used to be gloriously beautiful. Fruit trees and cotton had filled the ground with green, but after my death, red spread over the grounds the same way my blood had spread over the front room's floor. Seeping. Thick. Insidious and unstoppable. The red soil was my blood now. Banging shutters hanging on their last hinges were my heartbeat. Soon, they would be gone too. The house, already dilapidated, would fade away slowly, same as me. I dimmed away a bit more every day. In a few years, I'd be gone.

It filled me with fear. Disappearing as if I'd never existed. I always thought there'd be a light guiding me to the hereafter. But I'd never seen it. Eventually, if I didn't find that light, I'd stop being.

I couldn't stop haunting. Certain places pulled me like an invisible rope around my waist. It was easier to glide from place to place, letting the currents of my past drag me along like flotsam.

I wandered through the house, the train of my wedding dress dragging after me. Running my fingers along peeling walls, I pretended I could feel the rugged surface. Instead, I only remembered how cool and smooth the walls had felt in my childhood. I drifted up broken stairs as if they were still whole.

I stopped at the second floor's landing and remembered. The last day had been filled with flowers.

_The whole hallway smelled of lilies and roses. People milled about below, dressed in their finest clothes and celebrating the happiest day of my life. I'd married the man I loved and tonight... My steps stopped at the top of the stairs. Suddenly, my heart felt thick in my throat. Tonight, I'd take my place as his wife. We'd start a glorious life together, and we'd have children whose laughter filled my—_ our _—house. What would happen tonight was required. That much I knew. But it was all so secret that the thought made me nervous._

_None of that mattered when my husband was with me, but where was he?_

The memory left me alone in shadows and dappled light. I couldn't smell the layers of dust I now saw. It saddened me, seeing my beautiful house like this, but what could I do? I didn't want to stop existing, but the living didn't relish the dead wandering about their home.

I heard voices and strolled along the landing while I waited for whoever it was to come into the great hall below. Would they see me this time? Sometimes it happened, although it was rare now that I had but little energy left. Would they hear me? No one had before. I watched three people coming in carrying heavy suitcases. The cases looked metallic, which would protect whatever was inside. What could be so valuable to justify such expense? Crystal? Why would they bring anything of value _here_ , though? A blond woman dressed like a man set down her suitcases and glanced around, chafing her arms.

"This place looks so sad," she said.

I glanced around, frowning. It _was_ a sad place, weeping every passing year for someone to fill it with laughter once more. I hated that people saw the house like this. When I was alive, it had been one of the most important places in the area, socially, economically, every way imaginable. Now it was just a neglected building haunted with me and my memories.

"It has a sad history," one of the men said. He was well built. Strong. His gaze swept up the staircase and along the landing, stopping where I was. I stood, frozen as if his eyes had pinned me down. Could he see me? I held my breath and walked back to the staircase, watching him. His stare followed.

Oh, God! He did see me!

I stopped again, meeting his gaze. He had dark eyes, deep and profound, as if he knew the world's greatest mysteries. I didn't know what to do. How did one react to being seen for the first time in centuries? I felt hot and cold at the same time, wavering between running away and moving towards him. He didn't move, didn't give me any indication as to what I should do.

"Steve?" the woman inquired, going to stand next to him. "Did you hear me?"

He blinked and stared at her blankly. Neither of us had heard a word. "Sorry. I..." He glanced my way.

The woman's gaze followed his, but she focused on the railing instead of me. "It's beautiful. Must have been amazing when she was alive."

Steve's Adam's apple bobbed and he nodded. After another glance at me, he went to the suitcases and unclasped them. Loud snaps reverberated in the hall. Another man came in, looking incredibly odd. His hair was bright blue and stood on end. His clothing was loose and untidy. But when he looked up, he had pleasant eyes that danced with some sort of inner mirth. "We'll be able to set up cameras at some great angles."

Steve nodded. "See if you can get one to focus on the top of the staircase." He said this while staring straight at me again. I rolled my eyes. I was invisible to anyone but him. What made him think he'd be able to take a photo of me?

He grinned and ducked his head, a shock of black hair coming loose.

I smiled as well, elated. It was the first time since I had died that someone actually smiled at me. The blue-haired man gingerly made his way up the creaking steps. I stepped aside so he could get past my wide dress. I hated when people walked through me. It reminded me of the day I'd truly stop existing. He carried what I assumed was a camera, but it looked nothing like any camera I remembered. Those were black and boxy. This one was more or less the same size, but it was white. It seemed that it had no box, but a huge lens.

He fixed the camera on a stable-looking part of the railing and then went back downstairs. "Do you think she's real?"

Steve nodded. The moment the camera man turned away, he winked at me. If I still had blood, I would have blushed. As it was, I felt warm all over. A man flirting with an unknown woman was highly improper. Still, it felt wonderful to be seen.

A tug to my being let me know it was past time to move again. I sighed and went downstairs, glancing at Steve on my way out the front door. They'd left it open, so I could leave without having to open it myself. Good. The greatest disappointment to being a ghost—other than in fact becoming a ghost instead of moving on—was the fact I couldn't travel through anything that existed there in my lifetime. I still had to use my home's doors like a living person. It terrified people whenever I did in their presence.

I went to the garden. It was desolate. Our famous rose bushes had all withered. Somewhere, I heard a lone bird cry from the last dying tree. I tried not to think of how forlorn it sounded, but I couldn't help myself. Once again, I felt completely alone.

"You haven't vanished," a man said behind me, and I turned around swiftly to see him. It was Steve.

There wasn't anyone with him. He'd spoken to me, actually followed me outside for a word. I glanced around out of habit, but anyone who could censure us was dead. Steve kept staring at me, as if he expected me to say something.

After so many years spent alone, I'd lost the art of small talk. I shrugged, feeling as if I would cry.

"It's okay." He stepped closer. For a breathless moment, it seemed that he'd reach out and touch me. But of course, he couldn't. Touching was for people who lived.

This time, the tears did come. I swallowed at the burn at the back of my throat, but it only grew stronger. This wouldn't do. I'd cried hard and often at the start, but I grew resigned to my fate. I did. Now this complete stranger brought up all the pain again.

I needed to get away.

"Wait!" Steve stepped forward just as I was about to leave. "I want to help you."

"Oh really?" I choked out past my tears. My voice must have caught Steve off-guard. He gaped at me. "How will you do that? Can you pave my way into the hereafter?"

He shook his head as if to clear it and then looked me up and down. "I'm not sure yet."

"I see." I strode from him and the false hope he'd almost germinated within me.

"Wait!" His footsteps crunched the dead grass behind me. I walked faster. "Emily."

My name. He'd said my name. No one said my name anymore. I was always _the bride_ to the many people who had visited after my death. Hearing my name brought me to a stop, and he jogged to stand before me once more. I should have given him a dressing down for being so familiar with me. But why bother? Anyone who could have possibly cared about my conduct had died years ago.

"I didn't say I couldn't help. I meant that I wasn't sure how yet. We need to figure this out."

Once again, hope warmed me. I tried to stamp it out. "Don't you think I spent almost two centuries 'figuring it out' as you say?"

"Why did you come here?" Steve asked as if he hadn't heard me, his gaze wandering up the old tree's jagged branches.

My husband Henry had hanged himself here after I had haunted him into madness. A few days after our housekeeper had taken a fright and fallen to her death. Down the exact same staircase as I had. I frowned at Steve. "None of your business, sir. Good day."

I'd had enough. So I let go of my thoughts and let everything grow white around me. When that happened, I faded away until something made me reappear in the house.

Piano music trilled away in my memories, briefly taking me back to when I was alive. To my little sister practicing every afternoon except Sunday. It faded away once I became aware of my surroundings. I stood in my darkened bedroom. This, I knew by instinct, by the memories flooding through me. The sun had set, throwing everything in shadows. Were the visitors still in the house with their cameras and curiosity? Probably not. No one could catch good images in such bad light.

I shook my head and paced along the threadbare carpet. It used to be plush and blue. Now the color was unrecognizable, and floorboards dominated rather than peeked.

Soon, I felt that familiar draw. I stepped towards my door, but stopped. Why did I do this to myself? Rehashing things again and again didn't make things better. In fact, events from the night I'd died still burned in my chest like a furnace. I'd lost too much. My whole life. All my dreams. And _he_ took them from me.

Yet the draw to that room grew, pulling as sure as a soul torn from a corpse.

I gave in and went. The room used to be my parents'. Then it had belonged to Henry, who had acted as my sister's and my guardian. He was twelve years my senior and so sophisticated. We spent many a night enjoying his tales of distant countries and strange cultures. When my sister May went to sleep, he was just the right amount of wicked to charm me. Not too much. No. Just the right amount to entice me into loving him without overstepping his bounds.

And oh, how I loved him.

I was a fool.

Keeping my jaw clenched, I marched down the corridor to what should have been our room. I barely noticed my surroundings, but past mixed with present, drowning me in the sickening scent of lilies.

"Are you there?" Steve asked out of nowhere, bringing me to a grinding halt.

I rounded to face him, except the hallway was empty. No. I had no time for this.

"Is there someone in this room?" the woman from earlier asked. I recognized her voice from before. They were in my sister's room.

I glanced towards my original destination. The tug remained.

"Emily, are you here with us?"

Really. Of course I wasn't there with them, and Steve knew that.

"Talk to us," he coaxed.

I stamped my foot and went to May's room. They'd left the door open once more, so nothing hampered my entry. Darkness had no real effect on me. I saw three people: Steve, the woman, and the man with blue hair. Steve noticed me immediately.

"Dude. I see something," Blue whispered, staring at his strange camera. "Sh-she's standing there... by the door."

That caught my attention. How could he see me in the dark with no flash going off? How could he see me at all?

"Are you Emily?" The woman asked, holding up a small black contraption.

"What's that?" I asked. Only Steve met my gaze.

"This," he said, tapping the black thing, "is a tape recorder. It copies sounds so we can listen to them again."

I ventured closer, fascinated, but the other room's draw pulled me to a stop.

"Nothing to be afraid of." His voice sounded strange. As if he wasn't speaking to me, even though we both knew he was.

"I'm not afraid." I glanced towards the door. The scent of lilies returned, almost choking me with my own wrath.

"Whoa," Blue whispered. "Serious battery drainage."

"Do you smell that?" the woman asked. "Lilies..."

I gaped at her. She smelled lilies too. This had never happened before. Not in all the time I'd been here. The other room called to me, dragging me back against my will. I tried to fight it for a moment longer, wanting to explore my shared existence with the living. "Yes. Yes," I said, forgetting she couldn't hear. "They were my favorite. I had them at my—"

The other room yanked me away, dragging me back and through to the door.

The woman shouted Steve's name, and then I was gone. There, but in another time—at my last moment of happiness.

_I arrived at the door to the room I would share with Henry from tonight. It was strangely open. Henry had said he'd be right down, but it had been almost an hour since he had left the wedding party. Maybe he was unwell or busy with some piece of business that wouldn't let him go. He was that sort of man. I never really minded since he'd be a responsible steward for my inheritance. But tonight, it annoyed me. Couldn't his business wait?_

_"I can't see why you_ have _to spend the night with her, Henry," Celia, our housekeeper, hissed._

_I froze, frowning. Celia had no right to be so familiar with her employers._

_"Don't you see?" Henry whispered, his voice tense, urgent. "I have to. At least tonight, so no one suspects what we're doing."_

Have to? _I blinked back tears. Why was he saying these things? He loved me._

_He loved_ me _._

_"Oh." Celia laughed bitterly. "So her beauty has nothing to do with it? Don't you ever forget you belong to me, Henry Marsden."_

_I gasped as if Celia had ripped my heart out. It couldn't be true. He loved me. He was mine._

_"Yes. As soon as we've cleared out her accounts—"_

_This time, I cried out. Now I understood. He'd tricked me. Seduced me with pretty stories. All so they could rob my sister and me blind. Henry ripped the door fully open, and the two conspirators stood before me, pale as death._

_"Emily," Henry said, wheedling for understanding._

_I staggered back and shook my head. I understood too well now. "Get out of my house."_

_His expression hardened. "Our house. I own it now, remember?"_

_Something about his tone flared up my rage. I shoved at his chest. "Oh no. I'll die before I allow that. You stay away from me, Henry Marsden. Tomorrow, if you're not gone, I'll see you in jail."_

_I turned on my heel and stormed down the corridor. Suddenly, I hated it all. The smell of lilies choked me in tears. The sound of laughter and music grated me to the bone. I needed to end it. Right now. I had to stop this farce and escape the heinous mistake I'd made. The top of the staircase came within view, but was soon blurred out by my tears. I was so focused on ending the party I never heard Henry's footsteps following me. The moment I took the first step down the staircase, he shoved me forward._

_I screamed, hearing and feeling a horrible snap seconds before everything went black._

"Oh, my God," Steve said. I gasped and wheeled around. Where had he come from? Had he found me at the top of the stairs, or had he been following me from the start? "It wasn't an accident," he whispered.

"You saw?"

He nodded, staring at the spot where my destroyed body had lain. His hands trembled as he rubbed at his eye sockets. "That... oh... wow."

"Honey?" The woman hurried to Steve's side. Her flashlight bounced erratically. "Everything okay?"

"No," he said. "Turn the camera off."

"Okay..." She turned to Blue, who'd followed her. "Cut it."

He nodded, and the strange lights dancing over his camera disappeared. "Did you see something?"

"Yeah. She was murdered, Mel."

Mel gasped, tears coming to her eyes. "Oh, my God. Are you here, Emily?"

"Why is she so moved?" I asked, frowning. No one had ever cared about my plight except as some morbid sort of entertainment.

"Emily, everyone thought your death was accidental."

I knew that. It still didn't explain why a woman I had never met was crying for me. "Neither did Henry hang himself because of grief," I revealed. "I drove him to it." I inched my chin up, defying Steve to judge me for doing so.

His mouth turned up into a half smile. "Mel's your family. May's her great-great-great-great-grandmother."

"Oh!" Now I felt like crying too. "None of my family ever came back." I reached out to caress Mel's cheek, but of course, neither of us felt anything. Closing my eyes, I turned away.

"Don't go!" Steve said, forestalling me. "I want to ask you something."

"Fine," I said, not looking at him.

"Actually, I want to ask you both. Emily, Mel... I want to buy this place. Turn it back into the home it once was. The one it was supposed to be, with laughing children and a happy family. Mel and I are getting married in a month, you see."

I beamed. "May's family back in our home. What a lovely idea."

For the briefest of moments, a pure white light flashed over me. This was what I'd waited for! I suddenly felt truly alive, almost to the point of having my heart thundering in my chest.

"There it is," Steve said. "If you reach for it, it will take you to the hereafter."

I stepped towards it, but the light vanished immediately. What? No. No! It couldn't desert me here after a moment of hope that I'd escape this damned half existence.

I screamed, sagging to my knees and letting my dress billow out around me. This couldn't be happening. Not after all these years. "Please, God!" I screamed for the first time in decades. I'd stopped asking years ago, but this... this was too much. Maybe it had been punishment for taking my revenge. Maybe being responsible for someone's death barred me from the next life. I'd be anchored to this house until the day I had too little energy to exist.

"Emily," Steve murmured, kneeling next to me. "Talk to me."

"What can I say?" I sobbed, pulling at my hair. "I'd wasted the energy I had to haunt Henry to his death. Every day I move around is a day closer to oblivion. And then... nothing. No heaven. No hell. Just... wasting away."

He frowned. "No, that can't be right. You're too good a person."

"Am I?" I asked. "The only reason I regret killing that bastard is that I'll be stuck here forever."

It was too much to think of, too much to handle. I closed my eyes and emptied my mind, waiting for the darkness to overtake me.

The next year did wonders for the house. Rolling green lawns replaced the red earth. The tree on which Henry had hanged himself had been removed. It would've been as if he'd never existed, if only I could let the memory of his existence fade. In fact, the restored house only kept the memories alive, and I spent every single day haunting the staircase, the main bedroom, and the place where the tree had stood.

Each day took more of my energy and made me more of a slave to my own anger. At this rate, it wouldn't be long before I stopped existing. I couldn't help myself. It was like picking at a sore tooth with my tongue. Painful, yet...

I didn't know.

Mel and Steve had a little girl called Lynn, as pretty as a rosebud. I resisted the urge to go spend my day by the staircase and went to her nursery instead. She was my blood now. My heartbeat. As soon as I entered the room, her face lit up. She displayed her gums in a spectacular smile. I went to her, bending over her crib. For the barest of moments, things felt all right. Then I remembered. She could have been mine if Henry Marsden hadn't stolen my life. She should have been mine. I should have had children. I should have filled this house with _my_ descendants. I should have been able to hold my daughter in my arms.

The urge grew too strong and I was yanked away to my usual haunts.

Two more years passed. The little baby became a beautiful girl with golden ringlets and merry eyes. She ran around all over the place. It concerned me because that nanny of hers didn't pay the necessary attention. I tried to escape my haunts when I could so I could keep little Lynn company, but my willpower never lasted long. My energy was fading. I had almost nothing left. Soon I'd be a mere image. After that, nothing. I knew this because I'd heard Steve and Mel talking about me. They would know. They did years of research on the subject of ghosts.

I was on my way to the staircase when I heard the nanny's braying laughter. She was on that telephone contraption again. She was hardly ever off it. I shook my head and continued to my destination, but stopped halfway. Where were the little girl noises?

Lynn wasn't pattering around in the hall. She wasn't singing in the sitting room. Little shivers of unease went through me, so I hurried to her room. Doing this taxed me beyond belief, but I kept going. She wasn't playing on her carpet either.

"Lynn?" I called, closing my eyes. A wave of dizziness assailed me. "Lynn?"

No answer. Something was wrong. Ignoring the urge pulling me away, I rushed into the hallway and called Lynn again. The stupid nanny _still_ hadn't put the phone down. Her nasal twang kept grating at my ears, despite her distance from me. I glanced around, trying not to panic. "Lynn!"

She didn't answer. I hurried back downstairs, ignoring the exhaustion weighing down my body. The back door stood open. The nanny must have been lounging by the pool.

Oh God, no.

I rushed outside as fast as I could, but stopped, screaming when I saw Lynn's little body floating in the water. I ran to the side. She was within reach, but oh so far for me. No. No. I couldn't let her die. Not my little girl.

The urge to be elsewhere grew almost overpowering, but I stayed where I was. I'd have to manifest to save her. Doing so would end me. I wouldn't have any energy left once I had her safe. It didn't matter. She still had a long, beautiful life ahead of her while I had nothing.

"It will be all right, Lynn," I whispered, reaching out, willing myself to feel, to take substance.

My trembling hand closed around her wrist. She felt so cold. I shuddered and pulled her toward me. It felt as if I tried to move a mountain, but I kept going, breathing heavily even though air no longer gave me life. "Please, God, let her live."

After one last effort on my part, I managed to get her out. I cradled her little body so she was on her side, rocking her and hitting her back in an attempt to get the water out.

"Please, baby. Stay here with your family. You're too young. Too young."

As if she heard me, Lynn coughed. The water spread through the silk of my dress. "Mommy..."

Tears sprang to my eyes. "No, honey. It's Emily."

She put her arms around my neck and cried hot tears onto my skin. It was the best feeling in the world.

I held her tight and whispered reassurances into her hair. Every moment taxed me, but I stayed where I was. These would be my last moments. At least they were worthwhile. I kissed her cheek. When she calmed down a little, I picked her up and carried her to her room, where she'd be safe. I walked right past the nanny, ignoring the sound of the telephone clattering to the floor. The sound of her body dropping to the floor in a dead faint gave me some satisfaction, though.

The staircase meant nothing to me anymore. I strode up and past the place I was killed with barely a thought. Lynn softly cried against my shoulder.

"It will all be fine," I whispered. "Let's get you warmed up."

I set her on her bed a bit harder than intended. Every movement tired me. Even the bed's covers felt too heavy to lift as I wrapped them around Lynn. But lift them I did, gritting my teeth and fighting for every last ounce of energy I had. I'd be gone soon, but by God, I'd go giving comfort to this little girl.

Lynn's shaking stopped, and she looked at me in wonder. "You're an angel."

Tears sprang to my eyes. "Yes, I am. Your guardian angel."

She beamed at me.

I was barely able to stay on my feet. My time was here. "I have to go now," I said and kissed her forehead. "You better be a good girl. Don't go to the pool alone again. Promise?"

"Promise." Her eyes were wide in wonderment.

I ran my fingers through her wet hair one last time and then marched to her door. I felt myself fade away bit by bit with every step I took. But when I opened the door, the purest white light streamed in, filling the room and surrounding me.

Lynn laughed behind me, and I joined in. The light and our laughter mingled, filling me with life and joy. Was the light really here for me? Suddenly, I was scared to move through the door. What if it vanished like the last time?

"Bye, Emily!"

I glanced over my shoulder and found Lynn grinning from ear to ear.

"You're a real angel now."

I blinked and turned back to the light. It was still there, waiting for me.

I stepped through the door and was freed at last.

#

_In the days before liftoff, when he hoped someone else would stand up and clear the air with the truth, Jacob wondered what it would be like when the end of the world began. He never imagined it would be embraced with thunderous applause._

CHAPTER ONE

Back into Time

_It started seven years earlier..._

The waning sun lingered in the horizon like an egg yolk unsure if it wanted to run or hold together. Oozing apart would have suited the condemned A-frame homes and crashed glass store fronts of the long abandoned Detroit neighborhood. Not like anyone would have noticed.

Nor would anyone have cared.

Fifteen reporters crammed into the roofless remains of an ash colored building that could have been a boutique in better days. No cameras flashed. Not allowed. Most had notepads and pens at the ready along with micro-recorder units.

Two men in tailored suits sat in plain wooden chairs behind Valen Magnan. He stood on a makeshift dais beside a podium, microphone in hand. His thin lips curled into a smirking smile.

"I thought he was dead," Jacob whispered to the woman beside him. His blue tie nudged a few inches when a breeze slid idly through the crowd.

"Not dead," she answered, punch red lips glossy even at sunset. "Just off the grid. I heard his father bit it and Jean, the eldest, refused. Valen's top dog now."

Jacob released a high-pitched whistle. Whispered conversations buzzed around him. _That's like handing the reins of Stark Industries to the younger, dumber Stark kid, if Tony Stark had a brother. We're not getting an Iron Man out of this deal_ was what he wanted to say. But all it would take was one listening ear to twist his words and sensationalize them into ground bits, along with any hopes of a future. Instead, he extended his hand. "I'm Jacob Woods, LBN Detroit. And you must be Shelly Crane from GNN. You, uh, care to share your source for the dead dad?"

Shelly shook his hand and winked. "You're cute. Not that cute." A tap on the mic broke the conversation. "Looks like it's starting."

"Thank you, everyone, for coming on such short notice." Valen shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The hand not palming the mic lifted from the podium and hid away in his overly stressed blue jeans' pocket. "Though there has been slow and steady work to bring the city of Detroit back to its glory days, it's an uphill battle, especially with places like this." He gestured at the surroundings. "So it is my pleasure to announce a joint effort by Magnan Land Ventures, along with our weapons and machinery conglomerate, and sanctioned by the Canadian and U.S. governments, to forge our way into developing the megatropolis of the future, starting right here with Detroit."

For half a heartbeat, you could hear a stickpin drop on the rock-strewn ground. Then a riot of questions surged.

"What are you defining as a megatropolis?"

"Which government will have greater say in the course of events?"

"Is this just a cover for a form of bailout for the city?"

Jacob shouted, "What does Magnan get out of this?"

Valen passed on responding to the other questions.

Jacob tightened his grip on his pen as Valen set his gaze squarely on him.

"That's a good question, uh, I'm sorry. What is your name?" The room hushed as Valen used the mic to point toward Jacob.

Jacob shifted in his seat, resisting the urge to reach up and tug at his collar from the sudden heat. He wasn't sure if it was from being in the spotlight or Valen's scrutinizing glare. "Jacob Woods, LBN Detroit."

"Thank you." Valen stepped down from the dais. His smirk slipped, exposing an unexpected gentleness before he cleared his throat. "As some of you may have heard, my father, the irreplaceable Henri Magnan, passed on. The company was left to me." The two men from the dais swept to the sides of the room handing out manila envelopes. "What you're getting contains a packaged version of the vision we have for the city of the future. A number of things conspired to bring Detroit to this point. We can blame the private sector, the government, or apathy. But I feel it's the private sector's duty to set things right. So you see, the best we can get out of this is good PR. This, Jacob Woods, is about giving back."

Another round of questions spilled from the group. Valen ignored them all answering, "Your packets provide all the information to produce a stimulating story to prepare the newspaper readers and TV viewers of the change coming to this town and hopefully to others very soon. That's all for now. Thanks so much for attending."

Flanked by his Nameless One and Two assistants, Valen strolled out of a jagged opening facing the east, perhaps a floor-to-ceiling window in better days, as the sun accepted defeat in the west. Jacob and the other reporters were left to their vivid imaginations and late night deadlines.

"Not the story of the century." Jacob hurried behind Shelly. Even with rocks tossed haphazardly all over the ground, her three-inch pumps moved with speed.

"True. But any story involving Valen Magnan is a big deal. I've got just enough time to get to the GNN affiliate. We can make it a breaking news story. Finally." She paused, sighing. A dreamy moment stole across her face. Pebbles danced out of the way or got kicked when she turned the walking gear back on. "What am I doing standing here? It was nice meeting you, Jacob."

Valen sat in the back seat of a black Escalade. He spied Jacob pull out a pack of cigarettes and light one up while leaning on his car, a late model Audi. Valen knew Jacob was two months behind in payments. There were other nuggets of knowledge socked away in files on all the attendees at the press conference.

"You're sure this will work?" asked a man on the far side of the seat. Shadows cast him in darkness, leaving little more than gray slacks and narrow, manicured fingers visible. "The people have a right to know."

"Phase One is all about throwing chum to sharks. The people will be informed by their journalists. That's all the 'in the know' they're going to get."
CHAPTER TWO

The Gift

_Present day..._

Jacob clacked away at his ergonomic keyboard, his eyeglasses perched upon the bridge of his nose. He paused for a sip of mocha latte, inhaling the lingering steam with a deep breath in and releasing his tension with a breath out.

"How's that new novel coming along?" A female voice floated through the crack of his office door. Footsteps, little more than a whisper on the plush carpet, paused for an answer.

"Better than I hoped." And it was true. The words flowed from his fingertips, the story of a young boy's journey into manhood through the detoured avenues of homelessness and a myriad of foster homes until one tough foster parent cared enough to make a difference. It was the stuff great writing was made of, stuff he hadn't been sure he'd get to do until that fateful night.

It had been seven years since he called in a favor to share the Valen Magnan story on the ten o'clock news. The original invitation to the press conference allowed no photography or cameramen. However, it didn't say he couldn't shoot his story on location when the meeting was over. After the cameraman gathered his video and audio feed, Jacob noticed there was a small thumb drive that offered soft copy data of the visuals from the presentation. With a little last minute production help, he had his segment together and ready with one minute to spare.

The public ate it up. Everyone loved his display of changing the rundown and dilapidated into the pristine city of the future with his fantastic use of overlays using before and after photos. As if to back up Jacob's claim of pending change, construction workers, dump trucks, contractors, and all manner of labor poured into the city the following day to begin the process. There wasn't a pretty ribbon cutting to celebrate the first dirt to change. It was simply straight to work.

As for Jacob, his next day at the job brought something new. He'd received notification of his acceptance into his dream Masters in Fine Arts program, specializing in creative writing. Amid the pats on the back for his great segment, he wondered how he would pay for school and how long it would be before the repo man came for his car. Seemed even good fortune didn't come without the shackles of his reality.

Jacob grabbed his mail from his post office box and returned home. After lighting up a cigarette, he tore open a familiar envelope from Dawson's Life, Health, and Auto. The meager life insurance his mother had barely covered the funeral costs, hence the issues Jacob was having with his finances, well, that and a tiny bit of gambling.

He'd lost more than a mother three months ago when the drunk driver hit her speeding the wrong way down a one-way. Jacob lost his favorite fan and one true confidante. Good old dad had been a no-show when he left for a grocery run around the same time Jacob was old enough to commit crap to memory. A tear streamed down Jacob's cheek unbidden. He slammed the door on the tide of memories threatening to spill before others joined it.

He read the letter once, twice, three times to be sure he'd read it right. His hands trembled so terribly he had to set the cigarette in the ashtray. His mother had a second policy, an accidental, death, and dismemberment policy that had to wait until all processing completed.

"What the...?" His breath cut short. He wanted to jump up from this recliner and shout, but the reality of the check in his hand left him anchored in shock, still pained at the loss. "Is this...? This is really happening!"

The days, weeks, months, and years that followed were filled with all manner of change in Jacob's life. The Valen Magnan piece was his last journalistic effort. He graduated from the MFA program with a novel-in-progress and a fiancée. With his credentials, his first choice of literary agents snatched him up and quickly scored him a very nice book deal with Birdcreek. Book one knocked out sales beyond expectations. Book two was in edits. Book three sat before him molding itself with each word typed.

Jacob paused midsentence, floored by a sudden thought. He was like Detroit. He wasn't a terrible person, just as Detroit wasn't a terrible city. A series of unfortunate events played against them both until chance and circumstances changed for the better.

Detroit had a rejuvenated landscape. People enjoyed living there. And their pride wasn't simply for the nostalgia of all the Motor City used to be in days gone by, but for the grand beauty it had become in the last seven years. Even though life tried to knock them both down, they got back up. All that remained for the new face of Detroit was raising the shield to turn the city into the domed haven Valen Magnan envisioned.

As for Jacob, well...

His office door squeaked open wider. Little feet pitter-pattered over to him. His daughter jumped into his lap. "Daddy, Mommy said I could give you the mail. This paper thingy has pizza on it. Can we have pizza? I want a pizza, please?"

His little girl's curly hair matched his wife's, ink black and beautiful. But her hazel eyes reflected his own, even down to the sparkling green ring around the irises. In that moment, Jacob wanted for nothing more.

"Sure, doll. I'll go pick it up. Daddy's got some errands to run, 'kay, Marissa?"

She hopped down giggling. "'Kay, 'kay! Pizza for dinner, pizza for dinner. Pizza, pizza, pizza with pepperoni and sausage," Marissa sang as she skipped out of the room.

After a quick check that his document was saved, Jacob hurried out of his office, lovingly called the Husband Stealer by Terry, his wife.

He found Terry in the kitchen cleaning herbs she'd pulled from her potted plants gathered on a windowsill. Sunlight spilled over the basil, thyme, rosemary, and mint. Lavender filled the air from fresh blossoms she placed strategically around the house.

If there was one thing Terry knew, it was how to bring calm into his world.

She'd started the day they bumped into each other on campus during his MFA days. He'd reacted with mumbled, heated words about never meeting his deadline with his papers strewn all over the ground. She responded with a cool "Pardon me" and then proceeded to help him organize all his work. In apology for being a world class asshat, he offered to treat her to Chinese for dinner. She chose a local soul food restaurant instead and had become the peace bringer in his world ever since.

"I hear we're having pizza tonight." She laughed, casting a mischievous glance over her shoulder.

"Yes," he replied. "And no, Marissa does not have me wrapped around her little finger."

Two seconds later, Marissa padded into the room with her miniature Doberman Pincher in tow. Marissa wrapped her little fingers around Jacob's pinky, tugging him toward the kitchen door. "Pizza, Daddy, pizza. Go now, please? I'll love you forevers and evers." Her grin twinkled up at him. At the rate his heart was melting, he'd become a useless daddy-puddle in ten seconds flat.

He cleared his throat. "On my way, little boss."

"Nope." Terry caught his gaze and smiled. "Not wrapped at all."

Conquered by the two divas of his life, Jacob quickened his step to his newer, sportier Audi, not at all ungrateful for the time spent with the one who saw him through some of his toughest times.

After stopping at Giancarlo's, famous for their authentic Italian cuisine, he dashed over to his old post office box. He rarely used it. It was rarer still when he received something. This time though, a large manila envelope filled the box. It had been folded in two to fit. When he freed it, the first thing he saw were the words in bold red letters: _Do not open until you are alone._

"Odd," Jacob muttered under his breath. He thought of returning to sender, but there wasn't a return address. Tossing it in the trash crossed his mind, but with his curiosity piqued, he tucked the envelope under one arm, got back in his car, and made fast tracks home.

He marveled at the blossoming park, which replaced a formerly abandoned neighborhood. The nearby warehouse district had been repurposed for co-op gardening. Neat rows of homes, duplexes and quadplexes, showed an abundance of life with children playing in front yards. Tendrils of smoke swirled skyward from backyard grills. The dilapidation Detroit had become known for was gone. Energy sprang from everywhere Jacob looked. His heart swelled at the progress.

His driveway and garage were on the side of the house. He pulled in slowly, surprised to see Terry greet him at the door. The mischievous grin he loved was gone, replaced by the one she plastered on her face whenever his Aunt Zelda, his late-mother's last surviving sibling, decided to pop in for a visit.

"Hi, honey." She opened the car door for him.

Terry _never_ opened the door for him.

"What's wrong? Is it Aunt Zelda again? I promise you I told her to give us a day's notice before coming out."

Jacob handed the pizza box to Terry. He grabbed the envelope and draped a sweater over his arm. He'd been searching his office for the old gray thing for two days. It kept him warm during late night writing sprints when he'd rather be snugged up with Terry. All it took was finally taking a real break.

"Nothing's wrong." Terry grimace-smiled.

"So what's with this?" He gestured at all of her. She was the calmest person he knew. If something had her wound up like a coil ready to spring, it couldn't be good. And it instantly called on his need to be the calm she could not be in that moment.

"A man came to see you." Terry left the garage and entered the kitchen. Jacob followed suit.

"Oh, um, okay. Who?"

Terry slid the pizza box on the counter and placed a hand on her hip. "Go find out for yourself. He never left."
CHAPTER THREE

Guess Who?

"He what?" Jacob whispered. Sounded more like a hiss.

"And he's not alone." Terry leaned in closer, dropping the volume of her voice a notch. "One of them has a gun holstered to his hip. I hoped he was an undercover cop. Then he opened his mouth and spoke, if that's what that garbage was supposed to be. I had to send Marissa to her room."

All that happy energy Jacob had felt drained into a pocket of guilt. He'd paid off all his debts. Hadn't he? Who else would come for him after all these years?

"I swear, Terry. I haven't gone back to that life. It's been all about you, our daughter, my writing. Nothing else. You left once because of it. I swore never to let it happen again."

"Then what is that guy doing here?" Terry pointed toward the living room. She folded her arms over her chest. Her fake grin ebbed away as tears welled up and streamed down her cheeks.

Jacob took her into his arms. She went limp against him but refused to hold him back. "I'll get this straightened out. I swear. Stay here. Please." He leaned down, kissed her forehead, and settled her on a stool at the kitchen island.

When he rounded the corner to the living room, the first words Jacob heard were, "Nice piece of milk chocolate beauty you got for a wifey. How'd you snag that?" from a broad shouldered man clearly built for smashing heads, not good conversation.

Heat flushed Jacob's neck and cheeks. Certain he resembled a blotchy beet, Jacob kept his head level and shifted his gaze to the man seated on the couch. He appeared to be the one in charge from the way Big Body One and Big Body Two flanked him. The men Jacob tangled with during his betting days left a lasting impression on him that he'd never forget. Yet he couldn't recall the three before him, which made him that much more curious and anxious. "Is there something I can help you... _gentlemen_ with?"

The man on the couch pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The two bulky bodies at either side seemed out of place in their barely fitting suits and ties. In stark contrast, the man-in-the-middle had tailor-made written all over him. "I, _we've_ , simply stopped by for a brief chat as a favor for a mutual friend."

"Mutual friend? No offense, but I don't remember you from any book signings or book club meetings. Maybe you can refresh my memory with a name?" _Stay calm. Show this man I'm open to receiving his message. Breathe evenly, hands to my sides. Well, one hand will have to do._ The sweater draped over his arm left him with a good reason to keep one arm crossed over his torso, butler-style. Terry's body language talks were really helping him out.

"Mr. Magnan, you remember him, yes?" Man-in-the-middle tapped his forefinger on his temple just above the black frames of his glasses.

Jacob shifted his weight to one leg, curious. "Sure. Everyone knows him. He's the reason my hometown is back on the map in a big way. I did a news piece announcing his project, but that's about it. I doubt I have the pleasure of calling him a friend, as it seems you can."

"Mr. Magnan is responsible for more than you realize. Perhaps it is better to say that you share a mutual problem. A man has been stalking him and the other journalists who announced the Detroit Dome Project. This wacko isn't happy that DDP has gone so splendidly."

Man-in-middle stood up and offered Jacob a black card.

He took it. _Mason Independent Services, Waldon Mason, owner/operator_ was etched in gold letters. Bold enough to make a statement yet plain enough to fly under the gaudy radar.

"I can't say I've encountered anyone or anything but nice emails from fans who love my novels or the critics who think they can write my stories better," Jacob said. "That comes with being an author."

The two bodies at Waldon's sides joined him in standing. Jacob swallowed past a lump in his throat. Sitting down they'd already looked intimidating enough.

"Keep the card, Mr. Woods. You'll let us know if this disgruntled man tries to make contact with you, yes? And though poorly stated by my colleague, you have a most gorgeous wife and darling child. We wouldn't want anything happening to them, no?"

"No, I mean, yes, I would contact you. But does he have a name? A description I can give my wife in case she's already seen him or he crosses her path?"

"Arnot, Thomas Arnot. You'll know him for sure because he'll be babbling nonsense. That's the best description I can give you. Please pass along our apologies for the unplanned visit. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

With that, the mismatched trio let themselves out the front door, slid into an Escalade parked at the curb, and pulled quietly away.

Jacob clenched his hands into fists and then unclenched them. The lack of a physical description unnerved him. The stalker could be any man, anytime, anywhere. He didn't care if the guy approached him. That, he could handle. But as he glanced toward the kitchen, his stomach dipped slightly. What would he do if the guy cornered his wife and child and he wasn't there?

With the exception of Marissa's non-stop chatter, dinner was solemn. Terry kept quiet, distant. Jacob just didn't know what to do beyond give her the space she needed.

Bedtime followed dinner. Terry disappeared into the master bedroom leaving Jacob with Marissa.

"...and they all lived happily ever after. The end." Jacob closed the book and then placed it on Marissa's side table. He tucked the blanket and sheet beneath her chin and kissed her chubby cheek. She still smelled soap-sweet from her bath. "Goodnight, sweetheart. Love forevers."

"Love forevers and evers." Her mouth opened wide, letting out a yawn.

He pressed a button on the little ladybug toy also on the bedside table. When he flicked the light switch off, a tiny version of the midnight sky shone overhead and all around, courtesy of the carvings and designs on the toy ladybug's back.

Part of him dreaded going to his bedroom to face his wife. Terry had been there for the worst of his gambling issues. It wouldn't surprise him if she wanted to bolt for a short time to think things through. She would probably take Marissa with her. A dull pain nudged his heart at the thought of the emptiness they would leave in their wake. The empty house. The quiet. No chatter. No calming lavender. No soap-sweet smell. He pressed on to the room, ready to explain, beg, plead, whatever he had to do.

Terry was brushing her teeth, already in one of Jacob's pajama tops, no bottoms. He fell in step with their nightly routine, knowing better than to start up. If he'd learned one thing through the years, it was to let Terry be Terry. Expressing herself was never a problem. Just had to let her do it in her own way, in her time.

After the lights were off and both were under the sheets, Terry exhaled a stuttered breath. "I'm sorry, Jake. I heard what was said. I shouldn't have doubted you, I—" A sob cut off her words.

Her apology led to a kiss. He took her face into his hands, kissing each salty teardrop from her cheeks. Each kiss fed another and another until a million kisses, touches, arched backs, and fingernail scratches shot them to a joined, hushed climax. They clutched each other, entangled legs and arms, a melding of love: mind, body, and soul.

Jacob awoke the next morning with an extra vigor in his step. He grabbed the wayward sweater he'd left in the kitchen and went to his office. The manila folder fell to the ground. "Well, well. Totally forgot about this."

Sitting in his high back leather chair, he ripped the envelope open, spilling the contents on his desk. Several sheets of paper showed various graphs and timelines along with what appeared to be handwritten notations, but the slender flex-tab and flex drive really caught his attention. "I've only heard about these in beta testing." He uttered the words in a whisper, filled with awe.

After a few flips and flops around, Jacob found the _On, Slide Here_. A few seconds of warm up and a face filled the screen of the flex-tab, a man with eyes that stared through the filmy cover like a hawk, who looked like a soldier, buzz cut and all.

The man opened his mouth and said, "Hello, Jacob. My name is Thomas Arnot. If you're getting this, it means my cover is compromised and I'm dead."
CHAPTER FOUR

Holy Hell

"Oh hell no!" Jacob rolled back. His chair bumped the bookshelf. Only luck kept the stacks from tumbling to the floor. "No, no, no, no. This is not happening."

"I'm sorry to have to involve you like this, but I'm left with little to no other options," Thomas went on. "You were among the fifteen who announced the Detroit Dome Project, so I'm hoping you, or one of you, will take up the cause to educate people of the real reasons behind the project."

"Okay," Jacob mumbled to himself. "So I'm not the only one he sent this to. Kind of sounds like what that Mason guy was talking about."

Thomas rambled on about how he believed it was his patriotic duty to share his important information while Jacob scrambled around the room searching for the black card.

_Call this Mason guy. Hand over every bit of crap from the envelope and be done with this._

"...countless lives could be saved if they just knew the truth, the truth that the world as we know it is ending." Thomas cleared his throat.

Jacob halted mid-step to his office door. "What the...?"

"I'm not a man with a flair for the dramatic, so do not take my words lightly," Thomas continued. "This isn't what I signed up for. I'm a Montana militiaman doing my civic duty to show the people of this country the government has too much power. I've since found out there are powers that be, people, certain groups, who make our federal government look like a limp, wet noodle. We've been nudged to hate the government. And that plan has worked."

Jacob wanted to run out the door. He had to find that card. But the remnant of the journalist in him pulled him back to the chair, back to the stoic face sharing words about privatizing the space program, non-disclosure agreements signed by everyone, even the janitors. He mentioned things about known near-Earth asteroid rings and the constant need of certain high ranking officials to debunk the speculated formation of a new one, one that wouldn't be kind enough to simply pass Earth by.

Thomas took a deep breath and exhaled. "That's where you come in. The countless amateur observers who've spotted this space anomaly headed our way are not wrong. They aren't conspiracy theorists. The threat is very real and scheduled for Earth impact this year on the spring equinox."

Jacob turned his head toward a pegboard at his side, spotting the Doggie Days calendar immediately. The spring equinox was a mere two weeks away, marked with a heart for a family trip to the lake.

"This must be some sort of joke," Jacob muttered to himself. He couldn't think of anyone who would want to pull such a twisted prank.

"This is not a joke," Thomas said, as if in reply. "The DDP, otherwise known as the Detroit Dome Project, is one third of a plan to salvage life in certain spots of the northern hemisphere, locations that may offer the resilience to withstand a devastation-level-event, or a DLE."

Jacob recalled that within two years of the DDP starting, another dome city was started in Minnesota and a couple of other places, all noted for their proximity to lakes. He wanted to faceplant right on his desk. "This can't be. It just can't." He slapped his palm to his forehead, elbow on the desk, and listened even more fervently as Thomas continued.

"The reason for saving some parts of the world is for rehabilitation of the land when the others return. That's right, I said _return_. Two space cruisers have been completed, outfitted with cryogenic chambers for passengers who can afford the passage or have been selected for their potential to be of use upon the ship's return to Earth. I found out the secret of the ships being built has been kept so well because participants signed an additional NDA allowing them passage as a crew member. Once it's time, every person who signed the agreement will be able to board the ship and be part of the 'life continuation structure.' I'm sure you can guess what that means."

Jacob wished he couldn't, but he figured it was the basic 'life must continue on' idea while the rich and geniuses waited in cryostasis to return to Earth.

"They depart from an undisclosed location a week before DLE impact," Thomas added. "This also allows for the liftoff to be handled by those remaining in the domed cities. Detroit looks to be the central hub of communications, so I suspect it will handle liftoff."

Nausea roiled in Jacob's belly. A nagging pain started in from his sinuses, no doubt flaring in reaction to what his ears just heard. Everything Thomas spoke of sounded like a sci-fi nightmare gone wrong, but it didn't sound like nonsensical rambling. The truth tasted like a bitter chalk when he tried to deny it. His heart raced, and all he could think was, "Holy Hell!"

Arnot's face was strained as he continued. "The third prong of the plan is to have a third cruiser colonize Mars, just in case Earth simply cannot be salvaged. This stems from the belief that the anomaly headed toward Earth is an asteroid family. I had an expert break it down for me in _my_ more _layman_ terms like this: the second largest asteroid in the cluster will make landfall, along with a great deal of debris traveling with it. The bigger, monster-sized asteroid is projected to miss Earth, but not by much. The current estimates are little more than empty numbers hoping the second asteroid doesn't survive the swing around the sun. If it does, the second time around may not be a miss. There is no known escape route for those left behind."

"Whoa." Jacob sucked a long breath through his teeth.

Onscreen, Thomas held up a flex drive. "I received this from a source in the upper ranks. He was a nice old man, probably dead too. I, uh, only got the one, so whoever's envelope I slip this in will know more than me, or so I hope. Just drop it into the slot, allow the system to recognize it, and then tell the flex-tab to activate flex drive. Again, I'm sorry to drop this on you. For some of you, it's the second time I've tried to reach out. Maybe this time, you'll have a change of heart."

Thomas's face winked out from the flex-tab screen as Thomas held the flex drive in his hand. Before he could slip it into place, Marissa burst through the door. "Daddy, Daddy!"

Jacob leapt from his chair, startled and still frazzled. He dropped the flex drive on his desk. "Marissa, honey, you shouldn't scare Daddy like that."

Her excitement couldn't be contained. "TV people are talking about some rocks that fell out of the sky. Come look at it!"

Jacob took her little hand in his and ran to the living room. Terry sat on the couch, her hand over her mouth.

The reporter on scene pointed to the crater left by a meteorite that struck land on a Pacific Island. It looked like a large house could settle over it.

Jacob's shoulders relaxed. He'd seen the movie _Armageddon_. It made sense some of the cluster debris would start showering the Earth before the big one struck. Thomas Arnot may not have been talking nonsense, but Jacob felt better knowing it really wasn't up to him or one of the other fifteen to spread the truth. The current TV journalists would investigate this on their own. The truth would be out there in a matter of days.
CHAPTER FIVE

Three Days before Liftoff

More meteorites, different sizes, rained down. A farmland in Kansas was destroyed while another farmer in Texas claimed aliens formed crop circles in his corn fields. Jacob's hopes dwindled with each passing day. Instead of the truth, people were making a mockery of it all. Real damage was happening, but who could tell the genuine from the carnival of fakes popping up all over the place.

Speculation abounded via the television and radio regarding the meteor showers, but none of them referred to the space anomaly Thomas had mentioned. Jacob thought the cluster had a name, but he couldn't remember. He was too afraid to pull the flex-tab back out from the envelope to listen all over again.

"Jacob?" He started at the sound of his name. His chair scraped the kitchen floor. Terry's eyebrows quirked upward. "Are you planning on eating that anytime soon?"

He settled back in his seat, his fork inches in front of his open mouth. Soft, scrambled eggs, flavored the way he liked it, dangled precariously, waiting to be devoured or dropped back to the plate. "I, uh, am, um, sorry, not very hungry." His silverware clanked against the copper-colored stoneware.

"So I see," Terry quipped back. She turned her attention to Marissa. "Good job, honey. You ate everything on your plate. You know what that means."

"Doc McMuffins! YAY!" Marissa clapped her hands.

Terry grinned. "It's McStuffins, baby. Let's go get the TV ready for your show."

Marissa scampered out of the kitchen.

Terry paused at Jacob's side. She placed a hand on his shoulder, leaned down, and pressed a butterfly kiss to his neck. "If you need to talk, you know I'm here. I'll always be here, even when I'm being a judgmental idiot." She giggled, sending warm breath over his skin.

He shivered, overwhelmed at the love she filled him with.

She slipped away to join Marissa in the living room where Doc McStuffins was already at work helping someone.

Jacob stared at the kitchen table, recalling how he and Terry had gathered the plate set piece by piece. No store seemed to have more than one plate, cup, and bowl set in stock. Now, the world around him was falling apart similarly, one piece at a time.

He sighed, muttering under his breath, "I better go do the right thing." Gathering the dishes, he set them in the sink. He could rinse them later.

In his office, the manila folder waited for him with all the anvil weight that accompanied its presence. He flipped through his contacts, pressed Shelly Crane, and waited.

They'd stayed in touch after the press conference. He'd watched her phenomenal rise from TV reporter to off screen GNN decision maker. Seemed impossible that it had happened in less than seven years, but it had for her.

She answered on the fourth ring. "Jacob! My friend! It's been awhile."

"Shelly? Shelly. Can you hear me?" he half-yelled. He wondered if she could hear him at all over the choppy sounds in the background.

"Yes. I'm getting ready for a helicopter flight."

That explained the background noise.

"Listen, Shelly, I've got to ask, have you heard from someone named Thomas Arnot?"

"What? Geez, not him again. What about him?"

Not a big surprise she'd reacted that way. Waldon made Thomas out to be a wacked out stalker. From what Jacob could see, that was far from the case. Maybe she just didn't give the guy a chance to get his whole story out. So Jacob continued, "I'm calling about the information he shared. Did you look at any of it?"

"Sure did, all of it, and I booked passage on one of the cruisers that'll be orbiting Mars until we figure out what to do with Earth. Are you coming? Bringing the family?"

"What? Coming? I, uh, no, hadn't thought, wait, so you're not even going to try to put a piece together to warn the rest of the world?" He stood from his chair, rounded the corner of his desk, and paced along the front of it. "Coming from you, it would make a huge difference, really save a lot of people if they can flee to safer ground since most can't afford the high price tag of space travel." His free hand gestured wildly, as if she could see him.

Her laughter cut through the choppiness of the helicopter's propellers.

He froze at the sound of her chuckle, more akin to a cackle than anything.

"Safer ground? Are you kidding me? Sorry, guy, but I can no longer hear you over the sound of saving my own skin."

His free hand dropped limp to his side.

The line went dead.

So did his hopes.

He stared at the phone, willing it to do something. It sat still, quiet, and ready for the next call. Therein was the problem. He didn't know _who_ to call. Shelly was the one. She held the serious clout to be the real voice over the circus being made of the meteor showers. And she'd done nothing. Well, for herself, sure, but for the rest of the world? Not a damn thing.

Seconds and minutes passed by like long hours under the beating sun. His mind wandered, but he couldn't think of the best course of action. Yet something had to be done. There were only three days until liftoff.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Jacob struggled to move, still stunned by Shelly's response. He opened the door and gasped. Waldon Mason stood there, hands crossed before him. Casting a monstrous shadow, bulky body number one stood behind him. Jacob's brain leapt into hyper what-the-hell-was-happening mode since he didn't call Mason.

A smirk lifted the corner of Mason's lips. "You really shouldn't have done that." His arm shot forward with cobra speed, nicking Jacob in the neck.

"Ow! What did you...?" After the quick sting, a flood of euphoria washed over his body. Jacob stumbled back and dropped to the carpet like a puppet cut free of his marionette's strings. Darkness followed.
CHAPTER SIX

Last of the Fifteen

"Oh crap, my head," croaked from Jacob's throat. His eyelids fluttered. When open, everything swam before him in twos: two of the same window, two doors to his office, two laptops at his side.

_Wait, that hadn't been there before—before..._

Remembering Mason and his sidekick, Jacob scrabbled-grabbed-yanked himself into a sitting position with one of the two doors that didn't move as much. "Terry!" His yell sputtered with all the muster of a deflated helium balloon. "Marissa!"

Rolling to his side, then to his hands and knees, Jacob crawled from room to room. Things littered Marissa's and the master bedroom, clothes haphazardly strewn about. A Doc McStuffins doll lay crushed underfoot. A boot print smudged her once pretty face. "Marissa! Terry!" he called again.

The silence of their absence screamed at him, tearing at his heart like a thousand daggers.

Jacob crawled back to his office. His stomach sank to the depths of his gut. The laptop would hold answers he probably didn't want to know. He opened it and rasped a bellow at the live feed.

"Perfect timing," a familiar voice said. Mason walked into the picture, waved, and then stepped aside, letting Jacob return to the view of his wife and daughter, both naked, laid out like slabs of beef on steel tables. "Glad you could join us. Well, actually, it's just me."

The stabbing daggers twisted and dug deeper. Jacob turned his head to the side and heaved up bile and what little he'd eaten of his breakfast. "You monster! What have you done? My wife! My child! I'll kill you!"

"I do wish you would calm down. They've simply been dosed with a weight-specific cocktail of sleeping agents in preparation."

"For what?" Jacob scratched out from his dry throat. His heart raced. Blood rushed and pounded in his head. His limbs trembled, so he clenched his hands into fists.

In answer to his question, several people entered the room dressed in hazmat suits. They proceeded to rub his wife and his daughter from head to toe with a glossy liquid. "The handlers are adding a sort of sealant coating to protect the skin when the cryo-fluid solidifies," Mason explained.

"Why are you telling me this?" Jacob clenched his jaw, gnashing his teeth.

"Because this is the power of your 'right to know' in action. Your choice brought you here. The moment Arnot made contact with you, in whatever way, form, or fashion it happened, you should have called me. It's exactly what the others did. You would've been presented two options. Stay in the dome or take the frozen path, family included. Now the other fourteen have been frozen, awaiting their cryo-vacations while you get to watch the whole process being done to the ones you hold dearest."

Warmth puddled in Jacob's pants. He would've been embarrassed if someone was there. But he was alone. Completely and utterly alone. As he watched, strangers trussed his two divas up with all manner of wires and gingerly placed their limp bodies into red metallic tubes. One after the other, their covers were lifted from the side, closing over them with the heart-tugging, stomach-wrenching finality of a casket slamming shut. The tubes hissed, stealing Jacob's breath, as the handlers checked and double-checked all seals were in place. Then they flooded the tubes with crystal blue cryo-fluid.

With one push of a button, vapors ejected into the air in puffs. The glass portion of the nearest handler's mask glazed over with ice. They lifted both tubes into the standing position.

As he watched helplessly, tears streamed down Jacob's face. One fist unclenched, reached forward, and touched the screen as if he could somehow touch his sleeping beauties.

"Why? Why not kill me and let them be?" Jacob sobbed. "They had nothing to do with this. Hell, I don't understand what's going on!"

Mason tilted the live feed, centering it on him. "Which is why they're here and you're not. You don't bite the hand that feeds you, Jacob. You do as you're told. You were in perfect line-step for the longest time, but then, right at the eleventh hour you got on your save-some-of-the-world kick and stupidly called Shelly."

The light bulb went on in his head. It was a dull shine from the waning effects of the drug, but Jacob finally understood: Shelly had sold him out.

"But I haven't bitten anyone's anything," he groaned.

Mason sighed and tsked as if talking to a child. "You really are dim. Who do you think fast-tracked your application for the MFA program, the sudden appearance of a six-figure check? It wasn't a coincidence it happened right after you played your role in making Valen look like the white knight come to save the city. He needed nudgers, a few key players to get the ball rolling in his favor. Your piece was, by far, the best of them all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a space cruiser to catch. Liftoff got moved up."

Mason clicked the live feed off. The screen went blank. No more audio. But the images of his wife and daughter, their bodies frozen and ripped away from his touch for the rest of his lifetime, those burned into his mind, frame by brutal frame, forever committed to memory.

In the hours that followed, Jacob moved from his spot, finally strong enough to clean himself and change into clothes that had not been pissed in. Eventually he'd clean his mess. Eventually.

A siren sounded overhead. He slapped his palms to his ears and headed for the front door. The whole neighborhood filled the streets.

He approached an older woman. Her smile reached her eyes and would've been infectious any other time, but not now, maybe not ever. "What's going on?"

She turned to him, chuckling. "Must be a heavy sleeper, young man. The first siren went off earlier to signal the dome's rise. This one is to signal the all clear. It's official. Detroit is the first complete domed city."

Someone in the crowd shouted a hoot and clapped. Others picked up the energy and joined in.

Jacob stumbled backwards, tripping on his way back into his home. He slammed the door shut, fighting the queasy roil in his stomach. Weak-kneed, he dropped to the floor in a heap.

His wife and child were gone.

His life, as he knew it, was over.

Dome life, from what little he recalled reading here and there, was easily manageable. But that was based on best-of-times scenarios.

Thomas Arnot's information made it clear they were headed on a razor sharp slope to some hellish times.

Jacob clutched his stomach, doubled over with guilt. Because of him, and others like him, most people in Detroit were unaware of the pending devastation. They would soon be living on a countdown of borrowed time; how much, he was unsure. And those around him cheered its coming, giving it a neighborhood standing ovation.

## Elements of Untethered Realms

**Read** **_Elements of Untethered Realms_** **!**

www.untetheredrealms.com/p/ur-publications.html

_Mayhem in the Air_

_Elements of Untethered Realms_ _#2_

October 2015

From Amazon bestselling and popular science fiction and fantasy authors comes _Mayhem in the Air_ , a supernatural anthology of ten thrilling tales. Meet hot robots, hungry winds and the goddess of chaos. Explore alien planets, purgatorial realms, and a shocking place where people bury the living with their dead.

_Ghosts of Fire_

_Elements of Untethered Realms_ _#3_

October 2016

From USA Today, Amazon bestselling, and popular science fiction and fantasy authors comes _Ghosts of Fire_ , a supernatural anthology of ten thrilling tales. Meet paranormal detectives, imprisoned dragons, dark demons, cursed jewels, and handsome prophets. Explore shifting realms trapped in mirrors and a disturbing future where a president aims to rid the world of Otherkind.

_Spirits in the Water_

_Elements of Untethered Realms_ _#4_

October 2017

A haunted journey on a riverboat, water sprites borne of pennies; preternatural creatures, ancient serpents and The Lady of the Lake lurk in dark waters. Raging storms and magical rainbow fountains. Water is spectacularly beautiful but also treacherous.

**Or purchase the entire collection**

_Elements of Untethered Realms_

_Elements of Untethered Realms #1-#4_

October 2018

## Authors of _Twisted Earths_

Born and raised in Little Rock, AR, **Angela Brown** now calls Central Texas home. She's a lover of Wild Cherry Pepsi, Hot Tamales, and chocolate/chocolate covered deliciousness. Steampunk, fantasy, and paranormal to contemporary—mostly young adult—fill her growing library of books. Mother to a rambunctious darling girl aptly nicknamed Chipmunk, life stays busy. Her favorite quote by Mahatma Gandhi keeps her moving: "You may never know what results come of your action, but if you do nothing, there will be no result." Visit Angela at publishness.blogspot.com.

**River Fairchild** is somewhat odd, brandishes a dry sense of humor, and is owned by several cats. Lives in a fantasy world. A fabricator of magic. Makes stuff up and spins tales about it. Believes in Faerie crossings and never staying in one place for very long. Speculative Fiction wordsmith. The secret to her stories? Spread lies, blend in truths, add a pinch of snark and a dash of tears. Escape into her world. She left the porch light on so you can find your way down the rabbit hole.

**Gwen Gardner** writes clean, cozy, lighthearted mysteries with a strong ghostly element. Since ghosts feature prominently in her books, she has a secret desire to meet one face-to-face—but will run screaming for the hills if she ever does. Her lifelong love of books and reading transitioned naturally into a love of writing, where adventure can be found around every corner—or up a dark alley or a down slippery cobblestoned path. She thinks there's nothing better than a good mystery (being an excellent armchair detective herself), unless it's throwing a ghost or two into the mix just to "liven" things up. Don't worry, though. Ghosts may be difficult to keep in line, but they're harmless—mostly. And it turns out they're pretty good sleuths too. Gwen adores travel and experiencing the cultures and foods of different countries. She is always up for an adventure and anything involving chocolate—not necessarily in that order. Find her at gwengardner.com.

**Misha Gerrick** is the author of _The War of Six Crowns_ and a variety of other stories. She was born and raised in South Africa and currently lives on an apple farm with a small menagerie of animals. Visit her at www.youtube.com/channel/UCFRZK0eX_vgzbF7jM91N8DA.

**Graeme Ing** engineers original worlds, both fantasy and science fiction, but hang around and you'll likely read tales of romance, paranormal, cyberpunk, or a blend of any of these. Born in England in 1965, Graeme moved to San Diego, California in 1996 and lives there still. His career as a software engineer spans thirty years, mostly in the computer games industry. He is also an avid sailor, armchair mountaineer, astronomer, mapmaker, pilot, and general geek. He and his wife, Tamara, share their house with more cats than he can count. Graeme loves to hear from readers: www.graemeing.com.

**M. Pax** is the author of the space opera adventure series _The Backworlds_ and the urban fantasy series _The Rifters_. Fantasy, science fiction, and the weird beckon to her. She blames Oregon, a source of endless inspiration. She docents at Pine Mountain Observatory in the summers as a star guide and enjoys exploring the quirky corners of Oregon with her husband. Find out more at mpaxauthor.com.

**Christine Rains** is a writer, blogger, and geek mom. She has one novel and several novellas and short stories published. You can find her on her site at christinerains.net.

**Cherie Reich** owns more books than she can ever read and thinks up more ideas than she can ever write, but that doesn't stop this bookworm from trying to complete her goals, even if it means curbing her TV obsession. A library assistant living in Virginia, she writes speculative fiction. Find out more about her at smarturl.it/CReichWebsite.

**Catherine Stine** is a _USA Today_ bestselling author of historical fantasy, sci-fi thrillers, and YA fiction. Her novels have earned Indie Notable awards and New York Public Library Best Books for Teens. She lives in Manhattan and loves spending time with her beagle, writing about witches, gardening on her deck, and meeting readers at book fests. Find out more at catherinestine.com.

## About Untethered Realms

**Tap into worlds, wings, and spec fic things!**

Speculative fiction, also known as spec fic, dwells in the realms of the "what if" and encompasses genres such as science fiction, alternate history, fantasy, horror, and more. The authors of Untethered Realms, founded in 2013, reside in the weird and the fantastical.

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