 
Through a Tangled Wood

Slightly Twisted Tales

Katie French

Ariele Sieling

Sarah Dalton

Marijon Braden

Jamie Campbell

H.S. Stone

Zoe Cannon

"Plan B" © 2013 by Katie French

"Tailless" © 2013 by Ariele Sieling

"I Am the Maid" © 2013 by Sarah Dalton

"Three Wishes" © 2013 by Marijon Braden

"Killing Snow White" © 2013 by Jamie Campbell

"A House in the Woods" © 2013 by H.S. Stone

"Flight" © 2013 by Zoe Cannon

Cover Design: Sarah Dalton

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

# Table of Contents

Book 1: Plan B by Katie French

Book 2: Tailless by Ariele Sieling

Book 3: I Am the Maid by Sarah Dalton

Book 4: Three Wishes by Marijon Braden

Book 5: Killing Snow White by Jamie Campbell

Book 6: A House in the Woods by H.S. Stone

Book 7: Flight by Zoe Cannon

Collective Thank You

# Plan B

A Breeders' Tale Based on Sleeping Beauty

Katie French

The men waited silently at the gates, their eyes on the hospital doors. They could almost taste the fear in the air.

Nolan stood rigid, his hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets. Beside him, his father's breathing was audible—the ragged rasp of lungs filled with fluid. The sound had long stopped registering in Nolan's conscious mind, but in the pre-dawn stillness, it embarrassed him. He loved his dah dearly; he was the reason Nolan had swallowed his fear with his morning's weak tea and walked the dark mile to the glowing beacon in the center of the city, his father laboring beside him. He'd done all this with terror riding him like a hell-bent harrier, so couldn't his father pretend to breathe normally for a few minutes? Every man in the crowd didn't need it bill-boarded how desperate they were.

The gates gave a metal clang and began to draw back. The crowd shifted nervously. When the chain-link gates drew back, the crowd moved forward in unison. Nolan moved with it, his father at his elbow, sucking at breath like a sea-plucked fish.

_God, let me be picked for my dah's sake_ , he prayed silently. _And let the tales about the Breeders be lies._

* * *

Stories of the Breeders' cruelty, their vicious killings, had circled his boyhood like a swarm of flies.

"They eat babies," his friend Herry had said over a campfire when they were ten and sleeping under the stars. Their father's cramped shacks were too hot and, truth be told, the boys loved their moment under the star-strewn sky. With the campfire light playing devilish tricks on Herry's face, his friend leaned toward Nolan and flashed his teeth. "They pluck the babes from their ma's cracks and gnaw on their arms and legs. Suck the marrow outta their bones." Herry leaned forward on his bed roll, a curtain of snarled black hair falling across one eye, and made a sucking sound with lips. Then he fell back, cackling.

"They do not," Nolan had insisted. His eyes were drawn to the shaft of light piercing the night sky a mile north. The hospital's electric lights burned into the darkness like someone had left a light on in hell. It was the ever present beacon of their superiority. Their ominous symbol of both prosperity and fear.

* * *

When the crowd had slipped past the gate, the six-foot high chain-link fence topped with concertina wire trundled closed, snapping together with a sound that vibrated Nolan to the bone. Locked inside the Breeders' compound. Hadn't he always pictured this moment? Pictured it and dreaded it.

The parking lot was an unending stretch of blacktop. Unmarred by pot holes or broken-down vehicles, it looked like the surface of a smooth black lake. Past the blacktop, the hospital's nine stories of concrete and glass rose up before him. The windows, intact and perfect, reflected the pink dawn. Each window, ledge, and wall was a perfect rectangle. In a world where the elements rounded everything, a building of sharp edges was amazing and Nolan looked up with new eyes. Awe—that was the correct word for it. Nolan had always been a purveyor of words (purveyor was another term he'd picked up from a traveling shoe salesmen who'd hocked re-purposed sneakers and steel-toed boots from the back of a pick-up truck. _I am a purveyor of shoes, young man,_ he'd said.).

All the men looked in awe as a set of glass doors slid open on their own.

"'Lectric doors," his dah mumbled and gave his son a tight-lipped smile. With his prematurely gray hair and sunken, wet eyes, his dah looked sixty instead of forty-two. He was a skeleton in his baggy denim coat and slacks, though they'd just swapped for a smaller size at the bazaar two months ago.

_He's wasting away_ , Nolan thought and felt tightness in his throat. No, "wasting away" was inaccurate. His dah had never _wasted_ a breath in his life, working sixteen hours a day as a garbage hauler. He'd pulled a trash cart from sun up to sun down with that same open smile on his face for as long as Nolan had memory. The job had ruined his lungs from years of inhaling decaying building material. The occasional cough became a daily cough and the daily cough became so severe his dah could barely rise out of bed without gasping. Nolan took on more odd jobs, eventually finding the position with Chef Cartegena for table scraps and the occasional barter slip. They could eat, but his father's condition worsened.

_The Breeders_ , his dah's friends had whispered in Nolan's ear when they came to check on him. _Only a job with the Breeders will get you food and medicine to keep him alive._

Nolan's thoughts fell away as a figure stepped through the open doors. Nolan stood on tip-toe (the man in front of him was six feet and with poor hygiene judging by his smell) and watched a woman (a woman!) walk toward them, flanked by two giant guards in white uniforms. The rifles in their arms were black as cast iron.

The men stirred. Most of them had never seen a free woman in their lives.

The woman's red high heels clomped on the concrete as she walked. Her expression said this morning's interviews were the most boring event on her agenda. She was dressed in a business suit the color of blood, with fingernails to match. Her auburn hair was slicked back severely, making her features stark and angular. Yet it was her eyes, an unremarkable blue and yet so cold, so calculating, that both repelled and drew Nolan. He bumped into the man in front of him and got a _Back up, pal_ and a shove. His poor dah shot him a look that said _Are you alright?_ Nolan answered him with a nod.

_Alright for now, but good God don't let me have to talk to her._ Nolan straightened his posture and waited.

The woman stopped in front of the crowd and scanned it. She snapped her fingers and one of the guards produced a large white device that looked like a gun with a cone for a muzzle. She aimed in at the crowd. Nolan cringed.

Instead of a shot, a loud whine sounded from the device. Her voice boomed over them.

"Gentlemen," her amplified voice said, "you are here for one of the most prestigious and well-paying occupations in the world. I hope you are up to the task. We will be taking three," she held up three sharp-nailed fingers, " _three_ applicants. The rest of you, I'm afraid, will go back to your lives with nothing but a breakfast and story to tell."

There was a general mumble of disappointment. At least two dozen able-bodied men stood in line. Only three applicants? Nolan dropped his head. A hand squeezed his forearm and he looked up. His father's wet, sunken eyes peered kindly into his.

"You'll be one of 'em, my boy," he wheezed. His dah's smile was cut short by a cough that rocked his body. Nolan patted his dah's back and turned his eyes to the blacktop.

Dear God, let me be one of the three. You're given my dah wet-lung. At least give me this.

The armed guards herded the men into single file along the hospital's yawning shadow. The woman sat at a desk near the glass doors, hands clasped together, a steaming mug of something... coffee?... near her right hand. Across from her sat a rigid plastic chair. Nolan looked at it and swallowed. To get this job he'd have to sit across from his woman and look her in the eye. Worse, he'd have to answer her questions.

"What's this?"

Nolan looked up and the guard, a bear of a man with hair curling out of his uniform's v-neck, peered down at his father. "What're you doing here, old timer?"

There was a mocking quality to the guard's voice that Nolan didn't like. He stepped between the bear-guard and his frail father.

"He's my d— my father," he said, disliking the wavering quality of voice. (Another collected word. To shake or waffle. Nolan didn't want his voice to do either of those things.) "He came with me."

The guard kept staring with cruel eyes.

"He wanted to see me off." Nolan cleared his throat and tried to look confident. Inside his stomach was definitely wavering.

"See you _off_?" the guard mocked. "See the wee babe off." The bear guard pinched Nolan's cheek between a finger and thumb and gave it a savage tug. "Wee babe," he repeated, snickering. "Not even a shave yet, eh?"

Nolan dropped his eyes and waited out the jokes. _Let him pass us by,_ he thought, _n_ _ot kick us out._

"Carlton!" It was the woman at the desk. Her blue eyes narrowed as he turned toward her.

"Yes, doctor?" All humor dropped from the bear-guard's tone. Carlton snapped his heels together and stood like a tin soldier.

"Get them in line," she said, smoothing a hand over her slicked hair. "Now."

"Yes, Dr. Vandewater, ma'am." Was there a note of fear in the big man's voice? The guard's fear sent Nolan's nerves quacking.

In the end, they seated his dah in a chair in the building's thick shade. The rest of them stood on their feet, squinting into the dawn, waiting for their turn.

Nolan's came an hour in.

He'd watched in near-terror as each man before him walked up and sat across from Dr. Vandewater. He'd overheard their stammered responses and apologies. He'd watched as most were handed a paper sack and told to exit out the gate.

Two had been chosen. That much he'd figured. Their exit had been marked by a slip of gold paper and entrance through the grand glass doors, into the hospital.

_Two down. That means only one spot left._ Nolan looked behind him. At least ten other men, all older and more broad-shouldered, waited behind. He began to pray.

"Next," her voice called and Nolan snapped his head up. Somehow he was at the front of the line. He fumbled forward, his own feet betraying him at the moment of need. He stumbled like a man waking out of a dream, grabbed the chair, scraping it loudly against the concrete, and fell into it.

She lifted her blue eyes and looked unamused.

_This is not the start I pictured,_ he thought, dropping his hands into his lap.

He glanced back over his shoulder. His dah's hunched frame was small in his plastic chair. His old man raised a thumbs-up for encouragement, a big grin on his sunken cheeks.

"Your father?" Her voice reminded him of the hospital windows—strong, smooth and completely opaque.

Nolan whipped around. "Y-yes, ma'am." He fiddled with his shirt tail. His heart thumped against his rib cage.

Her calculating eyes slipped toward his father, then back to Nolan. "Not usual for a boy your age to have kin. Most"—she gazed at the waiting line—"are alone since puberty."

"My father's a kindhearted fellow," Nolan said over the knot in his throat. Speaking about his poor sick dah would only weaken his nerve. He hoped she'd ask him about something else. Anything else.

"By law, fathers are only required to rear their sons until thirteen. Yet, yours did not send you out." Her slender fingers folded together, red nails standing out against pale skin. She raised her cold eyes to his. "Why?"

"Why'd he keep me on?" Nolan asked. He had no idea where this was going. Didn't she want to ask about his health? His previous employment? Her eyes sought an answer. He shrugged. "I guess... he loved me."

"I see." She dipped her head and he got another glimpse of her beautiful auburn hair. It was pinched back with an ivory ankh-shaped clip, the Breeders' symbol. When she looked up again, she was holding a gold slip of paper.

"What's this?" he asked, reaching for it. The black letters read, _Entrance slip._ _Occupation: Maintenance._

"I'm in?" He held the paper tenderly and looked up at her.

She nodded once and began folding up her things.

He stood, his legs as weak as if he'd been running the better part of a day. "Ma'am?"

"Yes?" She pursed her mouth into a small, red bow.

"Might I ask why?" He pressed the golden slip close to his heart. "Why me?"

"Because," she said, not even looking up from her papers. "I like an employee with something to lose."

* * *

Nolan waited in the tiny basement room in darkness as the minutes ticked by. His supervisor was late. He'd been told this by an entrance guard, ushered into what seemed to be a broom closet and told to wait. Now he stood amongst the mops and buckets and tried not to touch anything.

His nerves were raw, yes, but an undercurrent of real pride was still tripping along beneath. He pictured his dah's face when he'd told him he'd been hired on. Overjoyed was the right word for it. Overjoyed and proud. Nolan had never felt better.

But now, with the strong smell of chemical sickening his stomach and with the minutes ticking by, he began to wonder. _What if they've changed their minds? They got one look at my scrawny arms and holey boots and changed their minds._ How would he face his dah?

The door burst open and a big-bellied man pushed in. Nolan jumped and then locked his knees and elbows in an imitation of the guards' saluted-stance. "Sir," he said before he really knew who he was addressing.

"Don't _sir_ me," the voice grumbled. It was a broken concrete voice, full of age and annoyance. A switch flicked on and an overhead light buzzed to life. "What in heaven's heels are you doing in the dark?"

The man must be his supervisor, wearing an identical outfit to the one Nolan had been handed thirty minutes ago, a tan coverall with a name badge stenciled over his heart. _Samuel_ it read. With thin arms and legs, Samuel rounded out in the middle, the perfect paunch of a well-feed Breeders' employee. The top of his head was bare and shining in the light, but a ring of gray-brown hair clung to the back. His most distinguishing figure was the tan eye patch slung over his right eye.

Samuel eyed Nolan up and down. "Not much of a boy, are ya?" he asked, pushing into the closet. Samuel grabbed a mop and bucket from the back corner and wheeled it forward. He stopped at the doorway and turned to Nolan who was standing stock-still with his jaw dropped. "If you're waiting for an invitation to this ball, princess, you're gonna miss the dance."

Nolan threw him a questioning look. Samuel sighed painfully. "Jesus, just get moving!" Then he bumped the bucket over the door jamb and out of view.

* * *

For four days they scrubbed, polished, hauled, scraped and plunged with barely a word exchanged between them. The few times Nolan had tried conversation—the second day while they were eating their cafeteria-provided lunch of fish and limp greens and the third day when they'd paused in the closet to look for a case of light bulbs—Samuel had grunted and turned away. It was a lonely way to pass twelve hours, but payday was mañana. The look on his dah's face when he brought home his sack of food and barter slips would supply enough sunshine to get him through these dim days.

Payday was Friday and Friday was floor day as Samuel put it. Floor day meant scrubbing until blisters formed on his palms, until his knees ached like an old man's. Nolan threw himself into it, knowing that on the other side of this day his prize was waiting.

He scrubbed the last of the polished black and white tiles on the first floor. He'd just learned a new technique of twisting the mop head on the last pass for a streak-free shine. It had taken him four hours and two blisters, but this time when Samuel came by to inspect the floor, he might harrumph in approval instead of disappointment. Nolan was finishing his last turn when his back bumped into something. A solid, windowless set of double doors blocked the end of this hallway behind him. He realized he'd never seen them before.

In four days of cleaning, he'd been all over the hospital. He'd cleaned the giant swimming pool deck with the girls (that he was not allowed to talk to under _any_ circumstances) bobbing up and down like seals in the frothy water. He'd cleaned the staff cafeteria on the first floor, the nannies' cafeteria on the second floor and even the girls' cafeteria on the sixth floors, after dinner hours of course. Here, on the main floor, he'd cleaned storage rooms, offices and labs with equipment that boggled his mind. Yet, he'd never seen the inside of this particular room. He looked down the long hallway for Samuel. His supervisor had disappeared, as he was known for doing. He was likely resting his bones in a storage closet somewhere while Nolan busted his hump. How many years would he have to slave before he could get a youngster to do all his work for him? Far too many, he suspected.

The double doors were locked, but almost every door was locked, especially when you got upstairs where the girls and their babies were kept. These doors had the familiar key card slider on the wall to the right. Nolan slid out his key card and swiped.

The key card slipped through the slot and the light blinked green. Nolan palmed down the handle and pushed through.

Darkness greeted him. He fumbled for a switch and found none. Using the hallway light, he peered in. The room was large, judging by the echo of his footfalls as he took a step inside. Slowly his eyes picked up green, scrolling lights. Computers. Maybe this room held rows of cubicles.

Yet, there was a smell...something that made the hairs of his neck tingle. Something that stank like...the garbage dump where his dah used to work. The tangy, rank odor of decay. He'd smelled only new and clean in every nook and cranny of this place since he'd started. Something had spoiled in this office. It was his job to weed it out and remove it for the good Breeders' doctors. They weren't used to putrescence. He, unfortunately, was bred on it.

Leaving the safety of the doorway, he fumbled along the wall for the light switch. There'd have to be one somewhere. But, as the door clicked closed, plunging him into blackness, he realized his mistake. Fumbling around in the dark? He'd break something and then Samuel would have his head. He started back toward the door.

Except...where was the door? He swam in a sea of night with no right or left. And the smell— like dog carcass left to rot in a garbage pile—grew stronger. The fear crept up his limbs. Why would something stink like that in a hospital? Was it...a body? He thought of Herry by the campfire.

They pluck the babes from their ma's cracks and gnaw on their arms and legs. Suck the marrow outta their bones.

A shiver ran up Nolan's arms. He turned to run.

His knee banged into something metallic. A clang echoed beside him. His hand fumbled over soft fabric, a sheet perhaps, and something firm, yet...cold. He gripped it, trying to identify. A wrist. A human wrist.

Nolan screamed.

He bolted. Another crash. He was banging around like a dog in a market alley, smashing into racks and spilling things just to escape. He'd be punished, but the terror wouldn't allow him to stop.

A human wrist. Dear God!

A wedge of light cut into the darkness. "Nolan!" Samuel's voice sounded frantic. Footsteps thudded through the room and then the click of a switch. Above, a dim light snapped on.

It was even more horrible in the light. Nolan stumbled back into the wall. Vomit rose into his throat.

Now he knew where the smell came from.

In a room the size of a small gymnasium, lay rows and rows of hospital beds. On each was a woman, or rather what might've been a woman once. Now they looked like corpses with bed sores, stringy hair and skeletal limbs. Closed eyes sunk down in hollowing sockets. Monitors beeped at each bedside and tubes pierced arms, mouth, and nose, making their bodies look half flesh, half machine. Beneath the top sheet, their bellies rose in tell-tale mounds. Pregnant, all.

Nolan vomited on his shoes.

When he looked up from his haze, Samuel was at his arm.

"Oh lad"—he said, shaking his head— "this is not how I wanted you to find out."

* * *

They sat on buckets in the supply closet, sipping weak coffee for twenty minutes before Nolan's head stopped spinning. He looked up at his supervisor.

"Why?" was all he could manage.

Samuel swallowed hard and itched a finger under his eye patch. "Well, son, the Breeders' ways is not for us to know. We clean their shit and they feed us." He dropped his head, running a calloused finger around his coffee mug. His bald patch gleamed in the overhead bulb. "But, I'll tell ya. Them girls in there, something went wrong on their insides. Made 'em broken both down here," he pointed to his paunch, "and here." He pointed to his head. "They ain't aware. They can't feel. Knowing that makes looking at them a bit better."

Nolan shook his head. "But they're...alive?" Before he could stop, the images flashed through his mind—rancid bed sores, hair falling off in clumps, their skeleton faces with paper thin skin. He shivered and fought the urge to lose what was left of his lunch.

Samuel watched and nodded sadly. "Technically speaking, I guess they're alive. The babies in their bellies come out bawling just like the rest of 'em. But their brains ain't alive. They're heads are empty as this bucket." He kicked the heel of his boot into the plastic with a _thunk, thunk._ He leaned forward, his paunch spilling into his coveralls. "Best not to think on it. Hey" —he said, shaking Nolan's shoe— "today's payday."

Nolan nodded, but his enthusiasm for a payday had gone the way of his lunch, heaved out at the sight of those girls. He stood up on weak legs. "But, we don't have to go in there again" —he looked up at Samuel— "do we?"

The slow sad nod of Samuel's head turned Nolan's stomach again. "Yes, lad. Yes, I'm afraid we do."

* * *

Nolan dreaded Fridays. Fridays meant floor days and floor days meant entering the Plan B room. A crawling sensation began in his heels as he walked the mile through the garbage-strewn streets on those dark Friday mornings. By six a.m. the crawling had moved to his calves, slowing his walk to the storage closet. By eight a.m. the crawl became a tightening in his chest as he slid his key card through the reader slot and watched the light blink green. He wished each time that the blood red light would appear. It never did.

With mop and bucket, he slowly pushed into the thick darkness. The smell assaulted him immediately—a decaying flesh smell that sent images of corpses running riot through his mind. He found the switch and flicked it, his eyes shut. When they opened, the room had its dim glow. Enough to see by. Not enough to banish the ghosts.

He mopped quickly, not caring about streaks or a missed clump of mud. No one paid attention to this floor and if they did, he'd take a scolding if it meant getting away faster.

He swung the mop bucket to the right and it collided with a bed frame. Water sloshed onto the floor.

"Christ!" he swore and then, realizing his sin, prayed quickly for forgiveness. He wanted God on his side while he was in the midst of this hell.

His eyes skimmed the girl in the bed beside him. He tried very hard after that first day not to look at any one face if he could help it. Every now and then he'd pass a girl long gone, with hair like cobwebs and flesh like flaking onion skin. Those girls were the specters that haunted his nightmares and he didn't need another image in the picture show. Yet, when the girl on the bed let out a small moan, his eyes snapped to her face on their own.

A noise? From this girl? Not possible. He stared down into her face, his heart spurring from gallop to sprint. Her fresh youthful face drew him in—pale skin, red cheeks, lips as pink as salmon served on paydays. Her long golden hair cascaded down one shoulder and spilled into a pool at the hollow of her throat. Her hands were folded below her rounding abdomen like a child ready for her first catechism.

Nolan could almost picture her at the Church of the Sunset Redeemed, the open air church a half a mile up the hill from their shanty town. On Nolan's big day, his father had run a spit-laden comb through his hair and smiled when Nolan said his commandments. It was a day all boys both loved and feared. The day they were freed from their father's shackles to make their own way. It was also the day they learned how cruel the world really was.

That day, Nolan's father had placed a hand on his son's shoulder and said, "My boy, I'd understand if you want to go, but in my heart I want you to stay." It was that day Nolan knew what a good man his dah was. It was that day Nolan understood love means sacrifice.

All the more reason to work harder to make sure that he could afford the soothing balms that eased his father's pain. If he kept gaining favor, Nolan planned to ask one of the Breeders' doctors if there was any chance they'd heal his father. He knew their technology was far more advanced than anything on the outside. Maybe if he worked harder—

Moaning made Nolan jump. He stumbled, sending the bucket wheeling wildly. The girl on the bed him _had_ made a noise. He leaned over and stared into her face. Her slender nose and high cheekbones, coupled with her golden hair, made her ethereal (another word stolen from an advertisement his father had brought home from the dump). She looked like an angel. It didn't help that the only other girl he'd seen his age had been a prisoner of the local bounty hunter. Garthan had caught a wild wretch in the desert and brought her through town. Nolan had felt nothing but pity for the dirty, wide-eyed girl as the local men had handed over barter slips to spend ten minutes in a tent with the poor creature. Staring at this beauty, he felt something stir in his chest, something like drowning and ascending at the same time.

_Stop it!_ he thought, taking a step back. The penalty for "messin' with the girls", as Samuel put it, was banishment. And not just from the hospital, the entire city. Nolan grabbed his mop and walked over to retrieve the discarded bucket. He would be here longer because of this foolishness and if that wasn't punishment enough he didn't know wha—

"Mom," she called.

Nolan froze. He swiveled toward the girl. These were brain dead. Samuel had said—

"Mama," she murmured, her brow wrinkling, her head shaking from side to side as her golden hair rippled on the pillow. "Mama!" Her voice was a throaty whisper and yet there was so much terror. He watched as her hands bunched the blankets at her waist.

Then she was still.

Christman God in Heaven.

Nolan turned and ran from the room.

* * *

It wasn't until quitting time that Nolan found the courage to ask Samuel about the girl. They were standing in the hospital parking lot with the other day laborers. When it was his turn, Nolan accepted his food sack and barter slips, taking care to fold the delicate paper into his britches. His slips might not smell like roses when he went to use them, but if he was jumped maybe they wouldn't be found.

Outside the gate, he stepped to the side and waited. His dah would be expecting him, but what he'd seen today was eating him like a cancer. If he didn't get to the bottom of things, he'd never sleep, much less step foot into the Plan B room again.

Samuel came limping out minutes later, already biting into his apple. Samuel tucked the barter slips in his pocket, pulled out a serrated knife and took off toward the lights and sounds of the bazaar.

Nolan galloped after his supervisor. "Samu—"

The old man whirled with such speed Nolan almost lost fingers, the blade slicing inches from his hand. Samuel's ferocious look fell away as he saw Nolan cowering before him.

"Boy!" Samuel said, dropping his blade. "I nearly cut off your dome. What're you doing running up on me when I got barter slips in my pocket?"

"Sorry," he said again. "Had something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Now?" Annoyance crept onto Samuel's face. He adjusted his tan eye patch and sighed. "Couldn't it wait 'til morning? It's payday, son."

Nolan nodded. "It's just"—he lowered his voice—"I can't ask you in the hospital."

Samuel's face tightened and he scanned the crowd streaming toward the bazaar. Sucking in his paunch belly, he leaned close to Nolan. "Anything you need to say to me out here is probably best left unsaid," he whispered.

Nolan furrowed his brow. "I can't." He felt that swelling in his stomach again as he thought of the girl. He remembered her pink lips tightening. What if she was aware? What if she knew what was happening to her? He locked eyes with Samuel. "I need to know."

Samuel harrumphed, pushing air through his nose. He swiveled toward the bazaar. "Better walk fast if you're gonna keep up with me."

They cut through the crowd streaming toward the center of town. Torches lit the way, smelling of burnt oil and throwing jittery shadows across the landscape. The air was full of drums and guitar and the calling voices of women. Whores past breeding age beckoned from tents, their lips rogued and their skirts high. Mounds of soft, pale flesh curved out of tight bustiers. Twanging guitar floated out of a make-shift shack, while men's voices sang a drunken refrain. Nolan had never been allowed to go to the late night bazaar and guilt followed him as he clomped after Samuel. His poor dah was lying in bed, coughing, while he attended this display of sex and food and drink. And yet the music and the flickering firelight was intoxicating. His heartbeat pounded along with the taut bongos, their _tat-ta-ta-tat-tat_ filling the air. Nolan veered closer to a stand wafting the aroma of roast meat. A hand seized his arm.

Samuel's one-eyed glare met him. His supervisor drew him close. "You ever been to the night bazaar?"

Nolan shook his head. Samuel's grip was a vice. The boy tried to pull away. Samuel tugged him closer. The firelight danced over the old man's wrinkled features. "You wanna live this night 'til the morn?"

Nolan nodded numbly. This was a mistake. He should be home with his dah, and yet, he needed to know.

"Then you stick to my heel like a well-trained mutt or you'll be dead 'fore sun up. Get me?" Samuel let go of Nolan's arm.

Nolan rubbed his bicep, feeling like a spanked toddler. "I get you."

Samuel adjusted his eye patch and strode back through the throng of men. Nolan followed.

A few minutes later he found himself at an apothe's stand, far from the main thoroughfare of drinking and womanizing. At least it was quieter here. Nolan's head was thick from all he'd seen and heard. He wanted to go home, but now he had no idea what direction his home was. He pressed after Samuel into the apothe's lean-to, wishing he had gone when he had the chance.

"Sammy!" the tall, long-haired apothe said when they walked in. Stooping under his low-ceiling lean-to, the apothe hugged Samuel with one arm. "How's the Breeders, our last beacon of hope and wonder?" The apothe made a mock serious face, puckering his mouth and lidding his eyes as if he were at worship. Then he guffawed, a sound both too loud and too abrasive for the late hour. "Dr. V put you out to pasture yet?"

Samuel cracked a smile for the first time. "Dr. V wouldn't know what to do with her shit if she fired me. Though Nolan here" —he said, turning, snagging Nolan and drawing him forward— "he'd probably pick up where I left off. Good at cleaning shit, this lad is." Samuel smiled at him. Nolan nodded awkwardly.

"Well, Dr. D has got what you need right here," the apothe said pointing to his chest. He reached behind him to racks stuffed with pots, baggies and dried plants hanging by stems. Nolan noted a very old shotgun tucked behind the counter, illegal and very necessary in this man's line of work. Dr. D came out with a paper bundle and handed it to Samuel.

His supervisor turned over most of his barter slips without batting an eye. Nolan hadn't seen someone pay that much for one product in all his days of bartering. What, in God's name, was in that bundle?

"Always a pleasure," Samuel said, tucking the package under his shirt. He tapped his head with two fingers in a sign of parting and turned to leave.

"Wait," Nolan said, staring into the apothe's half-lidded eyes. "You have anything for wet-lung?" He drew out his barter slips. "I can pay."

The sad shake of the apothe's head dropped Nolan's stomach. "Wish I could take your money, sonny, but there ain't nothing can cure wet-lung." He turned away from Nolan's outstretched barter slips. "Sorry."

* * *

They arrived at Samuel's shack when the moon was high. Nolan drew his arms over his thin shirt and shivered. Samuel threw him a tired look. "It'll be warm in here, lad," he said, pushing open the door.

Samuel's shack was much like his own. The one room home had been constructed out of boards, chipped concrete blocks and a corrugated metal roof. Inside was a single bed roll where Nolan's had two. (He thought again of his dah. He'd be worried sick.) The few possessions Samuel had were tucked neatly in a wooden crate—another pair of boots, a comb, a fraying towel, a jar of some sort of balm. On one side hung two spare sets of tan work coveralls, worn through on the knees. Nolan smiled at the sentimentality of it. The hospital always gave a new set when the old wore out. Most men traded the old coveralls at the bazaar, but Samuel hung his up neatly like paintings in a twenty-first century museum.

"Sit down," his supervisor said, gruff again. Tiredness had leached into his step after they'd slipped past the bazaar lights. Now the old man fumbled for his package, drew it out and pressed the paper to his nose. "Whatever you've got to ask, better do it quick 'fore I can't answer anymore."

Nolan wondered what Samuel meant, but he obeyed, folding Indian-style onto the bed roll. He watched as Samuel carefully opened his package. The dried plant inside threw a spicy scent into the air.

"I wanted to ask you, sir, about the girls." Nolan's voice wavered again. He clenched his hands together. Could this get him fired? Get him kicked out of the city? He didn't think Samuel would turn him in, but coldness encased his heart.

"Don't call me sir here." Samuel drew out a square of rolling paper from a box in his crate. "It's the Plan B girls you wanna talk about." He lifted tired, red-rimmed eyes to Nolan. "It's about Plan B?"

Nolan nodded, shivering. He hugged himself and leaned back against the far wall. The wood dug into his spine. "Are you sure those girls are brain-dead? I mean" —he paused and swallowed— "have you ever heard one...say something?"

Samuel looked up from the cigarette he was rolling. Not tobacco though. The smell was much stronger, and tangy like the cayenne pepper Chef Cartegena used in his chilies. "Did one of the girls say something?" He narrowed his good eye and leaned in.

Nolan leaned back, his head beginning to spin. "Yes."

Samuel pushed out a breath, nodding. He went back to rolling his cigarette, drew a match and lit the end. The paper flamed, throwing a smell into the air like burning sage or was it...devil's spine. Rumors of its addictiveness, its hallucinations had given it that moniker. You only smoked it if you were crazy or wanted to die slowly, sucking on the devil's teat as the saying went. Why would Samuel, who had a good job and enough barter slips to live fat and easy, do a dumb thing like smoke devil's spine?

"I'll say my piece and then I'll ask you kindly to step outside while I finish this," the old man said, blowing smoke away from Nolan. Still, the boy's head felt heavy and his legs weak. He tried not to breathe too deeply. "I've heard girls mumble too. Dreamlike and far-away. Doesn't mean they're alive, lad. It just means some part of them is still...reaching. But they're vegetables. Rocks." He kicked a heavy toe at a rock resting by the base of his crate, the motion already sloppy. "You can't think they're alive, or it'll eat you up. It'll make you wanna do this." Samuel took a big drag of the spine, the tip flaring red in the dark. Samuel coughed and peered at Nolan through the smoke. "You should leave now. Sleep outside by the door 'til I'm done and the smoke's cleared. Then you can sleep here." He pointed to the bedroll. "I won't mind the ground by then." He voice was sad, resigned as if he had no choice in smoking. As if he'd already handed over his life.

Nolan's smoke-filled brain felt caught in a whirlpool, but he waited a moment longer. "If you really believe they aren't alive, then why smoke? Why slowly kill yourself over it?"

Samuel slumped against the wall, the smoke ringing his head. His eye patch had shifted, revealing a bumpy, red scar running toward his socket. His good eye had grown glassy and it drifted closed. "'Cause I failed." His fist clenched and released just like the girl's. Samuel's voice drifted out in a dribble of smoke. "I can't make myself believe."

* * *

Next Friday Nolan came prepared. The scene with Samuel had scared him. All week he'd steeled his will not to go near the girl. Angel, as he thought of her, was on the left side of the room. He'd clean in a circle, keeping as far away from her bed as possible, and clean her area last. Then he'd get the hell out.

He scrubbed in quick circles, the mop squeaking across the floor with a sound like old brakes. Nolan liked noise. It was better than beeping monitors and hissing oxygen tanks. The room's awful symphony often swelled until Nolan felt he might scream just to hear something other than the slow march of decay.

But when the girl murmured, it set his heart pounding. As if he'd been both fearing it and anticipating it all day.

_Don't go to her_ , he thought. _You promised yourself. You promised Samuel._

" _Heeee_ ," her voice said. Even from this distance he could see the pink swell of her lips as they circled around the word. " _Hel_..." Her airy voice trailed off. Her golden hair rippled as she tossed slightly on the pillow.

Was she saying hell? As in, get me out of this hell? If she was, it meant she was aware...

No, he was jumping to conclusions. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that crouched around him. Forget cleaning the floor. He needed to get out before he did something stupid.

" _Heeelllppp_ ," she whispered, her head shifting again. One hand rose off the bed and then lowered.

His heart throbbed into his ears until his head was a kettle drum. He took a trembling step toward her. Then another. His legs were foam, his chest a vise. The room seemed to tilt. Soon he was standing over her bed, looking down. Her golden hair was the same color and texture of the silken scarves the traders sold for more barter slips than he made in a month. Her pale skin still had blooms of roses in her cheeks, though they were fading. Was something wrong with her? The veins on her wrist were blue vines creeping up her skin. Her cheeks were hollowing. What was happening to her? His fingertips floated toward her cheek. What would her skin feel like? Buttermilk? Rose petals?

"I wouldn't," said a voice behind him.

He whirled around. Dr. Vandewater stood, fists on hips, in the doorway. And her look—in a word—unamused. As she stepped towards him, her high heels clicked on the tile.

"I...I," he stammered, stumbling back.

"I saw you. No need for explanation." She stopped, clasped her hands together, and fixed him with a narrow frown. Her perfect bun shone in the dim overhead lights. "You're not the first to become" —she paused and looked up at him— "enamored."

_Enamored. It means caught up, captivated by._ Nolan collected the word, even in his terror. Somehow the act of filing the word away calmed him. A lie formed easily enough on his tongue. "I was removing a spider from her face. I know I'm not required to clean the... bodies," (he prided himself on the word choice— _bodies,_ not _girls_ ), "but it was spinning a web." He swallowed, hoping.

Her eyes narrowed. When she crossed her arms over her tight fitting blouse, Nolan tried not to look at her chest. "What's your name again, boy?"  
"Nolan," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "Nolan Stein."

She nodded, her eyes still calculating. "The one with the father who walked him to the interview."

"Yes." He hated that his dah had to be brought into this. His dah who'd begun to cough blood into his rags. This morning when he'd left, his father had barely raised a hand in parting. He was so weak. Nolan planned to use every barter slip he got tonight and beg the apothe for medicine.

She pursed her lips. "Do you know, Nolan, what happens to boys who breach protocol?"

He clenched his hands together at his sides to keep them from trembling. "Removal from the hospital and removal from the city."

She tilted her head slightly as if to agree, but then she stopped. "Not just for the offender," she said, intoning every word. "For the _families_ as well." She took a step closer, her pale blue eyes zeroing in. "For your _father_ , Nolan. Imagine your delicate father _out_ _on the road_."

"I won't breach protocol, ma'am. You can count on me." His voice trembled, though he tried every trick he could to stop it.

"That," she said, turning to stride out of the room, "is still up for debate."

* * *

After their pay was doled out, Nolan walked with Samuel to the bazaar. His barter slips rubbed against his skin as they followed the crowd toward the torchlight and music. Nolan hadn't told Samuel about his conversation with Dr. Vandewater or what the girl had murmured. He didn't want his mentor angry. Plus, an unease had taken hold of him ever since the doctor had stalked out of Plan B. She'd threatened his sick father. The girls, the job, this whole thing seemed more than he could bear. His father had raised him, gone hungry to feed him and kept him on when everyone of his dah's friends had called him a fool. _It's the natural order of things_ , they'd said. _A boy needs to make his own way_ , they'd said. Yet, what every one knew was that half the thirteen-year-olds died before their next birthday. Nolan's dah had given him everything and here he was jeopardizing it. He felt sorry for the girl, terrible even, but there was nothing he could do.

Nolan walked beside Samuel, barely aware of the throng of men drinking, eating, grabbing old whores and dragging them into perfumed tents. He kept his eyes on the road and his hands in his pockets. Eyes on the prize, his dah would say.

Before they entered the apothe's lean-to, he tugged Samuel aside. The old man looked up to him with a flash of anger. He was jonesing for his drug and the shakes had set in.

"Listen, Samuel, you're old enough to decide your own fate, but I think you should get off the spine." Nolan's eyes flicked up to the old man's. The eye patch had slipped and Samuel hadn't bothered to fix it.

Samuel pushed Nolan aside. "Been smoking spine too long. Nothing to be done 'bout it now."

Nolan grabbed Samuel shirt and pulled him back. He was surprised at how easily he over-powered the man. Samuel banged into the lean-to and his eye went wide. Nolan saw his supervisor's hand drop to the knife on his belt. Then his expression eased a bit.

"I know you think it's for my own good," Samuel said, straightening up, "but it's too late. Quittin'd kill me."

"It'll kill you anyway." Nolan was surprised at the lump at his throat. Besides his father, no man had ever taken an interest in him. Losing his father and Samuel at the same time might be enough to bury him. He raised wet eyes to Samuel.

The old man's hard face softened. He put a hand on Nolan's shoulder. "Ah, lad, I'm not going anywhere." Then he turned and strode into the lean-to.

The apothe's shack smelled strongly of smoke tonight. As they walked in, he was selling a baggie to a decrepit, hunchback, wearing nothing but a stinking potato sack and hole-riddled boots. Nolan shrunk back as the man slid past him.

"Sammy-Sam-Sam, Dr. D's been expecting you, brother." The apothe swung his long hair over his shoulder, grinning wildly. Nolan hated the apothe at that moment with his slippery smile. The man took joy in handing others their death. Still, Nolan kept his fist shoved in his pockets. He needed the apothe tonight, no matter how slimy he was.

Dr. D reached into his shelves, removed a few pots and lifted a false bottom off one of the drawers. He pulled out a package of spine and danced it in front of Samuel like a strip of bacon in front of a dog. Samuel followed the package hungrily, his mouth hanging open.

Samuel took the bag, stuffed it in his pants and held out a handful of trembling barter slips. When the apothe took them, the old man turned to go. "Come, lad."

Nolan pulled out his wad of barter slips and watched the apothe's eyes grow wide. "I need a cure for wet-lung. You can see that I can pay." He rustled the bills slightly and the apothe followed the slips just as Samuel had done with the spine.

"That sure is a wad of cash, sonny," said the apothe, stroking a thumb and finger down his chin. "But I told ya, there's no cure."

Nolan reached behind and pulled out even more slips. All of his savings. Now he waved the impossibly large stack in front of the apothe. Behind him Samuel breathed, "Jesus, kid, put the slips away before we're all killed."

Nolan pressed the bills into the apothe's hand. "Please." Tears gathered behind his eyes. This was his dah's last chance. If the apothe turned him away, he didn't know what to do. He couldn't ask the doctor to help after what she'd said to him.

The apothe closed his fist over the bills. Then he turned and slipped behind the lean-to's back wall.

Samuel strode up. "Holy Mary, what're you thinking? Now he's gone!" Samuel shook his head in regret. "All those slips for nothing."

Nolan's heart began seizing. _That lying son-of-a..._ He strode toward the back as anger flared in his brain.

The apothe slipped back in, his hands clutching a large ceramic jar. He thrust the jar into Nolan's chest.

"This is my last and only jar of ointment. It was sanctified by the blessed father of Santa Marcos himself. It should stop wet-lung. Rub it on his chest three times a day. It should draw out the infection."

Nolan inspected the jar—heavy, ceramic, painted with a bronze and pink glaze. He pulled out the large round cork and saw the amber balm inside. "How do I know you aren't lying?"

The apothe crossed his heart, an old gesture, but it still held meaning for Nolan. "Money back guarantee."

"There better be," Nolan said, turning. "Come on," he said to his supervisor who stood, jaw agape. "I need to get home."

* * *

By the time Nolan got Samuel home, the old man had already rolled his spine and was sucking madly on it. As Nolan watched from the doorway, his supervisor stumbled into his shack and fell onto the disheveled bed roll. His cigarette stubbed out against the floor.

"Dammit," Samuel moaned from face down on the roll. With his legs folded underneath him, Samuel's flabby, old-man buttocks were on full display and Nolan felt another surge of embarrassment.

He stomped in and rolled Samuel over. "Sit up," he snapped. "You look like a stupid old fool."

Samuel pushed up, his eyes half-lidded. His hands still shook, but the drug had deadened the palsy. "I _am_ a stupid old fool."

Nolan's anger burned hotter. "Yeah, you are! Here I am tending to _you_ when I should be home helping my _dah_. Least he didn't give himself wet-lung! He didn't choose that. You throw away a good life because you're a... a coward!"

His ring of disheveled gray hair trailed wispily up and down as he nodded. "You're right, my boy." Samuel sniffed. To Nolan's horror, the old man started to cry.

"Don't," he murmured, placing a hand on the old man's shaking shoulder. "I didn't mean it."

"You did mean it and you're right." A stuttering sob hitched in Samuel's chest. He pressed a trembling hand to his coveralls. "I'm a coward. All those years seeing the girl. All those years doing nothing." His hand shot out, gripped Nolan's shirt and hauled the boy forward. "Don't be like me!" Nolan tried to pull back, but the old man clutched his coveralls like a man slipping off a ledge. "Don't be a coward!" Then Samuel fell back on his bed roll, his eyelids fluttered and then shut.

Nolan stumbled out of the shack, shaken and tense. _Get away,_ was all he could think. _Get home._

He ran through the night like a drunken man. When he finally burst into his dah's shack with the bronze jar of balm in his hands, he was shaking. How had the night grown so cold so fast?

"Dah." He scooted into the shack, carefully set down the jar and knelt beside his father on the bed roll. Every bit of cloth they owned was piled onto his frail father. He grabbed his dah's shoulder and shook it lightly. "Dah."

His father's arm was stiff. Nolan yanked his hand away, a tightness circling around his throat. "Dah!" Nolan tugged off the layers of clothes and blankets until he uncovered his father. Glassy eyes stared up into Nolan's. Lifeless. Unseeing. Nolan staggered back and struck the shack wall. The world shook. A horrible drumming pounded in his ears.

This couldn't be happening. Nolan stared at his dah's body. This _could not_ be happening.

He reached for his dah again, but the minute his fingers touched the stiff, cold arm, Nolan's stomach clenched. He stumbled out of the shack and fell to his knees on the ground. For a long while he sat, hunched over, his stomach clenching and threatening to revolt. Then he lay down on the ground with the cruel, cold moon lording over him for what felt like hours. Like lifetimes.

His dah was dead. He'd died while Nolan had been at the night bazaar while he was begging for a cure. Where was the jar of balm? Nolan found the jar at the shack's door, tipped over but intact. He took the smooth ceramic in his hands. It had looked so beautiful an hour or two before. Nolan clutched it to his chest, his heart hammering against it. What if it had helped? What if the apothe had the balm all along and only now sold it to him? Nolan stood, tears streaming down his face, and hurled it into the night. When it shattered, the sound did nothing to sooth his jagged wound of a heart. He dropped his head and sobbed. Then he went inside and lay down beside his poor dah and fell asleep.

When daylight first woke him, he thought he'd overslept. He rolled toward his dah to ask the time. The stink of decay brought his memory back. His father's skin was paler, his flesh colder. Nolan squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to remember his dah before he had wet-lung, smiling at him at his catechism, throwing an arm around him at the bonfire while they cooked their dinner. The wave of memories brought with it a sadness so thick it could've buried Nolan. Fresh tears trailed down his cheeks as he picked up his dah and began carrying him to the burial mound.

* * *

Nolan plodded to work three hours late. When he stepped up to the glass doors, he knew he might be fired, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His one reason for living now waited in a pile of stinking bodies to be dropped into a hole and covered with dirt. More tears pricked at his eyes. How had this happened?

He wandered into the supply closet and slowly took out his equipment. Where was Samuel? Normally the old man would be all over him by now with questions. Pushing his mop bucket in front of him, Nolan went out in the hall to look.

He made it down two long corridors before Samuel came barreling around a corner, his good eye wide.

Warning bells began to toll in Nolan's head. Had the drug finally cracked the old man's brain? "What's going on?"  
Samuel grabbed Nolan by the sleeve, dragged him into the supply closet and locked the door. Then he stood with his back against it, panting.

"Is something wrong?" Nolan asked.

Samuel nodded, his tongue ringing his lips. The old man gripped Nolan's arm and pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear. "Your girlfriend's coding."

Nolan pulled back. "What?"

Samuel's eyes flicked back and forth as if scanning the small storage closet for intruders. "The Plan B girl. She's coding." Nolan shook his head and Samuel gritted his teeth in frustration. "The baby died. The treatments aren't taking." He squeezed Nolan's arm and peered at him with his good eye. "They're going to kill her. Today."

It felt like a boulder slamming down on his heart. "What? Why? They can't."

"Oh yes, they can." Samuel licked his lips and drew an object out of his coverall's pocket. The handgun trembled in Samuel's grip when he raised it.

Nolan staggered back. "If they find you with that, they..."

"They'll shoot me," Samuel said, nodding, his wild hair fluttering like scraps of cloth in a breeze. "This is the moment we've been waiting for. We can redeem ourselves." Samuel lifted his wrinkled face to Nolan's, smiling, a manic look in his eye. "This is how we save our souls." He lifted the black handgun and tapped it on his heart.

Nolan's heart continued pounding until it blotted out all else. This was crazy. He should say so. Take Samuel's gun and throw it away. They could go on and pretend nothing had happened. One death today was enough.

Instead what he said was, "What's your plan?"

Samuel smiled, his shaggy eyebrows creeping up. "That's right!" He slapped Nolan on the arm, turned and yanked open the door. "Follow me."

It was a death mission. A plan and simple suicide. Nolan watched his supervisor stride out of the closet, gun in hand, and knew that this was the last day the old man would draw breath. Then he turned and strode out after him.

* * *

When they made it to the Plan B room, Nolan's rib cage shook with each beat of his heart. The halls were deathly silent and empty. Nolan looked down at the black and white tiles as Samuel fumbled with his key card and thought, _There's a smudge on that square. I should go get the mop and..._

No. For better or worse, Nolan would never again scrub the floors again. That much he knew for sure.

"Samuel, what are we—

"Shh!" Samuel whipped around. His eye was the frenzied gaze of a man on a mission. Beside him the card reader beeped and Samuel pushed the door open. "Inside," he said, slinking into the blackness.

Nolan followed on weak legs. The door clicked behind him and, for a moment, the two men stood in the dark. Nolan heard Samuel fumble for the switch and click it on.

The girls lay in neat rows, human incubators, ripening in the dark. A vision of a farm crept up into Nolan's mind. _That's how the doctors see them_ , he thought. _Like crops. And if a stalk of corn isn't producing you cut it down and throw it in the thresher. But they're people. Some of them little girls._

They walked to Angel's bed, their boots clomping too loudly on the tile. But, then why should they fear? No one suspected that an old man and his new apprentice were going to do something completely crazy.

When he saw her, Nolan drew in a sharp breath. She looked drained, a pale corpse sucked of blood. The blue veins that had wound up her arm now crept up her neck and down her legs. Hollows had formed at her collar bones and cheeks. Nolan reached a trembling finger out and touched her, expecting her skin to feel like his dah's—cold and lifeless. But when his finger brushed skin, there was still warmth.

"She looks... dead." He turned to Samuel for answers.

The old man began unhooking cables and tubes. "If we aren't fast, she will be. Help me." With trembling fingers, Samuel began to punch numbers into the monitor beside the bed.

Nolan watched, feeling helpless. "What do I do?"

Samuel's finger paused above the key pad. "Unhook her. Then get her out of bed."

Nolan did his best, detaching sticky pads on her chest, unwinding tubing from her nose. There was other tubing that disappeared up under the hem of her hospital gown that Nolan couldn't bring himself to investigate. Luckily Samuel spared him by doing it himself. Soon the girl was detached. She lay there, pale and barely breathing.

"What now?" Nolan whispered. What in the world would they do with her?

"Pick 'er up," Samuel said, digging in his coveralls' pocket and pulling out a set of keys. "Got us a truck."

Nolan stared at the keys dangling from Samuel's calloused fingers. He must've been planning this for some time. Maybe this wasn't a death mission after all.

Above, an alarm screamed. Nolan flinched.

"Goddamn it!" The old man's eye lit with panic. "Get her" —he pointed to the girl— "and run!"

Nolan hefted the girl into his arms. She was as light as his dah and he had no trouble carrying her. Yet, panic was blaring in his brain in time with the alarm. Why were they doing this if they all were bound to die? He looked down into Angel's face. Was she even in there?

Her lips pursed once as if to say, _Run, you idiot._

He did what she bid him.

They ran to a door at the back of the room. The old man produced a metal key, slipped it in the lock and popped the door open. Another equally dark space awaited on the other side. Banishing fear, Nolan ran into the dark.

They came out into a long service hallway. It smelled like dust and mildew. Samuel locked the door behind them.

"Guards won't know this route. Only us shit cleaners know." Samuel patted the wall, a frenzied glee in his eye. "They always did underestimate me."

Nolan didn't like how crazy Samuel sounded, nor the way his hands trembled, but what choice did he have?

"Which way?" he asked. The girl was growing heavier by the minute and he thought he heard the pounding of boots. He didn't want to know what a bullet felt like entering his back. "Which way?!"

Samuel took off running, a limp hitching his step. They tore down the dark hallway to another door which Samuel unlocked and opened. This time, when Nolan tore through a door, he knew they were closer to escape. This dark room smelled like motor oil and fresh air. Once his eyes adjusted, a garage came into view, with several bay doors and hulking forms resting on cement pads. Vans and trucks, he realized. And the little trickle of light came from the outside. Freedom.

Maybe they wouldn't die after all.

Pounding made Nolan jump. Behind him, the steel door throbbed as someone on the other side beat it. "Open up!" a male voice said. "By order of the law!"

"Screw your law and your mothers!" Samuel shouted. He grabbed Nolan's arm and pulled him down the steps. "Truck's this way! Move!"

Nolan ran. His arms ached under the weight of the girl, but he pulled her tight and pushed through the pain. Samuel opened the passenger door on the first truck and waved Nolan forward. "In here!"

Nolan slid the girl onto the bench seat. Samuel ran over to the wall and began punching numbers into a key pad beside the bay door. Behind them, the wall shook with a steady pounding. The guards were ramming the door. It'd only be a matter of seconds.

Nolan ran back to Samuel. Behind them, the door moaned as a hinge gave way. The guards were moments from killing them.

Samuel tossed him the keys. "Start the truck!"

Nolan slipped in the driver's side and turned the ignition. The truck roared like a beast waiting to be unleashed. He'd forgotten that these were the top of the line vehicles and not the barely-held-together trucks he was used to. He revved the engine and it purred loudly. "Let's go!"

Samuel punched the last key and the bay door curled up into the ceiling. On the other side, daylight waited. Nolan's heart jumped at the sight of it. The girl moaned on the seat beside him. Then the guards burst through the door.

Nolan watched it all in the rear-view mirror. The steel door jangled open, one hinge splitting, the casing coming apart in a spray of wood and plaster. Guards in riot gear queued up behind the door, aiming high-powered, scoped monsters that would blow his chest and head to bloody chunks. He turned resigned eyes to Samuel. One last look at his friend before he'd be sent to his maker in a rain of bullets.

Samuel's face held no defeat. The old man's frenzy had taken over his whole body. Wild eyed, hair flying, his supervisor tore towards the guards and their big black guns. A battle cry flowed out of his lips as he raised his handgun.

"Drive, lad!" was what he yelled as he opened fire on the Breeder's guards. "Drive, goddamn you!"

Nolan waited a beat, his heart pounding. When the first bullet struck Samuel in the chest, Nolan gasped. Then he pressed his foot to the floor and followed his friend's last wishes.

* * *

Nolan cried silent tears as he barreled out of the parking lot and blew through the gate. He cried quietly as he tore through town, his foot pressed on the accelerator. He was still crying several hours later when he ran through the first tank of gas and pulled over on the side of the road to refuel from the cans in the back.

It was dusk. He'd been driving for four, maybe five hours. His neck was stiff and his arms buzzed with fatigue. He lifted his head and surveyed the terrain. A desert landscape covered the world for as far as he could see—cactus and rocks and harsh sand. The buttes burned russet red as the sun sunk low. Despite the desert's unforgiving beauty, Nolan felt like lying beside the road and waiting to die. He'd lost everything—his dah, his friend, his home. Beside him lay a girl that looked close to death. And the Breeders were hunting him, so where in the hell was he supposed to go? He looked up in the sky, tears streaming down his face.

"God, why? I've always done what you bid me. You say you won't give us more than we can bear, but this is pretty much more than I can." He buried his face in his hands. "What good is all this? We're just going to die in the goddamn truck."

He punched the dash. Then he hit it again and again. His knuckles split against the hard plastic, but he didn't care. What good was saving the girl? He should've just lain beside his dead father and let the dogs come for him.

The glove compartment jangled with the next hit. The little door dropped open like a jaw, spilling papers onto the floor. Inside was an envelope with his name on it.

He reached for the letter with quaking fingers. Seeing Samuel's chicken-scratch brought warmth into his chest for the first time in hours. He began reading.

My boy,

I'm sorry I couldn't tag along on this exciting journey! One of us will have to stay behind to deal with the trouble we dug up and I've already elected myself. No tears for me, son. The devil's spine had already cored out the best of Samuel Hormsly. So I'm setting you up, along with the girl, to get the freedom I never had. I'll be ginning big on you from somewhere. Don't you worry about that.

I'll stock the truck with enough food and water to get you clear of the Breeders' long reach. Use the syringe to wake the girl. Then drive south, lad. There's a rumor of a free civilization in White Sands. You'll know it when you see it. All I ask is one thing. When you think of me, think of the brave man who set this plan in motion, not the old fool sucking on spine. I'd happily give what little is left of my life just to have you think of me that way.

I love you, Nolan. Take care of the girl and let her take care of you.

Samuel

A fresh wave of pain surfaced in his chest as he pressed the letter to his nose and inhaled. Faintly, he could smell Samuel lingering there. The old man had planned this whole thing. Had planned to give up his life. An image of Samuel charging at the guards floated up in his mind. Brave. Redeemed. He'd do as Samuel asked and remember him as a hero. When the girl awoke, he'd tell her of her savior. Samuel, the man with the plan.

That is, _if_ the girl awoke. She lay beside him on the bench seat in the fetal position. Her hair hung over the right half of her face like a golden waterfall. Nolan reached over and slid the hair aside. Her beauty made his heart flutter. Where was this syringe Samuel was talking about?

He found it in the glove compartment—a syringe filled with blue-tinged liquid. Nolan lifted it and stared at the contents. Where should he put it? What if he did it wrong? Her thigh, as white and smooth as a lake of cream, lay beside him on the bench seat. He swallowed hard, gripped her leg and slowly inserted the syringe. When he pushed the plunger and released the blue liquid into her body, his heart was pounding.

"Wake up," he whispered. The blue veins still twined up her limbs, but color had returned to her cheeks. He only hoped whatever they had been doing to her in the hospital was reversible. He couldn't stand to lose anyone else in his life. Never again. "Wake up."

She stirred and her mouth twitched. Then her hand clenched into a fist. Eye lids fluttered.

Her body jerked. Her arms flew out. She began seizing, sharp flailing gestures, her mouth contorting, her muscles clenching. Nolan watched the violent contractions of her muscles with terror in his heart.

She stopped moving. Nolan waited, panicked. When she didn't move, he jumped to his knees and hovered over her.

"No, no, no!" He placed two fingers to the vein on her neck. Nothing. "No, God! No!" Fumbling in his mind with what to do, Nolan remembered an image from long ago—his dah breathing into the mouth of a boy they'd found buried under garbage. Nolan's pulse slammed into his ears as he leaned down and pressed his mouth over hers.

Her lips were smooth, her breath sweet, but his panic didn't allow him to enjoy a single moment. He exhaled air into her mouth and felt her chest rise. He waited a beat and did it again. Then he sat up and looked at her.

When she didn't move, he positioned his palms, one over the other, on her heart and locked his elbows.

Her eyes began to flutter.

"Oh, God," he whispered, pulling his hands back, shoving them into his hair. He held his breath and watched her lids for movement. When they opened, he saw her eyes were hazel. The same color as his dah's.

The girl's gaze floated to his face. As she zeroed in, her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open in...what? Fear? Surprise?

"I-I-I'm sorry," he said, not knowing what he was apologizing for. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Her chest heaved beneath her hospital gown as she studied him. "You," she said with trembling pink lips. Nolan nodded, unable to speak. A smile crept onto her perfect face. "I dreamed of you."

# About Katie French

Katie French imagined herself an author when her poem caught the eye of her second grade teacher. In middle school she spent her free time locked in her room, writing her first young adult novel. Though her social life suffered, her love for literature thrived. She spent nine years teaching high school English, but currently she is a school counselor, doing a job that is both one of the hardest things she's ever done and the most rewarding.

In her free time she writes, reads great books and takes care of her two beautiful and crazy children. She is a contributor and co-creator of Underground Book Reviews, a website dedicated to erasing the boundaries between traditional and non-traditional publishing. She lives in Michigan with her husband and two children.

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#  Tailless

Ariele Sieling

A slew of bullets rained down on the heads of Bode and her comrades, and it was looking to be a long, bright night. Bode tried to block out the booming sounds of gunfire around her, and then a bullet spattered the wall of mud right next to her face. She flinched, and smashed her nose into a rock. Her eyes watered as she clutched her nose. A series of images flickered past her eyelids – it was her face, in the mirror.

Her nose was too short. That was it. Her nose was too short and her eyes were too big and that was why all the other kids had made fun. That, and the fact that she didn't have a tail. But then again, there were others without tails, just not many. And they hid. In caves. In hospitals. In tunnels.

Of course, all that didn't matter at the moment.

"Bode!" a voice called.

She turned, opening her eyes and blinking the tears away. The rays of the sun shot jaggedly into the trench, illuminating one soldier dragging another soldier through the mud.

"It's McCarth! She's been hit."

Patton was breathing heavily, and tripping on nearly every rock in the way. As he got closer, Bode could see tears hovering at the edge of his eyelids.

She darted forward and placed her fingers on McCarth's neck. McCarth's jacket was soaked in blood. There was no heartbeat. "She's dead, Patton. We gotta go. The Grayds are closing in fast. They're gonna have this position before you can sing the Captain's Mourn."

"I can't," Patton whispered, reaching out to touch McCarth's cheek.

"Patton, now!" Bode commanded. She bent down, grabbed Patton by the arm, and began to drag him down the trench.

"But she'll be alone," Patton said desperately, gazing behind them at the corpse lying in the muddy ditch.

At that moment, Bode noticed something – silence. Silence was never good. Any second now they would be dropping into the trench in hordes.

"Come on!" she hissed. "Run! Run for your life!"

Then, without waiting, she took off at a dead sprint. Hopefully Patton would have the sense to follow.

A loud whistle pierced the eerie silence of the battlefield. She looked up.

"Bode, out!" Johnson lay on his stomach peering down into the trench. He dropped a rope ladder down. "The Grayds have taken the southeast trench. They're crawling their way over – Beason's picking them off from the trees down yonder, but he can't see too good with all this sun. We got to see if we can hold out until daytime. It's just too damn bright. Looks like most of the Grayds are having trouble seeing too, at least we got that. Except some of them have these helmet things over their eyes – moving faster than usual."

"I can help out Beason," Bode said. "You know I got the best night vision of anybody round here."

Patton came gasping up behind Bode. "You can't," he said. "You ain't got clearance to do snipe work. You're a tailless greck without a chip – remember?"

"Who cares about the chip when we're being eaten alive and spit right back out again?" Bode demanded. "I can be Beason's eyes. Point out where the Grayds are so he can shoot them. We're all gonna die, and I'd like to think I can at least help."

"Alright then, Corporal. You get on over there. I'll get Patton out of here. And you keep your tail down!" Johnson ordered.

"I ain't got no tail!" Bode called over her shoulder as she crawled through the grass as fast as she could.

Mud was everywhere, sneakily infiltrating her clothing by separating into little bits and sliding through the miniscule spaces between the threads in the fabric of her pants and elbows. It was heavy, dark, wet mud – similar to the grass behind the old school. The last time she had gone out behind the school alone was a few weeks before graduation and Geb and his cronies had cornered her.

"Hey, no-tail!" he exclaimed. His friends laughed. "Whatcha doing out here all alone? Lookin' for some other weirdo friends? Well, go look down at Goodie's Insane Asylum – I betcha could find some there!"

"Go away, Geb," she had said, hoping he would leave her alone.

But the next moment found her lying face down in the mud, with grass in her hair and her books and papers scattered all over the ground.

"Tail-less! Tail-less!" Geb and his friends chanted. She felt his foot in the small of her back. "Aw, look at the poor, helpless, baby greck!" he jeered. "You better not get up, or else I'll have to put you back down!"

His friends laughed even harder at this, but the next moment they were gone, no doubt on a mission to appear as perfect as angels to the teachers. That was the last time she really cried.

Bode pulled herself up out of the mud and into the tree. Beason was squinting in the sunlight, making an admirable attempt to actually hit enemy soldiers.

"What're you doing here?" he asked.

"Johnson told me to come help," she said. "I got good eyes."

"I don't need your eyes," Beason said. He scowled at her and then took a few more shots randomly into the blinding brightness of the field. He didn't hit anything, but Bode could see a few splashes of mud where the bullets blasted into the ground.

"I can help," Bode protested. "For example, if you aim towards the B6 Trench, the—"

"Shut up!" Beason interrupted. "You think you're better than us, just 'cause you ain't got no tail. Truth is, you're just a freak. Now if Johnson told you to come over here, so be it. I ain't one to tell another soldier to disobey her orders. But he didn't give me none, and so I ain't goin' to listen to you. Shoot if you'd like – I doubt you could hit anything anyway."

Bode looked out over the battlefield. The trenches looked like scars gouged in the dark brown soil. Soldiers of both sides crawled in the mud as quickly as possible, advancing and retreating, back and forth and back and forth, trying to reach and overtake trench after trench. The problem was, in the confusion and mud and flying bullets and sunshine and chaos – none of the soldiers on the ground seemed to know who was winning.

If it hadn't been such a campground for bloody corpses, the massive plains might actually have been quite beautiful.

The simple rifle weighed in Bode's hand. It was the old style – no bio sensors – and it was the only type she could shoot. She hoisted it to her shoulder. If Beason wouldn't listen, the only option was to start taking the enemy down by herself. The gun had a short range of only about 500 meters, but it should do for now. Bode took aim, and smiled a bit. Shooting in the dark – that's where she always failed. But shooting in the night – she could beat any soldier that tried to say otherwise.

She pulled the trigger. The sound of the gun was muffled by Krepta bugs – little insects that fed on earwax, but expanded when they sensed sounds above ninety decibels, acting as a type of ear protector. She kept tally in her head: one down, two down, three-four-five... and Beason was still blindly shooting at the dirt.

"I don't know how you do it," Beason muttered next to her. "Doesn't the sun blind you? I can't wait until it's daytime."

"They attack at night because they know it blinds you," she replied.

"Yeah, but it blinds them too!" Beason retorted. "Doesn't make any damn sense."

Bode picked off another three, then missed twice, then hit a fourth.

"Bode!" a voice called from below. It was Johnson. "I thought I told you to be Beason's eyes. He's got a bigger gun. Anyway, I want you on radio. Sparks, Jacks, and Freeman have all set up Krep 1600s, so I want you directing fire on radio."

"Yessir!" Bode replied.

Johnson's radio buzzed and his voice became muffled as he lowered it to speak.

"Trench 16b," Bode said to Beason. "There's a whole pile of them just peeking their heads, about to start crawling. And..." she paused. "They're up on the grass. Go!"

"Beason! Bode!" Johnson called from below. Beason didn't shoot. Bode watched as they slowly began to crawl forward. "We have a problem. The enemy seems to have some sort of device that they put over their eyes to make it easier to see in the sunlight. We have one – Patton picked it up off a dead Grayd. Don't know where they got the things, but that doesn't matter right now. Bode, look for Grayds whose faces have a big black stripe across them. And I want to you grab a radio, and take Patton out at the front and radio back positions for the snipers to aim at. Get down here."

"Yessir!" Bode replied. She squinted at the field in front of her as Beason's gun began to rapidly fire bullets at the muddy field.

"Good work!" Bode yelled over the sound of the gun, as she began to climb down the ladder. "You just snagged three."

Patton was waiting, crouched in the grass at the bottom of the tree. A thin black material stretched from one of his ears all the way around the front of his face to his other ear.

"This is the thing that protects your eyes," he said. A grin stretched across his face. "It's amazing! I can see right through it, and the light doesn't hurt my eyes at all!"

"Can I try?" Bode asked.

Patton reached up and carefully removed it. "It just wraps around your ears," he said.

Bode put it on. "Wow. It makes everything look dark, just like it was the middle of the day!" She took it off and handed it back. "But I can see fine without it."

The two soldiers began to crawl as quickly as they could towards the trenches. Every so often, Bode peaked her head up a little higher to see where the enemy soldiers were moving and began to mutter their positions into the radio. Patton followed a short length behind her.

Then he yelled.

Bode made an awkward and sudden twist in his direction. He had veered off from her path slightly and come face to face with an enemy soldier. The two were frozen staring one another in the face. Bode pulled the pre-chip Meakant pistol from her waistband, aimed, gritted her teeth, and pulled the trigger. She squeezed her eyes shut, but not quickly enough.

A moment later she felt Patton's hand on her arm.

"Come on, Bode," he whispered. "We gotta keep going."

She opened her eyes. His face was grave, his brow furrowed. Blood was spattered all over his face and helmet. Bode took a deep breath, swallowed, and turned back towards the trenches, trying desperately not to look towards the other soldier's corpse. Killing never got easier.

"Let me take the radio for a bit," Patton said. "You get my back."

Bode nodded. She watched as Patton raised his head and gazed out through the strange eye-gear to look over the battlefield, and then looked up at the vivid blue sky. The ring of white around the sun reminded her of the ring of light around the light they put over her in the hospital. Although she had only been eleven, the memory stuck.

Mom and Dad were in the waiting room and she was surrounded by nurses. The bio chip was about to be implanted in two spots – the base of her neck and the wrist. She was terrified.

"Lie back, honey," the nurse said, pushing gently on her shoulder.

As she lay back, the light shining down on her looked like it had a halo, like the lady did in the pictures at church.

The nurse took Bode's little hand and stuck it in a machine that looked a little like a giant stapler.

"Take a deep breath," said the nurse, and Bode had. Then the machine started beeping, and the nurses started gasping, and her Mom and Dad came running in... then the light got smaller and smaller until it disappeared into darkness.

Later they told her that her body had rejected the bio chip. She'd had such a violent reaction that it knocked her unconscious. After she woke up again, she had a rash up her arm for weeks, and had to take medicine to keep her eyes from itching.

That's why she couldn't shoot a gun. Not a new one anyway. She looked down at the old Meakant pistol in her hand. Any enemy soldier could take this from her, but she couldn't take any guns from the enemy or from her friends. It was hardly fair.

Patton had started to move forward again; so Bode hurried to catch up. He turned to look at her and began to gesture for her to hurry.

"Look at that!" he whispered rapidly, pointing up over the grass.

Bode slowly raised her head, looking in all directions for enemy soldiers. A few yards ahead of them was a trench. On the opposite side of the trench, four enemy soldiers with eye protection were peering down into the trench. One of them looked up and right into her eyes. His weapon rose.

"Patton!" Bode hissed, dropping into the grass.

He didn't move quickly enough. The next moment he lay groaning in the dirt, the sound of the gunshot still echoing in their ears. "I can't..." he gasped clutching his abdomen. His shirt had already turned blood red. "Get the... sun blockers..."

Anger poured through Bode. She grabbed Patton's face. "You look here," she demanded.

"I can't..." he whispered as his eyes fluttered closed.

Without thinking, Bode leaped to her feet – the perfect target for any enemy that bothered to look up. She raised her weapon and pulled the trigger.

One... two... three... four... and the soldiers fell.

She strode forward and looked down into the trench. It was empty. She leaped down and then hauled herself up the other side, digging her feet into the muddy walls of the trench. Looking back, she wasn't quite sure how she made it all the way over, but she did, and she took the sun blockers and made her way back to Patton. She bent over and lifted him across her back, the way the firemen back at home did it, and blinking back the tears that blinded her, stumbled away from the trenches and back towards the trees.

At some point other soldiers came and unburdened her of Patton's body. Johnson appeared and guided her through the trees to the encampment beyond where she was placed in a med tent and looked over by a nurse.

It was much quieter and at some point she drifted into a doze and she saw herself. She looked much younger: her eyes were too wide and too far apart, her lashes were too long and dark, her nose was too short, and her chin stuck out too far. She would never be as pretty as the other girls, or as smart even. Just the odd one out.

She turned to see her Dad peeking through the door.

"Hey there, sweetheart," he said. "What are you doing?"

"I'm so ugly," she said.

"That's not true!" he said. "You're quite beautiful. Just because you look different doesn't mean you're not beautiful."

Bode frowned up at him, pouting and scowling. "They say I'm weird. A pig-nose greckle."

"Well, that's not nice, is it? And it's not true, either."

Sighing, Bode threw herself onto her bed. "Why can't I look normal, Dad?"

"Because you're special," he said. "You do know you're special, don't you?"

Her scowl deepened. "You always say that." She held up the mirror again and looked at her face. Her dad leaned over her shoulder and looked in the mirror too.

Back and forth, her eyes flicked – from her eyes to his; from her nose to his; from her chin to his.

"Why do I look different than you?" she asked suddenly. "You're my dad. Shouldn't I look like you?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Well, sweetie, I guess it's about time I told you."

"Tell me what?" she turned and looked at him.

Swallowing, he took her face in his hands, looked her in the eyes, and said: "Sweetie, you're adopted."

Her jaw dropped. "Adopted?"

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Adopted?" she repeated. "So... I'm not... I might... how?"

"We found you wandering in the woods, lost. We think you may have wandered off from another tribe. They probably think you're dead." Her dad shrugged apologetically. "And we were never happier than the day we brought you home. We love you."

Bode didn't know what to say. She just kept opening and closing her mouth like a half-dead fish.

"Bode?" her father said. "Bode..."

"Bode..." the voice didn't sound like her father anymore. "Bode, wake up this instant before I demote you!"

Opening her eyes was hard. She just wanted to sleep. She reached up a hand to swat at whoever was hovering over her.

"Open your eyes before I dump this water in your face," the voice said.

She squinted. It was Johnson. She groaned.

"As your squad leader, I command you to open both your eyes."

Groaning, she pulled her other eye open.

"Good. Now, you should know that Patton is alive. And he'll be fine. You got him to the medics just in time. Second, you should know that we're winning. Or rather, they've retreated. So, we've won. We have a team over there now, negotiating the terms."

Bode shook her head.

"How long was I asleep?" she asked.

"Too long."

"How... why did we... we won?"

"Yes. You know those devices they had over their eyes?"

"Mhmm." Bode closed her eyes again.

"They're called sunglasses. And their entire plan was based on the men that had them. Apparently they got them from an alien ship that landed a few weeks ago to trade. Then you had to go be bloody stupid, make a living target out of yourself, and shoot the special ops team that was ordered to carry out their winning move – to capture Sergeant Major Jakes and Dreal's communication stones."

"How would..."

"Because then they would know and be able to counter our every move? Does behaving stupidly kill brain cells or something?"

Bode groaned.

"So you need to wake up. We're packing up. Nurse! Can we have some sort of stimulant over here?"

When Bode got up, the first thing she did was go see Patton. He was asleep, but breathing. She let out a deep sigh of relief. The sun was setting, and as day broke, it became harder and harder to see, but she went back outside anyway and began to join in the preparations to leave. After the wagons were packed, they didn't stop to rest. The troops lined up and began to march. It was only a five-hour trek, after all, and everyone was anxious to see their families.

The troops arrived in town on target, but the town was eerily silent. No one awaited their arrival; the streets were empty, the lights were out. Every soldier reached for his weapon, waiting for orders. As they neared the town center, they noted that the flag was at half-mast.

A solemn stillness fell over the soldiers. Bode felt a shiver run up her spine. They waited.

A few teams were sent in various directions. The rest of the troops waited tensely.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Then the doors to the town hall opened. A rustle moved along the soldiers.

Sergeant Major Jakes stood at the top of the steps. He lifted a megaphone.

"Bode Aft." His voice rang over the crowd. "Please step forward."

An aisle formed in front of her as her fellow soldiers moved out of the way. She took a deep breath and then stepped forward, oblivious to the eyes that stared after her. Each step felt as though she had a brick tied to her boots.

In much too short a period of time she found herself standing in front of Sergeant Major Jakes.

"This way, soldier," he said, leading her into the building.

They didn't go very far.

In front of her stood two... well, they weren't grecks. They stood straight. Like her. And they had no tails.

She tilted her head.

"This is her?" the woman said in a strange accent. Her eyes filled with tears. "So... grown up. And a soldier."

The man reached out his hand to shake hers. "Hello, daughter."

Bode tilted her head farther. "Daughter?" She looked around in a panic. Her Mom and Dad were standing to the side, watching with wide eyes.

"You don't remember us?" The woman was crying.

The man reached out and put his arm around her. "It's okay," he whispered.

Bode looked back at her real... adopted parents. Dad stepped forward. "Remember what I told you? About finding you in the woods?"

She nodded.

He glanced at her... other dad.

She closed her eyes and memories began to flash across her eyelids. The woods, the dark, the fear... a shining light and loud roaring noise...

"We were doing research," the man said. "You ran off, like kids do. We left, not realizing you weren't there. We turned around as soon as we realized what happened... but you know how time works at the speed of light..."

Bode covered her mouth, stunned.

"But... but I just..." She looked around wildly, meeting Sergeant Major Jakes' eyes. He looked at her compassionately.

"It's why you can see during the night," he said, nodding. "It's why you have no tail. It's why the bio chip didn't work."

"I... I..." Bode sat down. She took a deep breath. And another. And another.

"So what you're saying is that I am an alien," she stated.

"Yes," Dad said.

"And my nose is not too short."

"That is correct," Dad said. "But I've been telling you that for years anyway."

"And I'm not supposed to have a tail. And I'm supposed to see at night. And I'm only different because I'm on the wrong planet." She looked up at her four parents and the Sergeant Major.

They were nodding, and all but Sergeant Major Jakes had a worried expression.

"But I just killed... Grayds. I killed them. They weren't my enemies. They were... your enemies." She pointed at the Sergeant Major. "I joined the military because... because I thought it would make me more like you." She turned to face her parent. "I thought it would make me a Greck for real – I thought I would be accepted..." Turning back to the Sergeant Major, her eyes grew large; she felt wounded. "I risked my life for you, for Patton, for everyone... and now you're telling me that I will never, never, be one of you!"

Her birth mom began to sob.

"You are a soldier." Sergeant Major reached down to help her stand up. "You did your duty."

"But I'm not even a greck! Weren't you listening? I'll never be part of you because I'm... I'm a..." she turned towards her birth parents. "What am I?"

"A human," her mother replied. "Human."

"I'm a human." The word felt strange on her tongue. She looked at Dad, then Mom, and then each of her birth parents. Continuing to turn, she stared out the doors behind her into the darkness. Her feet began to move forward, through the doors, out into the day, past the rows of soldiers that still stood, waiting. She walked slowly, carefully, past row after row after row after row of soldiers until she reached the center of town. There, she gazed up at the massive statue of General Blakes, the first leader in the history of her village that had defeated the Grayds. And she remembered...

She remembered the bullying, and the hitting, and the cruel words; she remembered her first friend, the kind art teacher, the things she had learned; she remembered the doctors, not knowing what to do with her flawed DNA; she remembered the sweets, the soup, and the warm bath she got whenever she was sick; she remembered her face; she remembered her home; she remembered the pain; she remembered the love; she remembered her mother and father; she remembered the Grayd she had shot face to face, the Grayd that lay dead in the field because of her alien abilities, the dead special ops team sent with the sunglasses to ruin her side's chances at winning; and she remembered Patton...

As she headed for the med center, she noticed that they had already unloaded the wounded, though the dead still lay on the wagon. She moved forward into the clean, sterile building and up the stairs to the floor reserved for the military. She walked through the beds, glancing at the face of each soldier, and saluting. She stopped at a bed near the end of the room.

Patton was awake.

"Patton," she said. "I'm a human."

"A what?" he said. His eyelids fluttered slightly; the painkillers were affecting him.

"A human. An alien."

He smiled and nodded. "Always knew there was something a little off about you."

"I'm an alien," she repeated.

"You said that already. Now what the hell are you doing here? They said your real parents are in town. Shouldn't you be, I don't know, talking to them or something?"

"Patton," she looked down at his bandaged body. "Can I ask you something?"

"Mhmm."

She paused as the words fluttered through her head – will you be my partner? Marry me? Come with me? And then images replaced the words – of being pushed in the mud, slandered and insulted, of being hated and ridiculed. The hospital, the school, the mirror...

...and then she looked at his face: the long elegant nose, the high cheekbones and grey-pigmented stripes, the wide eyes with vertical pupils. His tail. She was different than him. Always and forever different.

Taking a deep breath, Bode stated, "I was just wondering if you'll miss me."

Patton gave her a sad smile. "Of course I will," he said.

He reached up and their fingers touched, and Bode memorized every line in his face before she slowly turned and took her first, confident step towards her new beginning and end.

# About Ariele Sieling

Ariele Sieling has been a writer for her entire life, writing her first book as an eleven-year-old, called The Mystery House. Since then, she has pursued the art of writing in a variety of forms, from short stories and essays, to newspaper articles, newsletters, classroom curriculum, and novels.

Sieling writes science fiction, and works to blend the potential for human capacity and future technology with a little bit of humor. She is author of The Clock Winked, and will be releasing The Lonely Whelk next spring. She lives in New Hampshire with her two cats, Goblin and Rowan.

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#  I Am the Maid

Sarah Dalton

2025 10 years since patient zero

Nottingham

Marian

When it rains you can smell the Infected for miles around. The stench drifts downwind of the river, mingling with the earthy mud reek.

It smells like death. Sickness and death.

The rain drums down on the metal roof. It reminds me of long ago holidays by the sea; the many hours spent inside a tin caravan listening to the downpour. I look down at the camp below with its small patches of crops and greenhouses. There are even a few farm animals. The people are as tiny as ants from my seat in the stands.

We've grown since the beginning. We're a community now. Outlaws, even. Nancy calls us Wolfheads, like the outlaws in another time.

Wind whistles through the stadium, rattling the plastic seats. My ears and eyes strain for any indication of movement. With the noisy rain it's hard to tell, and it has been two weeks since the last infiltration by the Infected, enough time to make us complacent.

I flex my fingers and grip the handle of my Katana. For now it remains sheathed by my hip. Guns are banned in Nottingham. The Sheriff's men are permitted to carry them, but their weapons have been fitted with expensive silencers. It's one of the few laws I abide by. Guns are messy, unpredictable, and they make too much noise. You kill one Infected with a gun and a hundred come running. You behead it with a Katana and move on, alive.

I run through the procedures in my mind: the trip wires at each entrance, the look-outs on every stand, the small land-mines on the Trent side, and the hidden pit on the city side. We've blocked off every turnstile in the grounds. But the place is so vast there are rooms we haven't even cleared yet, old offices and café suites where once the managers of the club sat and wrote huge cheques. Barely a decade ago the stadium shook with the chants and songs of the crowd as they spurred on the players. But in 2015 the world went into a state of emergency. Since then the only sport played at Nottingham Forest football ground is a brain eating contest.

"Marian?"

I'm pulled out of my reverie so abruptly that my muscles tense and I grip my sword harder. I lift the receiver to my lips. "Yes, Stafford?"

"There's an infiltration in the East stand. You need to come now, over."

"On my way, over and out."

I'm on my feet and moving fast, sidestepping plastic seats and skipping down the steps. My hand grips the Katana. I reach the East stand and slow to a predatory crawl, every part of my body on high alert, my years of training beneath the surface—waiting to be employed.

My lungs burn as I climb the steep steps. Up above I can hear the grunts and moans of the Infected and the breathlessness of Stafford and Miles fighting them back. I unsheathe my sword, ready.

They must have come from the overhanging roof because there are splatters of blood on the steps, probably from where our barbed wire ripped into their skin.

Stafford fights two on his own, attacking in a haphazard manner with his sword. But he's strong and surprisingly swift for a big man. Miles has more technique but is weaker. An Infected has hold of Miles' shirt and is dragging him closer and closer to his open, drooling mouth. I help him first, swinging my Katana high enough to behead the Crawler. Its head rolls down the steps, softly thudding as it goes; a frozen expression on its face. Miles pushes the body away and nods in thanks. His glasses are askew and his hair is ruffled. He's not made for the apocalypse, but he tries his best. That's the thing about the end of the world—it creates soldiers out of anyone, even primary school teachers.

I let Miles deal with the un-dead, overweight woman with yellow coloured skin. I move on to Stafford's aid, kicking back a Crawler with puffed out bloated cheeks and a gashed forehead. You can tell he used to be an attractive guy before the Infection. Shame really, we're lacking some fit guys since the Crawlers took over. I let out a disappointed sigh whilst removing his head from his body.

That's the other thing about the end of the world—death doesn't bother you anymore. The sight of blood doesn't bother you. I can't remember much before patient zero. It doesn't seem real somehow. Watching a decapitated head roll down the steps of a football stadium... that's real to me. That's life.

Stafford finishes his off. "See you in hell, Crawler."

"How very Christian of you, Friar," I remark.

Stafford wipes his sword with a dirty rag. "Yes, but it sounds cool. It makes one almost believe one is in a zombie movie, rather than a zombie world."

Stafford saying the word 'cool' is pretty traumatic, but I get where he's coming from. Pretending we're in some virtual reality is a good coping strategy.

After Miles wipes sweat from his brow and catches his breath, we perform a sweep of the stadium, checking the various traps around the stands. All clear. It seems to be an isolated incident, but you can never be sure. Crawlers are dumb. They don't attack like humans. They don't plan or use their guile. Instead, they run at you over and over until you hack them into little bits, or they get their teeth and nails in your flesh, whichever comes first.

It's their persistence that makes them dangerous. They used to crowd around the stadium, clawing at the walls, banging their lifeless bodies against it. Then one might find a step or a hand hold and then they're climbing the walls. Another might follow them, blindly letting their body do the work, until you've got half a dozen of them to fight back. If you can't get rid of them without any fuss it attracts the others. The world is now a never-ending cycle of fighting back the Infected. It sucks.

"We need to burn the bodies," Miles says. He runs a hand through his curly dark hair. His mouth is set in a tight line and his skin has that green tinge you get when nauseated.

"You can go back, Miles. We've got this."

Stafford raises his eyebrows at me. His eyes are open wide with indignation.

Miles shifts from one foot to the other, glancing back and forth between me and the monk. "Only if you're sure."

"We're fine here," I say. I don't look at Stafford. He's not in charge so he can glare at me all he likes.

Miles nods and shuffles off.

"You can't keep letting them off the hook, Marian," the monk warns. "They have to learn for themselves. They rely on you too much."

"I can deal." I clean my sword and avoid his eye.

"You may be tough, Marian, but you're also an eighteen year old girl without any parents."

A jolt of pain explodes in my chest. The last thing I need is a reminder about Dad. I think Stafford sees me wince because he exhales with a sigh.

I straighten my back, sheath my sword, and meet Stafford's eyes. "I am the Maid," I say, "and I will protect my people."

Robin

"All right then, lads, we're nearly there!" I wave them forward. The cool autumn breeze  licks at the sweat on the back of my neck, bringing with it the reek from the river. Anywhere else and I would balk at the stink. I would turn around and scuttle away, leaving the wretched place behind. But not here, not now, because it carries me home. It takes me back to warm arms, hot food and clean sheets. I close my eyes and see the high-rise apartment blocks dotted with washing lines, pot plants and heaving with cats to keep out the rats.

After travelling through parts of Lancashire and the Derbyshire Dales, it feels like a long time coming. By miles, it's meagre. By effort and hardship, it's been a real marathon. I thumb the smooth edge of my crossbow, and a shiver runs down my spine as I remember the many kills along the way.

We stand on the bridge over the Trent. Home is in front of us. Something rises in my chest, a swell of pride, the anticipation of seeing family... but the landscape is different now. So much has changed in a year.

"There's the entrance," Much says, he points towards the city barbican.

"I still can't get my head around the wall. The thought of the city centre being blocked off like that," I say, shaking my head.

"It makes sense though, Robin," Alan says. "It'll keep the Crawlers out. Don't you think?"

"They managed without it for almost ten years," I say. Sure, they had barriers and restrictions up to the city, along with volunteers to keep the city safe, but nothing like this monstrosity, which stands almost ten feet tall. I know Alan's right, but a heaviness in my gut tells me something else. Did they build the wall to keep the Crawlers out, or did they build the wall to keep people in?

"What are you thinking?" Will asks. He moves closer. His deep brown eyes search mine. They have this openness to them. He always has the same mild expression on his face, one that somehow manages to convey intelligence and peace at the same time—even mid-battle.

"I'm thinking that the Sheriff has something to do with this, and that it isn't just to keep the Crawlers out." I squint into the distance. "See those small dots moving up and down on top of the wall? They look like soldiers to me."

"They could be scouting for Crawlers," Much suggests.

"They could," I admit. Why do I feel so uneasy about the wall? Nottingham needs protection, for sure, especially as it is one of the few remaining functioning cities in the UK. London is overrun with the Infected. Only the most frightening and chaotic of people live there now. The stories make even me wince, and I've seen some awful things. "It don't feel right, Much. Not after everything."

A year ago a bunch of us conscripted to the cause, ready to fight for our country, and certain we could make a difference against the rebels in Liverpool and Manchester. At night, I dreamed of honour and riches, believing the army would send a wage to my family, and I would serve a greater purpose for my country. I thought we could contain the Infected, stop the rebels, and come back heroes. I was wrong. Honour does not exist anymore.

"Well, I guess there's only one way to find out what's going on," Will says with a sigh. "We have to go to Nottingham and find out."

"What if someone recognises us as deserters?" Much says. He's said the same thing about twenty times during the journey.

"We keep our noses out of trouble and don't bother anyone," I reply, "like we planned. We keep out of the way of the Sheriff and whoever he has working for him."

"We've got nowhere to live, Robin, no food or nothin'—"

"I know, Alan," I snap, not for the first time. "What do you want me to do about it?" I let out a long sigh. "We're not the only deserters to come back with nothing. What was the alternative, eh? Keep fighting for a lost cause? The truth is that the army can't control the county anymore, and I don't think they have any right to, anyway. We're better off out of that mess. Now we're home, and we're going to get on with our lives, and forget all about what happened up North, all right?"

"I'm sorry," Alan says.

"Don't apologise. You have nothing to apologise for. Let's get moving, okay? Before the Crawlers sniff us out."

I step forward. My stomach flips over with nervous anticipation.

"Look, I'm not sure about this," Will says. "I think we should spend a few days out here first, scout it out. What's the rush, Robin? Wouldn't you rather know all the facts first?"

"Yeah, Robin," Much says. "We should be cautious."

Maybe they're right. We are deserters after all. "All right. We'll set up camp on the bridge. It's easy enough to defend. When we run out of food, we move on."

Marian

When it's a clear night like tonight we start a fire in the walkway between the pitch and the changing rooms and sit around it, listening to the older folk talk about times before patient zero. In some ways it was worse, people didn't talk like they do now, they tapped on fancy phones and played games rather than go outside. They bitched about each other, their world and everything in between. It sounds empty and shallow and filled with insignificance. There's no survival. There's no appetite for life.

Talk turns to the Crawler infiltration.

"How did they get in?" asks Dev, a man who was once one of the most powerful businessmen in Nottingham. "Did you check all the borders? The Trent stand—"

"I checked between the Trent stand and the others, Dev. I know it's the weakest spot in the stadium," I snap.

He points a finger at me and the rest of the group glance away or fiddle with their clothes. Some of the younger children gawp at us, waiting for action. "You should have been doing your job, Maid. If you had, the Crawlers wouldn't get in here."

I stand and move closer to Dev. He gets to his feet, towering above me. "We all need to do our jobs. This is a community, not a leadership. If it's a leadership you want then you know the way back to the Sheriff's arsehole." My cheeks warm as my temper rises. "When my father was in charge he assigned us roles and he made sure we all volunteered. That is how we're going to do things here."

Dev comes closer to me, his dark eyes flashing and his brown skin turning orange in the glow of the fire. "You're just the daughter of some guy who was stupid enough to get himself killed on watch. Why should I listen to you?"

My hand goes straight for the handle of my Katana and quick as a flash Dev's brothers are on their feet. Stafford has his hand on my arm.

"Marian," Stafford warns.

Without breaking eye contact with Dev, I unwrap each finger from my sword. "No, you're not going to make me snap. We don't fight each other. We work together. We are one."

"You're nothing," he says, curling his lip like I'm distasteful to him.

I take a step forward, shrugging Stafford's hand from my arm. "I am the Maid. I led the rebellion from Nottingham castle with my father a year ago. I made a vow to protect every single person in this camp, including you. My father wanted me to lead you all and that's what I intend to do." I turn to the faces around the fire, glowing a soft orange; all shadowy eye sockets and dirty hair. "Do you think Dev would protect you to his last? Do you really think he would lay down his life for any of you? I would and you know it." Vacant eyes stare back. I find myself furtively looking for expressions of hope, encouraging nods, anything. "I know it has been hard. Food is scarce and we have the sick to tend to—"

"My daughter has been ill without medicine for a week."

"I know, Catelyn, and I want to help little Kate but—"

"But," says Jim, one of the farmers, "we hear that a lot. But this, but that. When are you going to get results?"

"I... "

"You don't know, do you?" he accuses.

There are some mumblings through the crowd. I lift my hands in an attempt to quiet them.

"There aren't any givens in this world, we know that. We don't know what the future brings. The Sheriff is a constant threat and Father said—"

"Father said," mimics the farmer. "That's all you ever say, love. Father isn't here anymore. You've got to get it together or get out and let someone take over."

I flash Stafford a desperate look. His eyes are downcast and saddened. This is what he's been telling me for weeks, I need to take control with an iron fist to stop dissent. But it feels too much like the Sheriff. I don't want to be like that.

"Marian is doing the best she can. None of you could do what she does. You wouldn't go out of your way to help people, Dev, or you Catelyn, or you Jim, but Marian would," Nancy says. My heart soars with gratitude. Nancy stands and puts her hands on her hips. "Why don't you cut her some slack?"

Nancy is the closest I've had to a mother in a very long time. We've fought together, cried together, mourned together. She loved Dad almost as much as I did.

"She's too young," Catelyn says with a sigh.

This again.

"Look. Let's finish our suppers and sleep. Stafford and I will be in the lookout boxes. We'll check the perimeter on our way up. Nancy, can you hold the fort down here?" I say.

She nods. There are new wrinkles around her eyes and a few extra strands of grey in her black curls. She looked younger when she was with Dad. He always looked younger when he was with her as well.

Stafford is quiet as we scan the perimeter and I try to put the conversation out of my head. It isn't the first time my leadership has been questioned and it won't be the last. When we're being attacked by Crawlers they are only too keen to let me take charge, but when it comes to slow threats like illness and disease, things I can't change with a click of my fingers or the flick of my Katana, they pull out the youth card again. Stafford's silence speaks volumes. He's always ready to chastise me for this and that. I know it's serious now.

"I'm losing them, aren't I?" I say as we reach the VIP boxes. They have the best view of the stadium, easy places to act as a look out.

"I've been tested many times in my life," Stafford replies. "Sometimes I wonder if I might lose my faith. Why would God bring us this awful infection? Why would he let the Crawlers take over our world?"

I fold my arms. This is where Stafford and me differ. I don't look for a reason and I especially don't care about God. Whether he, it, or whatever exists is irrelevant. Believing in God won't put food on the table or protect the children from infection.

"What's your point?" I say between gritted teeth.

"I never stopped believing. Despite everything."

"I'm not God."

"No, but you are the best they have. They are being tested and they will rebel for a while, but I think they will come back to you," he says.

"I need to prove myself." I shake my head. "I need to get into Nottingham and get supplies."

"It's a deathtrap," he replies. "You will not make it out alive."

"There has to be a way in."

"Marian, you know there isn't a way. You know this. Do not do anything stupid because of that idiot Dev and his brothers. You would be a great loss to this world, a great loss."

I wave my hand dismissively. In the back of my mind I wonder if I _do_ know a way into the castle, a way I've kept secret for a long time, I just don't want Stafford to worry when one day I disappear in the night to go it alone. "Nothing's going to happen to me, you're being dramatic."

"Am I?" He lifts up his greying eyebrows and creases his forehead. He's too old to be living in an abandoned stadium fighting off the Infected. I'm too young. Maybe that's why we get on?

Three lights flash from the pitch below. "Crawlers," I whisper. I leave the box and run down the steps to the stadium. The old monk follows behind me. I draw my sword, and slow to a walk. Dev runs out onto the pitch with his eyes wide and panicked.

"You have to do something, Marian. It's Miles," he says.

My heart sinks. "He got bit?"

Dev nods, his chin trembling.

People stream out of the tunnel, clutching their loved ones.

"Is everyone out?" I ask them. Heads nod in reply. "Is anyone hurt?"

They shake their heads and I scrutinise their faces. You can't tell if someone is lying anymore. They are always too scared of the consequences. I put that thought out of my mind. I need to steady my breathing and concentrate on the job at hand. This is the bit I hate. Really hate. It's time to kill someone I know. Nancy appears at my side with her crossbow.

"I've got your back," she says breathlessly. She rocks back and forth on her heels as though she's full of the same nervous energy I am.

"He... he's in the changing rooms," Dev calls out as I step forward with Nancy on my right and Stafford on my left.

"Keep close," I whisper. "Stafford, steady the torch. We need to find him, finish it, and get out."

"All right," the monk replies. He sweeps the tunnel with the torch, highlighting corner shadows and cobwebs. The walls are peeling and dank.

My heart quickens as we step down below the stand into the old changing rooms where we sleep. The floors are covered with blankets, sleeping bags and belongings. You can tell people have left in a hurry because pots and pans have been knocked over in haste. A teddy bear lies on the concrete with its arms and legs splayed out in a star shape.

There's a stillness—a calm before the storm. I've hunted Crawlers in dark rooms before. Most of the time you hear them bundle around, bumping into their surroundings, moaning and growling, desperate for food. But when they've first turned they are quieter; more human. They lurk in wait. They slink through the shadows.

My head snaps up. Something rattles at the back of the room, like the sound of a pot falling over.

"Marian, he's in the corner—"

Nancy is cut off by a noise akin to a rabid animal. Miles bursts out from the shadowy corner and is upon Nancy in a second. She falls back with Miles on top of her, trying to push him away, to keep his teeth away from her flesh. He's not Miles anymore. His skin has turned a sickly yellow shade. His teeth appear sharper and they are shining with saliva. His eyes bulge from his face, bloodshot and cloudy. But his glasses are still there, right on the end of his nose, and for a brief moment I falter. The first day we met flashes before my eyes, the way he held out his hand for me to shake and clutched it with both of his, the way he thanked me for helping to lead the people out of Nottingham and away from the Sheriff, it all comes flooding back; the softly spoken primary school teacher who had lived in Nottingham all his life.

Nancy squirms beneath Miles, no, not Miles, the Crawler. "Marian! Do it."

I snap out of my thoughts, raise my sword and finish the job.

Blood covers Nancy and she runs to our water purifying system to wash it away. I can't look at the body.

"I'll remove it," Stafford says.

"And I'll clean the mess." Nancy comes over, her face and hair sopping wet, and rubs my back. "You did a good job, Marian. You protected your people."

It doesn't stop the tears welling in my eyes. "I should tell them."

"Okay," she says. She takes my sword. I feel bare without it. "I'll clean this for you."

The others wait with their eyes wide and expectant. Some are crying. Others have stony expressions.

"It's done," I say.

As I walk away I notice the expression on Dev's face. His jaw is slack and his eyes are glazed and resigned. It took the death of one of our own to make him realise. He doesn't want the job. He doesn't want to lead. Neither do I, but I have to.

Robin

I remember patient zero. I was seven years old, but I remember. If I stop and think about that time, I can see the news broadcasts and the panic on the streets like it was yesterday. Dad stole a rifle and kept it by his side in the house all the time. "Never touch the rifle, Robin, unless you know you can kill a man with it." He said we should leave the city and find somewhere in the countryside but the roads were jammed with people trying to leave. For years there were abandoned cars everywhere, until the army came by to clear them away, along with the dead bodies.

There was a time when you couldn't leave your house at all because the Crawlers were roamed the streets. We lived on tins and dried meat. Mum learned how to make bread over a fire and we boiled rain water. Every night looters tried to break in and Dad did what he needed to do. Six months after the outbreak utter chaos ruled the streets. I didn't leave the house, never stepped foot even onto the doorstep. My muscles weakened and I grew pale and thin. But Mum sang to me every night. When I think back to that horrible time I hear the song before I remember the Crawlers and the fights. I hear her voice before I see the violence and remember the smell of our old house.

"Maybe we should wait until dark and sneak in," says Much. "You know, in case anyone recognises us from the army." We're sitting on the Trent Bridge finishing off the last of our food.

"They won't," I reply. "We can stay at my Mum's. It's going to be fine."

Much has his lips pressed together like he wants to say something. He doesn't though.

"You don't know that, Robin." Alan shakes his head.

I sigh. "True. But what I do know is that we can't keep living in the wilds. There might not be as many Crawlers as there used to be, but it's too dangerous." It isn't just Crawlers you need to worry about. There are people out there you wouldn't ever want to meet.

I don't know how I ended up leading this bunch of lads. Sometimes things fall together and fit. Maybe it's as rare as tipping out a jigsaw puzzle and all the pieces landing in exactly the right place.

Back in the army they called me Hood because of my hoodies. I like the feeling of anonymity when I put my hood up. It's intimidating.

Much has the broadest Notthingham accent ever and when he says 'much' or 'muck' or 'duck' or anything like that it has this deep and dirty mid-English quality to it. They took the piss out of him for it, well, that and his rapping, since then he's always been Much, even if his real name is Gary.

Alan's a kid, little more than fifteen and too young to be in the army, not that the army cares how old any of us are. We're Crawler fodder to them. Will has a brain. He's so clever it makes mine hurt. None of us had much of an education, not even after the schools reopened. Most of the classes are about self-defence and survival. Will, though, reads a lot. He used to anyway.

"Look over there," Much says. "Someone just came out of the old Forest ground."

Notts Forest was my team when I was little. Then later on I saw my favourite player dragging his feet around and drooling from the mouth. There's nothing quite like seeing a Crawler version of your hero.

I follow Much's finger to see a girl leave the ground and move towards the bridge. She has long flowing hair, almost white it's so blond, and she walks with long strides, somehow both elegant and purposeful. My throat dries up a little when I notice the curves of her body in tight jeans and my body reacts in the way it would react for a hetero guy my age that hasn't seen any women for months.

"She's fit as," Much says with his mouthful.

"Nice arse," Alan adds.

"Have some respect," I find myself saying. My cheeks warm when the faces of the group turn to me. "I mean, what are you getting all doe-eyed for? We haven't got time to ogle at girls; we have nothing to trade when we get into Nottingham. She's come from the stadium, maybe there are more of them, and we can use her to get to them."

"Are you thinking of doing one last ambush?" Will asks.

I shrug. "Maybe."

Much is on his feet. "Let's go."

"We should be cautious," Will says. "She might be dangerous."

"What, her? She's a slip of a thing, she couldn't hurt us," I say with a laugh. I get to my feet and grab my crossbow. The girl must have ears like an owl because she moves towards the sound of my footsteps. There's a glint of metal and a sword appears from her hip. A damn sword!

I have a feeling Will is going to make me eat my words pretty soon.

She moves onto the bridge and faces me, crouching like a cat ready to pounce. I approach with my crossbow held up high, aiming at her chest. I don't want to have to fire. It was never my intention to fight.

"Let's make this easy, shall we," I start. "Hand over all your valuables and we'll let you go."

She takes another few steps forward and smirks. Her eyes are a gorgeous deep blue. "I don't think so. Hand over _your_ valuables and I'll let _you_ leave alive."

"Come on now, let's not go this way. There are more of us than you and we're trained soldiers. You really shouldn't be out here—" The girl cuts me off by sprinting towards me, knocking the crossbow out of my hand and putting the sword to my throat. She moved so swiftly I didn't even see how she did it. I put my hands up in surrender. Her body feels so soft and warm next to mine that I don't even have any regrets. Well, I don't until I hear the sound of Much giggling in the background.

"You got beat up by a girl," he shouts out.

The girl turns me around to face the others. "You think this is a joke, do you? You think hanging out here and ambushing unsuspecting people is funny? You make me sick, all of you. What kind of person robs a survivor when the Sheriff sits pretty in his castle?"

"Wh-what? The Sheriff is in the castle? Did he have the wall built?" I ask.

"Where the hell have you been? Of course he did! And he's been running that city into the ground ever since, killing anyone who gets in his way."

"He kills people?" Alan says. His face turns pale with shock.

"My mum is in there," I mutter.

"Then you should know better," the girl spits. Her blade is sharp and deadly at my throat. Somehow I'm not amused or aroused anymore. "My father and I managed to get some people out of Nottingham before it turned nasty. We've been living in the stadium ever since. You should know that I will protect my people to the last and if that means slitting your throats then so be it."

A chill runs down my spine. She means it. I can feel the sincerity and passion reverberating through her chest..

"Listen, we didn't know about the Sheriff, or how hard things have been since we left. We went away with the army to fight in the rebellion up North. We've been fighting for the country and helping to clear back Crawlers," I say. "We're penniless and homeless. We mean you no harm, I promise. Please, this is important, is there anyone called Nancy in your group?"

The girl's body goes rigid and still. She doesn't move or speak for a moment. "Are you deserters?"

The others glance at me desperately. I have to take a chance on this girl. I have to believe that she is honourable. "Yes."

"Why?" she asks.

"The men we fought for, they aren't noble men. They aren't fighting for a just cause. There was nothing to believe in, nothing to fight for. It's a blood bath on both sides for no reason. I couldn't stay and I brought my friends back to Nottingham to start afresh. We didn't know about the Sheriff, I swear. Please answer my question. Nancy?"

She sighs her hot breath onto my neck. She's shorter than me, but by a mere inch. "Tell me her last name."

"Loxley."

The girl's body stiffens again.

"You know her don't you? Tell me if she's all right. Tell me now." I struggle against her but the blade remains close to my throat.

"Who is she to you?"

"She's my mother!"

The tension on the blade subsides and her arm relaxes. I manage to push her away and grab her wrist so tightly she cries out.

"Robin," Much calls out. "Robin, stop it."

"Why? She had her sword to my throat! Tell me where she is. Tell me where my mother is! And who the hell are you anyway," I demand.

"I am the Maid," she says through gritted teeth. "And you do not speak to me like that."

She steps forward and kicks me full on in the crotch and red hot pain bursts from areas that should never feel like that. Never ever.

I stagger backwards, unable to stand up straight. All I can see is the girl's hip, her sword and her hand on her hip. "Are you going to take me to her or what?"

"Why should I?" she says sullenly. "You ambushed me and tried to rob me.

"You kicked me in the balls!"

Laughter breaks out behind me. I can just imagine Much and Will doubled over with the giggles.

Sharp nails dig into my shoulder as the girl seizes me and straightens me up. She's surprisingly strong for her height and weight. Our eyes meet and I see a flash of amusement in her dark blue eyes.

"Will Nancy vouch for all of you?" she asks.

"Yes," I say. "Of course she will. She's my mother." My voice sounds strange. A jumble of emotions came out in a rasp, the happiness of knowing Mum is safe, the embarrassment of the last few minutes and the impatience of wanting to see the one person in the world who means everything to me.

The girl nods and turns around. "Follow me."

Marian

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Marian," I reply.

The guy is an idiot. I despise people who mug and thieve others in order to survive, especially those who hang around in packs like hyenas.

"I'm Robin," he says.

"Uh-huh."

He limps behind with his men. I can't help but smirk about the kick I landed in his crotch. He was so annoying, trying to win me around with his whining and sob stories about the army. I suppose he thinks those long eye-lashes and the stubble on his chin will win me over; or those deep brown eyes and strong arms. Wrong girl... wrong time.

I'd left the stadium early in the morning to check for nearby Crawlers and trade with Frank, my insider from Nottingham who sells us medicine and food for valuables he can trade with in the city. Now I'll miss Frank and won't be able to get the medicine for Kate. Then this guy, this _Robin_ , tells me that he's Nancy's son. Well, I'll believe that when I see it, and I'll be having words with Nancy to tell her what a useless arse her son really is.

"Stop here. You need to be blindfolded." There's no way I'm letting them see all of our secrets.

"Oh come on, you can't be—" Robin starts.

"Serious? Yes, deadly."

I have no choice but to rip strips from my t-shirt to wrap around their eyes. When it comes to Robin his eyes sparkle with mischief and he smirks. "Damn, I was hoping you might need to rip off more."

A slow smile travels across my lips and I step slowly towards him so that our noses almost touch. His eyes widen and his pupils dilate. The twinkling mischief disappears from his eyes to be replaced with a wider, hazier expression. I notice the way his throat forms a lump when he swallows and see the pink flush on his cheeks. I gently lift a hand to his shirt.

"Wh-what are you doing?" he stutters.

I clutch his shirt with both hands and tear a large strip from it.

"Hey," he says.

"Shut up and turn around." Trying not to look at the exposed flesh at his midriff, which is annoyingly toned, I shove him around so that he's facing away from me and wrap the cloth around his eyes. "There we are, now we can look at _your_ body instead."

"Woman, you are testing my patience." Robin folds his arms across his chest like a stroppy teenager.

"Man, you are going to do what I say." I lift the crossbow from the strap on his back. "This is mine for now, thank you!"

"Hey, seriously?"

"You'll get it back once Nancy has vouched for you. I'm going to be needing all your weapons, by the way." There are some groans and mumbles but I ignore them. I know the way into the stadium and they don't. They need me and they know it.

"What if Crawlers attack?" asks one of the scrawnier looking lads.

"Then I'll deal with it," I snap.

I arrange them in a line, each with one hand on the shoulder of the person in front, then frisk each bandit in turn, removing daggers, swords and crossbows, before taking Robin's hand and slapping it on my shoulder. The weapons are so heavy I'm half tempted to dump a few in the grass outside, but I know better than to throw away useful things.

"Take it steady," I call back to the others. "One step at a time. Keep hold of the person in front or holler if you get left behind. If you let go of the person in front, stop and do not move a muscle. This place is booby trapped. Oh, and if any of you take off your blindfold, I will kill you."

"This is ridiculous," Robin complains.

"Shut up and get walking." I set off, taking small steps. Robin bumps into me every few steps and I hear muffled noises of indignation behind me as they walk into the backs of one another.

When we first cleared out the football ground and set up our traps and systems, my father fitted a mirror above the north facing turnstile. I shine a light on it with the torch in my backpack and rotate it up and down three times. In front of the turnstile we've constructed a lockable gate with barbed wire at the top. Someone has to let you in. We never leave the grounds with a key in case that person is taken hostage and tortured. Of course, I have my own way of getting back into the stadium, but that's my secret.

I inwardly sigh when Dev comes to the gate.

"Who are they?"

"Friends of Nancy's," I reply.

"I'm her son," Robin says indignantly.

I turn and shush him. "Yes, apparently he's Nancy's son and she's going to vouch for him."

"How do we know he isn't lying? How do we know we can trust them? If we let them in it could be too late. They could be bit."

"I have their weapons. Look, let's just get them inside and to Nancy. I can't bring her here because then I'd have to remove their blindfolds."

"Fine, but this is on you, Maid." Dev unlocks the padlock and unwraps the chains to let us through. "Any Crawlers out there?"

"No. It was pretty quiet this morning."

"It feels like the quiet before the storm," Dev says, his voice low and foreboding. "It's like they are away somewhere, getting organised."

The words disturb me. Organised Crawlers are a horrific thought. I lead the men past Dev and through into the stadium. Once we're on the pitch I lift Robin's hand from my shoulder and remove the blindfolds. Dev is instructed to fetch Nancy.

"You'd better not be lying," I say. "And we'll have to check you for Crawler bites."

"I don't care about any of that. I just want to see my mum," Robin says.

I turn to the rest of them. "Any of you still have family in Nottingham?"

A young black guy with a short crop of hair shakes his head, the scrawny one stares at his feet, the tallish one with observant eyes stands very still without talking. The silence speaks volumes.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I mutter.

"Robin? Robin, is that really you?"

I'm not used to hearing Nancy's voice sound like that. I've known her a year and she always sounded very in control and level. Her voice comes out high-pitched and full of emotion.

"Mum?" his voice is thick and heavy.

Despite everything, the ambush and the way they tried to rob me, a lump appears in my throat and suddenly tears are welling in my eyes. Damn it, why did he have to be Nancy's son? As he pulls her into an embrace I feel something shifting inside, a warm feeling emanating from within. I'm glad he's happy and yet my stomach roils with envy. Why can't I be Nancy's daughter? Why can't I have my dad back, or have two parents again? Instead of none.

"They need checking for bites," I say, before walking away. "I'm going to see how Kate's doing. Someone should do some work around here."

"Marian," Nancy calls back. I don't reply.

"What is that girl's problem?" I hear Robin ask.

Marian

Kate's fever burns my hand. We have one doctor in the stadium and he told us we need antibiotics. We have none.

Catelyn stares at me intently. "We have to do something. _You_ have to do something, Marian."

"I know." I stand and leave the changing rooms. "I know."

Immediately afterwards I take my trading items back to the place I always meet Frank. He isn't there. A bunch of Crawlers greet me instead, and I end up in a battle with my sword. Four of them are swiftly dealt with, but a persistent group chase me back to the stadium. I have to shine on the mirror and simultaneously fight the Crawlers back. When Dev appears at the gate I tell him to get a crossbow and help.

He rushes off, leaving me with my back to the gate and five Crawlers approaching. I duck and miss a hand reaching for my neck. By skipping to the right I manage to manoeuvre away from them, slicing one open in the process. They move slowly, following me with their arms outstretched, dirty fingernails inching closer. I finish one with the sweep of my sword and his head hits the ground with a thud, but as I take the time to kill him, it lets another get closer and his hands find my torn shirt. I kick him back and the Crawler lands on his backside. That leaves two still approaching. The first I cut with my sword but miss my mark and the Katana ends up lodged in his throat. Precious seconds are spent retrieving my sword and before I know it I'm in trouble. The fallen Crawler is up on his feet, teeth gnashing, arms reaching out for me like before. They seem quicker than usual, actually speeding up the longer we fight, as though they got a burst of energy. But that can't be right? Crawlers don't have energy.

I back up, all too aware of the stadium walls behind me. Where the hell is Dev? I lift up my sword and swing it at the closest Crawler but he ducks and my sword meets nothing but air. The Crawler ducked! I've never ever seen that happen before and I freeze. My mouth hangs open. The same Crawler lurches forward and grabs me by the neck. His eyes stare into mine. They are a puke yellow with ruptured blood vessels crisscrossing the whites. His skin is a sickly green, hanging loose over the bones underneath. The stench turns my stomach into a washing machine and his grip on my neck tightens until I find blind panic rising up from my bowels. I do something I've never done before, I drop my sword. The Katana clatters to the ground and I tear at the Crawler's hands with my fingernails.

I can't breathe. A strangled sound escapes my lips and black spots appear in my vision. I have to fight to stay conscious. The Crawler's mouth opens and for a moment I think he might speak. But the Crawler on my right begins pulling at my shoulder, his teeth coming closer to my flesh...

An arrow shoots through the metal bars of the gate, taking out the Crawler on my right. The one with his hands around my neck turns in the direction of the shooter. He growls in anger and throws me to the ground. With his hand on my shirt he pulls me up, moving much faster than the average Crawler, he leans forward with drool hanging from his lips, his mouth open wide to reveal the sharp teeth inching towards me.

I punch his putrid flesh and the Crawler staggers back, his eyes open wide, glistening with anger. Another arrow shoots through the gate, driving straight through the Crawler's skull, killing him instantly. The gate opens and I expect Dev to rush through but he doesn't. It's Robin.

"Who gave you your weapon back?" I croak. My throat burns it's so raw. I've never felt a thirst like it.

"Is that it? No thank you for saving your life? That would be polite, you know."

I reluctantly take his hand and let him pull me up. On the way back into the stadium I can't help but glance at the Crawler lying dead on the ground with the angry expression in his eyes. Crawlers don't have emotions, at least I thought they didn't.

"What's the matter?"

I look up to see Robin watching me as we step around the Crawlers. I merely shake my head.

Robin

What an ungrateful cow. I stick my neck out to save hers, literally, and she doesn't even bother to thank me. I could be catching up with Mum. Instead, I rushed to help that Maid girl. What an idiot. I should leave her next time; let one of her followers help.

What I can't get my head around is Mum. She loves this girl. She spent most of the morning gushing about her and how she led the people out of Nottingham with her father, who Mum also couldn't stop talking about. I think Mum was in love with this guy. I guess I can't blame her. This isn't the kind of world where you hate on your parents for no good reason. I'm lucky to still have her. I wouldn't deny her any happiness.

Walking around the camp is like having the last of my childhood memories torn apart. They have a goat on the pitch. A goat!

A washing line hangs from the goal posts. The nets have been ripped out, presumably for one of their famous 'traps'. The stadium itself is rusting and moss covered. Weeds and vines grow between the seats, tenacious plants that have overtaken from the riverbanks, tearing through the tarmac car-park and growing up the walls. It's amazing what a decade of fewer humans has done to the world. It's green again.

The seats are empty but I still hear the songs.

"You all right?" I hadn't heard Mum approach me. She appears at my side.

"I was thinking about the times Dad brought me to the matches. It seems like so long ago."

"It does to me, too. A lifetime almost. So much has happened." She takes my hand. Her fingers seem thinner than before I left. "But you came back to me, Robin."

I smile down at my short mother who also has more grey hair. Do I look older, too? "I told you I would."

Mum smiles and her eyes moisten. But then she sighs, lifts her free hand and clouts me around the head.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You've been thieving, Robin, don't try to deny it. You ambushed Marian and tried to steal from her."

It has been a long time since I've been scolded by my mother. Part of me enjoys it. The other is frozen with fear.

"I... um..."

"Listen to me, Robin." Mum stands in front of me and takes my face in both hands. "I know war changes people and I want you to answer me honestly. Were you going to hurt her?"

"What? No! How could you think...? Mum, seriously? That's so wrong. I wouldn't—"

"That's all I needed to know." She drops her hands to her side and lets out a long breath. "I had to check. When you lie you look at your feet. You're not lying."

I can't help but laugh. It's true; I've always been a terrible liar.

A commotion near the living quarters catches my attention. One thing I have noticed since being here is that the people argue a lot and most of the time they complain about Marian—can't say I blame them—until Mum stands up for her. She strides across to the group.

"What's going on?" Mum asks.

"My daughter is dying and Marian won't do anything about it," crows a woman. Her face is tear streaked and her eyes are red raw.

Marian stands across from the woman with her arms folded. There's a worry crease between her eyebrows. She seems older than her years, especially with the dark circles around her eyes. Her blond hair hangs lankly to her waist.

"I _can't_ do anything—"

"Why not?" I say. "Surely you can't stand by and let a young girl die. There has to be something you can do."

"We've run out of antibiotics. I've looted every abandoned shop outside the Nottingham border but there is nothing left. The Sheriff receives regular shipments from the army. He has an abundance of the bloody stuff but it means breaking into the city, something I'm not sure I could do." Her voice started off indignant but turned to desperate at the end, getting smaller and smaller.

"What if you had help?" I say.

"I couldn't ask anyone to go with me," Marian replies. "It's a suicide mission. I have more of an idea than most. I worked for the Sheriff, I know the rooms in the castle and where the tunnels lead, but he has guards everywhere. I couldn't guarantee anyone could make it out alive."

"Do you know a way into the city?" I ask.

Marian pauses. "I think so."

"How many people do you need?"

"Robin," Mum says. "You're not going anywhere. I've only just got you home safe." Her face turns to an ashen white.

Marian shrugs. "Any more than five will be more of a hindrance than a help."

"Then it's settled. Will, Alan, Much, me and you will leave tonight."

"But—"

I place a finger on her lips. "It's settled."

Marian

Where does that guy get off telling me what to do? I sharpen my blade along the Japanese water stone. Why should I trust him and his gang of louts? If he wasn't Nancy's son...

I was always going to end up back in Nottingham. It was inevitable. But I wanted to do it alone. I wanted to get in and get out as quickly as possible. Now I have them slowing me down.

Worst of all, I might see him again... Guy.

Damn it, why is it that whenever I think of Guy I get a sick feeling in my stomach and a tingling on my arms? Why is it that after all this time even thinking his name turns my knees to jelly? I have to get over it. I have to move on. He chose to stay with the Sheriff. He chose riches and power over... over... love.

Marian, don't be an idiot. He never loved you.

We grew up together. His father and my father worked for the Sheriff before patient zero when he was known as Professor Jim Oxenford, the Vice Chancellor of the University of Nottingham, and heir to a very wealthy family. My father was a butler. Guy's dad—always Mr. Gisbon to me—was his gardener. We lived in the wing of his family's estate. It's empty now.

Oxenford formed a committee of prominent Nottingham business people after the Infection spread. They were the emergency committee. One by one every other member died, some in particularly suspicious ways, until Oxenford ended up taking over the old castle, moving Dad and the Gisbon family with him. When I was twelve, he employed me as his maid. Guy became his personal assistant of sorts. We're both the same age.

As arranged, I meet Robin at the gates towards the Trent Bridge. There's no point blindfolding them anymore, it seems almost everyone has fallen for Robin's charm. Everyone except me. I bring Stafford with me. I need a familiar face.

"Are you ready, Maid?" Robin asks. I'd had the displeasure of sitting down and planning our way into Nottingham earlier on today.

"Do I have to wear this?" I frown at the short skirt and low cut top. Robin's eyes linger in places they shouldn't. "Hey! I can see you looking! All of you." Much's eyes dart away.

"Look, this was your idea so don't get all women's lib on us now," Robin says in his usual delightful and charming manner.

"Women's lib...? You are a... a..."

"Marian," Stafford warns. "It was your idea, and if we don't get moving now it won't work."

"Fine." I check my dagger is hidden away in the ridiculous boots I'm wearing. I also have a small plastic bag filled with powder in my skirt pocket.

We make our way down the bridge towards the city walls. I'm all too aware of the Crawlers lurking in the shadows. Robin catches one with an arrow before I have time to use my Katana. His smirk is unbearable. I can see he wants a thank you. Well, I once decided that I would never thank a thief, and I never will.

We pass over the canal bridge and approach the city gates. I pull Robin back to talk to him. "This is where I go it alone." I glance at Stafford. "You stay with them and make sure they get to the East gate. That's where I'll let you in. I'll be joining them." I glance over to the group of girls approaching the gate.

Every night at 10pm the guards let in a load of prostitutes from the outside camps to entertain themselves with. Prostitution is illegal inside the gates and the population is strictly controlled within Nottingham. So the camps outside the walls send their girls to the guards in exchange for food, medicine and water. I would never do that to the girls in our camp, I'd rather take it by force. I tuck my hair up underneath the straggly red wig and hope none of them recognise me.

"You sure this will work?" Robin asks. "You can get the drugs into their drink?"

"I've taken bottles of beer down to their disgusting little barracks at night. I know what they do and when they let their guard down. I can do this." I take a deep breath. This was always how I'd planned to get into Nottingham. I'd always planned on doing it alone. It feels all right to know there are people who have my back.

"Marian," Stafford says. "Be careful." He squeezes my shoulder. "Remember what I told you. This world needs you, girl."

Stafford's words make my head feel heavy. The pressure and responsibility... sometimes it's too much. Before I go, I reluctantly hand Robin my Katana. The lads clap me on the back to say good luck.

I totter over towards the girls and tag along at the back as though I'd been with them the entire time. Most of them are too drunk or spaced out to notice.

When I finally destroy the Sheriff I'll put a stop to this.

"Lookey-here! It's party-time," one of the guards hollers through the small door into the barbican. "C'mon in, girls."

I keep my head down and walk forwards, trying to disappear into the centre of the prostitutes. There are about a dozen, all wearing a uniform of tarty outfits.

When we're inside the barracks I try not to look at the guards, instead focussing on the surroundings. As I remembered, there are beer kegs and tankards lined up on one side of the wall. The barracks are on the right of the barbican, they stretch out for part of the wall, housing dormitories and eating areas. The windows look out beyond the city. The stone walls are the city wall. The guards are meant to keep watch through those windows. They are the only people in Nottingham allowed to shoot a gun. All of their guns are fitted with the best silencers so as to creep up on the Crawlers.

"Hello, beautiful." One of the guards takes me by the arm and pulls me onto his lap. He's attractive enough not to need to trade for a one night stand. He even smells good. Yet still an acrid taste develops in my mouth and a wave of nausea takes me over. "I think you and me should get better acquainted."

"I'd like that," I lie. "Why don't I get us both a drink and then I'll show you a good time." I force myself to run a finger down his cheek to his chest.

He nuzzles into my neck and it takes every tiny bit of my self-control not to slam my fist in his face. "Don't be long, gorgeous. I've not seen one as hot as you in a long time."

I pat him on the shoulder and get up. "I'll be back in a jiffy."

Back in a jiffy? The nerves must be getting to me. I hurry over to the beer keg. A couple are making out on top of the table which provides a nice bit of cover for what I'm about to do. They brew their own beer out of special pressurised tanks that I've had to take apart and clean many times so I know to pull out the valve release and slip the lid off the top. I pour the crushed up pills into the tank and replace the lid, making sure everything is back exactly how I found it. Then I pull as many pints as I can and line them up on the table.

"Hey, who wants a beer?" I shout out.

A chorus of cheers go up and I hand out the pints of beer. The guards take huge gulps and smack their lips. I can't help but smile as I watch them all chugging down their drinks. This was even easier than expected.

Robin

"It's taking too long," I say. It has been ten minutes already which is more than enough time for something to happen to Marian. "We should get in there and get her out."

"Have patience," says the monk. "She'll be here."

I've never been religious or hung out with religious people before but this monk guy seems all right, even if Stafford Tuck is a weird name and being a monk is a weird thing.

"I need to get in there." Adrenaline runs like electricity up and down my arms. I tighten the hold of my crossbow.

"You need to shut the hell up so the guards don't hear you," Much snaps. "They're right on the other side of this wall, dickhead."

"All right, no need to get your balls in a twist," I reply. He's right, though. I shut up after that, listening intently on the other side of the East entrance to the city.

After a few moments, I noticed the sound of the guards shuffling around on the other side. Occasionally, I hear a laugh or a loud exclamation, their deep voices muted by the solid wood. When a high-pitched female voice floats through the door my ears prick up and my muscles clench. Marian. She's there. I stand closer to the door, almost leaning right on top of it.

Can she take two guards out at once? I don't know. She did best me in a fight, even if I hadn't been on form that day.

I hear a whimper and a dull thud. A man cries out and another thud. The door opens and I fall forwards, completely off balance, into Marian's arms. In her right hand she holds a bloodied dagger.

"Did you kill them, Marian?" Stafford asks urgently.

Marian gives me an odd look with her lips curled up in half disgust and half amusement, before throwing me to the floor. She wipes the blade on her mini-skirt.

"I knocked the first guy out," she says. "The second lifted his gun and I had to slit his throat. We should get moving." She tosses us guard uniforms. "Change into these before we go."

The uniform comprises of a dark top, trousers and boots. Leather armour slips over the front and laces up at the side. Underneath the tops the guards wear hoods pulled low over their faces to cover almost every inch of the wearer. The leather breast plates are emblazoned with a symbol, including an acorn, a serpent and a dagger.

"The Sheriff's crest," Marian explains.

"You should only take a life if absolutely necessary," Stafford chastises her. "These are not Crawlers. These men are human beings with families."

Marian pauses with the armour halfway over her body. "I know, Friar. I... it all happened so fast." For the briefest of moments her tough exterior crumbles and I find myself looking at a young girl. Those big blue eyes shine in the moonlight, wet with tears. She swallows and pulls the red wig from her head.

"We need to head straight into the city centre. Much, close the door. Will, tie up the unconscious guard, and Alan, help him carry them both outside the wall. Robin, why are you staring at me like that?"

I avert my eyes and feel a flush warming my cheeks. "I... um... didn't..."

"Right, whatever. Hurry up."

The lads jump to her instructions. They obey her better than they do me.

"This way," Marian says. "Robin, my sword?"

I hand over the blade and she reattaches it to her hip. Then I follow her into the dark. We creep between the city wall and the first rows of houses in the city. There are some street lights, but they turn on and off intermittently. Marian had warned me of this. The Sheriff has all the electricity running from the many generators he's had his men loot and store in the castle. Marian told me that before she left the castle she discovered his plans to build power plants and mines close to the city. I dread to think how much power he would have.

"There's a tunnel that leads from the old pub to the castle."

"You can't be serious, Marian, everyone knows about that tunnel. It was a tourist attraction before patient zero," I reply.

"Yes, but there's a second tunnel that veers to the right. No one knows about this one, not even the Sheriff. When I was cleaning his room I found a secret door opened. It leads away from Mortimer's hole and then swings back and joins it near the pub."

"But we still have to get past the guards at the pub," Will says.

"We can take out a couple of guards and then join the second tunnel."

"Won't it lead straight to the Sheriff's room?" I ask.

"Yeah, there is that," Marian admits. "We'll have to tie and gag him. We can get the key to the store from him then. Guy Gisborn, the Sheriff's second in command, is the only other person with the key and we don't want to deal with him if we can help it." She pauses and swallows. The moonlight catches a glint of moisture in her eyes. "We should be able to move around the castle in our uniforms. Keep those hoods up. Oh, and one last thing."

"What is it, Marian?" Stafford asks.

"If I'm captured you have to go without me and get the medicine back to Kate. That's an order," she says.

Marian

Mortimer's hole is a tunnel of over three hundred steps built into the sandstone caves beneath Nottingham. I never learned what it was used for, whether it was as innocent as food deliveries or as devious as a secret passageway. Apparently, one of the Kings used it to invade the castle with his men, and capture Roger Mortimer and some Queen. Dad told me about it once but I think I was sharpening my sword and too busy to listen.

We make our way to the old pub—a building that has survived many wars and a zombie apocalypse—and hide in the shadows. Two guards stand outside the entrance with silenced guns. This will have to be a sneak attack.

I nod to Robin. He fires two arrows which catch both of them on the wrist. With a cry the guards drop their guns and stagger backwards, clutching their injuries. Stafford and Will are upon them with a bat, knocking them unconscious. I help Alan bind and gag them.

Using the guard's keys we unlock the secret door into the tunnels. The earthy scent of damp sandstone fills my nostrils. It's dark but I don't dare to turn on my torch in case there are other guards lurking up ahead. Instead, I let my right hand feel along the wall as we step forward.

Robin's warm body presses close to my back. A part of me wants to push him away, but a larger part of me welcomes his presence, welcomes the knowledge that he is there, ready to fight with me should the time come. We inch forward. I listen for the sound of danger, like a footfall or whisper up ahead. My eyes strain, searching for movement or torchlight. All the time I wonder whether I will remember the way. What if I dreamt the secret passageway from the Sheriff's quarters? What if I'm mad to think it really exists? What if we walk straight past it? I might not recognise the... the...

Wait? What is that? Could it be?

Yes! A change in surface. My fingers find an almost imperceptible ridge. I stop and place both palms against the stone.

"What is it?" Robin says. His hot breath sends a tingle down my spine.

"I think this is where the passage begins." I run my hands over the cobwebby stone, searching for the little lever... I know it's here. "There's a handle. It's hidden in an alcove... oh!" My fingers touch metal. "Here it is." I grip the lever and pull.

There's a slight rumble and the grating of stone against stone. The secret tunnel presents itself to us, opening like an incredibly slow moving sliding door.

"What if someone hears us?" Alan whispers.

"We'll just have to take the chance," I whisper back. "No one heard me when I first found it."

One by one we step into the new tunnel and I search for the special lever on the other side. I don't know when the tunnel was formed or why. The levers are quite rusty but that could have happened in the last fifty years. Maybe it was during the Second World War or a hundred years ago. Who knows? The caves beneath Nottingham are so old that it's impossible to tell.

I pull the second secret lever and the stone, which I noticed was thinner than it seemed, closed, plunging us into darkness.

"I hope there aren't any rats," Much says.

The thought makes me shudder but I force confidence into my voice. "Come on, we have to leave. Grab hold of the person in front." Robin clutches my waist. "On the shoulder," I say through gritted teeth. He chuckles and moves his hand higher. My stomach flutters like butterfly wings.

We step forward into the pitch-black.

Robin

Why does Marian have to smell so good? All the way through the tunnels all I can think about is that intoxicating citrus scent emanating from her. Even under the guard's stinky clothes she smells like a breath of fresh air. It cuts through the dank of the tunnel.

"Almost there," she whispers.

Marian steps forward and I hear a slight clanging noise.

"I hope that doesn't wake him up," Will says.

There's a creak and a crack of light filters into the tunnel.

"This is his room," Marian whispers. She steps forward and pushes the door open a little more.

"Wait," I say. "I should go first and deal with the Sheriff."

"No way," she replies. "I've waited a long time to do this."

My heart skips a beat as she creeps into the room. She approaches the Sheriff's bed. My thumb runs along the smooth edge of my crossbow. The others crowd behind me, waiting. The Sheriff is fast asleep and I can hear his loud, rasping snores from the other side of the room. He must be a deep sleeper. Marian steps forward to his bed and withdraws her sword. Then, very calmly, she puts that sword right under his chin so that the sharp blade nestles amongst his stubble. The Sheriff's eyes open.

He's a bulky man with grey hair. The hair growth on his chin is somewhere between a smattering of stubble and a full beard. His hair is ruffled and messy from sleep. The wrinkles around his eyes suggest he is at least fifty years old.

I've seen the Sheriff before. He was one of those men always telling us what we should and shouldn't do after patient zero. This is a weird experience for me. There's something odd and vulnerable about seeing a man wake up in bed.

"Wha—what?" he mumbles.

I can barely hear Marian's voice as she whispers. "I'm going to say this once, Sheriff, and I want you to listen very carefully. Sit up, swing your legs out of bed and put your arms behind your back. Do not shout for your guards because I can slit your throat far quicker than they can arrive, and believe me, I'm waiting for you to give me a reason to do it."

He obeys, and Marian waves me forward. Using the rope in the bag I tie his arms and legs. Marian keeps the sword at his throat.

"Tell me where the key is to the store and no one will get hurt," she says.

"Top drawer of my dresser." His voice comes out in a croak.

Marian retrieves a set of keys.

"Mark my words," says the Sheriff. "I will work out who this was and put a bounty on your head so high that every single person in Nottingham will be looking for you."

I imagine the smirk on Marian's face beneath the hood.

She pulls a gag over the Sheriff's mouth and then hits him on the head with the butt of her sword. The Sheriff flops back onto the bed.

"Let's tuck him in, shall we?" she says. I hear the smile in her voice as we pull the sheets over him so just his eyes and nose are visible. "Now we need to get out of here and to the store without the guards getting suspicious."

"We should split up," says Will. "It's 3 am, a bunch of guards together will look weird."

"I'm the only one who knows where the store is," Marian says. "Do you think you could get to the front of the castle?"

"I shall help direct the group," says Stafford. "I don't know the castle as well as Marian but I can find the way out."

"I'm going with Marian," I say. The words slip out without me even thinking about them.

"Good," Marian says. "Robin and I will leave first. Leave it a couple of minutes before you go."

As we slip out of the Sheriff's door and down the corridor I can't help but think that this plan is going far too smoothly. When you're fighting in a war you soon learn that things never go the way you expect them, and when you think things are going well there's always something around the corner to stick a spanner straight in those works. I wish I knew when the spanner was coming and what it was going to mess up. It would make life so much easier. But then I guess that's the point of life. That's what makes it interesting.

The castle walls are adorned with great paintings and tapestries. Marian leads us through a maze of corridors. There's a still quiet to the night. We pass another guard and the danger causes my heart to pound against my chest. I trip over my feet.

"Act normally," Marian hisses.

"I _am_ acting normally," I reply. "I'm acting exactly like someone would when they're constantly five seconds way from being sentenced to death."

Marian sighs and pulls me around a corner. "The store is ahead. There will be two guards on the doors. We have to tell them that we need something from the store. We _have_ to be convincing and we have to keep our cool, okay?"

I nod.

"I think I'd better do the talking," she says.

"I think you might be right," I admit.

She clucks her tongue. "I expected better from a soldier."

"I wasn't a very good soldier either," I say.

Marian pulls me back into the corridor by the arm and we head towards the door to the stores. As she described, the store is protected by two guards.

"The Sheriff needs supplies from the store," Marian says. She lifts the key from her pocket and shows them.

"All right," answers one of the guards. He steps aside and lets Marian open the door.

I can't quite believe how easy this is. All we need to do is get in, get the goods, and get out.

When we're inside Marian lets out a high-pitched nervous giggle. "It worked! It really worked. Now, look for antibiotics, as many as we can get into this bag."

There are stacks and stacks of shelves covered in expensive goods: medicines, smoked meat, fresh vegetables, chests of jewellery, piles of packaged pills, bottles and ointments. There are even guns hanging from the walls with a large collection of bullets. I find myself moving towards the weapons, gazing at the many swords and crossbows.

"Robin, we need to get the medicine and get out," Marian reminds me.

"He's stockpiling," I say. "He's gathering as much as he can and stockpiling it. Does he know something we don't? The wall, the goods... what does it mean?"

"Robin, we need to hurry." She rams boxes of pills into the bag. Then she sighs and pauses. "Something is going on with the Crawlers. They are getting more organised. Haven't you noticed that they don't attack as much? I used to come across dozens of Crawlers outside the stadium on a daily basis. Now I hardly see any."

"There are fewer—"

"No. There is still a score of them out there. They _lurk_ now. They wait for the perfect attack. They are _organised_."

Marian's words cause a chill to seep over my skin. "You really think so? That's not good."

"Tell me about it," she mutters. "Come on. We have to get back to Kate."

I step away from the weapons and move over to Marian to help her stuff the bag full of medicine.

"Come on, that's enough," she says. "We should go." She pulls the bag shut and turns to leave. At the same moment the door opens and a tall man walks in.

He has a messy length of black hair and deep set dark eyes. His nose is slightly hooked and his lips are thin. He wears black from head to toe and a Katana sword at his hip. His eyes seem to penetrate the room. Next to me, Marian stiffens and remains stock still. The bag falls to her feet. She fumbles with her hood, pulling it over her face.

"What are you doing in here?" the fellow shouts. He can't be much older than me or Marian, yet he commands attention. He's someone used to getting his own way. He's the kind of spoilt brat who has had everything handed to him his entire life. "This place is out of bounds. Guards should not be in here."

I wait for Marian to speak but she is still in some sort of shock so it has to be me. "The Sheriff asked us to collect some things for him."

"And?" he says.

"And what?" I reply.

"What should be on the end of that sentence?" He steps closer to me and grabs me by the chin with an iron grip. "'The sheriff asked us to collect some things for him...' what?"

"Umm, sir?" I say.

He lets go of my chin and pats my cheek. "Much better. What did the Sheriff want? Especially at this time of the night. It seems a bit suspicious, does it not?"

"Some medicine, _sir_ ," I say. I have to force the word out for this egotistical piece of crap. "He's feeling a bit under the weather, like."

"It seems odd that he asked you to do it when I'm available. I am his second in command after all." He straightens up and neatens the front of his jacket. "His right-hand man."

This must be the infamous Gisbon.

"I can't tell you why, sir," I say, "simply what happened."

"Yes, well. Let's see what you're taking him, then," he says. He points at the bag with his boot. "I say. There's a lot here. It's heavy." He picks up the bag and fingers the zip.

I have to do something. As soon as he opens the bag he'll know we're lying. Why would the Sheriff need fifty packets of antibiotics at three in the morning? The blood thuds in my ears as I try to think of something, anything.

Marian rips the bag from his hands and throws it at me. She unsheathes her sword and shouts one word: "Go!"

I clutch the bag and dodge past Gisbon. The two guards crowd the entrance with their guns raised. One fires. I drop to the floor, plough into their legs and knock them over like skittles, before leaping back to my feet and escaping down the corridor. There's no point acting normal now.

I speed down the hallway as fast as I can. When I turn back to check Marian is behind me, there's nothing there.

Marian

Guy unsheathes his sword. "Go after him, you idiots!" he yells at the guards.

I make the first play, swinging the sword in an upward diagonal strike. He meets my sword with his own and pushes me back. I regain my footing as he swings for my legs, leaping into the air just in time. I use a downward slice towards him but he dodges it, pivots, and comes back at me with a horizontal swing which would've buried deep into my skull if I hadn't blocked it. He presses down on my sword with a domineering force, moving the two blades towards my face. How long before he sees who is underneath the hood? Sweat trickles down my forehead. This isn't like our training sessions. It's brutal. He could kill me at any time.

My strength gives way and I drop to the floor and roll to the right. Guy's sword smashes down onto the stone floor. I back away, slipping between the stacks.

Guy laughs. "There's no point hiding from me." I hear his footsteps coming closer. "You're pretty good with a Katana, I'll give you that. Whoever you are, you didn't learn that in the wilds, you learned it in the dojo. As far as I'm aware, they don't have many outside Nottingham, so I'm guessing you're local."

He has no idea it's me. At least that's something. I thought he might have recognised my voice or my fighting style. My body feels heavy all of a sudden, as though I'm disappointed that the man trying to kill me didn't recognise me. Get a grip, Marian.

"Come on now, this is getting ridiculous," he says with a sigh.

Guy appears around the corner. In a desperate play for time I fling a heavy metal platter at his head. He blocks it with his arm but manages to drop his sword in the process. It gives an opportunity and I take it. I run at him full force, but as I attempt to push him down, he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me back towards his body. I cry out in pain as he slams me against the wall. My sword clatters to the flagstones.

"Who are you?" he shouts in my face. "Why are you in my castle?"

I angle my face downwards to keep it shrouded in the shadow of my hood. Guy reaches towards me and I wriggle around, trying to stop him grasping the hood.

His fingers touch the material as one of the guards appears in the doorway. "The Sheriff is tied up in his bed," the guard says.

"Why are you telling me this," Guy snaps. "Go and untie him."

The distraction gives me a slither of time to punch him in the nose, but he anticipates my attack and seizes my fist, squeezing my fingers until I cry out. When he drops my hand he clutches the hood and rips it back from my face. My hair escapes in a flurry of blond.

"No," Guy whispers. "No, Marian, not you. Anyone but you."

Robin

How could I leave without her? When I think of what might happen to her my throat closes up and my stomach churns. The heavy sound of approaching footsteps drives me into a doorway. Luckily, it's empty. I wait until the sound is gone before I leave. I find myself running aimlessly down hallways, no longer knowing where I am in the castle. Another set of guards comes careening around the corner and I lift up my crossbow ready to shoot.

"No, Robin!" Will lifts his hood to reveal his face. "This way."

"No, they have Marian. We have to go back." It's only then that I realise Will is with one other person. "Who's this?"

"Alan," he replies.

"Where are Much and Stafford?"

"They're waiting for us at the East gate. We came back for you," Will says.

"We have to get Marian," I insist.

"There's no time. Come on. She can look after herself."

Will grasps me by the arm and forces me forward.

Marian

"What are you doing here?" Guy's eyes bore into mine. I'd forgotten how dark and commanding they can be, like precious onyx stones.

"I was desperate. There are people dying in our camp."

He grips my arms tighter. "I could have killed you, Marian, you stupid—"

I knee him as hard as I can. Even when he flinches his strong hold never weakens. "I did what I had to do."

"If the Sheriff finds you—"

"Let me go, Guy. Better yet, leave the Sheriff and come with me. Come with me, Guy," I plead. I hate the way my voice whines.

He lets out a tortured noise like a growl. "I can't. I can't give all of this up, not now. The Sheriff gives me so much here—power, responsibility... What would I have in your camp?"

Me. You would have me, Guy, body and soul. "I can give you responsibility, too. In my camp you _help_ people, not destroy them." His strong body leans against mine. He smells like wood and metal and musk. Images of him sharpening his Katana flash in my mind. We fought Crawlers together.

He's so close to me that our noses almost touch. I find myself lifting my chin, ready to kiss him, to be kissed, like when we would steal kisses after training. So long ago.

The sound of footsteps causes Guy's head to snap up. "You have to go," he urges. He takes me by the hand towards the window. "Climb from here. There's a drain pipe on the left. It's the reason why I had these lockable shutters installed." He pulls a set of keys from his pocket. "I never accounted for thieves to come through the front door."

"My sword," I say.

"There's no time," he snaps.

"But, Crawlers," I insist.

He lets out a growl and hurries back towards the swords. Quick as a flash he tosses the Katana to me. I catch it one-handed by the Nakago. He smiles at me and I know he's thinking about when we trained together as children.

"I should have recognised the blade," he says.

"You should have recognised me," I reply, my throat thick and my voice husky.

The footsteps approach. Guy rushes towards me. He places one hand on my cheek. "Go, Marian. Promise me you will never come back."

"No," I say, and then I climb through the window.

Robin

Stafford seizes me by the throat. "You left her? With Gisbon? What the hell is wrong with you?"

I deserve it. Why did I take the bag? Why did I run?

"Robin did what was needed for the good of the group," Will says. "We need to get the medicine to Kate before it's too late. Otherwise it will all be for nought."

"He's right," Much adds. "I really like Marian. I don't want anything bad to happen to her, but we're outnumbered right now and we can't do anything to save her. We have to leave and come back with reinforcements."

Alan opens the East gate. My legs have never felt so heavy.

A few yards out of the city I spin around. "I have to go back."

Much and Will block my way.

"Can't let you do that, Robin," Much says. He pushes me back. "You'll get yourself killed. We'll come back tomorrow. We have a little girl to save."

I give Much a frustrated shove before I relent and turn back towards the river. He's right and I'm wrong again. I'm on a roll of bad decisions lately. If it hadn't been for Marian, we would have gone straight into the city and ended up stuck beneath a tyrant, probably conscripted into his guards or hung for desertion from the army.

"We'll get her back," Much whispers as we head towards the stadium. "It's going to be okay."

"Crawlers!" Alan exclaims in a breathless voice. "My God! They're everywhere."

I'd been moping along staring at my shoes. Now I lift my head and see the many shadows around us—circling us.

"Marian was right," I say. "They are getting organised. Look, they've ambushed us!"

We close ranks, each holding our weapons aloft, and with our backs to each other so we face the enemy. We have only the moonlight as a guide. I can barely make out the features of the Crawlers but I am able to count at least twenty shadows. The realisation hits me harder than a wrecking ball. How can we fight so many?

"Fire until your bullets run out and then fight like bulls!" Stafford calls out. He shoots first, hitting a Crawler straight in the head. The bullet is silent and deadly. The Crawler falls backwards with a silhouette of blood spray exploding from his skull.

I follow his example. At least we have the guard guns—that's something. I aim and fire, thankful for my army training. Before long I've taken out five of the creatures. Will, Alan, and Much send their fair share to hell.

But then something happens. One of the Crawlers tips his head back and the most haunting, fearsome noise comes from his throat; a growl and a roar and a moan all in one. Every single hair lifts on the back of my neck. The seconds following the haunting cry hang in silence. The quiet sound of the rustling wind weaves through the air. I don't breathe. Next to me, Much is as still as stone.

Will breaks the spell. "What was that?"

I shake my head. "Whatever it was, it's new. It has never happened before."

"They're communicating," Stafford says. "They're calling for back up."

The remaining Crawlers circle us. On occasion, one or two dash forward to attack, but I shoot them down until my gun is empty. I toss it to the ground and retrieve the crossbow from my back.

Shadows emerge from the surroundings, some from the river banks, others from behind trees or abandoned buildings. There's no way we can hold our position for much longer. They come at us with everything they have and I find myself shooting at anything and everything, on more than one occasion narrowly missing Will. As soon as one arrow is deployed I have to kick and punch my way through the Crawlers. Most of them are the slow, drooling Crawlers we've always known, but this new breed keeps cropping up and they duck, hit and move at speed.

"We can't take them!" Will shouts. "Alan!"

My head snaps to the right to see Alan being pulled towards the ground. I fire the crossbow and take out his attacker. Alan stands. The moonlight falls on his face, showing the whites of his eyes bulging out in terror. I catch up to him and help fight back against the Crawlers, scrappily hitting out at everything I can. I kill one of them by smashing a stone into his skull.

"You all right?" I ask him.

Alan nods. His eyes are wide and unblinking in terror. I can tell the nightmares from the North are back. I wish I had time to talk him through it but another stream of Crawlers comes at us and I fight back with everything I have, keeping Alan behind me. I can't let him get hurt. I just can't.

Three of them are slow and easy to take out, but the remaining two are quicker than your usual Crawler. They dodge my swings. I fire an arrow and it sticks out of the Crawler's chest. He still comes for me, his arms reaching towards my throat. I kick him between the legs but it's pointless, they can't feel pain. The other takes hold of my face in one hand and squeezes until I feel like my cheekbones are going to break. His teeth inch towards my flesh. This is it. It's over. It's finally over for me. My eyes seek out Alan but he's being dragged down to the ground by another Crawler. Stafford is bravely fighting a group with his sword. Will is surrounded. Everything else is shadows. Blood shot eyes stare into mine. Crawler drool drops onto my arm. This is it. This is how it ends...

A metallic slice rips through the air and a skull is cut it two. The Crawler drops to the floor in a slump, leaving my face sore but free. Behind him stands Marian. There are blood splatters on her face and her white hair gleams in the moonlight. Her beauty takes my breath away. When she moves the spell is broken. With a swift flick of her sword the other Crawler is dealt with. Then she's gone, helping Alan.

I laugh. I put my hands on my thighs, lean forward and laugh. I can't believe it. Stafford fights off his Crawlers, Will wins against his. Alan is back on his feet. I retrieve my arrows and load up my crossbow. Marian uses her Katana to cut through the never ending crowd of Crawlers. We're winning again.

"We need to get back to the stadium!" Marian shouts.

She takes the lead, chopping her way through the Infected. I stay close to Alan, protecting him as best I can. Much fights fast and strong. Still, there are half a dozen chasing us, moving too fast for an average Crawler.

Marian shines her torch on the mirror. "Hurry!" she yells through the gate.

Even more of them emerge from the shadows. Where are they coming from? Sweat pours down my forehead, mingling with the dirty blood of the Infected.

Finally comes the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Let us in," Marian shouts. "Hurry! There are too many Crawlers out here."

In the dim light I see Dev backing away from the gate. "No."

"What?" I yell. "Open the gate or we die!"

"No," he says again. "I can't. They'll kill us all."

Marian rattles the gate in frustration. I try to cover her, but with one arrow left there's not much I can do. "Dev, you can't leave us!"

"What's going on?" Mum appears at the gate. Her eyes widen as she sees the Crawlers. "Dev, open this gate at once." Mum lurches towards him but Dev knocks her back.

"Mum!" I call out. Blinding hot temper takes me over and I rush to the entrance.

She falls to the floor. Dev disappears back away from the gates and we're left with a group of approaching Crawlers.

Marian

A seeping numbness spreads through my body as my last hope dissipates. After everything I did for the community, they choose to leave us to die like dogs. I lift my Katana and prepare myself for the last stand. Stafford moves by my side and Robin comes closer. He has only a rock for a weapon so I reach down and pull the dagger from my boot.

"Here," I say.

His hand touches mine. "Thank you."

The Crawlers rush towards us and there is no time for anything but fighting. I see nothing but targets in my mind, ways to stay alive. For a moment I think I can hear a strange jingling sound, but I pay no attention. Surviving is my one focus.

Then Robin gasps. I finish off my Crawler and turn in his direction. When I see what he sees my heart soars higher than it ever has before. People—my people—stream through the open gate wielding weapons. They've come to fight by my side. I glance at Stafford in disbelief. He nods to me as if to say "I told you, I told you they believed in you."

They came for me. They came to help.

They came to fight.

We have to finish this.

Marian

I lie back on top of the roof and watch the stars. It's a clear night with a chill in the air. Robin lies next to me.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I guess so. I was thinking about the other night with the Crawlers."

"You got the medicine to Kate. You're a hero," he says.

"It's not that. It's the way the Crawlers behaved, ambushing us like that. It's something a _human_ would do."

Robin sighs heavily. "Don't think about it. Save it for another day."

"We're going to have to face them soon," I reply. "Something is stirring... beginning—"

"C'mon, Marian, don't be a doom-monger. Let's enjoy tonight, the stars, the fact that Kate is getting better, the fact that we all made it back from the castle without getting bit. I still don't know how you got out. Whatever happens tomorrow is another story, okay? And whatever _does_ happen, I know you'll deal with it."

"How do you know that?" I ask.

He sits up and takes hold of my hand. A pleasant tingling sensation works its way up my arm. "I know that because you are the Maid."

# About Sarah Dalton

Sarah grew up in the middle of nowhere in the countryside of Derbyshire and as a result has an over-active imagination. She has been an avid reader for most of her life, taking inspiration from the stories she read as a child, and the novels she devoured as an adult.

Sarah mainly writes speculative fiction for a young adult audience, and has had pieces of short fiction published in the _Medulla Literary Review, Apex Magazine, PANK_ magazine and the British Fantasy Society publication _Dark Horizons_. Her short story 'Vampires Wear Chanel' is featured in the Wyvern Publication _Fangtales_ available now.

_The Blemished_ series is Sarah's first full-length work of fiction. In a Fractured Britain, Mina Hart has to fight against the Genetic Enhancement Ministry to win back her rights.

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#  Three Wishes

Marijon Braden

I will never understand why my mother thinks I can hear her when she knows I'm wearing my earphones. Do we really have to go through this EVERY morning? Me, happily brushing my teeth, or getting my books together, or pouring my cereal for breakfast and suddenly – poof – there's Mom, standing in front of me, screaming?

"Alison, why don't you answer me when I talk to you?"

I pull the earphones out of my ears and roll my eyes. "Because I can't hear you, that's why. Did you want something?"

Mom takes a deep breath. "Yes. I want you to pick up my dry cleaning on your way home from school. I'll be home late, maybe not until nine."

"Again?"

"It's the last of the month, Ali. We're closing the books tonight. Just like we do every month. "

"Can't you pick up your dry cleaning tomorrow?"

"Yes, I could, but I _need_ it for tomorrow. The director is flying in and I need my suit."

"I hate going in there. It's creepy."

"Oh, God, Ali, really?"

"He's creepy. The old guy. He looks like a serial killer."

"He is not a serial killer," Mom says, but not very convincingly.

"And I want new boots."

"What? New boots? What kind of boots?"

"Remember last summer, when I babysat for your friend Clair? You said that you'd buy me something as a reward for not charging her. Well, I want boots."

"And we're having this discussion now? When we're both late?" Mom grabs her purse and jacket. She hands me a twenty. "That should be enough for the cleaners and something for your dinner."

"Okay, but only if Shel can come over," I say.

She nods. "Sure."

"And if I want pizza, it may cost more than this."

"It won't."

"What if it does, and the pizza guy insists on sexual favors?"

She gives me a quick kiss. "I gotta say, Ali, nobody can turn a day from perfectly fine to total drama quite like you," she says, and she's gone.

I look at the kitchen clock. Six minutes to get out the door. I shovel down another spoonful of cereal and brush my teeth real quick. It's such a pain now because of the braces. As I rinse out my mouth, I smile big so I can view all my silver. My orthodontist has sworn they'll be off by my 16th birthday. Four months to go. Then, I'll have a great smile. Too bad the rest of my face is so ordinary.

I run out of the apartment and past the elevator. We're on the third floor, but I always take the stairs. In the lobby, my best friend Rashelle is waiting for me. She's gorgeous. Her mom, Rebekah, is from Trinidad. Her dad's Greek. I remember him as being really handsome, and Shel got the best of both of them. We walk to school and make plans – she wants to go to Goodwill after school. No problem. I love Goodwill.

It's not like I'm really poor, but Goodwill is SO much cheaper than the mall. I can't afford sixty-dollar jeans. Once I'm older and can get a job, maybe, but - not now. Shel is poor, sort of. She has three little brothers, and her mom got laid off. Her dad left three years ago. Shel gets most of her clothes there.

School was boring, of course, and when we get out it'raining, but Goodwill is just around the corner from school. We're looking through the jeans, and there is nothing in my size – I'm really small, like, a size 2. I wander over to where all the household stuff is – you know, old Pyrex bowls and tacky salt-and-pepper shakers, crappy ceramic Santa Clauses and dozens of vases. That's when I see a black bottle.

It's square, which is kind of cool, and the stopper on top is round. The surface is iridescent, and the swirls of color are kind of moving, like an oil slick on the surface of water. I pick it up and it's warm. Like, sitting in the sun all day warm. But this hasn't been in the sun at all. It's been under fluorescent lights. Why is it warm?

"That's interesting," Shel says.

"It's warm." I say. "Feel."

She holds it. "What are you smokin' girl? This is stone cold. And it weighs a ton."

I roll my eyes. "What are YOU smoking? I really love the colors."

"It's black."

"I know, but there's kind of a rainbow glow, see?"

She squints. "No."

I look at the bottom. Fifty cents. "I'm buying this," I say.

Shel sighs. She's got an armful of stuff, lots of things for her little brothers. She spends almost six dollars. I hand over my fifty cents.

From there we go to the cleaners, and I pick up Mom's suit. The guy behind the counter is really old and has no teeth, but he insists on smiling at me anyway. Creepy, right? Then, we pick up a pizza. Luckily, I have enough money. By now, we both have a LOT to carry. I try to put my bottle in Shel's bag, but she complains it's too heavy. So, I cram it into my backpack, and it's not heavy at all.

I get back to the apartment and let myself in. Shel has to drop off all her Goodwill stuff at her place, but she'll be up to share the pizza. I hang up Mom's suit and open the pizza box. Smells SO good.

While I wait for Shel, I look at the bottle again. The color swirls are different now. More golden. I pick it up.

It's hot.

I put it down and stare.

Shel comes in. "What's the matter?" she asks.

"There's something weird about this," I tell her. "It's really hot."

She puts her hand on it. "No, Ali, it isn't. What's going on?"

I shake my head. The black has turned almost red. I reach out and pull on the stopper. It's stuck.

"Do you think something is in there?" Shel asks.

I shrug and pull harder. Then I twist it. I can feel it move. I hold the bottle with one hand, even though I'm afraid I'll burn myself, that's how hot it is. I twist the stopper. It turns a bit more. I wiggle it back and forth, and it finally pulls free.

I let go and stare at my hand. I expect to see blisters. That's how hot it felt, but my hand is fine. Then Shel swears. She hardly ever swears. I look at her, but she's looking at the bottle.

There's a thin line of smoke coming out of the top of the bottle.

* * *

We both step back.

"Is it going to explode?" Shel asks.

I shake my head. "How should I know?"

The smoke is thick and pale gray, shot with glowing gold. It curls up into a circle, about the size of a dinner plate. I blink. There's something forming in the smoke.

"Are you seeing that?" Shel whispers.

"Yes," I whisper back.

It's a face. An ugly, squat face. A man's face, with a bald head and a ring through his nose. He opens his eyes and looks at me, smiling.

"I am Etok of the lamp," he intones, his voice deep and important sounding.

"What lamp?" I ask.

He blinks at me. "I'm a disembodied head, speaking to you from a cloud of smoke, and that's the first thing you ask?"

"Yeah, well, it's not a lamp. It's just a black bottle. Is it supposed to be a lamp?" I ask him. I mean, of course, I'm surprised. Talking heads don't appear every day. But, what 's with this whole lamp thing?

He makes a face. "I used to live in a lamp. An oil lamp. But they became very hard to find a few hundred years ago, so I moved into this bottle."

"Oh. Okay then," I say. I sneak a look at Shel. Her eyes are open wide and her mouth is hanging open. She sees me looking at her and her jaw snaps shut.

"I am Etok of... the bottle," he says.

I sit down on the couch. Shel sits next to me.

"I'm a little freaked out," she says.

I nod. "Me too."

She whispers. "Are we on anything?"

I shake my head. "Nope."

Etok lifts his chin. "Are you done now?"

We both nod. He clears his non-existent throat.

"I am Etok of the bottle. I am bound by magic as ancient as the stars themselves. You have released me to once again gaze upon the world, and as a reward, I grant you three wishes."

I look around the apartment. It's not like it's crappy or anything, but most of the furniture is kinda old and Mom likes to collect turtles, of all things. So, there are ceramic or stone or resin turtles on every spare horizontal surface. It's not too much of a world he's gazing upon.

"Three wishes?" I say.

"Yes. But, I must warn you. They must be very specific. And – a warning. I am not, by nature, very nice. If I can grant your wish but can find some way to make you regret the result, I will."

"Hey," Shel says loudly. "That's not how it's supposed to be."

Etok sniffs. "And how would you know, exactly, how it's supposed to be? Have you ever been granted three wishes before? Eh? I thought not. I'm only giving you a warning because this place is rather pleasant. The last time someone released me, it was in a prison in Turkey. Very distressing."

Shel and I look at each other. We have been playing the 'Three Wishes' game since the fifth grade.

"How long do we have?" I ask.

Etok frowns. "As long as you like. You can take years. I really don't care. But, there is no 'we'. I can only grant the wish to the person who opened the bottle."

I raise my hand. "That's me. I'm Ali. Alison."

"So pleased," Etok murmurs.

"Shel doesn't get any wishes?" I ask.

Etok raises an eyebrow. "Did she open the bottle? Eh? Then, no. Shel doesn't get any wishes."

"Are there rules?" I ask.

He narrows his eyes. "There are not so much rules as conditions. Not many people ask that question."

I shrug. "I'm fifteen. I live by conditions. What are they?"

"You cannot end a life or start a life. You cannot wish for anything that may adversely change the future of another. You cannot wish for love. That is beyond even me. You cannot wish for more wishes. And you cannot open the bottle a second time. This is your only shot." He smiles. "Make it good."

Shel and I look at each other.

"So," she says, "I guess you can't wish for Harry Styles to marry you and take you to London."

I shake my head. "No. And I can't wish Mr. Blaymore a horrible death." Mr. Blaymore lives next door to Shel on the second floor. He has a terrible dog, and he always complains to the landlord that she plays music too loud.

"We should maybe start with something small," I say.

Shel nods. "Right. Good idea."

"So, what do I want that doesn't have the potential of totally ruining my life if it goes wrong?"

We sit and think. Etok starts to whistle 'Camp Town Races.'

"How about Jimmy Wilson?" Shel says.

Jimmy Wilson is absolutely the hottest guy in the entire sophomore class, and I have been passionately in love with him since seventh grade. He, of course, does not acknowledge my existence.

"What should I wish for?" I ask her. "I can't wish that he fall in love with me."

"Wish that he asks you to the Homecoming Dance."

Perfect. That's in two weeks time. No one else has asked me, surprise, surprise, and if I go to Homecoming with Jimmy, dozens of girls in my grade will have a fit.

"What can happen to screw this up?" I ask Shel. We spend a few more minutes thinking.

"The worst that could happen," Shel finally says, "is that you don't have a good time. Which means you'll finally stop mooning over him. And that would be a good thing."

"Yeah. And even if I do have a lousy time, I'll still make every cheerleader in the whole school jealous, and that's another good thing."

"He might get drunk and vomit all over you," Shel says.

"But, it would be _Jimmy Wilson_ vomit." I look at Etok. "My wish is that Jimmy Wilson ask me to the Homecoming Dance," I say.

Etok closes his eyes and shimmers. "It is done." He opens his eyes. "Anything else?"

"No. Not now," I say. "Shel, you?"

"Nope," she says.

"Then I shall return to my lamp, eh, bottle. You may replace the stopper if you like, just loosely. And when you have your next wish, let me out again." He dissolves into gray and is sucked back into the bottle.

"I'm still freaking out," Shel says.

"Me too. And the pizza's cold."

We finish the pizza anyway, looking at the black bottle. Then, I replace the stopper - loosely - and hide it in the bottom of my closet. And I dream of Jimmy Wilson.

* * *

The next day, in the hall after third period, Jimmy Wilson comes up to me. I feel my face turning red, and the blood in my head is pounding so hard I can barely hear him when he asks if I'm going to the Homecoming Dance. I shake my head, very cool. He smiles. He got his braces off last month and his teeth are perfect.

"So, would you like to go with me?" he asks.

I nod. Words are impossible. I just stand there, my head bobbing up and down, grinning like an idiot. He winks and walks away, and a knot of girls at the end of the hall explode into giggles and whispers.

Texting is not allowed during school hours, so I run into the cafeteria during Shel's lunch period and tell her the news. She does not jump up and do the Happy Dance, which is good, because I already feel like EVERYONE is looking at me. She just raises an eyebrow, like she was expecting it all along.

Mom understands how important this is to me, so she gives me her debit card and Shel and I go to the mall and I buy an amazing dress and spiky heels. We've been talking about the next wish, but decide to wait until after the dance.

The Friday before the dance, I track down Jimmy and ask him if I should meet him at the school, or will he pick me up. He frowns, and says he's not sure. He'll let me know. He has not talked to me since he asked me, and I'm really worried about that. But, obviously, he has a plan.

Saturday night, Shel does my hair. Mom takes pictures. I look so different – more grown up, even pretty. I stare at my cell phone, waiting for his text. At eight thirty, my chest is so full I think I'm going to explode, so I finally text him.

Jimmy, where r u?

At the dance

Shd I meet u there?

Im with Caitlin

I can't look at my mother, sitting across from me on the couch, reading her book. I can't even look at Shel, who's been pretending to play Temple Run for the past half hour.

What about me?

What do you mean?

U asked me

I hit Send. I can't breathe.

But I never meant to really TAKE u

I clear my throat. "I'm not going," I say, and get up and walk to my room.

Shel follows me. I tear off my dress and run my fingers through my hair, undoing the curls. I pull on a sweatshirt and jammy pants, get Etok's bottle out of the closet, and Shel and I leave the apartment and make our way to the roof.

I tell her what Jimmy said. We stare at the bottle.

"Etok warned us," she says at last.

"Yes, he did. We have to be really careful this time." So Shel and I go over my next wish very carefully. We can find nothing that can hurt us.

I unstop the bottle, and Etok appears. It's cold on the roof, and dark. His smoke looks white, and catches the light from the street below.

"Ali?" he asks. "How are you enjoying the Homecoming Dance?"

That's mean. Seriously. I'd throw something at Etok, but it would just go right through him, and might sail off the roof and hit someone walking by on the street, killing them, and sending me to prison for the rest of my life. Which is the only way I could feel _more_ miserable than I feel right now.

He notices my expression and looks serious. "Have you another wish?"

"Yes. I'm going to buy a New Jersey State lottery ticket tomorrow. And this is what I wish to happen. First, it's going to be the winning ticket. The jackpot is over eleven million dollars right now, and nothing can happen between now and then to make the value go down. It will be the only winning ticket. It will be a cash-out ticket, so I get the money all at once. And when I tell my mom that it belongs to both Shel and me, she will say that's fine. And Shel's mom will say it's fine too. We'll split the money in half, and everyone will be happy with that. The state will not run out of money before we collect. There will not be any other legal issues holding the money back." I look at Shel. "What else?"

"My dad," Shel says.

"Oh, yeah. Shel's father will not come forward and try to claim any of the money." I take a deep breath. "That's my wish."

"That is about ten wishes," Etok points out, sounding annoyed.

"No, it's just one wish. With conditions."

He narrows his already squinty eyes at me. "Conditions, eh? Very clever, little girl." He closes his eyes and shimmers. "It is done. Anything else?"

I shake my head. He smiles slyly and returns to smoke. I put the stopper in place.

"What did we miss?" I ask Shel.

"Nothing," she says. "We're good."

* * *

Monday morning at school is a horror. Everyone, of course, knows about Jimmy and me and Homecoming, but I don't care. I have the lottery ticket. I put it in twenty-three different places yesterday and none of them seemed safe enough, so I finally put it in my bra next to my left boob.

When I get home, I'm so nervous I can't do anything but walk back and forth in front of the television, even though it's hours before the televised drawing. Mom comes home, early for once, and suggests we go out for burgers. I say no, lie to her that I feel sick, and go to my room. Six minutes before the drawing, Shel comes in. We've rehearsed this very carefully. We're both ready.

We go back into the living room. Mom is at the kitchen table, reading the paper. I turn on the television.

"Hey, Mom, Shel and I bought lottery tickets yesterday," I say.

Mom shakes her heads. "What a waste of money," she says.

"Somebody has to win," Shel says, on cue. "I've bought them before."

"Did you win?" Mom asks.

"No," Shel says.

"See?" Mom says.

Shel and I sit on the couch. The ticket is in my hand. We picked four sets of numbers, because we thought it would look really suspicious if we only took ONE chance and won. So we sit, and the little lady from the lottery commission comes on, and she starts picking the numbers.

The third down is the winning set of numbers.

After the fourth correct number, I know that Etok has kept up his end of the deal, and I start to jump up and down and scream.

Mom can't believe it. She keeps staring at the screen, then the ticket. Then she starts to scream too. Then we all run downstairs and tell Shel's mom that her daughter just won half of 12.7 million dollars.

Shel's mom doesn't believe it either. She starts to cry. Then, she starts to talk to my mom, all serious.

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

Mom nods. "Yes. We'll go down tomorrow. You two girls are too young to claim the money, but Rebekah and I will go together, and we'll split the ticket."

It's all just the way I told Etok I wanted it. A lot of money. No fighting. My ticket is the sole winning ticket. I wait for the thing to happen that will make me regret I ever made this wish, but there's nothing.

Until Mom tells me that since we have all this money, we'll be moving up to Boston so she can go to law school.

I stare at her. "Boston? But Mom, I don't want to move. I like it here. And Shel is my best friend."

She hugs me. "I know she is, baby, but Shel is moving too. Rebekah is taking them all back to Trinidad."

* * *

That weekend, Shel sleeps over. We spent the day at the mall, looking at all the stuff we will buy once we get our money. A really great day. We don't talk about her moving. Finally, we're sitting on my bed, looking at Etok's bottle.

"I'm afraid to wish for anything else," I say.

Shel nods. "I know. Because just one wish can't fix this."

"No. But this isn't terrible. We'll be able to see each other whenever we want, almost. Right?"

She sighs. "I know, but not every day."

We sit and stare at the bottle.

"We need to get accepted to the same college," she says suddenly.

"Yeah," I say. "We need to graduate early from high school, _then_ get accepted to the same college."

"And it has to be a really cool college, like Columbia, so we can live in a great apartment," Shel says. "Maybe that's what we should wish for."

"But we can get those things anyway," I say. "We have the money. We're both pretty smart. We don't need to wish for that."

I pull out the stopper. Etok appears, looking even more smug and self-satisfied.

"So, girls, how's all that money working out for you?" he asks.

"I have a question," I say.

"Ask away," he says, still smiling.

"What if I never ask for the third wish?"

Shel looks at me. "What?" she asks.

Etok stops smiling. "I don't understand," he says.

"Well, no one else can ask you for a wish except me, right?"

"Yes," he says. "After I grant the last wish, I wait for someone else to open the bottle, and it begins again."

"But what if I never ask for a third wish. What happens to you?"

He's frowning. "I have no idea. That's never happened before."

Shel suddenly grins. "The only time you get to come out is if someone who is owed a wish opens the bottle, right?"

He nods slowly.

"So if someone unstops the bottle who isn't owed any wishes, you _can't_ come out," I say.

He nods again.

"So, if I never ask for my third wish, you're stuck inside that bottle forever?"

He looks horror-struck. "Please, don't do that to me. Please. I promise you, your last wish will be granted with no strings."

"But what about the next person?" Shel asks. "And the person after that? You've been making people unhappy for a long time."

He's shaking his head. "Please, no. You have no idea what it's like, trapped in there. "

"Dark?" I ask.

"Very."

"Can you hear anything?" I ask. "Like, all the people passing by who don't pick you up?"

He nods. "Yes."

"What if you were, say, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean? Would you be able to hear the fish?"

Shel laughs.

"No." Etok's face starts to crumble. "There would be nothing but silence. And darkness. And forever is...well...please don't do this to me. Make a wish."

I shake my head. "Nope. I have no wishes to make at this time, Etok."

"Tell you what – I'll give you two."

"Ah...no."

He stares at us. Shel reaches over and grabs the bag of chips off the bedside table, and we share them for a few minutes. Etok hangs in the air.

"Please?" he says again.

I shrug. Shel giggles.

Etok dissolves and returns to the bottle. I put the stopper in. I press down really hard. Then I find my shoe under the bed and hammer at the stopper with the heel.

"Where should we put it?" Shel asks.

"I'm not sure." We finish the chips, and I get a bottled water for us to share. It's after midnight, and everything is pretty quiet.

"Why don't you take it?" I say to Shel.

"What would I do with it?"

"Well, Trinidad has lots of ocean around it, right?"

She hugs me. "I'm going to miss you so much," she says.

"Me too. But we'll get over it," I say. "Etok won't."

She starts to giggle, and I join her. We laugh for a very long time.

Poor Etok.

#  About Marijon Braden

Marijon was born and raised in New Jersey, which may help to explain her attitude towards charlatans and idiots. She started writing stories at an early age, her first literary influences being Walter Farley, author of the 'Black Stallion' series, and Carolyn Keene, of 'Nancy Drew' fame. That's probably why her earliest efforts involved a young girl detective who solved crime on horseback.

She had a very happy childhood, did well in school, and was a fairly obedient daughter until she went away to college. The original plan was to major in journalism. She wrote for the college paper until she realized that wasn't the kind of writing she wanted to do when she grew up. So she switched to education. That was not, perhaps, the smartest move.

Then, life happened. Jobs, rent, husband, baby, another husband, another baby, until she found herself a stay-at-home mom, about to chew her foot off if she had to watch one more episode of 'Barney.' So, she started to write again.

She still lives in New Jersey with her husband, daughter, two cats and a very spoiled cocker spaniel. Her older daughter is off in Oregon, fighting the good fight for the homeless. She loves to cook – and eat – and plays RPG games on her Xbox when she needs to decompress (Skyrim alone cost her months of her life). During the past few years, she has lost, and tragically found again, the same twenty pounds. Life is all about trying, failing, and trying harder.

She writes in her downstairs office, surrounded by her growing collection of gargoyles. Smoke, Wings and Stone is her first YA novel.

Marijon Braden is the pen name for Dee Ernst, who writes adult romantic comedy, and has lived an almost identical life.

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#  Killing Snow White

Jamie Campbell
CHAPTER 1

It was the happiest day of my life. "I do," I muttered as I looked into the eyes of my beloved. He was the most handsome and kind man I had ever known and I loved him with all my heart.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your queen."

My stomach did back flips as my king kissed me in front of the entire kingdom. They erupted into cheers of joy for our union.

My new husband led me into our reception, the cheers never abating. We sat at the head of the table, a feast laid out before us. The music started and it was the most perfect day I had ever had. I never wanted it to stop. If I could have stayed in that moment forever, I would have been deliriously happy.

The whole thing felt like a dream. I had wished my entire life to find a man that would love me and make me feel beautiful and my husband was everything and more. He was perfect in every way so when he had proposed, I didn't even hesitate for a second before accepting.

It was his second marriage, he had already lost one wife to illness. But that was many years ago, his heart was healed and ready to love again. They said I was too old to get married at thirty, that nobody would want me. I thought I was an old maid and gave up all hope of having a family of my own. Until the day I met the king.

"May I have this dance?" My husband asked politely, bowing low and holding my hand in his. How could I possibly refuse?

"Of course you may," I replied. I let him lead me onto the dance floor, a large checkerboard pattern on the stones. We were in the middle of the palace, hundreds of candles lit our way.

He twirled me around and around until I was giddy. I don't know if it was the movement or the fluttering of my heart. Either way, I couldn't stop giggling. I was getting my happily ever after, it was really happening. To me.

"Oh, I think someone is waiting for me." The king abruptly interrupted our dance to stop and stare at his daughter. She was standing behind me, a little girl of twelve with hair as dark as a raven and skin as white as snow.

He let go of my hands to grasp hers. I retreated to the sidelines and found a seat with which I could watch them. I was looking forward to having a daughter. I hadn't spent much time with Snow since our courtship but I imagined all the wonderful mother/daughter things we could do together. It would be so much fun doing each other's hair, eating scones and tea together, and choosing pretty dresses. I couldn't wait to get started.

Yet the longer I sat there, awaiting my king's return, the sadder I was starting to feel. With every twirl around the dance floor, Snow looked at me. There was something about that look, the way her lips curled into a smirk, that made me uneasy.

I tried to imagine how it would be for the poor girl. To have her father remarry must have been difficult. It had been just the two of them for eight years. To suddenly have to share her father with another woman would be hard. It would take some getting used to for all three of us. I would give her time and let her come to me slowly. Then we would be the best of friends.

After all, it was just a few dances. I could wait patiently for my husband to return after a few dances. I was the adult there, I would let Snow have her fun. After all, it was almost her bedtime.

Yet her bedtime came and passed again. I sat by myself at the table watching them for hours. Nobody talked to me because I was now the queen and it was bad manners to converse without formal introductions. So I sat there alone, wishing for some attention. I wanted to dance so badly, I wanted my husband to hold me in his arms. That was where I felt most at home and happy.

Eventually, I went to bed by myself. It didn't seem like their dancing would ever end and every time I tried to get his attention, Snow would snatch it straight back again. I didn't want to break their bond so I thought it best if I just took myself out of the equation.

I stood in my chamber alone, staring into the mirror as I took off my jewels and crown. They truly were beautiful and they were all mine now. But they were no substitute for my husband. I wanted him there with me more than anything.

Looking back on that night now, I should have known it was a precursor to how our marriage would be. I would always be second to Snow. And I would have been fine with that, I understood the bond of a parent and their child. What I didn't expect was to be completely shut out of their lives altogether.

CHAPTER 2

"I thought you might have called upon me last night," I said over breakfast the next day as I buttered some toast. I said it casually, like it wasn't cutting through me like a knife and hurting – which it was.

"I'm sorry, my darling, I got caught up dancing and Snow didn't want to stop," the king replied, equally as casual. I nodded, not wanting to cause a fuss.

"Perhaps you can make it up to me today by coming riding with me? We could take a picnic down to the lake," I suggested. The weather was beautiful, to be indoors would have been a crime.

"I want to walk in the woods," Snow piped up. It was the first time she had actually participated in the conversation since she joined us. "Daddy, please say you'll walk in the woods with me?"

The king looked between us and I instantly knew which activity he would choose. I tried not to let my heartbreak show on my face. Their time together was important too, I just had to give Snow time to adjust.

"The woods sound like fun too," I sighed, plastering my face with a smile.

"Walking in the woods it is then," my husband said cheerily. I could only hope he appreciated my sacrifices. It wasn't exactly how I planned to spend my first day of marriage.

And yet that first day was exactly how every other day of our marriage went. I would plan to do something, my husband would agree, and then Snow would want to do something else. I always let her have her way, fearing she wouldn't like me otherwise. All my ladies in waiting told me I should stand up to her, lest she do it forever. But I couldn't. I wanted to have a daughter so badly and I was certain she would eventually come around.

Two years later, I was still waiting. Right up to the day when my husband lost his life. He was killed while out hunting with his men. They were only supposed to be gone for a few hours and yet they never returned.

When I was told, it was like my entire world had broken into a thousand pieces. I had expected to spend the rest of my life with the king, we would grow old together and live in complete happiness forever. I will always remember that moment as the worst moment of my life.

Snow was even more difficult to deal with after that. She didn't take the news well either. She called everyone a liar and stormed out of the room, breaking an expensive vase on the way out. I tried to run after her and offer my shoulder in comfort but she wouldn't accept it. Somehow, she had thought the whole thing my fault. Like he wouldn't have been killed had we not been married.

She was angry, I understood. I gave her space and continued to let her come to me when she was ready. I had to run the kingdom now until she was old enough to claim the throne. When she was married, that was the time the law said she was ready.

I took comfort in the last gift my husband had given me – a mirror to sit on my wall. It was oval and surrounded with gold. He had told me it was magical and taught me how to use it. If I spoke to the glass, it talked back. Apparently it was enchanted.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the most beautiful of them all?" I would ask it. The mirror was supposed to then reflect my own face back and tell me it was me. My husband said it was to remind me how lovely I was when he wasn't around to tell me. Now that he was gone, his words cut even deeper.

The burden of running the kingdom took a heavy toll on me. I never realized how much the king did until it was all up to me. He worked hard ensuring his people were happy and had enough of everything to live a comfortable life. It was no easy feat. I did my best but I was certain everyone thought I wasn't up to his standard. I agreed, but I was trying so hard.

One morning, it was just like every other morning, I was having breakfast. Snow had joined me but had not said a word. I tried to engage her in conversation. It was just the two of us in the room, I didn't have anyone else to talk to even if I wanted to.

"That is a very pretty dress you have on today," I commented, trying to be nice.

"My dress is none of your business," Snow replied insolently. It irked me but I couldn't let her get to me. I wouldn't let her push me away when she needed me the most.

"Is it new?" She just stared at her food. "I was thinking of going into town today to visit the people, would you like anything while I'm there?"

All of a sudden, she stood up and threw her fork down onto her plate, sending it careening to the ground and breaking. The noise echoed around the palace walls. "You are not my mother! You have no right to talk to me. My father never even loved you, he was only using you to look after me."

She stormed out of the room once her venomous words were lingering in the air. I knew I shouldn't take her words to heart but it was a little difficult. She was always saying things like that. For some reason, she got it into her head that her father was looking for a replacement mother for Snow instead of a wife. According to her, he never wanted another wife after he deeply loved his first one so much.

I knew the king loved me like a husband should. Yet as much as I told myself that, it seemed like there was always Snow's voice reminding me that I was wrong. It was like I couldn't remember my husband now without hearing her words. She was ruining his memory for me and I hated it.

Every time I got upset, I would retreat to my mirror and ask it the question my husband told me to. Each time, it would tell me I was the most beautiful woman in the land and I would think of my king. It always brought a smile to my lips.

So I couldn't hate Snow, not after she had lost both of her parents. Instead of attending to her myself, because clearly that wasn't working, I organized for Snow to have the best nannies and tutors that the kingdom could buy.

Over the next two years, I left her alone. I would get regular reports from the nannies and Snow was recovering well. My only concern was her temper. Apparently she still held a great deal of anger within her.

She was approaching the age of marriage and I feared putting the burden of the kingdom on her unstable shoulders. I didn't want to make her anger worse, I knew how difficult the job was. I was torn about what I should do and what the king would want me to do, so I continued on ruling until I knew she was ready for it.

She didn't like it that I was the queen. I think she wanted me to abdicate the moment her father passed so she could take over ruling. I stuck to my promise of being a mother to her and wouldn't do it. We continued to avoid each other until our meeting was inevitable at the age of sixteen.
CHAPTER 3

I was sitting in my throne room when it happened. I was speaking with my advisor, sorting out some issues when she barged in through the doors. They rattled, making an awful noise.

I instantly dismissed my advisor and guards, dreading what was about to happen. I didn't want anyone to witness Snow's behavior. Everyone else loved her, they thought she was a perfect young woman. I didn't want to ruin their illusion.

"I want my kingdom!" Snow yelled, her voice echoing through the large room. My heart instantly started hammering away in my chest, I hated confrontation and Snow was the best at it.

To be honest, I was a little scared by her. Her eyes burned with rage, all directed at me. I knew there would be no reasoning with her. She wouldn't listen to a word I said, even if I was telling her why she couldn't have her kingdom yet. It was only for her own good so she didn't have to deal with the burden at such a young age.

"Snow, you are still so young. You can have the kingdom when you are ready for it. You know I only want what is best for you," I replied, trying to keep my tone of voice soothing. The last thing I wanted to do was antagonize her.

She stomped over to the side table and proceeded to pick up and throw each of the expensive antiques onto the floor. One by one, they were shattered into a thousand pieces. I let her go, despite how much money she was throwing onto the ground.

With the last one still in her hand, Snow turned to me. "My father never loved you! I want you to die like him!" She aimed the vase and threw it at me, aiming directly for my head. I ducked at the last moment, narrowly avoiding taking the direct hit. The vase smashed into the wall behind me, sending shards in all different directions.

Her anger was not normal for a sixteen year old girl. I feared there was something seriously wrong with her. I had heard stories of demon possession before, or even witch's curses that took all the sweetness from a child. My stomach was sick just thinking about what was causing her to burn with such rage.

"Snow, you need to calm down."

"You can't tell me what to do!" She screamed my way before leaving as abruptly as she had arrived.

I found the guards and gave them orders. "Please make sure Snow is okay and not in danger of harming herself or anyone else." They nodded their understanding and left, heading in her direction.

I dismissed all my advisors for the day after that and sat alone in the room, cleaning up the mess myself. There were already so many whispers in the palace about what a terrible step-mother I was to Snow. I didn't need anyone to witness the fallout from my latest attempt. They all thought I was mean to her and that's why she hated me so much. Some of the gossip I had heard brought tears to my eyes and I'm sure it was Snow that was the one spreading them.

I spent countless days and nights agonizing over what I should do about Snow. My conclusion was that it seemed the palace wasn't a healthy place for her. She needed to live without the burden of court life. She needed to find herself again, rediscover the little girl that her father loved so much. She had to be in there somewhere.

With a heavy heart and at my wit's end, I called for my friend, the Huntsman. He and I had got to know each other quite well after my husband died. If I needed anything, he would help me in any way he could. I appreciated the way he never judged, only aided me. He was the only one I had confided in about Snow and her treatment of me. I knew my secret was safe with him.

"My queen, what may I do for you?" He asked, bowing low to me. I wasn't a fan of the formalities but I couldn't stop them.

"I need you to take care of Snow White for me," I said, knowing I was putting the wheels in motion for her to get better. I had to do something, everyone in the palace was starting to think I was evil and I wasn't. That was the opposite of what was going on.

"You want me to kill her?" He looked at me with his eyes wide open.

"No, of course not." My eyes were equally surprised at that notion. "I want you to take her into the woods and find a new home for her. I want her to have some time to think clearly. She will soon remember who she really is. She needs refuge, not a kingdom full of eyes watching her."

He nodded. "I understand. I will do it immediately. You have my word, my queen."

"Thank you, Huntsman," I said sincerely. He bowed again before he left.

I started pacing, praying I was making the right decision. I loved Snow. Every time I looked at her, I saw pieces of her father reflected back at me. I know he would have wanted me to do this. If she continued on as she was, she would have a nervous breakdown. Hopefully my actions would circumvent that happening.

I felt nauseous until I saw the Huntsman again. A full day and night had passed since our meeting. As each moment passed, it only made my nerves even greater.

"Huntsman, please tell me what happened," I pleaded nervously. My fingernails had all but disappeared from my anxious biting of them.

"It is done. Snow is in the woods, she will find refuge there," he replied.

"Did she go willingly?"

He shook his head, I should have known. "She said she was being banished so you could rule the kingdom forever without her. She called you many terrible names that I could not repeat."

"As I expected. In time, she will see this was the right decision. I am doing this for her and not myself. I will more than gladly give her the kingdom when she is ready for it."

"Yes, my queen."

"We must not tell anyone about this," I continued. "We cannot have anyone finding her until she has recovered. When she is rested and her true self again, then we will bring her back and celebrate."

"That will be a joyous day," he agreed.

"It certainly will be."

I dismissed the Huntsman and breathed a sigh of relief. It was done, Snow would be fine. But just to be sure, I would check on her regularly. We would both know when it was time for her to return.

CHAPTER 4

My mirror had more magic in it than just speaking to me. I could also see things in it, things that weren't just a reflection. When I concentrated hard enough, it would show me images of things that were going on in the world. Most of the time I used it to check on the kingdom and make sure people were still happy. Unfortunately, it's how I heard the gossip about me too. For that reason, I tried not to do it very often.

I was still worried about Snow so I sat in front of the mirror one morning and concentrated on the girl. Within seconds, the mirror started a wave of activity, slowing down to reveal where she was.

It appeared Snow was adopted by seven little people. All men, she was their housekeeper of sorts. Each of the seven little people had their own personality, one appeared very happy, another bashful, one looked to be sleepy, one a little dopey, there was one who sneezed a lot, a grumpy one of course, and one that appeared to be healer or doctor of sorts. They looked like one big, happy family.

I was so pleased that Snow had fallen on her feet. She looked happier than I had seen her since her father died. I knew right then that I had done the right thing. When she was ready, she would return and I would gladly hand over the kingdom to her. I'm sure she would make a wonderful queen one day, but only when she was ready.

I wanted to do something nice for her, considering everything seemed to be going so well. Her progress restored my optimism that perhaps we could still be a family, perhaps my dreams weren't completely lost.

I called for the royal tailor and ordered a dress be made. Nothing fancy, just something that Snow would be comfortable in while in her new surroundings. The tailor got straight onto it and I had it before the week was out.

"Madeleine, please deliver this to Snow in the woods and make sure she sees the note," I explained, giving my maid instructions. I had to tell her where Snow was and why, but I knew she would keep it to herself. I trusted Madeleine, she had been with me even before I was married.

I waited in front of the mirror, guessing my maid should have been there before noon. I was so looking forward to seeing the smile on Snow's face when she got the dress. I'm sure she would appreciate the gift and accept it with the love I sent it with.

Madeleine arrived just on noon, as expected. I settled in front of the mirror, eager with anticipation. She handed Snow the gift, including the note, and then left with a curtsy.

Snow opened the package and took out the dress. I'm sure I saw a smile on her face when she admired it. The tailor had done a wonderful job, it truly was a beautiful dress.

She moved onto the note next and that smile turned into a frown. Much to my absolute horror, she held my note of encouragement and love over a candle and let the flame set it alight. The entire thing vanished into a cloud of ashes.

My heart broke, I had such high hopes for that gift. I guess it would take more than a dress to repair our relationship. I wasn't going to give up though, not when she was doing so much better.

I continued to watch as Snow put the dress on. It fit her perfectly. I was surprised to see how grown up she was getting. All I could see was a beautiful young woman instead of a precocious child. I wouldn't have long before handing over the palace.

Standing in front of a mirror, Snow pulled the corset on the dress tighter. She was trying to make her waist smaller, I guessed. She kept tugging at the laces until they grew far tighter than they were ever intended to. She passed out, falling to the floor as she tried to gasp for breath.

I panicked, that wasn't supposed to happen. She should have known to loosen the dress once it started to get so tight that she couldn't breathe. I jumped up from the mirror, unsure how I could get to her in time. Even if I sent help, it would take longer for them to get there than she had.

I needed to do something but I couldn't think of what. My eyes kept flicking back to the mirror and her lifeless body on the floor. I had to act, I needed to do something and quickly.

Suddenly, the little people returned and found Snow on the floor. They quickly helped her, loosening the corset so her lungs could be filled with much needed air again. I held my own breath as Snow gasped for hers. She was alive, she would be okay.

I collapsed onto the chair, my hands shaking. I concentrated harder so I could hear what they were saying, I needed to hear her speak to know she was indeed alright.

"Snow, what happened?" The happy one asked. They were all crowded around her, concerned for her welfare.

They helped her sit up, her cheeks rosy from the effort. "It was the queen, she tried to kill me. My dress was enchanted, it strangled me."

They all exchanged worried glances while I gasped with surprise. My shock then turned into anger.

"She must be stopped."

"She's so evil."

"We have to do something."

The nasty comments continued around the circle of little people. "I didn't do that! It's a lie!" I yelled at the mirror. I knew they couldn't hear me but I couldn't hold it in. Snow was framing me, telling anyone who would listen how evil I was.

My anger subsided into sadness once again. I had tried everything. I thought I was doing a good deed. I just wanted Snow to like me but it seemed like it was never going to happen.

But I would not be dissuaded so easily. I picked up my favorite comb off my dressing table. It was my mother's and I loved it dearly. Snow would know that, she would see that I was really trying to do the right thing.

I called for my maid once again and instructed her to take the comb to Snow. I would gift it to her and just wait for our relationship to be repaired. She could then return to the palace and we could rule together. I would teach her everything I knew.

After all, Snow White couldn't hurt herself with just a comb like she did with the dress, right? It was just a comb. How wrong I was.

CHAPTER 5

I was on tenterhooks until Snow received my gift of the comb. I was excited for her to understand what it meant, that I loved her like a daughter. My mother had given it to me and I had given it to her. She wouldn't say anything nasty and mean about me ever again.

I watched in the mirror all day, waiting for the moment when my maid reached her. It happened at noon, just like the day before. She received the comb, looked at the card, and then went inside the little home she shared.

Standing in front of the mirror, Snow pulled her red bow out of her hair and started pulling my comb through. She looked so beautiful, so grown up now. My heart swelled with images of her running home and into my arms. We would be an unstoppable force together.

The little people soon joined her. I concentrated so I could hear them.

"The queen sent me this comb," Snow explained. The men all exchanged worried glances. I tried to ignore it. "Apparently she thinks I need to look after my hair better."

"She's so mean," the grumpy one mumbled. "We should cut off all her hair while she sleeps."

"How can anyone think you're not the most beautiful of them all?" The bashful one asked. "Your hair is lovely, just as it is."

"I guess she just doesn't like me," Snow replied, shrugging. If she really thought that, it didn't seem like she was affected by it at all.

"She should leave you alone," the sleepy one said before yawning. He was having trouble just standing without nodding off. I should have sent a doctor for his narcolepsy and see if there was anything that could help him. They were dressed like they were miners, that couldn't be safe deep in the ground.

"We should stop her," the sneezy one added, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Snow used to do that when nobody was looking too.

"Ow," Snow suddenly cried out. She pulled the comb away from her head with a great clump of hair still attached to it. "This comb is poisoned, look what it did to my hair."

All the seven men examined the damage, shaking their heads and then their fists. They were angry with me, just taking Snow's word that I had sent her a poisoned comb. Apparently I was evil enough to do that.

I waved my hand over the mirror, not wanting to see anymore. So I was wicked and evil and only wanted to harm Snow White. That's what they all believed and who knows who else she had told? The whole thing was a mess that I needed to fix. Otherwise Snow would never return and take her rightful place on the throne. Her father would be so disappointed.

I paced around my room, desperately trying to think of a way to repair our relationship. I had to do something and the longer I waited, the more people would hear the horrible gossip.

Besides marrying her father, I didn't know what I had done to incur such wrath from Snow. As far as I could remember, I had never treated her anything but nicely. I tried so many times to include her in everything the king and I did so she would never be left out. I tried to give her space so she wouldn't accuse me of replacing her mother, and I made her father very happy. I had done everything right, so why did she accuse me of being so very wrong?

My hopes for having a family were dashed. I suddenly realized that Snow would never be my daughter. She didn't love me and would never accept me. But that didn't change the fact that she needed to return to the palace and take over the kingdom one day. If I didn't teach her what she needed to know, the people would suffer. And it would be much harder for her to understand her duties. I had to keep going. If not for Snow, then for my husband.

My eyes fell on a fruit bowl placed in the centre of my table. It was full of fresh fruit; bananas, pears, apples, and grapes. Perhaps if I sent her some fruit, she would enjoy the sweet tastes of home? She couldn't accuse me of doing anything to the fruit, could she? I couldn't go wrong.

This time, I wasn't going to leave it up to my maid to send the gift. I would go myself, ensuring Snow knew that my intentions were only pure of heart.

I dressed for my travels quickly and took one last look in the mirror. I barely recognized myself these days, I looked old and aged. The years spent ruling the kingdom, the loss of my beloved husband, and the stress of dealing with Snow had definitely aged me prematurely. Staring back at me was nothing more than an old woman.

I sighed, asking the mirror one last time. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who is the most beautiful of them all?"

"Snow White, my dear. While lovely of spirit, you cannot compete with a beauty such as she."

So even my mirror was now turning on me. I should have known better than to expect anything else. Seeing all my wrinkles, I tended to agree with it anyway. Snow White was young and beautiful, I couldn't deny it and I wouldn't want to. She was going to catch a very handsome husband one day. They would make cute little children together and be picture perfect. That is what I hoped for her anyway.

CHAPTER 6

The journey was long and arduous. My poor maid, what I had put her through. I was going to have to give her a holiday for forcing her to deliver Snow's previous presents.

A chill ran through the air, going straight to my bones and freezing me from the inside out. I wrapped my cloak around myself, holding it closed in an attempt to keep the wind out. With my head down, I struggled through and kept going. Every footstep was an effort.

But I actually felt excited about seeing Snow White again. We hadn't been parted for too long, but with the little people she seemed to be a different person. Perhaps she would not be able to call me evil when face to face? I hoped so, both of our futures depended on it.

Maybe our reunion would go so well that she would travel back to the palace with me? We could then start ruling together. I could send a message out across the lands that she was eligible for marriage and they would send their most handsome princes to compete for her hand in marriage.

If that happened, the kingdom would be filled with joy, laughter, and dancing. There wouldn't be any sadness or sorrow. And all those rumors about my poor treatment of her would be hushed. Everything would just be wonderful from that moment forward.

The little people's house finally came into view. I was so relieved I almost ran to the door and knocked. I waited patiently, butterflies in my stomach with the happy anticipation.

Snow answered, she looked me up and down. There was no recognition in her face. I probably looked like a haggard old woman to her, considering I had aged so much with the stress of everything.

"What do you want?" She asked, her voice filled with impatience and grumpiness.

I looked down at my fruit basket, ready to hand it over. Unfortunately, it looked like I had lost most of it in the journey. I had stumbled over a few times, I guess I didn't notice the fruit tumbling out too. All that was left was a single apple. It didn't seem like enough for a present but I didn't have anything else.

I pulled out the apple and held it up. At least it was a perfect shade of bright red and looked completely unharmed from the journey. "I have brought you this delicious juicy apple."

Snow looked at it warily. "What do I want with an apple?"

"It's yummy, it will fill your taste buds with its sweet nectar."

She took it carefully, like it might hurt her at any moment. When was she going to understand that I didn't want to hurt her? I wanted nothing but the best for her.

Our reunion didn't seem like it was going to be as wonderful as I had hoped. When she didn't even recognize me, it just twisted the dagger I already felt in my heart.

"Take a bite," I urged. I at least wanted to make sure she enjoyed the apple, even if it was such a diminutive gift for my step-daughter.

She looked at it again before flicking her eyes to me. She didn't trust me but what was new? She never trusted me, ever since we had first been introduced by her father. I had tried so hard at that first meeting for us to be friends. It was apparently all for naught.

I smiled encouragingly as she placed the apple to her ruby red lips. She took a small bite, at least trusting me that much. It was time she knew for sure who I was.

"Snow, I'm your step-mother, the queen. I've come to make peace with you," I said gently. Her eyes opened wide with surprise as she gasped.

As she did, the bite of apple must have caught in her throat. Snow started choking, dropping the apple so her hands could indicate her throat was blocked. I quickly put down the basket so I could help her.

At that moment, the back door of the wooden house swung open and all the seven little men walked in – fresh from their day of hard work. I glanced over Snow's shoulder as they quickly approached her.

I panicked, I couldn't be seen there. They would blame me for Snow's accident and think I had poisoned her or something. I couldn't let that happen, not when all the rumors were so bad already.

Amongst the little people was a doctor, I knew he would be able to assist Snow better than I. I slipped away from the house and ran as fast as my legs could take me. The entire time, I prayed and wished and hoped that the little people would be able to make her better. She was in good hands with them, much better than my own apparently.

I gasped for breath as I ran through the tall trees of the forest. I had to get home, I desperately needed to view her condition in my mirror. She had to be okay. My dear daughter had to be. I would never be able to forgive myself if anything happened to that girl.

It was only an apple, how could she have choked on it? She had taken such a small bite. Surely she wouldn't have done it on purpose? I hated myself for even having that thought. Poor little Snow.

My legs ached and I lost track of how many times I had fallen over but I wasn't going to stop. It felt like my life was at stake, just as much as Snow's. If I didn't make it back to the palace and see that she was okay in the mirror, I wouldn't be able to survive another minute.

I kept going, the bruises and cuts accumulating over me. I would have someone at the palace attend to them once I saw she was okay. That was the plan because nothing else mattered to me except Snow.

Finally, I reached the palace. I ran through the stone corridors until I was sitting in front of my mirror. My appearance was ghastly, it was no mystery why I had received so many disapproving looks as I came in.

But my wild hair and smeared makeup were not the issue at that point in time. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, show me Snow and her fall."

The mirror image wavered into a sea before clearing again. Snow was still lying on the ground, all the seven little men gathered around her.

The doctor amongst them turned Snow onto her side and gave her a few pats to the back. A little piece of apple dribbled out of her mouth but still she remained lifeless. He settled her back on the floor again, not seeming to notice the piece of apple.

"She's been poisoned," he concluded, to the gasps of the others. "It must have been the evil queen again. She gave her a poisoned apple and then ran away."

"But Snow..." the bashful one started sobbing. "She can't be gone."

The grumpy one wrapped an arm around his shoulder in comfort. They really did love my Snow, at least her last moments were with loved ones.

Tears ran down my cheeks, landing on my lap and pooling. Snow White was dead, and I had killed her. I shouldn't have gone there, I should just have let her be. I was only trying to be nice and look what I had done. I didn't know how I was going to be able to live with myself.

Once the kingdom heard the story about what I had done to Snow, they would all turn against me. It didn't matter how well I ran the kingdom, they would only be thinking of my evil act. And it was evil. I had killed her, pure and simple. Whether it was intended or not, it made naught difference. I was a killer, I was evil.

CHAPTER 7

For three days I was glued to the mirror, unable to tear myself away from it. I watched as the little men built a glass coffin for Snow. They didn't want to say goodbye to her and she didn't seem to be decomposing, so they insisted on the walls being glass.

She looked to be just sleeping peacefully, still as beautiful in death as in life. Her cheeks kept their rosy glow, her lips still ruby red. I wished she would just wake up, like it was just a terrible dream. I knew she couldn't because of what I had done but it didn't stop me wishing.

After her funeral, I stopped watching. I covered my mirror with a red velvet cloth, refusing to peek any more. No matter how long I stared at her, it didn't change anything. I vowed never to look in that mirror ever again.

The news of Snow's death had filtered through the kingdom. I didn't know what to say to my people so I let the gossip tell the story. The Huntsman told me I should set them straight but I couldn't. How could I convince them I wasn't evil when I couldn't even convince myself? My actions had caused her death, there was no denying it.

At least while everyone thought I was evil, they kept away from me. The maids all did as they were told, my advisors agreed with everything I said. It was much easier getting things done when they were scared of me. Little did they know how much I cried in my private chamber, away from their prying eyes.

I knew I had to go on, my kingdom did need me even if they thought I was evil. I had to wear the burden of my sadness in private so I could reassure them the kingdom would continue on. The problem was, we no longer had an heir. If I didn't remarry and then bear a child, the kingdom would stop with me.

But who would want to marry an evil queen? I had no chances of finding anyone who would love me like a husband should. And no-one would compare to my wonderful late husband. Nobody would even come close.

The days that passed soon turned into weeks. Everything went back to a type of normal but my heart was shriveled. I went through the motions for the good of the kingdom but that was all. Anything else was just too much to bear.

One day, I was seated in my throne room, staring out the window when one of my most trusted advisors ran into the room like his pants were on fire. They weren't, but he did hold a note in his hand.

"What is it?" I asked, my curiosity getting the best of me

"We've had word of a royal marriage," he panted. He had obviously run quite a way to bring the news to me.

"A royal marriage? Between whom?" He had my full attention now. I hadn't heard of any courtships occurring in the kingdoms.

"Snow White and Prince Charming."

At just the mention of her name, it felt like I was falling. I gripped the side of the throne so I wouldn't slide off onto the floor. "Is this a joke? Is someone deliberately trying to hurt me?"

My advisor shook his head fervently, I think I saw a little bit of fear in his eyes. "No, my queen. It is true. Snow White is marrying Prince Charming this afternoon. She's alive."

I still couldn't believe it, it felt like I was now dreaming. "How is this possible?"

"I don't know, my queen. But Snow White is alive and well."

"Everybody leave," I commanded. I needed to process what was happening and I couldn't do that with an audience and a room that was spinning in my head.

I paced back and forth, still unable to believe what was happening. How could she still be alive? I had seen her choke to death. She had been placed in a glass coffin, never to awaken again.

Perhaps they had got it wrong? Perhaps this girl who claimed to be Snow was just an imposter? If she looked the same, perhaps people would want to believe it was really her? Anything was possible when people wanted to believe hard enough.

There was only one option for me and the kingdom. I had a wedding to go to.

CHAPTER 8

Everyone in the kingdom was outside the church. Those that weren't fortunate enough to get inside were just waiting to see the happy couple from the courtyard. If it was anything like my wedding, they would parade through the streets, sharing their joy and happiness with their people.

I had to bustle my way through everyone, trying to be as polite as possible. Nobody wanted to give up their viewpoint, especially not to let an evil old woman through. How things had changed in only a few years. Once, they would have parted and curtsied so I could glide through them. How I longed for those days when things were so much simpler. And I had my husband by my side.

Trying desperately not to use my elbows to get me through, I worked my way up to the church doors. Guards stood there, crossing my way with swords.

"Invited guests only," one of them barked at me. I stood myself up to my full height, standing like the queen I was.

"I am the queen, I order you to let me in. Am I not entitled to see my daughter marry her prince?" I stared down at them. When my polite words didn't work, I scowled at them. "Do you want me to curse you?"

The swords magically parted for me. I lifted the hem of my dress off the floor and stepped over the threshold. I had to squint in the darker church to adjust to the lighting. I could just make out two figures at the front of the aisle. Could it really be Snow, arisen from the dead? I didn't want to get my hopes up but I would know that silhouette anywhere.

I hurried up to the front, desperate to know the truth. The bride and groom came into view. Prince Charming was exactly how I had remembered him when I last encountered his chiseled good looks. And standing next to him was Snow White, my step-daughter.

My hands started shaking, it was like seeing a ghost. How could it even be possible? I saw her choke on the piece of apple. I saw the glass coffin her little men built for her. My mirror would not have deceived me, it was unable to lie. My husband had made sure of that.

"Snow?" I breathed the words as they caught in my throat. They both turned to look at me, surprised to see me there. I remembered the last time we had been together, she hadn't recognized me. "It's your step-mother, the queen. You're alive!"

I went to throw my arms around her, I needed to hug her more than I needed anything else. Yet the prince took a step between us, shielding her with his body. "Come no further."

"Snow, oh, Snow. I am so overjoyed to see you. And you're getting married. I have never been so happy for you," I continued, unfazed. "This is a day of celebration, your father would be so proud of you."

Snow placed a tender hand on Charming's shoulder, he allowed her to step forward. "I don't believe I invited you to my wedding, Step-Mother."

"But, you're alive, we can be a family again. We can rule the kingdom together as one."

"I'm not doing anything with you. You tried to kill me, I have seven witnesses to your evil," Snow replied, staring me down while putting her hands on her hips. Even with a scowl she was the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.

"I didn't, it was an accident," I stammered. "I only sent gifts with the best of intentions."

"With the intention of killing me."

"I wouldn't kill you, Snow. I wouldn't do something like that."

"Guards!" Snow suddenly yelled. Her voice echoed off the large stone walls. Guards started rushing at me from all angles. I took a step back, holding up my hand to halt them. I was, after all, still the queen of the kingdom.

"Stop. I will leave," I declared. It had dawned on me that I was never going to have a happy relationship with Snow. She was never going to be my daughter, no matter what I did. I would always be her enemy.

Even though it pained me like nothing else, it had to be this way. I prayed my husband would forgive me for giving up. Perhaps he would be proud of me for trying as hard as I did? Wherever he was, I hoped he knew how much I had wanted to be a family.

"You and Charming can have the kingdom," I said loudly, making sure everyone heard me clearly. "I give it to you in full. I will never return."

Snow looked satisfied. She should be, she did win after all. I was bowing out gracefully before she pushed me out. And knowing Snow, she would probably choose to push me out of a very tall window.

If she wanted all the stress and worry that running a kingdom took, then she could have it. I was tired of working all day, every day, just to have everyone gossip about me being evil. I was done with all that, well and truly over it. Let her find out how hard it was on her own. I had done everything I could to make it easier on her.

"I wish you nothing but happiness for your future together. May you be blessed with many children and a kingdom of peace." I nodded before turning and leaving. Every eye in the place was turned to me, I could feel them burning into my back.

I didn't stop until I was at the edge of the forest, realizing I had nowhere to go.

CHAPTER 9

There was only one place I could think of that might offer me refuge. I ventured into the woods, travelling for hours before I reached the home of the seven little men. They had cared for Snow so well, and they didn't know what I looked like, perhaps they would take me in too.

I vowed I would never call myself a queen again. I was just plain old Amelia, the name my parents had given me. I knocked on the door, my heart pounding in my chest as it was answered.

The sneezy one stood there, losing his grip on the doorknob and sliding off. He had to catch his footing before he fell to the ground. "Yes?"

"My name is Amelia, I am lost. I was hoping you might take me in?" I waited with crossed fingers, hoping they would be just as hospitable to me as with Snow.

The little man was joined by his six friends. The one always smiling pushed the sneezy one aside. "Come in, come in. A pretty woman is always welcome at our door."

I took a tentative step inside, it already felt like home. I would be happy there, I could feel it in my heart that I had found my true family.

That was close to twenty years ago now. Like I promised myself and Snow, I never again set foot in the kingdom. I was a forest dweller now, happy to keep a home for my seven companions – and a few more.

It seemed the Huntsman wasn't so happy with the new order of things at the palace.

He had found me, sensing I might retreat to the forest. He showed up at my door one day and we have been together ever since.

We were married in a simple ceremony in the gardens, Doc performed the vows for us. We had a beautiful lunch together as the sunbeams shone through the trees and we danced all night. It was the most perfect wedding I could have ever wished for.

One year later, I got my wish of having a daughter. And then a son. And then another daughter. The Huntsman and I had three gorgeous children, each one filling my heart with nothing but joy. We spent every day playing with them, teaching them things, and dancing in the sunlight. Their seven uncles loved them just as much as we did. I don't think I have ever laughed that much in my life.

Snow and Charming had children too, and I heard they ruled the kingdom admirably. The people embraced them and the economy flourished. I was happy for them, pleased they had both gotten what they really wanted.

Overall, we all lived happily ever after. Even if it was in a way that I had never expected.

# About Jamie Campbell

Jamie Campbell discovered her love for writing when her school 'What I did on the Weekend' stories contained monsters and princesses – because what went on in her imagination was always more fun than boring reality.

Primarily writing Young Adult Romances of all kinds, Jamie also delves into murder mysteries and ghost stories. Basically, whatever takes her fancy - she lets the characters decide

Living on the Gold Coast in sunny Queensland, Australia, Jamie is constantly bossed around by her dog Sophie who is a very hard taskmaster and lives largely on sugar.

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#  A House in the Woods

H.S. Stone

The rays from the setting sun bathed the roof of the house in an ocean of orange when Hansel finally emerged.

"Hurry up!" Gretel urged. "It's getting dark. We need to head back home now."

Ignoring his sister's warning, Hansel held up the object in his hand. Smiling proudly, he said, "This should fetch enough to feed us for a week."

Gretel peered at the cylindrical shape. A glint of sunlight caught the end of the tube and quickly vanished as her brother waved it in the air.

"What is that?" she asked. "Old World tech?"

"Watch this."

Hansel pressed his thumb against the side of the object. To his sister's amazement, the end of the tube glowed faintly.

She gasped. "A flashlight! It still works?" With three quick strides, she closed the distance to her brother and snatched the artifact from his hand. Gretel had seen a few flashlights in her lifetime, but the last time she held one that still worked was on her twelfth birthday.

"Hey, I was the one who found it!" Hansel reached for the flashlight, but Gretel turned her back to him.

"I'll return it in a second." She admired the metal tube and the transparent bulb and lens on the end. It was a minor miracle to find a flashlight with the bulb intact and the lens unscratched. However, what was truly unbelievable was the fact that the battery still held a charge. "Where did you find it?"

"Underneath the kitchen sink next to some decomposing boxes of who knows what."

Gretel handed the flashlight back to her brother. "Take good care of it."

"Of course," he answered with irritation, annoyed that she treated him like a baby although she was only a few minutes older than he was.

Hansel found a place for his prize inside the backpack. In addition to the flashlight, the scavenging trip also netted a somewhat rusty can opener, some plastic cups, a small box holding thick thread labeled "Floss" that they didn't understand the purpose of, and bottles of pills that expired in 2018 and 2019. Hansel doubted that anyone would buy the thread or the old medicine, but the can opener and cups ought to earn enough for a decent meal for himself, Gretel, and their father.

The flashlight, on the other hand, was a real treasure. Finding Old World tech in working condition was so rare that someone would surely pay a handsome price for it.

With his head swimming in thoughts of the real food they could buy, Hansel zipped his backpack shut and slung it over his shoulder.

Gretel led the way back in the direction from which they came. The house they visited was the only one on the street that didn't lie in ruins. Few other buildings on this side of town survived, but since everyone else also avoided the area, she thought it would be a good location for her and Hansel to try their luck. Based on what they found that day, she planned to return again.

Their father didn't know where they were, but that wasn't unusual. He worked in the quarry from dawn until well after sunset and came home in time for a late dinner that Gretel or Hansel prepared, usually too meager to satisfy any of their stomachs, but it was all they could afford.

Life wasn't much easier when their mother was still alive, but at least her income from laboring in the fields used to mean that they didn't need to worry about food or clothes.

Gretel looked forward to her and Hansel's sixteenth birthdays next month. They would finally be old enough to work full time and help contribute to the family's coffers. She planned to take her mother's place in the fields while Hansel talked of heading to the quarry with their father. With all three of them working, she hoped that their father didn't need to put in the long hours that he volunteered for now.

Lost in thought, Gretel stumbled upon a root that broke the surface of the road. She turned to see a nearby tree cutting the figure of a monster with claws, causing her to jump. She turned around, inspected her surroundings, and frowned.

"What's the matter?" Hansel asked, stopping suddenly behind her.

Gretel studied the street they were on and the ruins nearby. She looked for a familiar landmark but instead pointed to the crumbled remains of a fountain. "I don't remember seeing that when we came this way earlier. Do you?"

Hansel considered the fountain. With its hideous statue sticking out from the pile of stones, it was certainly an unforgettable sight. Then his gaze swept the landscape to either side. "No, this place doesn't look familiar."

"I think we're lost."

"How did that happen?" Hansel's tone clearly implied where he felt the blame lay.

"How should I know? And why is it my fault? I wasn't the only one walking along this path, you know." Gretel put her hands on her hips.

"I was just following you," her brother protested.

"But you have eyes too, don't you? If you saw that we went off course, you could've said something, but you didn't."

Hansel didn't reply. He didn't want to admit that he hadn't been paying attention to where they were going either. Ever since leaving the house where he found the flashlight, he only thought of going back to the neighborhood and discovering more treasures, along with the luxuries that selling those treasures would bring.

There was nothing wrong with occasionally daydreaming of a life of comfort for himself and his family, Hansel thought. Maybe he didn't even need to work when he turned sixteen. He could make a living scavenging for Old World artifacts to sell. The idea appealed to him more than working at the quarry or in the fields.

"Don't worry," Hansel finally said. "We'll find our way back." He turned toward the direction where the sun set, now marked by a slightly redder shade of darkness than the rest of the sky. "If that's west, then that way must be south. We'll just go in that direction until we come across something we recognize."

Gretel nodded in silence, but she started south. Hansel caught up to walk beside her rather than trail behind.

Their surroundings increasingly meshed into the night's blackness as the last glimmer of sunlight vanished behind the horizon. The few stars that peeked through patches of clouds provided their only source of light. Since they didn't expect to stay out so late, neither of them brought a torch or lantern. Their eyes strained to see a clear path to walk through, but in the darkness, they could only make out rough shapes. As much as they wanted to hurry, they carefully tread through the deserted streets. If one of them fell in the dark and suffered an injury, it would only make matters worse.

More than once, they considered using the flashlight that Hansel found. However, its battery was already weak, and if they used it up, its value would significantly decline. In the end, they both agreed that they didn't need the flashlight to find their way home.

The farther south they traveled, the closer the nearby forest loomed. In this part of town, the boundary between civilization and wilderness blurred as foliage grew unchecked in the streets and among the rubble. Each time the siblings detoured away from the woods, they soon ran into the encroaching vegetation again a block or two later.

Gretel finally broke the silence. "Do you think Dad's home yet?"

"I don't know." Hansel's attention stayed on his footsteps as he cautiously navigated via starlight.

"I hope not. I don't want him to worry about us."

Hearing the uneasiness in his sister's voice, he added, "We'll be home soon." Yet Hansel's voice lacked the reassurance that he tried to project.

The wind picked up, and the clouds increased overhead, making it more difficult for them to find their way through the darkness. A howl drifted across the wind. They attributed it to a stray wolf in the forest, hoping it wasn't anything worse.

Gretel reached for Hansel's hand, something she hadn't done since they were young children. He felt the chill in her fingers and the trembling that consumed not only her hand but her entire body. He held her hand firmly in his, sending what comfort he could muster through their contact.

Hansel was concerned but not afraid. In his mind, he still believed that they were moments away from stumbling across familiar surroundings.

Suddenly, Gretel stopped and pointed. "Look!"

Following her finger, Hansel sought the reason for her exclamation. At first, he saw only the trees in the adjoining woods. Then he slowly made out the speck of light.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's too far to tell from here."

Hansel started toward the light.

"Where are you going?" his sister asked.

"If there's someone out there, maybe they can help us find our way home."

Gretel hesitated before agreeing. "All right, but let's be careful."

"Careful is my middle name."

"Sure it is. I'm just saying, we don't know who the light belongs to. It could be someone dangerous. We should approach quietly in case it's a camp of thieves or something like that."

"Good idea, sis."

"Good idea is my middle name."

"That doesn't even make sense. Your middle name can't be two words."

"Shut up. Get going."

Instead of prolonging the argument, Hansel obeyed and headed for the light again. He felt rather than heard or saw his sister following him.

Once they traveled well inside the boundary of the woods, it became more difficult to maintain their silence. Without the ability to see where they were going, they often stepped on leaves or twigs that gave away their presence. Hansel hoped that if the light did belong to a group of dangerous people, they were louder than the two siblings.

Within minutes, it became apparent that the light was deeper inside the woods than they first thought it was. And more troubling, the source of the illumination wasn't torches or candles or lanterns. There was no camp. Instead, they saw a house in the woods.

Hansel and Gretel were soon close enough to see that the light emanated from a square window. Instead of the flickering of flames, the light offered a steady glow that reminded Hansel of the flashlight he found. The window belonged to a house that was much larger than the shelter where their family lived.

They couldn't see the rest of the house, and all of the other windows remained dark. Aside from the light, there was no indication that the house was occupied.

"What's a house doing in the middle of the woods?" Hansel wondered.

Gretel shook her head, as bewildered by the sight before her as her brother was. "Do you think we should go any closer?"

"Let's peek in through the window. I'll go take a look first, and you stay here."

"Be careful."

Hansel suppressed the urge to comment on his middle name. Instead, he crept toward the house while scanning the vicinity for signs of other people. He approached from an angle so that if someone inside chose to look out of the window, they wouldn't see him unless they knew where to look.

When he reached the corner of the house, Hansel placed a hand against the wall. It felt cool and smooth, like Old World construction. His heart beat faster at the thought that the resident might be an Old World survivor who still possessed Old World tech.

Lowering himself to a crouch, Hansel stepped to the edge of the window. He stole a quick glance inside. The room he saw appeared unoccupied. He chanced a longer look through the window and was astounded by the sight.

Hansel had seen pictures of how a typical home used to look from Old World magazines that had survived. The sight that greeted his eyes resembled those images.

A sofa and a table sat in the middle of the room. Unlike the few pieces of tattered furniture that his family possessed, these looked brand new. There were no tears in the cushions of the sofa that Hansel could see, and the table shined with a layer of polish.

Across from the sofa was a large, flat, rectangular panel affixed to the wall. The panel displayed a uniform gray background, but Hansel had a feeling that he knew what it was. A television! He had heard of such things from his father, but he had never seen one with his own eyes.

As astounding as the furnishings was the source of the light that drew them to the house. Hansel saw two lamps on either side of the room. Both gave off a brilliance that matched a sunny day. How did the house's occupant manage to keep all of these Old World items working and in such pristine shape?

He had to tell Gretel about his discovery. Abandoning any pretense of stealth, Hansel ran back to his sister.

Gasping for breath as he stopped before her, he nearly shouted, "You've got to see this! It's wonderful, all of the stuff inside. You won't believe it!"

Gretel didn't have a chance to respond before Hansel pulled her by the hand to the window.

The same sense of wonder swept across Gretel's face as she stared into the house.

"How?" she uttered, too speechless to say more.

"I don't know, but I want to meet whoever lives here." Hansel hurried past the window to the only door he saw. Gretel didn't stop him or caution him against his reckless action.

He rapped his knuckles on the door, noticing the resonance it produced against the sturdy wood surface. A few seconds passed without a response from inside the house, so Hansel knocked again. More seconds came and went.

"There's no one home," Gretel said.

Hansel tried once more, thumping his hand against the door harder than the first two times. The door eased open a crack.

The siblings exchanged glances that carried opposite intentions. Hansel pushed the door open wider, but his sister hissed, "No! We can't just barge in."

"They left the door open. That's an invitation for visitors to enter."

"I highly doubt it. I'm sure they never even thought they would get visitors."

Ignoring his sister, Hansel stepped inside. "Hello?" he shouted into the house. Receiving no answer, he took another step into the entryway. "Is anyone here?" Talking to the empty air, he continued, "We don't mean to trespass, but your door was open."

To one side of the entryway, Hansel saw an unlit hallway. The room that he viewed through the window was on the opposite side. Soothing strains of music flowed from the room, too quiet to be heard through the window. The melody was hypnotic and unlike anything he had heard before.

Hesitantly, Gretel walked through the door too, shutting it closed behind her. She wandered into the room, admiring the artifacts she saw.

"This is amazing!" She sat gently on the sofa. "Wow, this is more comfortable than anything I've ever sat on." Gretel closed her eyes and settled deeper into the cushions.

When she opened them, she found Hansel on all fours next to the far wall. "What are you doing?"

He lifted his head. In his hands, he held a beige cord. "I'm trying to figure out how these lights are working. Where is the power coming from?"

Uninterested in her brother's investigation, Gretel tuned him out and closed her eyes again. She wished that this was their home.

The sound of a door opening and closing startled both of them to alertness. A light came on in the hallway and from it, an elderly woman shuffled into view.

"Who's there?" the woman asked. She squinted in the direction of the siblings. "Who are you?"

Gretel jumped up from the sofa. "I'm so sorry to intrude. My brother and I got lost and saw your house. We knocked on the door, but no one answered. Your door was open, and we didn't know if anyone was inside. I know that's not a good excuse to trespass, and I apologize for both of us. If you can point us in the direction we need to go, we'll leave you alone immediately."

Instead of scolding them, the woman greeted her intruders. "There's no need for you to leave so soon. I rarely get visitors anymore, and anyone who drops by is a welcomed guest."

"That's very generous of you, but we're still sorry to enter uninvited. We won't bother you."

"It's no bother." The woman waved the siblings to sit on the sofa. She smiled briefly, but then her mouth drew downward into a sad frown. "I'm the last of my friends or family to survive, and it's been lonely living here by myself."

Gretel began to feel sorry for the woman. With her obviously deteriorating physical condition, she was likely confined to this house in the middle of nowhere. If everyone she knew had already passed away, Gretel doubted that anyone else came of visit the woman.

She wondered how the elderly woman managed to survive for so long on her own. Hansel thought the same thing, blurting out, "How do you feed yourself if you live alone?"

Gretel's face flushed in embarrassment at her brother's frank question, but the woman kindly answered, "I maintain a garden in the back yard. Sometimes I'm also lucky enough to catch food in my traps."

Gretel was surprised to hear that the old woman set animal traps to catch her food. Perhaps she wasn't as frail and helpless as she appeared.

"How inhospitable of me," the woman said suddenly. "I should have offered you two something to eat or drink. Where are my manners?" She turned to go back down the hall.

Gretel wanted to protest, but she knew hunger for too long to turn away an offer of food. From the longing on his face, she could tell that Hansel also anticipated whatever the woman planned to provide.

A moment later, the elderly woman reappeared with a tray holding three cups and a plate of pastries. She passed a cup to each sibling and set the pastries in front of them. Holding the third cup in her hands, she watched Hansel and Gretel devour the food.

Never in their lives had either teen eaten such richly delicious food. Even the drink was delightful, a sweet concoction that made their taste buds dance for joy.

After finishing her pastry and drink, Gretel felt guilty about rudely gulping down the old woman's offerings without thanking her. However, as she began to speak, she found her brain turning foggy and her mouth unresponsive. Alarmed, she turned to Hansel and saw his unconscious body lying on the sofa.

Gretel wanted to ask the woman for help, but the old, wrinkled hag only chuckled.

* * *

The coldness of metal bars pressing against her face woke Gretel up. Bright lights assaulted her eyes, and she waited for her vision to adjust.

All around her, Gretel saw bars as thick as her finger. Above her, below her, and to every side. She was inside a cage, larger than the dog cages her neighbors used but not quite large enough for her to stand upright. The cage was inside a room as large as her family's home, and there was nothing else inside except for more cages, some stacked on top of others. Almost all of the cages, however, were empty. The only other unoccupied cage held her brother's still form.

"Hansel!"

The boy turned, hitting his arm against the side of his enclosure. Instantly, he woke up. Startled by his surroundings, Hansel stammered, "What? Where?"

"Hansel," Gretel repeated. When her brother's focus finally found her, she asked, "Are you all right?"

Hansel ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes. "I think so. What happened?"

"The old woman made us fall asleep."

"The old woman? She put us in here? Why?"

"I don't know."

Before she could add more, the door to their room opened, and the elderly woman stepped inside.

"Finally awake, children?"

She approached Hansel's cage first. The woman squinted at him as if to assess his condition. Nodding slowly, she walked toward Gretel. She reached inside her pocket for a set of keys. The woman tried to fit one into the lock without success, then fumbled for another. The second key unlocked the cage's door.

As soon as the door opened, Gretel burst out, but the old woman brought her hand up to Gretel's arm.

The girl screamed in pain and fell to the ground.

"Gretel!" Hansel shouted. "What have you done with her?"

Instead of answering, the old woman bent down at the waist to address Gretel. "Don't try anything else, girl, or it'll be even more painful next time." She held out the source of the punishment for Gretel to see.

The device was unlike anything Gretel had encountered before. It was small enough to fit in the woman's hand and roughly rectangular with two prongs at the end. Obviously Old World tech. Not wishing to endure the excruciating pain again, Gretel nodded her comprehension of the woman's warning.

Reaching into another pocket, the old woman pulled out a spool of twine. She thrust the spool into Gretel's hands. Holding her torture device at the ready, she said, "I'm going to open your brother's door. I want you to go inside and tie him up. Make sure he's bound tightly. If not, I'll stun both of you. And don't even think of trying to escape. Got it?"

"Yes," Gretel replied weakly. She still felt woozy from the first dose the old woman gave her.

On her initial try this time, the woman successfully unlocked Hansel's cage. Gretel and Hansel shared a quick look, both agreeing to follow the woman's commands for the time being. Gretel unwound the spool and began binding her brother. She didn't tie him up as tightly as she was asked to, but she hoped the old woman's failing vision wouldn't allow her to see that. For added effect, Hansel complained about how Gretel cut off his circulation.

Once satisfied that the girl accomplished her task, the elderly woman let both of them out of the cage. She directed the siblings out of the room, down a short hallway, and into another room.

This room didn't have a door, and it was larger than either of the other two other rooms that Hansel and Gretel were in before. A large box-shaped island stood near the far wall. Its metal exterior gleamed under the lights. An inverted funnel sat above the box, its chimney-like pipe leading up to the roof.

A counter with a sink lined one wall, and other appliances lined another, forming an L shape with the counter. Gretel decided that they were in the kitchen, although she wasn't familiar with all of the appliances present.

Unexpectedly, the old woman pressed her device against Hansel's neck. He yelped, his body shook, and then he collapsed to the ground.

"What did you do?" Gretel shrieked.

"He'll be easier to manage if he's unconscious," the woman calmly replied.

"Easier to manage?" Gretel feared what the woman meant.

"Yes, to cook."

The blood drained from Gretel's face. Even under the worst scenarios she played out in her mind, she hadn't imagined what the woman proposed. She originally thought the woman was somehow associated with a band of criminals, and she was holding the two siblings captive until the rest of her group returned. Now, Gretel didn't dare imagine what kind of monster the woman truly was.

"Are you insane? You can't cook him!"

Without any trace of repulsion, the old woman answered, "Of course, I can. A lad as big as him will make for good eating for days to come. I haven't feasted on human flesh in ages."

Gretel recalled what the woman said about eating animals that she captured in her trap. Was that what they were, trapped animals destined to become the woman's dinner?

Her first instinct was to run. Even armed with the Old World tech, the woman couldn't harm her if she couldn't catch her. But Gretel also couldn't leave her brother in the house knowing what the old woman intended to do.

Instead, she asked, "After you eat Hansel, will you eat me too?"

"Eventually," the woman answered casually, as if the girl had asked about the weather. "It depends on how you behave. I've needed a servant for a while, since I ate my last one." She chuckled at the thought. "If you're good, I'll keep you around. Maybe you can attract other people to this house, and I won't need to eat you for a long, long time."

Gretel swallowed hard. "What do you want me to do?"

The elderly woman walked toward the metal box, and Gretel followed. "First, we need to start up the grill. It's been a while since I last used it, so it might take some work to light." She pointed to the lid of the box. "Lift the cover."

Gretel did as she was asked, revealing an opening atop the grill large enough to fit her brother. She bent over the side and peered into the opening. There was a pit three feet deep. A rack sat at the bottom of the pit, and under it was a layer of ashes. Gretel didn't want to think of where the ashes came from.

"The tricky part of getting the grill going is the pilot light," the woman said. Gretel didn't know what a pilot light was, but she didn't say a word. The old woman continued, "It's near the bottom of the pit, and you have to manually light it with this."

She handed Gretel a stick and showed her how to ignite it. Gretel jumped as a small flame appeared at the end of the stick with the push of a button.

"I'm not as agile as I used to be, so you'll have to reach down and light it. Tell me when you do, and then I'll turn up the heat from here." The woman's hand reached for a knob at the side of the grill.

Gretel took the fire stick from the woman's hand. She wondered if she could hurt the woman with it and escape with Hansel. No, the flame from the stick was too small and no match for what the old woman held in her other hand.

"Just light it with this?" Gretel asked, stalling the inevitable.

"Yes. It'll be your first test as my new servant."

Gretel crawled on top of the grill. She looked around the pit for where the pilot light might be. "I don't see it," she called out.

"It's to your left, on the bottom near the rack."

Protruding from the ash-covered side of the pit was a pipe that must have been the pilot light. Gretel reached the stick down to the pipe and flicked it on. At first, nothing happened. She was about to inform the old woman when a flame burst to life. It was small, no bigger than the red and orange bulb that sprang from the end of the fire stick.

Then Gretel decided what she had to do. Instead of reporting her success, she said, "It's not working. The fire won't light."

"Move the flame closer to the opening."

Gretel grunted as she pretended to extend her arm to its limit. "I did. It's still not working."

"You must be incompetent!" the old woman growled. "I've never had a servant who couldn't even light the pilot."

"Can you help me?"

"How am I supposed to do that?"

Gretel reached out her hand. "I'll pull you up here so you can show me what I need to do."

"I'm not getting up there."

Gretel sighed in exasperation. "Then I guess we're never going to cook my brother."

The elderly woman paused to reconsider. Then she held out one hand. "Help me up, but don't pull too hard or I'll stun you."

"Yes, of course."

Gretel held the woman's hand in both of hers. She pulled the woman toward her until most of her body was on top of the grill. Then, hoping the woman wouldn't notice, she slid off.

"Here, let me help your legs up." Gretel shoved both of the woman's legs into the air.

"Not so rough!" the old woman complained.

Ignoring her, Gretel continued to push the woman's body further onto the grill.

"What are you doing? Stop pushing!"

With one final shove, Gretel threw the woman into the pit. The woman cursed her worthless servant, but Gretel blocked out the noise. She lifted the cover over the grill, sealing the opening. The old woman tried to push and kick it aside, so Gretel jumped back atop the grill. She sat on the lid while the woman banged mercilessly against it from underneath.

Reaching across the surface of the grill but keeping most of her weight on the lid, Gretel turned the knob that she saw the woman playing with earlier.

A scream tore through the room, threatening to shake the walls to their foundations. The banging against the cover intensified. Gretel didn't know if she could keep it in place.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the screams stopped. Gretel felt no more movement under her.

She continued to sit on the cover until the heat from the pit became unbearable.

Finally, Gretel scampered off the grill, but she kept the fire burning inside. There were no sounds or movement from the pit.

She ran to Hansel to check on his condition. With a shake of the shoulders, his eyes blinked before closing again. "Don't move," Gretel told her brother when he finally regained consciousness. "I'll cut you loose."

She searched for a knife in the kitchen. As she went through the cabinets and drawers, Gretel opened a wide pantry door next to the sink. She was amazed at what she found. Piled in neat rows were cans of preserved meat, fruits, and vegetables. Jars of jam, pickled vegetables, and other less easily identifiable foods sat on shelves above the cans. There was enough to feed her family for months. It must be how the woman survived in the absence of human flesh.

"What's that smell?" Hansel asked when he was free.

"You don't want to know. But you'll want to see this." Gretel helped him to his feet and led him to the pantry. His eyes grew bigger than when he first looked through the window of the house.

As Gretel briefed her brother on what transpired, Hansel's expression turned from fear to revulsion to relief. Suddenly, his eyes brightened. "With the old woman gone, do you think we can keep all of this for ourselves?"

"I don't see why not?" Gretel answered. "She said that she had no other living friends or relatives."

Hansel licked his lips at the thought of tasting the food before him, but there was even more to it. "Think of it. With all of the Old World artifacts inside this house, we've stumbled upon a treasure trove. We're set for life!"

Gretel smiled. She couldn't agree more. "Set for life is my middle name."

She hushed him and passed him a can of food before he had a chance to speak.

# About H.S. Stone

Even before he could read, H.S. Stone wanted to write a book. Fascinated by the stories that seemed to leap from his kindergarten teacher's books, he went home and wrote his own book, with illustrations and bound by staples. Of course, since he didn't know how to read or write yet, the book was full of gibberish.

Undaunted, H.S. eventually mastered the ABC's and continued to write throughout his grade school years, adolescence, and into adulthood. Despite earning a degree and working in a field not related to writing, he continued to pursue his writing passion.

Numbers Plus Four, a collection of five short stories, was H.S. Stone's first publication. He has since published a Middle Grade novel, George and the Galactic Games, and two Young Adult books, In the Hands of Children and Beyond New Eden.

H.S. Stone lives with his family in the San Francisco Bay Area.

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#  Flight

Zoe Cannon

"Adi nu'um vit nara—"

A breeze disturbed the still air to rustle the pages of Lucia's book. Lucia didn't bother to smile. Yes, the incantation had worked, but it was nothing impressive. Nothing new. Nothing beyond the same basic exercise she had practiced in this square of grass behind her parents' bakery a thousand times before.

She bit her lip in concentration. If she changed the inflection, maybe, and combined these words with a piece taken from one of the book's other far-too-elementary spells...

"Adi nu'um vit nara ianne _ke_ —"

The breeze stopped.

Lucia scowled at the pages, as if they could be blamed for her failure. If only she had a better book. If only she... In a gesture she had repeated at least once every day for as long as she could remember, she cast a longing gaze north, at the tower barely visible in the distance. Qurilan Mari—the Mages' Tower. Her own futile dream, the dream she couldn't banish from her mind.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Slow and heavy—her father. She slammed the book closed and pushed herself to her feet.

As he stopped, she scowled, clutching the book to her chest protectively. "I've finished the afternoon's work. You said that in my free time I could—"

Her father held up a hand to stop her. Only then did she notice the grayish tint to his face, the grim line of his lips. "I have something to tell you."

"What happened?" She tensed, instantly ashamed of her initial reaction. "Is anyone hurt?" Her mother... her sister... Fear sank sharp teeth into her heart.

"No, no. Nothing like that." He hesitated. His voice took on a formal cast, as if he wanted to distance himself from the words. "We've found a way to send you to Qurilan Mari. You will leave today. There are men inside waiting to escort you."

Qurilan Mari.

The words echoed through her, replacing her thoughts, replacing her heartbeat. The words, and everything they meant. Days filled with nothing but silence and study. Instruction from the most talented mages in the kingdom. The chance to finally, _finally,_ learn something beyond the rudimentary lessons she had practiced for years.

But the Mages' Tower had never been within her reach. Magic was a rich man's lark; Qurilan Mari was not for bakers' daughters. Her parents would need magic of their own to make the Tower accept her—and even if they could, why would they? Hadn't they told her time and time again that her dreams did nothing but distract her from her work?

"Qurilan Mari," she repeated, to be sure she hadn't misunderstood. "How?"

Her father avoided her gaze. "They're waiting." He started toward the bakery, motioning her to follow.

If she were the daughter her parents deserved, she would have asked him what had caused the blood to drain from his cheeks, and why he wouldn't meet her eyes. She would have asked him what he had given up to make this happen. She would have insisted he not make this sacrifice, whatever it was, for her sake. But she was selfish, and the thought of giving up her dream now that it had landed so impossibly close to her grasp sealed her lips shut. Shame flushed her face as she followed him through the bakery and into the back room. But she remained silent.

Her mother sat in her customary chair, tears staining her face. She flinched away from Lucia as if the sight of her daughter hurt her. Beside her, Lucia's sister Marisela tilted her chin up with a superior smirk. She started to speak; their mother silenced her with a sharp squeeze of her hand.

Two men leaned against the far wall. Their armor gleamed silver in the sunlight that poured through the window; the jewels set into the pommels of their swords shone just as brightly.

Swords?

She spoke the question aloud before she could stop herself. "What do mages need with swords?"

"Mages?" repeated one of the men, a stormy expression crossing his face. "Are you trying to insult us?"

The other man spoke at the same moment, his voice as bewildered as Lucia's own. "What do soldiers need with magic?"

Fear prickled up Lucia's spine.

Qurilan Mari had no soldiers.

She squinted at the men—and there it was, painted across their chests, plainly obvious if only she hadn't been too blinded by dreams to see. The sigil of the Crown.

These men had nothing to do with Qurilan Mari.

Her parents were handing her over to the king's soldiers.

She whirled to her mother, then to her father, a million questions in her eyes. Her mother only wept harder. Her father looked away as he mumbled an answer. "They heard of your beauty. They said the kingdom needed you. We had no choice."

Confusion, for a brief moment, covered the knife wound of betrayal. "They heard of my beauty? Are you joking? If you had said they'd heard of my strangeness, I would believe it, but in all my life I've never heard anyone talk about my beauty. Marisela is the one—"

She stopped as the knife pierced her heart a second time.

Her voice went flat. "You're offering me in Marisela's place."

"You're every bit as beautiful as your sister," her father assured her, as if that were what mattered. "You'll serve the kingdom well. I'm sure of it."

"I'm the one you can afford to be rid of, is that it?" Pain sharpened her words. "The one who won't accept her place. The one people talk about."

"We love you, Lucia," her mother said through her tears.

Neither of them looked at her.

"You've said your goodbyes," the stormy-faced soldier said, already striding to the door. "It's time to go."

Half of her wanted to run into her father's arms and beg him to protect her.

Half of her wanted to scream, _I'm glad to be rid of you!_

So she said nothing, did nothing, as the soldiers led her away.

* * *

Someone stronger would have fought. Someone braver—or, Lucia told herself in consolation, someone whose bravery ran to foolishness—would have screamed defiance all the way to the palace. Someone with the training she craved, who had at least gotten the chance to study more than a single elementary book of spells, would have escaped the second they stepped out the door. But Lucia was weak and afraid and untrained, so she followed numbly, unresisting as a doll, as the soldiers escorted her through the palace gates. As a fluttering woman draped her in a gown with too many frills and caked her face with too much paint. As a silent servant led her into the throne room.

The servant motioned her to her knees as she approached the gold-lined throne, where the king sat in a robe more elaborate than the ridiculous gown the woman had stuffed her into. She knelt and fixed her eyes on the carpet. It should have been Marisela kneeling here. How many times, as they kneaded dough side by side, had Marisela dreamed aloud about the day she would meet the king and the handsome Prince Rikkan? Marisela would have fainted in sheer delight before she had taken two steps into the palace. But all Lucia could feel was numbness giving way to twinned rage and fear. How long had it taken her parents to make their choice—to offer their difficult daughter, their prickly solitary single-minded daughter, in place of the pliable flirt with the harmless dreams every girl in the village shared?

The king's jovial voice boomed up from his belly. "Don't be shy. Look at me. Show me your beautiful face."

Slowly, reluctantly, she looked up, tilting her painted face toward his beady eyes.

"I sent my soldiers for the most beautiful girl in the kingdom, and clearly they have found her." His fat cheeks swelled as he smiled too broadly. "Your beauty is, without a doubt, the jewel of the kingdom."

She tried to return his smile. She bit her lip to keep from answering—to keep from saying, _You obviously haven't met my sister Marisela,_ or asking, _But what am I_ doing _here?_

The king's voice lowered the tiniest bit, a soft boom replacing a large one. "What I'm about to tell you is something only my closest advisers and most trusted soldiers know. I have sentenced men to punishments unsuitable for a lady like you to hear of for daring to breathe a word of it outside the palace." His smile faded as sadness creased his face. "You may have heard that Prince Rikkan is unwell, that for the past year he has been confined to his bed. In fact, an enemy of the crown has laid a horrible curse on my son, twisting him—body and mind—into a monstrous creature, vicious and inhuman."

A gasp escaped Lucia despite herself. Like everyone else in the kingdom, she had heard of the prince's illness. Marisela had cried for days when the news had reached their village, while others had worried over the implications of potentially losing the heir to the throne. No one had suspected the story was merely a cover for something much worse.

Sympathy pushed aside her resentment. Surely even the betrayal she had faced couldn't compare to the fate the prince had met. But it still didn't answer her question—why had the king brought her here? He couldn't have sent his soldiers out to abduct the most beautiful girl in the kingdom simply so he could confide his grief to her.

"I have spoken with the Elders of Qurilan Mari," the king continued. "They could do nothing for him, even after I made clear to them the consequences of failure. The curse, they said, was cast by a mage of immense power, one whose abilities eclipsed even their own. But they were able to give me one small bit of hope." He leaned in closer, but didn't lower his voice. "They were able to determine that the prince's affliction follows the pattern of the terrible curses from long ago, the spells that have not been seen since before the first Elders stamped out such magic from the land. And just as in the ancient stories, the curse has one weakness—it can be broken by a kiss from one who stirs the prince's heart."

He paused and eyed Lucia expectantly, as if expecting her to clasp her hands and swoon.

A burst of hysterical laughter nearly escaped Lucia's lips. He had brought her here for this? To stir the prince's heart? When the village boys passed her by unseeing on their way to trail after Marisela like a litter of lost puppies? When she sent away, without exception, those few whose eyes did rest on her, because they had the wits of the same? He might as well have brought her here to rule the kingdom—she would have as much success with one as with the other.

While she tried to work out how to say all this in words that wouldn't offend a king, he continued. "I only have to look at you to see that you will be the one to win my son's heart. You will free him from this curse, and in return, you will become his future queen." He leaned in even closer, balancing precariously on the edge of his throne—watching, perhaps, for the swooning. "You will live your life in luxury, with servants to attend your every need and all the fine gowns your heart could desire. You will be the envy of every girl in the kingdom!"

The envy of her sister, for certain. She bit back another mad bark of laughter. Marisela would no longer be so smug once she learned what being the favored daughter had cost her.

"I am grateful for this opportunity," Lucia said carefully. "But it would be better for both of us, I think, if you were to give this task to someone more suited for it. Someone whose skills run to seduction and whose tastes run to fine gowns."

The king waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "I understand your fear. The thought of facing the mindless creature the prince has become, armed with nothing more than your beauty and the power of your love, must be almost more than your gentle heart can take. But surely a girl as lovely as yourself must have learned that your feminine charms are the most powerful weapon of all."

Marisela would have understood his words, and rushed to do his bidding. Marisela knew how to use beauty as a weapon. Lucia... Lucia could make the air stir on a still day, or light a candle without flame. What use those skills would be in winning someone's heart, she couldn't hope to guess. Certainly none of the village boys had found her odd interests appealing.

"But if your nerve fails, you need only remember this: You were not the first to be brought here... although you are certainly the loveliest." He cast his jolly smile on her again, this time with too many teeth. "The others could tell you, were they... available to do so, that the price of failure is such that any rejection or injury you may face at the hands of the prince would be preferable."

A chill spread through Lucia's body.

The king's smile grew still broader. Something hard glinted in his crinkled eyes. "You understand, yes?"

_But I can't do what you're asking,_ she wanted to protest. _I don't know how._

The king kept smiling.

Lucia bobbed her head. "I understand."

"Wonderful." The king clapped his hands. "In that case, I see no reason to delay." He motioned to the servant who had brought Lucia here. "Take her to the prince's chambers."

* * *

Lucia counted the locks as the servant unfastened them with shaking fingers. One, two, three... her count reached six before the door, as thick as her thigh, swung open on creaking hinges.

A different girl would have taken off running, would have offered a protest so eloquent that the king couldn't help but be moved. A different girl would have waltzed into the room with a tilt of her head and a sway of her hips, confident in the success of her mission. But she was Lucia, good for nothing but her small attempts at magic, and when the servant took hold of her shoulders and propelled her into the room, she let him.

He disappeared into the corridor; the door slammed shut. Behind her, the locks snapped back into place, one by one.

Candles in every corner illuminated the ruined chamber. A once-fine couch, its lush fabric now marred by what looked like—she shrank back—claw marks, sat directly ahead of her. To its side, a chair lay in pieces, as if it had tried to take on too much weight. Shreds of fabric sealed the windows against any hint of light. And in the corner, a table piled high with—

Oh.

Forgetting herself, she rushed to the table. She picked up one book, then another, handling each as if they were the royal crown itself. This one couldn't have come from anywhere but the vault of Qurilan Mari, and _that_ one—oh, that one, with its gilded pages and crumbling spine, could only be a relic of the time before the Elders raised the Tower. And that one on the bottom, with its haphazard scrawls, had to be a journal of some sort—priceless, one of a kind. A sharp pang of longing shot through her as she flipped through the journal, struggling to decipher the script.

" _Get out."_

The low growl filled the room like thunder, sending the journal tumbling to the table. Lucia's head jerked up.

The prince—or what had once been the prince—stood before her.

Fur dotted his skin in mangy tufts; the furless patches gleamed with golden scales. Claws as long as Lucia's fingers curled off his twisted hands. Teeth a wolf would envy jutted unevenly from a mouth that couldn't contain them. Ram's horns scraped along the ceiling despite the way he had lowered his head toward Lucia as if considering her for a meal.

_Run,_ her mind screamed. She forced her quivering legs to hold their ground.

"Prince Rikkan." Her voice shook.

Another growl, wordless this time, was the creature's only reply.

She studied the monster in front of her, counting her breaths to keep her mind from collapsing into jelly. _This is magic. That's all it is. Another spell to figure out._ How much of the prince remained in him? Should she talk to him as a wild animal, or as a boy? Not that it mattered—she didn't have the first idea how to tame either.

"It's all right." She steadied her voice, pretending to a calm she didn't feel. "Your father sent me to help you."

The creature bared his teeth and snarled. This time his voice shook the walls. _"Get out!"_

Lucia shuddered, but remembered the king's warning about the price of failure and held her ground. "Shh." She patted the air with her hand. "Shh, it's all right." Soothing him like she would a vicious dog, because dealing with a vicious dog was easier than dealing with a boy.

But no one, of course, would expect her to kiss the dog.

She stared at his mouth—at the warning curl of his lips, the knife-sharp points of his teeth. Panic roiled in her belly. She glanced over her shoulder at the door. But she couldn't overcome six locks on her own—and if the guards let her out, if they returned her to the king, how would he punish her for her failure?

"You don't have to go on like this." Soft. Careful. "I can break your curse. All you have to do is kiss me, and this nightmare can be over." Whether his nightmare or hers, she didn't say.

" _I won't warn you again."_

Maybe if she could move quickly enough... if she could reach that terrifying mouth before his claws found her... Her legs turned to water at the thought. But what choice did she have?

She took a breath—and darted forward.

He howled in rage. He thrust his arms toward her, and she cried out in anticipation of claws sinking into flesh. Her feet left the floor—he had skewered her with his claws, lifted her clear off the ground and over his head—she would die here at the crazed hands of a cursed prince—

But no pain came.

She opened her eyes.

She hovered in the center of the room, her head brushing the ceiling. All around her, wind whispered where no wind should be, tickling her feet as it held her aloft. But the window coverings, mere feet away, didn't so much as twitch.

The prince stood before her—below her—with his arms at his sides, his claws unbloodied.

Magic.

But... no. It made no sense. Even she, untrained as she was, knew what magic required. And his howl of rage, however loud, could never have been mistaken for the magical tongue.

"You didn't use an incantation," she protested, her fear shocked out of her for the moment.

A sharp gesture of his warped hands, and the wind began to pick up speed. No longer tickling, it crawled along the soles of her feet like ants as it pulled her toward the window.

Did he intend to toss her out? From this height? But curiosity silenced the alarm she should have felt. "This is just a simple wind spell. Stronger than most, and more controlled, but it's still a wind spell. And wind spells always begin with naming the nature of the air: adi nu'um vit nara—"

The prince's jaw went slack. The air under her feet gave an audible _snap_ as his concentration broke.

Lucia had only an instant to register what that meant before she tumbled to the floor in a heap of limbs and ruffles.

"You know magic?" His voice still thrummed deep in his throat, but it no longer held the same menace. He tilted his head and regarded her with his slitted eyes, and she had a flash of herself discovering his books a moment ago. The look in her eyes, she imagined, must have been much the same.

She couldn't keep the ache from her voice as she answered. "Not enough."

"Have you studied at the Tower?" Something strange, and strangely familiar, colored his words.

She shook her head. "Qurilan Mari... isn't for people like me."

"Or for princes." And now she recognized what she heard in his voice. It was her own longing, reflected back at her by this fearsome monster—no longer so fearsome now.

"You don't need what the Elders can teach you!" Lucia protested as she pushed herself to her feet. "What you've just done... magic without an incantation... the Elders would pay any amount for you to teach _them_."

"This one thing, yes." He lowered his head, but the movement didn't strike her as predatory this time. "But there's so much more for me to learn. I've only scratched the surface of what's possible. I hear the Elders have perfected a way of causing magical effects hundreds of miles from the source. And that wind spell—it could be amplified for _flight_ , I know it could, if only I could figure out how. I've spent months altering and re-altering it in my journals, and still nothing. If I weren't trying to work it all out myself, with only the books I've managed to have smuggled in..."

Lucia didn't know if his words were still meant for her, or simply a well-worn track of private frustration. Either way... to hear what could have been her own words coming from someone else's lips... She listened in mute astonishment.

"He used to burn the books he found." Some long-held wound darkened his eyes. "If he caught me practicing, if he so much as heard me murmuring the magical tongue under my breath, he would beat me until I couldn't walk. Magic isn't _useful_ for a prince, you see, or for a king." He spat the clearly-hated word. "Only in this past year, with six locks keeping me from my duties as prince, have I been able to study in peace. I can even leave my books out in the open now, if I want—he's too afraid to come to me himself, after what happened the first time he tried, and the servants know better than to report anything he doesn't want to hear."

_This past year._ The words hit Lucia like a dash of cold water, shaking her out of her daze of fascination. This past year—since the curse had taken hold. Shock and sympathy had driven it all from her mind—his twisted body, his animal voice, the king's threat—but that one reminder brought it all back.

She wanted nothing more than to talk with him forever, to confess her own longing, to discover how he had done the impossible. But her purpose here hadn't changed.

And she knew the consequences of failure.

Once she broke the curse, once she saved him from his magic-marred body and escaped the king's wrath, they could have all the conversations in the world. After all, hadn't the king promised her marriage to the prince as her reward? She could live with a lifetime of painted faces and ruffled gowns if it meant learning the things he knew, if it meant sharing her dreams with someone who understood.

Now. It had to be now. Before he realized he had dropped his guard.

She ran at him. One step, another, almost there—his whiskers brushed her cheeks, and—

His roar seared her skin. From behind the torn fabric, a window shattered. The sound of splintering wood followed close behind as the door exploded outward.

" _Get out!"_ The floor shook with his bellow.

This time, she obeyed—as fast as her legs would take her.

* * *

The king had given her the suite next to Rikkan's. A door connected the two, a door the servant had broken his silence to point out to her, though she doubtless would have noticed anyway from the faint growls and mutters that issued through the walls. Whether her nearness to the prince was meant as an enticement or a threat, she couldn't say. The latter, she suspected—it certainly wouldn't be the king's only oblique threat. After Rikkan had expelled her from his rooms, the king had peppered his sympathy with more than enough hints as to what awaited her if she failed a second time.

She glanced at the exit that led to the corridor. Unlike Rikkan's door—which had already been replaced by the time the servant had led her to her rooms—hers had only one lock. Not that the difference did her any good—one lock, plus the guards pacing back and forth in the corridor, trapped her as surely as six would have. The window offered no help; the height had sent her stomach spinning with dizziness the one time she had dared to look. There would be no escape. Her captivity would only end with her success—or with her failure.

The door that connected her rooms to Rikkan's had no lock.

Marisela would have walked through the door already, and won the kiss she had come here for. If Lucia tried to do the same, no doubt Rikkan would simply send her into the air again—or out the window this time—with his impossible silent magic.

He had done it so casually, as if it meant nothing. A form of magic unknown to the Elders of Qurilan Mari—unknown, perhaps, to every other mage in the world. What kind of brilliance must it have taken, for him to have found the solution to a problem that had stymied the world's great mages for centuries—and to have done so with no formal training?

She glared at the door.

Marisela would know how to make him want to kiss her.

She shook her head sharply. What was this new resentment, when she had never envied her sister's talents before? What was this new longing, whispering from the same corner of her soul that drove her gaze to Qurilan Mari every day? Surely, when even the most handsome village boys had held no appeal for her, she didn't want a kiss from the monster behind that door—from those scaled lips, that fanged mouth. Surely she didn't crave the attentions of someone whose voice had filled with rage at the very thought of her lips on his—someone who had rebuffed her even knowing, as he had to know, that her kiss would end the horror of his curse.

In any case, it made no difference. He would never let her near him.

How many chances would the king give her before he decided he would be better off with the next most beautiful girl in the kingdom?

She strode to the window. Leaning her hands against the sill, she forced herself to look down. Her stomach flipped at the sight, faint in the moonlight but still more than clear enough, of trees the size of dolls' toys. An owl flew in lazy circles below her, offering a cruel demonstration of the impossibility of her escape.

Flying.

What had the prince said earlier, about the wind spell?

No. Impossible. Rikkan, in all his brilliance, hadn't worked out how to modify the spell even after months of work. And she had never worked magic that advanced, had never done anything beyond the simple exercises in that one tattered book.

But how long had it taken her to learn those spells? Two days? Three? Her studies had been stunted, yes, but not from lack of talent. If she had his journals...

Impossible.

Maybe. But more of a chance than she had now.

The muttering on the other side of the door had turned to soft snores. If she was going to take this chance, it needed to be now.

Gently, a fraction at a time, she eased the door open. She paused with every creak, heart pounding in her ears, waiting for the telltale break in the prince's snores that would let her know she had woken him. But the silence she feared didn't come. When the door had opened wide enough for her to pass, she squeezed herself through, into the bedroom that led off from the chamber where their disastrous first meeting had taken place.

The bedroom hadn't survived the prince's curse any better than the adjoining room had. His claws had torn the mattress nearly to shreds; even as she watched, he raked a new hole into his pillow as he twitched in the throes of some dream. Scraps of robes that reminded her of the king's—most of the prince's wardrobe, she imagined—littered the floor, sliced into far more deliberate strips.

The prince gave a soft whimper; his claws dug deeper into the pillow. For a brief instant, the absurd urge to wake him from his nightmare took hold of Lucia. She turned away. She wasn't here to watch him sleep, and the longer she lingered, the more likely he was to discover her intrusion.

She tiptoed past the bed and out into the next room, until she reached the table of books that had distracted her on her first visit. Her stomach gave another flip, of excitement this time, as she carefully extracted the first journal from the stack.

With the window coverings sealing the room against the slightest sliver of moonlight, the pages showed nothing but a mass of gray lines. After several moments' worth of frustrated squinting, she risked whispering a brief incantation under her breath. Instantly, the candle at the edge of the table flared to life. She cast a tense glance toward the bedroom, but saw no movement, heard no sounds of waking. Lowering herself to the ruined couch, she opened the journal to a random page somewhere near the middle.

Deciphering the prince's handwriting—a twisted script that had to be the result of his efforts to write around the claws—took long enough that she feared dawn would come before she had managed to make sense of a single word. But once she figured out that first word, the next one came easier, and the next easier still, until soon she found herself reading the journal as quickly as an ordinary book. And he had written so much. A spell for heating or cooling the air, a spell for breathing water, the beginnings of a spell for invisibility... so many things she had ached for the Elders to teach her, and so many more they had doubtless never thought of.

With reluctance, she wrenched herself from his inventions and began to skim through the remainder of the journal, searching only for references to the wind spell. It didn't take her long to find. His work on the spell took up the full final third of the journal, his other experiments ceasing as he poured all his attention into finding this one solution. Had he hoped to use it to escape his own captivity?

The rhythmic growl of his snores faded away as she lost herself in the text. Here he had written out the incantation—and yes, _there_ was the part she had been missing, the thing that had caused her spell to fail on that last day behind the bakery. But here he had begun to copy the same words, and then had crossed them out, filling the remainder of the page with indecipherable... no, not indecipherable after all. Those weren't words. They were _pictures._ Rudimentary drawings to indicate hand gestures, each movement of the wrists and fingers meant to represent some piece of the magical tongue. On the next page, half the gestures remained the same, while the other half had been replaced by new ones—not just movements of the hand this time, but of the entire body.

But she hadn't seen him making anything more than the simplest of motions when he had sent her to the ceiling. And performing this... this _dance_ , she supposed she had to call it... would take nearly as much time as speaking the incantation. His spell had taken a bare instant.

The next pages showed her why. Page by page, the gestures grew more abstract, until they showed not movements of the body but of the mind. Symbols. _Yes._ To perform the spell, he would only have needed to form the symbols in his mind, one after another, each one standing in for a step in the dance. Like _so..._

The first of his drawings took shape behind her eyes. Then the next. And the next.

The journal slammed shut as a gust of wind, like the breath of a giant, swept across her lap.

She yanked a curtain down over the symbols in her mind. Heart pounding in fear and excitement, she jerked her gaze to the bedroom door.

Still nothing. He hadn't heard.

A silly grin spread across her face. When had she last felt the urge to smile like that? Not since she had memorized the final spell in her book and realized she had nowhere to go from there. In a brief moment of indulgence, she hugged the journal to her chest.

Then she got back to work.

She followed along with Rikkan's thoughts, tracing the words with her finger, as he grew from perfecting the spell as it currently existed to modifying it for more ambitious use. She shared his false starts, his aborted hopes, his small successes and larger failures. The more she read, the more she understood, her knowledge expanding at a rate she could almost physically feel. She saw why he had tried this, and that, and that, and she saw why each attempt had failed.

And the more she read, the more convinced she became that he had taken the wrong tack from the start.

He approached spellcraft like a prince. He ordered, and the elements obeyed. For most magic, that approach, combined with his considerable talent, would get him any result he desired. But something like this...

Something like this required a baker's touch.

Ordering the air to do her bidding wouldn't be enough. No, she needed to fold one air current into another like eggs into dough. She would remain at the center, a part of the spell yet separate, filling poured into a crust.

She could see it. She just didn't know how to _do_ it.

Her hands tightened on the book in frustration. If she had weeks or months—or even days—to experiment, she could figure it out easily; she had no doubt of that. But she didn't even have hours. Once the prince woke, the servant would come to bring her to his rooms again, and her chance for escape would be lost. And if he woke before she had returned to her bed... She shuddered at the thought.

But maybe she had underestimated him. Maybe he had worked with this sort of blending before, and simply hadn't thought to apply the method to this particular spell. Maybe there was something else in the journal that would tell her how to accomplish it. Without much hope, she began to flip through the book again, back to front, this time paying more attention to each individual page.

Going through the journal felt like stepping into Rikkan's mind as it flew in a thousand directions at once. A spell to make a flower bloom in an instant. A spell for bathing without soap. A spell for the levitation of small objects, then several intriguing variations, including one with the potential—if it worked—to lift the palace itself from the earth. But nothing involving the sort of intricate combination work she would need for flight.

Here, though—something different from the usual half-finished experiments and flights of fancy. Pages upon pages of crabbed writing, so different from the uncontrolled scrawls that marked the rest of the book. And all of it—she squinted—no, _almost_ all of it in the magical tongue. Most of it meant nothing more to her than gibberish, but she knew _this_ word, and _this_ one, and—

The book fell from her nerveless fingers to her lap.

How had she not seen it? How had she not understood?

Only in the past year had Rikkan gotten the hours of study he craved. Only now, when his father feared him too much to even enter his chambers, much less take away his books. Only now, when no one would dare ask the creature he had become to assume the duties of the prince.

When they had talked about magic together, he had spoken to her almost as a friend, with no trace of anger in his voice. The rage had only come when she had tried to help him. When she had tried to free him from his curse.

The spell followed the ancient patterns, the king had said. The patterns of the nightmarish curses from before Qurilan Mari's existence.

Her gaze traveled to the pile of books on the table. To the decrepit volume that had to predate Qurilan Mari.

She didn't need to open it. She knew what she would find. She saw it mirrored in the pages in front of her—in the prince's tight scrawl, a script too small for clawed hands to have formed.

Prince Rikkan had cursed himself.

* * *

Lucia couldn't—wouldn't—break the curse. Not now. Not knowing what she knew. Which left two choices—escape, or stay to face the consequences the king had promised.

She didn't know how to make the flight spell work. But what was the alternative? To sit and wait? She still had a little time before dawn. Maybe, if she left for her rooms right away, she would have enough time to figure it out.

She stood, then tucked the journal under her arm as she tiptoed back into the bedroom.

Without her consciously willing it, her gaze traveled down to the sleeping prince. To the twisted form he had inflicted upon himself in a desperate effort to gain control over his own life.

The king wouldn't give up. He had brought more girls here before her, and would bring more after. Sooner or later, one would get past Rikkan's defenses, and the curse would end—and with it, this pale excuse for freedom that Rikkan had carved out for himself.

She took another step toward the door that led to her bedroom. And stopped.

She couldn't do it.

For those nameless girls' sakes, for Rikkan's sake, she couldn't do it.

Still clutching the journal, she knelt beside the prince's bed.

"Rikkan," she whispered.

The prince's eyes flew open. The yellow slits narrowed as he saw her. With a jerk of his arm, a wall of force sprang up between them, so close it left a raw burn across her nose. She stumbled back.

Rikkan bared his teeth. A low growl of fury emitted from his throat, slowly forming into words. _"How dare you—"_

Before, Lucia would have trembled in fear. Now that she understood, her heart didn't give the slightest quiver. "I know what you did," she interrupted.

Rikkan stopped. His body went still, every muscle taut, every scrap of his attention focused on her.

"The curse," Lucia continued. "You did it to yourself. You did it so you could study magic, didn't you?"

The tension left the prince's body all at once. His lips drooped; the fire went out of his eyes. He sagged, the picture of defeat.

"I should have known it couldn't last." The whisper of his ruined voice was like wind stirring leaves. "Once my father learns the truth, once he discovers that I'm not a victim of his enemies and that lifting the curse won't end my defiance, he'll have me killed and find himself another heir. He's threatened it often enough. And I won't harm you to keep you from telling him. He calls me a mindless monster, but I do not, and will never, kill. I couldn't kill him when I had the chance—I certainly won't kill you." He twitched his hand. The wall between them fell. "So do what you came here to do. Kiss me and be done with it."

She didn't move. She would not break his curse; she would not aid in his defeat. But something deep within her stirred, urging her to step forward. To take him into her arms, heedless of the fur and scales and fangs, and bring her lips to his. Like two pieces drawn together into a single whole. Like eggs into dough. Like wind into wind, sending them soaring through the air. Like longing into longing, forming a wall against the world.

A wall against the world...

The new knowledge within her swelled and sparked as she held up the journal, a new plan—a better plan—taking shape in her mind. "The curse wasn't the only thing I found in your notebooks."

She walked to him. Hardly noticing the claws, she took his hand in hers.

And she began to speak.

"Adi nu'um vit nara—"

She stopped. Closed her mouth. She would do this Rikkan's way.

Haltingly at first, she let the symbols float across her vision, one morphing into the next. The air gathered around her, rustling her dress as it spun in circles of increasing power. She gave a small gasp. It was working, it was _working..._

The symbols wavered. The air wavered.

Closing her eyes, she pushed aside all sensation, all awareness of the outside world. Anything that threatened to break her focus.

She added the symbols she had seen in Rikkan's other spells, scribbles she had only half-noticed at the time but that now flared in her memory as brightly as if she had studied them for years. The wind changed, settling more tightly around them.

"It's the spell," said Rikkan in a throaty murmur. "The flight spell. The one I couldn't figure out. You did it." A pause. "But... it's different. You changed it somehow. What did you..." His voice trailed off. She could _feel_ him, in this strange state of awareness—could feel his mind examining the structure she had built, testing it with symbols of his own.

She ignored it. She kept building.

And then her mind stumbled.

So close to done, so _close_... but something had gotten out of sync somewhere. Some crucial bit of symmetry had jarred loose. She didn't know the right symbols, didn't know the right words... The air rippled, the magic nearing the edge of collapse. She bit her lip to hold back a scream. She had almost done it—but an almost-success wouldn't help her. It wouldn't help Rikkan.

And then Rikkan's mind settled around hers. The symbols flashed into her vision, _his_ symbols, as though they shared a single consciousness. The air shuddered, then went still—but the spell hadn't collapsed. The power hung quiescent all around them, ready to reawaken at a moment's notice.

She had done it.

No. _They_ had done it.

She opened her eyes to see Rikkan patting the air in front of him, squinting as if his vision could reveal what the spell had done. "Whatever it is, it's working. The air is charged somehow, but I can't see what... there's no movement, so it can't be for flight..." He poked at nothing, then did it again. His wolfish mouth twisted in an expression it had never been intended for—a look of curious joy.

She wished she could sit down with him and explain the changes she had made. Ask his advice on how to make it smoother. Share her ideas for further variations and listen to his own. But if the sun hadn't risen yet, it would soon, and at any moment the servants would discover her empty bed. They had no time.

She cleared her throat, interrupting his murmurs midsentence. When she had his attention, she spoke. "You placed the curse on yourself so you could be free. But your father treats you as a prisoner. You're confined to this set of rooms, confronted with daily attempts at a cure. And you said it yourself—it can never last. Whatever this is, it isn't freedom."

All happiness had fled the prince's face with her first words. His shoulders sagged again, the joy of their experiment already forgotten. His ears flattened against his head. "You don't need to tell me this. I understand. But what other choice do I have?"

"What would you do for real freedom?" she asked. "The freedom not to be prince, not to be king? The freedom to conduct your research in peace? The freedom to never see your father again?"

His face contorted in pain. "Anything." His answer, though quiet, sent whispers of yearning echoing from every wall.

She held out her hand to him. "Then walk through that door with me."

The tufts of fur along Rikkan's cheeks quivered as he shook his head. "I tried to leave the palace the day after the curse took hold. My father's men brought me back here before I could reach the first flight of stairs. The locks mean nothing—they learn that lesson every time I destroy another door—but their weapons do as much damage now as before the curse. I could overpower one soldier, maybe two, but ten swords pointed in my direction work better to keep me here than any number of locks."

Lucia started to speak, then hesitated. She extended her mind out to feel the power around them, to feel the air waiting to be called into service. Would it hold? If it didn't—if she made him a promise, and the spell didn't hold—she would have led them both to their deaths.

But it would hold.

If she had done it on her own, she would never have said so with such assurance, not even to herself. But she had felt the strength between them. She had felt the way his power melded with hers, strengthening the fragile structure, sealing the gaps.

So she spoke, and spoke with confidence. "Their weapons won't touch us."

She left her hand outstretched between them, a question.

He hesitated. "The windows... the flying spell... we could—"

This time Lucia was the one to shake her head. "I could escape on my own that way. Possibly. If none of the palace archers spotted me. But if you disappear, your father will hunt you forever." She knew the truth of it as she spoke, as she called to mind her brief meetings with the king. "He could accept losing you if he were the one to order your death. He would never accept your leaving him."

Rikkan gave a reluctant nod. "All the time I tried to perfect the spell, I knew it wouldn't free me from him forever. But it was the best chance I had." He looked at her hand, but didn't move.

After all this, would he refuse? After all this, would she have to make her escape alone after all, and leave Rikkan—and all the girls who would replace her—at the mercy of the king?

Outside the door, the clank of armor. The sound of the first lock opening.

They had no more time.

Carefully, ensuring his claws didn't scratch her skin, he placed his hand in hers.

Together, they walked to the door.

And when it swung open, they stepped through, hands clasped, straight between two gape-mouthed guards.

"My lady," one of them choked out. "Get back—quickly—" He drew his weapon. The other followed suit. From either side, they stalked forward, blocking Rikkan from the corridor that led to the stairs.

Rikkan's hand tightened around Lucia's. The fur on the back of his neck stood on end as he gave a growl that rattled Lucia's bones. He tensed, ready to attack.

Lucia didn't know how to handle a boy. She didn't know how to handle a wild animal. But Rikkan was neither. Rikkan was a creature set apart by choice and circumstance, driven by strange passions, belonging nowhere.

Rikkan was just like her.

So she spoke to him as she would have spoken to herself. "The spell will hold." She didn't let him pull his hand away. "The life you've dreamed of is ahead of us. They cannot take it from you. Keep walking."

The hair on his neck lowered. His lips settled over his teeth.

He walked. And Lucia walked with him.

They walked straight for the guards. Straight for their swords.

The guards' hands shook, but they stood their ground. "Prince Rikkan," one of them called in a voice made too loud by false confidence. "You don't know what you're doing. Return to your rooms and leave the girl unharmed."

As they drew closer to the blades, Rikkan tensed. Slowed.

Lucia squeezed his hand. "Trust me," she whispered.

They kept walking.

Lucia held her breath and prayed his trust had not been misplaced.

As one, the guards made their decision. With a yell, they charged Rikkan, swords extended. One guard swung at Rikkan's furred arm, the arm that held Lucia's hand. The other went for his knees, aiming to disable him.

The air stirred.

The weapons bent backwards against their owners' hands. As if they had taken on a life of their own, they flew free to clatter against the stones of the corridor.

"Yes," Rikkan breathed. "The layers... the currents..."

"Later," Lucia promised him.

They kept walking.

The panicked yells of the guards followed them, echoing through the palace, calling others to attention. As they walked, more guards rushed at them—three, then five, then ten. Each time, the wind came to life around them. Each time, the guards' weapons dropped uselessly to the floor.

Each time, Lucia and Rikkan walked forward, as serene as if no one in the world existed but them.

At last, they reached the outer gate. And stopped.

An army stood before them—not the palace guards this time, but the king's own soldiers. Lucia couldn't see the gate through the lines of armed and armored men. Ahead of the soldiers stood the king, his face no longer jovial.

Rikkan quivered.

"They cannot take it from you," Lucia repeated under her breath. She eyed the men standing between them and freedom, and hoped she hadn't lied.

The king's gaze, filled not with anger but with bewilderment, rested on Lucia. "What have you done?" he demanded almost plaintively.

"I've done what you asked," Lucia answered. "I've freed your son."

"No," the king protested with a frantic shake of his head. "No. You've unleashed a monster. You don't understand what he's become."

"And you've never known him," she said.

When the king had ordered her to break Rikkan's curse, she had knelt before him. Now she stretched herself to her full height, meeting his eyes with a level gaze. "Find yourself a new heir. There is no Prince Rikkan. Not anymore."

The king shook his head again, harder this time, so fast the flesh of his neck wobbled. "If he walks through that gate, the curse will never end. Every girl in the kingdom will flee from him in fear. Do you understand what this means? You're taking the _kingdom_ from him! The palace, the luxury, the thrill of conquest, the knowledge that every knee bends at his whim!" He took a step toward them, hands extended in supplication.

With his free hand, Rikkan made a sharp gesture. A gust of wind shoved the king back. He landed on his backside, his mouth open in a shocked _O_.

Rikkan's rough voice rang through the courtyard, strong and confident. In that moment, he sounded every bit the prince he would never be again. "Mage Rikkan has no need of such things."

Two soldiers rushed forward to help the king to his feet. He accepted their help, avoiding Rikkan's eyes.

This time, Rikkan took the first step. Lucia followed.

Would the spell hold? Against two guards, against ten, she had barely doubted. But against an army...

Eyes to the ground, the king spoke. "Let them pass."

With clanking and shuffling and mutters of surprise, the soldiers stepped to one side or the other, clearing a path for Rikkan and Lucia.

The king moved aside last. As Lucia and Rikkan passed, he looked away. Rikkan kept his head held high, sparing no glance for the father who would have ordered his death, who at the last moment had allowed him his freedom out of cowardice rather than decency.

At a wave of Rikkan's hand, the gate opened before them.

They left the palace. And kept walking.

* * *

They walked along roads and across fields, following the horizon. Screams of terror preceded them; whispers of speculation followed. They ignored it all. They walked until the sun sank into a pool of color, until they reached a stretch of empty forest.

In a clearing painted orange by the day's last light, they stopped. Lucia dropped his hand; instantly the cold of the forest settled in around her.

Rikkan turned slowly in a circle. "We're free," he said in a voice of wonderment.

Lucia smiled. "We're free."

Rikkan paused, his brows twitching downward. "We have no home." His voice, which had a moment ago been filled with nothing but happiness, now grew heavy with the reality of their situation. "We have nothing."

_We have each other,_ Lucia almost said. She bit her lip to hold back the presumptuous words. "Do you regret it?" she asked instead.

"I left my journals behind." He looked through the trees in the direction of the palace. "I'll need to recreate them. I can still remember most of the spells, I think... of course, I won't need to include the incantations now that I have the symbols..." He clacked his claws together in an absentminded gesture. "I can refine the shield spell. Make it stone instead of air. Maybe a water variation. I'll need a workshop—a real one—no more hiding my supplies in my closet. I could work with actual tools—" His gaze lit on Lucia, and he jumped slightly, as if he had forgotten her presence. His lips pulled back in that strange toothy smile. "No. I don't regret it."

Lucia hung back, afraid to speak. Would he ask her to leave now? Where would she go? She could never return to her family, not after what they had done—but she, like Rikkan, had nothing. She could travel to Qurilan Mari, but she had no payment to offer the mages there—and could she content herself with learning only what they knew, after Rikkan had opened her eyes to such vast possibilities?

Could she content herself with living apart from Rikkan, after discovering another heart that beat with the same cravings as hers?

"And you?" Rikkan's brows creased in concern, as if he could see her distress. "Do you regret it?"

Like him, she didn't need to think about her answer. "Never."

"You don't look happy."

Only twice in her life had she wished to share her sister's talents, and never more fervently than now. "The curse." She looked away. "You don't need it as protection from your father anymore. Do you still..." Her voice trailed off into incoherent stammers.

Rikkan cocked his head. "I don't understand."

Lucia forced the question through her lips. "If I tried to kiss you, would you trap me in the air again?"

" _Oh."_ Rikkan lowered his head. An absurd sight, a monster appearing shy. With visible effort, he lifted his gaze to hers. "No. I wouldn't."

She took a halting step forward. And another. She had none of her sister's grace, none of her charm. She had nothing but the strange stirrings of her heart, whispering like the wind, and Rikkan's fearful hopeful gaze pulling her forward.

He lowered his head to meet hers as she closed the distance between them.

Her lips met fur and fangs and cold slick scales—and then lips, human lips, soft and warm, meeting her kiss with his own. Current joining current. Passion joining passion.

After an endless moment, she drew back.

The monster had vanished. In his place stood a boy. A boy with night-black hair and piercing blue eyes. A boy who, despite his tattered rags, made Marisela's lost puppies look like half-drowned mongrels.

A boy who wouldn't meet her eyes as a troubled frown spread across his face.

Lucia's heart clenched. She had done it wrong. She had stepped into Marisela's territory, and she had gotten it all wrong...

"Do you regret it now?" Rikkan's new voice flowed smoothly from his lips, melodious next to his former growl. But the ache in his words sank into her bones every bit as deeply. "Do you wish you had done what my father asked? Do you want to stand by my side in the palace, the envy of every girl in the kingdom?"

The fist gripping her heart loosened. She hadn't disappointed him by playing Marisela's role badly. No—she had frightened him by playing it too well.

"I want to stand by your side in your workshop," she answered. "I want to add my journals to yours. I want to take that shield spell apart with you and see how many ways we can put it back together." She paused. "If you'll have me."

The tension melted from his body along with his frown. A spark of joy danced in his eyes.

His lips curled in a smile. "Where should we start?"

In response, she raised her mouth to his once again.

Their lips met. Their power met. Passion to passion.

And they flew.

# About Zoe Cannon

Zoe Cannon writes about the things that fascinate her: outsiders, societies no sane person would want to live in, questions with no easy answers, and the inner workings of the mind. If she couldn't be a writer, she would probably be a psychologist, a penniless philosopher, or a hermit in a cave somewhere.

While she'll read anything that isn't nailed down, she considers herself a YA reader and writer at heart. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband and a giant teddy bear of a dog, and spends entirely too much time on the internet.

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#  Collective Thank You

Thank you for purchasing our **Through a Tangled Wood** anthology. We hope you enjoyed the slightly twisted tales from all our contributing authors.

We always appreciate feedback and hearing from our readers. Your review of the anthology at the retailer where you purchased it would be greatly appreciated.

