A Literal Dumpster Fire

Shadows had just begun to press a kiss over the clearing in the woods when Curtis McGowan crested the last ridge of Mica Mountain. From his rocky alpine outcrop he watched as those shadows advanced, interrupted only by a young wisp of smoke from the cabin chimney below. There was only one other who knew of his family’s abandoned refuge in the woods, unless it’d been claimed by squatters, but he doubted it. The gray mustang grazing downstream confirmed his suspicions.

Found you, Bethy Shaw. You’ve taken one too many liberties this time.

It didn’t take much to find her, but it was a relief to know his childhood ‘playmate’ hadn’t gone far. Wouldn’t be long now ‘til he recovered his gold and other effects. Then maybe he’d go down to Sante Fe and find some honest work-- something other than mining. He wasn’t about to fall for that racket again.

The miner swung down from his horse, cursing the ‘borrowed’ saddle that made him sorer than a California widow.

“Now just you wait here,” he told the horse as he tossed the reins on a low branch. Not that he particularly cared if the bay stayed put or not, since he was fixin to liberate another from down-valley in short order.

He cut a trail down the backside of the ridge, skirting the perimeter of the cabin until the only safe barrier was a cluster of boulders, and he veered around them. She’d expect him there. Instead he sallied to the far side of the cabin, where her horse stood dozing.

“Hey, Clyde,” he whispered, giving the old gelding a scratch behind the ears. The big gray looked awful long in the tooth these days, a far cry from the colt he’d caught on the plains when he couldn’t have been much older himself. “How’s she treatin you?”

Clyde only flicked an ear in response, as if his former owner were a fly. He and Clyde weren’t much friends these days. That was alright, nothin’ a spare apple wouldn’t fix. But the big brute only eyed Curtis suspiciously as the apple was held out.

“Suit yourself.” Curtis stowed it and crouched behind the firewood, stacked in neat towers below the cabin’s eave. He waited, listening, and he imagined she was on the other side of that wall, doin the same. Until the dull scrape of wood on packed-down clay proved him wrong. It cut through the cicada’s song, and with it Curtis dropped behind a low scrub.

Dim lantern light spilled over the clearing as Bethy Shaw stepped out of the cabin. Her shadow danced behind her, making wispy exaggerated sways of her hips across the pines. Every curve of her shape leapt in the lantern light. Curtis would have recognized every one even in the dark. Blindfolded. With his hands tied behind his back. Not that the two had any… intimate history. He just always wished they did. Their chance encounter a couple days back in Tucumcari made that hope a possibility, again, as long as he could persuade Bethy to return his goods and go on back home.

Except it was at that exact moment he caught the hard line that pointed westward from her hip like a compass into the twilight unknown, and he froze.

He’d know that sawed off barrel anywhere. Pa’s shotgun. His shotgun.

In the soup-thick night air another thing came to him as well. The sweet, earthy aroma of his lucky cigars. He groaned. A little too loudly.

Known for her keen hearing, of course, Bethy heard. Her clear, brusque voice cut through the night serenade.

“Curtis, you gullible sonofabitch, I know you’re out there. I’ll shoot ya full of your own bullets if you try me.”

After a long moment of stillness the cicadas started up again. She remained there, peering into the darkness as the nightsong swelled and the oil lamp flickered.

Curtis McGowan weren’t no yellerbelly. He gathered up his courage, waited until Bethy Shaw disappeared back into the cabin, and waited twenty more minutes just for good measure. Satisfied that would be enough time for his quarry to let her guard down, he tiptoed to the door. There he waited another five minutes at the pine doorframe. And finally burst into the cabin.

Several things hit Curtis McGowan all at once. The most unexpected of those things was the beautifully light but fragrant aroma of lavender and sage. Then there was the sight of Bethy Shaw, in a state of the most titillating undress, more real than any dream he’d ever had. The most predictable, and pressing thing, however, was the knotty end of a long pine bough, bark still intact, which slammed into his chest with considerable force.

He stumbled back, crying out, and was rewarded with another whack over his hands as they flew up to protect his face.

“Damn Bethy, it’s Curtis, not a goddamn Comanche!” he cried, struggling to shield himself from another blow.

“Don’t care who you are, if you’re hopin’ to get the bulge on me you’d better think again, Curtis McGowan!” She made to swing again.

Curtis backed up, empty palms raised. “Easy girl, easy! Have a care with that thing! Ain’t here to uhh--,” his eyes traveled down her front, taking in the sights, and bit back a smirk. “Get the bulge on ya.”

Despite himself, he couldn’t help but notice her state of relaxation. Aside from the gunbelt slung haphazardly over her shoulder, she had the look of a soiled dove hanging up her spurs for the day. Not that he’d say that aloud-- that would surely cost him. Instead, his eyes landed on the weapon he’d spied her with earlier.

“See you helped yourself to my pa’s shotgun too.”

She smiled wickedly and reached for it, blessedly putting the pine bough down. “Oh, this one? It was your pa’s, you say?” The shotgun swung in a high arc to level at him.

He gave a low whistle. “Didn’t take long for you to adjust to bandit life. You’ve got sticky fingers somethin awful, Bethy.”

She pulled a face. “It’s hard out here for a lady to make her way! Thought an old friend wouldn’t mind helpin a damsel in distress but I see I misjudged my old friend.”

Curtis wasn’t buying it. “I have a mind to pack you up on my mule and take you directly back home to tell your daddy what you done.”

That brought on a true flash of panic across her face. “You know my daddy would tan my hide if I went back home!”

From what he knew of Jacob Shaw, a tanned hide would be the most mild-mannered result of Bethy goin home, that was for sure. Curtis stole a glance back to her and smiled. As real casual-like as possible, he planted a palm on the rough-hewn table and leaned back. “Well hell, I s’pose I don’t have to mention it to your old man. Depends.”

Bethy lowered the gun, the hint of an upward twitch at the corners of her lips. “You tryin’ to make a bargain, Curtis?”

“You gonna make it worth my while?”

Wickedness flickered through her eyes. It stirred a weakness behind his knees. It was the same look she had in this dreams, ever since the town fair hay makin’ competition three years ago. She’d won a blue ribbon. He won a ‘friend’ he couldn’t shake, even if he wanted to. Not that he ever did. Bethy Shaw was like a shadow made of smoke, all wispy curves he knew by heart but never could catch. But maybe tonight…

It was with that secretive, mischievous glance that she finally put down Pa’s shotgun. She set it gently on the table behind him, and slipped her gunbelt back off to join it. With her blouse no longer under the heavy belt it draped and swung freely. Free enough to billow up when she moved a little too quickly, sidling up against him. It was then that his vantage, towering over her by a good head and a half, paid off.

“You’d think,” she mused aloud, “that any idiot would’ve figured out if a gal is lifting all your gear, you’ve got something she wants.”

Curt paused, unsure he caught her meaning. “Other than gold?”

He needed a drink, and a casual sweep of the cabin told him Beth indeed had helped herself to his whiskey, too.

“Other than gold”, she echoed, fingers inching towards his gunbelt. His mouth worked soundlessly, so transfixed was he upon her fingers. The buckle fell to the floor with a heavy clink. The weight of the thick leather belt leaving his hips made him wiggle ever so slightly, by instinct. Happy accident drove him to collide with hers.

“Other than gold.” Her murmur was husky, so low he had to lean forward to hear as she repeated again.

When he did she seized him, her fingers traveling up his arms, and then his shoulders, to tangle in his hair. He tried to not think about the heat flooding through him. Tried to tear his eyes away from her smooth, unblemished slopes of cleavage in stays that only barely served their purpose while unlaced.

He wanted to ask, “is it a kiss?”, but her lips were already on him, and he dared not tempt fate.

***

He woke to cardinals singing. For a moment he basked in the song, unable to discern if he was in a dream or a memory of times gone by. If only things were as simple as mornings of his childhood, in his father’s hunting cabin in the high ponderosas amid early birdsong and thick mountain fog. Dream or no, it was cozy all the same. He wanted to savor it, but a reminder tickled him to waking.

Gotta light a shuck out of here before Bethy wakes.

He made himself listen for a moment, and furtively sent a hand to Bethy beside him. But his fingers only met cold buffalo hide. Bethy was not there. Confused, he raised his head and rubbed his bleary eyes.

Pa’s shotgun was gone. His new saddleblanket, too. With cold realization, it hit him. Bethy was gone. His gold was gone.

“No. No no no no!” Curtis vaulted out of bed. “Aw, sheeit. Bethy!” In nothin but his long johns he dashed outside, checking for her horse.

But Bethy was long gone, and Clyde with her.

He should have expected as much. He wondered if it was true, that she was really sweet on him.

Jessie Curtis flexed her stiff fingers, popping knuckles impatiently. It’d been a long time since she’d darkened the door of Madame Dumont’s. She’d been waiting ‘til the curtains in the side room upstairs opened to make her move, watching the last patron exit the back door with a pep in his step.

She took a swig from the bottle, grimacing as she downed cheap whiskey. It was gut-rot, sure to kill her eventually, but she didn’t care. One vice or another would, as her parents had never neglected to tell her.

Ma always did say I wasn’t one for sense. If she were alive she’d say it now to be sure. But Mary Curtis was long dead, and Pa Hank Curtis, too. The old marshal had never thought much of his daughter. In some small way Jessie hoped maybe bringing Pa’s murderer to justice would help ease some of that, from beyond the grave and somesuch. Anyway. She wasn’t one to put stock in what the preacher man said. This Barrelsmoke business had nothin’ to do with bein’ a big damn hero or a vengeance quest or nothin’. Just seemed like the right thing to do.

So here she was, outside the window of a low-rate brothel in a town too far from a railroad to ever survive without an establishment such as this. If she had any sense she’d put miles between her and the woman she’d come to see. If she was lucky this time she’d make it out with her dignity intact.

A lone, willowy figure appeared in the window above. Finally. She spit out her chew and unlaced her spurs.

Satisfied that her target was likely unoccupied, she slipped through at the back porch as another grinning fool tipped his hat to her on the way out. Up the stairs she went. As quiet as could be managed she stalked down the hall on the sides of her feet to the last door on the left. She listened, counting out the seconds of silence, and rapped on the oak door.

“I’m with a customer!”

“Lily I know that ain’t true, otherwise I’d be able to hear ya all the way from the shithouse.”

Lillian Sackett glanced up as Jessie entered, but didn’t bother to rise or even greet her. Tobacco smoke curled up in lazy bends around her face as she reclined on a plush pink coverlet. Polite society would condemn the woman for smoking, but brothels would hardly be considered polite society. Jesse took a turn about the room, checking the wardrobe and under the bed before settling into a satin backed chair.

“Hello, Lilian.” She cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably. The last time she’d been in this room it’d been a less than pleasant experience neither was likely to forget.

The dove blew a smoke ring in answer.

“Lillian, I want you to tell me all you can about Eli Mullins.”

“Barrelsmoke Mullins? Why?”

Eli Mullins was a slippery one, he’d earned that moniker, that was for sure. Gone before a body could touch the ground, leaving only gunsmoke and victims in his wake. Jessie wasn’t too slow on the trigger herself, but no one was a match for old Barrelsmoke. People said his gun was some type of converted Navy Colt, and the smoke that hung in the air after a battle with him was from some black powder he had made special. Any gunfighter in the Territory worth his salt steered clear once they knew that particular burn. Until now.

Mullins’s face was plastered on every saloon from here to Sante Fe, $1000, dead or alive. It’d made Quay county the new destination for bounty hunters. There was no time to waste for Jessie. $1000 and revenge was a powerful motivator. She had a bullet with Barrelsmoke’s name on it, carried it in the inside pocket of her waistcoat. If Lilian Sackett helped, she might even get to deliver it.

“I’m doin’ the sheriff a favor. Said if I did he’d let me off easy for a misunderstanding couple weeks back,” Jessie lied.

Lillian tapped the nightstand and held out her hand.

“Doesn’t the thought of bringin’ a murderer to justice give you satisfaction enough?”

She scowled. “Jessie, I’ve got no love for Eli Mullins, but I do love his money.” With an exaggerated flick of her wrist she hiked up her skirts overworn silk stockings, making sure her visitor got a generous eyeful. “You gonna do him better?”

Jessie flashed a rueful smile, digging into her pocket. “Nothing more noble than giving a fallen woman an opportunity to come by honest money. That’s what Preacher Matthews would say.”

Lillian spat, projecting a well-aimed arc of saliva on trail-worn boots. “It’s double now.”

“Shit, Lil, I’ve got no quarrel with you. Just want to find Mullins and bring him to justice.” For good measure she stacked another coin on the nightstand and added, “he killed my old man, you know.”

“Marshal Curtis? That self-righteous old coot?”

“The very same.” It wouldn’t be the first or the last time her father’s name elicited that reaction. It seemed US Marshals were born to it, just like all other lawmen. Jessie wasn’t ever a great supporter of her father. Hell, half the time she was just trying to slip out the back of the saloon while her old man was setting spurs in the door. Hank Curtis was always looking to make an example of his daughter, especially if there was gambling involved. Or anything fun for that matter.

The two locked eyes. A long stare passed between them, punctuated by stray grunts and over-acted squeals from the adjacent room.

Jessie rose with a sigh, reaching for the stamped gold pieces. It was worth a try at least, to ask Lilian. Everybody knew she was Barrelsmoke’s favorite dove this side of Cripple Creek.

“What do you want to know?”

Jessie turned back. “Let’s start with when you expect him next.”

___

Nights were getting colder, despite an Indian summer threatening to take back the cooler days of late. Twilight was in full effect as Jessie pulled her sarape closer and shifted in the enclosed balcony box of Lilian’s room. The woman had begrudgingly allowed her plans, provided she get a portion of the reward money, and under pain of death to not ruin any of her fine furnishings. Jessie smirked at that, though another glare from her told him to save it for when he told the sheriff.

Across the broad streets of Tucumcari she caught a shadow behind the tall false front of Cole’s General store. That’d be Sheriff Peavy, and whoever else he’d rounded up for a posse. They were expecting a gunbattle, judging from the headcount. Jessie hoped it didn’t come to that. Hard to collect a reward when you can’t ensure the owner of the killing shot. Besides, her plans didn’t quite coincide with the ones she’d made with the lawman.

It wasn’t long after the stars appeared that so did Mullins with his own posse, about seven men all on Indian calicos. If the man had any sense of subtlety he’d have his friends ride into town separately, maybe from different directions, but not Mullins. Not that it made much difference. Someone would have to be a right fool to attack Barrelsmoke on their own. Good thing Jessie didn’t intend to.

Barrelsmoke made a predictable beeline to the boardwalk leading to M.Dumont’s. Even the noise from the saloon a block down seemed to dampen as eyes filled every street window.

Now.

“He’s here,” she whispered. Jessie reached into her waistcoat pocket, fingertips pushing a bullet up the sides of the rough cotton lining. She thumbed it into the Colt cylinder and motioned to Lilian.

“Still bad for business, this plan.” She put down the stocking she was in the midst of mending and primped herself in the mirror, adjusting all manner of ribbons and bows on her pink dress.

Jessie waved her off. “Hush woman, you’re not the one doin’ the killin’. Now get me into this wardrobe.”

The painted lady huffed but obeyed, pushing aside perfumed frocks to make room before closing the oak-paneled doors on her visitor’s face. Between the frippery being both stiflingly musty and doused in fragrance, Jessie nearly choked but caught herself. She fancied could hear the thuds and clinks of Mullin’s boots start up the stairs below.

Soon enough the spurs and footfalls grew in earnest, with a cadence and speed that could have inspired a funeral dirge. At long last they stopped in front of Lillian’s door, barely pausing before the door swung open without even a knock.

“Mullins.” Lilian greeted him from the balcony like he was hired help. At least she greeted all her customers the same.

The spurs tracked to meet her. “Lilian.” A ripping of fabric followed, but it didn’t sound like the dove minded. As a matter of fact, she could’ve sworn she heard a coo of surprise in response.

“I hope you’re interested in getting blown away tonight,” her sweet voice came through with a coy undertone.

That was it. That was the cue.

Jessie unholstered and pulled back the hammer, trying to muffle it under a petticoat she pulled up from the hangers. It did no good. The three clicks of the hammer cocking back was clear as a bell to any outlaw worth his iron.

“Say, what was that?” Barrelsmoke’s voice cut their hazy murmurs with an edge of suspicion.

Jessie kicked the wardrobe open, panels splintering under her foot. A string of curses spilled from her lips as she struggled to yank her boot free from the oak cage. The couple turned away from the balcony railing. The light of recognition dawned in the man’s eyes, grim tension drawn at his jaw. Jessie’s blood ran cold but she leveled her Colt.

A blur at the hip as Barrelsmoke palmed his revolver, a flash of silver. For once the marshal’s daughter was faster. She squeezed the trigger.

At such close quarters the shot was like a thunderclap. The bullet’s impact rippled through Barrelsmoke’s body. He recoiled backwards, face contorted in surprise, blood flying from the corners of his mouth.

For a sweet moment all was quiet. Jessie launched forward and kicked the gunslinger over the balcony railing.

Somewhere behind, Lilian screamed. Despite her knowing the plan, real panic flooded her face. She fanned herself, generous spilling bosoms heaving as she failed to catch her breath like a cowhand after a stampede. It wasn’t the re-ward Jessie was after, but it wasn’t a bad first course neither.

“Lilian!” A concerned shout rose from the deserted street below.

“She’s alright!” Jessie shouted back. She pushed down a swell of triumph and peered over the railing. A silver star gleamed crimson on a buckskin jacket below. With one foot Sheriff Peavy kicked over a dust-coated corpse, blood pooling over fine New Mexico sand. He gaped up at the balcony in baffled anger.

“Sorry about that, Sheriff.” Jessie tipped her hat. “Honest mistake.”

“Damnit Curtis, that was Barrelsmoke Mullins.”

“I know it.”

“We agreed that we’d be takin’ him alive.”

“Awful sorry, sheriff.” Jessie took her hat in her hands. “I jus kept thinkin’ about how he killed my pa, and then he went for Lil and I plum lost all control.”

Sheriff Peavy shook his head, holstering his Colt. “I should’ve known that might happen.”

Jessie wore her most apologetic face. “Well shucks, sheriff. I know you wanted to take him alive.” She stole a glance at Peavy’s face. The lawman looked mighty frustrated as he dusted himself down.

“Come on down, I suppose you’ll be askin’ about that re-ward.”

She schooled her face to solemn planes, thinkin’ of her old schoolmarm Miss Sawyer for extra measure. That spinster could teach a stone a thing or two, and Jesse had earned plenty of those looks when she was still learning her letters.

Only the tiniest hint of eagerness slipped through her voice as she replied, “only if you think it’s right, Sheriff. My Pa didn’t raise no scalper.”

Lillian snorted. Someone below may have snorted too, but Jesse was already halfway to the door.

“Oh hush, you! If you had any sense, you’d be nice as pie and get to work earnin’ your keep.”

Another snort. But it didn’t matter what Lillian thought, or how the job was done. Barrelsmoke Mullins was dead, and as far as Jessie could reckon, that made her rich. And a big damn hero. A big damn rich hero.

Artemis surveyed her collection.

The shelves of her library reached to the ceiling with jars standing shoulder to shoulder. All displayed eras of meticulous cataloging and assemblage. Despite the thousands upon thousands lined up filling her quiet sanctuary, if given time she could remember the contents of each one. A millennia had made her choose each treasure for her collection wisely.

Morning light streamed in through the windows, illuminating her treasures through clouded glass. Some danced with joy for the warmth of the sun, some glared and shielded their eyes, and others strained forward with gentle necks and graceful limbs to welcome the day. She smiled as she passed the tulips, all radiant in their dew, and the twin condors, their wingtips catching an unseen breeze. 

Never had she imagined her collection would come to this. Never could she have imagined that her modest fascinations would be remembered as an act of preservation for her beloved Earth. She murmured a thankful prayer that all was not lost. Not here, not in her precious sanctum, where the Golden Toads still leapt from pond to pond. Here the Monarch butterflies still flitted through meadows like wildfire, swirling up in the breeze, their swarms turning the hillsides brilliant ochre. 

Each jar contained life that had vanished from everywhere but her library, and in the memories of the ancients. Long had she waited for the world to be new. 

The dusty shelf she stopped in front of held many wonders, but she came in search of one that was special… one she could remember from her youth as clear as day. 

If Artemis concentrated she could almost feel the silk of her first stallion’s coat on her fingertips, with the kiss of the summer sun shining down on a midday ride. One day she hoped to feel it again. She prayed in good time that her hope would come true. 

The jar was heavier than she recalled, but that was to be expected. All her treasures had grown in the time they spent behind the thick glass that had kept them safe. The herd eyed her curiously as she held their home aloft in the light.  

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” she whispered to them. With her arms wrapped around the glass like a mother cradling her precious newborn, she stepped to Earth.

She descended to a place she had imagined many times. The land was just like she remembered it, back when the world was as young as she. 

It was time. Kneeling to the ground, she gently tipped the jar to the opening. 

They sniffed the air cautiously, whickering to each other.

“Go on,” Artemis encouraged.

The dappled mare was the first to catch the scent of the sweet breeze. The blur of gray and white bolted, determination in every hoofbeat to chase the wind. The herd needed no further convincing. They rushed out with elated whinnies. Finally, they could be as they were meant to be.

The comm center had buzzed like a busy hive all day. All available units out on every call, and every call was a disaster. Denla was frazzled. Maybe more than frazzled, but who wasn’t? She keyed up to her comm crystal again. 

“Checking for an available unit for a code 3 response at 44 Fraternity Drive, Unit 954 is requesting a second for an Oracle Disturbance.” It took effort to not finish the transmission with a grumble of “damn kids!”, but she managed not to. 44 Fraternity Drive was the Divinity Fraternity house for the undergrad mage academy, and one that should have been shut down years ago if police visits were any indication.

With every unit on a call, she was going to have to pull from somewhere, even though every event on her console scroll was a priority 1… After a moment she decided to pull from one of the events that should be close to clearing by now… 

The comm crystal sparkled and twirled as the sounds of shuffling and running amplified in her ear. “Central from 928, requesting one more!” Another?!

For Pete’s sake! That was the unit she was going to reassign! Denla bit back a curse and checked her scroll to confirm his location. “928 requesting one more for his Wand Offense at Sorcerer’s Grove, 9986 Grove Lane. 954 requesting a second for an oracle disturbance at 44 Castle Drive, requesting code 3 response. 944, are you direct?” 

The last part was for the field supervisor, who today was her least favorite sergeant. He liked to keep his radio turned down at inopportune times. Are you direct? was less a polite question of ‘did you hear all that?’ and more of a  HEY, ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?!

“Direct. Enroute to 954. Check for an available unit from Thoroughfare Patrol, please.” Came the curt response.

She shot back a little sassy retort in her head. Yeah, I bet you were. But it was too busy to waste time being sassy. She had calls to make. 

Just as her comm crystal started to swirl with numbers she dialed, though, a voice made her stop. 

“912 enroute to 928’s call.” A bit of feedback from a spare radio screeched feedback from someone’s office down the hall. 

Out of pure habit Denla replied ‘Copy!’ and repeated the unit’s traffic over the comm, but it took a moment for her to realize… she had no idea who 912 was. She hopped up in her seat. 

“Hey, uhh, Gnash?” 

“WHAT?” Her supervisor’s voice sent the room physically trembling. The ogre was in rare form with his grumbling this evening. Denla snatched her comm crystal out of the air before it nearly careened into the next console’s. Gnash was clearly not having a good day either. He was filling in on phones for the evening since Luna called in sick. 

“Hey, uhh… who’s 912?”

“I am.” It wasn’t Gnash who answered, though. A rumbling voice that didn’t shake the whole room continued. “You’d best remember, dispatch. 912 is your Paladin Knight Captain for Silver Precinct 7.” The words were stern but carried a tone of amusement as the captain emerged from his office. He towered in the hallway, holding his badge in the air for her to see. 

“Oh!” Denla peeked over her scroll console, agape. “Oh! Captain Dragoran!” 

Dangit Denla, now you’ve done it!, she thought, coloring in embarrassment.

“You forgot my badge number, Denla.” Despite how annoyed at herself she was, relief flooded to her with his chuckle. “Maybe you forgot I worked here?” 

 She almost shot back a reply but he was disappearing out the door, holstering his service wand and vest.

Without any time to spare to laugh at herself, Denla refocused on her status icons at the console’s scroll. A couple units had cleared themselves from older calls without advising over the radio. She busied herself with sending their paperwork to the transcribing goblin, anxiously waiting the couple of moments before the captain would arrive on scene. 

“Center from 928. Civil issue, 10-8.” Perfect. She checked 928’s call scroll. For a unit that had recently requested another unit, he sure wrapped it up quickly. With a lacquered fingertip she flicked through the notes, chuckling. 

Coupla kids with a crone’s stick. Stick returned to crone.

So much for the ‘Wand Offense’ it’d originally been called in as, and the request for backup.

She looked up anxiously as the comm crystal lit up again.

“Center, show 928 enroute to 954’s call.” She confirmed his traffic, and then heard the unit she’d been waiting for.

“912 on scene. Units stable.” Even better. She breathed another sigh of relief, but it wasn’t for long.

“Center, call over to the Academy. Have them get some Campus Aurors over here. We’ve got a full-fledged eldritch… thing… here.” Aaaand there it was. Just the news no one wanted to hear. 

The room trembled. “Awww, come on!” Gnash complained. He was half out of his chair, coffee mug in hand. 

“Hey, I got this,” Denla laughed. She snatched her comm crystal before it collided with the one across from her and started dialing. 

“Mage Academy Public Safety, this is Serena.” She recognized the answerer’s musical voice immediately– they’d gotten certified together.

“Hey girl,” she started. “Your kiddos are real smart tonight.”

Serena groaned. “What did they do?” 

“I’ve got units, including the captain, over at the frat house trying to contain a full-fledged eldritch horror. You think you can send some aurors over?”

“No problem! I’ll get ‘em goin’!” She could hear the scroll of the other dispatcher scratch furiously on the other end of the line.

“Ugh. Undergrads.” 

Serena’s voice brimmed with annoyance. “You’re telling me. This is the third time this week. What is it about Spring Break that makes kids want to summon otherworldly beings?” 

Denla laughed. “You’re welcome to join the Big Time with us over here when you get sick of drunk under-mages and broom unlocks.” Gnash was returning from the break room with his coffee cup, filtering amazing aromas her direction, but also scowling. She sank back into her seat just a little to avoid the scowl. Her boss was famous for his searing temper. “Gotta go, byeeeee!” She keyed up her comm stone again. “Units out at the Divinity Fraternity, Campus has aurors enroute.” 

Despite her always teasing Serena about joining the “Big Time” by getting hired on at the regional dispatch center, Denla couldn’t deny there was an allure to not working with her supervisor. Sure, the work was slower, but at least she wasn’t constantly having to keep her comm crystal from being knocked out of orbit. She considered the application in her console drawer again. It was already filled out, safely underneath some policy binders.

Without warning Gnash appeared over her scroll. 

Well, no hiding from that ugly mug scowling now. He wasn’t really that ugly, as far as ogres go, but the scowl ruined any approachability he may have had in regular life. Denla had never seen him without one though, so she wouldn’t know. Until now. 

His face split into a huge toothy grin. He suddenly looked… warmer… despite his sallow olive green skin. In his enormous hands he extended a second smaller cup of coffee.

“Captain texted me. Said you might need this.” He sat it on the warming stone on her console. 

He started to turn away, but paused. “Oh, and. Good job today. That part is from me.” The ogre ambled away, chuckling. 

Denla took a cautious sip. It was strong, like any self respecting ogre made it, like it’d been brewed twice.. It was just what she needed. He told me I did a good job. She closed the drawer, leaving the application untouched. 

Maybe Gnash wasn’t so bad after all. Some days weren’t so bad here in the Big Time. Without another thought to the application, she sipped her coffee happily and finished out her notes for the captain’s call and sent off a note to the unit’s broom displays. 

“Hey Gnash,” I said as I passed my supervisor. “How’s shift?”

He harumphed a giant sized harumph my direction. I might have felt the whole of the comm center building tremble a little.

 “That bad, huh?”

“It’s a full moon. What more is there to say?” The center trembled a little more from his grousing as he keyed up his crystal. “Units 956 and 947, copy a transfiguration with injuries.”

That was my cue to sashay with a bit more haste to my console. A long shift could make Gnash an ogre in any situation. I mean. He is one. But full moons are a whole other stalk of beans. 

Sinking into my chair at my favorite console, I took a long sip of my coffee for a fleeting moment of zen. It passed all too quickly. 

Every other report crystal was lit up at the consoles around me, and the faint chime sound meant there were more calls holding, too. Time to plug in. I set my mug on the warming stone and swiped my spell chip over the headset dongle.

As if calls waiting weren’t enough to ruin my moment of zen, my partner Luna was bound to. The tip of her conical hat waggled behind her scroll screens, clearly frustrated. Her quill scratched out a transcription that was surely of a caller who hadn’t taken a breath since the fall of Rome.

“Ma’am! Ma’am! MAAA’AM!” Luna practically shouted into her mic. A couple heavy thumps meant she was banging on her desk in exasperation at her caller. “Ma’am, I need you to listen to me. Is the effigy changing color? Ma’am?” She huffed and the thumping sound came again. 

“Hung up on you?” I asked.

“Of course. Nothing like calling Tilde-Star-Star and then hanging up on the crone trying to help you.”

“Another goblin screaming ‘just get them here’?” 

“Mmmmmhm.” Her annoyance could have curdled butterbeer. The sparkling gem twirling above her scroll twirled faster as she hit voicemail on redial. “Well of course.” The gem suspended above her workspace winked out as she flicked the scroll over to Gnash. 

“You’re killing me!” The room rumbled with the boss’s displeasure as he stared at the new scroll. 

“Nope. That’s why they pay you the big ingots!” Luna shot back his direction, winking at me. I hid my chuckle behind another sip of coffee.

Luna’s wide-brimmed headwear popped up over her scroll as she bounced forward to squint at me. “Hey, aren’t you off tonight?”

“I was.” I sighed heavily. “But Jakub called out at dusk. Full moon.”

“Ohhhh, bummer.” She didn’t sound disappointed for me, though. In fact I would stake my first wand on the bet that she was glad she wouldn’t be the only one on calltaking tonight. I didn’t mind. I’d prefer to work with Luna than some of the night walkers I could have been stuck with.

“Yep.”

She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. “You’d think he’d take the potion for–”

“Iiiii know. But you know how New Age werebeasts are. Anyway, I don’t mind padding my coin purse and it’s supposed to be mostly cloudy tonight.”

“Mmmmmmhm”. Her response brimmed with skepticism. 

My crystal shot out a beam of scarlet light accompanied by soft chimes. “So it begins.” I groaned and tapped the crystal, now blinking furiously. “Tilde-Star-Star, where is your emergency?” My quill floated up, scratching out the start of a new call for service.

A distinctly thick accent sputtered in my ear. “Forbidden Forest, Grove Seventy Seven.”

“Okay, and what’s going on there?” Nothing good, I would bet. The Forbidden Forest is dicey to visit at the middle of the month, let alone the end. 

The translator critter on it’s pedestal protested as I gave it a little nudge and raised my eyebrow. It’s feathered antennae twitched some wordless backtalk at me. Translating critters were notoriously dodgy in the twilight hours. Who could blame them though, really? 

The voice coming through my headset coughed nervously, but was clearer this time. “So, uh… my friend and I were totally not doing anything illegal but my friend has Witches Cough and I’ve been feeling pretty ill myself.”

I sat up a little straighter. “How long has your friend been sick?”

“I dunno, maybe… a couple hours?” Gnomes. Always can trust them to wait until it’s too late to call. “Not to worry, we’ll get some healers headed your way,” I reassured the voice. “Are there any spells or hazards we need to know about?”

The answer tumbled out in a barely intelligible rush, despite my critter’s efforts. “Well I think we might have set off some tricky charms here, because one of my other friends here is running from a really, really mad pixie right now, and I think she’s summoning her family.”

GAH! GNOMES! 

I wanted to punt the crystal. My fingers itched to pound my desk like Luna had only moments before, but I managed to remain still. Why does no one lead with the most important details?!

Barely containing my irritation at the caller, I flicked the scroll flying away to Gnash with more force than strictly necessary. He rumbled again. 

“It’s gonna be one of the nights, Gnash!” I called as he started to key up his crystal.

“What did I tell ya!” The floor shook a little harder.

That’s when I really started to regret coming in. All the console gems started to spin and pulse colors at once. 

“Looks like the clouds cleared up,” Luna cackled.

 I swore a half-uttered curse under my breath. “Just my luck!” 

Reluctantly I tapped my crystal and recoiled as screams of a banshee hit my ear. 

“Ma’am!” I started, biting back another curse. As the wailing continued I made a mental note to come down with potion poisoning on the next full moon. A little case of Mutation Sickness could be easily faked. 

More crystals chiming interrupted the thought. Banshee or no, I was sure of one thing.

It was late in the day when the Companions gathered in the Hall to mark the passing of another somber Summoner’s Eve. Each had their own stories, but it was in silence they filed through guild, only the clink of battered armor to tell their tales.

With bowed heads they murmured prayers to the gods for blessings, opportunities to prove themselves, and a chance to end the reign of the dragon king. One day… one day! It was a promise that fell from every warrior’s lips and a prayer over every babe. Forty six years of the dragon king’s rule had left the land scorched and the stables bare. The people of Fairen despaired that it may never know the sight of a green countryside, or cattle in their pastures.

On this day, like so many anniversaries of Summoner’s Eve past, the brave companions mourned their kingdom’s future. It would start with a solemn prayer, followed by an offering of leafy greens to the gods….

A thud at the far entrance interrupted them, light spilling into the establishment as the huge oak doors swung open. The dying streaks of ripe currant in the sky silhouetted an expectant figure at the far end of the lodge.

The occupants paid the visitor no mind-- every adventurer from here to Hare’s Peak thought they were the first to arrive on the dusk of Summoner’s Eve, just like the mage Myrgan in tales of old. Only forever more the Companions of Everlasting Courage knew the truth.

The kingdom of Fairen would never again be free. A thousand companions and mages had died at the hands of the immortal dragon king. There was nothing left but to drink, and remember the days of glory, when most were just squires to the brave souls who proved the truth of the kingdom’s fate.

Hugor the Hale was one such former squire, now a man broad of belly and chest and a gray head taller than any Companion still alive. He sat at the end of the long table, whisking a whetstone down a blade the size of his palm. It was a blade of great sentimental value to him, and despite the hopeful days of glory well behind him, he took care to sharpen it each day. Sir Sven the Stirring would be proud. It was the least Hugor could do. He was the last in a long line of king-blessed knights to bear the blade.

The visitor’s over-long pause in the doorway continued for a moment more, cleared throat echoing through the hall. It was duly ignored. Travellers were common in the Guild District; they’d find their way out on their own, or they were shown out.

It wasn’t until the newcomer approached Hugor that he bothered to pause his task. A woman in boiled leather glared at him, a dark braid thrown over one shoulder, a bandoleer stocked with vials slung across her front. She seemed even shorter than she had in her ‘grand entrance’ to the hall, barely reaching the height of his stooped shoulders, and he was sitting down. She bore a resemblance that seemed awful familiar, but Hugor couldn’t place his finger on why and thought nothing more of it, and bent to his task once more.

“Heard you needed a mage.” Her voice carried a bellyful of pride, like so many before her.

Hugor scoffed. “The guild for ninnies and womenfolk meets in the warrens.” He began to turn back to his whetstone, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure they are just dying for another of your kind.”

She spat, green-tinged saliva arcing to land on the man’s breastplate. It smelled… minty.

Hugor looked down, disgusted by the spittle slipping down his armor. Tiny flecks of green floated in the liquid, landing in loud drips on the stone floor.

“Uncommonly rude.” He wiped the spit away with a sleeve. “I will forgive the impertinence if you leave my guild this instant.”

The girl made no such move, instead fishing into her belt pouch for more mint before folding her arms in defiance. “You fool! I have come to lend strength and honor to your cause!”

Hugor barked a laugh. “Strength? And honor? You could’ve been mistaken for a mouse in a potato field. Go home, little mouse. The Age of Courage is over. The Foretold never revealed himself. Summoner’s Eve is just another day. ”

The little mage’s eyebrows slammed together in her fury. “My name is Frynn of Premly, Frynn the Foretold! I am here to show you the error of your despair, Hugor the Hale!” She thrust her arms out, baring dark arcane tattoos on umber flesh. They seemed to writhe of their own accord in the candlelight like a mess of serpents in a pit.

Hugor sat up. The lost resemblance and distinct marks now demanded further thought. Some old geezer before the fall of the rightful king had come knocking on the guild’s doors, nailed some convoluted drawings and a prophecy to the doors. Uncommonly rude wizard, too. Called them all fat and slovenly and downright unheroic.

Finally some interest dawned in him. “Where’d you get those?”

“I am the Foretold, and I am here to lead this fat and slovenly Guild to glory once more.”

At such a loud and rude proclamation a number of adventurers stood, their benches scraping away from the table in indignation. Hugor raised a hand to quiet them.

“I don’t care if you’re my mother’s dull daughter, insulting the guild’s state of fitness will not earn you friends, mage.”

“You blind buffoon! I told you, my name is--”

“Uncommonly rude. Nealan, Kayn, would you do the honors?” The two Companions came forward, nearly as portly and grizzled as Hugor himself. Nealan the Noble and Kayn the Knightly saluted him. With an energy they’d not shown since their last near-campaign, the two warriors bundled a shrieking tiny mage back to the doors from whence she came, and ejected her into the street. A thundering boom followed as they barred the door from any similar incursions. The rest of the warriors gathered ‘round them, cheering and congratulating Hugor and their mates for their swift actions.

And so it was that on Summoner’s Eve, forty six years after the fall of the rightful king, that the last in the line of true royalty, and only soul to bear the marks of the prophesied Foretold, was ejected from the distinguished hall of the Companions of Everlasting Courage.

“Hello, Sterling. I am Detective Mason, thank you for sitting down with me today. Let’s get right into it. I understand they call you ‘the Baker’.” 

Mason set down a glass of water in front of his subject at the table and met his eyes. He made sure the other was watching as he hit the ‘stop’ button on the recording device and nonchalantly sat in the chair opposite of his detainee.

The Baker snorted at him. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Do all your witnesses fall for that trick, you turning off a tape recorder?” 

The detective shrugged. “It was worth a shot.” It really was. Never know when a witness could pop just with a little theatrics.

“I’ll help you take out a bit of guesswork for you here, then.” The Baker’s thumb knuckle rapped against the metal table with obnoxious confidence. “I know there’s at least two other devices rigged in the walls here for recording. Your little theater magic may work on bank robbers…” He reached into his coat pocket, producing a toothpick which he stuck between his teeth and continued on. “… but I’m not a bank robber. I’m a partner of luxury heist enterprises.” There was a self satisfied twitch of the pick at the corners of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but perhaps a smug grimace. 

Detective Mason grinned and leaned forward with an eager glint in his eye. “As a reminder, I have the privilege of extending to you total anonymity.”

“So I’ve been told.” The Baker’s tapping persisted. The digit was one bone short, making it an oddly incomplete stub of a thumb and only adding to the curiosity of the man’s absentminded tic. Mason’s dossier was filled with observations of the man, like the one about the toothpicks, too. For someone apparently so interested in everything high class, Sterling Oates had strange little oddities that told a different story. 

“So… how exactly did you pull off that heist?”

The tapping slowed, and the Baker’s mouth really did turn into a smile then. “Do you like cheese, son?”

“Cheese?” A signature topic for the Baker, according to the notes. “You heard me.” The tapping resumed. 

“Sure, sure, I like cheese.” The detective answered. The dossier had warned that Oates would probably talk about food. No one was ever sure if it was some kind of riddle or what, but the man loved food, and all that took was one look at him. Sterling Oates was… robust. One of the reasons why he couldn’t possibly have pulled off the grab at the museum by himself.

“I bet you’re a Swiss kind of guy.” It wasn’t a question. 

Mason spread his hands up in resignation. “Guilty as charged.” This was going to take a while. Every fatcat liked his ego pet before giving up some information. Gotta play the game. 

“Me, I’m more of a ragusano man.” He dug in his teeth for a moment with the pick and gave a satisfied grunt as he examined the pick and stuck it back into his mouth. “With a beautiful salami on a fresh ciabatta roll? Mmph.” His eyes rolled in appreciation at the thought, apparently. “Come into my shop on a Wednesday and I’ll serve it to you myself.”

Mason’s stomach protested to think of the same thing. Lunch was too far away and the witness was already planning Second Breakfast. He opened the dossier on the table and flicked out a print to Oates. “You know these guys?” 

Oates pushed one of his chins forward, eyeing the photo with feigned disinterest. “Meunster guy, Cheddar guy, Colby Jack guy, and Lactose Intolerant guy.” He shrugged noncommittally. “I’ve seen ‘em.”

Mason flicked out another print, this one showing the guards waving in a catering truckload of suspects. “How’d you get past security?”

“I fed them.”

“Without credentials?”

“It’s all about the food. No one does well on an empty stomach, kid.”

“You’re telling me that’s how you’re involved? You feed them.” Mason repeated, letting the annoyance creep into his voice as he stood. 

“Everyone needs to eat!” A couple of the Baker’s chins quivered. 

Mason pushed another photo towards him. This one was a little tougher to fit into the puzzle. “We know this was stolen from the museum. What’s in the crate?” The wooden box in the photo was carried by Meunster, and Colby Jack guy.

“I don’t ask questions, Spook. I bake things, I feed people. Asking questions isn’t what I’m hired for.” 

“Come on, Sterling, we both know that’s not true.” 

The Baker sighed. “It’s Serbian. Imported. Very rare…. “ Perhaps Mason was finally going to get a real answer afterall. “… Pule. Donkey’s milk made ambrosia.” The Baker sighed another obnoxiously satisfied sigh.

The detective blinked. “You’re talking about cheese again.” … this was not the answer he was hoping for. 

“But of course! You think I have any interest in old museum junk? You know how hard it is to import this stuff?” He snapped back at Mason. “It takes nearly seven gallons of milk to make 2 pounds of cheese!” 

“You’re telling me you broke into National Gallery for cheese.” 

It was the Baker’s turn to spread his hands in defeat. “Look buddy, I don’t know what you want from me. I feed people. Sometimes it’s the best food they’ve ever eaten, sometimes it’s laced with drugs to make them go nighty-night. Sometimes people just bring me along for the ride because I bring heist snacks.” 

As if to illustrate his point he produced a deli sandwich wrapped in butcher paper from his jacket pocket. Despite his revulsion, Mason’s stomach once again reminded him how far away lunch was. The Baker’s revelation could nearly be believed, if he was now mowing down as a form of stress eating. It wasn’t the worst theory. 

Mason pulled his chair out so he could straddle it backwards and settled onto it, crossing his forearms casually. “Ok, Sterling. Tell me why this cheese.” 

Sterling Oates, the Baker of London laughed heartily. Mason’s confusion deepened as the man’s hooting laughter shook his belly and tears started to sprout from the corner of his eyes. Several moments passed as the roaring amusement continued… Mason wondered if he had missed something in the dossier… maybe his witness was a little cracked. 

After long last the guffaws came under control. “Oh, Squirt, if I know one thing in this life, it’s ‘happy wife, happy life’.” He wiggled his stump of a thumb at Mason, and the detective raised his brow quizzically, now at a complete loss.

The Baker gave another hoot of amusement and leaned forward confidingly. “I’ll do a lot of things to keep the Missus happy, you see.”

Dearest Avedon,How I long to be near you once again! Our brief encounter last week in the herb cellar was not enough to sate my desire to be close to you. There is so much I feel that could be gained from time well spent with you, please say you will find yourself in need of more newt eyes soon.

With all my devotion,

Lenore of Loch Lochy

He was staring at the letter in his hand with disgust. “Can you believe this tripe?!”, he asked his apprentice. His mute apprentice took the letter from him and scanned it for a moment, and turned the letter over, scribbling quickly on the back. He handed it back to Avedon.

Maybe she’s into you?

Avedon scoffed. “Only you would think such a brazen attempt to use me would be a true flirtation! Thank the gods you don’t have a voice, Merlin, otherwise there would be no saving you from showing what a fool you are!” He sighed and plopped his last eye of a newt into the the bubbling cauldron over the fire. “This is clearly a ploy to learn my powers!”

Merlin rolled his eyes and took the paper back. You’re right. You’re not that charming anyway.

The wizard read the response and could only grunt sourly. He tossed the letter into the fire and settled back into his chair.

“Anyway, I don’t intend to go back to the cellar for my supplies anymore. You will go for me.” Merlin looked at him, all exasperation. “Don’t look at me like that, boy! You know that cellars are far too undignified for distinguished wizards like me to be going to regardless!” He grabbed another sheet of parchment. “And I need you to go right away”. With the penmanship of a chicken he scratched out his shopping list and pushed it towards his apprentice.

“Eye of newt. Filet of Fenny snake, Wool of bat, Witches mummy. Honeycomb. 2 kegs of wine.” Merlin’s eyes flickered over the list at raised an eyebrow at the last item. “What! It’s vital to my work!” Again with the eyeroll. “Just get the damn wine, and stop complaining!” Avedon fished around in his robes for a moment and found a jingling coinpurse to throw at his assistant.

Merlin let out a sigh and got up, starting for the door.

“Oh!” His master cut him off quickly. “And deliver this to that vixen!” Once again he was scratching onto a piece of parchment.

Lenore,

It is true that my skills and potions brings many far and wide to the courtyards of this great kingdom.

Indeed, inferior artisans declare to me, “Your potions are better than ours!”

Verily, I could teach one and all, but I would have to excise a steep reimbursement for that none can afford.

In Superiority,

Avedon of Great Glen.

Merlin snorted as he read over the wizard’s shoulder and Avedon sealed the letter with wax. “Deliver this to her if you see her. If you don’t see it, leave it with Barney at the cellar.” The mute nodded, still seeming to mock his mentor with his eyes, and tucked the letter into his smock.

___

Lenore of Loch Lochy was not a busy woman. In fact, Lenore of Loch Lochy spent most of her days at the cellar like it was tavern, drinking wine and schmoozing the patrons for whisperings of new potion recipes and transmutation spells. In exchange, she was sure to share her own three day old rumors and maybe a good eyeful of her best assets. It was not a bad trade, to be sure, for Lenore had some very enviable treasures aboard her person. The regular of the cellar was more of a socialite than a lush however, for many wizards had tried and failed to get past the smallclothes of the endowed lady, and many had decided that she wasn’t promiscuous, she was just… friendly.

The friendly lady of the loch was slouched in a great armchair in the cellar when Merlin ducked his head into the entrance. She was a sight for sore eyes, truly, and Merlin was happier to look upon such a lovely, friendly soul rather than his own sour master.

Lenore recognized Merlin immediately. “Merlin, what a surprise!” Her gaze darted behind him in hopes that perhaps Avedon accompanied him. “Running errands for the great wizard!” Her voice betrayed her disappointment when he was not shortly followed by the object of her affections. The assistant approached Lenore and slid the letter onto the table next to her. She grabbed it before his fingers had even left the parchment, and eagerly ripped off the seal to read it.

Merlin expected at any moment to hear the moanings of a scorned woman, but instead soon little giggles filled the cellar. “Oh, my dear Avedon!” She covered her mouth, bursting into hearty, heaving laughter. “What a treasure this man is!” Merlin ceased his appreciation of bosoms momentarily and raised his eyebrow at Lenore. “Truly a man of great mind and wit!” She exclaimed.

“Merlin, you brought me such great news today, do be a darling and deliver this back to the Wizard!” She winked at him and reached into a satchel to give him some silver pieces and a piece of parchment for herself. With a great flourish, a quill appeared and wrote in a delicate script.

Sweet Avedon,

Your special talents are worth all the gold in the kingdom and not a farthing less. Please accept this gift delivered to you by your faithful lackey. Though I would have preferred to see you today, I understand that a man’s time is not his own for a busy and learned man such as yourself.

Devotedly yours,

Lenore of Loch Lochy.

She fanned the letter to dry and once again reached into her satchel to produce a packet the size of her palm, tied with an ivy vine. She pressed it into Merlin’s hands with a coquettish grin. “I trust these will end up in the right hands,” her voice was a low murmur, leaned towards him.

Merlin took the package with a slight nod and backed away with a final stolen glance to Lenore’s barely contained bosoms. With a sigh, he retreated to the cellar counter to complete the business his master had sent him to do.

___

Avedon pursed his lips as he read over the last word of Lenore’s message. He toyed with the still wrapped package in his hand. It was soft, and didn’t seem to hold anything of great weight or shape. Maybe it was yet another sycophantic letter? An embroidered hankie? Not that he was interested at all. Clearly it wasn’t anything of value. The wizard tossed it to his assistant and turned away.

“More from the flatterer. Take this. I’m sure whatever it is, it’s of no use to me.” Merlin caught it midair and tugged at the vines. The packet opened almost of its own accord, probably enchanted anyways. What sat in the middle of the fawn skin bundle was a neatly folded corner of red silk. The assistant put the skin down and held up the silk to the light to inspect it further.

Merlin choked. His coughing and sputtering filled the chamber, and Avedon whirled to him to see the boy bright red, consumed in soundless laughter, still holding up the silk.

It was the wizard’s turn to sputter. “The gall of that woman!” He yanked the dangling panties out of the air.

His assistant took the letter from the table and wrote, Yes, these definitely won’t be of use to you. Avedon tried to snatch the letter from him, his face flushing scarlet, but Merlin was too quick and all too happy to tease him again. Such a learned man. So busy. Much too busy for these. I’ll just take them off your hands.

“You will do no such thing!”, the wizard roared. “In fact, I think you should leave. Such insolence will not be tolerated in my presence!” Merlin raised an eyebrow at him. “Immediately!” The boy narrowly missed being by projectile candlesticks and ducked out of the chamber quickly.

The wizard considered the silk panties alone in his chamber. It had been decades since he’d seen such an article, let alone be gifted any willingly. These were extraordinary. There were roses embroidered down the edges, and little petals forming a V down the front in an elaborate flourish. These had certainly taken some time to perfect. As suspicious as Avedon was to the comings-on of ambitious enchantresses and young warlocks alike, receiving the smallclothes of devoted would-be students was a new development. Bold, but he would rebuff her all the same. He didn’t become Avedon the Great by sharing his bed and greatness with others… far too easily to be duped into sharing his best secrets. He had to send a message back… But not the panties. He was keeping those. They smelled vaguely of pork and roses.

Crumpling the silk in his hands, he stuffed it into his robes and began his response.

Lenore of Loch Lochy,

Please do not bother my lackey with items of frivolity while he runs errands of utmost importance for me.

Avedon the Great

___

Determined women are resourceful women. That is why Lenore had piles of embroidered silk underthings, all awaiting a sprinkling of potion and bacon fat to be sent off in little fawnskin packets. That is why when she was interrupted at her chamber doors with loud knocking, she quickly threw a cloak over the pile on her bed before answering the door.

A servant she didn’t recognize stood in her doorway with a letter. It was Avedon’s pecked to death penmanship on the front. Her eyes lit up and she snatched it out of the messenger boy’s hand, tearing it open.

After a moment, she thanked the messenger and shut her door again with a heavy sigh. She just didn’t get it… she’d sent her favorite panties to him! Why were his letters always so curt? Never mind that, she thought, he just wants to keep my packages discreet and private. What a gentleman!

Perhaps a different approach. What do wizards love more than spells, potions, and ridiculous costumes? Dinner. And their mothers.

Lenore sat down to another piece of parchment and started an entirely different letter.

Dear Lady Moraine,

I am so pleased to invite you to The Singing Trout for a small dinner with myself and your wondrous son, the great Avedon. He has told me so much about you and I really must insist on having the pleasure of meeting you myself. After all, I hope to be much more acquainted with you in the near future.

Sincerely,

The document stared back at Natian. The blank space above the signature line waited for him, right below the name that had no right to haunt him as it did.

"Commander?" The young man's voice cut the silence, and Natian shook himself to the present. In the doorway an Alliance midshipman stood, folio half-open in expectancy.

"Oh! Right." Natian looked back down at the document. This time he would sign it, he really would. Now that it was in front of him, his resolve evaporated. But it had to be him.

"What's your name, son?"

"Aidanson, sir. Zalias Aidanson." An Earth Migrant like himself. With a name like that it was hard to mistake him for anything else. The Earthers had a habit of naming their children after their 'heroes', even if that heroism was short-lived.

Former Range Admiral Zalias Walsh fell from grace in a spectacular display of poor judgment and underestimation of the Pact… including Natian himself. His administration ended with Walsh drunkenly firing a mint condition Earth American made Colt .45 through the glass of his bath suite, aiming wildly and swearing 'til he hit the floor with Natian's bullet between his eyes.

Walsh had been his hero at one time, but that was long ago. The Hero of the Alliance had not been elected to govern. He knew nothing of policy or appeasement. He understood strongmen and naked force, nothing else. Disgraced Governor Zalias Walsh died fighting as both.

Natian wondered if he would be seen that way someday. Would someone else be staring down at a death warrant like he was now, thinking the same things? How many leaders would fall by his hand in the name of the Alliance?

Lyns had always told him that the history of humankind was filled with revolutionaries. She called it a chorus of silk slippers descending and wooden shoes climbing. Natian’s shoes must have looked comfortable to a civilian by now, just like Zalias Walsh’s before him.

It was a thought that lurked too often of late. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. He turned back to the officer.

"Zalias is a rare name to own up to these days. How old are you?"

The midshipman nodded with a nervous smile. "Eighteen, sir."

His own son was eight, named in the same Earther fashion as the unfortunate officer before him. Ten more years and he might be standing in that same doorway as Aidanson, waiting for some inconsequential document to be signed. Only this one wouldn't be inconsequential to his son. Not ever.

Natian swirled his glass, letting the melted ice blend into the amber liquid. It was all procrastination.

"Midshipman. No need to wait in the doorway. I’ll be handling this personally. You're dismissed."

The younger man gave a slight bow, backing out of the pod with more deference than strictly necessary. Even after eight years Natian still couldn't adjust to the near-worship officers treated him with. Being the Natian Shipstrong had its perks, though. He couldn't think of any off the top of his head, not while staring down a death warrant, but he was sure there were some. In other times.

For his actions during the Pact Coup Natian Shipstrong inspired a generation of sons named for him, including his own. If his parents were still alive they would have been horrified-- their son, a symbol of their desire to abandon the establishment, now the ultimate symbol of an ever-expanding regime.

It felt like an age since then, not eight years. He'd never met his son, just as Lyns preferred. She kept the boy from the public eye, insulated by Earther tutors and Venusian minders. Her radical cronies began laying the seeds for succession early. The child of the Migrant's cause, the issue of heroes. Who could be more sympathetic to the future of biologically 'pure' Earthers?

By the time the child was of age, no doubt she'd be pushing for his 'inheritance'. Natian didn't know his son, but he'd be damned if the race he fought to protect was handed to a brat raised by terrorists.

Unless he signed the order.

The holodoc chirped, still waiting for his signature. A notification showed at the top of the slip, just a single line blinking the message.

The Alliance needs a response.

He blinked, eyes dry. He couldn't deny his reluctance as he once again stared at the empty signature line. At one time he thought things would be different. That was before the radicals and their charming regent Orion Myles.

Unbidden, the man's face appeared on his implant screen, scrolling an endless ticker tape of redacted classified information next to the blinking 'INTER-SYS TERRORIST'. If he wanted, Natian could access it with his rank and code. He flicked the image away. The general's personal feelings and masochistic curiosity had been buried long ago.

His fingers slid over the holodoc, pressing his thumb next to the waiting signature field. His name followed, and another press of his thumb to certify. A new message flickered at the header of the document.

0500. Gaspra Unit, Sgt Pallas. RDV at Command.

Natian glanced at the time. He downed the rest of his glass and rocked in his chair, teetering on the two back legs. The lock clicked in place, keeping the chair balanced as he sank into the plush cushions.

"Spectra, wake me in four hours." The pod lights lowered and gave an acknowledgment chirp. A low-grade sleeping additive filtered through pressurized vents in a heavy wave of lavender. He closed his eyes.

_______

They were on the Insatiable-- the commandeered Alliance ship with all the new tech the Pact couldn't afford. It was a flagship of the uprising and a symbol of the establishment's failure.

Natian had never seen Lyns more beautiful. Her eyes sparkled with excitement behind the plasma-proof helmet. Her armor plated her body like a second, droid-like skin; he savored the way she took deep, heaving breaths and knew exactly what that looked like under all that armor-- soft, pliable flesh that responded to his own. Her Pact tattoos peeked out at the neck, geometric lines and shapes reaching up her scalp. They told of a proud, fearless patriot. Their friends treated her like a hero, dauntless and pure. But Lyns Runia was so much more.

He wanted to pry off each plate of AlloySafe one by one right there in the airlock, let the rest of the Pact leadership see who the indomitable Lyns Runia got on her knees for. Only they knew what this life cost them, and the price they still had to pay for their actions. There wasn’t a bounty out on the crew’s head. Only Lyns and Natian’s. More than anything or anyone, they needed each other.

She hefted her Astra Peacemaker. “Ready?” Those nebular green pools of hers were all determination.

He nodded, and raised his twin print. She’d printed them both, their Securicodes etched in the grips, modded to glow a faint ultraviolet in the right hands. “Let’s make history.”

They approached the cargo bay with pride swelling through the ranks, armbands rippling among rows of stoic faces.

Above the dock bay doors a scrolling banner read: ‘Just once more, unto the breach.’ Lyns loved her folksy Earth phrases. Her followers loved them maybe even more. Ancient passages from Earth whipped up a zeal for pride in their heritage, in the beings that reached the heavens in their unrelenting will to survive.

She invoked that love now, raising her Peacemaker at the head of the march. The words thundered in Natian’s ears as they advanced in lockstep. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!”

The cheering started, drowning out half of her words, but her eyes were alight with adrenaline and passion. Their faces flushed, hands linked, he could feel his pulse in his fingertips. Or maybe it was her’s.

“But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage….”

He wanted to kiss her, but squeezed her hand instead. She threw him a quick smile and went to the bay controls, whirling back to the crew.

“For the Pact! For the Migrants! For the Outer Rocks!” The chant went up as she slammed her hand down on the panel.

The doors swung open, planetside fresh air rushing in as the lift gate lowered. The five peaks of the Alliance embassy rose in the east with the Twin Suns, gleaming in the young light of day.

By nightfall, the sirens filled the compound, and the flames could have reached the heavens…

Natian jolted awake as the alarm built around him, pulling him away from images of the firelit Embassy.

With a drowsy wispy grasp he clung to memories he hadn’t lived for nearly a decade. He hadn't dreamed of her, or the Pact Coup, in a long time. It’d been so real, down to how she smelled, and her warmth as they marched shoulder to shoulder. Her zeal was just as intoxicating now as it was then.

More than anything he wished he could live in that moment, remember something more beautiful today than what was to come. Bring it back. I want it back.

The night the Alliance capitulated to the Pact they made love like never before. Breathing clean planetside air, they felt more alive than in seven years of risking death to get there. The exhilaration of victory flowed through them-- they couldn’t sleep if they tried.

In celebration, the emergency sirens were activated and blared down every corridor. The possession of the Embassy felt so unreal. They made a bonfire on the steps and drank spirits from Earther crystal, marveling at the decadence.

It wasn’t until the small hours of the morning that the fatigues of battle felt like millstones. They claimed the Governor’s Suite as their own and one by one, each piece of AlloySafe was set aside, every stitch of clothing came off.

After clearing away only the largest of the broken glass from Walsh's last stand, they bathed each other in silence. Lavender and sweat mingled in the steam of the shower, sloughing off with sudsy worshipful strokes. She washed his feet like her folk heroes on Earth, and they both took off their contraception bands.

“It was the way God meant us to be,” she’d told him.

Natian had never believed in God, but if he’d ever felt the presence of Him it was then. The Embassy may as well have been a cathedral.

Lyns’s fervor for dusty old doctrines became something of a curiosity after her pregnancy became public. It was a rare choice for any person to choose to conceive, let alone carry a child. Deep in the tenuous balance of coup success, while he turned to infrastructure, Lyns turned to Orion Myles and his brand of religious extremism. Natian never saw the baby boy he’d given part of himself to create. Perhaps it was better that way.

It wasn’t until the formal transfer of power that Natian realized Lyns wanted nothing to do with the business of running a country. She left the bureaucracy to him and their fellow Pact leaders, taking command of the fleet instead. She never felt comfortable planet-side.

Unmoored and alone, Natian was thrown into a new kind of leadership. Martial Governance, he discovered, required different skills, and created more difficult challenges than merely whipping up enough fervor for the masses to arm themselves. He assimilated into the vacuum of Alliance government, and his revolutionary ideals with him for the greater good.

For a time Lyns was useful to unite the Outer Rock factions in the belt-- she served as a figurehead in the new administration that represented the values of the Pact Migrants.The death warrant Natian signed would see the end of all that. Lyns’s anti-Alliance religious extremism would threaten humanity’s interstellar viability if she were allowed to continue.

Despite backwater planet origins, Natian was not a superstitious man. Still, he couldn’t shake the cold feeling that clung to him as he readied for duty. Even in the steam of his shower he could not scrub off the sense of wrongness for what he was about to do. To dream of Lyns, to remember how it felt, to be back in those moments with her again on the eve of executing her.

A bad omen, she’d say. “Omens are the language of God,” she’d say. But Natian had come to hate religion.

Fuck the omens.

____________________________________

Lyns hid her wealth well, in a place many astral belt miners would consider close enough to the heavens for it to be the heavens.

The pod they arrived at was at height with the limits of the planet's atmosphere, with a view that few Migrant activists would ever be so fortunate to see. The weak light of the Twin Stars left a faint blue cast over the thick walls of atmosglass as dusky mists rose from below. No real Migrant activist would ever see luxury such as that in their working-class conditions. Mine shafts didn't have glass, or fine tiles, or a view of the Twins.

Red clay from Martian quarries tiled the floor in the Pact insignia, blooming on the pod landing with the richest of the planet’s bounty. Flooring made of Martian clay resisted heat-- next to the door lay a pair of men’s lined silk slippers.

Perhaps the next revolutionary will learn from their mistakes.

“Pod is clear,” the officer reported, saluting Natian from the portwell.

He nodded, strapping on a duty belt. “Myles? And the boy?”

“Both not present, sir.”

A relief. As badly as he wanted to put a bullet between Orion Myles’s eyes, Lyns was the primary.

“Get Command to send a team to find them. Does she know we’re here?”

“Imaging indicated a heat signature in the main room, core temp and heart rate elevated. In possession of a Peacemaker.”

Natian chuckled. Some things never changed. Her home print Astra Peacemaker was always her favorite sidearm of choice, since the very beginning. Even after the weapons manufacturer Astra named one of their print kits after her, she would never retire what had given her the first taste of power.

Natian unholstered. Even with access to any Alliance weapon he’d ever want, it was only right that he used his own print, from all those years ago. It glowed softly in his hands.

He turned to Sergeant Pallas. “Okay.”

Lavender flooded his nostrils as the door swung open and his heart sank. Of course it was lavender. She wouldn’t make it easy for him.

Once more, unto the breach. The commander steeled himself, raised his print, and followed the officer.

She stood watching the Twins rise, a cardigan wrapped tightly around her and a glass in one hand. Her hair usually in a tight bun, was instead mussed to the side. She didn’t look like a revolutionary. She’d probably been waiting there all night.

They’d spent seven years working as one to bend the Alliance to their will. No amount of authorized death warrants could make him feel right about her waiting there, knowing what was to come.

"Natian.”

He didn’t love her. Not anymore. Didn’t hate her, either. Revolutions were complicated things, and the last thing he wanted was another on his hands. It had to be done. He grimaced, tightening his grip on the print.

"Range Commander Lyns Runia. I have a warrant for your execution."

Her voice was cold. Cold and quiet. The atmosglass reflected her face, the dim rising suns illuminating her eyes.

"I'm glad it’s you, Natian." A shadow on her right side twitched. A pin of ultraviolet flashed.

Natian squeezed the trigger. At the sound of the shot she jerked, releasing the Peacemaker to clatter to the clay tile. In an agonizing slow turn she faced him, the soft shhhing of slippers against the floor. Emerald eyes shone out from dark circles, staring back in rebuke to Natian.

He fired again. A dark wet stain bloomed at her chest. It blotted out her Pact tattoos, soon coating her cardigan and hands. She sank against the curved glass, crimson smearing down the window in her wake. The rising Twins shone through the smears with an innocent pink tint.

“I’m glad, too.”

Natian chose to let the ringing in his ears drown out the silence. It was better than the wet gurgle of her last breaths.

___________________________________

I was born to leadership. It was in my blood.

Out of the seven men who shared the same name on the Alliance Coalition, only one had the right to be called Natian and he was my father. To my squadmates and even to the minders who raised me I was called Runia, another child in a long list of names from former revolutionaries and terrorists alike.

At a young age I was thrust into a system that was rife with the orphans of “persons of history”, as we were called. We underwent ‘re-education’, and came out the most fiercest defenders of the Alliance.

For a time I think I even forgot my own first name, like it was a classification and not the name my mother gave me. Just another orphan named for the hero of the Pact, just another cadet in the military complex that didn’t care what my name was. No one knew that the man who led the Alliance had a part in making me-- who would believe that, anyway?

Though I’d served under Natian in the Unrest, I never met him. He issued orders, I followed them. I doubt he even knew my first name. By the time I wore a medal of office Natian Shipstrong was another disgraced bureaucrat, inconsequential and forgotten, albeit having longer tenure than most. It wasn’t until I assumed command of my own boat that an archivist bothered to tell me I was his son. It would’ve been a relief to know he was my father, instead of Orion Myles.

“Do you remember the Unrest skirmishes of ‘38?” I rocked forward in my chair, my one government-sanctioned luxury in Astran leather. Hard to get in outer ring planets, but no one could say I hadn’t earned it, least of all the prisoner across from me.

The older man’s eyes drifted to the ceiling beams. I wondered if he recognized his old office, even if the paint color had changed. His slow nod and fleeting grimace in the silence said he remembered it all.

He’d worn that same expression on the steps of the Alliance embassy after the Outer Rocks negotiations in ‘38 turned to riots. I’d memorized every line of his face as the rebels fell over themselves to surrender to him.

No one would recognize him anymore, the homeless drunk the investigators found in the streets of New Alliance.

“I worshiped you, you know that?”

His chuckle was just as I remembered. “You sure did. Near pissed yourself just to be in the same squad.”

As a cadet of eighteen Natian Shipstrong had been everything to me. It was every child’s dream to serve with a patriot, a decorated war hero, especially their namesake.

In my heart there was still a part of me that worshipped him, though he had little resemblance to the man I’d served under. I’d never been one for religion, or whatever it was my mother and her cohorts believed. Maybe I was too far removed, being raised planetside after her death.The Embassy was my church. Ambition was my form of piety, and Natian was my patron saint.

“Your mother would be proud of you, son. You accomplished things she never could.” Son. As if he knew anything about fatherhood.

I traced the lines of the print on the desk. It was a find I’d taken the liberty of claiming from the extensive property lockers the Alliance kept on all “persons of history”. I didn’t have to check the code under the grip. Before I’d even located it in the catalog I knew exactly whose it was.

“You don’t get to talk about my mother, Natian.”

“Lyns Runia was a formidable leader.” He grimaced again, shifting the restraints that bit into his wrists. “Hard to serve with at times. Helluva woman.”

“Don’t.” The word caught in my throat.

“Never let anyone call her ‘sir’. With us in the Rocks Annex, took the Alliance’s mortars just like us. I loved her. We all did.”

The archive device flickered as I slid it to the middle of the desk. The holodoc floated in bright plasma between us. His authorization code glowed underneath the orders, dated for twenty years ago to the day. He stared through it back to me, wordless.

The print had never felt heavier as I picked it up with a clammy palm.

“I was eight years old.” I’d never known my father. Never knew I’d served him like a simpering puppy, in blind adoration of the man responsible for taking my mother from me.

He shook his head and met my gaze. “The time for violence passed. The new leadership wanted peace. Runia didn’t, she never had. It was the right thing to do. Was only right I was the one to do it.”

Natian sat unmoving as my hands trembled, my mother’s print leveled, finger curled over the trigger. He could at least have the decency to show remorse, but those blue eyes never wavered.

Hot moisture clouded my vision. “Was it like this? Or did you shoot her in the back?”

“Son.” So quiet I almost didn’t hear. No. It was too late for that. He had no right.

“I worshiped you.” I squeezed the trigger. The shot thundered through the study, sending my ears ringing.

His expression didn't change, only stiffened as the bullet entered his body and blood seeped down his chest. To veterans like Natian and I, the familiar bee sting feeling of a bullet passing through the body was unsurprising at best. He met my eyes.

I fired again, and this time he slowly slumped as crimson fountained from his temple.

Jailbird Honey

Elise Morton wasn’t ready to end her column just yet. Despite the telegram from her editor directing her to move on to the Pikes Peak Gold Rush and the stories waiting to be discovered there, her bags remained unpacked.

Moving far from civilized society’s comforts for a reporter position in the “untamed West” had taken an adjustment. Her parents wrung their hands over her choice to venture out into the Wyoming Territory. Still, her editor’s offer had been too alluring to reject, and so away she went, to cover the gunslingers and US Marshals that brought them to justice.

Despite her trepidations over being so close to dangerous criminals and occupational hazards, the inmates were more cooperative than expected. Some were downright charming. Even after months, she hadn’t had her fill of her first assignment, the sweet-talking highway bandit Royce McElhaney.

His voice was slow, meandering in that way only a deep drawl could be; impossibly languid and delicious. Not that she would ever tell him that. That would cross a couple of lines if the Warden had anything to say about it, she was sure. But she could still enjoy it.

Where his voice was lazy, Elise’s was pointed and thoughtful but clinical. At least at first. Every Tuesday they’d meet, same place, same time, and she’d listen through the iron bars.

This Tuesday was like every other as she waited patiently for the interview cell at the end of the hall to clang open. She wrinkled her nose at the guard’s stale boozy breath as he leaned in close, tipping his hat to her on the way out. With a weak smile she inclined her head in thanks.

While there was little to be said for the sobriety or work ethic of the guards of Wyoming Territory Prison, she appreciated their complete disinterest in journalism, and as a direct result, her privacy with the inmates. The tall man deposited a ring of keys on the far wall and ambled back to his post down the hall, already reaching for a flask.

“How are you today, Royce?” Elise settled onto the unsteady stool the guard left, pulling out her journal and pencil. She’d left her folio behind this time, no longer needing the inmate’s file she’d memorized by heart. Staring at the contents week after week unsettled her-- she refused to believe Royce was guilty of the crimes he’d been charged with. No one could have such an easy demeanor as his and still be capable of those things.

“Well, now I’m better for havin’ seen you, darlin’.” He grinned and leaned back, crossing an ankle over his knee.

She let it slide when he called her ‘darlin’, and let him think she didn’t notice.

Oh, but she did.

Elise knew she shouldn’t allow such casual names from the so-called “dangerous criminal” sitting opposite of her, but she couldn’t deny the small part in her that smiled. It was hard not to, considering the ease radiating through those prison bars. There wasn’t any harm in giving a prisoner some semblance of regular human interaction in the face of isolation. It also didn’t hurt that she enjoyed their weekly talks. Or the praise her editor heaped on her from readers in the East.

Everyone was enraptured with the story of Royce McElhaney, the reformed gunslinger who’d returned the payroll from a stagecoach robbery to save a town as it burned to the ground, a casualty of encroaching on Sioux Territory. Her paper ran with the headline ‘Bandit With A Heart of Gold’ and ‘Robbing Royce, the Railroad Robin Hood’. The editor of the New York Herald wrote to her himself with questions for Royce after that one. Elise was all too happy to oblige, never skipping a Tuesday to fulfill the requests.

After negotiating down his sentence to one year of hard labor for giving the whereabouts of his fellow outlaws, he’d acclimated well to prison life for all that Elise could see. At least, as well as could be expected for prison life. The hours he’d toiled away at the labor camp had chiseled out a wiry frame from his previously slight figure.

She’d be lying if she said it hadn’t enhanced his allure over the past months. For all her efforts to keep admiration from seeping into her articles, she’d still received a letter from her mother demanding she take the first train home, away from ‘that evil man’. But she couldn’t. Elise was a moth to a flame, and Royce McElhaney burned brighter than any story, person, event, or battle she’d ever covered.

“Tell me about how you’ve spent your time since we spoke last.”

Again his grin came easily, warm as if the bars separating them didn’t exist. “Oh, you know, the usual. Lots of travel. Socializing.” His honey-brown eyes twinkled.

She let the hint of a smile play at the corners of her mouth. “And have you made progress on the book I lent you?”

He hefted a dog-eared tome. “I read it. You’ll be disappointed to learn I didn’t find it nearly as captivatin’ as the scholar who recommended it.”

She forced down a flush creeping up her cheeks. “Royce, let’s focus on the book. What passages stood out to you in Marx’s Manifesto?”

“Look at me, Elise.” The clean scent of pine tar soap wafted from him as he leaned forward, nearly touching his temple to the bars. “I mean, really. Look at me.”

Book forgotten, she felt compelled to obey. He wore his dusty camp issued denim like a tailored affair, not a hallmark of degrading punishment. Hell, she hardly noticed the gray and black stripes as she found herself gravitating to that molasses-smooth voice.

“I feel like you’re the only one that sees me in this hellhole, kitten.”

She could have drowned in the bourbon brown pools that stared back at her. “I do. I see you, Royce.”

“I know you do, darlin’.” There was something startlingly unassuming about him, his red flecked beard matching the highlights in his eyes. “You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Anything.” Her answer came as naturally as breathing.

Calloused fingers curled around the bars as he murmured, “Prove it to me. Open this cell.”

If there’s one thing Stan Rawson was good at, it’s remembering dates. Marla Rawson, on the other hand, was more of a ‘in the moment’ person. She probably didn’t even realize what day it was…. A boon for Stan, because anniversaries and remembering them was the best way to score points with the missus.

He left Woody’s Specialty Toys with a bounce in his step, and a shopping sack full of surprise anniversary goodies. He’d told Marla he’d be at the office late filing TPS reports, but truly he hadn’t done any report filing in forever, not at least since he’d been hired on by Efficiency Consulting five years ago. Not to mention that there was no way he’d have this sweet bod if he was still at that hell hole they called an office like the rest of those suckers. Instead, he’d told his Overlord to go pound sand, because he was going to be treating his lady to a night in and didn’t have time to wreck any animal shelters today. His Overlord hadn’t been happy about it, but that guy can screw himself. The bad guys get a night off too, sometimes. He’d left his uniform hanging in his locker, and the cape with “NASTY SURPRISE“ emblazoned on it lumped in atop his electric red high top boots. It was only 1 AM, and this night still had plenty of life in it still.

Maybe Saving Grace would appreciate the night off too, instead of having to repeat the combat of a hundred scenarios of the past. She got him good a couple of days ago when she dropped an anvil on his head, but he got her back when he dropped her over the Grand Canyon. Those kind of feats always took a couple days to recover from, anyway.

Stan hopped into his dune buggy and shifted into gear, turning up the radio to hear Meatloaf wail into the night. He loved his open air buggy, even though he wished he could afford a really sleek sporty car or something more fitting for a villain like him. The plastic of the shop sack in the passenger seat flapped in the cool evening wind as he pulled onto the roadway. The contents spilled onto the seat and he felt a little giddy just looking at the array of items he’d picked up for tonight. He was really going to win some points with this kit, he just knew it. Maybe he could even get into the house all sneaky-like, set up the bathroom with some candles, and lay out the edible undies.

That prospect was sunk as moments later Stan pulled into the circle driveway of his McMansion. The entryway lights were still on, and the glow of the big screen reflected in the windows from down the hall. Ok, so maybe being sneaky wouldn’t work. Stan was only deterred for a second. He shut off the ignition and gathered his goodies in his arms with a little whistle.

The door was unlocked and he was greeted by his dog Toby. He had to wait there to receive the appropriate amount of licks and a little bit of pee dribble on his pant leg from the overactive little golden retriever. Gross, but even that was ok on a night like this.

“Marla!” He shouted from the doorway, walking into the hall. “Baby, I know I’m a little early, but I was thinki–”. The sight in the living room stopped him cold in his tracks.

Saving Grace was sitting on his couch.

No, that wasn’t right.

Marla was in a Saving Grace getup, sitting on the couch… with the Saving Grace mask and booties beside her on the couch cushion. She was sitting with her feet extended, resting in Marla’s customary nighttime footbath bucket. The smell of epsom salts and lavender hit him.

The night’s earlier purchases clattered to the tile floor from Stan’s arms.

Marla was frozen in place. Her eyes were the biggest he’d ever seen…she’d turned as white as a sheet.

“Baby.” He greeted her, the word coming out slowly and uncertain.

“Baby,” Her voice echoed his. “I didn’t think you would be home so soon?”

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh what the ever loving fuck. Stan found himself nodding, trying to process what he was seeing, but all he’d been processing for the last hour was four letter words in anticipation of coming home, and that’s all he could process now.

___

Marla looked him up and down, her eyes settling on the items that littered the ground at Stan’s feet in the hall. There was an odd egg shaped thing still rocking back and forth on the tile from the momentum, and a tube of clear liquid had popped open and dripped into a pool beside it.

In Marla’s experience, Stan only went on a shopping spree at Woody’s and lied to her about how late he’d be at the office for three things: her birthday, which she was sure it wasn’t, his birthday, which it surely wasn’t, or their anniversary, which…. Shit. Her mouth opened in an O, pausing for the right words. Her voice came unexpectedly chipper. “Baby, you ruined my surprise!” She gave him a scolding look.

Stan looked at her confused and shook his head like he was trying to shake off a bad dream. “What?”

She stood up in her foot soaking tub, splashing lukewarm water onto the living room carpet. “You think I don’t know what day it is?!” She asked accusingly.

His eyes snapped from the footbath, to the Saving Grace mask, and back to her again in bewilderment. Her flashy leggings were bunched around her calves, her feet were all pruny, her dirty blonde hair was put up in a messy bun, and the blue and yellow Saving Grace zippered blouse hung open. The cigarette on the end table tray was almost done.

“… What day is it, Marla?” His question came slow and baffled.

“It’s our anniversary, silly!” She hopped out of the footbath, adjusted her front, and struck a pose in front of him. “If you hadn’t come home so early, you wouldn’t have ruined the surprise!” She grabbed the mask on the couch and slipped it over her eyes. “See?!”

“Oh my god.”

“Right?! I knew you would totally freak!” She took the mask off again. “But I only rented it ‘til tomorrow at 3 because someone else needs it for a kid’s birthday party”. Marla picked up the egg shaped item from the floor and held it up for inspection. “It seems like you had some plans of your own, too, huh?”

“Oh, uh… yeah”, he stammered. “Very surprising.” He reached out and pulled the zipper of her blouse down a little. “This could work…”

“Could? You think so?” She asked coyly. Encouraged, she leaned away from him so the zipper came down some more.

__

Stan Rawson was nobody’s fool. But he was willing to play one for the time being. As Marla tried to pass off his discovery as part of her anniversary surprise, doing a little dance in her spandex suit, Stan was getting roped in in spite of himself. God, I love a woman in uniform, he found himself thinking. The spandex hugged every one of her beautiful curves, and he wondered why she didn’t dress like that every day. She’d always told him she was a personal trainer, and her closet was full of “RUN NOW, WINE LATER” wife beater tanks and sweatpants. To him it didn’t even matter in that moment what the pretense was, he wondered if she’d be willing to wear the suit more often. She turned in front of him like Vanna White again, and bent down to pick up the other items on the floor. She made sure he got an eyeful as she pointed her heart shaped ass in his direction and slowly stood back up, giving him a look he was definitely willing to act dumb for. Oh, yeah. Definitely.

___

The sheets had been thrown off the bed hours before, but Stan found himself feeling around in the dark to pull one around his waist. He tightened it around himself and slipped off the bed quietly. Marla was sound asleep, her Saving Grace suit discarded on the floor, and Toby was half curled up on it, also sleeping soundly. Stan made his way into the kitchen with a heavy sigh. First things first. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out the whiskey. Pouring himself a drink, he opened his laptop to an empty document and began to type.

To Whom It May Concern,

I am writing to inform you that I, Stanley Rawson, am resigning from my position as ‘Nasty Surprise’ and will be ending my employment with Efficiency Consulting as of two weeks from now. I will be happy to assist the Overlords in training my replacement until my last day.

Thank you,

Home Is Where the Heart Is

This story was written for the discord server Nightshift Writers' bi-monthly prompt challenge, posed by member Ultra. As always, prompts are open to deviation in order to be flexible for writers. As it's clear, I deviated from some details to make it work for me. Here's the prompt:

The house creaked with age and emptiness. Every good natured protest from the home amplified a singular expression. Loss.

It was the loss of all manner of sayings, spells, and words of wisdom, and most of all, of the woman who spoke them.

It was the loss that Evie Price knew keenly as she stood among furniture hidden under sheets of white linen, unable to feel anything else. That loneliness threatened to consume her, forcing a pressure behind her eyes and an ache in her heart.

First Mother, then Grandmama, who’d been so old it seemed she would never retire, in mind or body. But then she did. All at once, Evie’s life… hell, the world, felt unbearably empty. Before Mother’s passing, Evie’s life had been so ordered. So predetermined. University courses, closing shift at the bakery, dinner, homework, rinse, repeat. Even the hint of skipping a short class, or leaving Mother to close the bakery on her own and Evie would earn the sternest of glares. What now, that her university classes were done, the bakery sold, and Grandmama was gone, too?

Resentment welled up. Out of habit earned from one too many stern glares, she pushed it down.

She could almost hear her mother’s voice scold her. No sense in crying over it. But Mother wasn’t here, and neither was Grandmama. Hopelessness dropped from her throat to her belly, and echoed back up like from a great depth. It whispered a lonely refrain.

Alice would be along soon, to help her attend to the home Evie’d not visited since she was a girl. Putting the house in order was a task she didn’t want to think about– when Alice volunteered to help, Evie nearly cried.

She still didn’t know what she wanted to do with the house. There was no one else to take care of it. The thought of renting it out felt like a cruel joke. Moving in though felt just as cruel. Staying here, without Grandmama? She didn’t even know how half the potions or pots in the kitchen worked. Symbols and words of power laced the rim of every implement. It would take a lifetime to learn what her grandmother had not been permitted to teach her.

But Grandmama’s home could never be too silent or somber for long. Somewhere deep in the beams, something started*.* At first it was a whisper, and it grew to a hum. It was a sound she never thought she’d hear again.

“What is that noise, Grandmama?” She tilted her head up, swaying with the quiet music.

The graying witch smiled, and handed a batter spoon to Evie. It tasted of cardamom and honey, with another flavor she’d never been allowed to know, but it was the taste that filled her dreams. In Dreamland, laughing fae that smelled of Grandmama’s fresh muffins danced to the hum of the cottage, but not even dreams could match the love that steeped her time at Grandmama’s in the waking world.

“It’s the song of home, child. Wherever you are in the world, if you hear this song, it is because you belong there.”

It was the humming that drew her to the attic. A warm, nameless tune pulled almost imperceptibly up the loft stairs. It wove up the worn railing, and grew stronger when her feet rounded the last step. She found herself in the attic, staring at a cedar chest. On the chest sat a book that should not have existed, upon a doily of spider-spun gold thread, wrapped in a music that could only be of Grandmama’s making.

Evie blinked and bit her lip, fighting tears that sprang of their own accord. Tendrils of warmth coiled in an almost familiar embrace wound around her as she reached out to the book. So interested was she, she did not hear the gentle footpads that followed after her, even as the floorboards have their croaky report.

“What is it?” came a soft, curious voice behind her.

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen this since I was little. I thought Mother burned it.”

“What is it?”, the voice came again.

“It’s a…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it at first, picking it up with a ginger touch. A layer of dust came away with her fingertips. “You’re gonna laugh.”

“Pffft. Show me!” A gentle hand tugged at her elbow insistently.

Evie stood paused for a long moment. The leatherbound cover was just as she remembered, with raised gold snakes and vines intertwining up pale pillars. At the center was a thinly etched circle surrounded by symbols of which she’d never known the meaning. There was a time she’d been promised that one day that knowledge and much more would be her’s. That was before Mother whisked them away from Grandmama, 5000 kilometers and lifetimes apart, so it seemed. But she would’ve known that book anywhere.

“It’s a spell book. My grandmother’s spellbook.”

Alice’s chin popped over Evie’s shoulder. “For real?”

“Mhm.” Rough paper edges whispered under her fingers as Evie flipped through the pages. Amidst the stiff parchment and flowing penmanship the faintest smell of dust and cinnamon tea came to her, bringing a smile to her lips.

“This book is the reason Mother made us move away.”

Her friend’s voice took on a cautious hush. “Is it possessed?”

“No no, nothing like that.” She snuck a sly smile to Alice. “That I know of.”

A slim arm hooked through her’s, Alice’s gooseflesh brushing over Evie’s own. “That’s comforting.”

The house creaked with a chilly draft in answer. Her companion’s shiver grated like sandpaper against Evie’s skin. The book hummed and emanated warmth. It did not apparently extend to other people.

“Come on, we’ll put a kettle on, we’ll use Grandmama’s special tea.”

The tea, on second thought, was a task Evie wasn’t sure she could complete. There were words, and an ingredient that danced on the tip of her tongue but that she could not find in Grandmama’s innumerable little vials. They settled on a tea Alice had thought to pack with them, and the two sat with the book on a settee of the deepest blue. They scoured each page, sounding out words they’d never heard before, cautiously forming half-spoken spells on untaught tongues. What it all meant, or could mean, was of little consequence to Evie. It was enough to not be alone.

Soon they had mispronounced all of the potions and principles of the first chapters when they reached the incantations. Both curled up, half entangled, tea forgotten, Evie’s heart leapt at the next chapter’s title.

“The Art of Intention, Incantations, and Spellcasting,” Alice read aloud. “Ooooh, like real, real witch stuff? Like wish spells and love spells, and…”

“We could practice,” Evie said, eyes wide. “I always wondered if love spells really worked!” Then the ridiculousness and absurdity of speaking the possibility struck her, and she fell back in a burst of giggles.

Alice joined her, collapsing on the pillows with a flounce and cascade of curls. “Oh, there’s no need for that,” she said softly. The two giggled again, nervous and giddy as they pored over the book.

Evie wished it was true. Then she could stop looking away so fast when their eyes met. She could sink into a comfortable cuddle when Alice sat close. She didn’t have to feel embarrassed when their hands touched, like when she made tea for two. She wouldn’t have to pretend to be apologetic when she stole fries from Alice’s plate at restaurants.

She doesn’t like me. Not like that. The whisper in her brain came with a little pang of loneliness. But at least Alice was here, when she had no one else. ‘Friendship is a special magic. Never doubt the power of love that is given freely and intentionally’, Grandmama would always say.

I should be more grateful. She swallowed back the lump that threatened to break her composure in two and instead said airily, more sing-songy than she could ever possibly feel, “Well, I guess we’ll never know”.

The book above their heads, Evie stared at the next chapter, Incantations with Intention. Unbidden, the image of Grandmama in her kitchen came to mind. There was always some lesson to be had while the octogenarian prepared some potion or another. ‘All the intention in the world can be for naught if you never give it life, child.’

“Can you imagine it, just… casting a spell and having your wishes come true?”

Alice reached up, taking one side of the book in her hand and pulled it closer. “Your Grandmama thought you could.”

“She’d be the only one.” Evie released the other side of the book, letting the back cover hang against the pages, the paper fanning out from the binding. Her friend lowered it, laying the tome down, and slung her arm over Evie as they both settled further into the cushions.

“I believe you can.” The sweet earnestness in her voice and lazy finger tracing swirls and nonsense in her palm melted Evie. For a heart as lonely as hers, once a devoid chasm deeper than the Marianas Trench, a spark flared.

Grateful, she laced her fingers through Alice’s. “Thank you.”

Encouraged by the sweet tones of a familiar humming, Evie rolled onto her elbow and curled into Alice’s embrace. She brushed errant curls from her friend’s eyes. Then she closed her own, and pressed her lips to Alice’s.

A nigh-imperceptible exhale swept warmth across Evie’s cheek. It was followed by a smile, a cupid’s bow curved into her own and the kiss was returned.

The Crash, or The House That YouTube Built

It’s quiet this morning. It’s been quiet for weeks. Or maybe it’s been months? The calendar on the wall has been used more in the last seven months than probably any calendar we’ve owned. It hangs next to the fridge with a little post-it note that hovered over the twenty first that read in all caps “Dr. Theisen, 8AM!” From my spot at the kitchen table I squinted to find the date. The smell of coffee wafted through but it hadn’t quite kicked in for me. Today’s the tenth. It’s been exactly nine months. I’ve never been a good judge of the passage of time, especially without all of my automatic synced calendar alerts from before The Crash.

At first it was a crisis. Not to me, but to my wife Vanessa. I’ve always had a healthy aversion to the internet but to her the panic from the sudden loss of the invisible network that wove us all together was palpable. In the hours following The Crash it seemed easy for her to distract herself with shopping and admiring herself in the mirror but after the twentieth hour her efforts were something more…. Desperate. She asked me to take her phone so she wouldn’t obsessively check it, then took a melatonin and lain in bed, staring at the ceiling. She dreamt about hitting 3 million followers on Instagram. When she woke to the still-same status of The Crash she was crushed.

I remember how she put on that fake high voice she uses when she’s not okay. “Oh! Well, I’ll just… go for a run I guess”. She hadn’t actually ‘gone for a run’ since senior year for P.E. exams, though her feed would tell a different story. So many photos of her in running gear. So many hours meticulously feigning a runner’s sweat with glycerin and posing in athleisure for the camera. Her announcement to go on a run was cautious, and almost nervous. I didn’t laugh at her. I simply nodded and tried to keep my eyebrows from betraying my surprise. Be cool. Don’t make it a thing. “Okay, babe. Don’t forget your water bottle.” For a moment she perked up. She was cheered by the reminder of the branded posh water bottle, an item she’d received only the week before as a PR package. I went back to my book as I heard her fill the bottle in the kitchen and left out the front door. She came back in a better mood to proudly show off the most genuine selfies I’d ever seen from her, but her overall antsiness continued. Those small pick-me-ups as reminders of her importance grew fewer and more distant as The Crash became a greater reality.

Vanessa Moore is the beautiful woman I have called my wife these past seven years. I don’t remember quite how or when she became fully attached to her fame or phone, but it happened slowly. First she Marie Kondo’d all her favorite souvenir national park t-shirts, then the spare room became a filming room, then she went blonde, and then one day I found myself picking her up an outpatient clinic for a procedure she swore would make her happy. It all seemed so linear to me now, how I lost my wife to the internet personality she’d rather be. The word they use for someone with that great of a following is ‘influencer’ but I cringe to think of my Nessa like that. She used to be so different. I didn’t used to be an Instagram Husband. I couldn’t have been more relieved that The Crash happened, to be honest it probably saved my marriage. My wife wouldn’t share my opinion. I held that secret thought as bitterly as my coffee tasted in my cooling mug.

The first six months were rocky for us. I couldn’t conceal my annoyance at being constantly asked to take photos for an audience that was lost in the ether. More importantly, Nessa discovered something that rocked her world– her sudden loss of connection to the sycophants she called fans and community left her lonely and depressed. Somewhere along the way her self confidence had been replaced by relying on validation from faceless interactions. I bet that even that some of those interactions came from bots, but she missed them all the same. It’s been hard. She still has dreams about hitting 3 mil. Her therapist says she has PTSD and FOMO, the second of which I cannot help but doubt is a technical term. As baffling as it was, we’re still coming to terms with what that means. For Vanessa that means she has to find meaningful things to do, and learn new skills. She’s enrolled in school for a real degree…. .. this is where I have to stop myself. Reframe. She has a real degree– Online Influence Marketing. She’s just getting one that is more relevant to the post-Crash economy now. I can hear Dr Theisen’s voice in my head correcting me. “Mr. Moore, despite benefiting for your wife’s influence you don’t really respect her, do you?” That question still felt like a punch to the gut, followed by deep and immediate shame. I benefited from the free vacations, home that YouTube bought, the brand spokesperson discounts, the random PR boxes that arrived on our doorstep. I couldn’t deny that my wife had worked hard to paint a picture on her social media of a… ‘bossbabe’. That word still makes me shudder. It all seemed so vapid and empty to me. If The Crash hadn’t happened, would I still be here? I constantly asked myself that question, steeped in guilt.