LOW-KEY CALAMITIES

ELLIOTT KAY

Copyright © 2023 by Elliott Kay

All rights reserved.

Cover Illustration Copyright 2023 Brittany Torres

torresfantasyart.com

Cover Design Copyright 2023 Lee Moyer

Leemoyer.com

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

WARNING

TRUST

A MOST NOBLE QUEST

THE SPIRIT OF GIVING

STRANGERS

ACCOMPLISHED

AMENDS

STRICTLY BUSINESS

THE MEDIATOR

INSIDERS

VIGILANCE

LOSSES

MOSTLY HYPE

BETTER DAYS

FRIENDS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

WARNING

LOW-KEY CALAMITIES contains fourteen novelettes and short stories from the series Poor Man’s Fight, Good Intentions, and Wandering Monsters. Collectively they include explicit violence, explicit sex, profanity, defenestrations, espionage, backstabbing, murder, blasphemy, poison, lingerie, public indecency, arguable war crimes, condescension, identity theft, asphyxiation, vigilantism, sabotage, a fart joke, anti-necromantic prejudice, intentional food poisoning, counter-weaponization of stereotypes, deceit, assassination, incitement to riot, disrespect for the dead, abuse of kitchen staff, conspiracy, arson, grand theft auto, breaking and entering, a lost bat, unauthorized dormitory residents, drug use, lies, bickering, punching, leering, kicking, body slams, analysis of adult film, mild hallucinations, paranoia, military “intelligence,” performative charity, genuine charity, talking behind people’s backs, angry essay writing, oral sex, mishandling of explosives, violations of Rules of Engagement, destruction of church property, insensitivity, poor leadership skills, ambushes, grave robbery, insults, family feuding, unintended threats, urban warfare, resentful internal monologues, a carefully bland lunch, and vomiting in front of the boss.

TRUST

November

“You cannot tell me the archangels foresaw this shit.” Rachel brushed a blonde lock over her shoulder and through her halo. One more SUV rolled down the parking structure’s tilted path and straight through her, its occupants oblivious to her presence. “When they came up with roles for the angels, Mike and Gabe did not foresee Thursday Fucking Football.”

Across the exit lane by a car waiting to merge, a fellow angel threw a skeptical look. “Mike and Gabe?” asked Johann. “You’re on a pet-name basis with archangels?”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “No. I’m just saying, archangels never directed traffic.”

Headlights shined through Rachel, brightening her white dress and broad wings without casting a shadow on the next car. Engines rumbled and echoed against concrete walls. Up the ramp, where it did no good at all, someone honked.

“I admit, I thought an angel in Dominion would have more pressing tasks,” said Johann.

“If there’s a fire or flood, I’ll go do that, but this is the hottest spot in the Dominion right now. Everyone’s cranky the Seahawks lost, some of them are drunk, and they’re all rolling around in fuck-off killing machines.”

Traffic loosened up. “Oh hey, I think they’ll let your people in,” Rachel said—and then sharply reached through a window and a driver to slap the beer can out of his hand. He didn’t see her, didn’t hear or even feel, but the sudden loss of his can brought his foot to the brake and his heart to his throat.

“Stop drinking, asshole!” Rachel shouted. She hoped the “accidental” spill provided the moment of clarity he clearly needed.

Johann’s mortal charge saw the gap that followed and tapped his accelerator. The car pushed into the line with Johann walking alongside, nodding farewell to his fellow angel.

Honking horns swelled to a cacophony in the level below, so Rachel gave one more scan for impending nonsense before she sank intangibly through the floor. The scene at the next deck felt perfectly predictable: more cars and SUVs, someone trying to fit in where they couldn’t. Not for the first time, Rachel found mortals handling mortal problems on their own.

“Wait. You’ve gotta wait,” called the woman in the safety vest. Her braids flew as she gestured with a hand up in one direction and beckoned forward with another.

Shauna, Rachel understood at a glance. She had two children at home with their dad. This was her second job. Her guardian was Reyna, far away, presumably with another mortal charge. Shauna seemed fine on her own. Drivers corrected. The jam opened up.

Another SUV lunged into the gap.

“Yo!” Rachel yanked Shauna clear. Only inches separated her from impact. The SUV braked as suddenly as it moved with nowhere to go.

“Yo!” Shauna repeated unconsciously. She was equally unaware of Rachel’s hands, believing the move was only a fortunate step. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Yep. Hottest spot in the city,” Rachel muttered.

“Rachel, you’re here!” The shout carried measured relief. Alia pulled her wings in close as she landed between cars, her dark brown face set in worry. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m here. What’s going on?”

“It’s, ah—” Alia paused. “I need your help. One of my charges has done something stupid.”

Even now, many of the angels barely respected Rachel. She was thrilled when anyone came to her for help, and, more importantly, Rachel cared about the job. The angel in Dominion was everyone’s back-up. “What kind of stupid?”

“Ah…” Alia paused again.

“Is it ‘hurt somebody’ stupid? ‘Hurt themselves’ stupid?”

“No, I wouldn’t come to the angel in Dominion for that,” Alia assured her.

“Right, so…” Rachel waited as Alia hesitated again. “Is this some supernatural bullshit? Or are we talking danger-to-the-city stuff?”

Alia winced. “Both?”

* * *

“Connection and friendship don’t always come naturally. For some, it requires effort and skill.”

“Hold up,” said Richard. “If it’s a deliberate effort, is it really friendship?”

Lorelei spread her hands to the small business-casual crowd around the standing table. Her black slacks and jacket kept her glamour professional. “Here we are. Everyone has a drink, and a smile—and somewhere else they could be right now, yet here we are.”

“Yeah, but you…” Richard stopped. “How much effort did you put into this?”

“Into finding a small, intimate bar where we don’t have to shout? With retro décor and a fancy menu to pique everyone’s interest?” Lorelei brought her tumbler to her lips. “I might have put some thought into it.”

“Hey, I’m grateful,” Tanya spoke up, newest to the conservatory staff and the city. “You can keep organizing after-work stuff and I’ll show up.”

“You’re young,” said Kathy. “Wait ’til you’ve got kids waiting for you at home.”

“Gotta get someone to have kids with first. It’s tough to find anyone to hang out with or date here. The Seattle Freeze is real.”

“Aw, that’s a little overblown,” said Richard.

“Says the born and bred local,” noted Lorelei. “You already have your connections. In this town, the gap between ‘friendly’ and ‘friends’ can feel like a wall. Seattle isn’t unique, but Tanya isn’t imagining it.”

“Have you ever had trouble making friends, Lorelei?” Richard doubted.

“You might be surprised.” Lorelei kept expecting an angel to show up and warn the mortals away from her with a whisper. She wouldn’t necessarily see those angels, either. “The Seattle Freeze is real, but I’m used to worse.”

“So, you’re not from here originally?” asked Tanya.

Lorelei smiled and threw a teasing look to Richard. “You see, Richard, this is how you connect with people. You ask open-ended questions and then you listen. You invest.” She returned her attention to Tanya, facing her directly. “I’ve lived in many places. I was born in Babylon—close enough to claim it, anyway. It’s not really inhabited now.”

“Babylon? Isn’t that Iran?”

“Iraq.”

“Wow, I had no idea. Did you leave before the war?”

“A bit,” Lorelei laughed. “I’ve been gone a long time. Hold on.” She turned to Richard again. “Do you see how we’re connecting?”

“Okay, okay.” Richard rolled his eyes. “If I was cynical, I’d think you’re saying people love to talk about themselves.”

“I am cynical, and that is true. It’s also true that you still have to care enough to listen. It’s the care that people really want.”

White light spread across the room in a shimmer only Lorelei noticed. Rachel stepped through the bar, wings folded and halo blazing. She waved.

Lorelei pulled the phone from her pocket, feigning a call. “I’m sorry, I should step away. Richard, here.” She turned him toward the others. “Ask Kathy and Tanya about where they’re from. Try listening. You can do it.” She gave him a playful pat on the shoulder and stepped away amid laughter.

Following Rachel to the bathroom hallway, Lorelei flexed and twisted one hand in an arcane gesture. The enchantment would conceal her if anyone passed by; she could speak freely. “Rachel?”

“Hey. You’re having a nice time? Work buddies?” Rachel began.

“Yes. It would be nicer if you could join us. Are you able?”

“Aw, babe. That’s not weird? They know Alex is your guy.”

“They could know about you, too.” Lorelei’s hands found hers. “You don’t have to hide from our mortal lives. I would be glad if they knew you.”

Rachel’s brow knit with regret. She bit her lip. “Fucking dillweed shitfuck.”

“You don’t have to get all your swearing out before you meet them,” Lorelei chided. “I don’t care if they discover your linguistic challenges.”

“No, fuck, it’s not—dammit—pissballs—no. Babe, we’ve got a problem.”

“What sort of problem?” Lorelei dropped her taunting. Rachel appeared unharmed, and Alex was with Molly and Onyx tonight. If one of their other friends was in need, she doubted Rachel would have abandoned them to find her.

“I love you,” she began. “I think you’re wonderful. I’m on your side.”

“Likewise,” said Lorelei.

“Ooh, that came off kinda grave and serious.”

“Your affection is clearly meant to cushion some grave and serious news.”

“Promise you won’t fuck up the whole city in a pissed-off demon rampage?”

“No.”

“Shit,” the angel winced.

“Rachel.”

“Some dumbass fucked off with your car.”

Her eyes flared. Her jaw set. She didn’t ask for clarification or repetition. Lorelei stormed out of the hallway and straight for the exit.

Rachel followed. “Listen, I need you to…”  She paused in the middle of the bar, unseen by all but the guardian angel hovering over the bartender and the other one beside Richard. “Hey, Dave, she’s not gonna come back for a graceful goodbye. Could you make sure they don’t get worried about her?”

The angel in the bright white slacks and vest stared back. “What, you don’t want the unsuspecting mortals to chase after the angry demon?”

“Oh, fuck off, Dave. You know what I mean. Pull the barstool out of your ass and smooth this shit over.”

Outside on the street, Lorelei clung to her concealing enchantment. Red wings spread from her back, ghosting right through her clothes and pedestrians on the sidewalk. She leapt onto the hood of the closest car and then again beyond it, with a beat of her wings carrying her across full lanes of traffic.

The parking lot lay between bland concrete walls of office towers and condominiums. It held no more than thirty spaces, every one of them full—including number 24, formerly occupied by Lorelei’s white Lexus LC 500 convertible, now occupied by a red Bronco encroaching rudely beyond the painted lines.

She looked around: left, right, behind her, eyes finally coming to rest on Rachel. “We haven’t even been here an hour yet,” said Lorelei. “You couldn’t intervene?”

“I wasn’t here.”

“Then how did you know?”

“An angel told me.”

“An angel.” Lorelei’s eyes narrowed. “The thief has a guardian? They are mortal? You would have acted if this was some supernatural culprit.”

“Yeah.”

“Who is it?”

“I can’t say.” Rachel was only a few inches shorter than Lorelei but seemed smaller with her eyes set in puppy-dog-apology territory. “It’s guardian rules and it gets complicated. I’m sorry.”

Lorelei looked around again but didn’t expect much. A decent thief would have gone unnoticed by passersby, and people didn’t linger here. Downtown lots such as this one relied on automated payment machines and rare roving staffers. This one had a booth off to one side, but—she did a double-take. The smudged windows looked intentionally frosted, but the dark shape low against the glass was recognizable enough with a second look anyway.

Rachel stuck to her side. “Do you have some of that tracking bullshit on your car?”

“I do not trust some business to track my movements,” Lorelei fumed. “Mitigating that problem from my phone is trouble enough.”

Through the filthy glass, Lorelei made out a brown coat and a black watch cap over curly, scraggly brown hair, lit by the glow of a phone. The attendant didn’t even face the parking lot, let alone notice her approach. She hoped her slap against the side of the booth startled him.

The door slid open to a young, sour face. Some misbegotten herbal scent wafted from the booth. “Did you think about saying hello?”

“My car is gone. It is a white Lexus convertible.” Lorelei noticed his subtle twitch, but the cues of his body language could have several explanations. “I paid your exorbitant fee and parked properly forty minutes ago. Now my car is gone.”

“Lady, we’re not actually responsible for anyone’s property. It’s on all the signs.”

“Did you see anything happen? Was it towed for some reason?”

“I didn’t call a tow truck, but I haven’t been here all night. Shit happens, y’know?”

“What is your name?”

“Nic—” He sniffled, hesitating. “I don’t have to tell you.”

“Nick? Nicholas? Are you drunk? Or on some drug?”

“No. Why?”

“Does this lot have security cameras? Where would I find the video?”

Nick made a face. “We don’t just give that to people.”

Her eyes flared. Her foot came off the ground, preceding a grab, and then a white radiance erupted behind Nick. The angel wore a billowing, sleeveless white shirt to show off his muscles. Deeply tanned arms folded across his chest as he glared at Lorelei in warning.

“Ugh, settle down, Stephan.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “She’s not gonna eat your guy.”

“I know she won’t,” said Stephan.

Nick saw and heard nothing of the angels. He didn’t notice Lorelei’s movement or her sudden stop, either; he was already looking away with a gesture at the lot. “It’s not my job to stop car thieves. Call the cops like a normal person.”

Scowling, Lorelei made one more scan of Nic, the booth, and the watchful angel. Nothing in view helped her. She walked away.

Rachel’s shoulders sank. “Stephan, I’ve got this.”

“You had better. Keep that on a leash.”

“Motherfucker, I will cut your face.” Rachel leaned in, fading through Nick’s body as he watched Lorelei’s back. “I protect this Dominion and I protect mortals like Stinky McSlack-Ass here, but I didn’t make any promises to protect your fuckin’ mouth. Say something shitty like that again and you’ll find out how my foot tastes.”

“I—I’m only saying we shouldn’t be so quick to believe she is redeemed,” Stephan protested.

“Go cry to the fuckin’ archangels about it. Get out of my sight. I’ve got this.”

Nick shrank back into the booth and pulled the door shut, sliding it through Rachel’s head. She withdrew and left Nick and Stephan to their one-sided relationship.

Her real concern hadn’t gone far. Rachel found Lorelei taking in the adjoining alleyway between the office and condo towers. “Stephan will come around sooner or later,” she said at Lorelei’s side. “Everyone’s twitchy today.”

“The attendant ‘twitched’ when I first confronted him,” said Lorelei. “Was that simple nerves, or does he know something? Is he lying?”

“Babe, I couldn’t tell you if he was,” Rachel sighed.

“Stephan would object, I suppose?”

“Yeah, actually. Nick’s a shit, but he’s not like a murder-cannibal or a slave trader. He’s a shit under Heaven’s light. People get to be shits.”

“Yes, I am familiar with Heaven’s flawless standards and practices.”

“You’re super pissed at me.”

“Someone stole my car, Rachel.”

“You’re usually laid back about the material stuff.”

“I have no desire for a higher lifestyle than the one we already enjoy. This is not avarice or ambition. I like my car.”

“The cops might find it?” Rachel suggested, though her expression held doubt even before Lorelei scowled. “I mean it puts more eyes on the problem, and… um… would that be bad?”

“If they found the false identifications, the illegal weapons, the packets of foreign cash, and the jewelry hidden in the car, that would be bad, yes.”

“Hell.” Rachel winced. “I didn’t think you kept a bug-out stash.”

“None of it is strictly necessary, but it is a convenience. The weapons are for Alex. We’ve found need for them often enough.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that. He’s with the witches, though; maybe they could help?”

“Possibly. But I don’t want to call them, and I do not want to involve Alex. I want to resolve this myself. Tonight.”

“Babe, I want to help…” Rachel’s words fell into a mumble.

“I know. You have your restrictions and responsibilities… to the mortals.”

“That’s not what’s happening here! Fuck! Do you think I want you pissed off at me like this? It hurts. Every time I say no or I’m sorry, I feel like fuckin’ shredded cheese, and it’s only—”

Lorelei grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her. The brush of her tongue pulled a whimper from Rachel’s throat, and Lorelei snarled into the angel’s open mouth, taking her lip between her teeth. Their kiss didn’t last, but the pounding of Rachel’s heart continued after Lorelei let her go.

“What was that?” asked Rachel.

“A statement. One I have made before. I will not use our love as leverage.”

Lorelei seemed no softer now than before the kiss, which twisted Rachel up even more. “Fuck, you’re hot.”

“Something else I would not use against you,” said Lorelei.

“I—but you’re still pissed.”

“My anger is with Heaven, not you. And whoever stole my car.”

“I’m part of Heaven. That’s still part of me.”

“I accepted this when you accepted me. We will work through this, Rachel. It will take time—longer than it will take to resolve the theft of my car, I’m sure.” She brushed a lock of hair from Rachel’s face. “Your responsibilities are real. I know this.”

“Babe, I love you. I want to help. It’s just that Alia came running to me and—”

Lorelei’s eyes narrowed. “Alia. This is the angel who told you? She came running.”

“Yeah.”

“You can traverse this city in heartbeats when you need,” said Lorelei. “She knew it was my car and saw danger, and she ran to you. This happened only minutes ago.”

“Yeah?” Rachel ventured. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you that.”

“Then that lickspittle in the booth was here when it happened. He knows something.”

“Aw, shitstacks.”

Lorelei stormed back to the booth. The timing proved convenient, at least in that the door opened as Lorelei returned. Nick emerged with his phone in his hand, not noticing Lorelei until she was close. “Did you call the cops?”

“Nap,” Lorelei ordered, voice heavy with power.

Nick’s eyes fluttered and his head rolled. She caught him by his coat with one hand and her tail; she needed her other hand for his phone.

“Oh fuck, that was a lot,” said Rachel. “Oh fuck. Like that was seriously fuckin’ direct.”

“It would not be enough to render him inert but for his intoxication.” Lorelei set him on the stool, propped against the window as before. “He’ll be fine. I take it Stephan has gone?”

“Yeah, for a hot second at least, but I—” A dark fist came at Lorelei’s face in a rush, blocked by Rachel’s. “Hold up!” Rachel snapped at Stephan. “Chill!”

“She assaulted my charge! And you allowed it!”

“He is unharmed,” said Lorelei.

“He stole from her,” Rachel barked. “He’s part of this.”

“You told her?” Stephan pressed.

“She figured it out for herself. What, do you want me to lie to her? Is that what we do now?” Rachel saw just enough doubt in his eyes to let go of his wrist. “The dipshit already sleeps on the job. She gave him another nap. He’s fine.”

“And she took his phone,” said Stephan.

“Much more was taken from me.” The phone already had more of her attention than the angel. Its screen was still unlocked. “And I intend to return this.”

The first strokes of her search provided exactly what she sought. A text message from thirty minutes ago to someone labeled KT read, “Sweet Lexus at my spot. Like new. Good cover. Nobody will see.”

The message drew exclamation points in reaction. “OMG on my way! Thanks so much!”

Lorelei scrolled back and saw similar brief connections over two months: a Mustang, an Explorer, a Highlander. An earlier proposal for a Tesla met KT’s rejection: “Too fussy. Thanks.” The reaction to Lorelei’s Lexus showed unusual enthusiasm.

“It’s always the phones,” Lorelei murmured. She met Stephan’s glare. “Your little pimple is part of a team. Is this what you’re protecting?”

“I do not defend those actions. I protect him as any other guardian would, and that includes protecting him from demons.” Stephan tugged on his billowy shirt. “I have discouraged this matter at every turn, but he doesn’t listen. Free will must be respected. He has his reasons.”

“I’m sure.” Lorelei glanced at Rachel and found only a patient plea. “I have no interest in this twit. I mean to regain my car. If that leads him to some misfortune, that is his concern, but I will not harm him personally. Does this satisfy your protection, Stephan?”

“And the phone?”

She returned to scrolling and searching, gaining a sense of Nick’s style and habits. She didn’t need much. The less she revealed, the better. “Not gonna believe this,” she texted to KT. “You want another one? Come see me.”

The reply came a moment later: “20 minutes.”

“He’ll get his phone back when I have the next link in the chain,” Lorelei told Stephan. “I assume I’ll remain under supervision.”

Shooting a stern look to Rachel, Stephan spread his wings and shot into the sky.

“Ah. I assume you are my supervision?” asked Lorelei.

Rachel’s silent apologies would, it seemed, have to keep coming.

* * *

Street traffic continued without raising Lorelei’s interest and her mood dampened all conversation. Nothing stood out as suspicious, nor did anyone repeatedly circle the lot. Lorelei and Rachel hid in plain sight, leaning against a red SUV beside the booth.

At first, KT’s response of “20 minutes” seemed too optimistic. Eighteen minutes later, though, a lone, petite figure walked onto the lot in glitter-lined sneakers. Her head stayed bowed as she subtly looked around. She came straight to the booth and rapped on the glass. “Nick?”

Lorelei tapped “send” on Nick’s phone. The figure blinked and pulled her own phone out of her pocket to find the message waiting. With that confirmation, Lorelei dropped her concealing enchantment. “He’s fine.”

“The fuck?” The stranger spun to face Lorelei, revealing youth and Indian heritage.

“Nick will wake soon,” said Lorelei. “Don’t run. I’m faster than I look and you’ll only irritate me further. What is your name?”

Instinct sent her stepping back, but the booth stopped her and made her jump again. “Bitch, I don’t know you. Don’t fuckin’ sneak up on people, damn.”

Rachel looked on in discomfort and pity. “I like that she swears, anyway.”

“Nick has you listed in his phone as KT. Should I use that, or a different name?”

“Nick—” She looked back at the slumped figure in the booth. “What have you done to Nick?”

“I used harsh words. His own bad habits did the rest. He’s fine,” Lorelei repeated. “Earlier tonight, he contacted you about a white Lexus convertible in this lot. Where is it?”

“I don’t—I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Again, Nick is unconscious and I am holding his phone,” said Lorelei.

“…you’re not a cop?”

“I am not a cop,” said Lorelei.

The younger woman shrugged in defiance. “Okay. Who are you, then?”

“I asked you first.”

“I’m not just gonna tell you.”

“All your alternatives lead to worse outcomes.” Lorelei saw no need for shouting. “I know the security package on my car, and I did not leave it unlocked. That suggests a certain level of skill. You walked onto the lot with perfectly innocent body language. You have reacted to confrontation without violence. You know your limitations.”

“Oh, what, and you’re some bad ass, lady?”

“I think you’ve already figured that part out.”

“Okay, then why haven’t you…?” She stopped.

“Why haven’t I dealt with you in the same way as I did Nick?” asked Lorelei. “Because he is only the spotter. You are the real talent. Everyone has their reasons for doing what they do, including thieves—especially thieves. He is an idiot. Yours may be a different story.”

She sighed. “Kyra. Call me Kyra.”

“Kyra, I am Lorelei. Where is my car?”

Kyra shook her head.

“Alright. I know when and who. I don’t need the details of how. Why did you steal my car?”

“Because it’s a sweet car, obviously. That thing retails for six figures. Supposed to, anyway.”

“Supposed to?” Lorelei’s eyebrow rose. “You expected more from this. Someone’s already shorted you, and not because of the quality of my car.”

“What’re you, fuckin’ Sherlock?” asked Kyra.

Rachel stood beside her, developing a grin. “I kinda just like her, actually.”

“Do you?” Lorelei murmured in reply.

“What?” Kyra frowned.

“Why do you steal cars, Kyra?”

“What kinda question is that?”

“You’re bold and capable. That much is established. You don’t give me the impression of a thrill-seeker, at least not to this degree of risk. The money clearly matters, but there are other ways to get money.”

“Not this kind of money. Not for me.” Kyra paused, considering her options before she answered sullenly. “Mom’s sick. Real sick. The kind they can fix, but only if you lose everything to pay for it. And I mean everything. She’d rather die than let the family be poor. I’ve been paying bills before she sees them. Drugs, too. But I’m already behind and falling fast.”

“Ah. A classic tale.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it happens. Have you been in America long?”

“And so you steal.”

“Hey, not like I’m taking the family minivan. If you can afford the cars I grab, you can afford the insurance.” Kyra shrugged. “Usually, I look for something that says the owner’s an asshole.”

Lorelei looked past her. Rachel bit her lip, grinning and nodding toward Kyra.

“Then you are the sort of thief I can appreciate,” said Lorelei.

“Whatever that means. Fine. So how do we work this out?”

“I want my car back.”

“I can’t get it for you. I already turned it over, and they’re not gonna give it back. They’d kill me if I told you about them, anyway. Like, literally kill me.”

“No one will know you were involved. You have already delivered and been paid, correct?”

“Yeah, sorta. Supposed to get twenty percent of MSRP. They gave me five and made up some bullshit about a pay ceiling. Assholes.”

“These are unreliable partners in crime, Kyra. I have seen it before. They have taken advantage of you. They will inevitably do worse.” Lorelei watched the thoughts connect behind Kyra’s eyes. “But you already know this, don’t you?”

“What are you gonna do? Call the cops? Offer to buy it back?”

“No police. No negotiations. You are the last beneficiary of my patience tonight.”

Kyra swallowed. “The directions are complicated. I’m gonna have to show you.”

* * *

The drive took them past the stadiums into the SoDo district, where industrial buildings stretched southward in a strip between the greenery of Beacon Hill and the shipping complex of Harbor Island. The latter provided a steady trickle of trucks and late-night commuters; Kyra’s Nissan was older than its driver and fit right in.

A left turn took them away from the harbor, but not far. Kyra gestured to a fenced compound of shipping containers under a scattering of floodlights. “There’s a legitimate warehouse at the center, but it’s closed up at night. All the car stuff happens at one of those office trailers with windows, like on construction sites.”

“Then if my car is still here, it should be in one of the containers?”

“Probably. I don’t know. I deliver, get it checked out, and then get paid in the office trailer. I don’t know where they send things out or when. My own car stays parked a couple blocks away while I’m working, too. They think I ride the bus.”

“That is wise. You can let me out here, thank you,” said Lorelei.

Kyra pulled into a lane of dark buildings. “Okay, lady, hold on. How do I know this doesn’t bite me in the ass? I feel like I’m gonna be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”

“Would you like a sense of closure when this is done? Where can you wait safely? I will need an hour at most.”

Kyra scowled, but eventually gestured. “There’s a Denny’s up the next road that way.”

“Stay there. They will have no reason to suspect your involvement.” Lorelei got out and started walking, and Kyra left without delay.

“Okay, you could be a little more reassuring.” Rachel lit up the night like a beacon only Lorelei could see, not that she needed the help. “Kyra’s covering, but she’s scared shitless right now.”

“Should I have used supernatural influence? That worked on Nick because he wanted the nap. It would be rather brutish here.”

“I’m just saying you’ve got nicer ways of doing things.”

“Kyra doesn’t swing that way. Pity.”

“That is not what I meant,” Rachel protested.

“Nicer methods would take more time, and I am too irritated for them.” The pair arrived at tall fencing topped by coils of barbed wire. Floodlight towers kept the compound bright enough for nighttime work, but they didn’t cover every square foot. “I’m surprised I had this much time without her guardian interfering. Do I have you to thank for that?”

“You don’t sound very thankful.”

“My car may not have sufficient time remaining for me to show my gratitude.” If eye rolls could be a tone, Rachel thought Lorelei had it nailed.

Lorelei gave her an inscrutable look while her wings unfurled. Rachel followed her flight over the fence to the top of a shipping container, giving them both a better view. As Kyra described, the warehouse that anchored the compound stood closed and dark. The lines of containers and the lit-up office trailer gave the look of an operation that had quickly outgrown its original warehouse space. A couple containers stood open to reveal racks of tools and automotive supplies. Near the trailer, a pair of men inspected the open hood of a BMW. Another opened up a container to carefully roll an Explorer inside.

“Are these men under Heaven’s protection? It’s too far for me to tell,” said Lorelei.

“A couple of ’em, yeah.” Rachel let out a grumbling sigh and pointed away. “Alfred is down there giving me a fuck off look, worried about his boy. Sometimes people have their reasons for doing dumb shit.”

“I ask so we know where to look. You could find my car faster and with less fuss than I.” Lorelei faced her. “Would it violate your responsibilities to help me that much?”

Rachel’s shoulders sank. “I am helping you.” Her mouth scrunched with trepidation. “Minimal fuckery?”

“I have to cover for Kyra’s involvement, but that is my intent. Love, I do not wish to make trouble for you.”

“I know. Gimme a minute.” Rachel dropped through the container at their feet.

She could hide from Lorelei’s sight as easily as any other angel, but she chose not to. Lorelei caught glimpses of the light from her halo and the white shape of her wings darting through one container after another in a rapid circuit through the yard. No container held her longer than two seconds until she reached one directly across the receiving lot from Lorelei’s position. A moment more and Rachel rose through the roof of that container and pointed downward.

Lorelei leapt and glided over the gap to join her. She noted a small bit of fortune: the doors to this container faced away from the office trailer. Nothing awaited on the other side but an open lane between containers. She dropped to that side with Rachel following.

“Problem: there’s a fuckin’ SUV blocking your car,” said Rachel.

“Then we move them both.” Lorelei’s eyebrow rose with a new thought. “This would also be easier with your help, if it does not cross the line.”

“I’m already stretching my dick over the line to piss on the other side. And I don’t drive. My ass is strictly for the passenger seats.”

“We need only release the passenger breaks to roll it out. If it is locked, I will have to damage it. You could get inside without that damage.”

“Uuugh. We’d better actually be okay with each other and not hiding some passive-aggressive shitfit here.”

Rachel faded through the container wall. Lorelei examined the latching system and waited for noise from activity in the lot. With a rumbling engine for cover, she threw the latches and pulled open the doors. The absence of a lock on the door and tie-downs on the vehicles suggested they weren’t here for transport, or at least not yet. Light from Rachel’s halo bounced around the cab of the SUV. Hydraulic noises announced her success before she stepped into the open. “You want me to roll it out, too?”

“The faster we get clear, the better.” Lorelei advanced to the driver’s side of her car. Nothing looked damaged or disturbed. Of even greater fortune, the thieves had backed it into the container.

“All good. Just an inanimate object.” Rachel grabbed the bumper and tugged. Even steering it into a turn out into the lane wasn’t too much for her strength. “Not like I’m interfering with anyone’s spiritual fuckin’ journey, or—”

“Rachel?” She recognized the angelic, masculine voice instantly. “What are you doing?”

“Oh hey, Alfred. I’m keepin’ the peace and mitigating harm, what the fuck’s it look like?” With the SUV in the open, Rachel faced the new source of divine radiance—and grimaced at the mortal shape that walked right through the guardian angel. “Aw, hell.”

Reggie. She learned his name at a glance as surely as she noticed his dark jacket, broad shoulders, and stubbly jaw. She saw Reggie’s loss of family early in life, and a shiftless path into adulthood: misuse by the Army leading to dishonorable discharge, a couple bad relationships, a lack of good jobs. She saw a life driven by bad choices, some of them made by others… and some that were entirely Reggie’s own.

The Glock he pulled from his waistband fell into the latter category.

“You don’t have to do this,” Alfred whispered at his side. “Is this job worth hurting someone?”

“Trouble, Lorelei!” Rachel called out. Reggie didn’t hear, of course, but the other guardian angel did. He shot her a look. Rachel made a face. “Eat my entire ass, Alfred.”

Reggie kept the pistol low as he rounded the open container door. Only his flashlight was up, promptly illuminating Lorelei at the side of her car. “What the—who the fuck are you? What are you doing in here?”

Lorelei looked him up and down, frowned, and clicked her key fob. Her car beeped and its headlights flashed.

“Who the fuck let you in here? We’re not sending anything out. Hey! I’ll fucking shoot you!” His pistol came up to make the point.

“Do not. Don’t do it,” whispered Alfred.

“Better not,” warned Rachel.

“That will go poorly for you,” said Lorelei. She opened her car door.

Reggie fired twice. The first bullet knocked her head sideways and sent the rest of her following it straight to the floor.

“Oh, you fucking toolshed!” Rachel swept through Reggie and the car to check on her.

Alfred’s bluster and indignation vanished. “Rachel, please.”

“They stole her shit and she’s taking it back, Alfred! She’s in the fucking right here!”

“I know, but…”

Reggie advanced, swallowing his nerves as he closed in. He knew he’d hit her, but there wasn’t a body on the floor. He pushed the door shut and rounded the Lexus, wondering if she’d crawled away, or maybe rolled beneath—and then he felt a presence behind him.

Lorelei swatted him across the face and sent him stumbling against the container wall. Another swat left him bewildered and cost his grip on the flashlight. She grabbed his collar and hurled him through the angels. Reggie sprawled out with his face down, head knocked against metal and stunned.

She didn’t see Alfred, but Rachel’s words and body language gave her a good idea. She glared at the open space with a small cut and burn on her cheek. A trickle of blood reached for her jaw. “He tried to kill me,” she said. “He shot a stranger over a stolen car.”

Alfred shimmered into Lorelei’s sight. His hands rose in a calming gesture. “Reggie doesn’t see all his options. He feels cornered and desperate,” the angel began.

Lorelei walked through him.

“Don’t bitch and moan to us, motherfucker,” Rachel said to the plea forming on Alfred’s mouth. “He shot her and I’m not in charge of her.”

“She’s a demon,” Alfred objected. “He’s only mortal!”

“And an attempted murderer. And a thief.” Though Lorelei lacked the might of the angels, hefting Reggie over her shoulder elicited only a mild grunt of effort. “You are right. I am a demon, and I have been wronged, and I am angry.”

Alfred hesitated, looking again to Rachel for help, and then it was too late. Lorelei rounded the container walls, striding toward mortal witnesses. To one side, she saw the light of the office trailer window and a pair of men working at desks. To the other, Lorelei found the BMW with its open hood and two men looking up to the sound of movement.

“Hey, what the hell was that banging, man?” called one. “Did you shoot—oh shit!”

Lorelei came to the trailer window and hurled Reggie straight through.

Shouts erupted in either direction, mostly profanity and irrelevant names. The pair at the car split up: one fled, while the other reached for his waistband. Lorelei saw a nearby workbench, found a wrench, and hurled it. Her missile connected before his aim solidified. The man let off a stray shot as he fell, harming nothing.

“Shit, someone’s shooting!” blurted a voice in the trailer. “Stay down!”

Divine light returned to her side. “So, how bad are we fuckin’ up these cockbags?” Rachel asked, and then: “Oh.”

Lorelei pulled a gas canister from the bench. Nails from her other hand stretched and sharpened into talons to puncture the canister. She threw it high through the broken window of the office trailer. Shouts of panic followed.

“Oh look, a road flare,” she called out. It didn’t need to be true.

The first response came not as gunfire, or fleeing men, but new divine light. A woman with wings and a shining halo dropped from the sky to land right in front of them. Another angel swept in from nowhere with a burning sword swinging at Lorelei’s head, but Rachel parried with a larger blade of flame.

“No! No! Back the fuck up!” Rachel snapped. “These guys are fucking thieves. This is nothing but mortal-world consequences for mortal actions. Marcos, put that sword away. She’s not out here throwing magic or eating souls or some shit.”

“She threw someone a hundred pounds heavier than herself,” Alfred mumbled.

“Shut up, Alfred. And you, Natalie.” Rachel jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Your guy already fucked off thataway. He’s out of the line of fire.”

“I mean to ensure he stays that way,” said Natalie. She didn’t take her eyes off Lorelei.

In the distant shadows past Rachel’s shoulder, the fleeing thief tripped and fell against a container wall with a loud bang. “Ahh, fuck!”

Natalie’s shoulders sank.

“He is no concern of mine,” said Lorelei. Natalie glared a second longer before ghosting through her, vanishing as she rushed to her mortal ward.

That left Marcos and Alfred. The latter merely watched with his arms folded in discomfort. Marcos had withdrawn his sword, but did not release it. “You will not harm my ward, demon. I care not for your pretext.”

“Fuck me, can we drop the drama?” Rachel groaned.

“Ask her.” Marcos glared at Lorelei. “Did you think to sneak past us? Or catch us unaware?”

“No,” said Lorelei. “I’m thinking of all the people who have deserved protection more, and yet received less.”

Past the angels, a lone figure poked his head out of the office trailer door. Though he saw only Lorelei, he recognized the moment of distraction and seized upon it. His retreating footsteps drew her attention. Reggie fell out after, picked himself up off the ground, and continued his escape.

“Those are your guys,” said Rachel. “You’ve got no interest in the rest. Piss off.”

“They face more threats from this than her claws and—”

“Then your baby falls down and goes boom!” Rachel shouted over Marcos. “Shit happens. That’s life. Shittier shit happens when you’re fucking stupid. If this stuff haunts your boy, it’s his own fucking fault. Go away, Marcos. Do your job. I’m doing mine.”

Alfred walked after Reggie, fading out of view in a few steps. Fuming, Marcos followed.

Lorelei strode toward the office trailer’s door. “I did not think so many thieves would enjoy the protection of the angels.”

“Yeah, well, kind of a selection bias going on in this instance,” Rachel grumbled.

Another man emerged from the trailer door, burly and imposing in a heavy coat. He saw Lorelei and followed his impulse to lunge at her, forgetting the gun in his hand. Lorelei punched him hard enough in the gut to take him off his feet. Winded and shocked, the man was flung yards away before he knew what was happening. “Aaand we’re out of guarded mortals now,” Rachel added. “It’s straight dipshits from here.”

Lorelei came face to face with the last man inside as he rushed to exit. The boss fit Kyra’s description perfectly: middle aged, bald, and dressed almost well enough to offset his naturally unpleasant face. Her appearance caught him by surprise; the gun in his hand wasn’t yet up and ready to fire. Lorelei found the black duffel bag clutched to his chest even more interesting.

An open-hand thrust caught him directly in the nose, producing a crunch and driving him to the floor. Her tail snatched his pistol away before his senses cleared. “Shit, damn it… who the fuck are you?” he spat from a mouth stained by his nosebleed.

“Someone who suspected the boss would want to grab the cash box before he fled,” said Lorelei. “You can leave it here and live, or I can take it and leave you to bleed out. Choose.”

He chose. Rachel stepped aside with a look of disdain rather than allowing him to crawl through her. At the door, he climbed to his feet and stumbled into the night.

“I would not have actually killed him,” Lorelei told Rachel.

“Is that ’cause you didn’t feel like it, or ’cause I’m here?” Rachel’s shoulders sank when Lorelei turned her attention to the bag instead of answering. The locked box inside couldn’t withstand Lorelei’s strength, revealing exactly the payroll cash she expected. It meant little to Rachel. “Look, car’s found, bad guys have fucked off. Can we talk now?”

“In a broken, criminal trailer stinking of gasoline? Certainly,” said Lorelei. “You rarely stay with me this long, especially at these hours. Alex and I see you for only fleeting minutes until the bars close. You have threats to hunt and a Dominion to protect, and we understand that—except here you follow me through this entire annoying errand. Am I the greatest threat in your Dominion tonight? Do you not trust me?”

“Of course, I trust you! I fucking love you!”

“These things do not always go hand in hand.”

“They do for me. I thought you knew that.”

“I believed it. Yet here you are, worried for all these idiots who harmed me. I was never needlessly cruel, even before meeting you and Alex. You know my past. You know I love you. Did you think I would throw all that away in a fit of irritation over a car?”

“No.”

“Then why did these people so urgently need your protection?”

“I’m protecting you.”

Lorelei stopped.

“I’m out here telling other angels it’s on sight with every monster and demon, with one exception,” said Rachel. “Lots of my people still don’t believe you’re reformed, and they’ve got their panties all the way up their asses about it.  On top of that, holding Dominion means fuck all when it comes to how guardians actually guard. If their charge is in danger, they deal with it. Put that together and ask yourself how many angels are looking for an excuse.”

The frost in Lorelei’s expression melted. Her voice softened. “You could have told me.”

“I didn’t want to. It makes me feel like shit.” Rachel forced out a breath. “It doesn’t make me happy. Heaven’s supposed to be better than this, and it’s not, and it makes me feel shitty. But I don’t lie. Especially not to you. So, I just don’t say anything. Usually, I’m up front about that, but this was all in a rush and you were pissed off, so I just… kept my trap shut.”

“I am sorry, love. I am so sorry.”

“You aren’t the one with any reason to apologize. For anything.”

“How many?” Lorelei asked.

“What, how many angels are still pissy about you? Fewer every day. It won’t always be like this. Tonight probably helped. Marcos will go complain, and then they’ll hear my side of it, and they might grumble, but I’m right. You didn’t do anything wrong. You could’ve gone harder than you did.”

“I have no love for needless cruelty,” Lorelei repeated, softly this time. “And I wouldn’t want to make things difficult for you. I love you, Rachel.”

“I love you, too. Forever.” Rachel blew a strand of hair from her face. “Stinks in here.”

“That’s the gasoline.”

“Yeah, the fuck was that about? Was that just a pressure tactic?”

“No. I thought it likely that a fire would lead to some sort of investigation. I don’t expect arrests and convictions, but the process should get any other stolen cars returned to their owners.”

“Huh. Wow. That’s… considerate.” Rachel bit her lip. “I like when you’re nice.”

“I know, and I am learning to do it more.” Lorelei stepped close. She brushed Rachel’s cheek, took a long breath of the same air. “One more part of this fiasco must be addressed. Would you like to take a ride with me?”

* * *

She hadn’t been to a Denny’s in years. Kyra didn’t remember feeling like the entire menu was the kids’ menu, and regretted her order when it arrived. Grease and caffeine with all this shit hanging over my head? Really?

The buzz of her phone made her jump in her seat. Yeah, coffee’s a great idea, she thought, and then found the text from Mom: “Let me know you’re okay?”

Kyra sighed. Mom had to have gone to bed by now. This must’ve come from a random wake-up-and-peek into Kyra’s room. “Home soon. Just talking to a friend first.” She forced a smile for a selfie. The table and window in the background would show it wasn’t a club or a bar. I wish.

She poked at her eggs and pancakes, wondering how long she’d have to stretch this out. Her answer arrived in that same moment, carrying a duffel bag. At Lorelei’s side stood a blonde in a white dress, close to Kyra’s age.

“The matter is resolved,” said Lorelei. “This is my partner, Rachel. May we sit?”

“Sure.” Kyra watched them settle in, Lorelei with more grace than Rachel. “Um. You mean, like, operating partners, or…?”

“Bangers. We fuck,” said Rachel. Lorelei side-eyed the obvious derail. Rachel only grinned. “Romantically. Like, a lot.”

“She’s very proud,” said Lorelei.

“Whatever. Did you get your car?”

“We did. Thank you for your assistance. Your name did not come up. While it got rough, no one was killed. I don’t believe the operation will continue.” The news sank Kyra’s shoulders and her stomach. Then Lorelei set the duffel bag on the table. “This is for you.”

Warily, Kyra pulled it onto her seat before looking inside. Her eyes bulged at the wrapped stacks of cash. “What the fuck?”

“I don’t believe any of it is counterfeit, though I admit I did not check every bill,” said Lorelei. “Fifteen thousand dollars is the current threshold for financial gifts before requiring tax disclosure. Deposit that amount into your bank account immediately after leaving here. I’ll give you my contact information should you still require a benefactor’s name for some reason. When you get home, count it up at least twice, hide it somewhere safe, and use it only for daily incidental needs until we can arrange a proper laundering scheme.”

“This is… this has gotta be more than enough for mom’s bills,” Kyra breathed.

“I don’t believe tonight’s events will haunt you, legally or otherwise. Regardless, we should discuss some practical precautions and arrange a solid alibi for your whereabouts tonight.”

“Why are you doing this?” asked Kyra. “I stole your car. Why… what do you want in return?”

“Admittedly, I might someday have need of someone with your talents, but I would not pressure you into new dangers. I lay no obligations on you, now or in the future. I want to help you. It need go no further than that.”

“…why?”

“You love your mother enough to work with dangerous men for her sake. Enough to steal and risk prison. I assume she loves you as much. She must be very special.”

A frown kept Kyra’s lip from quivering. She shrugged. “Most people love their parents.”

“Mine sold me.”

Kyra blinked. “Wow.”

“I was given to a selfish, cruel man in a financial transaction. Everyone called it marriage. No one looked after me, and certainly no one stole or faced danger on my behalf. I did not have someone like your mother in my life, nor someone like you. I think you deserve more help than a few encouraging words.”

Rachel coughed, drawing a curious glance from Kyra—and a fuming, insulted glare from Kyra’s guardian angel looming behind her seat. “Sorry,” Rachel mumbled, and tilted her head toward Lorelei. “I like it when she’s nice.”

A MOST NOBLE QUEST

Early December

I could be doing happier things.

Alex typed away, fingers dragging to the end of his term paper: “Evidence and expert testimony on the impact of de-platforming hate groups is often buried by popular media narratives…” Shit, is it testimony if it’s not specifically in court? Is that the wrong word?

I could be doing happier things. I could’ve done the leadership paper. Or the marketing paper. Or the cult paper, even if it’s cliché for me after last month.

He didn’t notice his posture, slumped forward with the chair pushed back, hanging to the keyboard like a cliff’s edge. Kinks in his muscles grew loud, but he pressed on. He was almost done. Almost ready to leave this behind. Almost ready to go bleach his eyeballs.

Period. Save. Psychology term paper: done.

Alex slumped back in his chair and pushed away from the desk. The walk-in closet converted to home office didn’t offer enough room to push back and stretch, but having a home office at all was a wild new luxury. He shuffled into the short hallway, feet bare under jeans and a loose t-shirt.

“Oh baby, yeah. Gimme that. It’s so big,” said a voice from the TV. Others in the background echoed it, with and without words. Light flashed against the kitchen counter from the living room. On the flatscreen beyond the sectional, a woman looked into the camera with her hair pushed back and her shoulders bare. She clutched at her chest with her hands, tilting back and forth over… something? Beyond her, the downward camera angle included only the bared legs and feet of others. He didn’t see a stitch of clothing.

Okay. I’m distracted.

“Nff,” came another soft voice. The back of the couch hid her from view.

Completely distracted now. What was I thinking about before?

Then she inhaled sharply, and the action on the screen froze. Lorelei’s hand rose from behind the couch cushions, beckoning. “I feel you there, love.”

“I’m not interrupting?”

“The rest of the world is the interruption, for you and for Rachel,” said Lorelei. She didn’t rise into view. “I feared disrupting you. Is this too loud?”

“No, I’m done. Finally. Although my brain is still all hate groups and radicalization garbage and…” He glanced at the screen again, and then stared. “Um.”

“Alex.”

He came around the couch, but didn’t look her way yet. The screen held his attention. His mouth opened, though it lacked words… except the text on the screen, covering the chest of the woman now frozen, grinning at the camera.

“Something to say, love?”

Lorelei’s voice turned his head, and then his mind slowed to a complete halt. She stretched out on the couch, propped up on one elbow, wearing a black silk robe too short to cover her legs. It also didn’t cover much of the rest of her. Her eyebrow arched at his roaming eyes. She knew what he was thinking. She knew all his desires. She liked his lingering gaze, too, and basked in it as often as she could.

“I am so in love with you,” he breathed.

“As I love you.” She nodded toward the screen, her voice less flirtatious than her pose. “Now say the other thing.”

Alex hesitated. He didn’t mean to prod, but she saw through him. There was no avoiding it. And it was, after all… “Fit-Tucker Fever?”

“It’s a spoonerism,” she said. “Swapping the first letters of a phrase, in this case.”

“Yeah, I got that.” He locked eyes with her. She was powerful, confident, wise, beautiful… and never had to put any effort into her endless poise. Almost. “I’m not judging.”

“You are, but you have an open mind, and I will endure,” she remarked. She reasserted her stature, even while lounging on the couch. “You know I enjoy pornography. You like that about me. And you are mine.”

He couldn’t argue that. Nothing made him happier, in fact—especially as it cut both ways. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Lorelei’s lips twitched, and then he felt a tug at his waistband. The pointed crimson spade at the end of her tail pushed into his jeans and freed the button at his fly in a single jerk. She pulled him to the couch, her agile feet pushing him into a seated position. He didn’t resist; in fact, he held his hands out of the way in compliance. “How long is that tail, anyway?”

“Don’t change the subject.” She sat up to face him. “Tonight ends like every other night since we came together, love. Nothing you say will hurt me. Speak.”

He wanted to forget it all, especially with her so close. Especially with her staring at him, with a promise-threat like that. He wanted to cooperate with her, and respect her wishes, and… and he still couldn’t hold back his grin. “Fit-Tucker Fever?”

“You would hardly object,” said Lorelei.

“Well, no,” he admitted, “but this seems like a whole fetish?”

“As presented here, yes.”

“Um. Are you…?”

“I would hardly object,” she echoed. “It is not a strong urge or kink, no.”

“Then why watch it?”

“I wanted to finish out the series.”

Again, he blinked. “Fit-Tucker Fever Nine?”

“The quality has declined predictably since the third volume,” she conceded.

“What, did Volume Three have a plot?”

“I prefer a plot or at least a premise, but no. Three had better directing.”

He laughed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…” He found no rebuke in her eyes, nor hurt. She arched a challenging eyebrow. “Why are you watching bad porn?” he asked.

Lorelei turned her eyes to the screen and pressed “play.” The action resumed.

“Oh my god, this is like twenty people,” said Alex.

“They bill it as twenty people, but they only have that many for a few minutes. They use editing tricks to cover absences. I suspect performer accidents.”

“Wow. Um. Okay: why are you watching bad porn?”

She crawled close to him. Her tail was under his shirt already, now followed by deft fingers that cast the garment away. She stroked the back of his scalp and sucked his neck, then his ear. “This is completely uninhibited,” she murmured. Her touch roamed his body. “They are comfortable and amused. It’s performance, and no one appears to share the kink, but they’re all having fun. This is play, and they enjoy one another’s bodies. No one cares about the mess.”

“Uh-hhhuh.” Alex shuddered under her touch. He would’ve forgotten about the porn entirely, but following along seemed the way to keep her touching him. “So, you’re saying… this isn’t really bad?”

“Oh no, this is terrible.” Lorelei sank back on her knees, dropping her seduction with amusement. “The editing is weak, the backgrounds are distracting, and that man’s posture is making my back hurt. Pornography is always performance, but I prefer more attention to women’s pleasure than this.”

She turned it off and let the remote drop. His eyes returned to hers. “I enjoy it because it fulfills desires and fantasy, love. Perhaps not my strongest desires, but I see the dynamics and appreciate the appeal. I could say the same across all genres and every orientation. As long as everyone wants to be there, I can empathize. That’s how I enjoy this… and what I wanted to share with you, Alex.”

“You really do like just about everything,” said Alex.

“Anything all partners enjoy, yes. You don’t have to worry about satisfying some untended desire or kink for me. I wouldn’t enjoy it if you didn’t. You have passion, empathy, and… wait.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not thinking about that. Or us.”

“Oh, I want you to keep saying stuff like that forever, but yeah. I’m pretty solid on us. Including the sex. Maybe especially the sex.”

“Good,” she said, but it didn’t change her searching expression.

“Are you trying to read my mind?”

“I can only sense your desires. Whatever you’re thinking isn’t desire, exactly… and it’s silly.”

“Don’t need demon powers for that,” he admitted.

“No. What are you thinking?”

He nodded to the screen, paused once again. “You like everything?”

“Barring abuse or bigotry, yes,” said Lorelei. “It’s a pity how the genre so often categorizes race as a fetish. Nor do I appreciate when kink is used as a mask for cruelty or mockery.”

“Okay, but if it’s cringe, or silly, or just badly done?” Alex grinned.

“Do I sense a challenge, love?”

“Maybe. Like you said, it’s a big genre. Gotta be something that’s too cringe, even for you.”

“Intriguing. State your terms.”

“Um. I’m only just thinking of this. It has to be so bad you either turn it off or refuse it outright.”

“We watch together,” Lorelei decided. “Mutual interest must be a guiding factor to your selections, at least ostensibly. My orientation and tastes are broader than yours, but I don’t want you sitting through something you categorically dislike.”

“That seems carefully worded.”

“Everyone has their tastes. You aren’t into humiliation kinks, but I don’t hold that against you,” she teased.

“Any other parameters besides ‘not shitty to people’ and ‘categorically not for me?’”

“Hm. I prefer at least some semblance of a theme or a plot besides two or more people and a platform on which to fuck.”

Alex snorted. “Some semblance? So, like, as long as someone shouts the idea of a plot from the next room over, that’s enough?”

“Yes. Have we a time limit for this challenge?”

“Do we need one?”

“Stakes?”

Alex opened his mouth, but stopped at the enormity of the topic—and then stopped again. “I wouldn’t want to pressure you into something you don’t want.”

“Likewise.”

“And if you really wanted something from me, would I say no? Or vice versa?”

“Your point is taken. Pride and the satisfaction of victory are the only prizes, then?”

“Sure.”

“Then I am thrilled to accept your challenge.”

His lips pressed together. “This is gonna be pointless and painful.”

“For you, perhaps.”

ENTRY ONE: EIGHT IS NOT ENOUGH

Alex couldn’t keep the grin off his face all the way home, from the ride through downtown to the garage and to the elevator. Coming home to Lorelei was often an adventure, but this time the plans were his own.

He forgot those plans the instant he stepped inside.

Strong hands clutched his leather jacket, pushing him against the open door. Hungry lips seized his. Alex kept his hands low at first, occupied with his backpack and motorcycle helmet; the former he dropped with little concern, while Lorelei’s tail took care of the latter. Her kiss softened with his compliance, tilting to try different angles, still claiming all of his mouth. He felt her grin.

His hands slipped around her, feeling slacks and a shirt worn for work. She must have beaten him home by minutes. Lorelei kept Alex pressed against the open doorway, caring nothing for the odds of a passing neighbor.

“You’re mine,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Her lips continued to explore, along with her hands… until the package tucked inside his jacket pocket crinkled. “Hm?”

“That’s… that’s, um.”

Lorelei plucked the plastic bag from his jacket. A door closing down the hall prompted her to tug Alex inside. She acted quickly, but didn’t seem the least alarmed or surprised. She loved being watched, after all. Her eyes flicked from the bag to his face.

“I wouldn’t pry, but this has something to do with me,” she said, close and warm, already driving him wild.

“Yeah, it’s, um. Brain. Sorry,” he said to her arched eyebrow and crooked grin. “You stole all the blood from my brain.”

“No apologies.”

“I wasn’t apologizing.”

“I mean you’ll have none from me on such matters.” She raised the package between them. “This is your first attempt at our challenge? You went out to find a disc?”

“Rented. I didn’t feel like searching on the computer or cluttering up an algorithm with trash.”

Grinning, Lorelei withdrew the disc and tossed away the bag. “Eight Is Not Enough: A Stepmother Oct-travaganza,” she read with amusement. “Oh! This is where the stepmother gets ‘stuck’ in the washing machine and her clueless husband rescues her only after she’s taken advantage of two of his adult sons there.”

“Wait, she takes advantage?”

“She’s on a quest for sexual vengeance. The promotional art may suggest a submissive dynamic, but the subtext is empowering.”

“So you’ve seen it.”

“Yes. You’re going to have that problem a lot.” She tugged his jacket, gently pulling him toward the living room. “And now you’ll see it, too.”

“Wait, now? I mean, you just… you’re…” He gestured to her, still breathless from her welcome home assault.

“Anticipation will make it better. Come.”

Bewildered, Alex followed, but glanced to the kitchen when he saw another figure standing by the counter. “Don’t look at me,” said Rachel. “I’m only passing through. You’re the one who picked out a filthy stepfamily infidelity fuckfest.”

“The goal was to find something bad,” said Alex. “It’s not my turn-on.”

“I’m not mad. I’m just saying you did this to yourself.” Rachel took a pull off the bottle and set it back down. “Perv.”

ENTRY TWO: BARELY LEGAL MUTANT SEX-ADDICTS

“Okay, this is a little close to home,” said Alex.

“Because of the sex addiction theme, or the ages presented?” asked Lorelei, curled up beside him on the couch.

“Both.”

“Your drives are stronger under my influence, but you are not an addict. You have no trouble turning down sex or maintaining a normal life.”

“Gnnnrrraaagh noooo,” shouted the film, followed by a sharp poof!

“And your penis will not burst with purple glitter and silly string with 24 hours of abstinence,” Lorelei added.

“I know. Still feels relevant. And the ages are a thing.”

“The youngest person here is twenty-four.”

Alex blinked. “I thought you haven’t seen this one before?”

“I have not, but I’m familiar with all these performers. By work and reputation, not personally—except him. And her. She didn’t get the augmentation until after she graduated Stanford.”

“Wait, Stanford?”

“Mmhmm.” Lorelei draped herself against his side, lips finding his ear while her hand roamed across his thigh. “And suddenly you find her more appealing.”

ENTRY THREE: EUROPEAN UNIONS IV: TAKIN’ IT IN THE BREXIT

Lorelei stretched out on the couch with her head in her lover’s lap, Alex in simple pajama pants, her in that short silk robe he loved. She enjoyed the slow caress of his fingers across her scalp. Little intimacies and affection did more for him than the film… though in truth, neither of them hated it, exactly.

“I thought this would be more political. I’m not sure there’s an actual plot here?” said Alex.

“The furniture is the plot,” said Lorelei.

“Okay, but how’d they get access to a whole warehouse store to film this? Like, they even get to use the meatball counter.”

“It’s art,” Lorelei protested insincerely, and then smiled at his laughter. “It’s also not an American work. These things can be arranged in other lands. What you call bribery is just the cost of doing business elsewhere in the world.”

“At least everyone seems to be having a good time.”

“Mm-hm,” she sighed.

His eyebrows rose. “Are you?”

Lorelei took hold of the hand in her hair, guiding it first to her mouth for the softest kiss to his fingers, and then down her body. She slid his touch between her breasts and beyond, parting the folds of her robe and her loose belt. Alex felt warm, damp hair before his fingers found her even wetter waiting for him. A happy moan escaped Lorelei’s throat.

She writhed in his lap as his touch swirled and teased. He’d never turn down this sort of invitation.

“This is creative, athletic, and has the veneer of illicit fun in public,” Lorelei sighed dreamily. “I like all these things.”

He didn’t speak. Slick with her arousal and fully welcome, Alex hooked his fingers and invaded her.

She breathed her approval, and not just for his touch. “Your silence hints at interest.”

“Yeah, I think I’d like all that, too.”

“I know you would.” She settled in, enjoying both the film and her lover, but a thought furrowed her brow. “I still haven’t placed this language, though.”

“Me neither. I… wait.” He listened, and then winced. “Oh my god. It’s Simlish.”

“It’s what?”

“I’d need to boot up the console to show you.” Alex shook his head. “Okay, I’m starting to feel like this is one is actually good.”

ENTRY FOUR: TRASH COLLECTORS

“Ah. I thought the ‘trash’ in the title referred to the acts, not their sexual partners,” said Lorelei. “That’s disappointing.”

“Yeah, I read it that way, too. Guess this one’s disqualified.” Alex reached for the remote.

“You don’t need to turn it off. If I stopped every piece of media with an offensive element, I’d never finish anything. What’s that practice of rejecting the content on the page and substituting your own? Headcanon?”

“Yeah, basically,” said Alex. “Headcanon is good as long as people remember the difference.”

“We won’t likely be discussing this film with anyone.” Lorelei watched with diminished interest, but she didn’t turn away. “I appreciate their commitment to trash as a theme in the set dressing, at least.”

“Tetanus. The theme of this movie is tetanus.”

“You’ll never have that problem while you’re with me,” she assured him. “Or Rachel.”

“…um.”

“That’s not a request. I’m glad you don’t have a trash fetish.”

“Oh god, is that a thing?”

“Everything is a thing for someone,” Lorelei grumbled.

ENTRY FIVE: THE SINS OF POPE PHALLUS THE TENTH (INCH)

Every time Alex opened his mouth to comment, he wound up closing it again. He sat with his arms folded, at turns curious, befuddled, and almost amused enough to laugh. Almost.

Leaning against him on the couch, Lorelei watched with a furrowed brow, absently stroking her jaw.

Friday night had technically become Saturday morning by the time they turned the screen on. This time, they didn’t watch alone.

“Honestly,” Lorelei spoke up in the third act, “apart from the lead’s sexual performance and the cheap production values, the accuracy here is uncanny.”

“Yyyyeah.” A wide-eyed Rachel sat at the foot of the couch with one of Alex’s hoodies draped over her head. She pulled on the sleeves often, but it did little to protect her. “I heard about that pope. Ugh.”

“That pope?” asked Lorelei. “Only the one?”

Rachel let out a dismayed noise and pulled the hoodie over her face.

ENTRY SIX: SEXSPORT!

Alex slapped the DVD case onto the kitchen counter. “I found this in the vintage bin at that creepy place in Lynnwood,” he said, half with pride and half with lingering horror. “It’s musty in there. Dank. And then the lady at the counter is friendly and helpful and that makes it worse.”

“When I said you’ll never fall ill again, I didn’t intend for you to test it,” Lorelei smirked. “Do you need an angel hug to chase away the bad vibes?”

“I might,” said Alex. “But I got the job done.” He flipped the case around to show her the front face. “It’s an ’80s action parody. Lady hero tries to avenge the ‘loss’ of her husband to an international underground competitive fuck league. It looks stupid and terrible.”

Lorelei’s lips pressed together.

“Is it too cringe?” His eyes lit up with hope and pending triumph.

“No,” she answered reluctantly. “In fact, I appreciated the twist revealed in act two.”

“Oh no.” His shoulders slumped. “You’ve seen it?”

“No, but I may have had something to do with the unexpected death of the producer shortly before it was released.” Lorelei searched his eyes and found no judgment. “I believe the crew secretly celebrated once they found out.”

Hope drained from his eyes. He swallowed hard and asked, in a tiny voice. “What’s the twist?”

“The husband still lives. He left his wife for the woman who defeated him in the ring.”

Alex turned away in defeat.

“You are intrigued by the premise of competitive sex,” she called after him.

“Am not!”

“I won’t pressure you to watch, love. But you may discover something about yourself.”

He stopped, turned around, and picked the DVD up again with a grumble. “Fine.”

ENTRY SEVEN: YO-GA-OH!

“I understand this is a parody,” Lorelei began, “but I don’t understand the point of it all. The competitors summon other people to have the sex for them?”

“Yeah.”

“Competitively.”

“Look, don’t get me on the competitive sex thing again,” he grumbled, blushing fiercely. “The parody is the point.”

“Of course. Apologies. That isn’t the source of my perplexity.”

“Okay?”

“These opponents would rather have their minions do everything than have sex themselves?”

“In the original, they summon up monsters and stuff to fight one another. I thought they’d make this more accessible for the porn audience.”

“Did the conceit of the original make sense?”

“…not really, no. I never got into it, either. I just thought this would be silly.”

“It is that,” she conceded.

Suspicion crept into his mind. His eyes slid sideways. “So, is this bad?”

“The performers are all rather easy on the eyes. And I appreciate the costuming. I’m sorry, Alex.”

“No, you’re right,” he sighed.

“The leading man’s hair looks uncomfortable, but it is magnificent.”

“Yeah, they nailed that part.”

DEFEAT

Alex found her at their desk, typing one email or another. He leaned against the doorframe and waited patiently. She finished without interruption, hitting “Send” before turning to face him.

“The reality cooking show thing was close?” he asked.

“Close,” she said. “It had the leverage of especially bad food ideas.”

“And the courtroom drama?”

“I believe we must both admit the jury orgy was more compelling than it had any right to be.”

Alex conceded with a grunt. The unexpected hits of his selections made for a lot of fun.

“I was nearly defeated by the pastiche that parodied Hee-Haw and Sha-Na-Na. Be glad you were born after that era of television.”

“Oh, I am.”

“I gather you have another entry to our contest?”

“Yeah.” Alex nodded slowly. “I didn’t want to sink this low.”

“Oh?” She watched him. “I sense no desires stirred by this discovery. How low did you sink? I hope you did not suffer only to find something I have seen before.”

“I don’t think so. It’s recent, and it’s Scottish. That’s not the low part,” he noted.

“I admit, my familiarity with Scottish pornography is a bit lacking.”

“Like I said, the regional bit is just an extra detail.” He held out a thumb drive. Her eyebrow rose. “We’re not gonna talk about where I got that, but I’ve scanned it for viruses. Twice.”

Amused, Lorelei inserted the thumb drive into their computer, called up the coded file name, and clicked… and watched.

Until she didn’t. She clicked “Pause.”

“Stopping already?” he asked.

“It reminded me of something. I stored some belongings in Chicago after a job some years ago. It should still be secure, and I’m sure I could have it shipped.” Lorelei twirled a finger at the paused action on the monitor. “I have my own fursona, if you’d like to meet her?”

Alex hung his head and shuffled away.

“Is that a no?” she called after him.

“It’s really not my thing,” he called back.

“Yes, but we’re talking about me here.”

“…okay, maybe.”

THE SPIRIT OF GIVING

December

“My love, I think you know what I want for Christmas.”

Lorelei’s sultry answer froze Alex in place with the last plate for the dishwasher still in hand. Weeks—months now—of life with her hadn’t dulled his reactions. Safety, communication, and enthusiastic consent all made for a healthy and loving relationship. It didn’t make her any less of a predator, or him any less prey. It wasn’t fight or flight, exactly, but what he felt was every bit as intense.

Fight, flight, or fuck. Alex bit down on the thought and locked it away with the other cheesy one-liners in his head. Yet as he set the dish in place and straightened, he found a sympathetic face staring back at him.

Rachel sat on the kitchen counter, slender legs dangling over the side from under her white dress, her wings unseen for now. The halo around her merely glowed rather than blazed. Her grin matched his mood so closely he wondered if she’d read his mind. “We’re in danger,” the angel whispered.

“You both like this danger.” The living room couch obstructed most of their view of Lorelei, reclining with a wineglass in hand. Beyond her waited the big flatscreen and the small balcony overlooking a cold and dark downtown. “That’s exactly where my mind goes on the subject of gifts.”

“Sure, but do you want anything besides that?” asked Alex.

“Besides danger?” Lorelei’s head turned as she sat up. Her eyes held even more of his attention than her black dress, but she trailed a hand down her body to test his focus. “Does something else matter?”

“Yeah, nerd,” Rachel taunted.

Alex closed his eyes and took his lumps. He did, in fact, feel like a nerd for staying on track when Lorelei and Rachel presented an obvious turn down Horny Lane. Maybe it was more like a highway. They spent enough of their time on it.

“It’s Christmas with my mom and my grandparents and Drew’s family,” he explained. “We open presents after dinner. I don’t know if anyone’s getting anything for you because this is all so new and most of them haven’t even met you yet. I’m not bringing you home for Christmas with nothing to open, and I’d prefer it be something you’ll actually like.”

“So this is an issue of tact?”

“You caught the ‘something you’ll actually like’ part, right?” said Alex.

“I did. Any gift from you would be welcome,” said Lorelei.

“Same,” said Rachel. “I’m not worried about what you get me. It’s the thought that counts. Better to give than to receive.”

“Tsk. You even mean all that holiday propaganda, don’t you?” Lorelei frowned.

“Aw, am I being culturally offensive to you as a demon again?” Rachel laughed.

“You’ll be forgiven when you live up to those principles in bed.”

“Whoa, what? I’m a giver! I fuck generously! At least—am I not?”

“She’s teasing,” said Alex.

“I mean I am the one taking it a lot…” Rachel considered. “I thought you liked it that way?”

“I like it every way, love. I have no complaints. I merely look forward to next time,” Lorelei said into her glass.

Only partly reassured, Rachel turned to Alex. “You don’t…? No. You don’t feel like I’m selfish in bed. You don’t think that at all.”

“I think this conversation has gotten away from me.” Alex took Rachel’s hand and led her over to the couch, seating her by Lorelei’s stocking-clad feet. He settled on the adjoining couch to face them.

One look at the pair made him want to throw the whole topic out the window and tear everyone’s clothes off. He probably wouldn’t be able to resist if not for the mood-dampening detail of family.

“I keep putting this off and the calendar ticks closer,” said Alex. “It’s not just about being tactful. I want to give you something that makes you happy. But it comes down to things, and neither of you are really about that. You buy whatever you want, but you aren’t really attached to it, and you barely ever want anything at all.”

“I don’t have much use for material bullshit. Most of the time, I’m not even material myself.” Rachel shrugged. “Even talking about it like this kinda kills the mood, doesn’t it? Wait. Shitballs. Fuck. This is what everyone says about Christmas and consumerism, isn’t it? The pressure to buy something that’s special enough and pricy enough to show you fucking care and all it does is stress everyone the fuck out? This is how Christmas turns to bullshit?”

“And the shopping, and the commercials that remind you diamonds are the only real way to show love, and the worries about overeating, and the hassle for people who have to travel, yeah,” said Alex.

“And hordes of children badly singing the inanest songs,” murmured Lorelei.

“Hey! That part is adorable,” Rachel objected.

Lorelei didn’t fight about it. “You are not that estranged from the mortal world. You have seen this grow over decades.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen, but people’s moods go up and down. It’s different to experience late-stage Capitalism first hand. Fuck. Gross.”

Alex released a sigh. He knew Rachel’s excitement for the wholesome ideals and trappings of Christmas. He didn’t want to spoil it with this. “Some of the neighborhoods go crazy with lights and displays. Maybe we could go explore together? It seems like the kind of thing we’d all like. We can let the gift thing go. It’s fine.”

“Babe, I’m sorry. Both of you give me everything I want. I’m well-loved and appreciated and super well-fucked. I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass about this.”

“You’re not. I love you. I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t thinking about you or that I don’t pay attention. What really seems to make you happy is doing good things for other people. That doesn’t wrap up in a box easily.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same if you do it just to make me happy. It’s gotta come naturally.”

“Does it?” Lorelei raised an eyebrow. “If it’s the thought that counts, does it count less if we’re thinking of you? Does it matter if a good deed for another is, in truth, done for you?”

“It’s, um.” Rachel faltered. “It’s not the same, anyway.”

“Yet the good is still done, correct?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Interesting.” Lorelei caught her other lover’s gaze.

“Huh,” said Alex.

“Whyyy do I feel like this is another sex thing?” asked Rachel.

“Nah. We’re still talking about Christmas,” said Alex.

“And charity and kindness,” Lorelei agreed.

“And beneath that, it’s a sex thing,” said Rachel.

“We share certain desires. Ours simply aren’t materialistic.”

Rachel smirked and indicated Lorelei’s fancy glass of wine. “Hardly expensive. I have enjoyed cheaper,” said Lorelei, so Rachel gestured broadly to indicate the condominium. “A humbler purchase would have crowded out buyers of lesser means,” Lorelei replied.

The angel snorted and dropped her eyes to her lover’s black dress. “Picked that up on clearance, right?”

Lorelei set her glass on the coffee table and stood with grace. Looking from one lover to the other, she pulled down the zipper at the back of her dress and slid it from her shoulders. Black silk fell away to reveal smooth and flawless skin. Her bra drew the eyes of both lovers to her chest, but she’d paired it with thin matching garters and panties. Alex and Rachel were thoroughly distracted from her finances.

Lorelei lifted her dress off the floor with one foot and dropped it in Rachel’s lap, regarding them both in only a smile of satisfaction and black lace.

“You know me. You know my true desires. I want your love, and your lust, and your surrender to both. I want you to covet me as you do now, and then indulge.”

Alex felt the rush of prey response again. He felt helpless and endangered and loved her for it. Rachel didn’t glance his way, but he knew she felt the same.

Lorelei knew, too. She always knew. “I do have material wants, love. I know your lusts and your fantasies, and I want the material tokens of those desires. No matter how silly, or how lewd. I want you to trust me. Buy whatever fits the occasion for Christmas Eve. Everything I truly want from you would scandalize your family.”

His mouth ran dry, but he didn’t know what to say, anyway. She smiled like that was the gift itself. Sometimes she wanted him cool and confident, but right now, she wanted him under her.

Her attention returned to Rachel, tracing her jaw with a finger. “And from you, I ask no material gift. I want what I already have. I want you, Rachel. As much as you can give.”

Rachel stared, and trembled, and swallowed hard. Her breath shook. “Damn it, Lorelei! You know I’ve gotta go back to work. You can’t crank me up like this. I’m ready to beg for it, but I don’t have the time!”

“I would never be so cruel to you, love. Stand.”

Rachel obeyed.

Alex watched in silence. They loved one another as a triad, yet each pairing also needed their own space. He didn’t need to be included in every moment, and they never left him feeling excluded. He waited patiently while the sight of them together made his blood burn.

Lorelei took Rachel’s hand to lead her a step away from the couch. A meaningful glance got Alex on his feet behind Rachel. Neither knew exactly what Lorelei had in mind, but they both knew the wisdom of going along with it.

Lorelei brushed the softest trace of a kiss across Rachel’s mouth. A yearning breath escaped Rachel, and she pushed forward for more, but found nothing. Lorelei slipped away, bending low at the knees, smoothly and in no rush. The hem of Rachel’s dress was already in her hands, pushed up and gathered at her hips.

The kiss at Rachel’s white silk panties was firmer and sent a jolt through her body. “Um. Ooh, fuck,” Rachel whined.

“Alex,” Lorelei murmured, before kissing again.

He took her cue, claiming the gathered fabric at Rachel’s hips to free Lorelei’s hands. His lips fell to Rachel’s neck with affection. Lorelei slid her panties down her legs, and her mouth returned without any obstruction.

“Babe, I—oh. Ooh.” Rachel’s reluctant objections turned to full surrender. All three lovers preferred to savor each other, but this time, Lorelei’s initial soft approach quickly escalated—and penetrated. Though Rachel tensed up and pushed back into Alex, her shocked moan spoke only of pleasure, and the sounds kept coming.

Lorelei’s lips spread entirely over Rachel’s folds. The angel’s head tilted back on Alex’s shoulder while Lorelei devoured and invaded. Tremors ran through Rachel, forcing moans and gasps out of her. Alex realized Rachel wasn’t pushing back against him all that much; the push came from Lorelei.

“Unh… Alex… she’s… she’s…”

“She loves you,” Alex assured her. He kissed her neck. The soft affection contrasted against Lorelei’s frenzy and drove Rachel wild.

“She’s fucking me. Mmh! Oh!”

Rachel tensed, vibrating before quaking with release. Her moans and yelps cut to nothing but heavy, ecstatic breaths. Alex kept her upright and steady, but it was Lorelei who held her weight. Rachel shuddered as she and came in Lorelei’s mouth and in Alex’s arms.

Tension drained away from Rachel’s body. Lorelei shifted from fierce and invasive to soft and soothing kisses. Rachel leaned back into Alex and looked like she wanted to never leave, but the tiny groan from her throat complained about work. Even that complaint, Alex thought, still carried a note of satisfaction.

“Holy fuck, you can get me off that fast?”

“I have many skills, love.” Lorelei sank back on her heels and smirked. “All at your beck and call. I want nothing more than to share them with you.” She offered Rachel the soaked white silk from beneath her dress, dangling from her fingers. “We know your duties are important. Return when you can. We’ll take our time with you then.”

The promise of more got Rachel steady on her feet again. She swiped the garment from Lorelei before giving Alex a deep, passionate kiss. Her breath shook while her tongue slid across his. Like her treatment from Lorelei, the moment didn’t last. She had to go. “Thank you,” she whispered to him. She turned back to Lorelei. “And you.” Rachel bent at the waist, claiming Lorelei’s face with both hands for a fiercer, grateful kiss that savored the taste on Lorelei’s mouth.

Duty called. Rachel broke away from them to stagger to the window without looking back. Her broad wings came into view and she faded into a ghostly transparence. An awkward step got one foot through her panties on the way to the window, and with the second she faded from view.

“Okay, that was amazing.” Alex looked from Rachel’s exit to Lorelei—still kneeling, in a smoking hot black lingerie ensemble, grinning up at him.

Predator and prey. She had him trapped. Endangered. Threatened with everything he wanted, entirely at her mercy.

Her hands slid up his legs, clad in slacks and secured by a belt. The first brush against his groin sent a shudder of pleasure and anticipation through him. Just as quickly as with Rachel, he found his belt undone and slacks unfastened. She didn’t hurry, didn’t fumble or rush, and her gaze pinned him more like a captive butterfly with each passing second.

He loved her for it, and she loved him for his trust.

“You will remember what I asked for?” Lorelei freed him from his boxer briefs. Slow, savoring strokes set all his nerves alight. All his vulnerability turned to delicious contrasts: he felt weak to her touch, but powerful above her. She kept her cool control, even as need danced in her eyes. “No apologies. No explanations. I want you to own your fantasies. Share them with me. Will you give me this?”

“Yes,” said Alex. He didn’t want to deter her with anything else that might come out of his mouth.

“Will you give me another gift of it tonight?” She brought him to her mouth. Her tongue traced under his length.

“Yes.”

The softest sucking kiss made him gasp. She grinned. She could always sense his desires, but Lorelei knew far more whenever she could taste them. And yet she asked, “Tell me what you want, tonight. Right now.”

She didn’t need to ask, but she liked it when he said it out loud.

“This. You. All night,” Alex admitted. Excitement and need ran up his nerves, but he stayed in place and held still. He obeyed. “I want to live like this all the time.”

“Hmm. And yet even on ‘winter break,’ you commit so much of your time elsewhere.”

His shoulders sank. He reached for words to explain and apologize, feeling no less sincere for doing so again—and stopped when her mouth descended around his cock. This time it was no teasing kiss.

She stared up at him. She understood. She wasn’t asking for explanation or apology. She wanted much better things.

He would have more than enough opportunity to return the favor.

“All night,” said Alex. “I want you all night.”

Her eyes carried her smile. Her mouth stayed busy.

The predator devoured.

* * *

Strictly speaking, he didn’t need this job.

Lorelei had money enough to meet all their wants and needs. Much of it went to buying their home outright, and she fell short of the wealth that brought power and opulence, but she still had enough to resolve any foreseeable problem and live in comfort. She was more than open about sharing every penny with Alex. Slowly, gradually, he came to accept that… most of the time.

Spending her money on gifts for her and Rachel still didn’t seem right, though.

His share of the pool hall brought in a small, steady income. It was enough to kick in on the bills, to feel like he was pulling his share of the weight, and it also happened to be enough to over-commit and kick himself for not being more careful. He could scale it back for a month or two, admit he budgeted wrongly, and let Lorelei handle the rest; she would do so with a smile.

The causal chain would still be there. It would still feel like spending her money.

It wasn’t hard to find temp work for the holidays, plenty of places screamed for seasonal help. He searched, signed up with a department store, and took the hours he was given.

And the lumps.

“This one is close to navy blue, but it isn’t the right shade of navy blue.” The stranger slapped all three pairs of slacks down on the display table with enough seething frustration to shake her graying blonde curls. Her bifocals should’ve been the biggest feature on her face, but her frown managed to overcome them. “This is really all you have? You looked everywhere?”

“Ma’am—yes.” Alex held back his sigh. “Like I said, we don’t have that much stuff in the back. Almost everything is out on the racks and tables. You said you got the originals from Nordstrom. We probably don’t carry that label here.”

“They told me they don’t carry it at Nordstrom anymore, too, or I wouldn’t have come down here.” Her scowl left no doubt over what she meant by “down.” Another disgusted flip through the pile of slacks made a bigger mess of the shirts on display underneath. “None of these are what my husband wears.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Alex kept his patience and customer service sympathy, but he also hoped she would catch the note of finality. And maybe catch on fire. He didn’t have what she wanted; it was that simple.

“You’re not being very helpful,” she grumbled.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he lied.

“Something I can help with?” The floor manager, Chris, asked from over the counter with a smile and a suit that made his authority clear.

“Yes. You look like you belong here,” said the customer. “I need to match the slacks for one of my husband’s suits. It’s CityCraft, navy blue. None of these match. Your staff doesn’t seem to have much product knowledge.”

“It’s the holiday rush, ma’am, I’m sorry. Alex, did you look in the back?” Chris grumbled.

“That’s where these came from. They’re the closest we’ve got,” he answered.

Chris rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh. Ma’am, how about we take a look in our inventory system at the counter? Alex, take these back and try looking again, just in case there’s something you missed. Try a little harder this time.”

The customer gave Alex one last “Hmpf” of disapproval and followed Chris, leaving behind the mess she made and his pointless instructions from the shift manager. Alex had already checked the inventory system, too.

Still, it was hardly the worst interaction he’d had today.

He really didn’t need this job.

With visions of resignation dancing in his head, Alex dutifully carried on. He straightened the display table. He carried slacks to the stock room, stopping to direct another customer to the bathroom. He put things back where he found them. He didn’t bother to look for pants that weren’t there.

Instead, he checked his bank account to ensure the most recent check was in his account. At least he’d gotten something out of this job. He didn’t need the money, but he wanted the pride of paying for Christmas gifts himself… for two people who mostly wanted things that didn’t cost any cash.

Why do I feel like I need to be here, then? God, do I feel like I need a miserable job because everyone else has a miserable job, too?

Do I really need that? Should anybody need it?

He called up the shift schedule on his phone and got busy while he let the irate customer pass. It was time stolen from The Man, but he accepted the guilt of his minor crime. While checking his hours, Chris came into the back room. That was even more convenient for Alex.

“Hey. She moved on. We don’t have what she wants. Don’t worry about it,” said Chris.

“I wasn’t. We didn’t have it. I looked.” Alex shrugged. “That’s what I was telling her before you came over.”

“Yeah. It was the best way to get rid of her. That’s how you handle customers like that.”

“Have you considered sticking up for your staff instead of throwing them under the bus to make a grouchy customer happy?”

Chris frowned. “It’s retail. I don’t make enough to get into that kind of conflict. Anyway, it’s done. Go take your fifteen.”

“I’m an hour into overtime.” Alex didn’t need to remind Chris who asked him to stay.

“Oh. Well, you can go, then.”

“Cool. You don’t have me on for tomorrow. Jodi and Ramon are happy to take my last shifts on the schedule and then the holidays are done. I’m out. If management needs it in writing, I’ll email it.”

“What—wait, you’re quitting? Over that?”

“It’s a temp job. My last shifts are covered by people who want them more.” Alex grabbed his coat off the rack outside the breakroom.

“You can’t. We need you. They can’t take your shifts.”

“Why not?”

“They’ve had too many hours already!”

“You have the staff. They want the work. The rest sounds like a you problem. Bye.”

Alex went out through the store floor. Lacking a uniform or a nametag, he had nothing to turn in. He thought to wave goodbye to a couple of other staffers who’d been pleasant, but he didn’t see them on the way out. He saw someone instead who lifted his spirits.

“I was sliding in to say hi when that happened.” Rachel walked alongside him, halo dimmed and wings fading from sight. She became real enough to be seen, but was still mostly ignored by passersby. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah. I am. Not like I need a job reference out of here, anyway.” Alex continued out of the department store and into the rest of the mall with Rachel in step alongside him. “I feel bad for all the other people they treat like crap. Staying here doesn’t make it any better for them, so why stay?”

“What about the money?”

“I’ve got enough. I keep thinking about last night, too. Everything you and Lorelei really want for Christmas doesn’t cost money. It feels like a cliché, because that’s the sort of thing people tell kids, and then you grow up and find out, no, Christmas really is about spending money for a lot of people. But it’s not for you two. You want other things. And I want those things, too.”

“Yeah?” Rachel hooked one arm around his and leaned in a little closer. “Really?”

“Really. Lesson learned. Okay, some of what Lorelei wants costs money, but I’ve got enough. And I can go easy on the presents for Christmas. I know what you both really want.”

“What’s that?” Rachel grinned.

“You want my time. Love. It’s all yours. Anything you want me to do. Both of you.”

“That sounds sexy.”

“We’re all kinda sex-obsessed. Whatever you want, I’m yours. Total slut for my girlfriends. Twenty-four seven until next semester starts, minus obligations.”

“Mmm,” she breathed with approval. “Lorelei will like that a lot.”

“Only Lorelei?”

“Oh, I like you slutty and available, too—wait, what’s up?” Rachel tilted her head when she found him scanning the floor of the mall for something. “What’re you thinking about? It’s clearly about me.”

“You don’t already know?”

“I’m not a telepath. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Huh. I’m thinking about you and what makes you happy. ’Cause yeah, you love the sexy stuff, but you love one thing even more.”

“I dunno, the sex is pretty—Alex, where are you…?”

The gift-wrapping table stood near the elevators, with shoppers in line on one side and volunteers busily working the other. A banner displayed the logo of a food bank and a list of supported shelters. Alex skipped past the line, having nothing to wrap. He did, however, have a few decent bills in his wallet.

With a cool, energetic stride, Alex swept the cash into the donation box at the side of the table. One volunteer noticed it in time to call out thanks before he turned away. Alex returned the sentiment politely and turned back to Rachel with a grin.

“What was that?” asked Rachel.

“What, that? That was a donation.”

“That was a gesture of charity to make me happy.”

He downshifted from his grin to take her response seriously, if still upbeat. “Does that backfire? Does that make you unhappy?”

“No, but… you know the good deed thing must come naturally, right? It’s not the same if you’re doing it for my sake. I told you that back when I was all fucked up and still trying to grow my wings back.”

“Yeah, I remembered. I know it’s not the same. Still does a little good, though, right?”

“It’s sweet, yes. If that’s for me, thank you.”

“Cool. Moving on.” His smile returned. Alex took her hand and walked past the elevator toward the main entrance.

“Moving on to what? The fuck are you doing, babe? What is this?”

“Christmas. ‘Spirit of giving’ stuff. Also, I love you.”

“Okay, but what—aw, hell,” Rachel groaned when they came around the corner. Nobody could miss the bloodmobile parked inside the mall entrance. The doors of the big bus stood open, with steps to the floor unfolded and a pair of volunteers waiting outside. “Are you serious?”

“I’m totally eligible. Got a problem with it?”

“No, but hold on.” She tugged him to a stop. “You don’t have to do this for me.”

“I know. But the need is there. I can provide. And maybe it’s a little tainted by ulterior motives, but I bet my girlfriend still likes it.” The spark in his eyes softened as he looked at her. “So I’m gonna go do this. And if it’s only half as meaningful because it’s a little performative, then I can make up the rest some other way.”

Rachel sucked in a breath and tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s not performative. That’s not what I’m saying. You don’t have to make up anything. You don’t have to do this at all.”

“Rachel.” He stepped closer, sliding his hands up her arms. She shivered and looked up at him. “Are you happy? Are you enjoying this, just a little bit?”

“Yes, but—”

“Hold on.” Alex stepped past her, dodging shoppers to pluck an abandoned fast-food drink off the floor, and dropped it in the nearest trash bin before returning to her. “Go on?”

“Alex, are you gonna be aggressively benevolent as fuck from now until Christmas purely to make me happy?”

“I mean, I like helping others, too…”

“Jeez—gah—fucking damn it.” She gripped his shirt and tugged him close, curling her hands into fists against his chest out of frustration—and something else. “Babe, if you want to get my panties soaking wet, you don’t have to poke my charity fetish.”

“Whoa. Is it an actual fetish?”

“I didn’t think of it that way ’til now, motherfucker.”

“Okay. I promise not to abuse it. I promise this is between us. I promise this is all out of love, and if you say stop, I’ll stop. Doesn’t even have to be a safeword thing.”

Her mouth clamped shut fiercely. A growl rolled around in her throat.

“Or maybe it should be a safeword thing?”

“Just… just don’t overdo it, okay?”

“Oh.”

“Oh? What? What the fuck does ‘oh’ mean?”

“You and I are only just now talking this out explicitly and in these terms. If overdoing it is a thing, you might want to go talk to Lorelei.”

“Why?” Rachel’s eyes widened. “What did she do, Alex?”

“I don’t know. We kinda had the same idea last night and then didn’t coordinate it.”

“Oh, motherfuck… she’ll still be at the conservatory offices, right?” Rachel turned to leave, only to turn right back. “Wait. No. It’s not just some cash at a charity and a blood donation. What else are you gonna do?”

“I dunno,” Alex answered with a cool shrug. “I’ve got my phone. This’ll take an hour or so. I figured while I’m in there, I’d shoot some messages to some teachers from high school to say they made a difference in my life and what they taught me really helps me.”

The growl in her throat turned closer to a squeal. She pointed at him, curled back her finger into a fist, and shoved it down to her side. “Oooh, you actually mean that, too!” she fumed. “I’m… I’m…”

“Hey, is this guy bugging you?” asked a passing woman in a Sounders hoodie.

“No, he’s my boyfriend and he’s turning me on like custom-made porn! Thank you for asking!” Rachel snapped. Then she clamped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, fuck that was totally sincere, too. That was so nice of you. You intervened in perceived harassment in public. Oh gosh. Thank you. We need more of that in the world. That means so much.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s cool,” said the shopper, backing away.

“It is cool. It’s awesome. You know who else does stuff like that? Him!” Rachel jabbed her finger at Alex. “Him, and… I gotta go talk to our girlfriend.” She grabbed Alex by the collar, smashed a kiss onto his mouth, and stormed away.

“I’m gonna go now,” said their bewildered bystander.

“Yeah. Same. Thanks for looking out. Happy holidays.”

* * *

Kathy tapped at the screen on her desk with a grin. “Have you had this in mind since you came on with us? How long has this proposal been in the works?”

“Between you and me?” Lorelei affected the sort of casual lean against the doorway that wasn’t part of her usual body language. Poise came naturally, but a few disarming behavioral ticks made her more relatable, even if they had to be a deliberate choice. “Last night. I had the idea and I was awake, anyway, so I typed it all out while my boyfriend slept.”

“Last night? Oh my god. Don’t let the directors know you can work that fast.” Kathy laughed, oblivious to the new radiance that swept through her already radiant office. “This checks all the boxes. I can’t believe you worked it out in one night.”

“I had focus and was motivated.” Lorelei glanced to Rachel’s arrival and her suspicious energy with a casual grin. Kathy never knew the difference. “Call it the Christmas spirit.”

“Hah! You haven’t had much to say about it before. I figured maybe you didn’t do Christmas.”

“Oh, I’m simply not the religious sort. I’ll take almost any excuse for celebration, but I didn’t want to put on false airs around here.”

Rachel’s frown scrunched over to one side of her mouth. Lorelei blew a kiss without Kathy noticing.

“I also had the impression you don’t like kids,” said Kathy.

“Individually, I never judge by age. Collectively, you’re correct.” When Kathy tapped at her monitor with a raised eyebrow, Lorelei shrugged. “I can put my feelings aside and smile for the sake of holiday giving.”

“Obviously this won’t happen for weeks, but who doesn’t like a late Christmas present? I’ll bring it to the directors at the meeting tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll love it.”

“Good. I’ll see you at the party.” Lorelei invited Rachel along with a glance, but the angel would follow her out regardless. Divinity shined through the hallway as she caught up.

“What have you done, Lorelei?” she asked.

“Wonderful to see you, too, love,” Lorelei murmured. Late afternoon and holiday ease meant the offices were largely deserted. She needed little magic to go unheard.

“Lorelei.”

“Is something wrong? You don’t look upset, exactly. Agitated. Or is that arousal I sense?”

“Alex told me. He quit that temp job and now he’s on his Christmas kick. He good-deeded his way from the store to a donor bed to bleed in a bag.”

Lorelei rounded a corner and confirmed their solitude before closing in on Rachel. “Do you disapprove?”

“Approval isn’t the point. What did you do, Lorelei?”

“Only a proposal so far, but it will sail through. I’ll make sure of it. A week of visits from local schools to the conservatory, particularly the sort of students who don’t often get to enjoy such things. Workshops with musicians and instruments. Programming to appeal to their interests, no pushing ‘high culture’ at them. Expenses and logistics covered from our end, so funding isn’t an issue for the schools. We’ll arrange catering.”

“You… you put together a week of schoolkid fun for me?”

“Yes. This may not appeal to all of them, but what child doesn’t enjoy a field trip?” Lorelei dismissed the details with the briefest of shrugs. “Children are a turn-off for me. I’d rather focus on you and your part in this.”

“My part? What about me?”

“This is about you. For you. I can’t explain that to anyone else, but you are the inspiration. I want to make you happy, love. We both do.”

“You’re not doing this just to turn me on?”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, no,” said Lorelei.

“Alex didn’t tell you? I mean, you had to know. You know everything between him and me. You know it gets me revved up when he does good things.”

“I thought that was purely between you two, and I didn’t think it was sexual.” Lorelei grinned wickedly. “Is it?”

“Fuck. See, that’s the problem. You really only want to make me happy? You’re not doing this to fuck with me somehow?”

“You have no material wants. You cherish only immaterial things—and our love. We thought perhaps to combine the two. I didn’t think of it sexually before, but now? Yes, love.”

She leaned in closer, pushing Rachel against the wall. She could sense Rachel’s arousal in her quick breath, in the flush of her skin, and the unconscious brush of her tongue to wet her lips.

Lorelei knew her lovers well.

“We’re not doing this to fuck with you, Rachel. We love you.” Her mouth hovered dangerously close to Rachel’s. She pushed her hand up Rachel’s leg, sending a tremor through the angel, and cupped her groin. A low groan was pulled from Rachel’s throat and she pushed herself against Lorelei’s hand. Lorelei whispered onto her lips: “We love you, and we will fuck you in every way we can.”

Her kiss turned the groan into a whimper. Rachel clung to her, kissing back like she wanted to devour. Rachel was close to coming when she stopped abruptly and turned her head to one side.

“Shit. I’ve gotta go. Angel stuff. Fuck.”

“Can I help? Do you need anything?” asked Lorelei. She eased away to release Rachel gently but promptly.

“Nah, it’s not like that. Back-up call. A guardian needs a hand. I’ve gotta go. I’ll get back to horny fuckery later.” She snatched another brief kiss and adjusted her dress. “You aren’t done with this, are you?”

“I have a list of financial donations to make. Maybe a few romances to assist here and there.”

“Oh, I fucking love Christmas.” Rachel leaped away with her wings spread wide. In an instant, she was gone.

“Whatever makes you happy, love,” murmured the smiling demon in her wake.

* * *

One lover wanted him to do nice things for others. She never said it, but Alex knew. Most of the time, that came naturally to him, anyway.

He filled the two hours since the bloodmobile with those same choices. He bought coffee for the volunteers at the gift-wrapping table, and helped a lost child find his parents, and pulled cash from an ATM to spread among the panhandlers on his way through downtown. He chatted with several of them. It slowed his trip, but he didn’t mind. The selfless stuff, even cranked up in a deliberate effort, came easier. It felt good.

The other lover wanted him to lean into selfish desires of a specific sort. She said it openly, all the time, because they both liked the subject, and because it was true. Lustful hedonism didn’t come quite so naturally to Alex, but he had a succubus curse to help him get over inhibitions and self-doubt, and he had open communication to resolve the rest.

He felt good about his “gifts” for Rachel, but not this kind of good. Not viscerally. And he might have been a little self-conscious and timid about his current surroundings if not for a night spent with Lorelei in exactly this sort of store.

Most of the merchandise in this boutique was higher-quality and elegant. This part had its place, too. Models smiled back at him from the labels on a wall of packaged costumes: Private Secretary. Hot for Teacher. Extra Credit. Halftime Cheer. And a dozen different French maid ensembles.

Oh god, just buy one of everything, thought Alex. This isn’t even the expensive stuff. Put it on the shared card. Tell her I couldn’t resist. That might make her even happier than wearing all this silly stuff… only she won’t make it silly. She’ll put on Queen of the Nile and own it.

That thought made him rethink some of the choices. So did his own tastes. Okay, no vampire trash costumes. Ew. Or the space stuff. Not sure there’s any turn-on in the cop stuff. I dunno, ten, maybe? Twelve?

A buzz in his pocket tugged him out of his reverie, but the message on his phone put him right back into it: “Whatever you’re doing, I love it,” read Lorelei’s text.

The sentiment put a huge smile on his face. It also distracted him from the arrival of new light and warmth at his side until she spoke. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He put the phone away and looked back to the rest of the store. It was relatively empty for now.

“I’m covering. Nobody’s gonna notice us,” said Rachel.

“I didn’t push too much before, did I?”

“No. You did everything right. I love how you play with—” her lips took on a quirky half-grin, half-frown. “How you fuck with me. You and Lorelei.”

“Okay. You’re not giving that vibe, though?”

“I don’t have anything to give you,” Rachel explained. “I don’t have things. Lorelei would give me all the money or buy a thing on my behalf, but you know how that is.”

“Yeah. It’s fine.”

“Damn right it is. I know it’s fine, and you knew all along it was fine for us, too. But you still got that temp job. I’m saying I get why you did it. I get how you felt now.”

His grin softened. His hand found hers. “Maybe we can both let it go?”

“You still found something for me. I see all the shit you did and I know you’re gonna do more. Found out Lorelei’s, too.” Rachel tilted her head to the rack of sexy costumes. “We’re all giving each other stuff we want to give. Lorelei plays like it’s cynical and grudging, but it’s not. I can tell. You’re even happier doing good shit than she is. I love you both for it. And here you are for her, which…”

“Yeah,” he conceded, chagrined.

“…which is slutty and pervy and fucking hot.”

“Yeah,” he conceded further.

“It’s something you want, too. This kind of thing.”

“It is.”

“So we’ve got a theme, yeah?” Rachel bit her lip. Her eyes glanced around in the sort of cautious look she presumably didn’t need if they were truly private, but she seemed assured. “Can I give you a present now? It’s a secret. Not a thing.”

“The secret is the present? It’s a secret you want to tell?”

She nodded, taking a breath. “When we first got it on? When the ritual was still in full effect and fucking was kinda the last step? That was a risk, and I knew it. I thought it through. You could have still gone off the deep end with the succubus horny-cooties and I could’ve been stuck in some permanent demonic fuck-me loop. Not just horny for you out of love. We could’ve been compelled, y’know?”

“The curse stuff doesn’t really work like that. Never did,” said Alex.

“Yeah, but you and I didn’t fully understand that, at first. For all we knew, it was a potential outcome. I was okay with that, Alex.”

He didn’t speak. He listened.

“I worried about the repercussions and I wouldn’t have turned from Heaven over it, but that wasn’t an issue. In fact, that worry was the only thing holding me back, and once I was clear that wasn’t a problem, I had no doubts. You needed me, I needed you, and the Fuckhead Demon-Monster Mountain showed how serious was all of it was. But we had all the sex and curse stuff wrapped up in it. I had to face that, and I did.”

Rachel squeezed his hand. “I look back and I love where we are and I wouldn’t change a thing. I love my job and serving Heaven and…  and between you and me and inevitably Lorelei, that other outcome? It’s still hot to think about. I think about it a lot.

“You know the priorities. You respect me and my boundaries. I also want you to know I’m a thousand percent on board with our obsessive fucking, too. Always.”

She didn’t have a thing to give him but her words and her feelings. He understood that. The white silk panties she put in his hands wasn’t a gift for him to keep; it was a statement for the moment. He understood that, too.

His heart was thudding in his chest as he stared at her. Alex tilted his head to the wall of costumes. “Wanna help me pick?”

“Fuck yeah, I do,” Rachel breathed.

Alex stood behind her. His hands slid to her hips. He only meant to start with a flirty caress, but Rachel reached back and unfastened his belt with easy dexterity. He glanced over his shoulder again, but he needn’t have bothered. Rachel covered for them both.

“What do you like?” he asked softly. His touch slid under the hem of her dress, tracing her inner thigh and up through intimate curls.

“That,” Rachel shivered. She didn’t point at anything at first. Her work paused for a second as Alex teased her wet flesh. She swallowed and carried on with the topic. “The secretary one.”

“Which one?” He kissed her ear.

“Fuck. All of them.”

“Yeah, I have that problem, too.”

She had him freed from all his fabric. Eager hands grabbed him and stroked and felt incredible even with the awkward angle. “It’s not a problem if you get them all.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

Rachel pulled his length between her thighs. Slick need kissed every inch of him as she slid along the top, meeting his hips with her ass. He hiked her dress up to her hips, and they both shuddered. They couldn’t see each other’s grin, but they could feel it. Alex kissed her ear again.

She didn’t need any more warming up and he didn’t wait. He tilted his cock, bringing him inside her with bliss that stole their breath. Rachel trembled against him, accepting inch after inch. Her moan caught in her throat. She could keep them overlooked and ignored, but not if they made enough of a ruckus.

“Fuck me, lover,” Rachel whispered. He more than obeyed, slowly thrusting deeper and harder. Her eyes fluttered with the joy rippling through her body. “Fuck your Christmas slut.”

His hand caressed down the crease of her thigh to stroke her clit while he slowly fucked her. Rachel gasped, eyes rolling in rapture.

“Mmh. How much else?” asked Rachel. “How… many others?”

“I dunno. A bunch.” She wasn’t the only one exercising self-control against overriding pleasure. “Definitely at least one Christmas ensemble.”

“Nnf. Yeah. Fuck.” Her voice fluttered. She persevered. “Behind you… there’s… nicer stuff?”

“One or two of them, too,” he breathed against her neck. Savored her. Loved her. Fucked her.

“The pink one. Straps.”

“Hm? Not really… her color.”

“Not for her. For me… for both of you.”

Rachel pushed back against him, taking all she could, gripping him with her wet heat. Her words sparked a rush of desire in him. Suddenly Alex could think of only one other thing outside this moment:

Somewhere, Lorelei was enjoying the hell out of this.

STRANGERS

Early April

“Now arriving at Westlake Station. Doors to your right.”

Alex didn’t need the reminder from the PA. Westlake was the light rail’s next southbound stop from the university. The persistent wafting torment of musty clothes and less pleasant body odors made him well aware of time and distance covered.

When he boarded at the U, he figured taking a handrail instead of a chair was the considerate thing to do—and then five and a half feet of hard times shuffled in and stood right next to him.

Biblical morning rains made the light rail a smarter choice for his commute than his motorcycle, but the sudden afternoon sun and now this stranger’s aroma made Alex regret that decision. Concrete and fluorescent lights flashed by until the tunnel opened up to cream-tiled walls and the pebbled granite platform of Westlake Station. Alex took one last distressed, unpleasant breath as the train slowed.

The poor guy doubtlessly lived rough. Alex didn’t judge. He didn’t have a way to fix the guy’s problems. He didn’t have anything but his own presumptions, and he knew it… but he also had two more stops that were closer to home than Westlake.

Instead, he got off as soon as the doors opened and gasped for fresh air.

People flooded by in both directions, some crowding past him even before the departures finished. Others headed straight for the long stairs to the next level. Alex glanced up at gleaming tile with its spacious gaps along the sides.

Not a smudge of soot from Rachel’s nuclear option marred the walls. Granted, the fight with the vampires and werewolves had been months ago, but the cleanup still impressed him. Whoever took care of the mess did a great job.

The digital departure sign flashed above, and Alex realized he could jump right back onto another car if he hurried. The next two stops were closer to home. He considered it for half a second—the train was fuller than before, but not packed.

It’s not that far. I need to call Molly or Onyx, anyway. Alex headed up the same steps as the rest of the crowd, fishing his phone from his pocket. He didn’t check for signal or make the call until he was out of the station and onto the street, and then still hesitated a moment further. The first corner would surely bring interruptions.

“Hello. Do you have a moment to improve your life?” asked a middle-aged man in a suit. The big display of books beside him promised Answers to Everything.

“Not really, sorry,” said Alex. He continued on.

“Hi, are you registered to vote?” asked someone else with a clipboard and a pen.

Alex caught the header on the guy’s petition and made a face without breaking his stride. “You know that guy got caught shoplifting an office chair, right?”

“That’s fake news! He’s looking out for the taxpayers!” they called after him.

“He ought to look out for store cameras,” Alex grumbled. His sour face remained while ducking eye contact from the next person with a clipboard, despite agreeing with the cause emblazoned on her sweatshirt. One street encounter was predictable, but three in a single block seemed awfully dense. Maybe they were making up for the morning rain.

He made it to the corner. Ten, perhaps twenty seconds passed without anyone talking to him. Alex brought his phone to life and tapped his favorite contacts.

“Hey, honey. Do you have any spare change?” The woman stood only as high as his shoulder, with a light-brown face of wrinkles and fatigue under greying curls. Her faded coat had seen more winters than its makers probably ever intended. She wasn’t the only one in such circumstances on this corner; downtown Seattle had businesses and expensive condos everywhere, with Third Street’s poor and homeless right through the middle.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He did not, in fact, have change, but he pulled the wallet from his pocket.

“Oh, thank you. Nobody carries cash anymore,” she said.

In truth, Alex hardly ever used cash, either—except for this. He made sure to always have some in his wallet just in case.

“Oh! Don’t miss your light,” the woman warned as he handed over the bills.

“It’s fine. Good luck,” he said, and hustled across the street.

The last hopeful face wore a Navy ball cap. His clothes were tattered, but he wasn’t alone. “This one’s a soldier. I can tell,” he said to the friend with the cardboard sign beside him. “You are, ain’t you?”

“Maybe not in this lifetime,” Alex smiled.

“Aw. Fooled me. You’ve got the look. Hey, can you help us out?”

“Sure.” The wallet came out again.

“Thanks, man. Thanks. Seen you here before. Always got somethin’ for somebody.”

“Wish more people did. Good luck.” Alex passed the last of his cash and continued on. He had nothing more for the rest of the crowd around the closed-down fast-food joint on the corner, but it wasn’t like they asked. Most just needed someplace to be.

His thumb finally made it to the call button on his phone. “Hey. How bad is it if I pull out on date night tonight? I’m in a crunch with school…”

* * *

This creep can’t seriously be stalking me. I’m too old for stalkers.

Not that that mattered. She knew that. Harassers harassed. Stalkers stalked however they felt like. It all came down to power; the rest was just details.

Antonia Vega kept her head down, literally and figuratively. Her shoulders hunched under her coat and a clip kept her curly black hair pulled away from her light-brown face. She was filled with an impulse to yank the clip and cover up her face as if blocking her own vision wasn’t the dumbest thing she could do.

She first noticed him at the station leaving the airport. Everyone else waiting for the light rail fit the right categories: travelers with rolling luggage and weary faces, airport workers coming off shift well after dark. Even the workers who didn’t wear uniforms shared the same weary expression Antonia felt in her bones. On the job, she had to be alert and show leadership; off the clock, nobody gave a damn if she was assistant operations manager of a SeaTac terminal. She wanted to go home to her overpriced one-bedroom apartment and her inevitably cranky cat, unnoticed and unbothered like all the rest.

Had the creep looked like all the rest, she’d never have noticed… but he didn’t.

Anyone that tall would stand out to begin with. His brown hat dipped so low it covered most of his face, so much so that he might as well have been asleep standing up. His trench coat matched like he’d bought them as a set. Despite all the rain in Seattle, she didn’t see that kind of coat often.

Not unless one needed to hide things under it. Great idea, going around like that at the airport, she first thought, but that was before she felt like he was following her.

He didn’t draw much more than a glance when everyone filed onto the train. White walls and clear windows with fixtures in blues and chrome stayed relatively clean, and the car had plenty of room for the SeaTac crowd. Antonia grabbed a side-facing seat near the center of the car.

More than enough seats remained open. The tall guy could’ve sat down. Instead, he stood only a few steps away from Antonia, facing her.

She didn’t watch him. Only weirdos watched strangers on the light rail. Her eyes went to the windows and the view of the streets below while train rolled north from the airport.

She kept track of his reflection in the window. He never took hold of an overhead strap or any of the chrome bars within reach, even when the train twisted and leaned from side to side. His arms stayed low, his hands out of sight.

She was bothered enough to get off at the first stop, stepping onto the raised mass of glass and support beams that made up the stop over the Tukwila Boulevard park-and-ride lot. Antonia weaved through the other departing passengers with purpose, walking along the line to slip onto the next car before the doors closed and the train continued on.

Most seats at the back of the car were occupied. A guy with a collection of old shopping bags spread out along one side-facing bank of seats gave off the scent of beer as he dozed. Fresh and unpleasant stains marked the other seat across from him. Antonia moved forward and settled for a backward-facing seat.

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Brown Trench Coat and Tipped-Forward Hat standing at the other end of the car again.

Antonia looked away before making eye contact. It wasn’t terribly possible when his hat barely left his pale chin and mouth visible, let alone his eyes, but that, in turn, made it creepier. How the hell is he following anyone like that?

He was following her, though. Had to be. Going from one car to the next like this? It wasn’t like the other car was stinky or unpleasant, apart from his presence. Hell, this car was the one with problems. But here he was.

She thought about getting off the train entirely at Rainier Beach. Another train would be along in ten minutes. The Rainier stop was right in the middle of MLK Way, flat and open, but fewer people got off there and it was late. If this asshole followed her off, she’d have to either wait for the next train at an empty stop, or go for a walk on empty streets hoping he’d… What? He’d fuck off, once it’s just him and me?

No. He’s gonna follow me when I get off. Oh god, what if he follows me home, too?

Antonia knew her neighborhood. She knew Seattle was safer than people assumed. Even the papers and local TV had to admit things had gotten better just in the last few months. Antonia’s walk home at night took her through some dark spots, but she was careful, and she knew the neighborhood, and she didn’t have to be afraid… except for this actual asshole who was actually following her all the way from the airport.

Nobody else on the train noticed. She didn’t know what she was supposed to say to anyone, anyway. The driver was in another car. Fare enforcement might turn up, but what would they do? Ask the guy not to bother her? At best, they’d call the cops, which she could do on her own. Antonia couldn’t remember a time when police helped her more than they hassled her. Look, if you don’t have any evidence of a crime, they’d say, maybe you should just stay away from him.

Like when she split up with Rob and he smashed her car. Like when the guy next door broke into her apartment and accused her of harassing him. No cops.

“Then call somebody else,” whispered a voice in her head. Her imagination. Whatever. Antonia glanced up at the creep and thought he might have sneered, but it was hard to tell. She didn’t want to stare lest they make eye contact. God, don’t talk to me. The last thing I want is you talking to me. Okay, maybe not the last thing, but it’s on the way.

“Then don’t look like you’re all alone. Call someone,” the voice prodded her.

Antonia fumbled her phone out of her coat pocket, but who was she gonna call? Her mom and brother both lived down in Federal Way. They weren’t coming up here in the middle of the night for a creepy stranger on the train. What good would they do, anyway? She had friends scattered across town, but people were settled in at home at this hour.

The train rolled on. No one spoke. The silence left her feeling self-conscious. Somehow, even worried for her safety, she also worried about making a scene. About being weird. About being rude.

“Call someone,” that little voice repeated.

She opened up her phone, but she didn’t call. She texted.

The smooth ride of the train suffered another side-to-side bump as she tapped her message app. Her finger slid across the screen and suddenly her message history with her mother went blank. The screen remained. She sighed and put her thumbs to work. She found a blank screen rather than the chat log from her mother, but she paid it little mind and put her thumbs to work.

* * *

“I expect to be out late,” read the text from Lorelei. “Huan is leaving the conservatory for Boston. We’re taking him out for drinks after the performance.”

The message pulled Alex away from the stream of words on the monitor in front of him. The wall behind the computer was similarly white, with a University of Washington calendar hanging above the monitor. Notes in black and purple Sharpie covered many of the calendar dates, including a frequent “P” for “performance” and an equally frequent “M+O” scrawl—both of which coincided for tonight.

Despite all those notes, Alex was at the small home office he shared with Lorelei, amid a swarm of open books and entirely too many open browser tabs hiding behind a Word document of homework.

“All good,” he texted back, and then set the phone aside. His fingers returned to the keyboard:

“The relative absence of women from the ancient Greek historical record cannot be seen as a simple idiosyncrasy of custom. It is not a function of ‘protecting’ women, or privacy, or other argued causes. Misogyny and oppression of women are not just a vein running through the culture, unless we see that vein as severed and hemorrhaging…” Too much, Alex decided. His finger leaned on the backspace despite the grumbling memories of someone he used to be. Too dramatic for a term paper.

His phone buzzed again: “I don’t know where we’re going yet. We probably won’t decide until the last minute.”

He hit the thumbs-up and looked back at his paper. Professor Kinsey’s gonna say this stuff is a distraction from the ‘big picture.’ He’s also gonna say I’m not backing this with primary sources when the lack of primary sources on this is the fucking point and he knows it. He typed again: “The scarcity of primary sources by women or even about women in ancient Greece is not happenstance. It is not an accident of benevolent intent.” His frown came back, and with it came another run of the backspace key.

“You’re missing out on pajamas, wine, and reality TV,” read a new message, this time from Onyx.

He picked up the phone.

“Would you prefer I come home instead?” asked another message from Lorelei.

He sighed and glanced at his paper. “Don’t make me choose between you and my term paper. You’ll win and I’ll get a bad grade. Go have a nice time with Huan.”

He switched to Onyx: “Still sorry I couldn’t make it. Gotta get this done.”

Onyx: “All good.”

Lorelei: “Your desires are faint and irritable. I wanted to be sure that’s not about us. Or the others.”

Onyx: “We can survive a missed date. We’re just tipsy and silly right now.”

Alex groaned. Tipsy and silly witches would be fun, and bedtime on their date nights was even more fun. He didn’t not want to be with Lorelei, either. Or Rachel, if she came by. Polyamory had its upsides, but also its drawbacks: an outside responsibility could mean letting down more than one partner on a given day.

He texted Onyx: “We’ll figure out a make-up date soon.”

He texted Lorelei: “It’s ancient Greece and my dumb professor. Nothing about us. Have fun. I love you.”

He set his phone down and typed again: “To suggest women were shut away and erased from conversation and historical record for their ‘protection’ is absurd. A truly protected group would be treated and included as equals. These practices were not about protection, but possession and exploitation. This energy is not matched by a similar effort to deal with predators and abusers.”

He stared. He wasn’t sure if that flowed well, but the sentiment worked. Don’t tell me to focus on the big picture when you blow off the slavery and the sexism. I was in your big picture and I fucking hated everything.

Sadly, Alex couldn’t exactly cite his past-life memories as a primary source.

Onyx buzzed again: “Love you.”

And Lorelei: “You are always the best time.”

And Molly: “If you get laid tonight, you’re obligated to think of us the whole time.”

That broke through his irritation and made him laugh. He tapped all the right emojis and waited. No further replies came. Alex set the phone aside, held his hands open as if waiting another buzz that did not come, and got back to work.

Okay, do we hit the slavery, too? Or the cruelty? Or add in a ‘fuck Sparta?’ I mean, always fuck Sparta, but at least women had it a little better there. Sort of. Depending. Yeah, that’s gonna need a page at least, but I’ve gotta own how we were all trash first. Even Athens. Okay, especially Athens.

Yes, Professor. Some of us knew it was all trash at the time, and said so, too. It was a whole big society. Sorry nobody wrote a fucking play about the opposing view. Or maybe someone did, and it was lost, or nobody cared. He didn’t know. Marathon cut that life short.

Stick with what you can cite. You’ve got enough to go on. Focus.

The phone buzzed again. His shoulders dropped and his eyes went first to the ceiling, but he looked.

“If I go missing it was the tall guy in the brown trench and hat on the light rail from SeaTac.”

The message came with a number rather than a name. Alex didn’t recognize it. Oh god, not the crank-calling guardian angel shit again. Rachel’s coworkers hadn’t used his cell as a redirected help line for weeks. He thought the joke was over.

“He stays a bit away and hasn’t said anything but I get the creepiest vibe,” said another text.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

Alex tapped a question mark and hit send. That alone could end the issue if the sender realized he wasn’t whoever they meant to text.

“He followed when I changed cars, too,” came the reply.

That’s not good. Alex typed, “Take a pic? Sneaky, like a selfie?”

“Hold on.”

His eyes turned to the clock on his monitor. On impulse, he hit up Google for the light rail service map. Maybe he could recommend somewhere safe to get off?

The phone buzzed again, this time with a picture. A feminine, light-brown face intruded into the foreground from one side, but the subject was in focus well enough beyond her: tall and slim, dark trench coat and downturned hat, hands low and unseen. A clean-shaved chin jutted out below the brim of the hat, but nothing else. Drab pants and old black boots.

There were only a couple other passengers, and neither showed interest or awareness.

Dread hit Alex in the stomach. Simply showing up in a picture eliminated one spooky possibility for this man, but the others were all worse. A follow-up extended his worries: “I’m afraid to make eye contact, but I never see more than the hat.”

“Where are you now?” Alex texted back.

“Almost home. I don’t think anyone else is getting off. What if he follows?”

“Are there more people on the car?”

“It’s pretty empty. No fare enforcement at any stops.”

He was already typing before her answer came: “Don’t leave if you’re the only one. Change cars if it gets you close to more people.”

“OK.”

Nothing followed. He’d have to wait. Alex stared at the map on his screen. He didn’t know this woman at all. Where is home for her? How far is she? Why in the fuck is her angel tagging me into this instead of handling it themselves? Bad enough if this was just some rando creeper, but if he was something worse… Rachel doesn’t carry a cell. Lorelei may not get a message. The witches are on the other side of town and they’ve been drinking. The guys… shit.

Another text: “He followed me again. Onto another car. What the fuck is this?”

His fingers flew. “Are there more people?”

“A few. I’m sitting next to a family from the airport.”

“Good. Stay with them. Where are you now?”

“Just left Beacon Hill, duh.”

Alex started counting stations on the map. Her current leg would be the longest, but it was four stops between there and his usual—except, fuck, the conservatory is probably letting out. Lorelei might not be around long. Might not even get a message. Fuck.

The phone buzzed. She had finally caught on to her mistake. “Wait, who is this?”

“I’m Alex. I’m gonna help.” He looked at the map again. University Street would still be closest to home, with street traffic and plenty of light in between, but the next stop brought other options the rest couldn’t match. “Get off at Westlake. Don’t be scared. I’ll be there.”

He flew from the desk with his phone in hand. His keys and wallet awaited on the bedroom dresser, but he needed more than that. No swords, he thought as he stepped into the walk-in closet. Not for running around downtown. You’ll freak this lady out as bad as the stalker. Need something up close, but not a whole sword. Smaller. Fine.

Alex swept aside a batch of hanging dresses for the safe tucked in the corner. The “arsenal of bullshit” had been built entirely with contributions from people trying to kill Alex and his friends. Only the safe itself and some rigging had been bought with Lorelei’s money. They hadn’t actually paid for a single weapon. Alex felt better about that decision considering how useless most of it was in the moment. Bigger guns like the AK were out of the question for all the same reasons as the gladius and the longsword. The Colt .45 and one of the daggers would have to do. Both went into his waistband on his way out the door.

The phone buzzed in the hallway between the bedroom and the entryway to the condo. “WTF is this? Am I being pranked? Who are you?”

“You’re in danger. I’m coming to help. Get off at Westlake. I’ll be there. What do I call you?”

He shoved one foot into an already-tied sneaker and then the other. As much as he preferred his trusty, stompy motorcycle boots for trouble, he’d have to run to the station—and probably run from it, too. His leather jacket went over his shoulders.

“I don’t know you!” her reply buzzed back.

Fair, he thought, but he kept moving. Nobody else waited for the elevator down the hall. Alex hit the button and returned to his phone. “Then lie to me. Anything is better than hey you.”

With that, he reconsidered the rest of the matter. He kicked himself for not leaving a note, but he didn’t have time. Rachel would find him however she usually did, if she knew he was in trouble. Lorelei, on the other hand, at least carried a phone.

Naturally, the call rang all the way through to her voicemail.

“Hey. Got another stranger in trouble over the phone,” he explained quietly. “Some tall creepy guy in a coat and hat is following her on the light rail. I’m meeting her at Westlake.” A soft ping announced the arrival of the elevator. The doors opened. Signal would drop in there, but it was faster than taking the stairs all the way down. Alex sighed. “I guess I really shouldn’t ever be left alone, huh?”

As he cut the line, one more text buzzed through: “Antonia.”

* * *

Switching cars had barely improved Antonia’s situation. She had a family of four within arm’s reach, of course: dad, mom, two kids, and luggage from the airport. The parents looked mostly at their phones. The little girl swung her feet from her chair with some silent tune in her head. Her brother leaned sleepily on their mom.

None of the family, nor the strung-out-looking guy slumped in the back corner seat, nor the young woman with earbuds in place and a fast food uniform under her coat paid any attention to the trench coat creep standing at the other end of the car. Swapping cars got Antonia different neighbors, but otherwise her position was practically unchanged.

Her stalker didn’t move. Didn’t look around, didn’t reach out for something to hold when the train rocked, didn’t so much as fidget. His hands remained hidden. His hat stayed low.

They arrived at SoDo with no change of passengers before rolling on.

“Mommy?” The little girl’s voice startled Antonia out of her skin.

“I’m watching,” her mother answered without ever looking up from her phone. “Soon.”

When is soon, and can I come with you? Antonia wanted to ask.

Other than a wrong number on a text message, she snorted. How’d that even happen? And why did I tell him my real name? I really couldn’t come up with a decent lie?

“Alex” wanted her to get off at Westlake. Said she was in danger, as if she hadn’t figured that out for herself—and then told her not to be afraid, which, what? She was in twice the danger, if some stranger was telling her where to go while another one followed her. Maybe I really should call the cops. Tell them to meet me at Westlake for a two-for-one creep pick-up.

Their stop at the stadiums passed with the same desperate silence as the last one. Of course, neither stadium had any events to bring in extra passengers tonight. Naturally.

The service map over the doors also remained the same as the last time she looked at it. The International District was next, then Pioneer Square, then University, then Westlake. None of them were likely to be as dead as the stadium stop at this hour, but they wouldn’t be busy, either.

“Mommy.”

“Okay,” said the mother. As one, the family stirred and climbed to their feet.

Antonia’s heart beat harder. She didn’t have to move or make room, but more than half of her wanted to get up with them, anyway. The dad tugged a rolling suitcase around and mumbled an apology for brushing against her seat. His son did the same, but without an apology. The family clambered and shuffled closer to the door, and closer to the stranger, who didn’t move—except, no. He did. His face. Did he move his jaw? Say something?

Fear and uncertainty glued her to her seat while the train came to a stop. The family shuffled off as soon as the doors opened, and no one else got on. Antonia thought about bolting for the door and running, but she didn’t. Where would she go in the ID, anyway?

The doors shut. The PA droned through its announcements. Lurching momentum tugged at Antonia as the train rolled on. Only two people sat behind her, one asleep and one drunk. She considered moving next to one of them, anyway.

The train rolled on.

She caught sight of that slight movement from her stalker again: his chin dipped and rose, with the barest glimpse of his mouth beneath the brim of his hat. Ugh, did he lick his lips? Was that his tongue?

“Now arriving at Pioneer Square. Doors to your right,” said the PA.

Antonia’s hopes lifted. Pioneer Square had nightlife. Somebody had to hop onto the train there. Someone needed a ride home from the bars… right?

Nothing changed. No one appeared in the windows.

Her legs wouldn’t move. Her arms stayed frozen at her sides, hands in her lap. The chance to exit came and went and the train moved on.

A buzz in her hand snapped her free from her paralysis. “Still there?” asked the text from Alex, whoever the hell that was. Her hands shook. She hadn’t realized it until now, looking at her phone. “On my way!” said his follow-up. Probably just three letters and autocorrect to finish. If he wasn’t full of shit.

Two stops. Westlake was two stops away.

The stranger hadn’t moved again, at least. Hadn’t spoken. Nothing. She still had two other presumably normal people on the train with her, even if one wasn’t sober.

Another buzz, another text: “Stretch your ankles.”

Antonia grunted in frustration. She wanted to run, but felt frozen. Maybe stretching out would help. Fine, she thought. I’ll be ready to run from your weird ass, too. She lifted and moved one foot in a slow circle, then the other.

It helped.

“Now arriving at University Street,” said the PA. “Doors to your right.”

Her phone buzzed one more time: “Don’t be afraid.”

The fuck? Who am I not supposed to be afraid of? Him, or you? She scowled, but the text from Alex gave her the push she needed. Antonia didn’t need to play the creep’s game, or the one with the asshole on her phone. She hauled herself out of her seat and moved toward the door.

“Are you sure?” asked the creep.

Antonia stopped in her tracks. He wasn’t between her and the door, but he stood within reach, and close enough to grab her if she went for it. Hell, she felt like he was close enough to reach out and grab her now.

“It’s night out there.” He whispered, but loudly enough for conversation. Like this was how he normally sounded. “So much dark open space. Could be anything out there. Isn’t this safer?”

A dozen simple, easy dodge responses rolled around in her throat: it’s my stop, I’m fine, my boyfriend is waiting, I have to go. Anything to placate the guy, to slide by him without challenge. She didn’t have to answer him at all, of course; she didn’t have to talk to strangers in public. Wasn’t obligated. Fuck him.

Fuck him. She was afraid, but fuck him.

“Doesn’t feel safe in here.”

“But there’s light. You know the way. It’s safer than the unknown.”

“Now arriving at Westlake. Doors to your right,” said the PA.

“Someone could get you out there,” he warned her. “Are you sure?”

Motion ceased. The doors opened. Antonia’s jaw set. She walked forward, arms tense and ready to shove or block if the creep reached out.

He didn’t, but he moved as she turned and exited. He followed her out. Of course he did. God damn it. Antonia went left, going for the staircase along the wall leading to the upper level, with the basement entrance to the department store on one end and …

…and some guy in a leather jacket and jeans approaching her. Dark hair, slim, cute like she might’ve liked him if she were a decade and a half younger, looking at her half friendly and half concerned. His eyes watched behind her.

She hesitated, but looked back. Trench Coat still followed.

* * *

“Hi.” It felt stupid as soon as it came out of his mouth, but what else was he supposed to say? He recognized Antonia from her selfie, but he didn’t know her. At least he had already given his name. “I’m Alex.”

The greeting brought her to a halt. She looked over her shoulder, answering Alex with only, “Ah. Uh-huh.”

“You don’t know him?” whispered the tall guy behind her. He matched the description she’d given Alex in their messages. He stopped, too, leaving her directly between himself and Alex. “A stranger, waiting for you in the night?”

The rail car doors slid shut. As if the system was in a rush, the train lurched forward sooner than normal. Alex had hoped for onlookers and passersby; Westlake always had someone around. Always, except for now, of course.

“I’m not the kind of stranger to follow people,” said Alex.

“He’s right, though. I don’t know you. Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m the guy you called. I said I’d help,” he answered steadily. His eyes stayed on the creep.

“Why?”

“I get to not feel like I’m not an asshole who ignores a problem, I guess?” Alex shrugged. “I know you got the wrong number, but I want to help.”

“You’re no angel, though,” the other man hissed. “There are no angels here. I can tell.”

“I’ll bet you can. Doesn’t change anything.” Alex ventured a step forward, then another. When Antonia took a step too, the other guy followed.

“Don’t you think that fedora’s a little on the—nose. No nose. Oh wow,” Alex stammered as the stranger’s head tilted upward and the brow of his hat lifted. “You’ve got no nose. Wow.”

“Holy shit,” murmured Antonia. The gaps between them were shorter now, and shortened more as she backed closer to Alex.

The creep had nothing in the way of a nose at all, not even nostrils, just a flat stretch from cheek to cheek. A long, strange tongue flicked from left to right, followed by a second one. The first retreated into his lipless mouth. “No angels here. No reason to hide. We’re all alone, or we should be. You. Alex.” He took his hat off, revealing a pair of black pits where his eyes should be. “Leave now.”

“No.” It took some willpower, but Alex expected this. Demons and monsters had messed with his head before. One who loved him even did it specifically to build his resistance, and she had the advantage of genuine trust. Alex was ready. “You first.”

“I’ll go,” said Antonia. She headed past him to the stairs.

“Don’t be afraid. He needs your fear. No, I mean still go,” Alex immediately corrected when his warning made her hesitate. “Just don’t let him scare… aw, shit.”

The creep raised and spread his arms, which grew beyond the length of his sleeves and took on a weaponlike curve with serrated bumps. Alarmed profanity from Antonia blew right past Alex as the threat consumed all his attention. That sudden new reach made him curse himself for not bringing a sword after all, but he dropped that thought as soon as he assessed the threat. His swords still wouldn’t counter this guy’s reach, leaving only a game he would likely lose.

Instead, Alex charged.

It wasn’t the expected move, and Antonia gave a yelp of surprise. Alex closed the gap in a flash to negate that advantage of reach before the creep ever swung. He drove a brutal elbow straight into that unnaturally smooth jaw. His dagger followed in low, then his fist again, punching and stabbing to push his enemy back. “Go!” he shouted to Antonia.

He didn’t hear her leave. Alex furiously attacked while her stalker pulled his arms inward to swat awkwardly at him. As Alex hoped, those arms weren’t serrated all the way up to the elbows, and he was safe in close range. Grunts and gasps escaped the freaky-flat mouth. Whatever the nature of this enemy and whatever his dark magical bullshit, Alex could at least hurt him.

Unfortunately, the assault didn’t put his enemy down. Alex didn’t see the sudden shoulder-check coming at his face until it was too late, nor the stomping kick that put him on the tiles, but he couldn’t call them surprises, either. Monsters usually had brute strength and resilience in spades.

The counterattack hurt. The landing hurt, too. Alex barely managed to tuck his head forward to save it from the first drop onto the tiles, but the bounce still treated he back of his skull to unyielding stone.

None of it hurt like he imagined those blade-arms would as they rose to slice downward through his body. Shots to the shins and knees could mess up the surest swing, so Alex rolled and kicked low. He bought more time with a lunge to the creep’s side, but a hook-arm swung low and tagged him—not with enough to cut, but even the glancing impact hurt. Alex tugged on the trench coat and forced the creature to abort to maintain balance.

The monster-demon-whatever was stronger than Alex, but not especially heavier. He might shrug off stab wounds, but he couldn’t escape physics.

A desperate swing caught the creep’s upper arm and shoved it upward. Alex threw a hug around the enemy’s hips and heaved, nearly dropping his bloodied dagger.

“What?” the creep roared in shock. Alex pitched him over his shoulders and head-first onto the granite tiles. Hook-arms and legs dropped limp and away from Alex, dazed by the spin and impact.

Alex ran. Antonia was waiting halfway up the steps, hands shaking around her phone like it was the only lifeline she had, but she moved without any impairment or trouble. “What the hell is that?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe monster, maybe demon. Probably demon.”

“Demon?”

“Not the first time. Don’t let him scare you. They feed on fear.”

“Then why are we running?”

“Don’t be afraid, but don’t be stupid,” he corrected.

“Oh god, and you stabbed him?” She stared at the dagger in his left hand, covered in dark blood.

“For whatever good it did,” Alex huffed near the top of the stairs. That hit to his side hurt even worse as he ran, but at least he saw no tears or blood. “No, not that way,” he urged when she kept going for the nearest exit. “Long way’s safer. C’mon.”

Wide open floors stretched out in a long hall before them, granite tiles against cream-toned walls like the level below. Green rails marked out gaps in the floor like balconies looking down into the lower level. “How’s that safer?” she snapped.

“This is not my first monster fight in this tunnel,” he said. “Except last time I had friends with me. And my girlfriend bailed us out.”

“What, out of jail?”

“No, she kicked everyone’s ass.”

“She’s a bad ass, then?”

“Yeah. They all are.” They kept running. He noticed her double-take and would have sighed, but he was already breathing hard. “I’m not a cheater. They all know about each other.”

“Oh god, why is every guy I meet today so fucking weird?”

Brown fabric and dark shadows flew up from one of the balconies, landing in a predatory crouch on the green railing. His arms had shrunken back to a reasonable length, still hooked and serrated but freed from now-tattered sleeves. His stab wounds that didn’t seem to bother him much. A toothless grin spread for both of his tongues, and he made ready to lunge.

Alex saw it all coming before they even made it to the top of the stairs. Why else would those balconies exist if not for leaping monsters and jump scares? The .45 came out of his waistband.

Rapid gunshots rocked the air of the tunnel in fast succession, seven in all. Alex emptied the magazine into the creep even as he fell back, putting every bullet into center mass until that trench coat and those old, dark shoes dropped off the balcony again.

“Holy shit.” Antonia’s voice pushed through the ringing in his head. Alex envied her for being able to cover her ears before it was over. “You had a gun?”

“Yeah.” He had exactly enough presence of mind to shove it into the pocket of his jacket rather than stuffing a hot barrel down his pants. The bloody dagger in his opposite hand would be another problem, but Alex pushed her onward. “Keep going!”

“But you shot him,” she said, though she ran as he urged. “You shot him a lot. Why didn’t you start with that?”

“He’ll walk it off. The fall hurt him worse. He’ll walk that off, too. This way, toward Third. People out there. Witnesses are better than guns.”

Nothing slowed them down on their way out. No sounds of pursuit dogged their heels, either, but neither of them slowed.

Fatigue was another matter. “I can’t keep this up,” Antonia wheezed.

“Almost there, c’mon,” said Alex.

“Easy for you to… you a runner?”

“Active lifestyle. Lots of cardio,” he answered. She didn’t need those details.

Third and Pine welcomed them with city lights and wet sidewalks. The usual handful of people occupied the burger joint corner, but the block was otherwise empty. No cars rolled by, no pedestrians walked along this side of the street, and—thankfully, “No cops,” Alex breathed.

“Heyyyy,” called out one of the corner-dwellers. Winter coat sleeves and fingerless gloves waved up from a huddled blanket with a different shout of, “You made it!” More calls of amusement and sarcastic relief followed as people looked up and laughed.

“They were waiting for you?” asked Antonia.

“I asked them to watch the exit,” he explained quickly. “Head over there. You’ll be safe.”

“Safe? Uh…” Antonia made a face.

“Safer.” Once again, he couldn’t blame her. She had every reason to be on guard. “They won’t hurt you. They’re poor, not demons.”

Antonia threw up her hands and got moving.

Alex stayed on the sidewalk, putting the right side of the tunnel exit to his back. Glancing from the exit to Antonia, he saw her stop in the street and look back to him with a questioning gesture. She expected him to follow. He waved her on.

She didn’t argue. Hurried steps carried her onto the opposite sidewalk and down to the nearby corner. The set of onlookers watched curiously, none of them particularly concerned. An older Black woman bundled in a coat and cigarette smoke was the first to speak. “You okay, sweetie?”

“Someone was following me. He attacked us,” said Antonia. She didn’t expect help. She didn’t really know what to expect. Half of them could have been stoned and they still wouldn’t believe her.

Despite that, her answer lifted a few more eyes. “Really? He got a gun?” asked someone else.

“No. No, just…” she didn’t know what to say.

“Then he ain’t fuckin’ with you here,” said the youngest in the group, half-emo and half-grunge with sunken eyes and chapped lips. “It’s alright.” The conversation barely reached Alex across the street. He heard their voices, but made out none of the words and didn’t try. He focused on the transit tunnel exit. Vented air made up the racket on his side of the street, leaving him doubtful of hearing anyone coming at all. The enemy had tricks of magic and demon nonsense. He had probably stalked mortals since forever. Alex knew he could very well be overestimating his chances.

He also knew this wouldn’t be over until it was over. Demons held grudges, and this feud was only a minute or three old. The creep had to be angry, so Alex listened and waited.

Nothing caught his ear until a split second before he saw the coat and hat. The creature moved in total silence until he was on the street, and by then it didn’t matter. He covered a few more steps while Alex pounced.

The creep’s right arm had a much more normal shape. It felt normal, too, as Alex grabbed hold near the elbow and twisted upward, going clockwise until the arm was as high as it would go. The creep roared out and turned to resist. Alex drove a punch into his side below the armpit before wrapping his arms around his foe. Alex repeated the throw from the transit tunnel.

This time, a concrete curb made for a much more uneven and painful landing. More importantly, the presence of witnesses robbed him of infernal resilience. His grunt of shock and suffering ended abruptly with Alex’s fist driving straight into his hat-covered face.

Alex knew better than to let up. Getting away was no longer his goal. He threw down one merciless punch after another with the demon still on his back, legs and arms jerking in futile defense.

“Yeah! Fuck him up, young man!” called out someone across the street. More encouragement joined in. Some cheered. Others laughed.

“Beat his ass! Beat ’im!”

“That’s what you get! Chasin’ women on the train. That’s what you get!”

Downward blows on a cowering opponent made for sure hits. Every punch to the demon’s head, his gut, and his side felt worthwhile. They also hurt Alex’s hands, but the demon wasn’t finished yet. As soon as the punches slowed even a little, the creep kicked and swatted Alex to get off the ground and flee.

It would have been a clean escape if not for his outfit. That coat left plenty of fabric flapping in the wind for Alex to catch hold. Both figures fell to the concrete, the hat tumbling up into the air. Laughter erupted from the other side of the street.

Alex held firm.

“No. No!” shrieked the creep. He kicked and pulled, but his coat tore rather than coming free from his Alex’s hands. Alex caught a glimpse of serrated spikes poking through the coat before it ripped apart completely. Dark flesh and spindly limbs burst free. Alex saw the demon’s true form for only an instant, all oily shadows and bone, before it darted through the open entrance to the transit tunnel and around its concealing wall…

…and into a familiar roar on the other side, furious and intimidating and feminine all at once. The orange flash against the interior wall probably wouldn’t be bright enough for those across the street, but Alex saw it.

His shoulders sagged. His head bowed. One hip dropped on the curb and he tried to catch his breath.

Heels clicked on tile and then concrete. Lorelei emerged from the tunnel exit with a black overcoat draped from her shoulders, partly covering her curves and long, asymmetrical red silk dress. The concern on her face didn’t fit with such glamour, but it fit fine with their relationship. “Are you hurt?”

“Not bad.” Alex winced as he picked himself up off the sidewalk. “Demon?”

“Yes. A creeper, they are called. How did this happen?”

“The guardian angel switchboard hit up my phone again,” he sighed.

Lorelei frowned. “Rachel thought that was finished. She will not be pleased. Nor am I.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” said Alex. “Y’know, someday I’m gonna solo one of these fights for real. Start to finish.”

“No, love. I think Rachel and I will never allow you to be alone again.” She reached for his cheek and kissed him softly with a breath of relief on her lips. Then she pulled back to look past his shoulder. Alex followed her gaze.

Antonia came halfway across the street, ready to turn and bolt if needed, but she read the situation correctly. “Is it done?” She gestured to Lorelei. “Is this your girl?”

“Yeah. I… not that one, but yeah.” Alex gestured to her in weary introduction. “Lorelei, this is Antonia. She gave me a call tonight. Wrong number, kinda.”

“Of course.” Lorelei dropped her irritation with the angels for instant grace as she addressed Antonia. “Trouble on the train? You’re alright?”

“Yeah. I’m good. Thanks. Just that creep following me. I don’t even know why.”

“Sometimes they stalk for no reason whatsoever. Can we offer you a ride home?”

Antonia looked to Alex. He shook his head and made a waving, no-fault motion. “Or we could wait for a taxi with you and you can never see us again,” he offered.

“That. Let’s do that. I’m grateful, but yeah. The second one.”

ACCOMPLISHED

April

“You stalk around the curve of the ruined tower under cover of night. Everything seems calm. You hear casual laughter from rough voices inside, smell woodsmoke and beer. Far Dog moves in total silence. Erendala, on the other hand, accidentally kicks and shatters a discarded bottle.”

“Mother piss bucket.” Rachel fell backward onto the couch. Without looking, she plucked the offending twenty-sided dice and tossed them down the hall. “Fuck those dice.”

Alex sat between his two players at the junction of their big sectional couch. The casual evening left him in gym shorts and an old t-shirt, holding a notepad and pen. “Sorry. Your invisibility spell holds, but you rolled a one and a two for stealth. The guard’s a big, burly, balding guy with a spear. He can’t see Erendala, but he looks right at Far Dog. What do you do?”

“I seduce the guard,” said Lorelei.

The answer clamped his mouth shut. His eyes rose from notes he did not need. “You’re a half-orc ranger in armor, sneaking up on this bandit in the middle of the night with an axe and a dagger in your hands.”

“Yes.”

“And you start with a penalty on persuasion anyway, right? This is your lowest stat?”

“Yes.” She sat on his other side, facing him with one arm propped against the couch. Her fingers idly played with her hair. She wore a simple dress not unlike Rachel’s, though darker.

“Okay. Roll persuasion,” said Alex.

A masterful smolder stared back at him. “Shouldn’t we roleplay it instead of rolling dice?”

“Damn it.” Alex rubbed his eyes. “This is exactly what I told Jason would happen.”

“Wait, you can seduce in this game? That’s a thing?” asked Rachel.

“Frequently, according to the internet,” said Lorelei.

“Obviously I’m not gonna resist you seducing me in real life, even if we’re ‘roleplaying,’ which in this game means…” Alex stopped. Beneath Lorelei’s stare, he found a tiny, cool, familiar grin. “You’re fucking with me.”

“That seems less likely to happen if I have to roll dice for it,” she replied.

Rachel snorted.

He got the joke. He even laughed. He also sighed. “We don’t have to do this if it isn’t your thing, Lorelei. We can—”

“I suggested we try this. Do you think I’m not enjoying myself?” she asked, her patience matching his concern.

“I think it’s goofy and nerdy as hell and you’re… you,” said Alex. “I don’t love you any less if we don’t share all the same interests. It’s okay.”

“I like this game more than you like ballet and the conservatory. This is no sacrifice.”

“I like the conservatory,” he replied, faltering.

“You like being with me,” Lorelei corrected. “You would have no interest in those things without my involvement. You aren’t irritated or begrudging about it, but what you enjoy is making me happy. I’m telling you this is different. I see the charm in this game. Everyone likes stories, love. Even millennia-old demons. I like them better when we share them.”

“I like it, too,” said Rachel. “We don’t do enough normal shit together. My whole life outside of you two is work, and I can’t talk about that with you unless we’re neck-deep in crazy supernatural bullshit. I want more than adventures and mushy feels and sex.”

Lorelei raised an eyebrow.

“Okay yeah I don’t totally mean that,” Rachel admitted.

“You do want it all to be mushy feels and sex?” asked Alex.

“I mean I want to assist Lorelei in seducing the guard.”

Alex buried his face in his hands. “Again: you are armed, sneaking up on a bandit camp—”

“And I am a half-orc, yes,” said Lorelei. “Is that a problem? Is this bandit a bigot?”

“How about I fireball him in the dick and you stab him?” Rachel suggested.

“Yes, is murder a more reasonable course of action?” Lorelei asked Alex.

“It’s more what the game was built for,” he conceded.

Music from a phone on the coffee table pulled his attention away. Alex kept the same custom ringtone for the handful of callers he would never ignore. He didn’t know it was specifically Taylor until he saw the screen.

Rachel gestured to herself and Alex while he reached for the phone and murmured, “We’re both really happy with the obsessive fucking.”

“I never doubted, love,” Lorelei assured her.

Alex tapped the phone screen. “What’s up?”

“Hey, you got a minute? Am I interrupting anything?” asked Taylor.

“I’m good. Everything okay?”

“I know you’re not on social media anymore… It’s Ms. Fosse. She’s gone.”

* * *

Ms. Fosse’s funeral happened on the following Saturday, with humble arrangements for only family and her closest friends. The public memorial came on the grey Sunday that followed. The trio arrived half an hour early and still had to park two blocks away. The high school lot was already full.

“I shouldn’t need to leave, but it’s best if we sit in the back,” Rachel said on their way in. Her clothes weren’t too different from her normal style, except Alex rarely ever saw her in black. “Just in case, y’know?”

“Sure, if we can find a spot,” said Alex. “You know I’m okay, right?”

“Yeah. I also know she meant a lot to you, and I want to be here.”

“She clearly meant a great deal to many,” Lorelei observed. Others trickled in from the opposite street corners along with them. Outfits ranged from dark suits like Alex wore to more casual ensembles. Most of the faces were young. Some came with families, some came alone.

“She did.” Alex stared at the main entrance that he never used once he’d gotten his motorcycle. After graduating, he didn’t think he’d ever be back. “Fuck cancer.”

“Fuck cancer,” Rachel echoed. She squeezed his hand.

“How many other angels are around in a crowd like this?” he wondered.

“A few. We do more than safety coverage. It’s good to be around at a thing like this.” Rachel bit her lip. “You haven’t asked me the real question about angels on a day like today.”

“I figure you couldn’t tell me the answer even if I did,” said Alex. “And, I figure you’d change how all this works if you could.”

“Damn right. Fuck cancer.”

“We should watch for Taylor and Jason. She may be with family, but he’ll be on his own.” Lorelei caught a glance from Alex and mirrored his subdued grin. “I only asked if they were coming. I did not pressure.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s nice that you asked.”

“They are dear friends. I have had far fewer than you.”

They came to the stairs of the entrance. Alex let out a sigh. “Probably not too many here today, though.”

Entry into the big lobby brought a new environment. The building was one of the nicest in the district after a recent modernization program. Its second story overlooked the lobby as a balcony, creating open air and a cacophony of noise.

Students easily outnumbered adults. They ran the gamut from affluent to poor, with more of the latter than the updated building might imply. The crowd wore a range of clothing, and Alex saw nothing wrong with the lack of formalwear. The first rule on Ms. Fosse’s wall read, “Come as you are.”

Alex found the lack of familiarity in the crowd jarring. Even just two years post-graduation, he recognized only the vice principal and one security guy. He expected the new faces to outnumber the familiar, but this felt like drifting in strange waters. “The theater’s up the stairs. This way.”

They joined the slow flow of bodies until they spotted Taylor. “Hey,” she beckoned, drawing them to her spot with Jason near the entrance. The welcome began a string of hugs all around.

“Your parents here?” asked Alex.

“Nah. Told ‘em I’d have people. They didn’t know Ms. Fosse well, anyway. Your mom?”

“Pretty much the same.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” said Lorelei. “Alex has told us much.”

“Did he tell you about the marshmallow arson?” asked Jason.

“He did. And something about a presentation on calorie counts based on the Donner Party.”

“Swear to God, Ms. Fosse put me up to that in the first place,” Taylor laughed.

Alex listened at first, but he knew the story. His attention drifted while Taylor spoke to look over the crowd. Teachers and staff welcomed everyone as they passed into the theater. Current students comprised much of the crowd and absorbed the greater share of the staff’s attention, diverted only by scattered reunions of alumni. It made sense to Alex. People lost touch after graduation and moved away.

For a long time, he thought he would do the same.

“Alex?”

Mrs. Brennan stepped away from the other staffers with a smile that held as much curiosity as warmth. Her dark dress and pulled-back red hair didn’t stray too far from the professional image he remembered from senior English literature right across the hall from Ms. Fosse. “It’s good to see you. How have you been?”

“I’m good Mrs. Brennan. Sad day, obviously. I’m really sorry.”

“Thank you.” She shook her head. “I’ve been prepared for this for a long time. I’m here more for everyone else.”

“It seemed like you two were work besties. You were in her room at lunch as often as we were.”

“Oh, yeah. Besties is a good word. I’m just… I was there through the surgery and chemo. Fifty is too soon, and I’d give anything to have her back, but she was ready for it to be over.”

“It’s good that she had you,” said Alex.

“I’m more concerned about you, to be honest,” Brennan went on. “It sounds like things have gotten a little crazy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“People link me on social media after they graduate. Some of your classmates have younger siblings. I’ve heard some things.” She shrugged. “Seen a couple videos of you getting arrested.”

Alex winced. Dylan Jorgensen had been right there with his cell phone when the FBI came for him at North Seattle College. “The first time was mostly a mix-up,” he lied.

“And the second? I saw you throw the first punch.”

“I’m not gonna apologize for punching Nazis,” he said quietly.

“That’s fine, and not my point. It’s the pattern, Alex.” Her brow furrowed. “From what I hear, it’s older women, fights at parties…”

Alex made a face. “I graduated two years ago. How much are people talking about me?”

“Well, I don’t keep track of former students, but it’s good gossip for some and you’re here now. You had a plan when you graduated, didn’t you? I wasn’t worried about you then, anyway.” In truth, his plans for the Army had etched a deep frown on her face, but she might not even remember that now. “Are you okay, Alex? Really?”

“Folks, we’re going to get started,” the principal called from the doors. The crowd had thinned, moving inside. “We’re pushing capacity. Grab your seats while they’re open.”

Alex looked to his companions. Taylor and Jason headed in with only a glance his way; they hadn’t shared Mrs. Brennan as a teacher. Rachel and Lorelei were just behind them, but slowed for him.

“You’re an adult. I’m not trying to tell you your business,” said Brennan. “Just saying if you want to talk, I’m still here.”

He couldn’t be mad or defensive when she wasn’t so different from Ms. Fosse. He saw how many dots she could see to connect, too.

“I know it sounds sketchy, but I’m truly good, Mrs. Brennan. I’m full-time at UW now. No drugs, no booze, no charges. Just a couple dumb nights and a lotta gossip. You don’t have to worry about me.”

* * *

“I wasn’t bound for college when I started here. You can ask any of these teachers. The only places I had in my future were the hospital and jail.” She paused and smiled, looking over her audience. She knew how to do this. “You’re waiting for me to say, ‘And then I met Ms. Fosse,’ and that’s true, except I met her while I was throwing chairs in Mr. Baker’s room next door. You all know Ms. Fosse wasn’t having any of that.”

Her audience laughed. Some laughed with less surprise than others. At a glance from Lorelei, Alex muttered, “Baker is kind of an asshole.”

The woman on stage continued, charismatic and sophisticated and sharp. He couldn’t remember her name. Alex had the sense she wasn’t different from any guest lecturers at the university, and then she dropped a reference to Ms. Fosse’s influence on her post-doctoral work. Huh. Nailed it, he thought.

The principal hadn’t exaggerated about capacity. With nearly a thousand seats in the theater, a few late arrivals still wound up standing in the side aisles. Alex, Rachel, and Lorelei lucked into a three-seat set at the back corner. Alex wondered if “luck” had more to do with divine or supernatural influence.

The speakers were all great. He heard about Ms. Fosse’s importance in people’s lives and great things she’d done. She never kept more her most recent awards on her desk, because she didn’t have room for all of them. They laughed and wiped away tears. Alex listened, but he watched the crowd more than the speakers.

His thoughts turned inward, and he scolded himself for it.

A scientist from the class of fifteen years ago left the stage to warm applause before the vice principal came on. Alex winced, expecting exactly the perfunctory nice words with self-aggrandizing asides that followed, and this time felt no guilt for his wandering attention.

Teachers and a few friends from outside the school lined the walls. Mrs. Brennan sat with a few current students and teachers on the wooden banister of the stage left steps, looking pensive.

Rachel leaned behind him on the left to whisper to his right: “Lorelei, can you cover?”

“Of course,” she murmured. Lorelei made no gesture and spoke no words of magic, but Alex knew what Rachel meant. Lorelei’s magic would ensure no one would hear them if they kept their voices down. “We will go unnoticed. Alex?”

“What’s up?” he asked.

“You’re feeling shitty, and not about Ms. Fosse,” said Rachel.

“I have noticed, too,” said Lorelei. “That woman by the stage—what did she say to you?”

“Oh no, she’s fine. It’s fine.” Alex sighed. “Mrs. Brennan saw the arrest videos, and heard some things, and it’s all the bad stuff. She doesn’t know any better. She’s not throwing any shade or guilt. If anything, she’s looking out for me, or wanted to make the effort, anyway.”

Lorelei looked to Rachel, who stared at the stage with her most scrutinizing expression. Finally, the angel shrugged. “He’s not wrong. She’s got a big heart, looks out for all the students she can. She liked Alex. She’s…”

“She’s disappointed in me,” he said. “She was disappointed then, too, but it’s been two years and she’s got a hundred and forty students at a time. She doesn’t remember.”

“Alex, what did you mean earlier about having few friends here?” asked Lorelei. “I understood you had many in school, beyond those we now share. Drew and Taylor have said you were more widely liked than you knew.”

“You were,” Rachel confirmed. “You were the one who reached out to the new kids and the shy ones. That’s how you got so tight with the guys. You had lots of friends.”

That made him feel better. He nodded to the display of classroom pictures of Ms. Fosse, some staged, others by surprise and silly. One of them came from the AP Bio class he shared with Taylor and Jason.

“A lot of us from Fosse’s class shared schedules and teachers. We were kind of a set. One kid got into Oxford. From an American public school to Oxford, tuition all covered. I don’t even know how that happens. One got a full ride to Stanford, another to Harvard, MIT… fuckin’ Annapolis. Everyone who didn’t go to UW either got someplace higher or settled for a huge scholarship. Plenty were friends, but most aren’t around anymore.

“I missed the AP Bio test because I got sick, but I wasn’t all honors and advanced placement to begin with. On some stuff, I just fell short. Everyone else went to first-pick colleges. I tried to enlist in the Army, but I fucked that up, too.

“It’s Fosse’s memorial. I shouldn’t be thinking about myself. That’s the worst part of it, really. I should be focused on her. The truth is I couldn’t be happier than I am with you, and I’m glad for how stuff turned out. But I’m here stuck on how Brennan and other teachers were disappointed in me… and now I’m their first graduate to get arrested by the FBI.”

“I rather doubt that,” murmured Lorelei.

“Whoa. No. Hold up,” said Rachel.

“I know it’s dumb,” Alex began.

“Stop. No. I know where this is coming from. I see it,” said Rachel. “You’re judging yourself by the expectations of other people who don’t and can’t know your life, and their expectations are fucked in the first place.”

“No, I know, they can’t know about magic and angels and… wait, what? How are they fucked?”

“These people follow a calling into their profession, and they cling to that because it helps them cope with the abuse and neglect of a shitty society that treats teachers like dirt. Then their students grow up surrounded by that as their example, as their role-models and their judges. It sets them up to be sucked dry and discarded by capitalism just like their teachers. The mess still leaves a mark on everyone, you included. You are not your fuckin’ graduation outcome any more than you are your fuckin’ job.”

Rachel waved to indicate the teachers scattered throughout the audience. Her hand ghosted right through people seated in the next row, reminding Alex how separated she was from the rest. Lorelei’s enchantment covered herself and Alex, but they still needed to keep their voices low; Rachel could rant in full.

“These people do a lot of good, every fuckin’ day. Some of them are assholes, sure, but even they usually do at least some good. Their view on your life is as limited as everyone else’s, and they’re caught up in their own limited standards for success. They’d be fucking thrilled if they knew the kind of good you’ve done.”

His mouth twitched with a tiny grin. “I think you might be a little biased. It’s mostly killing monsters, right?”

“Self-deprecating fuckin’…” Rachel’s grumble turned her head left and right, and then she faded and stepped out of her seat—backward. Much of her body stood within the wall behind her companions while she leaned between Alex and Lorelei. She spoke close to Alex’s ear.

“You were the one who said hi and stuck your hand out to the new kids. That’s how you got to be Drew’s friend, and Wade’s, and it meant the world to them when they were lost and alone. You do that shit all the time, babe. You’re nice to strangers and give money to people on the street. You’re kind. You give a damn about other people. That’s so much more important than going to college or how much money you make. A broke fry cook who’s actually nice is worth so much more to the world than some ambitious big-money dickwad.”

“Rachel and I would not be here without that kindness,” said Lorelei, cool and quiet. “You ended my servitude and loneliness. Rachel’s, too.”

“I gotta keep my trap shut about a lot of shit,” said Rachel, “but I’ll tell you this much: Ms. Fosse is as proud of you as any of her other students. She’s proud as fuck.”

Alex drew in a shaky breath. “Okay, now you’re gonna make me cry.”

“It’s a memorial, love. This is the place for it,” said Lorelei.

“Mrs. Brennan said all that stuff ’cause she doesn’t know better. She doesn’t understand,” said Rachel. “If she did, she wouldn’t have a single complaint about how you’re living.”

He took Rachel’s hand and caught Lorelei’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“It’s why we’re here, babe,” said Rachel. “Both of us.”

“Heh. Not sure Mrs. Brennan would get the ‘both’ part, or the alternative lifestyle part,” said Alex.

“All that ‘stuff’ is at least as important as the monster-slaying,” said Lorelei.

“It’s true. A nice fuck can do a lot of good if it comes from the right place.” Rachel stole a glance toward Jason and Taylor. Alex knew she watched over others as a guardian, but he didn’t know how close they were. She sighed. “Speaking of alternative lifestyles, I’ve gotta bail. Angel shit.”

“Go ahead. I’m good,” said Alex. Lorelei agreed with a nod. Rachel kissed them both on the cheek before disappearing through the wall.

Their attention returned to the tail end of the memorial. Lorelei asked if Alex wanted to invite Jason and Taylor for lunch or some other companionship so they wouldn’t be alone afterward, and Alex agreed with a grin. She often said kindness and warmth weren’t in her nature; as time went on, he doubted that.

He gave the crowd one last look and wondered if he might try talking to Mrs. Brennan again.

Then he saw a man next to her: tall and well-built, blond hair high and tight, dressed in nice jeans and a button-down. Alex didn’t remember him from his time in school, but he knew the face.

The principal was on stage now with a parting word. Everyone stood and applauded.

“Hey. I want to get a closer look at someone before we go,” Alex told Lorelei.

She caught the tension in his voice. “Who?”

“Suit-with-jeans there by Mrs. Brennan.”

They made their way through the crowd with little trouble. The man in jeans withdrew before they made it close, but that made it easier for Alex to get an answer. He waited only a moment for a chance to speak with Mrs. Brennan alone. “That was a nice story you shared up there. Ms. Fosse would’ve loved it.”

“She’d have played it off and wanted someone else to get the attention,” Brennan laughed.

“It was a lovely eulogy,” Lorelei put in.

“This is my girlfriend, Lorelei. Mrs. Brennan taught my English lit class,” he told Lorelei needlessly. It made the opportunity work. “She’s the best.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“On that note, is that the mysterious Mr. Brennan over there?” he asked, gesturing. The man stood near the exit now, talking to students and their families.

“What? No,” she laughed. “He’s home with our kids. No, that’s Mike Dotson. He’s with Seattle Police, came on as the school resource officer this year.”

“Oh, my bad,” said Alex. With that, he only needed an exit, and knew he wouldn’t have to wait long. Even as he opened his mouth to pivot from the question, other students came up.

“Mrs. Brennan, that was beautiful,” said one.

“Can I hug you?” asked another.

Alex smiled, held up a hand to say goodbye and yield the space to current students, and backed away. He jolted when he realized Lorelei had slipped behind Brennan to whisper three words to the teacher with a supernatural nudge: “Forget this moment.”

Brennan blinked and turned to the next distraction. No one else noticed Lorelei; she could claim the center of attention seemingly at will, but could go overlooked just as easily. Lorelei rejoined Alex, walking with him toward the exit and Dotson. “At a closer look, I don’t believe that man has a guardian,” she warned quietly. “That alone does not mean he is evil or dangerous.”

“Oh, he’s dangerous. He’s a problem,” said Alex.

Their conversation paused as they moved through the exit—and right by Dotson. Alex made passing eye contact to see if he’d get a reaction. None came.

“Most people will leave shortly, but some will linger.” Lorelei didn’t need to ask if he wanted to take some kind of action. She already knew. “Do you want the others involved?”

“I don’t know how sticky this gets, considering he’s a cop.” Alex paused. “You haven’t even asked what this is about.”

Lorelei shrugged. “I trust you.”

* * *

Mike held his Empathy Face right until he turned from the vice principal and the last family to leave and not a moment longer. No one waited in his path to the empty parking lot. His cheeks fell, his smile faded, and his eyes almost shut while mid-stride.

Clearing out took twenty minutes longer than necessary. Staff had to make nice. People needed to share whatever comment or story had been burning in their chest all afternoon. Kids had to get all their feelings out.

Anyone could have a favorite teacher, but she’d been out on medical leave for months, for fuck’s sake. It was cancer. Everyone saw this coming but still had to make it a big deal.

At least Mike didn’t have to lock up. Custodial handled that. Technically, he didn’t have to be here at all, but it sent the right signals. He needed to show he cared, be part of the community, all that shit.

Most of the district wanted nothing to do with school resource officers. Even this position only came as a “trial post” after a lot of leverage and pressure and traded favors. His bosses had hopes for good PR; his other bosses had shadier plans, at least before they disappeared right at the beginning of the school year. Their creepy requests dried up after that last snatch-and-grab, and so did their money and favors… and then other guys in the department got hit with corruption charges, or suddenly had financial problems, and a few just plain left town without saying shit to no one.

None of it came near Mike. He’d been careful. He did do a few favors for Lucien, but whatever the guy wanted with a school resource officer on the payroll disappeared with all his buddies.

Still, it was a cushy assignment. It kept Mike on a predictable schedule. Most days, he didn’t have to deal with anything worse than petty squabbles or a tantrum. That, and the occasional special event where he did crowd control and pretended to care.

What’s that meme? Mike wondered. Fuck them kids? Yeah.

His Porsche Cayenne waited in the corner of the staff parking lot. Mike looked more at his phone than his SUV until he got to the door. He slumped into his seat and chuckled. “Yeah, fuck them kids.”

“What a lovely introduction,” said a woman waiting in the passenger seat.

Whoever she was or however she got in his car, she didn’t belong. Mike threw an elbow before he even saw her face. He planned to bail out and grab his gun, too, but it all went wrong with that first move. She hooked a hand under his arm and pulled hard. His face sideswiped the dashboard ahead of his body folding in half over the seat divider and her legs.

“Shit. Shit!” Mike worked out daily and took care of himself. He knew how to fight, but none of that mattered. His attacker held him in place with unyielding strength. She wasn’t alone, either; the hands that threw aside his coat and snatched the pistol came from the back seat.

“You are outnumbered, overpowered, and exposed,” she told him. He could hear effort in her voice, but not as much as he had wasted trying to fight her. “By now, you know you cannot rely on the protections of your profession or the law. I advise you to make your next decisions with great care.”

She let him go. He sat up, gasping, and looked around. Outside, no one was around to see his predicament. Seated behind Mike, unloading and dismantling his gun, was some guy in a suit. “Who the fuck are—you?”

“Yeah, we’ve met,” he said. “It was last September, in my home. I don’t have a photographic memory or anything, but I remember every little bit of that night. Somebody made me remember all of it. I remember a pack of assholes jumping me when I came to my door. I got a look at a few faces before they pepper sprayed me and knocked me out, and you know what? You were there, at the back of the pack. You didn’t touch me, but you were there.

“Always wondered how they were so sure they could do that without anyone calling the cops. They had you on hand in case any other cops came by, right? Was that the deal? Was it more?”

Mike swallowed hard and went pale.

“We’re gonna go for a drive,” said Alex. “We’re not gonna kill you. We’re not gonna hurt you. But we are gonna have a long talk about who you worked for and every single thing they had you do. We’re gonna figure out how to fix as much harm as possible. I don’t know what happens after that, but at a minimum you’re gonna quit your job. And you’re never gonna come anywhere near my old high school again.”

“Drive,” said Lorelei.

Mike obeyed.

Lorelei flicked a glance to Alex, who released a tense breath. “Okay. Now I feel better.”

AMENDS

April

Lorelei’s art tour stopped cold at the Orthodox cross on the wall.

Conversations continued all around: another social for the conservatory, another wealthy benefactor showing off his home. She mingled and engaged until the cross caught her eye: silver inlaid with gold, rounded at the arms, nearly the length of her forearm. She remembered it lying on a floor beside a ball that knocked it from the wall, and small shoes worn by a girl with panicked tears.

“I’m sorry,” Stelia whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m… Mother will be so mad. Father will…” Terror choked off her voice.

“They won’t be mad if they don’t know.” Lorelei crouched to Stelia’s level. The little girl’s hand came into hers, resting in her lap atop her white apron. Stelia only knew her as Elina, a maid, and the only adult in the house besides her parents. “I can fix this. Can you keep it a secret? Between us?”

Dark hair bounced when Stelia shook her head. “It hit the table when it fell. It has a scratch, Elina. It’s ruined.”

“Only a little one, on the side. No one will notice.”

Lorelei stared at the scratch. Short as a fingernail, on the left side, at the bottom of the stem.

The cross hung between Neoclassic paintings, filling space without breaking up the lines of the arts and crafts woodwork of the walls. More Neoclassic works enjoyed display throughout the house, with Romantic pieces and a handful of sculptures. Lorelei recognized enough to casually dismiss most of them as copies at best or forgeries at worst.

But a copy or forgery of this cross wouldn’t have the scratch.

“Mother doesn’t trust you, Elina.” Stelia’s voice shrank ever smaller.

“Your mother has reasons,” Lorelei conceded. The white shimmer of light behind Stelia reminded her of others who didn’t trust Lorelei, either. “They have nothing to do with you.”

“Why would you help me?”

Adults took the whispers of guardian angels for their own conscience or worries. Children like Stelia sometimes repeated them without a second thought.

“Because you have been nice to me, Stelia. Where few others have. Shall I fix this for you?”

“Never trust anyone who says they’re doing something out of the goodness of their heart.” The voice snapped Lorelei back into the present: male, graveled with late middle age, and not directed at her. Ben Palmer spoke to the little circle of guests with a skillful blend of subtlety and intensity. He’d been in business a long time. “Does this benefit me, too? Absolutely. It’s still a good deal for the conservatory.”

Lorelei turned back to tuxedos, dresses, and champagne flutes. Desire and lust from onlookers fed her with a pleasant trickle of power. Her black evening gown encouraged attention without challenging propriety. She had lost only a beat or two of conversation to her memories and caught up fast.

“My crew did this whole house,” Ben continued. “These are my designs. We can easily scale this up in size.”

“Oh, so the party is leverage to talk us into your renovation deal?” Kathy teased. The tilt of her head invited Lorelei to join in. “He’s not kidding about the goodness of his heart, is he?”

“Hey, my name is already on the benefactor wall,” said Ben. “I’m offering to build you much nicer walls. And a roof, and floors, and windows. At a price you’ll never beat. Just maybe let me put my name up in a couple other spots, is all.”

“What do you think, Lorelei?” asked Kathy.

“I’m hardly the one to make the decision,” she replied.

“Sure, but you’re one of our best fundraisers,” said Kathy. “You’d have a hand in the bottom line regardless of authority.”

“It’s true. You’re also the best enabler in the office,” Richard teased.

“And you sound like Alex,” Lorelei murmured, but smiled.

“Oh stop. ‘Enabler.’ Come on, Richard,” said Kathy.

“Tell me I’m wrong. Who announces all the happy hours? Who orders up the surprise office lunches? I’m not complaining,” Richard added.

“Good, because I take ‘enabling’ as praise,” said Lorelei. The circle of guests laughed. “However, I’m inclined to agree with Richard. The conservatory is lovely as it is. Renovation shouldn’t be necessary for another decade.”

“Keep in mind, I’m offering up a good deal now.” Ben Palmer’s whitening hair and minor wrinkles gave him a distinguished edge, but his blue eyes and grin remained vibrant. “I can’t say where prices will be in ten years. Right now, everybody wins. My crew will have it done faster than you can blink.”

“How long did your house take?” asked Richard.

“Only a couple weeks, if you can believe it…”

Lorelei’s attention turned from them, though her body did not. She didn’t want anyone noticing her interest in the cross—especially if her interest was verified. People paid attention to Lorelei. Even if no one meant to act on any desires, she could feel the longing in every glance, and they glanced often.

They wouldn’t see her tail, though.

The cross hung high, but within arm’s reach. She wouldn’t even need to stretch. The spade-shaped red tip rose behind her back, invisible to mortal eyes.

Stinging heat made her hiss.

Her associates couldn’t see her tail recoil as if burned, but they could see her reaction. “Lorelei?” asked Richard.

“Sorry, it’s nothing.” Lorelei smiled tightly. She had hidden worse in the past, even if the first touch of divine rebuke always bit deep. “Minor back pain. Comes in spasms.”

“Do you need anything?” asked Kathy.

“Alex has it, actually. He’s the one with pockets. You’ll excuse me?”

“Only if you’ll come back,” said Ben. Genial. Poised. Ambitious.

Lorelei smiled and continued on her way.

Her hands burned as she returned the cross to its mount on the wall. Few such symbols held any touch of power, and those that did could hurt worse than this. She bore the pain without complaint. The hiss she heard came not from her, but the open window at her side.

“How can you touch that? Why would you touch it?” The imp crouched on the windowsill, crimson and scowling with his animal snout. He was smaller than most cats.

She looked to the hallway to assure privacy before answering. “What do you want?”

“Urgent news and instructions from Lord Belial.” The imp’s big yellow eyes rolled back and went black. His voice rumbled with a depth that wasn’t his. “War comes your way. Soon. The mortals have decided. You have only days. Finish your task. Leave. Nothing else.”

Belial’s voice sent tremors through her body, compelling and arousing. She neither resisted nor savored them. Lorelei had long ago learned to make the best of her situation and master. She took what she could get.

The imp was staring at her. Footsteps approached from the opposite direction, and Lorelei waved him away. “Go.”

The imp vanished just before strong hands seized her by the hips. Nicolas pulled her close and his lips fell upon the nape of her neck. “I sent everyone out for the afternoon,” he murmured. “We have the house to ourselves.”

Lorelei feigned a smile. Nicolas was fine in bed, but she wouldn’t be sad to dispatch him. She never felt much regret for her victims, The people they left behind were sometimes another matter.

War, Belial had said. “Finish your task. Leave. Nothing else.”

Such direct commands left her with no room for maneuver, let alone mercy or kindness.

The woodwork lined every hallway and staircase. Most of the bedrooms included attached baths. One corner of the ground floor had been converted into a small ballroom, overlooking the fountain-fed stream that wrapped the exterior. Ben Palmer’s home was almost large enough to let a newcomer get lost, but Lorelei found her way without trouble; she had a reliable beacon.

“I talked Max into Ibiza for early summer. There’s a big fashion show and a music industry thing. Parties everywhere. My views will explode.” Brooke leaned closer against the island counter to share her phone, but Alex’s eyes were caught on the cut of her dress, more daring than Lorelei’s own. “You should follow me.”

“I’ve had to cut back on social media.” Alex looked better in a tuxedo than he knew, but the stir of his desires brought Lorelei more enjoyment than just good tailoring. He fully appreciated the aspiring influencer’s beauty. He also kept his cool, casual and friendly and not once overthinking or growing flustered by her attention. Not anymore.

Alex didn’t notice his confidence. Lorelei savored it daily; she knew its origins.

“Aw. Too much of a distraction?” Brooke asked him.

“Privacy issues. Stalkers, kinda,” Alex admitted.

“Really?” she asked with interest. “Yeah, I guess you could get that, huh?”

“I’m sorry? I don’t—what do you mean?”

“I’ve been there. It’s the price of charm,” Brooke told him.

Alex blinked.

“His face does that that when his brain fails a connection,” Lorelei teased as she slid in beside her date. “Alex is sometimes a little too humble for his own good. Brooke, I need to pull my man away. My apologies.”

“Oh sure. No problem. I should go find Max, anyway.” Her eyes gave him one last up-and-down pass. “It’s nice to find a guy as a peer, y’know? Don’t be a stranger.”

Lorelei turned her back on Brooke to face Alex, but stayed out of his line of sight so he could watch her leave. Once Brooke’s figure turned the corner, he found Lorelei beaming. “A peer, she said? I like that.”

“She—she means a fellow sugar baby,” said Alex.

“Ah. Yes. That’s exactly her relationship with Max. He’s wealthy, older, divorced, blooming into mid-life crisis. I appreciate her self-awareness.”

“Lorelei. If she’s calling me a peer, what’s she saying about you?”

“Nothing that bothers me in the slightest. She can think whatever she wants of me, and of you and I.” Her fingers traced the lapel of his coat. “We’ve talked about your professional prospects before. Rachel and I would fully support you. Enthusiastically.”

“Lorelei.” He frowned, but without sincerity.

“As for Brooke, I trust you caught the opportunity she offered in her farewell. Her attractions wouldn’t include me, but I’m happy to let her know you have my complete permission.”

“She’s got nothing on my real date tonight,” said Alex.

“That’s true,” Lorelei agreed. “Yet you still appreciate her. Such a delicious prospect.”

“This again?” Alex grinned.

“Always this.” She leaned in and hissed playfully, “I would never push. But I love how the encouragement thrills you.”

Alex smiled and held back a laugh. This path had grown easier with experience. “I feel like you wouldn’t have nudged her away if that was your priority.”

“True, but I would gladly switch those priorities if you wish. The whimsy would please me.” She meant it, too, but she didn’t have to convince him. “You remember the request of limited cell phones for the invitation tonight?”

“You mean the unspoken, passive-aggressive, ‘keep it classy’ thing?” Alex rolled his eyes. “Yeah. There’s a reason Brooke and I wound up in the kitchen.”

“Most good parties draw people toward the kitchen,” said Lorelei, and then conceded to his raised eyebrow. “If ‘good’ falls short of ‘erotic,’ anyway.”

“That’s more honest. I love you.”

She wanted him to prove it. She wanted him on his knees. She kept her focus instead. “I have interests in the art in this home. Most, not all. I would like pictures to reference and verify later. It is also best if no one notices my interest.”

“Is this a spooky thing?”

“No. The matter is entirely mortal and natural. However, my abilities are limited by all these witnesses and security cameras. A mystical approach would require painstaking care, and therefore time. I thought to keep you close to me as a blind of sorts while I do this in the open.”

“Or I could take care of this while you mingle,” Alex offered.

“I hadn’t considered that,” said Lorelei.

“Aside from Brooke, how many people even remember I’m here?”

“I think you underestimate how many men see you as a vexing obstacle.”

“Okay, but that still makes you the center of attention, right? And that’s without even trying.”

“You believe you can do this? Undetected?”

“Lorelei. High school was only a couple years ago. I can totally use my cell phone without anyone noticing.”

* * *

“Our pillow talk is usually happier than this, huh?” Rachel bit her lip as soon as she said it. Her eyes turned from one lover to the other. “Shit, I shouldn’t say that. I’m sorry, babe. Fuckin’ insensitive of me.”

“You are not wrong.” Lorelei sat between Alex and Rachel on the bed, facing them where they laid, legs gathered at one side against Alex. She wore only a black lace bra and the sheen of afterglow. “I wanted to explain this all night, but not amid anticipation and yearning. It seemed… manipulative.”

“You can tell us whenever something is bothering you,” said Alex. Like Rachel, he was naked beneath the top sheet, with his hair mussed and his body turned slightly against Lorelei’s. “Pretty sure we’ve got enough self-control to wait.”

“I did not want you to need such self-control,” said Lorelei. “I am aware of the pull I have on you. Both of you. Our passion is sacred to me. I am always yours, and I will not use that to leverage any conditions.”

The angel and mortal shared a look. “That’s fuckin’ hot,” said Rachel. “Look at how she takes care of us.”

“Thank you,” Alex told Lorelei. He traced her hip.

“I am not exactly selfless in this,” said Lorelei.

“Yeah, but a purely selfish demon wouldn’t be thinking about a decades-old tragedy,” said Rachel.

“Back to that: you found them online?” asked Alex.

“In the car as you drove us home, yes. The internet remains a wonder. Stelia lives in Greece with a husband and children. I do not know about her mother.” Lorelei shook her head. “They would have lost everything in the looting and turmoil of the invasion. War made them refugees right after I made them a widow and orphan.”

“If you were there to take that guy out, though…” Alex shrugged. “He beat her, right? Both of them? Were they better off without him?”

“Sometimes even a shitbag dad can be better than no dad at all,” said Rachel. “Everybody’s situation is different. This one headed straight for the toilet.”

“Many of my prey might have found redemption, given time. That was part of the point to such seduction. A victim may have chosen a better path, but I kept them turned from it.”

“Guess that’s fair,” said Alex. “Stelia’s okay now? She’s got her own family. Do they have a good life?”

“I can ask through other guardians. Gotta cut Alex out of that conversation,” Rachel said with a tilt of her head, “but I can probably get away with telling you.”

“I would be grateful. Regardless, her current state still comes after a life interrupted. Scars remain,” said Lorelei.

“And you want to do something about that,” said Rachel.

“I do. That cross should have been hers. Even if it holds no personal or spiritual value to her, it could fetch a price that would change an ordinary person’s life. That is a decision Stelia should have to make. I would give that to her.” Lorelei shook her head. “I cannot make amends for what I did, nor can I explain it, but I can attempt some restitution.”

Rachel held up a pair of fingers, waving her hand with a restrained energy. “Two things. First, I’m trying real fuckin’ hard to hold back the halo light ’cause you’re about to make me fuckin’ blaze. Second, this is all mortal world stuff I need to stay out of. I love you, I love you both, and I cannot get involved. Can’t even give you advice. Okay?” Her hand still flexed and shook. “Also, this is super fuckin’ hot and it’s all I can do not to tackle you right now.”

“That’s three things,” Alex mumbled.

“I’ll fuck you right through the mattress, too, buddy,” Rachel threatened. “Don’t think you aren’t part of this.”

“What did I do?”

“It’s not what you did, it’s… it’s…” Rachel clamped her mouth shut. “Wait for it.”

Alex sighed, though he also smiled. He had to let a lot of things go when it came to Rachel. He wasn’t bothered. “Okay. So, you’re sure this cross is stolen? Along with the other stuff?”

“Much of Palmer’s collection, yes. Your pictures will allow me to research and verify,” said Lorelei. “I thought the displays lacked for theme, but now I suspect a unity of looting and forgery. I would gladly return anything else out of place.”

A loving, whining noise pulled through Rachel’s throat. She curled against Lorelei, nuzzling her neck while reaching between her legs. Lorelei welcomed her affection without distraction.

“These are all old pieces,” Alex thought out loud, his gaze held by Rachel’s hand stroking Lorelei. “Even the cross was looted decades ago, right? Is there any chance Palmer could’ve bought them thinking they were legit?”

“It happens. If it were only the cross, I could believe it, but I believe most of his collection is suspect. This is a man who shows off his art while discouraging use of cell phones and cameras. He wants to display and gloat with none the wiser. I have seen it before.” Though she spoke evenly and held eye contact, Lorelei leaned into Rachel’s affections. “We are distracting him, love. This is blatant seduction.”

“He’s a big boy,” Rachel murmured against Lorelei’s ear. “Remember the self-control?”

Alex stayed on topic. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if it was just a matter of dropping a call to the feds, right?”

“Court battles would take years and cost a fortune. Rightful owners may not have that access. I worry Stelia would not. Palmer also surely has some defense prepared. Even a victory might not send the art where it truly belongs. Legal options may provide pressure, but they will not be enough.”

“So we take care of this ourselves,” Alex understood.

“That.” Rachel pointed at Alex. “There it is. Hold on,” she told Lorelei, and then threw herself onto Alex. Her lips mashed against his. Rachel crawled all over him without inhibition. The sheet remained in the way, but she only wanted to make a statement, at least for now. “That’s what you did. Do. What you will do. Fuck it, whatever. She wants to do something kind and you’re immediately ready to support her. Even if it’s crazy. I fucking love you, Alex. I love you both.”

“Isn’t encouragement a form of getting involved?” Alex grinned.

She rolled her eyes. “The bosses know I’m in love with you. I’m only getting turned on by sentiment, anyway.”

“Sentiment turning to conspiracy,” said Lorelei. “Palmer reveals many unsavory traits. I would be unsurprised to find another succubus preying upon him. That said, he is hardly the sort of monster we have fought in the past. I don’t believe violence or destruction is appropriate.”

“So, don’t beat him up, but definitely rob him,” said Alex. He looked to Rachel.

“Stealing stolen shit?” Rachel shrugged. “Some sins are forgivable. Details matter, y’know? Anyway, I’m not giving my approval. Didn’t say that. I’ve told you before, I have to let you live your life, bumps and all.”

“Still sounds like approval.”

“That’s your hands on my ass talking.”

“For me or for you?” asked Alex.

“Doesn’t matter as long as they stay where they are.”

They did. Rachel kissed him and ground her body against his. “Sorry if I’m interrupting your conspiracy,” she said when their lips parted.

“The conspiracy is the interruption. We appear able to handle it.” Lorelei sank onto the bed against her lovers. She caressed one with her hand and one with her tail. “The question now is our method. The obvious and easiest path is distasteful. I have no desire to seduce Palmer. Manipulation and distraction are fine, but we will inevitably require a hands-on approach.

“Security will be significant. We are physically and magically capable. We are not expert thieves, and we are not well-versed in security technology.”

“And I can’t help,” said Rachel.

“And Rachel cannot help,” conceded Lorelei.

“We know a master thief,” said Alex.

“Z would steal the guy’s entire house just to show off,” said Rachel.

“None of us are eager to owe Zafirah another favor,” said Lorelei.

“Yeah, point,” said Alex. “I was only thinking of calling her for advice, but I suppose it could still lead to that. I dunno if Molly or Onyx could help us, either. Their Practice has rules. Defense is one thing but stealing might be different.”

“I had similar thoughts. A limited circle is best, which restricts our talent and options.”

“Wait. We still have one person who could help. Might give us advice, anyway,” said Alex.

“At what price?” asked Lorelei.

“Oh, she’ll do it just for the chance to patronize us.”

* * *

The cue ball knocked the seven into the corner pocket, but the ricochet made the real statement: it rolled straight over to the eight at the opposite corner with no loss of velocity. Alex heard music and conversation and laughter at other tables, but this one ended with a mic drop. As the eight ball disappeared, Alex looked from his loss to a smug grin.

Sierra extracted most of her price with that grin. The defeat at the pool table was incidental, though adding to her swagger.

Her black hair was loose, her tank was screaming red and loud, and her leather jacket casually occupied a nearby chair. She looked good. Drew watched the interplay between his girlfriend and his lifelong best friend with silent amusement. Sierra’s dark eyes stared Alex down, but Drew still saw her grin.

Alex knew this was coming. He accepted it without complaint, but also without laughter. Laughter would have been asking for trouble.

Sierra returned to her seat without looking away, lest Alex be spared a moment of that grin. “It’s all European stuff?” she asked, bringing her beer bottle to her mouth.

“That’s all he had on display. Anything else we find goes home, too,” said Alex.

Sierra’s eyes slid toward Drew. He shrugged. “My boy knows what’s up. He’s good for it.”

“Good.” Sierra took a swig of her beer. “Why not take the magical mindfuck approach?”

“Not an option,” said Alex.

“Doesn’t do the job, or don’t wanna?”

“Little of both, leaning to the latter. Mindfuckery crosses lines we’d rather leave alone.”

“Okay.” Beneath her grin, Alex thought he saw the slightest hint of approval. Whatever it was she thought of his answer, she made her decision quickly.

“We’re talking about a serious millionaire, but not actually unlimited resources. There’s a difference,” Sierra began. “This is a home, not a museum or a vault. He’ll have security. Sensors, cameras, alarms, all that shit, but he won’t want to make his home unlivable. Live guards around the clock are pretty unlikely, or at least less likely in the living areas.”

“Makes sense,” said Alex. “Can you talk us past the tech?”

“Sure. It’s only a smash-and-grab.”

“Trying not to smash a whole lot.”

“Yeah, but you’re not going for fancy shit like swapping everything with fakes. He’s gonna know he’s been robbed. You don’t have to burn his house down, but this is the ‘break’ part of that whole ‘breaking and entering’ thing.”

“Less damage is still better.”

“Sure. Not your priority, though. Any good security system is gonna scream the second it gets any damage in the first place. You’re never gonna spot every camera or sensor, so take an alarm for granted. The point of an alarm is to bring a response, but from who? This guy has a house full of sketchy, illegally-obtained art. Somebody breaks in. Who does he call for help?

“A: he calls the cops because he has them in his pocket. B: he calls the cops because he assumes they won’t know a Picasso from a movie poster. If he doesn’t have the money for A and he’s not reckless enough to risk B, that means he calls somebody else. Maybe somebody who’s in on the art deals or someone who doesn’t care, but in the end, they’re dirty.

“So where does his alarm go? If we know that, you may not have to beat the alarm at all.”

Alex listened and pondered. He didn’t have an answer for that.

Sierra took another pull of her beer. “Are you glad you asked me for help?”

“Yes,” said Alex.

“Good. I’ll be back in a second.” She hopped out of her seat and walked away. Still grinning.

Alex turned to his left, to another woman in another tall chair. “You were right,” said Lorelei. “Her price is exactly what you expected.”

* * *

Most often, Ben Palmer grabbed lunch in the office tower’s food court like anyone else. He had a secretary, an executive assistant, and other office staff available, but he preferred to do these things himself. The errand let him stretch his legs. He liked to get his own coffee and his own lunch, and it didn’t have to be fancy. He could stand in line. He spoke of it at his party… more than once.

Humblebragging about his humility. Humbleception, Alex had called it. Lorelei was grateful for the disclosure; it made her approach much easier. She only needed patience.

The coffee shop anchoring the court gave her an excellent view of foot traffic, and courtesy secured her a good seat. She was hardly the first person to wait out here for a meeting. Her business-with-a-dash-of-glamour ensemble, blonde beauty, and enigmatic European accent made an impression on the staff, but not enough to catch stares when she moved on her prey.

“Mr. Palmer? Please pardon my intrusion.” His name was enough to stop him, and then her image prompted the usual double-takes. “Dominika Lakatos, a pleasure to meet you. A mutual friend referred me to you for a business matter.”

“Business usually calls or emails.” Palmer flashed a friendly smile, but still moved toward the elevator. “Sorry, it’s policy.”

She kept pace with him. “Even when your business is personal and illicit?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You have an original Barbachollo in your dining room.”

Palmer hesitated, and then recognized his misstep with irritation. He turned that reaction onto Lorelei. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“This is the tedious part of our business. You feign ignorance and innocence. I confront you with the truth and assure you we share the same risks. You glance around for hidden cameras and microphones and federal agents, or journalists, I suppose. This is America.” She waved a gloved hand. “The result is the same. You have the painting. You know its authenticity and its troubled history. You know it was stolen from Naples sixteen years ago, and how that complicates your ownership. I would like to buy it at a generous price.”

“Sure, lady.”

“I confess, I do not know precisely what you paid for it. An educated guess would range in the low to mid seven figures. I am prepared to double that.”

Again, he hesitated.

“You suspect a trap. You wonder how much I know, and how I know it. Part of you wonders how much you can get for this painting, and whether you can trust any offer.” Lorelei’s expertise leaned toward rather different desires, but some instincts applied to most forms of temptation. “This is not my first deal, Mr. Palmer.”

“Do you start all your deals by walking up to strangers in public?”

“Would you prefer I corner you in private?” Lorelei saw all the predictable hints of lust behind Palmer’s eyes. Wariness prevented those desires from running away with him, but attraction still aided persuasion. “Have I violated a guild rule? Are you part of a secret society?” she teased. “This business runs on word of mouth, Mr. Palmer. You have completed deals without trouble. That’s as reliable as any new client can be.”

“And who referred you to me?”

“Do you host gatherings and display your collection with the hope that no one will notice, Mr. Palmer? My source knew of my interest and relayed their discovery. They have no further knowledge or involvement. They are not part of this transaction.”

“I haven’t agreed to any transaction,” said Palmer.

“No, but I hope you will. And I hope we will do additional business in the future. I buy and sell. We could both benefit.” Nothing enhanced temptation like the prospect of more. “Shall we continue this discussion?”

Avarice and ambition won out. Lorelei watched Palmer’s thoughts shift. “Let’s say I’m interested in what you have to say. Maybe clearing up any misunderstandings about what I do and don’t own.”

“Of course,” Lorelei played along. Deniability would remain important. “You are in the middle of your day, and I approached you unannounced. What would you prefer?”

“I don’t know. I’m in the middle of my day and you approached unannounced,” Palmer echoed. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“Then might I suggest dinner some evening? You will choose the time and place to your comfort.” Lorelei produced a business card. “I will not be in Seattle beyond this week, but until then, my evenings are free.”

“You’re free to go wherever a stranger wants to take you?” His skepticism never ebbed.

“We share certain standards as well as interests, Mr. Palmer. I did not contact you in ignorance. You are not a man of crude violence, and you would not involve the police. I have no fears for my safety.”

“Of course.” He glanced at the card, finding only a name and phone number. “Dominika Lakatos? Am I saying that right?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Lorelei smiled before she waved away another tedious detail. “Research and verify as you like. You will not find me, just as I will not reveal my sources. It is no more risk than any other you have taken in your purchases. Consult your lawyers and your contacts. I await your call. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Palmer.”

She wanted to watch him, but her performance required confidence and poise. Lorelei walked away amid office staffers on their lunch breaks without looking back. She could feel Palmer’s gaze lingering on her legs.

She also didn’t need to see him if someone else did the job for her.

Rachel’s lips pressed together without subtlety, eyes only a little less bright than her halo. A taller woman in slacks and a striped blouse walked straight through her without a clue. The disruption had no effect on Rachel, who had her eyes on Lorelei as she closed in on the angel.

“You came to watch over me?” Lorelei asked quietly.

“Not out of worry.” Rachel walked at her lover’s side, ghosting through more mortals. “I had a minute and was nearby.”

“Because you cannot get involved,” said Lorelei.

“It’s just the rules, babe. Not my preference.”

“I hold nothing against you.”

“Sure about that?”

“We both see feckless inaction and arbitrary standards in Heaven’s ‘rules’ of interference and free will. We both see hypocrisy. This would not be the most important example.”

Rachel mulled the answer over with an animated face, her eyes rolling from left to right and her lips scrunching up to one side. “Not the hill we wanna die on?”

“Precisely.”

“We’re on the same side of that fight, right? Not, like, you and me going at it?”

“Only in a way that leaves us passionately naked,” said Lorelei.

“Cool.”

“So, you were not here to watch over me? You remain uninvolved?”

“Psshh. Obviously. Why would I get into it?”

Lorelei’s eyebrow rose, and Rachel shrugged. Amused, Lorelei relented. “Whether Palmer believes I am a genuine buyer or not, he will pursue this. He knows I’ve identified at least one illicit possession. He must play this out if he is to resolve the lingering sense of threat. My primary goal is to get him out of the house under circumstances I can influence.”

“Huh. Cool.”

“Cool?”

“Seriously, love. I’m not here to talk about some fuckin’ guy. I mean, I care, I support you, all that. But you know I wouldn’t bullshit you. C’mon.” Rachel bit her lip as Lorelei turned to face her. She leaned in. “I’m on the job flyin’ through people and walls and stuff all day, right? So I can’t carry any money and I’m jonesing hard for a mocha.” The angel tilted her head toward the coffee stand, curling a lock of hair around her finger. “Please?”

* * *

The talents and lessons of Alex’s past lives blended with him a little more each day, even as personalities and memories remained distinct. Alex had no fear of losing himself to Will or Skorri or the rest, but some of their traits became more and more a part of him as time went on.

A year ago, a wait like this would have driven Alex batty. More accurately, it would’ve driven him straight to his cell phone. The sneakier and harder men Alex had once been knew better. They understood things like light and noise discipline. They accepted the discomfort of a cramped space and bugs and a steady drizzle. They knew that if he were to hide behind a hillside bush at night, like right now, he had to commit.

Alex huddled behind said bush and watched the occasional car pass. His motorcycle was hidden close to the road. He resisted the siren’s calls of texting, gaming, and aimless web-surfing. The burner phone stayed in his leather jacket until it hummed with a message.

Go.

The text from Lorelei said nothing more. She disliked typing on her phone. Alex responded with a thumbs-up, tucked the phone inside his leather jacket, and turned to his climb.

Palmer’s house enjoyed a backyard view of Elliott Bay from the top of a hill, with other homes close by. The curving road in front of the palatial houses held several street lights and hidden cameras, along with the occasional car. The hillside, however, had none of those problems, and even added the benefit of spring greenery.

Only a few yards of his trek required the use of his hands; the rest wasn’t steep. Alex put his focus into stealth. His boots, backpack, gloves, and equipment were chosen for this task. His past lives taught him to hunt and winter alone among hostile Danes and survive years of recon patrols in the jungle; no man or animal hunted him here. His only difficulty came from mortal eyes against normal darkness.

Darkness which eased into soft light as Rachel appeared.

“Hi,” she whispered happily. Her posture and halo light ran counter to her tone, though no one else would see either detail. She stood beside Alex with her wings casually folded and one hand up in a playful wave. Dogwood branches poked straight through her legs without disturbance.

“Isn’t this getting involved?” he asked.

“Do you want me to fuck off?” Rachel smirked.

“Literally never.”

“See, that’s bullshit, ’cause you like your private time with your other girlfriends. Also, you like your privacy in the bathroom, which I respect! Not gonna go there. Point remains.”

“I’m not complaining.” Alex gestured to his path. Picking his way around vines and loose soil was much easier with his love near him. “You’re like a road crew lamp only I can see. Kinda helpful.”

“Eh. ‘Involved’ is on a spectrum, y’know? You’re moving fine without me. I’m not carrying you or scouting for you. I’m not covering you with divine illusion bullshit. But it’s not like I’m gonna avoid you, either. The bosses know you’re my boyfriend.”

“Thank you. I love you,” said Alex.

“I love you, too.”

Alex got on with his climb, mindful of branches and sight lines. He made it exactly five steps before he stopped. “Okay, now it’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“How do I sneak around in the dark when it’s not dark for me?”

Rachel balled up her fists, sucked in a breath, and gritted her teeth as she desperately tightened every muscle. The radiance of her halo had dimmed by half by the time she dropped the act to laugh at his expression.

He sighed and returned to his task.

The last meters involved actual work, and then came the stone retaining wall. He paused to mask his face and tug a black watch cap over his head. Sight lines were clear; now he needed to know his options. The wall rose barely above his height, providing little challenge in and of itself. More complex technology nearby created the real problem.

Alex brought one hand over the side of the wall slowly, then the next. His feet found purchase between stones to ease his climb. He risked rising no higher than eye level to the backyard deck dotted with lawn furniture and potted plants. The screen door for the three-story house awaited in silence. Every lamp was dark.

Light spread across the backyard as Rachel vaulted the retaining wall with a simple jump. Her wings barely twitched as she settled atop the stones inches from Alex. “Why are you suddenly so slow and—oh, fuck, right. Motion sensors and shit.” She made a face. “Wouldn’t they go off already? You’re here. You’re in motion.”

He didn’t answer. The light of her halo proved especially helpful while he scanned the deck and the walls of the house. Without request or encouragement, Rachel shined brighter. He wanted to thank her. Instead, he stuck with his task.

The small black box at the corner of the house fit Sierra’s warnings. Another of the same style stood on a stake driven into the ground at the border of the deck. Alex spotted others, but he had his path now. He dropped back from the edge of the wall to unsling and open his backpack.

“Seriously. How’s it work?” Rachel asked from atop the wall.

“They calibrate for size and motion,” he whispered. “You don’t want your lights and alarms going off for every random bird or raccoon, right?”

“Oh, right. Right. That should’ve been obvious,” she realized as Alex pulled the backpack on again. “So how do you—wait, is that my Modelo?”

The first little beer bottle arced across the backyard to hit the sensor and lamp unit on the corner of the house with a crack. Black plastic slumped but hung from thin cabling while the bottle dropped onto wet grass. Alex let the next bottle fly, striking the closer motion sensor at the edge of the wooden deck.

“You couldn’t use a rock?” Rachel grumbled.

The third and final beer cracked open a tiny half-sphere camera case on the inside corner at the center of the house. Alex heaved himself up over the retaining wall. “I’m better with bottles,” he grunted. “We’ll get you more.”

“Okay, but it’s the principle of the thing,” she complained. “Fuckin’ wasteful.”

Alex dashed for the house in a hooked path out of the remaining motion sensor fields. He couldn’t be sure he’d cleared every danger, so he had to go fast. Nothing went wrong and he made it to the sliding glass door to the lower living room. The only light came from Rachel’s nonchalant walk.

“Doesn’t this still set off the alarm?” she asked.

“Probably,” Alex huffed.

“You gonna bash straight through the door, then?”

He glanced inside, specifically at the floor, and found no bar blocking the sliding door’s track. That suggested a more sophisticated lock, but a bar would be a bigger problem. Alex pulled a small, magnetized block from a pocket of his backpack and set it against the door frame, sliding it in a downward motion until he heard the latch. He grinned at Rachel. “No.”

“That’s all? Holy shit, Alex, you’re a master fuckin’ thief!”

Alex bit his lip. In truth, he was only following advice from Sierra, and he still had the graceless fussing of trying to lift the door up off its track ahead of him. He’d take it, though.

* * *

Her instructions brought Lorelei across Lake Washington to downtown Bellevue, high up in another tower to an extremely exclusive and equally expensive restaurant. She credited Palmer with some degree of savvy for his choice. The location presented difficulties of logistics for anyone out to spring a trap and had limited paths of ingress and egress, making life easier for any henchmen or bodyguards—which, it turned out, Palmer had on hand. She spotted the first such suits loitering outside the restaurant as she arrived.

They didn’t see her. Lorelei made sure to slip past them with supernatural stealth to scout the restaurant and confirm Palmer’s presence before sending Alex the text. Even then, she waited and watched. Palmer sat alone at his booth table with admirable patience, given the circumstances.

Contrary to her façade in their meeting, she did not underestimate the prospect of violence. She was, however, certain he would not involve any police, which made this easier.

Sliding up to his table unannounced might hold intimidation value, but it would also alarm him. Lorelei cycled out of the restaurant to reassure his henchmen with “Dominika’s” natural, visible arrival. They stayed in place and held their cover as she breezed back in.

“An interesting choice for a rendezvous, Mr. Palmer,” she said. He stood and offered his hand, polite and gentlemanly despite his suspicions. “I expected good taste. You do not disappoint.”

“You said to name the place and time. I figure that means you’re buying.”

“Of course.” He glanced to the entrance as they sat, checking for his subordinates. Despite his precautions and confidence, he was still more of an executive than an underworld operator.

“I have to admit, you were right about the background check. I found nothing on you,” Palmer began. “Nobody I know has heard of you. It’s a curious approach.”

“The lack of fixed and traditional etiquette is part of the appeal in this business. Neither of us likes bureaucracy and legalities, do we?”

“No, I suppose not. Still. Doesn’t lend a lot of trust.”

“Trust builds over time, and time is money. We could strike up an association, get to know one another, and eventually spoil our relationship with business. Or we could cut to the bottom line and save us both unnecessary expense. And I do have business elsewhere. I like to think I’ve spared us weeks or months of playing coy before we can discuss a deal.”

“Is that why we’re here? I thought an attractive woman asked me out to dinner,” said Palmer.

“Of course. Who could resist?” Lorelei smiled. “With that established, I am inclined to pursue our mutual interest in art. I assume you have given thought to my offer. Do you require any further reassurances before we focus on the topic?”

“Reassurances,” Palmer mused, but further reply fell victim to a hum from his pocket. “Sorry, I need to take this.” He pulled his cell phone, read a message, and flashed a grin without amusement. “Alright. Sure. If we’re interested in reassurances, maybe we could start with whoever’s breaking into my house while I’m conveniently away. Would you know anything about that? Or should I ask the intruder nicely when I get home?”

* * *

Alex moved quietly, but speed meant more than silence. If the lights and alarms didn’t go off outside and the neighbors didn’t see him, he wasn’t worried about a little noise inside the house. He still had his personal night light, too.

“Okay, we’ve got it good with Lorelei, but I guess there’s a difference between having money and being fuckin’ rich, right?” Rachel turned her head in every direction to take in the woodwork, the furniture, and the fixtures. Though she moved at a slower pace than Alex, she mostly kept up. Only one of them had to move around solid objects.

Mindful of Sierra’s advice, Alex said nothing. Motion-activated recording could be taken for granted. He swept through the bottom floor, fronts of his feet landing before heels, sticking to the long Persian rugs that lined many of the hallways.

Portraits stared at him in silence along the walls. The occasional small statue stared at him, too. Months of supernatural shenanigans taught Alex to take none of it for granted. He wouldn’t be surprised if an armoire came to life

At least an armoire wouldn’t arrest him or press charges.

A single, polite party made Alex only so familiar with the layout, and he hit several dead ends. He left any closed doors shut and took the first set of stairs toward what he hoped was lower floor that had been dug into the hillside. He remembered it in line with the street at the front, which is where he remembered the dining room, and the gallery, and the cross on the wall.

“Oh yeah,” Rachel murmured when she spotted the cross. “That’s some faith invested there. Someone believed.” Alex glanced back, and she shrugged. “Won’t make a difference to you. Just sayin’. Most symbols aren’t like that. This much faith is pretty damn rare.”

Alex turned for a full three-sixty look over the room. Four paintings, a pair of statues like oversized chess pieces on small end tables, and the cross. Nothing protected by a glass case. Curious, Alex moved closer to the wall while he unslung and unzipped his backpack. The paintings wouldn’t fit, but he wondered how securely they were mounted.

His ears caught the approach of footsteps. Alex spun to face the hallway entrance to see a hand to turn on the overhead chandelier. A blond man with beefy arms glared at Alex, flanked by a second big guy in khakis and then a third with a beard.

They couldn’t have come from very far, or he would’ve heard them sooner. Those Persian rugs really cut down on noise, thought Alex.

“Oh. Fuck. Hired goons, oh no,” Rachel droned as they appeared, but suddenly brightened with a wave. “Tobiah, hi. How’s it going?”

The men showed no awareness of Rachel or whoever she addressed. Khakis already had a yellow taser in hand. Beardo held a baton low and ready, while Blondie extended his with a dramatic flourish. “We can handle this without a fuss or do it the hard way. Your call.”

“Nah, I’m here with my guy same as you are with yours,” Rachel told her unseen associate.

Alex swung the backpack up at the chandelier. The hammer, prybar, and other tools wound up unnecessary for breaking in, but their solid weight could smash out the only mundane light. Alex followed their momentum to the side to avoid the taser leads flying at him.

“Look, you’re a guardian, I’m a guardian,” Rachel went on. Blondie rushed straight through her to close with Alex while Beardo cut to the left to block any escape. “I mean yeah, technically I’m not his guardian, but I’m his girlfriend. Where’s the fuckin’ line, am I right?”

Rachel’s halo gave Alex plenty of light while the other men fought in darkness. He jerked backward to avoid Beardo’s baton, then pulled the bigger man sideways with his foot out in the least helpful manner possible. Beardo flailed the whole way to the floor. He caught just enough of the nearby end table to leave it wobbling, along with the foot-tall marble French queen that stood atop it.

The queen in crisis redirected Alex from his planned escape. She was on the list, anyway. Alex scooped her up as she tilted past the point of no return and kept right on turning to avoid the arc of Blondie’s baton. He followed with a kick to the hip, putting Blondie and his thick arms off balance toward the wall.

“Tobiah, come on. I’m only interfering as much as you are. Fuck’s sake,” said Rachel.

Glad for separate compartments and padded lining around his tools, Alex stuffed the queen into his backpack. He was halfway to the exit with his fingers around the zipper when Khakis arrived in an unfortunately accurate tackle. They went down with a resounding thud. Alex landed head-first against Beardo’s stomach.

“I’ve got him!” Khakis announced. Blondie dove in. Beardo kicked and rolled away, leaving Alex to wrestle two larger and stronger men. They already had the upper hand. One drove a fist into his side for whatever advantage it brought, or maybe out of sheer contempt.

“See? Am I helping? No. Do I want to? Obviously, fuck yeah,” Rachel went on. “But it’s my guy, your guy, two mortals in conflict. What are their angels supposed to do? We’ve dealt with this every day for millennia. I dunno why you’re up my ass like a bidet about it.”

Blondie punched Alex again while Khakis grabbed for an arm to twist and hold. Alex kicked and struggled while a dangerous growl welled up in his throat. Stalking the grounds already had Skorri’s memories close at hand, but he had talents besides sneaking. His life was one blended with dirty tactics.

They had only one of his arms pinned. Alex swung the backpack up and over to bring the weight of the queen down his assailant’s back. Khakis jerked with pain and surprise and lost his grip, which Alex rewarded with a roaring headbutt to the cheek and a kick to his leg.

“Okay, yeah,” Rachel conceded. “My help is qualitatively fuckin’ different, but—oh, ouch.”

A second awkward blow from the backpack broke their stalemate. Alex wrenched himself onto his side and flung Khakis off, if only by a matter of inches. The turn brought him to Blondie, who tried to lock his hold on Alex’s arm. If not for the mask, Alex would have bitten him. A slamming elbow to the face did the job instead. Alex even got his feet under him again.

“Speaking of guardianing, you might wanna watch—”

Beardo, too, had gotten to his feet and found his baton. He thought he had the edge in size and power; he had the size, at least. A shout of wordless fury gave Beardo just enough pause to open him to an uppercut, and Alex sent him teetering backward before booking it to the exit.

“See? Good reflexes,” said Rachel. “He could’a cracked his head without you to catch him and oh wait shit sorry fuck we’re going hey no real harm, right?” She followed Alex into the hall with a waving hand trailing along her wings. “We’ll meet up later! Bye, Tobiah!”

Alex descended the staircase in a single leap. He landed without grace and it hurt but his feet kept working through several wild steps that bled off momentum. Rachel’s halo kept him from crashing into anything. “Ooh. Careful with that shit,” she counseled, looking at the stairs. “You’ve got no wings, remember?”

He kept going. Already, he heard two sets of steps rushing down the same hallway. He kept his bearings. Alex ran for the living room and the still-open screen door, more than half expecting another fight in the backyard.

Only the night greeted him. The path through the motion sensors that got him across the deck and the yard did little good now, so he charged for the low barrier of the retaining wall at full speed. Every lamp came to life. Alex swept the backpack over his shoulders and cinched it down tight without slowing.

Rachel kept up without trouble. “Uh, hey, are you just fuckin’ going for it?”

Blondie and Khakis burst from the door. “Asshole, no! Do not jump!”

He jumped.

The first pain came from the tree branch that snapped loose under the impact of his chest. The second branch caught and turned his shin. He felt a wrenching sideways contact of his opposite foot against the ground, and the catch and pull of blackberry vines. Alex knew how to tumble with skill, but rocks and wood still hurt. The blackberry vines weren’t through with him, either. He eventually got stopped by a very sturdy bush.

Only then did Rachel’s sympathetic grunts and gasps catch up with his brain. On his back with his head more downhill than up, Alex opened his eyes to find Rachel leaning over him, and he winced at her light. “Wow, babe. Ouch.”

Beyond her, only faintly visible, Alex saw Blondie and Khakis over the retaining wall ledge with weapons in hand and scowls on faces. “Dumbass, I hope you’re dead down there!” Khakis shouted down the slope.

“Shit, he might be. We gotta go check,” Blondie grumbled.

“We’re already fucked up, Steve. I’m not climbin’ around in there at night.”

“We’ve gotta call in, too. I’ll go down, I just need gloves and a flashlight…” The pair retreated out of sight, either to get proper gear or simply to argue.

“Ow,” Alex croaked as he sat up.

“Right? That’s what I’m saying. You could’ve just hopped down. What the shit?” said Rachel.

“I meant to grab that branch,” he hissed.

“The one you fuckin’ severed?”

“Seemed like an easier slope on the way up.”

“Yeah, ’cause going up is easier on your balance. Here. Let me help.” Rachel hooked her hands under his shoulders and easily hefted him to his feet. As always, her touch banished pain and eased stress. She stood close, her lip caught in her teeth. “Kinda sexy that you trusted me. I mean, don’t do death-defying shit ’cause I’m around or anything. Still. Kinda sexy.”

“I really thought the branch would hold,” he confessed.

“You didn’t even catch it.”

He winced more in embarrassment than pain, but then his eyes widened with alarm. Alex tore the backpack from his shoulders and pulled it open, soon sighing in relief. “Okay. It’s okay. I didn’t break it. Statue’s fine.”

“You’re more important than a statue. People always are.”

“Yeah, but I already know I’m okay.” He zipped up the backpack. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I heard you talking. Couldn’t follow, but I assume that was another angel? Those guys have guardians, then? Have we got this all wrong?”

“Ehhhh. Probably shouldn’t get into it, but this happens. How many wars are fought by people who don’t want to be there on either side? You don’t lose your guardian from being a garden variety asshat. People fuck up, sometimes they do better, and sometimes they didn’t see a lot of choices, or even have choices to see. Lots of conflict is all in good faith. Maybe those guys were straight jerks. Maybe to them, you’re a burglar.”

“And maybe even both are true?” said Alex.

“Right. So, if everyone’s got an angel, then the angels have to deal with that. It’s messy.” Rachel tapped her fists together. “This kinda shit happens a lot, actually.”

“Yeah, I guess it would,” he exhaled.

Her eyes tilted back to the hill as she muttered, “Also, you can go pretty far into your asshat without driving your guardian away.”

“Okay. Right. We’ve gotta get out of here.” He zipped up the backpack, and then stopped. “This was a trap, wasn’t it?” Rachel closed her mouth tightly, but he didn’t need her confirmation to reason it out. “Those guys don’t live here. They’re not kicking around the house fully dressed this late. They were waiting for me. They could pull something on Lorelei, too.”

“How well do you think that’d go?”

“Mostly I don’t want her to worry about me.” His hand went to his cell phone, but he stopped. “Might be a better way to let her know I’m alright than texting. She wouldn’t have to look at her phone.”

Rachel leaned in with a grin that lingered against his lips as he kissed her. She opened her mouth in welcome, tongue reaching to play with his. Her hands spread over his ass, and she hummed in approval when he reciprocated. They rested their foreheads together. Their breath mingled.

“That’ll let her know you’re okay, anyway,” said Rachel.

“It does more than that,” he admitted.

“Fuckin’ A, it does. You should probably get moving, though. Don’t let ’em find your bike.”

“We’ve got another minute or two. They can’t get here that fast.”

“We both like quickies, but two minutes isn’t enough.”

“Yeah. True. But we can make use of that time somehow, right?”

He opened his eyes to find hers staring back with interest. She couldn’t read his mind. Not literally, anyway, but her insight was often close enough, especially when it came to Alex. Intimacy and passion ran deep for them even without divine power or magic.

Alex slid his hands under the hem of her dress. Rachel held his eyes and grinned while his fingers hooked under her panties and slid them downward. She nudged his shoulders in the same direction. The slope of the ground made kneeling impossible, but sitting worked fine.

“Whoaaa fuck,” Rachel shuddered as he kissed between her legs. Loving and hungry lips made her moan. His hands slid to hold her ass, pretending to keep her steady but holding her gently apart. She reveled in his attention and caressed his head, partly covered by the fabric of her dress.

Her fingers gripped his hair to encourage more.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I love you,” she murmured.

“Can’t stay long,” Alex apologized.

“Mmmh-hm!” She nodded vigorously, though he couldn’t see it. She pressed her hips forward to keep his wonderful mouth against her.

“They’ll find us.”

“Ssshh, ssshh, I can hide us,” Rachel whispered urgently. Another brush of his tongue brought her closer to coming, and for a moment she thought he’d been convinced… but no.

“They’ll find the bike.”

“Babe, fuck your bike.”

* * *

“Don’t even try to deny it, lady. You come outta nowhere, with no references, with all these pressure tactics. Then you drag me out of my house so your partner or your team or whoever can rob me. Even your accent comes off phony.”

Lorelei’s brow rose in mild reaction to the last comment. “Well. That is offensive.”

“Robbery is offensive.” Palmer’s voice rose with his ire.

“Is that the message you received? You said something about speaking with the burglar. Has someone been caught at your home?”

“I’m not inclined to answer your questions, Ms. Whoever-You-Are.”

“Hm.” Lorelei’s shrug of dismissal was mostly genuine. She hoped to goad more information out of Palmer, but things couldn’t be too bad. Alex had Rachel with him. Even with his focus elsewhere, Rachel’s presence brought out a constant, familiar desire.

Discovery of the break-in was inevitable, anyway. And necessary.

“If you will not answer for me, answer for yourself. Have you considered that your collection may have attracted the efforts of more than one interested party?”

“In a single week?” Palmer sneered.

She answered slowly, both to frustrate Palmer and to consider everything her bond with Alex conveyed. Rachel had to be close, yet she held very little of his attention. They did not touch.

“How long have you had such a display?” Lorelei asked. “How many parties and how many guests? Do you believe none of them know what they see? Or has that always been the point?” She saw the tiny flinch behind his eyes. “Is all that art a display of who is the greater snob?”

He glared. His silence provided the answer Lorelei expected.

“You have matters to attend. I believe I have taken up enough of your time,” said Lorelei.

“Oh, we’re not finished. We haven’t even started,” Palmer seethed.

She felt one lover’s lips fall upon the other’s, and Lorelei’s body stirred with their visceral pleasures: the claim of loving hands, the grind of bodies together, the taste of a playful tongue. An instant desire for more. Lorelei held her breath in check, but the rush and the surprise still gave her pause.

Palmer completely misread her soft gasp. “Lady, is this funny to you somehow?”

She knew what Alex wanted as his desires formed. Anticipation made it better, no matter how brief. Lorelei felt the kiss of his lips against Rachel’s core. She trembled, even if she gave no outward sign. Dark eyes regarded Palmer with distant amusement, but most of Lorelei was with her lovers. “Yes. Very much so. Goodbye.”

Lorelei left Palmer and his table behind while her body and soul came alive. This wouldn’t last. Most of her would have been fine with abandoning this whole errand just to feel Alex and Rachel fuck. It barely mattered that they could do so later and under better conditions. It felt good now.

She cultivated this private hedonism. She wanted this as a constant in their lives. Carnal intimacies were never more than a whim, a caress, a glance away. DTF, 24/7, Rachel called it. Little by little, both Rachel and Alex embraced it more, and she loved them for it.

The pleasure broke in waves, but her elation remained. Her full attention returned to her surroundings. Lorelei stepped into the elevator only to be joined by two of Palmer’s lookouts: fit, well-groomed, and nicely dressed in tailored suits. They stood with confidence.

The doors shut them in together and they turned to face her. “You’re going to come along with us quietly,” one of them began.

“Oh, and such a deep, powerful voice,” Lorelei sighed. “I am almost inclined to stay and seduce you both. Almost.”

Her tail slipped between them and tapped the button for the next floor. A provocative stare made both men wish they could take her words seriously, and while they were distracted, the doors opened and Lorelei shoved them out.

“Shit!” one grunted as he caught himself, but Lorelei was already walking away. The other dropped all the way down on his ass, but without injury. They found themselves on an office floor, dim with after-hours lights, and every door closed and locked.

The recess of the custodial supply door near the elevator was more cover than Lorelei needed. She had power to burn. The pair of men rushed past in search of her, but they didn’t see her leg in their path, or the tail reaching to make sure she caught both of them. Her pursuers tripped and fell face first on the carpeted floor, one on top of the other.

Lorelei strode back into the elevator with a smile and closed the door again. Neither of them saw her, nor would whoever waited downstairs. She pulled the cell phone from her pocket and hummed a romantic song.

* * *

“All that money on home security, and you’re telling me I should’ve gone with a block of wood in the sliding door.” Ben stood at the patio’s edge in the morning light, dressed in slacks and a polo with hands on his hips. “Christ. You’re serious.”

“I’m not saying the other stuff is useless, but…” The technician’s shirt labeled him Bobby. He tugged on the sliding door only to be stopped fast by the ordinary inch-thick length of cedar that now filled the door’s track. “Can’t open a door if there’s nowhere for the door to go.”

“It is useless. It’s all fucking useless,” Ben grumbled.

Bobby pulled the block and opened the door again, gesturing to the black sensor and camera box waiting for his attention. “The more measures you take, the harder it is for an intruder. Your burglar last night did a lot of work. It sounds like he didn’t get away with much.”

“’Not much’ is still close to six figures, and that’s with someone watching the house to chase him out. I can’t do that all the time. I need something serious. If a block of wood does the job, why do I need cameras and sensors?”

“Even if the door won’t slide, a thief could still smash through the glass. You need the sensors to catch that.” Bobby winced under Palmer’s glare. “Sorry.”

“Just fix the damn gadgets until I can buy a better system,” Ben grumbled. At his direction, Bobby hefted his toolbox and stepped out into the yard. Ben slid the door shut.

Neither man noticed the figure in black leaning against the outside wall, close enough to eavesdrop. They also missed her exit. In fairness, her stealth was supernatural.

Water stain footprints drew Ben’s eyes to the wood-panel floor, toward the stairs. Most of the burglar’s path had been covered by rugs, but the few gaps let Ben track him. The notion of taking pictures occurred to him in the event someone could match the footwear, but he threw that thought away with the same irritation he’d felt all night. He didn’t have any clever private investigators on hand, and he sure as hell didn’t want to involve the cops.

He walked up the steps and looked at his collection. The Imberg portrait was worth more than the French queen, and was small enough to carry easily. The thief could have been in and out in seconds with a quarter million tucked under his arm and no one to stop him. The Hannessen at the top of the stairs might’ve been a trickier lift and carry, but it was worth a million and change.

Lakatos only ever brought up the Barbachollo by name. That had to be a distraction. It was too big for a single person to move with any dexterity. Carting it into a van or maybe a car, sure, but down the hill? No way. That couldn’t be what they were after. Still, she knew enough to run her scam. Ben hadn’t bought an illicit piece in a year and doubted any of his contacts talked. Maybe Lakatos worked for a competing buyer who’d been beaten out, but this would have been a long wait. The only line Ben believed out of Lakatos was that she had a source. Someone involved in this knew their art, knew what he had. The rest felt uncertain.

Everything else remained in place: every painting, vase, and sculpture. Everything but the Lavigne queen. Valuable, but hardly the crown jewel. Ben considered the shattered glass of the chandelier still littering the floor. The statue’s absence stood out to him, but a visitor might not even notice.

Steve and the others came in on the thief before he grabbed anything else. Maybe the Lavigne was all he could grab? Despite the loss, Ben wondered if precaution and some hired security thwarted a bigger plan.

He stared at the empty stand. “What am I missing here?”

The doorbell broke him from his thoughts. He didn’t hear it often, separate as it was from the buzzer at the gate—a gate he’d left open for the repair tech and his van. Steve and the other muscle left an hour ago. Nobody else was around to deal with this. “Damn it.”

He found a woman and a man at his door, both in suits, both dark-haired and eyes hidden behind sunglasses. “Benjamin Palmer?” She held up a wallet with identification and three big blue letters. “I’m Agent Smith, FBI. This is Agent Johnson. We have reason to believe you’ve been targeted by a gang of criminals. May we come inside?”

“No,” Ben answered readily. “No, you may not.”

“Is there a problem? You’re not in any trouble.”

“I don’t open my home to strangers out of the blue, even if they carry badges. We can talk right here. What’s this about?”

Smith accepted his answer with a nod. “We’ve been surveilling a gang of art thieves. They’re international, sophisticated, and relentless. They have a habit of scoping out a target location in advance of a big score. Have you had any suspicious activity here recently? Any unusual social contacts?”

“Like what, or who? Maybe you ought to tell me what to look for,” said Ben.

“Just what I asked about: unusual encounters, strange activity. These people change up names and identities with each target. Any description I could give you would be inaccurate. Patterns of behavior and events would be easier to recognize.

“I see you’ve got a security tech here,” she went on, gesturing to the truck in the driveway. “What prompted you to call them in?”

He stopped himself from answering. Lying to the FBI could bring charges, and even a sarcastic answer might give them an excuse. “I don’t think I’m interested in an interview.”

“You seem a little defensive, Mr. Palmer. Is there something we can do to put you at ease?”

“Yeah. You can go about your day. I’ve got your warning. Thanks. If you want to talk again, you can start with my lawyer.”

“That’s unfortunate. If you change your mind, this is my number.” Agent Smith produced a card. “Again, Mr. Palmer, you should understand these thieves are relentless. And so are we.”

“Great. Thanks.” Ben accepted the card with the same grudging energy that closed his door.

He glared through the spyhole as they left, reconsidering the whole conversation. Had he given anything away? Said anything stupid? Given them any excuse, as he worried before?

Then he stopped. What if all of this was just an excuse, a build up to a search warrant?

The two agents walked away without speaking until they reached his driveway gate, and even then, they spoke quietly. Security cameras could always include microphones. “He’ll call his lawyer as soon as his hand finds his phone.”

“Sure. What will his lawyer tell him to do?”

“To say nothing to anyone without the lawyer’s presence and advice, for a start,” she answered. “The rest depends on the lawyer and their relationship. An honest lawyer would want to understand the situation and Palmer’s vulnerabilities, legal and otherwise. A more corrupt lawyer may already understand and act accordingly. An honest lawyer would want to verify this visit from the FBI. However, if this is a false visit, such a call would only attract the Bureau’s attention. That is the last thing Palmer or a corrupt lawyer would want.”

The street beyond the gate ran in a curve along yard spaces and expensive houses. Trees blocked the line of sight between the gate and their rented Camry among the cars parked nearby. Lorelei spoke more freely as they moved away from security systems.

“The first minutes of the call with his lawyer are less important than what follows. He will realize this threat will attract the authorities one way or another, and will act to protect himself. I should return to watch for his next move.”

“You dropped your ‘Agent Smith’ voice there,” Alex said.

“I noticed you fancy her,” she grinned.

“I can’t say ‘federal agent’ is a turn-on after all we’ve been through, but you do have that whole skilled professional thing. Kinda hot.”

“Yes, your desires are entirely driven by my demeanor and include no thoughts of what you will find beneath this suit.”

“I can do both.” Her partner shrugged. “Competence porn is a thing.”

“I will meet you around the bend as we agreed. Any questions before I go?”

He gestured to his face, lightened in tone and aged a decade and more from its natural state. His hair bore a different shade and signs of time, too. “How long am I gonna look like this?”

“It will fade within moments of my absence.”

“So it’s not the same as your succubus makeover trick?”

“No. This is simple sorcery. The ‘makeover’ is no illusion. I apply it consciously if I have need, but it is largely the mark of my desires.” She stood close and caressed his cheek. Lorelei preferred Alex in his natural youth, but she didn’t mind this image. She liked the soul behind the face the most. Her lips descended on his, soft and hungry. His desire swelled, and she shared it, savored it until she broke the kiss with a happy sigh.

“Hey, aren’t we on duty?” murmured Alex.

“Of course. I shall return to surveillance… and then you will find out what Agent Smith is like out of her suit.”

* * *

“This thing is history, okay? Don’t think about the price tag. It’s not about the price. It can’t have any scuffs or scratches, and no fingerprints. Keep the gloves on,” said Ben.

“I gotchu.” The mover was a young Black man, good-looking and athletic, with muscles for this sort of work. “If you want to stay and watch, it’s cool. These are your babies, right?”

“Right,” Ben mumbled. He thought about doing exactly that, but then caught another mover out of the corner of his eye and closed in to watch that one. “Hey, maybe wrap that a bit tighter? Carefully, but tighter. Maybe another layer of that bubble wrap, too.”

“Y’all got nothin’ to worry about, sir.” This guy was tan for Seattle, but maybe his accent accounted for that. He was as young as the first. Maybe all of them were college kids. “Reckon I wouldn’t even wrap my baby niece this close. Baby’s gotta breathe, right?”

“No. No, bro, the baby thing was a metaphor,” said the first mover.

“A which?”

“A metaphor.”

“A meta for what?”

“Let’s—never mind,” Ben interrupted, hands flexing. “Let’s wrap it all tight and give it extra cushioning, alright?” He stalked away and didn’t see the two men grinning at each other behind him.

Scraps of brown paper, bubble wrap, and discarded moving tape littered the hallway and rooms in his home. His walls and shelves were mostly bare. The movers showed up earlier than he expected, bringing a five-man crew—well, four guys and a young Native woman in a ballcap and glasses. They answered to the right names, worked fast, and didn’t ask a lot of questions. Ben was happy to get all that on short notice.

Tearing sounds pulled Ben into the gallery room. Every wall stood bare here, too, with all paintings down and settled in cardboard. The foreman had stacked them upright on a hand truck, ready to go. Another mover had the cross laid on a table, folding and securing bubble wrap around it. The tearing sound came from his roll of tape.

“Everything look good, Mr. Palmer?” asked the foreman, greying and weathered but still spry.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re fine. Just eager to go.”

“We’ll be out of here within another hour.”

“Good. I’ve got places to be.” Ben gave the room another look, and the cross, and the mover. The last bore just enough resemblance to the FBI agent from yesterday to send a chill down Ben’s spine. He left the movers to their work and returned to his office.

The rolling suitcases were right where he left them. His passport awaited in the top drawer of his desk along with the printout of his boarding pass and itinerary. He didn’t like relying on his phone to get on a plane.

Two of the movers passed by with another set of cargo. Ben watched them go. “No time like the present,” he muttered, collecting it all before following the movers out to the driveway and to his car. As soon as he had the storage rental locked up and secured, he could head straight to the airport for his long vacation.

From farther down the hall, the foreman watched Ben go.

“He is nervous and agitated. He will watch us load everything into the storage facility and watch us leave before he departs. We can move in after that.”

Alex stared back with a frown.

“You find this face unsettling?” teased the “foreman.”

“It’s not as appealing as Agent Smith, no.”

“Then I’ll arrange another date with her later.”

Sierra stopped on her way past the dining room entrance with a box in her arms and a scowl on her face. “Here? Even now, you’re stuck on the horny stuff?”

The foreman shifted to her natural, normal voice. “We have our priorities.”

* * *

Stelia searched through the apartment and the hall outside before the answer hit her. She sighed wearily. She was dressed for work in a dark blouse and matching skirt, but she wasn’t fully ready to go. Not yet.

Thoughts of a quick bite before she left danced away. She marched down the hallway of fading paint and a flickering overhead light, past the cries of her neighbor’s baby and someone else replaying the last Eurovision to drown out the wails. The stairs took her to the ground floor, and the access door took her to the alley and finally her answer.

The light of Stelia’s life crouched amid broken pavement and weeds with her arms outstretched. A grey-striped cat licked at the container of yogurt in the girl’s small hands until Stelia folded her arms and said, flatly, “Ariana.”

Dark curls bounced as Ariana looked back. The cat hopped away, drawing Ariana’s attention again, but too fast. Her furry friend retreated in an abundance of caution, leaving her to face the music alone.

“What did I tell you, Ariana?” said Stelia.

“But she comes to me whenever I’m out here. She’s so sweet.”

“You’re not supposed to be out here at all,” Stelia explained with a wide gesture to the ends of the alley. Her hand dropped with a new suspicion. “How are you sure it’s a she?”

“Because she rolls onto her side and lets me rub her belly,” Ariana declared with glee.

“Oh no,” Stelia winced. Not a good sign. “Ariana…”

“She can have my yogurt.”

“Yogurt isn’t good for cats. That’s for you, Ariana.”

“We don’t eat every scrap of food. We’re not starving. She is.”

Stelia held her patience. She couldn’t expect Ariana to understand every struggle, but her daughter understood the big picture. She held out her hands. Thankfully, Ariana came over and took them without argument, and even leaned into a hug around her waist. “We’re not starving, but we don’t have extra. These are not easy times.”

“It’s not easy to be a cat, either,” said Ariana.

“Come on. You have to be at your grandmother’s until I get home from work.”

“You’re always at work. You have two jobs.”

“Believe me, I have noticed.” Stelia led her daughter back inside and up the stairs. “I’m sure that cat can fend for herself. She isn’t starving, either.”

“She’s still hungry. Cat food comes in really big bags. One bag would last a long time.”

“That would only bring every other cat in the neighborhood, too.”

Ariana’s eyes lit up. “You think?”

Stelia groaned. Ariana’s kindness would kill her. Not the worst death, but still to be avoided.

They found a young man at their door. He held a big package, and with it an electronic tablet. “Good morning. Are you, ah, Stelia?” he asked with a look to his package.

“Yes. But I didn’t order anything.”

“This is definitely for you. Instructions are clear. High priority. I have to ask for identification and a signature before I leave it.”

Naturally, Ariana lit up with interest. Labels and shipping information covered one side of the box, clearly stating her name and address, but the sender’s fields were less informative. It came from overseas, by private carrier, with every fee for special handling and speed. The messenger left her with no other answers.

It was heavy, and it was big.

Stelia set the package on their small kitchen table. Beneath the folded cardboard, she found a manilla envelope bearing her name and a lot of bubble wrap. “What is it? Let’s see!” Ariana urged.

To settle her daughter, Stelia cut the bubble wrap and spread it aside.

Her heart grabbed onto her throat. Tears welled up. She touched the cross, barely tracing one corner with her fingertips.

“Mama, are you alright?” Ariana slid off her chair and hugged her hips. It was hard to see her mother cry.

Stelia held her tight before wiping her eyes. She tore open the manilla envelope to find a note, a list, and a small stack of euros.

Dear Stelia,

I hope this note finds you well, and that it brightens your day. You may not remember me, and if you do, your memories may be harsh. Your mother would remember me with anger, and it is deserved. I would not blame either of you. I had few choices when I was part of your lives. It is all difficult to explain.

I discovered this ornament among many other stolen things. I remembered a little girl who was kind and sweet to me when few others were. Now, I have made good friends, and they helped me with its recovery.

This is a valuable work of art. If you wish to sell it, I advise you to hire a lawyer. I have included money and a list of lawyers I believe you can trust. If you wish to keep it instead, then do so. This is yours, Stelia. I ask only that you do whatever helps you and your family best.

I cannot return all that was taken for you, and I am sorry. I can only return this.

Sincerely,

Elina

Stelia gathered her daughter into her lap and arms and held her tight.

STRICTLY BUSINESS

“Really thought we’d only ever be the kind of graverobbers to steal valuables,” Teryn sighed at the top of the stairs. “I never expected we’d take an actual corpse.”

“I would feel bad if King Dharanthar wasn’t such an incredible bastard,” said War Cloud, growling, but amiably. Hyena features and broad shoulders rose into the faint light of day from the tomb entrance up ahead. The gnoll carried their unsavory prize in a large sack slung over his shoulder. “If his bones help the ghosts of Alderdale find peace, I’m happy to help. Why should the slavemaster rest while the slaves linger?”

“Oh, no argument. Fuck him.” Teryn brushed hair from her weary face. She breathed easier with the end of their climb out of the lower levels. They still had a long walk ahead, back to Alderdale and the mass grave uncovered by villagers digging for a new well. “It’s still a corpse, and still the creepiest errand we’ve ever done.”

“Only bones and robes now. Not really a whole corpse anymore,” said DigDig. Yellow eyes under a horned helmet followed close behind his companions, rising to half War Cloud’s height. His round, grey face was more at ease than the others. “Rest rotted away ages ago.”

“You want to carry it?” asked War Cloud.

“No. Too big for me.”

“But it’s just a bag of bones and robes.” War Cloud held out the sack.

DigDig stepped away to the side and hefted the tool resting on his shoulder. “Already carrying the shovel.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted War Cloud.

“Let’s just get this done. I don’t like disturbing the dead. We had enough of that when we all first met,” said Teryn. “Maybe this ends the hauntings of Alderdale, but it feels like asking for more trouble.”

“Already got all that trouble,” said DigDig. “Woke up the tomb guards. Killed ’em. Again, I guess. And the hounds. And the dead wizard guy, and the priest.” His lips scrunched upward toward his little nose. “Really thought the king would get into it, too.”

“I’m still waiting for it,” Teryn admitted.

“If anything of the king’s spirit remained, we would know by now.” Yargol finished the climb, his faintly glowing red and yellow eyes closing beneath the hood of his dark robes in exhaustion. He stood only slightly above the hip of the half-orc who followed him. Without DigDig’s athletic talent nor the longer legs of the others, Yargol had the hardest time with the ascent. “The others were… all bound to assure… his eternal rest.”

“You could’ve used a rest a couple hundred steps ago. Or let me help you out,” said Scars.

“It’s only walking. You carry supplies and armor. I have only my staff and myself,” said Yargol. “Now would be good, though.”

“I wouldn’t press on right now even if you wanted to.” Scars slid his pack and shield from one shoulder and his crossbow from the other. “Give it ten minutes. If that’s not enough, we’ll give it more.”

Backpacks, weapons, and the sack of ancient bones slumped to the floor. The living followed their gear only seconds later. Flasks and waterskins came out. The weather had been easy and the hills ahead were small, but nobody wanted to move yet.

Between the crew and the covered entrance spread a broad antechamber of ancient carvings and statues—a couple now shattered after rising to battle them when they entered. By the light, Scars guessed it was dawn, but they had all lost track of time in the tomb. He frowned at what he didn’t see, rather than what lay in view. “Where’s Shady Tooth?”

“Outside. She waited for us and waved before going out,” said Teryn.

“She was hoping it would still be night as we left,” said Yargol.

“Only because she wants to sneak out of here,” said War Cloud.

“Not a bad idea,” DigDig put in.

War Cloud’s snout wrinkled with a frown. “Shady Tooth wants to sneak everywhere we go.”

“Also not a bad idea.”

“You can’t go around crouched and stealthy all the time. It’s terrible for your back.”

DigDig gestured at War Cloud and Yargol. “Got magic. Heal it.”

“I’m not calling on divine mercy to take care of lower back pain,” said War Cloud.

“Why not? Hearth goddess can’t do that?”

“She could, but she’d want me to try better posture and common sense first.”

DigDig shrugged. “Who’s the god for back pain?”

“I’ve never heard of one.”

“Really should be a thing.”

“Next time I pray to Dastia, I’ll ask if there’s an opening for the job,” said War Cloud.

The little goblin’s eyes widened. “No, wait. Can I be the god of candy?”

“It’s good to have goals,” said Yargol.

Soon, shadows moved across the entrance floor, appearing just long enough to draw notice before vanishing from sight. Shady Tooth kept outside of direct light, preferring the dimmer half of the antechamber. She was dark and brawny, with feline features set in their usual frown. She didn’t speak until she was within arm’s reach.

“Things aren’t right out there. Heavy mist all the way to the ground, can’t even tell what time of day it is, and it’s not moving with the breeze. We’re downwind, too, so I don’t smell much of the forest around us. And there’s more birdsong out there than when we came in.”

“Magic?” Scars looked to Yargol and War Cloud.

“Possibly. Mist is a basic effect in many practices, but it takes a skilled mage to conjure it over a wide area. How far did you scout?” Yargol asked Shady Tooth.

“Not far. I suspected magic, too, so I didn’t want to get caught.”

“Wise. Any change to the entrance or seal?”

“The slab is still where we set it against the wall,” she answered.

“Tomb curse?” DigDig suggested.

“I don’t feel any particular evil at work,” said War Cloud. “I could sense undeath when we arrived, but we put them to rest the hard way. All the magical traps were simple. The villagers were right to fear this place, but not for some all-encompassing curse. They just didn’t have the skills for this.”

“And the baron refused to deal with it,” said Teryn.

“We’ve had time to catch our breath. Are we all ready to move?” Scars saw nods from his friends. “It’s high ground all around us. The trail straight out is the easiest climb, so we’ll take it, but we may turn fast. Stick close. No advance scouting. We don’t want to get separated. Let’s go out ready for a fight.”

They paused by the entrance to make good on his command. Scars unslung the dwarven crossbow from his shoulder and checked its bolts. Teryn pulled her bandana over the lower half of her face and nocked an arrow in her bow while Yargol whispered a protective spell. With the sack of bones to carry, War Cloud left his greatsword in its sheath on his back. His hatchet would have to do.

The mist outside held to Shady Tooth’s descriptions, hanging in place, drifting only enough to look natural. They crossed the entrance of masonry blocks onto the bare and blighted ground around the tomb in silence, the chill of the morning having recently passed. The greenery that bordered the blight was obscured, with gentle hills and trees rising above; it took some time for the last of them to step onto the first blades of grass.

As if it had hung in place from strings now cut, the mist sagged and fell away all at once.

Troops with crossbows emerged from behind bushes and trees in an arc around the crew. All wore dark green tabards, chain armor, and helmets. Most appeared human, primarily men, though exceptions appeared on both counts. The closest troops stood or knelt a good twenty yards from the crew, near enough to charge but not without risking getting shot. Beyond the soldiers, more awaited with ready weapons. Cavalry emerged at the top of each rise.

All six of the crew chose the same first instinct: fight, rather than freeze. Scars and Teryn picked targets without hesitation. Shady Tooth crouched for a leap with her knives at hand while Yargol leveled his staff. DigDig’s shovel was already on its way into the ground when a loud voice cried out, “Hold!”

Scars flashed one open hand out to the side. The shovel hit the ground, but DigDig caught the gesture in time. He didn’t pull.

“Hold,” repeated the voice. Scars turned uphill and to the right. The speaker proved easy to identify thanks to his plate armor and the blue and white of his horse’s tack and saddle. His dark mustache and proud face matched a painting the crew had seen in the village. All over the village. “I am Baron Nicolo Vasta, lord of this domain… and you are tomb-robbers.”

On foot to his right stood an elf in rugged leathers, holding an ornately-carved staff with a milky ball of crystal at its top. Riding a horse at the baron’s left was a bearded man in the same sort of chain as the other troops, but his dark green tabard and the shield on his arm bore silver highlights instead.

“We only take from the dead when they attack us,” said Scars. “They’re not so sacred once they jump out of the grave. Every realm grants right of plunder over the undead. Even this one.”

“If such undead are proven, yes,” said Nicolo.

“Send a couple of your guys down into the tomb for a look. It’s safe now.”

“Indeed? And did you fight enough undead to fill your friend’s sack with loot? Or do you carry something else?” Nicolo’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“Scars of No-Clan,” he answered, and then tilted his head back and to the side. “My friend is War Cloud, a paladin of Dastia. He can prove it. We came on her approval.”

“But not mine.”

“Actually, yours, too,” said War Cloud. Nicolo’s brow rose, but his sneer didn’t lift. War Cloud went on: “Alderdale is haunted. The people there went to you for help. They told you ghosts demanded the remains of the ancient king. You said you couldn’t help and left the villagers to deal with the problem themselves.”

“I told them I would not open an ancient tomb and all its curses over a few moaning spirits,” said Nicolo. “I am responsible for the peace and safety of my realm. The ancients left more than one evil slumbering in these lands. I don’t have the strength to deal with them all.”

“The hundred-odd soldiers and magical support you have aimed at us says otherwise,” said Scars. “Or the fact that you sat here waiting for us. How many of these questions could you already answer yourself?”

“I am in no mood to answer to you, stranger,” warned the baron. “We are not equals. If my authority is not clear enough, the forces surrounding you should make your position plain.”

“Choose a path,” War Cloud murmured in the goblin tongue.

“Sunfall,” hissed Shady Tooth.

Scars understood. The natural instinct upon ambush was to retreat, which any good ambusher would exploit and punish. Better to charge into one part of the ambush and break through. Shady Tooth had a direction in mind. Scars would have been inclined to agree, but: “Hold on. I’m still working this out.”

“Working what out?” Shady Tooth hissed.

“I have no patience for whatever scheming you have in mind, either,” said Nicolo. “You will drop your weapons and your prize and surrender yourselves for arrest. If your story proves true, you will be allowed to leave unharmed. If not, you will face judgment.”

“Yeah, yeah, we got that part. If you don’t want a fight, you can keep talking for a minute.” With his crossbow still in hand, Scars could only gesture by tilting his head. “We only came here to help people in need. If you have the same concern, you can explain all this instead of going on threats alone.”

Nicolo shared a glance with the apparent captain, who shrugged as if he shared the same question. The baron sighed. “Some peasants and deluded clerics are under the mistaken impression that the bones of the ancient king will identify the true heir to this realm.”

“Ah,” Yargol intoned slowly. “And invalidate your rule as the vassal of King Dostin?”

“Yes. Mistaken, as I said. The ancients are long gone. But it will cause an unfortunate fuss nonetheless. The matter could upset the peace in my realm, all for nothing. People could get hurt. I wish to avoid that.”

“So it’s political,” said Scars. “They didn’t mention that part.”

“Perhaps they feared someone might take advantage of the situation,” said Nicolo.

“Uh-huh. And are you legitimate?”

“Of course.”

Scars looked to Teryn. She kept her eye on her targets, but sensed his gaze anyway and shrugged. “He is a vassal of Dostin. Beyond that, I wouldn’t know.”

“Well. None of us are fans of bloodline rulership,” said Scars. “And old Dharanthar built his tomb with slaves, so… kind of an asshole lineage.”

“Indeed,” said Nicolo.

“Still. Been a long time since he ruled. There’s no slavery happening here now, and nobody looking to bring it back. You had a village living in fear of ghosts. You’ve got all these troops, well-armed and I’m guessing well-trained, and at least one mage amongst you. They couldn’t help Alderdale and deal with the tomb?”

“The good baron did not ask that of us,” said the mounted officer. “I am Captain Andray. You stand surrounded by the Iron Thorns.”

“You’re a mercenary company?”

“We are. Baron Nicolo has secured our services. Does that resolve your doubts, No-Clan?”

“Mostly,” Scars called back, and then muttered in the goblin tongue only loudly enough for his friends: “We run inside. DigDig, Yargol, we need a mess. Be ready.”

“Inside?” grunted War Cloud.

“I have a plan. Try not to kill.”

“What?” hissed Shady Tooth.

“DigDig—the wizard,” said Yargol. Whether he agreed with the choice or not, he had made his own tactical assessment.

“Shit. Fine,” DigDig grumbled. His shovel still poked into the ground with the other direction in mind. Straightening as if relaxing, DigDig pulled the shovelhead free.

Teryn said nothing. Scars could only hope she’d understood him, but she would stick with the crew regardless.

“This has been entertaining, but we have a contract to fulfill,” said Captain Andray.

“Right. About that,” said Scars. “You look like a solid lot. I take it you’re expensive?”

“Very, and worth every coin. And once hired, we do not take competing bids.”

“Any chance you’re hiring?”

Andray laughed. “I’m afraid that won’t—”

“Go,” said Scars.

Dirt and rock burst in a wave between Scars and the enemy leaders, blocking crossbow bolts that flew at the first sign of movement. Yargol barked words of magic and raised his staff, unleashing an arc of tearing wind to the crew’s left. Incoming bolts and arrows turned and fell to its speed.

Shots from crossbowmen directly in front of their path flew true, and so did Teryn’s—but an archer had to draw her arrow back, and they only had to pull triggers. The instant Teryn released, one bolt plunged into her hip, and another struck her ribs. Leather armor and bone prevented the higher shot from going deep, but the lower sank into her flesh.

She didn’t see her target fall, reaching instead for another arrow from her quiver. A strong hand on her arm pulled her backward and off her feet into a strong embrace. Teryn didn’t know if it was Shady Tooth or War Cloud until he growled a prayer to Dastia.

“Carry us to swift shelter,” War Cloud repeated. He held Teryn over one shoulder and the sack of old bones over the other. His thudding footsteps translated into beats of jarring pain in Teryn’s wounds, but his voice continued: “Carry us to swift shelter. Carry us to swift shelter.”

“Go!” Scars ordered. His dwarven crossbow held the advantage of several ready shots, needing only a crank before shooting one after the other. The enemy needed to reload after each bolt, but they didn’t lack for numbers. The whole crew would have dropped to the ground as pincushions already if not for Yargol and DigDig’s cover. Even then, Scars didn’t stay to empty his weapon before he turned and ran. Two shots made his point. Closer targets ducked; others simply reloaded.

With everyone rushing in the same direction, Scars was last in line. Closest to him, Yargol’s hooded head watched the enemy mage. DigDig swung his shovel overhead from one side to the other, catching the ground at each drop to kick up blasts of earth at their flanks. Each shower of debris reached far enough to block missiles coming for War Cloud and Teryn up front.

They all ran faster than should be possible. Scars didn’t know whether to thank magic or the incentive of lethal danger, but a bolt in the back of his arm banished the thought from his mind. He roared through the initial torment and kept running. They didn’t have far to go. The tomb awaited, with centuries of dirt and plants adding bulk to ancient masonry several feet thick—and the great stone slab back in place over the entrance. A dozen mercenaries occupying its stone steps.

Some took their shots while they could. Others had the sense to drop the crossbows in favor of drawing swords and unhooking the shields from their shoulders. They had little time before Shady Tooth’s side-to-side leaping charge would crash into them.

Another mercenary stepped out from behind the rest, empty-handed until a fan of crackling lightning spread from his palms to envelop Shady Tooth in pain.

She didn’t care.

At the last instant, one of the mage’s comrades pushed in front to save him from the oncoming bugbear. His shield might have blunted a lesser attack, but she only hooked it away with one knife before punching upward into his gut with the other. Shady Tooth took the man clear off his feet. Whether her blade penetrated his chain mail or not, he was out of the fight even before she threw him at his sorcerous friend.

Others rushed in at either side, one catching a knife in the neck for his troubles. The next found her sword parried before Shady Tooth’s kick sent her flying. It was only then Scars noticed the crossbow bolt half-buried under Shady Tooth’s collarbone, and another sticking out of her thigh. Dirt and rock exploded out of the ground in the next instant, blocking his view.

He had already seen enough of their problems. “Yargol, the door!” Scars warned, hoping their mage could move it just like the first time—only faster.

“Busy!” Yargol huffed. He didn’t explain. The gem in his staff glowed. The other mercenary mage with the leaders leaned one arm on the captain’s horse and wheezed as if fighting for breath. Yargol’s staff could rob someone of air; that explained one fortunate turn to their retreat, but it also heralded a different danger. More crossbow bolts flew, straighter and greater in number.

Two glanced off War Cloud’s armor. A couple more seemed to stick, with another hitting Teryn’s leg as she bounced along the paladin’s back. Scars felt more slam into the shield over his shoulder. The bolts were still coming. With Yargol busy, that left only one option. “DigDig!”

“Got the door,” DigDig assured him.

“No, cover first!” Scars corrected.

DigDig stopped and turned, leaving Scars to rush past before that shovel went into the ground with a twist. It was a smaller burst this time, but it was enough to deflect incoming bolts. The cloud of dust grew broad and thick; it would hang in the air longer than natural gravity would allow. DigDig left the dust to do its job and hurried after his friends.

At the great steps, Shady Tooth flung another mercenary before meeting an attack from the next. Scars shot the first and rushed to protect Shady Tooth’s exposed back. A blur of green charged in shield-first to drive her off her feet, but she took hold of the shield and brought them down with her. That left Scars with a clear view of the mage scrambling back to his feet, right in time to find his dwarven crossbow fresh out of bolts.

Flames appeared in the mage’s hands. More dripped from his mouth, and his eyes glowed with power—until they came face-to-boot with Dastia’s chosen. War Cloud kicked the mage into the wall of the tomb.

“Arrgh!” Teryn cried out on his back.

“Sorry! Sorry,” War Cloud answered, but as long as she could give voice to her wounds, she was alive. “Scars?”

“Take care of her! We need her bow,” he huffed as he crossed the last yards. Scars focused on leading rather than reloading or shooting. Yargol was within arm’s reach, holding whatever spell kept the enemy’s last mage in check. War Cloud had Teryn. Shady Tooth occupied the last of the melee on the steps. “Try not to kill!” Scars urged.

“Whatever,” Shady Tooth grunted, and slashed and punched as necessary.

“DigDig, the door!”

“Had that already,” DigDig grumbled on his way past Scars. He rushed past Yargol and the others, too, with his shovel held forward in an overhand grip like a spear. He didn’t slow on his way up the steps, or even right before the slab.

The shovelhead plunged into the stone with a loud crack. Momentum comically picked DigDig off his feet while the slab split in two. He settled just as the broken halves fell to either side, one only inches past Shady Tooth. The other forced War Cloud to leap out of the way with Teryn now in his arms rather dangling from his back. Nearly everyone escaped.

All except the mage at War Cloud’s feet.

Scars winced, but accepted the losses. Deaths were inevitable. He didn’t really want the enemy to have mages to rely upon, anyway. He focused on the plan. “Heal her up,” Scars urged as he joined War Cloud, but he needn’t have bothered. Bolts were falling from her wounds with only drops of blood while War Cloud whispered his prayers.

“Inside. DigDig, inside. Shady Tooth, go,” Scars instructed. War Cloud had already carried Teryn into the narrow entrance, granting them at least some protection. His healing hands left her lucid enough to stand. “Yargol?”

“I will lose hold once inside,” Yargol warned. He got behind Scars.

That suited Scars just fine. He had no problem being a meat shield for his friends. He pulled the actual shield from his shoulder, too, right in time for the next rain of artillery. Though the crew had shelter, they were bottlenecked. The rain of bolts nearly drove Scars off his feet, with one more flying under his shield and into his leg.

“Nngh! Teryn?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Yeah,” she huffed. “I’ve got it.”

“War Cloud?”

“Dastia, protect her,” said the paladin.

Not every moment of the enemy barrage could be equally intense. Every shooter had to reload, and the mercenaries had to aim clear of wounded comrades limping and crawling away from the entrance. With the first lull in their shots, Teryn swept out into the light with an arrow nocked and drawn. Dastia’s blessing protected her from the few missiles ready to come her way. She needed only the space of a single breath to aim and let loose.

Across the open ground and past oncoming mercenaries and horses, up the hill and between the company’s captain and employer, the elven mage finally caught his breath with the end of Yargol’s spell. He inhaled just in time to catch Teryn’s arrow with his chest, too.

He wouldn’t get a second breath after that.

She ducked inside before she took any damage.

“DigDig?” Scars called. “We need a barricade, but leave a gap. We need to see.”

“Got it,” he said, stepping up.

“Scars, are you sure about—?” Shady Tooth didn’t get the rest out before DigDig’s shovel hit the sidewall. Masonry blocks tumbled free, crashing into the open entrance while he swung for more. He didn’t stop until thick, heavy pieces of stone and debris piled in five feet high, with only a couple feet of clearance to the tunnel ceiling.

“We didn’t find another way out,” resumed Shady Tooth, her voice flatter than before. “Even DigDig’s shovel can’t tunnel us out of here. We’re trapped.”

“Not like they are,” said Scars. “We’re stuck behind rocks. They’re stuck with a contract.”

“What?” Teryn blinked.

“Oh hell, are you on your victory through economics bullshit again?” fumed Shady Tooth.

Taken aback, Scars asked, “Victory through—did you all come up with a name for it?”

The rest of the crew looked back at him with glum shrugs and nods.

“If this is our plan, then let’s make it work,” said War Cloud. Breaking from the rest, the big gnoll sunk to his knees at the base of the rubble. He bowed his head with his arms outstretched to the debris. “Goddess, this is not our home, but it is home for now. We must defend our threshold against all who would breach it. I beg of you to lend your strength, to hold this door where we cannot.”

Soft white light spread in a wave from War Cloud, dissipating into the rubble. The light did not last, but all bore witness.

“Door?” Shady Tooth frowned.

“Close enough,” said War Cloud. “Dastia’s sheltering grace will hold against magic and spirits and the like. The rest is up to us.”

“Idiot bastards!” shouted a voice from outside. A broken stone flew with contempt through the gap at the ceiling. Others could be heard outside, recovering their wounded and taking positions to hold the entryway. “Was this supposed to be clever? How long do you think you can hide in a tomb?”

“Did you notice only one of us is human?” Scars shouted back. “We’re goblin folk. We’ve got supplies. How long do you think we can stay in here?”

The mercenary didn’t answer.

“Hey, one more question for the captain and the baron: do the Iron Thorns work on a daily rate, or a flat fee?”

In the back of the pack and behind yards of stone and earth, , Yargol caught his breath against the wall. The mismatched glow of one red and one yellow eye caught sight of Shady Tooth’s, who stared at their cave-in with urgent disbelief. She held her knives in hand, agitated and ready to move. Yargol shrugged and gestured to Scars. “We might as well settle in. We aren’t going anywhere.”

HOUR ONE

Shady Tooth leaned with both shoulders against the wall, keeping several feet of shadow between herself and light from the entrance. Her arms remained folded with the same persistence as her scowl. The rest of the crew sat close together on the stone-tiled floor, either tending to weapons or munching on snacks.

No one unpacked, let alone laid down to sleep. Everyone expected some sort of assault. Shady Tooth could hear the mercenaries outside: moving, talking, gathering, but she didn’t hear anything useful or close.

“Alright, fine,” she grumbled quietly. “How is this supposed to work? What’s the plan?”

Scars stopped oiling the crossbow in his lap to nod at the entrance.

She shook her head to his unspoken question. “Nobody’s close enough to hear, unless they’re using magic. Can’t do anything about it if they are. But I haven’t heard anyone sneak in close for a while.”

“Like Andray said, a mercenary company like that is expensive,” Scars explained. “We know from the villagers that Nicolo isn’t poor, but he doesn’t pay for more than a token militia and some guards for his keep. The man spends money like pulling a tooth.

“If he’s paying by the day, then every day they’re here, his coffers go dry. If they charge for the task, then profit shrinks over time. Pretty soon, one side or the other comes out of this deal as a loser.”

“And you think we’re talking about a matter of days here? Not weeks?” asked Shady Tooth.

“I’m coming around to see what Scars sees,” said War Cloud. In point of fact, War Cloud knelt with his eyes closed, but either he was done meditating or his goddess forgave such interruptions. “They’re maybe a hundred strong, with horses and good gear. They may have a camp with support workers, too. They had at least two mages. That’s a lot of coin. From the way they had been waiting for us, they’ve been here a full day already.”

“Either Nicolo runs out of coin to spread, or that flat rate spread out amounts to a shit wage,” said Scars.

Teryn pulled the waterskin from her mouth and corked it again. “Unless they’re not here for money and it’s something like a political favor or repayment of a debt.”

“If that’s the case, then I fucked up,” Scars admitted.

“Mercenaries usually work for money,” Teryn conceded back to him.

“Usually.”

“Then that’s why you wanted us to kill as few as we could? Dead mercenaries don’t draw pay,” said Teryn.

“Injured mercenaries may pull a bonus, even if they’re healed by magic,” said Scars. “And the fewer friends they lose, the less personal this will be.”

Teryn nodded. “Now I don’t know whether to hope the wizard I shot is alive or dead.”

“Dead. Don’t want them to have any magic,” said DigDig.

“A living wizard likely draws more pay than anyone besides the captain,” said Yargol.

“Yeah, ’cause they’re dangerous,” DigDig agreed.

“Hsst,” Shady Tooth warned. Her ears twitched at the soft rustle of leather soles on pebbles. She crept to the wall of debris with a light step, plucking a stone larger than her fist from the pile at her feet. She heard another grinding step on the other side of the improvised wall. Even with that extra clue, she figured her odds were fifty-fifty at best.

Shady Tooth hooked her missile over the gap.

The thud that followed didn’t sound like stone against stone. “Ow! Fuck!” Scrambling footsteps hurried back out of the entrance.

“The next one comes out on fire!” she warned.

HOUR TWO

Precious little short of magic could grant real stealth to warhorses, thus their clopping hooves approached slowly, keeping to the sides of the tomb. They came in armor and leather and in big numbers. War Cloud was the first to rise. “Dastia strengthens the door, but we still have to defend it,” he reminded the others.

“It’s not a door,” Shady Tooth maintained.

The crew split evenly to take up positions at either side of the not-door.

All but Teryn and Yargol recognized a whirl of weighted ropes, but everyone understood the meaning when grappling hooks flew over the barricade and held tight against the large, broken blocks at the top.

“Really?” DigDig swung his shovel high to catch one hook. War Cloud’s blade swept in overhead, smashing into another with divine light. Metal snapped in both cases, breaking free before stones moved. They heard horses across the debris pile as more grappling hooks flew in.

With the crew ready for them this time, Shady Tooth sliced her knives through rope after rope. War Cloud snatched another and yanked backward hard, resulting in an “Oof!” and a thump outside.

“Scars?” asked Yargol.

“Wait for it,” he answered, letting the others handle this work. “They don’t need to know all our advantages. Let’s save your magic until we need it most.”

Another grappling hook flew in and hit the floor, but Teryn drove her hatchet down before it could be pulled taught.

“I see your point, Scars, but this is silly,” said Yargol.

DigDig’s shovel proved just as good against ropes as it was for rocks. He cut a hook free and picked it up, testing its weight, before casting it aside and frowning. “Too big for me.” He cupped his free hand to his mouth. “Hey! Send over a small one!”

HOUR FIVE

The chop and whack of axes drifted from outside for a good half hour, both before and after the distinct sounds of a falling tree. Everyone suspected some sort of battering ram, but at least the enemy would have to heave it through sheer muscle and grit. War Cloud and DigDig peeked over the rubble pile, and then everyone wished they hadn’t: a low and narrow wagon bore a lashed-down tree trunk, with men pushing at either side. The company even had a couple of men with tower shields in front of the ramming crew to protect the pushers.

War Cloud and DigDig sank back from their peek.

“Maybe this isn’t their first battering ram in the field,” said War Cloud.

“Blessing gonna hold against that?” asked DigDig.

“I wouldn’t rely on Dastia’s blessing alone,” said War Cloud. “Yargol?”

“I’d still not show off our magic if we can avoid it,” said Scars.

Yargol paused to look himself up and down, all robes and hood and staff. He stared back at Scars. “I doubt they took me for a monk.”

“Even so. Can we do anything else?”

“Better do it fast. Rolling in,” warned DigDig.

“Scars?” Shady Tooth pressed.

“I’m thinking,” he fumed, but opened his mouth to give Yargol the go ahead—until clinks of glass drew everyone’s eyes behind him. Teryn cradled several flasks in one arm, all of them filled with dull brown liquid. She pulled another pair from her hip pouch before she was overburdened, whereupon she noticed the silence. “What?”

“Is all of that oil?” asked Scars.

“Yeah,” said Teryn. “It’s a magic bag. We live on the road. Why wouldn’t I stock up?”

“Why is it all in glass?” asked Shady Tooth.

“In case I need to throw it at something, obviously.”

“We’d need a lot to deal with this,” said Shady Tooth.

“It’s a magic bag,” Teryn repeated. “I’ve got more. I’m the only one here who can’t see in the dark. You don’t see me skimping on the lamp oil, right? Anyway, we’re not out to burn up the whole ram. I grew up in a castle. I know what I’m doing.”

“Fine. I’m sold.” Shady Tooth claimed the small collection from Teryn’s arm.

Teryn handed out more, leaving just about everyone with a flask in each hand. DigDig waited at the barricade, risking another peek. “Coming in now. Already put down planks to roll it up the steps,” he warned.

“Wait for the—oh, never mind,” Teryn said when she got her own look. Her first throw went right out the middle, high as she could risk without hitting the short overhang of the tomb’s entrance. Glass shattered. Men shouted a warning as she made her second throw. “Hit the ram if you can, but just throw. Don’t worry about the men,” she instructed.

With the others busy throwing, Teryn pulled a simple handkerchief from her pouch and wrapped it around another flask. “Yargol, can you light this?”

A snap of his leathery fingers produced a tongue of flame. He didn’t even look. “I could simply blast the whole entryway,” he grumbled.

Shouts and the wagon’s rumble blended with its crew. Their battering ram slammed into the barricade, kicking up a cloud of dust and loosening smaller stones.

“Nah. Save it for the next thing.” Teryn pitched her missile as soon as it caught fire, sending it over the middle of the barricade like the rest.

Almost instantly, orange light flickered across the entryway. The scent of smoke followed. Mercenaries shouted and the wagon rolled back. “It can’t be that simple,” said Scars.

“Wait for it.” Teryn took up her bow and nocked an arrow. Outside, the mercenaries pulled their battering ram clear of the entryway and into the open air. Most stepped away from the crude wagon as flames spread, with the tower shields close, but also useless.

“Put it out,” shouted one mercenary. “Cloaks! Blankets! Put it out!”

“Hell with that, we’ve got buckets,” said another.

“It’s an oil fire, stupid,” corrected a third. This one had either his cloak or a bedroll at hand, Teryn didn’t see which. She only saw him moving with the right tool for the job—and shot him. Her arrow flew through the man’s leg, bringing him down beneath the burning battering ram.

Suddenly, everyone was moving. Two mercenaries pulled their wounded comrade away. The pair with tower shields moved to cover them while the rest scattered.

They left the battering ram to burn.

“This put them off for a minute, but that’s a fresh-cut trunk in spring,” said Shady Tooth. “Even with the oil, I doubt it’s going to catch.”

“No, and the wagon may not burn much, either,” said Teryn. She sent another arrow flying.

“Then what good does the fire do?” asked Shady Tooth.

“A lot more than it would if they secured that thing with chain,” said Teryn.

On cue, one rope binding trunk to wagon sagged and fell away. Then another. Exceeding Teryn’s hopes, some bit of bracing or another broke and let the trunk roll away entirely, straining other ropes already dying to the flames, and even little motion built momentum. With a heaving groan, the trunk rolled off the wagon and landed in the dirt.

Mindfully, Teryn smiled at Shady Tooth as if she had planned it that way. “They already tried to pull our ‘door’ down, and we cut their lines. How much more heavy rope do you think they brought, and how many suitable wagons? How many times will they try this again?”

A handful of mercenaries rushed to recover the wagon. Under the cover of comrades with shields and crossbows, two more ran in to grab the pivot and steer. The team pushed and pulled the wagon out of line from the tomb, leaving the trunk to smolder in the dirt.

Behind the barricade, Yargol folded his arms across his chest and rolled his mismatched, glowing eyes. “I could have just blown it all up.”

NIGHT ONE

“We’re really going to just wait them out,” Shady Tooth grumbled.

“That no longer sounds like disbelief.” Yargol spoke as quietly as Shady Tooth, though the rest of the crew slept down on the first landing of the stairs.  He sat on the floor in front of a book half his size propped on a stone. Teryn wasn’t the only one with the convenience of a magic bag. “Resignation? Acceptance seems too warm.”

Shady Tooth stopped pacing and looked at him. Even in the dark and among friends, Yargol preferred to keep his hood up. She had come to accept it as a natural part of his appearance, like his mismatched features, to the point that she read expressions in the folded fabric that hung from his head. The hood was currently smirking at her.

“I only keep still to hide. I win a fight by moving. If I can’t win, I run. We’re not hiding, running, or fighting here,” she said.

“Our enemy has horses and greater numbers. We cannot outrun them or outfight them.”

“How are you so comfortable with that?”

“I am not,” said Yargol. “But I am making the best of it.”

“How?”

He gestured to his book. “We are often on the move. I rarely have this much time to read.”

“Huh. Guess so.” Shady Tooth folded her arms uncomfortably, looking to the barricade. “This isn’t the life for you, is it? I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”  His softly glowing eyes were full of surprise. “I am goblin folk like you and the others. We are all suited to rugged living.”

“It’s not what you want, though.”

“Nor many other goblin folk.”

“Sure, but I’m not talking about folk. I’m talking about you. Teryn, too.”

“Scars and War Cloud grew up in human settings. DigDig is a fundamentally gentle soul. And I suspect you, too, would prefer something at least a little easier than the life we lead.”

“Still talking about you,” said Shady Tooth. “And you’re a mage. If any of us could have an easier life, it’s you.”

Yargol nodded in concession. “The five of you mean more than anything I have ever had. Even the comforts of magic fall short in comparison. We face the danger of losing someone in any battle. I accept that. But if we can get through this without losing any of our crew, I would prefer it.”

“Yeah.” Shady Tooth looked to the barricade. “That’s exactly why I want to go out there and stab them all.”

“Given their attempts to pry us out of here, I suspect Scars is correct. One side in that deal is desperate, and it is making them all miserable.”

Shady Tooth huffed. “Good, then.”

She meant to leave Yargol to his reading and find a spot to settle down, but the distant rustle of leather against stone caught her ear. A snap of her fingers was enough to alert Yargol. Whether he heard the noise or not, he looked beyond the barricade, too.

“They can’t seriously want to fight us now,” Yargol murmured. He picked upthrew a small stone to throw down the stairs to wake the others.

“Wait on that.” Shady Tooth crept close to the barricade, listening and sniffing for more information. There weren’t many, but she caught scents of men and their armor.

In near silence, a lasso fell across the largest of the stones on the pile. Another looped around a second.

Shady Tooth rolled her eyes. Apparently, the Iron Thorns weren’t out of rope yet. Waiting as they set the last of their lines, Shady Tooth urged Yargol forward with a gesture and pulled out her knives—including the spares she kept as tools more than weapons. She never let a blade go dull. As soon as she heard the enemy withdraw, Shady Tooth and Yargol slid four knives under the ropes and waited.

Doubtlessly, many more Iron Thorns lurked out of earshot. The ones sent to deal with the barricade knew they would need to work fast and didn’t bring horses. Shady Tooth could only imagine how many men held each rope and planned to pull all at once. “They must be under pressure if they’d attack goblin folk at night,” she murmured.

“I suppose it has the virtue of being the time we’d least expect,” said Yargol.

“Pull!” someone hissed, far enough away that the order almost got past her, but neither of them could miss the sudden tension at each line. Yargol and Shady Tooth helped by pulling backward on their blades.

“Oof!” someone else yelled as the first rope cut free. The others broke almost as quickly, gifting Shady Tooth’s ears the sounds of men falling on one another. Others cursed as they realized what had happened. For the first time since entering the tomb, Shady Tooth grinned.

The Iron Thorns did not try the barricade again that night.

DAY TWO: MORNING

“Oh, hey. Their wizard recovered,” said War Cloud.

The declaration did nothing to make anyone move. Enough time had passed they were mostly limp and sleepy in their respective perches.  Scars, having been the first to wake, made use of the belongings of the undead in the levels below. The shields of ancient warriors now leaned in front of makeshift stands, creating walls to either side of the lone shaft of daylight from the entrance.

Since shortly after dawn, the enemy gathered in force right outside. The Thorns had given up on the idea of surprise, but in fairness, they had other advantages.

“You can sense magic affecting the barricade?” asked Yargol, crouching behind the shields to the right.

“I can sense him trying, anyway. It’s not doing any good,” War Cloud said from the left.

“Can you tell what he’s trying?”

“Only a sense of movement. Pulling, pushing, across the whole pile of rubble. I can’t tell more.”

“Invisible hands,” said Yargol. “His power is formidable, then.”

“Are you sure it’s the same guy?” wondered Teryn.

“Does it matter?” asked Scars.

“I suppose it could. People take arrows personally.”

DigDig crept forward and climbed up the barricade, slowing at the very top and staying to the side. His careful peek ended as a crossbow bolt knocked the little horned helmet from his round, grey head. DigDig stared back at his alarmed companions. “Yep. Same guy.”

War Cloud frowned. “Now he’s stopped.”

“I can hear chanting. He’ll only try something else,” Shady Tooth warned.

“DigDig, get away from the barricade! He knows we’re close!” hissed Scars.

A burst of white erupted against their meager cover, crackling with frost as ice gathered along the top. The crystals kept growing, coating the overhang at the entrance, but they failed to hang on more than a moment. None of the ice reached inside.

War Cloud raised his eyebrow at Scars. “So little faith.”

“I didn’t want to take divine aid for granted,” Scars grumbled, but then stood and shouted outside. “Hey out there! We told you we have a paladin of Dastia. Do you really want to go against her?”

Crossbow bolts were the only answer given.

DAY TWO: NOON

“If they try another battering ram, I will blast the entrance,” said Yargol.

“That was a lot more chopping than yesterday, and we didn’t hear any trees fall,” said Teryn. “I don’t know if they’re trying that again.”

“Lots of movement, anyway.” Shady Tooth’s catlike ears stayed trained on the entrance regardless of where her head turned. “They’re up to something, and it’s urgent. Think I hear more of them now.”

“Get ready for it.” Scars stayed behind the shield wall, crossbow in hand, hoping a Thorn or two might be desperate enough to poke over the barricade. The others did the same and waited for targets.

Instead, they heard thunks outside. Thunks and thuds and ominous plunks. The crew exchanged frowns and curious glances before Teryn recognized the sound. “Is that wood?”

“Firewood,” War Cloud realized, his tone as dry as the logs becoming a pyre. “They hope to smoke us out.”

“Scars,” said Yargol.

“We don’t want to kill them, remember?” Scars answered.

“I’m not going to blast the tunnel. They have already seen the magic I intend, or at least some manifestation of the same.”

Scars let out a sigh. “Fine, go ahead.”

Yargol waited until the mercenaries finished piling their wood and whatever brush they managed for kindling. He waited until they lit the flame, too.

With a soft “shhh,” Yargol illuminated the crystal on top of his staff. The air moved, and from the point of his staff and beyond, a strong and steady breeze blew the smoke away. They barely even smelled the wood.

Yargol sat with his back to the shields, propping his staff between his shoulder and hooded head. He pulled a new book from the bag at his side and opened it in his lap. “This will likely take a while,” he advised his friends.

NIGHT TWO

“Psst! Hey in there! Can you hear me?”

Footsteps made Teryn and DigDig expect another attack, not whispers. Loud whispers, oddly, the kind people who have never had to sneak believe will not carry in the wrong direction. “I’m not here to fight. I only want to talk.”

The full moon outside provided Teryn’s only real visual reference point. She sat in the dark behind the shield wall with DigDig, unable to see his eyes, even when she was looking. She thought he might have shrugged. “About what?” Teryn called back.

“Is it true you claim a paladin of Dastia among you?”

“Yes.”

“The gnoll, I heard?”

“Does that make you doubt it?” Teryn answered flatly.

“Only asking if I heard right,” said the mercenary, risking a little more voice. “Although… is he with you? Can he prove it?”

Teryn reached out to find DigDig’s arm, then jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the stairs. He slipped away. “What would be proof to you? Should he say the prayer to hearth and home?” she asked.

“I guess I don’t know. Endeleth—our mage said it would explain why this rubble held against his magic.”

“Endeleth, huh? How is he?”

“He’s—you’re the human woman? The archer. You shot him.”

“It wasn’t personal. I’m glad he’s alive. I think,” she added under her breath.

“He was gravely wounded, but a potion saved his life. Same as some others. He had to wait until morning before enough of his magic returned to heal the rest. You really didn’t want to kill him?”

“We don’t want this fight at all,” said Teryn. “How many died?”

“Three, including Krell. Our other magician.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was kind of an asshole, if I’m honest,” the mercenary conceded.

“What’s your name?”

“Thorbin.”

Teryn heard War Cloud come up the stairs before she saw him. “You’re looking for me?” he asked, loudly enough to be heard by their guest.

“You’re the paladin?” asked Thorbin.

“Yes. Why?”

“Can you tell me why you are here? Swear it to Dastia?”

War Cloud’s brow furrowed, but he answered. “The village of Alderdale dug a new well and disturbed the ghosts of the slaves who built this tomb. Those slaves lived and died in misery and cannot rest until their master is brought down among them. We retrieved his bones and mean to dump them into the same grave, as they have asked.”

“Then you aren’t here to overthrow Baron Nicolo?”

“It’s not our intent. He’s not giving us reason to be sad if it happens.”

Thorbin coughed to cover a laugh. “You swear this to the goddess herself, then?”

“Would those words alone make you believe me?” asked War Cloud.

“I asked almost the same thing,” muttered Teryn.

“I suppose these would be strange lies to tell,” came the reply.

“Why did you come? Why are we talking?” asked War Cloud.

“We—I do not want to cross the goddess. If this will bring down her wrath upon us, or our homes, we should not stand against you. Is that a danger?”

War Cloud sighed. “No.”

Behind him, Shady Tooth clapped her palm to her forehead.

“No? It won’t bring her wrath?” asked the mercenary.

“We’re here to help villagers make their homes safe. Getting in our way isn’t great, but no, it does not bring down the wrath of the goddess. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Alright. Alright, then.” He paused. “Thank you, I guess.”

“Thank me by telling your friends,” said War Cloud.

The mercenary moved on.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Shady Tooth nudged War Cloud in the shoulder. “Why did you tell him that? Why didn’t you say they’ll all be cursed with three generations of ugly kids or some godly wrath shit?”

“Because it wouldn’t be true.”

“So?”

“So, if he caught that lie, why would he believe anything else I said?”

“He’s right,” said Scars. “They’re worried about what side they’re on. This is a good thing.”

“Would probably be more worried about having ugly kids,” said DigDig.

DAY THREE: MORNING

“Come forth!” The shout carried loud and clear, bearing anger and resolve. “You in there! Scars of No-Clan, or whatever you call yourself! Come forth!”

Scars ventured close to the barricade with his head low. Morning light gave the best illumination into the tunnel, and therefore the best chance for a crossbow bolt. DigDig had already learned that the hard way. Scars risked only the briefest glance moving from the barricade to the wall on the left.

A handful of men stood in the open. There was the baron in his plate armor, someone with a staff, and escorts. Maybe the captain, too, but Scars didn’t want to look a second time. He wasn’t sure which of them was shouting, either.

The crew waited, ready.

“I’m here,” Scars called back. “You’ve got my name right. What do you want?”

“Stop hiding in that tomb. Come out and face me with honor!”

“I’m not sure how a hundred to one counts as an honorable fight. Who’s asking, anyway?”

“Baron Nicolo! You haven’t the courage to look?”

“Not when I could get shot for it,” said Scars.

“Then hear my offer, No-Clan. Come out here and resolve this in honorable combat. One against one. Win, and you go free. Lose or submit, and you forfeit your prize. No one else needs to get hurt.”

Scars looked to the rest of the crew. He saw exactly the expressions he expected, but he asked anyway: “Would I be facing you, or a champion?”

“I know the blade, but I am not a warrior by trade. You would face my champion.”

“The captain?”

“Yes,” said the baron.

“That sounds like a terrible idea.”

“You refuse? Are you a coward?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“I’ll do it. Let me stab him,” said Shady Tooth.

“No,” said Scars, and War Cloud, and Yargol, and Teryn. DigDig only shrugged.

“Do you plan to cower in there forever? Do you think to drag this on and on?”

“You could always go away.”

“Have you no honor?” The baron’s shout rang higher than he probably knew.

“I think I might have dropped it somewhere.”

Coughs and grunts covered scattered laughter that cut suddenly short. Scars pictured the Baron’s face and waited for another challenge, or demand, or offer.

They heard only the shuffle of boots and bodies moving away.

NIGHT THREE

Shady Tooth slipped over the barricade after midnight, her natural stealth aided by Yargol’s magic and the clouded sky. Low and slow, she crept to the edge of the overhang, mindful of every shadow and loose rock. Burnt-out logs from the attempted smoke-out were the only challenge, and she took her time to do it right.

A gentle breeze drifted from surrounding hills. She smelled no men, no horses, no supplies. Nothing made a sound except the ordinary, tiny rustle of nocturnal animals.

She crouched in the shadows at the edge of the tomb and waited for a full hour. Clouds parted and allowed more moonlight, and therefore more clarity, more certainty.

She ventured onto the closest hillside and circled around before she returned. She didn’t speak until she stood at the entrance. “They’re gone.”

Shunk! answered the sound of a shovel, followed a second later by the crumbling of the barricade. DigDig stood at the center, flanked by the rest of the crew. Though everyone held weapons ready for a fight, they all trusted Shady Tooth’s word. As soon as she stepped into the open air, Teryn stretched as if the tomb had kept her cramped the whole time.

“Guess it was a good plan,” said DigDig, taking in the quiet hills with a broad grin.

“They know where we’re going. They could have moved to wait for us in Alderdale,” said Shady Tooth.

“Nicolo wanted to keep this away from Alderdale,” said Scars. “He didn’t want people to see him interfere. I doubt those mercenaries wanted to get wrapped up in that, either. Besides, we can move as carefully as we need, and we can wait them out there, too. But I think this is done. The Iron Thorns packed up and went home.”

“Which side got the worst of it, though?” wondered War Cloud.

“Who cares?” Scars shrugged.

“Fair enough. It was a good plan.”

“Agreed,” said Yargol.

Teryn caught the reflection of moonlight in Shady Tooth’s black eyes, watching her. Teryn gave a guilty shrug. “It worked.”

“It worked,” Shady Tooth admitted. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

She stalked off to lead their path. “I didn’t get to stab anyone.”

THE MEDIATOR

The timing and weather couldn’t be better for an ambush. Streams swollen from rain and snowmelt forced the caravan to start north for Clasped Hands Bridge before turning west once they reached higher ground, and the uphill path put the morning sun right in their eyes. Carts and livestock couldn’t easily turn around. The caravan leaders would be obligated to fight while the rest fled.

Ordinary bandits would prefer the leaders flee, too, but the Meller family weren’t ordinary bandits.

“Spotted them,” hissed young Braydon from the highest hillside bough he could risk. He couldn’t hide his nerves. Though too young to fight, he could contribute as lookout. “Coming up now. Adrien and Denys in front. They don’t suspect anything.”

“Good. Get down here, lad. Sneaky sneaky,” his grandfather reminded. Well into middle age, Roddrick Meller retained a woodsman’s muscles and a shaggy head of hair and beard. He wore no more protection than a vest over his woolen tunic and carried only an axe and old shield, but he radiated confidence like plate armor. “The Hayhursts will pay for what they did to Trent, and what they’ve done to all of us. Get set, everyone.”

Twelve more of the Mellers spread along the hillside, ready to flow down from the trees. They had the high ground without a risky descent to the road.

“Ready,” whispered Keat, placed to rush in with his brother Fulbert to block the path forward.

“Ready,” murmured Jacob, an arrow nocked with plenty more laid out to follow.

“Ready,” said Corbyn, and then Hilda, and then Tomas. The rest either nodded or lifted a hand.

“Ready,” said Kadin, though she swallowed hard. She had little control over her gift as yet, but she could rot the thick tree before her with a touch to block the road back.

“Ready,” finished Sandon, the only one with armor and a proper sword.

“Ready,” added DigDig. “Hey, why’re we doing this?”

“What the fuck?” Sandon jumped back, brandishing his blade.

“Hsst! Sandon!” Roddrick scolded urgently. “Quietly!”

“Uncle, there’s a fucking goblin here!” Sandon hissed back.

“Don’t gotta be rude. Wow,” said DigDig.

Jacob and Hilda turned to the goblin with weapons raised. Kadin curved around the tree trunk for cover. Others looked over in shock.

“Hi.” He waved one little hand, smiling with big yellow eyes beneath his battered horned helmet. His chain shirt and leathers made for more armor than Sandon and the rest, but his shovel seemed like a less optimal weapon. The goblin tapped his chest. “DigDig. Already got your names.” He jerked his thumb at the road. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Uncle?” Sandon asked.

“Everyone keep quiet,” Roddrick ordered the rest of the family.

“Kill it,” said Keat with equal urgency.

“So rude.” DigDig scowled. “Don’t hear me calling you an ‘it.’ Wow.”

“He’ll fuck up the whole ambush,” warned Fulbert. “He’s only got a shovel. Take him out!”

DigDig leaned to one side to look at Fulbert, his scowl deepening with disdain. “Already fucked up your ambush. Shovel’s better than your shitty axe, too. Does that even chop wood?”

“Braydon? Do you still see them?” Roddrick asked without looking up.

“Yes, grandfather. Nothing has changed.” Braydon was halfway down the tree, but he could still spot the caravan leaders.

“What if he’s not alone?” asked Kadin. She scanned the lush hillside with focus.

Roddrick either didn’t hear or didn’t care. “Sandon. Take him.”

Sandon advanced with his blade high. An arrow flew past his face before his second step landed, sinking into the tree trunk at his side.

The goblin hadn’t moved an inch—at least, not until Sandon glanced from the arrow to its point of origin. No visible archer caught his eye. DigDig shrugged. “Also didn’t come on my own. Not here to fight. Came to talk. Can we do that now?”

“What do you want?” Roddrick growled, crossing the distance to deal with this intruder himself. “Did the Hayhursts hire you for protection? Your tribe or whoever you’ve got here?”

“Caravan’s got animals, tools, clothes. Going to Zition, goblin town west of here. Needs trade.” DigDig looked over the rugged group with appraising eyes. “Zition’s gonna grow. Smart to make friends. Trade would help the people around here. Help all of you, too.”

“Goblin town? You mean that camp of refugees from the Edict of Banishment?” asked Sandon. “You think that’s going to be the new trade city?”

“Why not? King’s cut off from the south. Can’t run them out. Goblins trade with anyone. You folks like it better with King Dostin in charge?”

Sandon spit on the ground. He wasn’t the only one. DigDig’s brow rose with the unexpected emphasis of their answer. “Alright, then. King’s bad. Trade’s good, right? So why attack trade? Why do this?”

“We didn’t come out here to sit and talk,” Roddrick sniffed. He scanned the hillside for DigDig’s friends. “That much should be obvious to you and whoever you serve. If you came here to fight, show yourselves.”

DigDig’s disdain returned. “Not much of a fight. Look at you.”

From the woods came the clap of someone slapping his hand over his own face.

“I’m doing the talking this time,” DigDig reminded… someone, apparently, given the rise of his voice. He tapped his chest. “Me. DigDig. You talk to me.”

“This time?” Kadin wondered.

“He made a whole thing out of it,” grumbled a husky, feminine voice near Kadin. The youth nearly jumped out of her skin and scrambled around to the other side of the tree, but never saw the speaker.

“Alright, look,” DigDig huffed. “Is this about loot? You don’t look like bandits.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sandon frowned.

DigDig returned the frown with a meaningful glance at Sandon’s blade and family. “Come on, buddy. Not bandits. Not much of a camp here, either. Must live close. Daylight now, too. No masks. You don’t care if they know it’s you. What’s going on?”

“They killed Jacob’s oldest. My grandson, Trent,” Roddrick explained. “Lured him out into the night with one of their tramp daughters to the river. I found only his hand and a lot of blood.”

“Find anything else? Sure he’s gone?” asked DigDig.

“We knew his hand by a scar,” said Jacob. Sorrow tempered his anger more than Roddrick’s. “There’s a priestess of Niloth in town. The death goddess confirmed her prayers. Trent’s gone.”

“I’m sorry,” said DigDig.

“Everyone liked my boy. He had no enemies. Nobody had reason for this.”

“Nobody but the Hayhursts,” said Roddrick. “They think we’re trash. Didn’t want one of ours touching their precious girl.”

DigDig’s brow slowly fell. “But you said she’s a tramp? And lured him out?”

“I don’t expect a goblin to understand,” said Roddrick. “Trent’s only the last straw. This is old and personal. The Hayhursts sold us out to the crown long ago. We’ve been in the gutter ever since.”

“The crown?” DigDig’s face turned to confusion. He patted his helmet. “You mean Dostin, or the queen before him?”

“Her,” Roddrick growled. “Her man in these parts, anyway. Thirty years ago. Then Dostin succeeded her and his man came along and made it all worse.”

“Wow. That’s a long time. How bad did it go?”

“How bad?” Roddrick snorted bitterly. “We’re the Mellers. We owned the mill. Now it’s the royal mill, and everyone pays the crown to use it. They call it a tax. And then Dostin’s man started raising those taxes and adding fees and all kinds of bullshit.”

“Alright, but then that problem’s with Dostin and his man. Don’t know the Hayhursts killed Trent, right? But you know Dostin’s bad. Goblin folk don’t like him, either. Got our reasons,” DigDig said of the obvious. “Why not take that fight to him?”

“Are you mad? The king’s soldiers and—ah,” Sandon hesitated. “The king’s people are cut off from the north now, aren’t they? Goblins took down the mountain road.”

“Yeah. Goblins.” DigDig barely held back his beaming pride.

“You don’t get it, goblin. It’s not just the crown. They’ll be back, but the Hayhursts sold us out in the first place,” said Roddrick. “Now they’re the crown’s favorite, with the land and riches to show for it. And they keep us poor.”

DigDig peered through a gap in the greenery at the leading figures of the caravan. Two young men walked along the mountain trail in the simplest of leather armor with spears used more like walking sticks. Behind them ambled an old ox dragging an even older cart. Others shuffled behind, shaded by trees and greenery. They pulled carts by hand and goaded sheep and cows along with them. None looked particularly grand.

“Isn’t that a bunch of families traveling together? Nobody looks rich to me. Don’t seem like the murdering types, either,” said DigDig.

“Good murderers never seem like it,” said Fulbert.

DigDig rolled his eyes. “Murders don’t just happen. Did they hurt Trent before this? Threaten him? Anything? Sure it wasn’t an animal, or a monster?”

“We didn’t find any such tracks. Although it was by the river,” said Hilda.

“We just said the Hayhursts have been hurting us for years. Decades,” said Sandon.

“Right. Sold you out?”

“Accused us of crimes, yeah,” said Sandon.

“Banditry,” Kadin mumbled.

“You shut up. You weren’t there,” growled Roddrick.

“And they steal from us, too,” spoke up Fulbert. “They’re always stealing from us. That bastard Aiden down there stole my Cate!”

“Your what?” asked DigDig.

“My Cate! She would’ve been my bride if not for Aiden and the stupid Hayhursts!”

DigDig opened his mouth, closed it, looked out to the woods in line with his hidden archer ally, and turned back to Fulbert again. “Did she know she was gonna marry you?”

Fulbert’s sharp reply died in his throat. His mouth twisted as he tried to work up a new answer. “Well, she would have, if not for him!”

“That’s reason to stick him with a spear?” asked DigDig.

“Y’know, it is a little crazy, Fulbert,” said Hilda.

“You shut up!” Fulbert snapped at her.

“Dad, they’re almost here,” hissed Brayden, still up the tree.

“That’s fine. You stay up there, Brayden,” said Jacob. “Not like we’re still going to attack.”

Roddrick turned as if to scold Jacob, but a sigh from Kadin stopped him. “That’s fine,” she said. “I didn’t want to hurt this tree, let alone anyone else.”

“The tree?” DigDig blinked. The big tree’s placement made its use in an ambush obvious, but Kadin held no visible tool for chopping. “You a druid?”

“Little bit. I’ve got the talent,” said Kadin.

DigDig made a face. “And you were gonna take down a tree?”

“I didn’t want to!”

“Stop this! Everyone! Stop talking to this stupid goblin like he’s a neighbor!” Roddrick barked. “He’s fucked up our whole plan. Don’t you see?”

“Oh, so you get it,” said DigDig. “Good. No fighting. Can talk instead.”

“I didn’t say that,” said Roddrick.

“Maybe we don’t feel like fixing it without a fight,” said Sandon. “Are you telling us goblins can’t understand that?”

“Oh, I get it. Sometimes goblins start the fight. Sometimes goblins don’t have a reason. Some goblins are assholes. Happens with everyone. You want to be the asshole?” DigDig looked from one face to the next. Not all of them seemed so sure.

“They killed Trent,” Roddrick pressed.

“Doesn’t sound like you know that,” said DigDig.

“They’ve pushed us around too long and we’ve had enough. I’d think goblins would understand that after all you’ve been through. Would your people walk away from a fight?”

“Army invades your land, you fight. Someone tries to rob you, you fight. This?” DigDig gestured to the gathered family. “Twelve people with farm tools and old hurt? Not the same. Not every fight is the same fight. Don’t make everything a metaphor.”

Faces stared back at him, some blank and others frowning. “How’d we get into metaphors? Where’d that come from?” wondered Kadin.

“Scars,” coughed someone unseen in the woods.

“Shush,” scolded another.

“Yeah. Shush. I’m doing the talking,” DigDig rebuked the woods. He turned an apologetic frown to the collected Mellers. “Sorry. Didn’t come alone. Friends are all pretty sneaky. When they shut up.”

The woods did not reply.

“Anyway.” DigDig tugged indignantly on his chain shirt. “What happens after this? Everyone’s gonna know it’s you. Does this end the longer fight? Or do they hit back?” He saw uncomfortable faces without answers. “Or is that what you really want? More fighting?”

“You’re not the first to ask that,” grumbled Hilda.

“There won’t be any more fighting once we beat them down hard enough,” growled Roddrick.

“People think that about goblins, too. Isn’t true.” DigDig looked from one face to the next again. “Probably only some of you really want this. Pushed the rest along. Happens with goblins, too. Whose fight is this? Who wants this? You, old one?”

Roddrick’s eyes flared. “Old one?”

“Seem oldest. Talking the most. Probably there when you lost the mill, right?” DigDig nodded to Kadin and Brayden. “You good with them getting hurt or losing a parent? For your old grudge? Already lost one kid. What’s this fight worth?”

“Worth risking our lives, obviously. And whatever retaliation comes,” said Sandon.

“No, sorry. I mean what’s it worth? What if it went away? Can’t get Trent back, but the rest of the fight is still there. Would you be better or worse without it?”

“It doesn’t just go away if we go home,” said Hilda, despite her clear misgivings. “It’s not a simple grudge. It’s not just the past. It’s the present, too. We had good land, and the mill, and that was all taken from us. We’ve fallen behind while others get ahead. With Dostin in charge and the Hayhursts on the rise, there’s no way to climb back up.”

“Uh-huhhh,” DigDig considered skeptically. He doubted they had no way, but he didn’t live their lives, nor were they likely to take up the ways of goblin folk even if he showed them. He stuck to the matter at hand and the advice he was given.

The caravan had come within bowshot but the ambush remained on hold. The Mellers knew DigDig wasn’t alone, and any fight would be more complicated and costly than they’d planned. And they had given their reasons for the fight—marking out only one side of the feud.

“Do they know you’re this mad?” DigDig jerked his thumb to the caravan. He spread his hands to encompass the Mellers. “I mean, this mad. Ambush mad. Have you told them?”

“Why would we tell them? What kind of idiot—?” Roddrick began, and then his eyes widened as DigDig set off for the road.

“Have you tried?” DigDig called back. Brush and soil tumbled as he half walked and half slid down the hillside and popped onto the road. “Hey! Hi there!” The leading figures of the caravan stopped and blinked while DigDig pointed straight up the hill. “Your neighbors, the Mellers? They’re real mad. Fighting mad. Maybe we should talk.”

The young men at the front of the caravan shifted uncomfortably, eyes widening. Denys watched the hillside while Aiden turned back to the caravan. “Dad! Dad, you’d better get up here!”

“Not fighting!” DigDig added, and then grunted, “Yet. Sorry.”

“Gods, how many of them are up there?” murmured Denys.

“Twelve or so? Big grudge. Better settle it now. Hey, Mellers!” DigDig waved. “Come down! Wanted to come down anyway, right?”

“Whoa, don’t just—are you crazy?” Aiden snapped.

“No. Don’t think so, anyway. Would I know? No, off-topic. Focus,” DigDig corrected.

“What is it, boys? Oh.” The family patriarch wove his way around goats and travelers setting their pull-carts down for the unexpected pause. Entering middle-age, Garin Hayhurst wore less protection than his adult sons. In fairness, trouble for travelers was rare in these parts. They all had reason to expect safety, even with recent political changes. “You’re DigDig, right? One of the group from Zition.”

“Yep. DigDig. Speaking for the crew. I’m the talker this time,” he declared amiably. DigDig gestured upward again. “The Mellers are here, too. Mad about stuff. Sounded like trouble. Figured we should work it out.”

“Mad about…? Dastia preserve us,” Garin murmured when his gaze followed DigDig’s hand. Not all of the Mellers were visible, but he saw enough. He understood his caravan’s vulnerable position, too.

“Don’t worry. Not gonna fight. Not without my crew involved, anyway. We got this. Want to fix it for after we’re gone.” DigDig’s assurance kept Garin from jumping to hostility. “You didn’t see this coming?”

“We’ve always had friction.” Garin shook his head. “I guess the crown’s people really did keep the peace to some point. Without them around, old feuds are free to return.”

“Oh. Huh.” DigDig grimaced. “Yeah, guess that might be our fault. Sorry. Anyway, do you know about Trent?”

“Trent? What about him?” Garin turned to call out to the hillside. “Sandon Meller. Hilda. Didn’t expect to see you this morning. Is Roddrick with you? Should we talk?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” Roddrick growled down the hill ahead of his footsteps. Others followed. “We’re all here, just about. Time to meet face to face.”

“Meet’s good. Faces good. Face meat not so much.” DigDig smiled, but nobody got his joke. Goblin humor went over the heads of others sometimes. He dropped the smile as the Mellers came onto the road and Roddrick strode right up to Garin, axe and shield ready at hand.

“What can we do for you, Roddrick?” Garin stood tall despite Roddrick’s imposing stride ending close enough to shove. “DigDig said something about Trent? Haven’t seen him in a bit.”

“Yeah, you haven’t seen him,” sneered Roddrick. “Sure.”

“Roddrick, what’s going on?”

“Trent’s dead. Killed by the river. Something about seeing a girl,” said DigDig.

“What? Gods, no. I hadn’t heard. Roddrick, Hilda… is Jacob here? Why didn’t you say anything?” Garin asked. “I’m so sorry.”

“They didn’t tell anyone?” DigDig blinked.

“We… didn’t want to give anyone a chance to cover it up,” Hilda explained. Her wary glance to Roddrick spoke volumes.

Roddrick didn’t notice, focusing on Garin. “It’s time to settle up. Time to pull you down off your pedestal. Time you stopped lording over this land and everyone in it.”

“Lording? Roddrick, I’m hardly the baron.”

“Couldn’t tell from the way you’ve acted all these years.”

“Oh, come on. I work a field and fish the river like anyone else.” Garin gestured to the caravanners behind him. “So I talk to people now and again and get a few projects going. I don’t claim any authority.”

“Yeah, sure. While your house gets bigger and your name gets grander, and my family gets scraps,” snarled Roddrick. “Ever since your dad ratted me out! He got a lovely sack of gold for his word in court.”

“Roddrick, you tried to steal—never mind,” Garin said, watching Roddrick’s eyes flare. “Dad’s gone and that was a long time ago. You were all younger then. I was a child.”

“Big man about town now,” Roddrick seethed.

“So, is this about you and my dad, or about Trent? What is this?” Garin asked. “Did you gather your whole family to come at mine? Everyone who can hold a weapon? Dastia’s sake, is that little Brayden up there?”

“Don’t you tell me how to lead my family, you—!”

“Hey!” DigDig whacked Roddrick’s rising axe with his shovel. “Gonna fix this. You both just said, the old fight’s between you and his dead dad. Don’t fight someone for what their parents did. That’s just being an asshole.”

“He still benefits from his father’s treachery,” Roddrick seethed.

“Then that’s what we try to fix. Can’t fix Trent. Can fix this,” said DigDig.

“I suppose we have benefited,” Garin shrugged. He looked down at DigDig. “Sort of like—”

“Not a metaphor,” DigDig interrupted, shaking his head. “Not like us. Not the same. Stick to your fight and your stuff.”

Garin smiled. “You’re here to mediate, then?”

“Yeah.” DigDig stuck his shovel into the ground and folded his arms proudly across his chest. “Gonna help you talk. Work out a deceitful revolution.”

Everyone stopped and stared. DigDig blinked. “What?”

Another goblin’s whisper drifted past DigDig on the breeze, with clear enunciation and correction: “Peaceful resolution.”

“Right. Sorry,” said DigDig, and then, “Thanks, Yargol.”

“Fuck’s sake, where’d he even get ‘deceitful?’” grumbled the trees behind the Mellers. “Or ‘revolution?’”

“That may have been me, sorry,” said a feminine-sounding tree.

“Whatever. Grew up speaking goblin, not human,” said DigDig.

“Peace and deceit are that close in goblin?” asked Roddrick.

“Don’t stereotype,” said DigDig.

Roddrick shook him off. “That doesn’t matter. It’s time to settle up. Goblin nonsense don’t fix thirty years of shame, and you can’t give us back what we lost. Nobody can.”

“Thirty? Roddrick, is this about the mill?” Garin looked at the rest of Roddrick’s family. “Look, I’m sorry about Trent. Really. We didn’t know. As for the rest, maybe that punished your whole family for the crime of a few, and maybe you’ve been without it long enough. What if we help you take it back?”

“What? You’d do that?” asked Hilda.

“Sure. Look, everyone’s hurt by the way things are now. King Dostin’s a monster, and his man at the mill is corrupt as hell. You promise a fair price and keep it open to everyone, we’ll help you run him out of there. He’s only got a couple of men holding the place, they aren’t family or locals. If we all show up together, we’ll probably run ’em off without any fight at all.”

“And when the king opens the road from the south again? Or finds another way up?” asked Sandon. “He’s not letting go of the north for long.”

“Might not have a choice,” said DigDig.

Sandon frowned. “None of us here liked the Edict of Banishment, but the realm is more than whoever wears the crown right now. It’s one thing to resist Dostin and another to break away.”

“Still how it is now. Zition could use trade with a mill. Good for everyone.” DigDig’s eyes lit up with an idea. “Hey, we could run those men out of the mill for you. Then it’s our fault they’re gone and you just keep it running. King can’t punish you for that.”

“He’s got a point,” said Garin. “As for Trent, I’ve got no idea what happened. You haven’t told me anything. It sounds like it was violent? If we can help you find justice, we will.”

“We found only his hand and some blood,” Hilda began. “Sister Irenia says he’s with Niloth now, but she can’t—”

“Stop it. Stop talking to him,” Roddrick growled. “We know Trent was murdered, and we know we can’t trust the Hayhursts. We don’t know if they’ve got some sick black magic at work, or a dark bargain to hide their guilt, but whatever it is, don’t help them hide it.”

“No, you stop,” DigDig pushed back. “No magic here. No demons, no sacrifice. Just people. You want proof? Fine. War Cloud!” he called out.

Roughly half of the Mellers still lingered within the greenery at the edge of the road, and they all stepped back in surprise as the rest of DigDig’s crew emerged from the brush. Skill coupled with Yargol’s magic kept them undercover until they broke into the open.

Yargol stopped at the road’s edge, preferring to stay in the shadows with his black robes and hood obscuring his small form. Teryn came into the open, bow in hand yet without an arrow, her hood and mask in place. Dark bugbear fur and brawn withdrew into the greenery as Shady Tooth allowed herself to be seen for only a moment, just to make a point.

Only two walked out to join the conversation. Scars held his dwarven crossbow in an overhand grip, low at his side, showing no intention of use. The half-orc leader of the crew kept his mouth shut in deference to DigDig. Beside him came the subject of DigDig’s call, a mountain of muscle and fur with the head of a hyena whose greatsword stayed in its sheath on his back. His pendant, however, made the bigger statement.

“Paladin of Dastia,” DigDig explained with a gesture. “War Cloud’s got senses. Got that nose. Sniffs out all the creepy stuff. Demons, undead, all that shit. Nose knows.”

“It doesn’t quite work like that, DigDig,” said War Cloud.

“Paladin of Dastia? That’s a gnoll,” said Roddrick. “How do we know he didn’t kill Trent?”

“Insult him again and you’ll have a problem with me,” DigDig warned. “Got it? War Cloud’s with us. Dastia doesn’t bless murderers. Had nothing to do with it. Point is, nothing supernatural going on. No hidden monster. Not a metaphor about some other fight. Just people with bad blood, like people get. Right?” DigDig looked to Scars with a proud pose. The half-orc humored him with a nod.

“Something like that,” War Cloud murmured. He closed his eyes, touched the holy symbol hanging from his neck, took a deep breath—and stopped.

His eyes snapped open. His hand went to his blade. “DigDig, move!”

Roddrick burst with brown fur and new muscle, changing shape as fast as a man could draw a sword. Snarling jaws extended in a wolf’s snout while newly clawed hands slashed upward. DigDig blocked the fatal swing with his shovel, but the strength of contact took him off his feet and sent him flying onto his back yards away.

Another clawed hand came at Garin. A dagger of ice intercepted the blow, embedding itself in Roddrick’s hand with a sizzle like burning meat. A second icefire dagger glanced across Roddrick’s big shoulder while the last flew too high. Yargol’s magical assault was enough to let Garin scramble out of danger.

War Cloud slammed into Roddrick amid shouts of “Dad, no!” and “Look out!” Though still shorter and lighter than the werewolf, War Cloud was big enough to drive Roddrick away from easier victims. His armor stood up better to claws, and his resilience and faith withstood any cuts that pierced his physical protection.

“Out of the way! Move!” Scars shouted. The crossbow fell from his hands to favor his blade.

“That’s our dad! Don’t kill him!” screamed Hilda.

“Yeah, yeah,” Scars grunted as he risked the first swing. The horror from the Mellers said plenty: Roddrick wasn’t always like this. His curse was new. Scars didn’t worry about killing with a single stroke anyway; ordinary steel wouldn’t do much against a werewolf. The blade cut Roddrick across the shoulder as he and War Cloud tumbled in the dirt. Only a small flight of blooddrops indicated any harm from the strike. He needed silver or magic. “Yargol?” he called.

“I need a clear target,” Yargol answered—with Shady Tooth blowing right past him.

She joined the brawl in a rush, wrapping her arms around Roddrick’s snapping jaws before he could bite. War Cloud alone wasn’t enough to restrain a raging werewolf, but he and Shady Tooth managed it. They just couldn’t do it forever.

Scars hoped more muscle would help where his blade did not. Seeing Roddrick dig in one foot for leverage, Scars dropped his sword to grab the leg. Roddrick’s strength forced Scars to commit to the struggle and wrap himself around the limb.

“What’s the plan?” Shady Tooth demanded. Roddrick thrashed hard enough to put her face in the dirt, though she took his face with her. “We’ve got a plan, right?”

“Can we cure him?” Teryn called. She had an arrow nocked in her bow. It was the right weapon for the job, and everyone immediately noticed.

“Is that silver? No!” Hilda objected. “That’s our dad! You can’t!”

“I cannot cure him,” warned Yargol.

“I can,” said War Cloud amid the struggle. “But not while he’s fighting.”

“I can’t hold him alone,” said Shady Tooth.

“That, I can manage.” Yargol leveled the jewel of his staff. “But it will catch anyone close to him.”

“Kill you!” Roddrick slurred with an animal howl. “Kill you all!”

“Scars?” Shady Tooth asked.

“All of you, clear out! Get clear!” Scars ordered.

“They are,” Teryn answered. “It’s just you.” She glanced to each side to make sure the Mellers, Hayhursts, and others in the caravan allowed plenty of space. Despite objections, she kept her bow trained on Roddrick. “I’ve got him covered, too. He won’t get away.”

“Alright. We ready? War Cloud?” grunted Scars.

“Yeah,” said War Cloud.

“Shady Tooth?”

“Yes.”

“Yesss,” growled Roddrick. “Try it!”

Shady Tooth twisted for leverage and a free arm, which came down at the elbow on Roddrick’s head again and again. Her assault drove his face into the road until she left a small crater, making him eat dirt and giving the crew the break they needed.

“Move!” Scars ordered. Shady Tooth rolled away to the right, and War Cloud rolled opposite. Scars was the last to go, and found himself kicked away for it. He was still on his back when Roddrick sprang away with inhuman speed.

Teryn’s shot hobbled his escape. Even a werewolf couldn’t run with an arrow in his ass.

Roddrick howled in pain. He limped in a circle as the silver in his rump burned and rotted his fur and flesh. The howl ended when he couldn’t get enough air to keep screaming.

Yargol chanted steadily, three words in an arcane tongue, over and over. A steady breeze kicked up between Roddrick and Yargol’s staff. The beast staggered forward with no air to breathe; the little magician stole it. Beside him, Teryn had another silver arrow ready.

Roddrick couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t flee. He couldn’t reach either of the people responsible before they did worse, but one target still lay within reach. Scars was only halfway on his feet. Roddrick pounced.

A curve of dull grey metal blocked his lunge. The shovel slammed flat into his face, knocking blood from his nose and turning his whole trajectory. Roddrick staggered and fell in the dirt, only to take another blow, this time across the top of his head.

Though his larger companions hit harder, DigDig had more room for a good swing. He also had an enchanted shovel. Magic meant more than muscle against a werewolf, even if said magic was never meant for battle.

The third shovelfall left Roddrick slumped and limp. DigDig broke away and inhaled deeply outside Yargol’s spell. The magic faded, allowing an unconscious Roddrick to breathe and revert to his natural form. Shady Tooth helped Scars to his feet.

“I can cure him if his curse is young, but I need space and a few minutes for the prayer,” said War Cloud. He warned the rest of the Mellers back with broad but open hands. “Give me space. Stay clear.”

“Dad. Oh gods, Dad,” Hilda mumbled, covering her mouth.

“Did he… did he kill Trent?” Jacob asked. “Did he kill my boy?”

“Jacob, don’t jump to that yet.” Garin Hayhurst laid a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “He caught this curse from something; that same beast may have killed Trent. And Roddrick wouldn’t have been in his right mind, anyhow.”

“He’s right. Crazy, but clever. Lycanthropy does that,” said Scars. He gestured to the gathered fighters of two rival families. “A mystery death, and then a renewed feud? A werewolf could use that to cover up hunting and murder for months. That’s why he pushed you all to fight.” Scars shook his head. “How many fights and wars are just like this? One sick bastard driving everyone else to—”

“Not a metaphor!” DigDig shoved Scars on the arm, fuming at him. “‘Take this on its own,’ you said. ‘Don’t make one fight about another fight,’ you said.” DigDig’s frown curved all the way across his little round face. He jerked his thumb at his chest. “I said, ‘Maybe some family curse from the gods! Maybe a demon somewhere. Maybe a werewolf.’ But oh, no. You had to be about ‘normal’ people and a ‘normal’ fight. I’m doing the talking from now on. Me.”

DigDig dropped his shovel and stormed off. The rest of the crew looked on.

“He’s got you there,” said Yargol.

“Yeah. I know,” said Scars.

“We’re not letting him do the talking from now on,” said Shady Tooth.

“No. No, we’re not,” said Scars.

“He has got you, though. You’ll have to make it up to him,” said Teryn.

“Yeah, yeah.” Scars let out a sigh. Garin was busy, but Scars found a younger of the Hayhursts nearby. “Hey, please tell me someone in this caravan is selling candy. Maybe some kids have some? I need it for an apology.”

INSIDERS

“My men are ready for war. They will march, they will fight, and they know they may die.” Burren the Bloody leaned onto the war table, his already-defined muscles taking on extra definition from the sconces on every wall. “They ask only one thing: can you please leave the dead where they fall and not raise them up to fight as zombies?”

Gormuld Boneblade, leader of the Stone Shadow Orcs, Captain Ormank of the Free Hobgoblin Legion, and the Seer of Darkness all groaned. The Seer reached into the darkness of her hood as if to pinch her nose. “Oh, come on, Burren. This shit again?”

“Yeah, this shit. It’s fuckin’ creepy. Look, your whole ‘order’ is all wizards and sorcerers who couldn’t abide by the rules of any guild. Don’t tell me you don’t make zombies.”

“Fine,” said the Seer. “I won’t. Also, I don’t like how you say ‘order.’”

“How many of you are there?” asked Burren.

“The Onyx Order are legion!”

“We’re a legion,” corrected Ormank. “You’ve got three others at most.”

“There are many others,” said the Seer. “They live in Canrana. You wouldn’t know them. Don’t change the subject from Burren’s whining.”

Burren’s good eye searched for support among his allies at the long table. “Am I alone here?”

“This is what you’re worried about?” rumbled Gormuld Boneblade. “We’re about to assault the entire northern valley, and this is your issue?”

“What’s wrong with necromantic first aid?” the Seer pressed. “It keeps them in the fight.”

“It’s creepy,” Burren repeated.

“It’s efficient,” she countered.

“What if they could pull through? Resurrections happen,” said Burren.

“Oh, come on,” scoffed Ormank.

“Look, they want the hope!”

“They have a better chance of resurrection if they keep walking toward a priest rather than just lying there dead on the field,” said the Seer.

“Wait, really?” asked Burren.

“Sure. Reanimation and resurrection aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Burren paused and blinked his way through the big words until he caught the snort from Gormuld. “Your people don’t have a problem with this? Orcs, goblins, none of you?”

“When have you ever heard of goblin folk being resurrected or reanimated?” asked Gormuld.

The Seer grunted uncomfortably and turned the dark aperture of her hood away.

“Ah! There!” Burren pointed at her. “You see that? The double standard doesn’t bother you?”

“Yes, human. Tell us about how your people mistreat us,” Ormank deadpanned.

Burren swallowed hard, looking to one last faction leader. “Grassk, what about you? This doesn’t bother you, um… swamp guys?”

At the end of the table sat a mass of dark green scales and muscle, curled forward with a spear cradled against his thick shoulder. Beady black eyes set over a short snout stared back without emotion. “I cannot say,” he rumbled. “I do not know. What is this? These words?”

“You don’t know zombies?” Opposite Grassk, dressed in dark red leather armor with a mask and cowl to hide all but her eyes, a woman spoke. Her voice never rose. “They are undead: no longer living, but they still walk. It is foul magic.”

“Foul? Please,” the Seer scoffed. “That’s a condescending, reductive—”

“No zom-bees of the swamp folk,” said Grassk.

“The Scarlet Wind isn’t giving you the full story,” the Seer began.

“No zom-bees swamp folk,” Grassk pressed. “Or the swamp folk will stab!”

The Seer held up her hands. “No zombies of the swamp folk. Agreed.”

“What? You’re cuttin’ him that deal and not me?” protested Burren.

“The swamp folk outnumber your bandits twenty to one.” The Seer stared down the long table, but not at Grassk. Subtle twitches of her fingers brightened the candles in the wall sconces, pushing the shadows away from the Scarlet Wind.

Without leaving her seat, the Scarlet Wind slid a dagger from her belt and snuffed out the nearest candle, returning her shadows. She barely glanced at her target.

“Oh, that’s just rude,” muttered the Seer. Whatever else she meant to say was stopped with a thunk from across the room as the door opened.

Argasoth Zul, Warlord of Dusk, stared at his allies with glowing red eyes. An imposing helm with low-curved horns obscured the rest of his face. Chain mail hung in tatters over muscles more scarred from flame and blade than not. The image reminded onlookers of all those who believed they could defeat him, yet here he remained. Some said he was an exiled fey. Others believed him undead.

The latter, at least, was true of the other warrior by his side. Kishmar Ulbet wore the armor of a kingdom now centuries gone. Pale, sallow skin and eyes of ivory attested that he, too, no longer lived. His condition did nothing to prevent him from walking to the head of the war table with the warlord.

“Our time to strike has come,” said Argasoth. “The central pass remains blocked, and the lesser paths through the mountains show no sign of King Dostin’s troops. The valley is cut off from the rest of the kingdom. The nearest barons are hobbled by petty troubles of their own making, and our assassin has eliminated what few champions the valley had.” Argasoth nodded to Scarlet Wind. “Our forces are assembled. It is time.”

“What of the goblin folk of Zition?” asked Scarlet Wind.

“Zition has refused us,” answered Argasoth. “Their leaders heard our offer and rejected it. They shall fall under our heel like the rest.”

Grim solidarity spread through the faction leaders in nods and murmurs until they heard a hiss of dissent. “Why?” wondered Grassk. “Why are goblin folk enemies?”

“They have sided against us,” answered Kishmar.

“Did they say against?” asked Grassk. “Or not with?”

“It is the same thing,” said Kishmar.

“Not the same. Goblin folk do not cross the swamp. Goblins never threaten swamp folk. Threat comes from humans and dwarves, for all of us.” Grassk eyed the other leaders. “Are humans and dwarves not enough to fight?”

“He’s got a point,” admitted Ormank. “Zition already threw back one assault by Dostin’s forces. Earthen walls, a trench, plenty of arms; it’s a fortified town now. And they’re goblin folk. Every one of them will fight.”

“All the more reason to deal with them now. Sooner or later, they will fight,” said Burren.

“Do we know that?” whispered Scarlet Wind.

“We know it’s the largest force this side of the mountains aside from our alliance.” Burren gestured to Ormank. “They should have every reason to join us. They won’t.”

“They are cowards who turned from the true ways to live among humans,” said Gormuld. “Even after the humans banished them, they clung to that life. Instead of fighting, they fled and built their little village to fish and farm. It does not matter if they throw back an attack by human soldiers. They are weak.”

“Their decision is made. So is ours,” declared Argasoth. “We will not suffer a rival within the valley. Zition will be crushed like the rest. Scarlet Wind, we must add ‘Mayor’ Karana to your list of targets.” He waited for her slow nod before he continued. “The baronies and the dwarf-holds come first. Grassk, Ormank, and his goblins shall march alongside your swamp folk. If Zition should move on us, they will know the enemy.”

“A good idea,” said Ormank.

“Must anything be resolved before we march?” asked Argasoth.

“A warning, my lord,” said the Seer. “I have divined our fortunes and threats. The signs are clear: our greatest danger lies within. We may have a traitor among us.”

Conversation stopped. Everyone glanced around the table. Burren broke the silence: “Well?”

“Well, what?” asked the Seer.

“What are the details? What’s this prophecy?”

“The threat comes from the peak of the mountain. That implies someone in this group.”

“That’s it? The ‘peak of the mountain?’ That’s all they said?” Burren pressed.

“‘They’ didn’t ‘say’ anything, Burren,” sighed the Seer. “Do you really want me to go into the specifics of reading entrails?”

“Entrails? How does that even work? What, do you mash them all up and play with them like a child with their food?” asked Burren. His eyes widened when she looked away in disgust. “Oh hells, are you serious? That’s how you do it? That’s your prophecy?”

“You are awfully animated by this, Burren,” said Ormank.

“Yeah, because she’s—” Burren noted the scowls across the table. He glanced the other way for reassurance, but glowing eyes were harder to read. “You don’t think I’m…?” Again, no one answered. Burren pulled the dagger from his belt and gripped the blade. Red drops fell from his hand. “Does anyone doubt me? Say it to my face.”

“You make your point, Burren. You do not have to bleed on my table,” said Argasoth.

“Yet the threat remains. We must root it out,” said Kishmar.

“If I wanted to split an alliance,” whispered Scarlet Wind, “this is exactly how I would do it. Who needs betrayal when suspicion is enough?”

“You are saying I’m the problem? I alerted you in the first place!” protested the Seer.

“Wise,” said Grassk. “Swamp folk say: the one to make the stink catches the first scent.”

“Really? Really? I bring portents and omens, and you resort to ‘He who smelt it dealt it’?”

“Hm. That is a better saying,” Grassk conceded.

“Also, a reasonable point,” said Gormuld.

“Enough,” said Argasoth. “The Seer’s warning shall be remembered. Our forces are strong. If your leadership is equally strong, one traitor will not bring down our cause; they shall fall to the rest of us. Ready your forces. Tomorrow at dusk, we march.”

The council parted amid wary glances and grim thoughts. Grassk uncoiled from his seat and walked away without social niceties. Ormank saluted Argasoth before following Grassk out, while Gormuld left with no more than a nod of respect. Amid the distractions, Kishmar vanished. Only Burren and the Seer lingered.

Whatever their intentions, no one invited Scarlet Wind to stay, so she kicked her long legs off the table and strode out. In the hallway, a goblin shuffled between wall sconces with a lighting stick. Sunlight, already leaky through sparse windows, was fading. Evening would soon rouse the greater share of goblin folk from sleep.

Her path turned left at the end of the hall, bringing her past the window overlooking the stronghold’s courtyard and its thick grey walls. Below, wagons and carts were loaded with supplies, captives forced to load them. Humans, dwarves, and more than a few goblins suffered abuse from a bugbear overseer whose lash seemed driven more by boredom than any need for haste. Onlookers laughed and jeered.

Farther out, past the high walls and their sentries, the mountains spread out in peace. Summer mitigated the chills of the altitude, but sparse clouds suggested a clear, cold night for a full moon.

Finally at the right doorway, she inserted an iron key, opened it inward, and surveyed the room before entering. Her lavish bed and the rest of the furnishings waited for her undisturbed. The door swung shut and locked behind her without trouble.

Her upper back thumped against the door and she let a tense breath escape her. Breathing felt a little easier when she pulled back the cowl and mask, revealing brown hair and a youthful, pretty face. “Gods, this is exhausting,” said Teryn.

“Must be,” came a husky voice. “You didn’t check behind the door.”

Teryn’s shoulders slumped. She’d gotten used to the looming dark fur and muscles of Shady Tooth right beside her. That feline, predatory face might have frightened her as a stranger, but not now. “I knew you’d be in here.”

“You should still check. You don’t know until you’ve found me.”

“Well, I’ve found you. Yargol?” Teryn asked.

A small bundle of black robes rolled out from under her bed, clutching a dark and ornate staff. His hood stayed forward at each turn as he stood to his full height, rising barely above Teryn’s waist. The only features not covered by his robes were his mismatched hands, one of dark fur like Shady Tooth’s and the other with natural green skin, and the equal mismatch of glowing red and yellow eyes.

Teryn blinked. “You hid under the bed?”

“Magic is a waste when I have a practical option,” said Yargol.

“I told him it’s the first place anyone would look,” said Shady Tooth.

“You would stab them for trying,” said Yargol. “What came of the meeting?”

“A lot, and most of it bad,” said Teryn. “Gods, Argasoth laid out all their advantages. We did this. We set up this power vacuum. Cutting off the south, weakening the barons—this whole situation is our fault. And we didn’t even know until the real assassin came after us.”

“Too bad for her,” Shady Tooth grunted. “As for the rest, I’d blame this army, not us.”

“Hence our presence,” said Yargol. “What else?”

“They march tomorrow evening. Zition rejected their overtures, so they’re on the enemies list. In fact, they want me to go kill Karana—and that brings up the other problem. That Seer caught some omen of a traitor in the council. They’re all suspicious now.”

“Only the presence of a traitor? What sort of omen was this?” asked Yargol.

“I don’t know, something about entrails?”

“Hhh. Diviners,” Yargol muttered.

“But they don’t suspect you?” asked Shady Tooth. “If not you, then who else? Maybe we can use that.”

Teryn shook her head. “Burren made a whole stupid display. I turned the Seer’s warning back on her, but only Grassk seemed to consider it—oh. Grassk. That’s the other thing. Grassk doesn’t like the idea of fighting Zition. Said his people have no problem with them. I don’t think he or his people are out for blood here.”

“You’ve suspected as much all along,” said Yargol. “People of the valley tell of the swamp folk raiding and stalking, but always in the past or in someone else’s village. It may be nothing more than fear of the unknown.”

“They’ve seen how the goblin folk were banished from the south. I think the only reason they threw in with this lot is to prevent that from happening here,” said Teryn. “If they’ve got ambitions for looting or territory, Grassk hasn’t mentioned it.”

“Not that you’ve heard,” Shady Tooth corrected. “This plot has been building for months. We snuck into it late. Grassk’s angle would be a hell of a thing to get wrong.”

“That’s true, but I keep seeing it. The swamp folk aren’t like the rest. I think the other leaders see it, too. Ormank talked about his goblins marching with the swamp folk, probably to keep them in line.” Teryn shook her head. “We may be out of time, anyway. The march is ordered, they’re sniffing for a traitor, and—”

The door unlatched and slammed against Shady Tooth. A blast of invisible force knocked Teryn to the floor and sent Yargol tumbling like a bundle of rags. Teryn jerked a dagger from her belt to counterattack, only to freeze against her will.

The Seer walked in, right hand outstretched and covered in purple mist. The same mist enveloped Teryn and held her fast. Glowing yellow eyes narrowed within the Seer’s hood. “Who are you?” she seethed. When she noticed movement behind Teryn, she raised her free hand with another spell, ready to strike—but hesitated.

Glowing eyes stared from one dark hood to another. Their robes billowed in the same breeze. They wore their pouches on the same hip. “Is this a joke?” asked the Seer.

The door slammed shut behind her.

Knives punched deep into the Seer at either side. Shady Tooth tore her blades out and jammed them right back in again, alternating left and right in a stabbing flurry. Her foe went limp well before Shady Tooth allowed the body to collapse.

The mist around Teryn broke with Shady Tooth’s first blows. Teryn threw back the pillows on the bed to collect her bow and a single arrow, aimed for the door. Yargol’s staff glowed and air swirled around him. Shady Tooth turned and waited.

Nothing came.

“Anyone?” Teryn whispered.

Feline ears perked and wary, Shady Tooth shook her head. “Yargol?”

Yargol gestured and pulled more air under the thin gap of the door for Shady Tooth to sniff. “Only that goblin lamplighter out there. She came alone. Idiot.”

“Hhh. Diviners,” muttered Yargol.

“Shit. Shit.” Teryn relaxed her bow, but nothing else. “She was talking to Argasoth when I walked out. I knew she suspected me, and now they’ll all figure it out. We’re fucked.”

“We’re not fucked.” Shady Tooth grabbed a handful of robes, dangling the blood-drenched body at her side for emphasis.

“She’s their leading wizard! We can’t hide this!” Teryn hissed.

“We shouldn’t.”

“What?”

“She barged into your room and attacked. You’re a notorious masked assassin in a stronghold of dark forces.” Shady Tooth pulled the door open, mindfully staying out of view, and tossed the body outside. The Seer tumbled across the floor in front of a stunned goblin servant down the hall as Shady Tooth swung the door shut again and stared at Teryn. “Be evil.”

“Oh gods. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” exhaled a wide-eyed Teryn.

“Honestly, I’m surprised nothing like this has happened already,” said Yargol.

“Right? This is normal,” said Shady Tooth. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“As long as you act like it’s fine,” Shady Tooth corrected. “You just have to own it.”

“Teryn, focus,” counseled Yargol. “This is done. It is reality now. Shady Tooth is right. These are ambitious, violent, terrible people. Mistrust is what we want. We have eliminated their most powerful wizard. That’s a good thing. And as you said, we’re out of time, anyway. I must get to the others. We must make our moves.”

“Right. Right. Can you get there on your own?” asked Teryn.

“Going alone is best.” Yargol held his staff close and swept his free hand over his head in an arcane gesture. While his friends blinked, he vanished from their sight. “I only need you to open the door. The rest should be no trouble. You know what to do.”

Teryn slung her quiver over her shoulder and pulled her mask and cowl back into place. No one doubted her nerve in a fight, but the urgency of her wide eyes revealed a different sort of worry.

Shady Tooth frowned. “You’ve never worked for an evil wizard, and it shows.”

* * *

“Listen up! Put your flame and irons down and listen up!” Activity halted with the booming order, though the fires didn’t. Everyone in the long kitchen knew the towering bugbear cared more about being heard than food going unburnt. He didn’t look happy, but his scarred, feline face never did.

“Pile it high tonight,” said Hang Nail. “If they ask for seconds, let ’em have it. Grog and beer, too. No worries about running out. Come morning, we start using the good stuff.”

“What’s the change? Is it a holiday?” asked a goblin poised over one of the brick ovens.

Anyone else would’ve needed a couple steps to reach the speaker, but Hang Nail backhanded the goblin against the oven without moving an inch from his spot. “Shaddup,” he growled. “Bein’ told is reason enough. We’ve got people comin’ into the hall already. Get going.”

Hang Nail moved on. Everyone else returned to stirring, stoking, and pouring. The fallen goblin pumped the bellows at his oven before picking himself off the floor. Turning, he found a dark brown hand held in offering. The stranger’s smooth human features were mixed with the tusks and muscles of an orc. “What’s your name?” he asked the goblin.

“Tweez.” Tweez accepted the hand with a bewildered look. His benefactor effortlessly pulled him to his feet. “Unf. Thanks.”

“Don’t let that burn low,” said the half-orc. “You’ll catch all the blame.”

“Right.” Tweez took over the bellows and gave it another pump of air. “Seen you here before. What’s your name?”

“Grog.”

“Your name is Grog?” Tweez blinked.

“Sure,” the half-orc lied. “Hey. Why’d you ask about serving the good stuff?” He nodded toward Hang Nail, or at least the boss’s exit. “What’s it matter?”

“Feels like I’d do a better job if I understood what’s going on.”

“You’re a believer in the cause, then?”

“Sure.” Tweez puffed himself up but didn’t last under Grog’s questioning gaze. “No. Not the cause. I believe in eating and sleeping someplace safe.”

“You’re a southlander?” asked Grog.

“Yeah. Worked on a farm ’til the king kicked us out. Went back to grandad and he said we’d go back to the old ways. He led us here.” Tweez shook his head like it was a great shame.

“How’d you come to the kitchens?”

“I can stab and shoot like anyone but I don’t want to hurt people. Figured an army needs other stuff, too. Grandad called me a coward for wanting to cook.” Tweez pumped the bellows again. “Should’ve gone to Zition as soon as I heard of it. Isn’t the goblin way to go back to family, anyhow. I wouldn’t care if I never saw any of ’em again. Assholes.”

“You mean that?”

Tweez frowned. “Shouldn’t you be working? You’ll get us both in trouble. What’s with the questions?”

“You remind me of someone.”

“Oh. Someone you lost?”

“No, he’s over there.” Grog nodded to a young goblin in scrounged leathers and a horned helmet scrubbing out a cauldron. “Anyway, when’s the last time someone asked how you felt?”

“Huh.” He pumped the bellows again. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I mean it. They’ve always been shitty.”

“Know anyone else who feels the same way?”

“No,” said Tweez. “I’ve been here three months. This is the most civil conversation I’ve had.”

“Five minutes ’til first service!” Hang Nail hollered from the other end of the kitchen. “Finish up and get ready to dish!”

Grog leaned closer. “They’re running out the stores to boost morale and lighten the load. The next meals are supposed to come from conquest, not kitchens. We’re about to march.” When Tweez swallowed hard, Grog said, “If you want out, now’s the time.”

“How?” Tweez whispered.

“Fill your pockets when nobody’s looking. Stick to what lasts on the trail. When you’re clear, get over to that stream near the west wall. Follow it until the road and turn south. You’ll come to a village called Brolan. They’re fine with goblins. Tell ’em everything and ask the way to Zition. They’ll help. Zition could use more farmers.”

Tweez listened with wide eyes. He almost forgot his oven. “Are you a spy?”

“Pff. With a name like Grog? No.” He patted Tweez on the shoulder and returned to his goblin friend at the cauldrons.

“Grog is a strange name,” said a familiar voice with no visible speaker. “One might as well name themselves Beer.”

“Or Milk,” snorted DigDig.

“Well, we didn’t know if our names had gotten around out here,” muttered Scars. “And then it was too late to take back. How are we doing?”

“You’re right about readying to march.” Yargol’s voice came out-of-sight from beside the cauldrons. “Tomorrow at dusk. We may need to act even sooner. The Seer warned the council of a traitor, and later confronted Teryn. Shady Tooth killed her.”

“Shit. When?”

“Minutes ago. I came straight here. You were engaged with that goblin when I arrived.”

“Then we’d better move. Dig, you and War Cloud have the highest priority. You’d better go now. Can you handle the tray?”

“On it.” From a nearby table, DigDig retrieved a large tray of meats and cheeses, setting it on top of his helmet for extra support. No one stopped him on his way through the rear exit.

“Teryn believes the swamp folk might be dissuaded from all this,” said Yargol. “She hopes to talk to Grassk before it’s too late.”

“Well, let’s wish her luck. The swamp folk don’t come down here for meals, so I haven’t talked to any of them. You’d better get back to her and Shady Tooth. They’ve drawn all the heat.”

“Are you sure? Your task is arguably the largest for any of us.”

“It only takes a few apricot seeds to wreck a stomach.” Scars reached under his apron to produce a small sack. “Elven apricots go a lot further when you grind ’em. When I run out of that, there’s just enough lye to dump in the beer to make everyone sick. Keep hitting the leadership. I’ll handle the logistics.”

* * *

No one questioned DigDig’s presence anywhere in the stronghold. He kept out of the way, stayed quiet, and always carried something: a bucket and brush, a bundle of wood, or, like now, a tray of food. He needed nothing more than his small stature and the premise of menial labor to get wherever he wanted.

Within days, DigDig knew every corridor and corner of the lower levels—and the secret doors, and the guard shifts, and the legitimate chores. He even knew how to get a heaping tray of food down to the dungeon without anyone pinching a single piece.

At least, not until he got to the bottom of the stairs.

“Orders from up top,” he said, stopping before the final steps. “Food for the watch. Gotta bring it inside.”

The hobgoblin guards at the door looked up with interest. Both wore gambesons only a shade darker than their grey faces and leaned on their axes rather than standing at attention. Lanterns granted them imposing shadows. “Bring it down, then,” said one.

“No snatchin’,” said DigDig. “You’ll get yours.”

The other guard stepped out with his axe low. “We’ll get ours after inspecting.”

“Orders is orders.” DigDig stepped backward up the stairs. “Gotta eat together.”

“The hell kinda order is that?”

“Yeah, and since when does food come to us?”

“Special occasion. Army’s marchin’ tomorrow.” DigDig saw they needed a push. “Surprise in the tray for the boss, too.”

“Then we really gotta inspect.” The guard moved closer.

DigDig kept stepping back. “Arnag won’t forgive.”

“Who says he’s gonna know?”

“I do.”

“You know what happens to snitches,” said the guard.

“Know what happens when Arnag gets angry, too. Army’s marchin’ tomorrow. Not like we’ll see each other again.”

“Doesn’t have to be us. We’ve got friends. When word gets out, they’ll find you.”

“Tell ’em I snitched. Fine. Can you tell ’em who I am? You even know my name?”

The guards scowled.

A whip-crack from the dungeon broke the silence. “Faster, slugs! Work faster!” The voice was low and guttural. “Somebody’s gotta feed the gnoll tonight. Will it be you? Or you?”

A high-pitched bestial giggle followed, and then a crash. Someone sobbed.

“Whole tray of food here. Who do you think gets first pick?” asked DigDig. “Piss off Arnag, maybe one of you feeds the gnoll. Heard he’s not picky.”

The guards shared a grumpy shrug. One put his key in the door. “Little shit.”

“You’ll get yours, too. Don’t worry.” DigDig moved as soon as the door opened. Wary feet dodged the leg and axe handle meant to trip him, and then he was upon the stone platform five feet over the dungeon floor. Bigger, more numerous lanterns provided better lighting to enable labor. Long tables stretched to host the work of dozens of ragged, battered prisoners. Most were humans and dwarves taken from captured trade caravans, though scattered exceptions included elves and goblin folk. All of them kept their heads down as they wrapped arrow after arrow with kindling and twine. Their finished work lined the walls and cell doors.

A pair of orcs roved the floor with whips and clubs and two more overseers loomed even larger: an orc half again taller than the rest and a leering gnoll. The latter made DigDig pause; he was used to War Cloud’s brawn and fur and hyena features and armor, but he wasn’t used to the giggling. Or drooling.

“This one, this one, what about this one?” War Cloud roamed between the benches, head bobbing energetically. A woman sobbed in fear as he passed. War Cloud stopped, looked up, and ran his tongue from one end of his snout to the other with a loud schlgkhllshlrp!—but didn’t look back at her. He didn’t much focus on anyone.

Jarring as War Cloud’s behavior was, the big orc drew more attention. Arnag the Unforgiving ruled the dungeon through all the obvious means of the coiled, barbed whip on his belt and the serrated blade on his back. Arnag wore chain mail without sleeves, presumably to show off the many ritual scars on his arms to mark his kills, and it was adorned with a polished skull.

“Somebody’s crying. I smell tears,” said Arnag. War Cloud stood between him and the prisoner who sobbed, but Arnag seemed to have someone else in mind, anyway. The orc grabbed a man’s head and shoved it against the table. “You upset, grandpa?”

“Oooh, gimme!” War Cloud leaned in close, head turning with rapid looks between Arnag and the prisoner. “Gimme gimme gimme. Don’t kill him. Let me do it. Fresh meat, fresh meat!”

“Uh. Hey,” DigDig called out. Arnag looked up, irritated by the interruption, while War Cloud pushed his hand away from the prisoner for a sniff. DigDig swallowed his reactions. “Got meat here, actually. Bones and everything.”

“What’s this?” Arnag left the prisoner to War Cloud. The platform’s steps ran to the left rather than straight down, forcing Arnag to round the corner. One of his guards beat him to the top with another close behind. “Hold it! Seniority first,” Arnag warned the guard before he grabbed anything. DigDig grunted with the effort of lowering the tray. “Don’t put it on the floor!” Arnag objected. “Bring it down the steps!”

“Sorry. Gotta go. Other orders,” said DigDig.

“He wasn’t too cooperative outside, either,” said a door guard, close at DigDig’s back along with his partner. “Wouldn’t let us inspect.”

“Inspect? Pah!” Arnag shoved the first guard off the top of the ledge, sending him stumbling onto the floor as he loomed over DigDig. A big, meaty hand pointed to the tray at his feet. “Pick it up.”

“Hey. Hey! Got things to do.” DigDig held up his hands.

War Cloud turned at the use of their code phrase.

“Little fuckin’ shit,” Arnag growled. “I’ll—”

War Cloud grabbed Arnag’s ankles and pulled, ripping them out from under him, sending his face straight into the stone platform. The other guards looked on in shock, but all the prisoners shrank back in fright.

War Cloud wrenched Arnag off the platform with a roar and slammed him to the stone tiles. As soon as he landed, War Cloud stomped hard on his groin. Natural reflexes pulled Arnag upright at the hips—and left his throat open to attack. War Cloud had a dagger out in a flash. A soft white light added divine wrath to his thrust and he pushed the blade in deep.

Arnag never knew what happened.

Too late, the guards snapped to their senses. The orc Arnag had shoved off the platform only now got to his feet, inadvertently blocking the other on the platform steps. A hobgoblin door guard jumped down at War Cloud opposite the orcs, flanking him. The other wisely turned for the exit.

DigDig caught the fleeing guard with an outstretched foot. The resultant belly flop wouldn’t keep the guard down, but DigDig was on him without a second wasted. One of his little hands grabbed the guard’s mouth while the other drove a dagger into his throat.

Threatened at both sides, War Cloud kicked the closest orc into the other and spun to face the hobgoblin. The guard’s axe came for War Cloud too fast to dodge, but not too fast to block with the only defense he had. His leather bracer split and bone shattered as the axe bit deep. War Cloud roared with pain and pushed through, treating the hobgoblin to the same dagger that slew his boss.

The dagger gave War Cloud a handle on the mortally wounded hobgoblin, too. War Cloud turned to put his victim between himself and the other guards in time to absorb a lethal blow from an orc blade. DigDig dove off the platform to tackle the second orc. The first couldn’t match War Cloud one on one, even if the gnoll was wounded. Both fights ended in seconds.

War Cloud staggered back and bumped against the platform, gasping in agony. The axe fell from his wrist on its own. He clutched the hemorrhaging wound with his free hand and fought for words. “Dastia, help me,” he prayed. “I have so much left to do. Help me, goddess. Heal me.”

White light shimmered from his hand. Pain receded and the bleeding slowed.

The mob of prisoners watched in fright and awe.

“DigDig,” huffed War Cloud. “You’re alright?”

“Yeah. Oh, wow.” DigDig winced. “How bad?”

“I’ll manage. Dastia has me. It’s… more of her power than I wanted to spend.”

“Sorry. Tried to be fast.”

“You were. Sometimes the enemy fights well, too.”

“Stairs.” DigDig ascended the platform again, eyes on the door, but paused before the top to reach around his back for the big pouch on his belt. The blade he drew from within was much too long for its container, and DigDig had to tilt it to the side and hold it for War Cloud to withdraw it the rest of the way.

Gasps and wordless murmurs of fear ran through the crowded prisoners at the sight of the bloody gnoll and his two-handed blade. They blinked in new surprise when War Cloud laid the weapon on the table and held up his open hands.

“My name is War Cloud, and I am a paladin of the goddess Dastia. My friend is DigDig. We mean no harm.” Behind him, DigDig tugged the dead hobgoblin out of the doorway and dropped him to the dungeon floor. War Cloud sighed and corrected: “We mean you no harm.”

“You can’t be serious,” said one prisoner. “You’re a paladin? Of the Hearth Mother? Yet you slobber and leer and… and…”

“And it was exhausting, actually.” War Cloud stood straighter and relaxed his shoulders. He was used to this part. “Not one of you has ever met a gnoll before now. Neither had they,” he added, gesturing to the guards. “I had to play to the stereotype. Has anyone died in the few days I’ve been here? Anyone been maimed or tormented? I’m sorry I frightened you. I had to maintain the ruse or be discovered.”

“Hallway’s quiet. Don’t think anyone heard.” DigDig shut the door and threw the lock before hopping off the platform. Once more, he produced an impossibly long tool from the belt pouch at his back, and then pointed the shovel at one of the cells along the walls. “Better get moving. Need to go through there. ’scuse me.”

Prisoners made way for DigDig without challenge. Others looked as War Cloud slid the tray of food off the entry platform and set it on a table. “This is for you. Please eat. I’ll spare as much of Dastia’s magic as I can to help the sick and injured. You’ll need your strength. We all have a long night ahead.”

“What do you want of us? We’re in no shape to fight,” said another prisoner. “We can’t—”

Whuck! Whcht! The sounds turned several prisoners toward the open cell, their interest drawing the attention of others. DigDig jammed his shovel into the masonry wall, piercing it like stale bread. Chips and chunks flew as he dragged the shovel in a tall arc. With his first pull, hundred-pound blocks of natural stone tumbled away.

DigDig jammed his shovel in deep, tested gingerly, and pulled again. The shattering continued, advancing the hole several yards. Rock runoff flowed and split unnaturally at his feet to pile up along the walls to either side.

“We’re here to get you out,” said War Cloud. “Although if the able-bodied would help me with all these fire arrows and kindling, I’d appreciate it. We have a lot of supplies to burn.”

* * *

Teryn’s arrow punched through helmet and bone, killing the hallway guard before he knew she was there. He toppled along the wall on top of his own axe. Though she winced at the noise, Teryn rushed through the lantern-lit passage to drag the hobgoblin’s body into the nearest gap of shadows.

“Only one,” she huffed after scouting the intersection. The most important direction ended at a closed door and a single inadequate candle in a wall sconce. No other guard appeared, and no one came into the hallway to investigate the noise. A red rune painted on the door confirmed her destination. “That’s Ormank’s chamber.”

As if in answer, the door opened. Teryn pressed herself against the shadows as Ormank’s voice spilled from the inside: “…we march! For glory!”

The brawny figure in the doorway stopped. Scales caught the flickering candlelight as Grassk turned back. “What is that?”

“What is…? What is glory? Your people have no concept of…?” Teryn could imagine Ormank’s shock, and then his struggle to turn that into a smile. “We’ll talk about it on the march.”

“Hunh.” Grassk left the door open wide on his exit, advancing halfway down the hall before he stopped and sniffed. Left, upward, and then facing Teryn as she stepped out of the shadows. “Scarlet Wind?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” she whispered.

“And Ormank?”

“No. Alone.”

“You are not alone,” said Grassk.

Behind him, Shady Tooth dropped from the shadows of the ceiling to pull the door shut behind her. Grassk didn’t look back, but he grunted in acknowledgment.

“That’s a different kind of talk,” said Teryn, this time at speaking volume.

“You have a voice,” said Grassk. “I thought you only hissed.”

“No. I have a normal voice. I have a normal face, too.” She pulled down the mask to reveal it. “Grassk, why are you here? Why have the swamp folk joined this army?”

“To protect the swamp. To protect ourselves. We see goblin folk driven from the south. We will not be driven from our swamp.”

“Has it been hard to defend the swamp from humans and dwarves before now?”

“Hnh. No. Few come. Easy to run off. But goblins were safe in the south, and then they were not. Swamp folk are only safe in the swamp until they are not.”

“That’s the same for everyone. It doesn’t mean you have to fight.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to fight?”

“No. I don’t want to fight.”

“Hhrrrgk!” The doorway couldn’t fully muffle the dying gasp of a hobgoblin. Another shouted an alarm and something crashed in the chamber. Grassk’s hand drifted to the iron axe on his belt.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Teryn corrected.

“I believe you,” said Grassk. He waited.

“Aghk!”

“My leg, she’s got my—aaiiee!” Another crash and thud.

“Speak,” said Grassk.

“Zition would be happy to trade with the swamp folk, but they do not want your swamp.”

“You speak for Zition?” Grassk lowered his head in a suspicious tilt. “You are the traitor?”

“A traitor turns against their own. Argasoth’s forces were never mine.”

“Protect Ormank! Don’t let her—gurrrrgh!”

“Zition does not threaten? What of the humans and dwarves?”

“Most of the valley has no problem with the swamp folk. You have been told lies about them. The few that do threaten are broken and weak. They’re cut off from the south.”

Steel clashed against a chorus of grunts and thuds.

“Does that not mean Argasoth is right? It is time to strike.”

“No. It means there is no threat to the swamp folk. Argasoth is using you. He conquers for himself. He will want to control the swamps, too.”

Grassk looked past Teryn, thinking, and focused on her again. “What do you want?”

“Hah! Got you, damn—nngh!”

“I want to get past you to help my friend,” said Teryn. “We want the swamp folk to go home. That’s all.”

“Hnh.” Grassk listened to the fight behind the door. “You begin the fight ahead of the enemy.”

“Yes. It has already begun. The army is gutted before it marches.”

“You do not ask the swamp folk to change sides? You ask us to leave?”

“We do not want to use you, Grassk. Turning you or tricking you is no different from Argasoth. We wish to do right by your people. We don’t want to fight you.”

The door flew open to reveal Shady Tooth, breathing heavily, battered and bloodied. Gashes in her leather armor showed serious wounds. She leaned against the doorframe with one shoulder, hands filled with her spike-knuckled knives… and stared at Grassk.

“No,” he said. “You do not.” His hand came away from his axe and he stepped around Teryn to the hall.

“Let him go.” Teryn put Shady Tooth’s big arm over her shoulders to help her inside, kicking the door closed behind them. Inside, a handful of hobgoblin warriors laid dead amid broken furniture and pools of blood. Ormank slumped in front of his desk, lifeless. Thankfully, at least one chair at the map table remained intact for Teryn to set Shady Tooth down.

“This was his honor guard. You didn’t have to take them all yourself,” said Teryn.

“I thought it’d be just Ormank.” Shady Tooth winced in pain. “Turns out his guards weren’t that good. I’m guessing favoritism over talent. Had to use all the potions we got in Zition, and I’m still hurt. But it’s done. Hobgoblins won’t move without a clear leader. Succession’s even harder to sort out with the entourage dead.”

“I’ve got one more potion.” Teryn pulled a flask from her pouch. As soon as Shady Tooth gulped it down, the ugly wound beneath the hole in her armor began to mend. “You’ll need magic to fully heal this, or time, but we need to wait on the others anyway. You should rest.”

“We should rest,” Shady Tooth corrected. She sighed with relief, though her breathing didn’t fully ease. “You had the hard part out there.”

“The hard part?” Teryn made a face.

“What, you think I want to do all that talking? That’s crazy.”

* * *

“Lazy shitstains.”

“What was that? Who said that?” Ripfang wasn’t the only bugbear to turn on the comment. The whole pack of furry, armored brutes stopped in the passageway to glare at the line of orcs with their burdens of ceramic jars.

“Said what? Nobody said nothin’,” grumbled an orc, but he stopped, too. Many of them did. Nobody wanted to turn their backs on angry bugbears.

“Fuckin’ deaf,” someone muttered.

“There!” Ripfang pointed at a surprised orc. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Wha—did you see my fuckin’ mouth move?” the orc protested.

“Leave it,” said another orc. “Nobody said shit. We’re working here.”

“Oh, are you saying we’re not?” said a bugbear.

“No. This is oil for the catapults! For torchin’ the forts!” The orc jostled his big jar to make his point. “You think we wanna start something while we’re all carrying these?”

“Weak excuse,” said a voice amid the bugbears.

“Yeah,” agreed several more.

“It’s not weak! It’s work!”

“Aw, there it is again!” said the voice.

A bugbear jabbed his finger at an orc. “Say it again. Call us shitstains one more time.”

“I didn’t say anything!” said the orc.

“He just called you a liar!”

It was enough. The bugbear threw a meaty fist too fast and too close to dodge for an orc holding a jar of oil as big as his chest. The orc staggered into another, and where he kept his jar aloft, his friend could not. Shattered ceramic joined a cacophony of shouts and thuds as Ripfang started punching. The other bugbears followed his lead with orcs scrabbling to defend themselves.

Yargol darted from the melee to the nearby staircase. No one ever noticed him, let alone identified his voice. Troops beat one another senseless and smashed supplies, all at no danger to the instigator.

Magic could do a lot, but it was hard to beat simple invisibility.

The magic had its limits: Yargol could move and speak, but any other physical interaction would break the spell. Magic itself crossed into that restriction, limiting his options as he hurried up the stairs and through the corridors. Rendering himself invisible again would drain power better spent in other ways. Any sabotage or disruption beyond his voice required full commitment. He had to choose his opportunities carefully.

When he passed the council chamber, he saw the obvious choice.

“My people want gold more than land or blood,” came Burren’s voice. The bandit chief leaned on the map table. “Some of them will run off after they loot. That’s the way it is. You want most to stay, you’ve got to show they’ll keep getting the best pickings.”

Across from him, Argasoth’s dark helmet tilted down to study his point. “You believe breaching and looting Appleford ahead of the others will satisfy them?”

“For starters, yeah.”

Yargol didn’t listen to the rest. The cover provided by Burren’s voice was more useful than knowledge of his plans. Though slowly pulling on the door broke Yargol’s spell, the door itself shielded him from view. Care and patience closed it without anyone inside hearing a sound.

No one heard the soft magical words that sealed and strengthened the door, either.

They’d eventually escape the council chamber, one way or another. Yargol hoped for nothing more than a delay. The longer the army’s leaders were isolated, the deeper the chaos would run, and the harder it would be to restore order.

Even without the protection of invisibility, Yargol flitted through the corridors like a shadow. Black robes and small stature helped him go unnoticed—especially by distracted parties at the end of the next corridor.

“The lamplighter saw it happen and didn’t even come to get us,” said the taller figure in robes not so different from Yargol’s. Two more nearly identical figures flanked the sorcerer, along with the pale and deteriorating flesh and armor of Kishmar Ulbet. All three stood over the body of the Seer outside Teryn’s quarters. “He didn’t warn anyone. Little shit said he was minding his own business and left our leader out here dead. It’s been an hour now.”

“Scarlet Wind is obviously the traitor,” said another robed sorcerer. “You see that now, right? Everyone will see that.”

“Murder and betrayal may not be the same,” Kishmar rasped.

“What? But you see this. It’s obviously Scarlet Wind. She murdered the Seer and fled!”

“They feuded. They mistrusted. This does not mean the Scarlet Wind is a traitor to our cause… though she must answer for this.” Kishmar traced a circle over the Seer’s body with an open palm and his eyes glowed brighter. Faint drops of red appeared in the air, floating in a line from the corpse down the hall. “The blade that killed the Seer went that way. You: inform Lord Argasoth. Bring him here. The trail will lead him to us. The rest of you, come with me.”

Yargol withdrew around the corner, huddled in a shadow to wait for the wizard. Letting him pass would bring Argasoth out just when Yargol took steps to keep him in place. Any noise of battle would bring Kishmar and the other wizards down on Yargol’s head. Yargol straightened his staff and chanted in the lowest murmur he could manage. Just as softly, the air drifted out of his end of the corridor.

Dark robes rounded the corner and continued into utter silence. The wizard stopped as soon as he noticed the difference, and then spun around in fright when his mouth found no air to breathe. The turn revealed Yargol, concealed by nothing more than shadows and the corner. Though the wizard’s hands snapped out in familiar gestures, no magic came without incantations to match.

Yargol didn’t need sound or air to jab an enemy with his staff. He struck the wizard squarely in the stomach, leaving him sputtering in the silence of a vacuum. The blow sent the wizard’s hood back, revealing close-cut hair, pale elven features, and piercings on a face desperate for air.

The wizard clutched at Yargol, but close combat wasn’t among his skills. Yargol swept his legs with the staff and added a faceplant on a concrete floor to his troubles. Whatever crunch and cry might have come from the exchange went nowhere without air to carry it. A final crack of the staff against the wizard’s head ended the struggle entirely.

Air flooded back into the passageway as Yargol dropped the enchantment. He had nearly run out of breath himself. Yargol hurried down the corridor after the other wizards and the threat to his friends.

* * *

“Horses. If we don’t find gold, my men will be happy with horses,” said Burren.

“You just told me many will desert once they have loot.” Argasoth’s glowing red eyes stared back at the bandit chief. “Why would I give them mobile loot?”

“Erm, um, well I—”

Pounding fists on the door saved Burren from explaining himself. With it came a muffled voice. “Lord Argasoth! I beg your forgiveness, but it’s urgent!”

“Enter,” answered the warlord.

The door thumped, and then thumped again. “It’s…” Another thud, and then a flurry. “Is it barred from within, my lord?”

“Burren, get it,” Argasoth rumbled.

Burren swallowed his reactions. He dared not question the presumptions of the high and mighty Lord Argasoth, and no one would have any sympathy if the matter came to an argument. Sullen resentment spiked into embarrassment when the door wouldn’t open for him, either. “Uh… it isn’t barred. But it is stuck,” he grunted, even tugging with both hands.

“Perhaps on the count of three?” came the voice on the other side.

“Ugh!” Argasoth’s helmeted head tilted back in dramatic annoyance. “I have little patience for such trifles. You there! What is so urgent?”

“Lord Argasoth, there’s chaos everywhere in the castle! Something set the goblin folk against one another. We had scattered fights with the bugbears and orcs, and now they’ve merged and pulled in others. Others have fallen ill, especially Burren’s men.”

“What? Since when?” asked Burren.

“Hold,” Argasoth interrupted. “What of the swamp folk?”

“Haven’t seen them, my lord. Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen them anywhere.”

Argasoth locked eyes with Burren, but then stormed across the chamber. The opposite wall held a window with an overlook on the west wall. The angle granted easy view of the grounds beyond, where long-untended trees sheltered the camp of two thousand swamp folk… or rather the trampled grass and bare wood marked by their passing.

Not a single tent or tool remained.

Then came the bells from elsewhere in the castle, and the shouts: “Fire! Fire!”

“Open it. Open the door!” Argasoth’s demands took on a high pitch that surprised Burren even more than his sudden urgency. The warlord looked urgently left and right until he tore a battle axe from its mount on the wall. Burren hurried out of the way before the first swing bit into the door. “Don’t stand there. Get the other axe and help,” ordered Argasoth.

* * *

“Listen. Hear that?” DigDig nodded up the hill toward the castle. “Fighting’s started.”

War Cloud turned back, though the trees blocked most of the view. The stream within throwing distance created less noise than the dozens of escapees fumbling through the wooded hillside, but War Cloud could hear at least a little. “Sounds like a lot of them. No telling who’s involved from here. They’ll be dealing with the supply fires, too.”

“Doesn’t sound like any magic, either,” said DigDig.

“This is what you expected?” asked a woman at their side. Anla’s middle age showed in the greying curls of her black hair. She was the senior surviving leader of the caravans. “When do your friends get out of there?”

“That’s on their judgment,” said War Cloud. “Knowing them, they’ll do all the damage they can. It’s what we’d do.”

“Don’t like leavin’ ‘em. Wanna get back and help,” said DigDig.

“I understand, but I don’t like our chances of getting away on our own,” said Anla.

“We’re not leaving you until we’re at least clear of the patrols, and—” War Cloud stopped with the urgent tap of DigDig’s shovel against his hip. A bundle of branches and leaves landed a few steps away, preceding a tall, slender form emerging from the trees. Others joined him. They carried spears, axes, and bows, but none held ready to strike.

“You leave with the prisoners?” Grassk gestured to the scattered humans and dwarves, now halted with wary tension. “Where do you take them?”

“Home. The nearest human town in the valley,” said War Cloud.

“So many of them,” DigDig warned in a whisper. “Past the stream. Lots.”

“We heard you speak. You are with the others who cut down this army? With Scarlet Wind?” Grassk pointed up the hill.

“Yes. Yes, we are,” said War Cloud.

“We leave the army, too. All of the swamp folk. We travel down the same hill,” said Grassk.

“You’re leaving? Then we are not enemies. We do not need to fight.”

“Yes.” Grassk and the other reptilian folk stared. “We may leave together. Patrols are no threat if you are with us. We can guide.”

“Uhhh…” breathed a naturally concerned Anla.

“We couldn’t protect you from this many if they did mean harm,” said War Cloud.

“No. You could not,” said Grassk. “If we take you home, you will tell other humans to leave our home to us?”

Anla swallowed. “Yes. Yes, we can do that.”

* * *

“There’s smoke from the lower levels, but it’s not stopping the fights,” Teryn reported from the window. “Mostly hobgoblins against orcs, mostly fists. I don’t see weapons out.”

“A good ass-kicking still puts them out of a real fight.” Shady Tooth sagged in Ormank’s big, ornate leather chair behind his desk, not giving a damn about proper posture. She didn’t even clean her knives.

Teryn had been productive while Shady Tooth caught her breath. The office held copies of maps and letters gathered from Argasoth’s agents. It all fell into Teryn’s magical pouch along with any trinket of value. Now she had nothing better to do than play lookout. “The smoke means War Cloud and DigDig should be out with the prisoners. If it went as planned, they’re well clear of the walls by now.”

“Any sign of Scars?”

“Not himself, but I doubt we’d have all this brawling without him spiking the drinks in the kitchen. I think his other plan worked, too. Lots of—”

Her words died under a thundering crash. The door fell from its hinges under Kishmar Ulbet’s might, his dead eyes glowing and sword drawn. Orc sentries flanked him at either shoulder, with hooded wizards behind him. “Take them,” Kishmar ordered. Crossbow bolts flew from the orcs’ weapons with Kishmar’s first steps.

Shady Tooth kicked herself and her chair into a turn. One bolt pierced the leather over her shoulder while another narrowly missed her companion. Teryn sent an arrow at Kishmar’s face, only to see it slapped away by his blade. She was already reaching for a second arrow as the first failed. Her fingers traced feathers with sudden stiffness, falling under the same spell the Seer cast but this time with frigid cold. Snowflakes fell from the wizard’s fingers.

Ice spread over her arms and legs while Kishmar crossed the room to murder her. The same glow in his eyes spread across his blade. He swept it back, ready to cleave her in two until a familiar mass of dark leather and fur tackled him out of Teryn’s view. She couldn’t turn her head to watch. Instead, she could only stare back at the sentries and wizards ready with their own methods of ending her.

Flames swept up behind the clutch of enemies, taking on a feminine, elven shape. The light turned all four of them just in time to hear the elven image shriek—and then she exploded.

The ice cracked just as suddenly. Teryn’s wrist snapped back into action, tearing an arrow from the quiver on her shoulder and bringing it to the string before she thought about it. One wizard and both of the orcs collapsed amid trails of smoke, but the remaining wizard kept his footing with a faint white shimmer of magic around himself as protection from the flame. It didn’t protect him from Teryn’s arrow driving into his skull. “Fuck that spell!” she snapped.

Teryn turned her next arrow to the struggle on the floor. Shady Tooth pinned Kishmar’s sword while her free hand fiercely stabbed at his side. His ancient, crumbling armor left a convenient gap for her blade. Teryn’s sidestep for a clear shot revealed how little good Shady Tooth’s knife did. The undead warlord’s side was exposed, but hardly vulnerable.

Her arrow bounced off his head like she knew it would. She only needed to clear her bow for the next. Fingers curled around the feathers, knowing by feel it would do much better than the last, but then Kishmar’s eyes glowed brighter. Sharp, loud words from his desiccated mouth blasted Shady Tooth and Teryn onto their backs. Pain shot through Teryn’s hip and stole her breath, but the crack of Shady Tooth’s head against the floor looked much worse.

“Wretched beast.” Kishmar rose to threaten them both. “Traitorous fool. Paltry steel is not enough to harm—” He stopped to face the hallway. Yargol’s voice chanted words his friends recognized. They noticed the draft, too, hinting at great magic about to be unleashed. Kishmar understood the threat. Another loud hiss of his power blasted through the entryway. Bodies and debris flew through the doorway.

Teryn rolled up, her hip screaming with pain. Her companion didn’t move at all. Kishmar didn’t glance their way, watching the exit for the real threat. “Shady Tooth,” she hissed. “Shady?”

Small hands appeared out of thin air at her shoulders, one furry, the other grey skinned. Black robes on a little body appeared with them as Yargol spoke two brief words of magic.

Kishmar spun. Shady Tooth lunged without any sign of injury or fatigue. This time, her tackle didn’t take him to the floor. She carried the undead warlord five steps and flung him through the window. His howl of rage disappeared as he plummeted to the courtyard far below.

“You’re hurt? Where?” Yargol asked Teryn.

“My hip.” She laid still while he knelt to work his magic. “I thought you were about to throw another fire maiden at him.”

“You were both hurt, and invisibility drain less of my power than fire maidens. Illusions are even cheaper.” He nodded to their friend. “Shady Tooth is better than any explosion.”

“I can’t see through the smoke now,” Shady Tooth reported from the window.

“We need to hurry,” said Yargol. “War Cloud and Yargol have moved the prisoners out. Scars is on his own.”

* * *

Waves of boiling stew slapped back and forth from the side of the big cauldron to Hang Nail’s back. If he had a shred of life left, the bugbear would have pulled his head and shoulders out of the boiling mass; instead, he hung limply over the side. Scars threw the lid shut anyway.

Blood dripped from his cheek. His breath came and left heavily. It hadn’t been an easy fight, but Scars stood where everyone else had fallen or fled—except a tense and bruised goblin with a bloody meat cleaver and an even bloodier frying pan. Hang Nail wasn’t the only enemy to lay dead in the kitchen. “Thanks for the back-up,” Scars exhaled.

“You’re welcome,” said Tweez. “What now?”

“Now’s your best chance to get out of here. It’s chaos out there. Nobody’ll notice a goblin on his way out. You probably won’t be the only one.” Scars dropped the kitchen knife that saw him through the fight and opened a closet. Hidden behind sacks of flour sat his sword, shield, and crossbow.

If Scars hadn’t made enough of an impression, the gear solidified it. “Hey, I don’t want to leave you hanging, but this seems over my head. I don’t fight that much,” said Tweez.

“You’ve already done a lot. My friends have magic and experience. I’ll be fine.”

“They have wizards and undead warriors. How much magic have you got?”

“Well, if we have to collapse this whole castle, I’ll feel better knowing you’re not here.”

“Oh. Right, then. I’m out.” Tweez headed for the back door, only to return for the coin purse off Hang Nail’s belt. He fled as soon as he had that in hand.

The last bit of hidden gear kept Scars in the kitchen a minute longer. The chain mail shirt went over his shoulders easily enough; settling and belting it properly required more care. He lacked a hauberk for padding and a proper fit, let alone leg protection, but he’d take what he could get. A pinch or three from his armor hurt less than a blade.

The front exit took Scars out through the dining hall, where scores of humans and goblin folk writhed, retched, and groaned. Those who could stagger outside or get to the privies had already done so. The rest had to sit or lie with their despair. A great many had already lost everything in their guts.

Scars held his breath on his way through the dining hall. The scent was already abominable.

A handful more victims of his cooking heaved their dinners out in the hallway, while farther ahead Scars found others at the ragged end of a brawl. He almost made it through corridor without challenge until the grand double doors flew open to a trio of hulking, angry orcs.

“You.” Gormuld Boneblade leveled his battle axe at Scars. Heaving, rasping breath punctuated every statement. “You’re one of the kitchen scrubs. You’re fine. All this,” he said, gesturing to the stricken troops, “and you’re fine. And armored.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am,” said Scars.

“You’re—” a wet cough interrupted Gormuld. “You’re orc-blooded.”

“Yes.”

“And you use poison? Against your own?”

“All these idiots will recover. Might be a week before their bellies are right again, but they’ll survive. I was careful with what I fed to whom. Even timed out the shifts in the dining hall so everyone would get hit at once.”

The orc at Gormuld’s side collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach. Gormuld’s next cough produced a rain of red spittle.

“You massed an army of thousands. Nobody on this side of the mountains can match that, so we had to improvise.” Scars already had his shield on his arm. He drew his sword. “Last I checked, you believe in fighting dirty.”

“Rraagh!” Gormuld came at Scars with a downward swing. Though Scars deflected it off his shield, he felt the bigger orc’s brawn, and still more as Gormuld’s body crashed against him. Scars turned and kept his balance, parrying away the follow-up from the remaining bodyguard. He pushed between them to get clear and spun around to meet their next attack.

Gormuld hesitated for a blood-stained wheeze. His companion tried again, only to leave himself open for a counterattack. Scars drove the orc’s blade upward and stabbed low into his unarmored inner thigh. A howl escaped his throat as Scars kicked him to the floor.

That left only the leader. Bleeding with every breath, Gormuld raged forward and swung.

Scars stepped back out of reach. Again Gormuld swung, and again Scars gave ground.

“Fight,” Gormuld panted. An ugly glob of blood fell from his mouth, leaving him barely able to choke out the word. “Fight!”

Scars retreated another step. Gormuld fell to one knee. His eyes pleaded.

“Your raid on the village of Hannel got our attention,” said Scars. “We saw the children. You don’t deserve a fair fight.”

Gormuld collapsed. Scars watched to ensure he wouldn’t rise again before he left.

Chaotic noise washed over Scars as the hallway opened into the courtyard. He expected the sight of uncomfortable humans and goblin folk pounding at the privy doors, but he didn’t expect all the fighting. Yargol had seeded dissent better than Scars ever imagined. Everyone who wasn’t sick seemed inclined to punch and kick their comrades. Black smoke billowed from doors on the opposite side of the courtyard leading to the dungeons.

With a shrug, Scars walked to the stable and threw open the gates. Horses already frightened by all the noise ran free at the first opportunity. The pair of guards at the main gate objected loudly, but they dared not leave their posts. “Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” called out one man. “They’ll get out! Gareth, pull the lever!”

Scars unslung his dwarven crossbow and put a bolt into the wall by the gate lever. Both men hesitated when Scars cranked the next shot into place, still aimed at the guards.

“Are you crazy? Gormuld will have your head!” shouted one guard.

“Doubt it,” Scars called back. The stables held only twenty horses at most. He didn’t have to keep the guards in check for long.

A rasping shout from above ended with a crash at ground level. Scars turned in time to see glass shards rain down on the body, but the smoke from the fire obscured the view of wherever it had fallen from. A handful of troops paused their brawling long enough to look and then withdraw upon recognition.

Kishmar Ulbet sat bolt upright and stared at Scars.

The instant alarm of locking eyes with Kishmar lessened as the rest of his image caught up with Scars. The pale, withered warrior’s jaw hung awkwardly low at one side. His right arm dangled in obvious dislocation from his shoulder. Where Kishmar normally moved with an ease that belied his state of decay, he now struggled to rise to his feet.

Scars turned away, lowering his weapon. He didn’t need to take on Kishmar alone. Others in the crew were much more suited to this foe. Better to play innocent and see what he did, or perhaps follow. In the meantime, Scars could work more sabotage and—

“Half-orc,” Kishmar rasped. Even across the courtyard, amid shouts and clashes, Scars heard him clearly. The dislocated jaw slurred his words, but Kishmar could still speak. “A half-orc with a dwarven crossbow… amid chaos and murder in our army.” He shuffled forward, practically dragging one foot. “The bugbear. The archer. The wizard. You did this. Scarlet Wind lied.”

“Lied, died, same difference,” Scars admitted. He snapped the crossbow up and shot, cranked the next bolt into place and shot again. The first hit pierced Kishmar’s aging mail while the other struck his neck. Kishmar didn’t even flinch. It vindicated the earlier thought against taking on Kishmar alone, but Scars had little choice now.

Pale mist swirled around the warlord’s leg and wrenched it back into place. A third bolt glanced off his armor as he advanced faster than Scars expected, and then the sword came in. Scars ducked to the side and escaped a blow that smashed the stable gate behind him. Even out of joint, Kishmar’s arm exerted terrible might.

The crossbow dropped in favor of sword and shield while Scars gave ground. Kishmar came in again and struck his shield hard enough to stagger him. Scars gambled on a counterattack, planting a vicious thrust from under his shield directly in Kishmar’s eye. The blade even broke through the socket in a wound that would put down any other foe. Kishmar struck his shield again and sent Scars tumbling away toward the gate.

The mist around Kishmar turned from white to black with dark magic. Scars pulled up his shield, knowing it would do no good against his words of damnation.

Dirt and rock erupted in a line at Kishmar as he uttered the final word. Power crashed against debris, negating the impact of both. Scars glanced back to DigDig at the center of the gate, shovel planted at the start of the line in the ground. Beside him, War Cloud dispatched the last guard.

Scars picked himself up off the ground. The shouts and clamor of the courtyard had faded as his fight with Kishmar drew the attention of everyone still on their feet. “Good timing,” he grunted to his friends.

“Wanted to tunnel in,” said DigDig. “War Cloud said no. Guess he was right this time.”

“You’re all here,” Kishmar hissed. His arm snapped back into joint. “Goblin. Gnoll.”

“Paladin,” War Cloud corrected. He walked forward, greatsword shining with Dastia’s light.

Sharp, glinting metal punched through Kishmar’s forehead. “Oh. Oooh,” he rasped. The glow in his eyes flickered and faded. Kishmar tilted face first into the dirt with an arrow shaft embedded in the back of his head.

Across the courtyard, Teryn had another arrow nocked and ready with Yargol and a battered but upright Shady Tooth beside her.

Between them, Kishmar’s body crumbled. The mist around him faded.

War Cloud’s shoulders dropped. “Silver arrow?”

“Yeah. Sorry,” Teryn answered.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he grumbled.

“Kishmar’s dead,” blurted an orc, while a hobgoblin on the other end of the courtyard yelled, “Shit, they got Kishmar!” Others picked up the same warning. More scrambled away, diving into whatever doorway or shelter was closest.

“Regroup,” Scars grunted and waved to his friends. “We don’t want to get trapped here,” he said as Teryn and the others joined him near the gate. “This is already a good mess. Is there any reason to stay?”

“Supplies are burning and prisoners are free,” said DigDig. “Swamp folk taking ‘em home.”

“Swamp folk?” Scars blinked.

“I got through to Grassk. They left of their own accord,” said Teryn.

“Ormank is dead, and the wizards.” Yargol made a grasping gesture toward Scars’s crossbow, plucking it off the ground from many feet away and floating it to its owner’s hands. “I see your strategy worked out.”

“Gormuld’s down, too,” said Scars. “Do we go for the rest?”

“Shovel’s tired,” said DigDig. “Can’t do big stuff all the time. Don’t think it can take down the tower or the walls tonight.”

“The shovel isn’t the only one who’s had a long night,” said Shady Tooth.

“Alright,” said Scars. “We’re all alive and they’re fucked. Let’s get out of here before—”

Across the courtyard, the tower door crashed open. Teryn, Yargol, and Scars let off shots and spells the instant they saw Argasoth. Though he emerged from the tower alert and fast enough to dodge the storm, his companion did not. Burren blinked in shock at the missiles sticking out of his chest before he stumbled back and out of view.

Argasoth crouched with battle axe and shield high, taking in the situation. Smoke drifted up from the storage rooms. Groans and retching noises provided a steady undertone from the beaten and the sick. Bodies lay scattered around the courtyard, not the least of which was the dust and ancient armor of his most powerful ally. The few troops still able to fight waited.

Teryn nocked another arrow. Yargol chanted softly. DigDig sank his shovel into the dirt. Shady Tooth cracked her neck and rolled her shoulders while War Cloud and Scars took their first steps.

“Shit,” Argasoth grunted under his breath. He fled back inside.

The crew paused.

“Um. Wait,” said Teryn.

“Wasn’t he…?” DigDig frowned. “Isn’t he an exiled fae lord, or undead, or…?”

“I’m too far away to sense any of that,” said War Cloud.

“Maybe he’s not an idiot?” said Shady Tooth.

“An idiot couldn’t gather all this,” said Yargol.

“I dunno, people flock to follow idiots all the time,” said Scars.

“Could it all be a con?” Teryn wondered. “Could he be some bullshit artist in a scary helmet?”

“Why not? It’s hardly different from how you got in here,” said Shady Tooth.

“Either he is, and we don’t need to fight him, or he’s not and we shouldn’t,” said Scars. “We broke an army tonight. The valley’s safe. It’s time to go.”

One by one, they turned away. Teryn tugged on Shady Tooth’s arm. “Hey. We’re going.”

“Yeah,” said Shady Tooth, still glaring at the tower.

“We’re hurt and exhausted, you most of all,” said Teryn. “We don’t need to fight. The bad guy ran away. That’s a good thing, right?”

“Sure,” Shady Tooth grumbled. “Except that makes me want to stab him more.”

VIGILANCE

“Communication out of occupied Michael and its satellites remains, of course, severely throttled and censored. NorthStar blocks most outside observers. We know they have conducted mass arrests and responded harshly to protests. We know they have taken over public institutions and many private businesses. We know there has been significant violence. Yet so far, firsthand accounts remain rare and difficult to independently verify.”

—Bob Norris, Raphael Public Media

July 2277

Tanner never understood the point of standing at attention.

Marching and drill, he got: psychological conditioning to trust and follow orders without delay, acting in unison, team-building, simple crowd management. He didn’t like the conditioning, but he saw the use. Standing at “attention,” however, made no sense to him. The stance was rigid, no movement, no reactions, with eyes forward to the point of ignoring basically everything. The standard line emphasized peripheral vision, but that seemed like garbage. How was that attentive?

Then he sat through one of Lieutenant Morgenstern’s intelligence briefings and he understood.

The military, specifically military leadership, desperately needed everyone conditioned to exercise stone-faced silence through absolutely laughable bullshit. Any natural reaction might hurt someone’s feelings.

“With the relatively static situation here in Archangel, we’re starting to see signs of NorthStar and CDC adopting asymmetrical tactics—guerilla warfare.” Morgenstern stayed behind his podium, tall and slim in his grey navy vac suit, black hair cut flat and mustache equally tight. “I don’t need to remind you all the enemy has the bigger force in numbers and firepower, even just within the system. But they’re trying to flip the script. An asymmetrical approach keeps the pressure on us with less effort and risk for them. It’s cost-effective.

“This gives us a list of new things to look out for: spying and sabotage, pressure tactics, and propaganda. They won’t just attack ships and hardware. They’ll target supply lines. They’ll target morale. They’ll target our trust in one another, and our bonds back home.”

Lights dimmed for a presentation on the screen behind Morgenstern, creating a foreground silhouette of shaved and nearly-shaved heads for Tanner. Despite serving right along with marines in every small unit action, navy types like him sat in the back while in “marine country.”

Seating arrangements made little difference with his few friends absent, anyway. Baldwin pulled watch over an empty brig. Sinclair was in his rack after the mid-watch. Even the marines Tanner could call friends were out doing something else. He envied them all.

“More seriously, we’ve seen evidence of planned sabotage at Uriel Shipyards and Grand Harbor on Gabriel. Civil Defense on Gabriel recently busted a covert operations cell run by CDC, recovering weapons, communications gear, and infiltration equipment.” Morgentstern’s display flashed to pictures and video of evidence laid out on large tables with official-looking tags. Some involved close-ups, like the half-dozen bright green capsules held in a rack. “The most worrying element is plasma micro-charges. These will go off the same effect as a thermal grenade, but at a quarter of the mass.

“Now, spaceports and shipyards are under tight security. No shipment or people get in without being scanned. Sensors watch for drones. The spies clearly had a sense of this. Civil Defense Intelligence wasn’t sure how this plan was supposed to work. Then, during a review of all the evidence, somebody picked up this.”

Morgenstern clicked through the next images: a cat standing on a property dividing wall, a dog in a residential alleyway, and empty dishes on a side doorstep. “Those micro-charges are small enough to plant in an animal’s gut. Load them up, drop them off in the right spot, and you’ve got a walking bomb that no security system would see as a threat.”

Morgenstern watched his audience consider the possibilities and murmur amongst themselves.

Tanner clamped his mouth shut and rubbed at his eyes.

“Is that a hand up? MA Malone?” asked Morgenstern.

Tanner winced. He did not, in fact, intend a question, but he went for it anyway. “Sir, is there any chance one of the agents just liked taking care of local strays in their downtime?”

Marines and navy ratings laughed. Morgenstern frowned. “No, Malone. Civil Defense ran a thorough investigation. I don’t believe there’s any such chance.” The audience snorted with laughter again. Tanner couldn’t be sure who they were laughing at.

“The presence of NorthStar and CDC agents within Archangel is itself a threat we’ve monitored since the start of the war,” Morgenstern continued. “This cell was comprised of people who’ve been here for a couple of years. They had contacts within the civilian populace—local, ostensibly loyal Archangel citizens. We are facing the threat of deep-cover agents and turncoats. They won’t only focus on planetside targets, either. They’ll hit navy targets where they can.

“On that note, we all need to be aware of internal security. When you see someone new in your unit or on attached duty, talk to them. See what they’re about. Vigilance has to continue on board and even off-duty. I’m not saying you need to suspect every new face of spying or disloyalty, just be aware of who and what is around you.”

And by that you mean watch everyone for spying or disloyalty, Tanner grumbled inwardly.

“We’ve also got simpler and more concerning developments closer to home. We’re talking about harassment, disruption, and ‘soft’ sabotage. This is a crewman on Hercules who recently received a shirt from home.” Morgenstern flicked the screen to display a shirtless, rash-afflicted young man sitting on a sickbay bed with a miserable frown. “His younger brother has been critical of the government and the war. We think he may have contaminated the shirt with a chemical irritant. Remember, it’s important to check any packages carefully, no matter who sends them.”

Oh my god. Stupid family pranks are a military threat now? Tanner fumed in silence.

He sat and listened through notes about suspicious trends in third-party media. Tanner listened to warnings about propaganda, themes of compromise and peace in films, and music from outside Archangel. He heard admonishments to keep letters to home upbeat and light on details, both for security and to boost morale.

He thought again about standing at attention, unmoved by any amount of nonsense.

We’re gonna lose this war. We’re gonna lose because we’re stupid.

* * *

“You catch the thing about shell tampering? They make every thirteenth round half a nanometer too big so eventually it wears out the barrel.” Private Fonseca set his plastic crate down on the hangar bay “ready” stack and rolled his thick shoulders. “Something like that happens to you in a fight, they’ve got you.”

Private Alvarez checked and secured the crate with a quick-release strap. “Who the fuck would do that? All our shit’s made in Archangel.”

“Same people who had better jobs working for the Big Three before we kicked ’em out. How many of them took a shittier job to make ends meet?” answered Fonseca.

No one replied, though hardly anyone else was in earshot anyway. The marines only came in at this late hour for some knucklehead punitive work detail. Beowulf’s shuttle and corvette hangar held no one but a handful of engineers filling the night watch with simple chores. There was a single Master at Arms, and his security detail was pointless.

He stood near the open passageway hatch, clad in the beret and gun belt that marked him as on watch. He kept his mouth shut. No. No. It’s just a work detail. Let the new guys talk. Do not engage.

Then Private Gould, pale and thin and just as new to Beowulf as the others, joined his squad with his own contribution to the supply stacks and conversation. “I heard they’re putting shit in the soda now. Makes you stressed out and tired.”

“Oh my god, that’s called caffeine and sugar and it’s been in soft drinks since they were first invented,” Tanner grumbled. “You’ve been drinking that all your life. We all have.”

The three marines exchanged glances and lost a beat to social uncertainty. Gould shrugged. “Yeah, but now they’re adding more.”

“Who? Who’s ‘they?’ The Big Three? We can’t get anything made by them or their subsidiaries anymore,” said Tanner.

“No, but Archangel businesses had connections, and they’re not happy about the war. And the stuff we still import is made by companies friendly with the Big Three.”

Tanner’s stare threatened a severe case of dehydration. “They’re gonna get us with soda?”

“No, but…” Gould mumbled, “It’s all connected, right?”

Alvarez snorted. Fonseca punched Gould’s shoulder. “Soda strike.”

“Are you supposed to be talking to us? Or us with you?” Alvarez ventured.

“Is there a reason we shouldn’t talk?” Tanner craned his head to look back at the hatch. “Will you get busted for slacking off?”

“Nah, not for a couple minutes. It’s just supply work,” said Fonseca. “Aren’t you on watch?”

“I’m watching those crewmen buff out the deck, yeah,” said Tanner. “They cancel or reinstate this watch every other month. We don’t even have any civilian contractors or visitors on board right now. It’s a bullshit job.”

“We just didn’t expect to be talking,” said Gould. “I mean, you’re navy, we’re marines, and there’s rank and stuff.”

“I work with marines all the time, just like in basic. I’m only a couple years ahead of you. It doesn’t count for as much as you’d think. When did you come on board?”

“About a week ago,” said Alvarez.

“This is gonna sound counterintuitive, but don’t be afraid to volunteer for a couple work details when you get the chance,” Tanner suggested. “It’s how you get around and meet people, and it gives you some leverage when you want to get out of a chore that’s really bullshit. Also, if anyone sends you to find a hundred meters of shoreline or a set of fallopian tubes, it’s a prank. When they tell you to ask for an ‘engineer’s punch,’ it’s not a tool; it literally means an engineer punching you.”

“Too late on one of those, but thanks,” said Fonseca.

“Hey, we’re good with talking, but…” Alvarez lowered his voice. “I mean, they’ve got you down here doing this watch. Doesn’t that mean something’s gonna go down?”

Tanner winced. He couldn’t expect to go unrecognized, especially while wearing a nametag. “No, man. I get bullshit jobs like everyone else. One of my stripes is just ’cause they had to fill a gap. The only person on this boat who lives up to the hype is Gunny Jan—”

“General quarters! General quarters!” The voice on the speakers rose over the accompanying alarm. “This is not a drill! All hands to general quarters!”

The beret was off Tanner’s head and replaced by the helmet from his shoulder sling before the warning was half finished. “Helmets! Helmets on!” he shouted at the marines bolting for the passageway. The warning sideswiped other questions out of Tanner’s mouth, like if they knew where to go. Alpha Company’s area wasn’t far from the hangar, particularly on this side. They were already moving and had each other to rely on. They’d be fine.

A deserted hangar bay left no traffic to manage or problems to untangle. Tanner gave the marines’ ready supply stack a tug to check stability before hitting his holocom to tie into the MA net.

“…can seal up the brig and join the bridge guard,” Lieutenant Commander Jacobson told the watch section. “Reeves, as soon as the galley empties out, head to engineering. Malone, I’ve got you in the hangar bay?”

Tanner couldn’t blame the boss for the note of surprise. They really did flip-flop this watch all the time. “Yes, sir. I’m here.”

“Stay put. I may need a shuffle. Hold on.”

Personnel streamed into the hangar bay, mostly in the grey vac suits of navy ratings. Crewmen ran to prep the corvette St. Catherine and the combat shuttles. Monitors on the bulkheads offered nothing new beyond the general quarters status update. Forward and low within Beowulf’s mass, Tanner wouldn’t feel much in the way of the ship’s motion. He had no idea how imminent any sort of threat might be, let alone the size or shape of it. He had to wait.

Then marines came streaming out of the nearby passageway in large numbers—and armed. They headed straight for the combat shuttles, which weren’t a normal part of general quarters. Tanner’s shoulders tensed and the pit in his stomach sank deeper.

“Okay, I’m getting caught up,” Jacobson announced over the MA net. “We’ve got a single freighter about two million klicks out, just popped out of FTL. She’s marked as one of ours and sending out friendly signals, but nobody expected her. We’re closing in to investigate. That’s what I know. Hold tight.

“Malone, I’ve got a roster hiccup and you’re already in the hangar bay. I need you to load up with Alpha Company, Second Platoon. That’s Lieutenant Beldad. Shuttle Sparrow. They usually work with Lewis. Get on it.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Tanner hustled over to the shuttles, where men and women in blue marine vac suits and helmets strapped on combat gear. Lieutenant Beldad was easy enough to identify by her insignia and her conversation with the shuttle pilots, but Tanner knew better than to report directly to her.

“Sergeant Laguna,” he spoke up, turning her head from the rapidly forming load-in line of her marines. “MA Malone, reporting for muster with your platoon. MA Lewis is down sick right now.”

“Shit,” grunted the platoon sergeant. Dark eyes in a bronze face looked him up and down. “I can spare you a rifle and ammo, but I don’t have any extra combat jackets. We don’t know what we’re getting into. You’ll have to do without.”

“Yeah, I figured. That’s the way it goes. I’m not normally on the shuttles, either. Where do you want me?”

Laguna tilted her head. “End of the line. Pull one of the spare rifles and belts off the rack when you get inside. You’ll see the empty seat by then.”

Tanner obeyed without complaint. Second Platoon loaded in quickly, showing practice and discipline. Most of the marines had been through their share of fights since the war began. Tanner didn’t know the navy corpsman or the damage controlman assigned to the platoon, but Beowulf was a big ship. Thousands of people were still strangers to him.

Spotting that empty seat near the back of the shuttle’s bench-like rows, Tanner found the contrast to those strangers: Alvarez, Gould, and Fonseca, their newly-acquainted faces all framed by their helmets and their eyes wide with interest as Tanner strapped in beside them. “You’re coming with us?” asked Fonseca.

“I guess. I don’t even know if we’re going anywhere,” said Tanner.

“Closing up!” declared the loadmaster. She pulled the gangway hatch and locked it in place.

A low rumble and hum ran through the shuttle as the engines came to life.

“Shit, it’s gotta be something real serious if you’re here,” muttered Alvarez.

“Oh no. No, no, no,” Tanner sighed.

Gould looked on with wide eyes. “Whoa, you think it’s gonna be that bad?”

“No. No, I don’t know. Guys, I’m telling you, I’m not special and it doesn’t work that way. I’m out here stumbling around like a fucking clown same as everyone else. Same as you.”

The three new grunts shared an uncomfortable look.

Launch passed with a rumble but without any explanation of where they’d be headed. Though he paid close attention, Tanner didn’t pick up any sign of combat maneuver in their flight beyond simple speed. Electrostatic reinforcement was running through the hull, the engines hummed at max, and the loadmaster had strapped in like everyone else. Apart from that, everything felt like a smooth and steady ride.

“Second Platoon, heads up.” Lieutenant Beldad came out of the cockpit with her faceplate racked back and a holographic screen floating over her wrist. She tapped a few keys to share images. Tanner felt his holocom buzz with the receipt, but he paid attention to the lieutenant before looking.

“We’ve got a Promise-class multipurpose cargo ship that jumped into the neighborhood unscheduled and unannounced. Identification says it’s Morley, ported out of Michael. We’ve got a transmission claiming they took off out of the port in Vista Verde and they’re carrying escapees. Beowulf is talking to them while they verify the surveillance tracking on Michael.

“This could all be a trap to lure ships out of position or bring our guard down. It could all be bullshit. If we get the go-ahead from Beowulf, we are to board and secure, but do not take anything at face value. Nobody’s managed to escape Michael since the first weeks of the war. It’s weird to see anyone do it now. Stay cool and don’t get your hopes up.”

The advice came a little late. Tanner already felt his heart climbing upward in his chest. For once, it didn’t do it out of fear.

“I’ve sent you a basic layout of the ship’s class and capabilities in case it becomes relevant,” Beldad continued. “Scans and visuals show some damage, but nothing catastrophic. If we get the order to go in, we follow standard boarding procedures. For now, hang tight.”

Tanner tapped his holocom to glance through Morley’s stats and deck plans: eighty meters in length, six decks, a main cargo bay split into quarter sections, a standard crew between six and eight. The ship had FTL, but wasn’t built for long interstellar trips. Morley probably hadn’t left Archangel since she was purchased.

He also considered Beldad’s details. The general quarters alarm hadn’t even been five minutes ago. If Morley indeed tore out of Vista Verde, presumably under fire from NorthStar patrols or planetside guns, she would only have survived by making an FTL jump at the first opportunity—with the wild risk of Michael’s gravity well shredding the ship in the process. Moving faster than light would’ve brought her here even before Beowulf or other long-range monitoring saw her escape on Michael.

“So it’s not combat? It’s refugees?” asked Fonseca.

“Hey, you heard the LT,” said someone in the next row. “Treat it like a boarding inspection. You’ve trained for that.”

The shuttle engines hummed peacefully along, but nothing short of a violent course change would bring much sensation through the artificial gravity system. Second Platoon didn’t get to tie into signal feeds from the cockpit. The briefing from Beldad beat what Tanner had gotten in other actions, but outside that, he had to sit and wait.

He didn’t wait long.

“Alright people, we are moving in and docking at the forward port-side airlock,” announced Sergeant Laguna. Beldad was nowhere to be seen, presumably in the cockpit again. The shuttle’s loadmaster was the only one on her feet to perform the link-up. “Morley says they’ve got a couple hundred civilians on board. We’ve got Beowulf and St. Catherine watching us and others on the way for back-up. You have deck plans and your squads have sniffer units. This ship goes nowhere until we’ve searched her top to bottom, and that includes everyone. No matter what you see or what anyone says, this is a boarding inspection and we have not confirmed everyone is friendly. Maintain trigger discipline. Don’t lose your edge. Faceplates down.”

Everyone complied. Tanner was the only one to frown about it.

A firm jolt punctuated the sergeant’s warnings as the shuttle clamped side-by-side onto Morley. Lacking windows or external camera feeds, Second Platoon had nothing but one another to look at while the loadmaster and a couple marine assistants secured the airlock passages. Tanner waited in silence until he saw Gould’s hand flex around the barrel of his pulse rifle. “Hey,” he said quietly. “It’s a freighter full of civilians. They’re not out to get you.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Gould exhaled, and then shrugged. “Yeah. Unless it’s a trap, right?”

“Christ. Look, don’t turn off your brain, but you don’t want to scare these people. They just ran from an occupation. I did this stuff with refugee pickup from Hashem on my first day out of basic,” Tanner said, hoping to calm Gould and the others. “These people need help. This is the good part of our job, okay?”

“Second Platoon, up!” barked Laguna. Everyone snapped out of their seat restraints and stood. “Out by the numbers, one-two-three-four. First squad, let’s go.”

Marines filed out. Waiting for his turn with third squad, Tanner looked left and right to check for grips at weapons. Nobody’s finger rested on a trigger, but that was slim reassurance. Laguna’s demeanor and the jitters of his new acquaintances tempered his earlier hopes. Stress crept into his neck and shoulders.

Please, don’t anybody do anything stupid.

“Third, let’s go,” called the squad leader up front. Tanner walked out near the end of the line.

Bright lights, white bulkheads, and blue trim welcomed Second Platoon onto the Morley. Beldad conferred with some ship’s crewman wearing a civilian vac suit. “…planned this for a month and a half waiting for a chance to go,” Tanner overheard the man say. “We knew they’d get sloppy sooner or later, and then—”

“Third squad, take the portside cargo holds,” Sergeant Laguna directed over the guy’s story. Tanner could hear nothing else while she directed traffic. “You’ve got civilians in there. Make a safety sweep before you get too involved in anything.”

“Understood,” answered the squad leader. Sergeant Garcia waved his people onward and kept to a calm, steady pace. They turned a corner and walked down clear passageways with few doors or branches. Maps and guidelines took them straight to the cargo areas. Other platoons would take care of the decks with living spaces and smaller compartments.

Without instructions to the contrary, Tanner stuck to the back with the new guys. He didn’t worry about the older people in the squad—or at least, not as much. A look up and down the line confirmed he was the only navy specialist with third squad. The corpsman, the engineer, and the others went with other squads.

Someone up front already had a sniffer unit going. Heads turned with vigilance. Rifles stayed at a ready angle, not leveled to fire but hardly casual.

Tanner racked his faceplate back.

Beside him, Alvarez turned his head with a questioning look. Tanner rolled his eyes. “We’re not on a plague ship. These people need to see friendly faces.”

A couple of marines up ahead looked over their shoulders, including Sergeant Garcia. Tanner recognized discomfort and disapproval even with the faceplates down. Still, no one said anything. The squad carried on.

The crew entrance to the cargo bay stood closed as they arrived. Garcia gestured for combat ready positions, sending people to either side of the bulkhead, but added an open-handed calming gesture. Then he tapped the door controls and announced, “Archangel marines!”

Archangel navy, Tanner corrected inwardly, but his objection died under the instant cheers as the door slid open. Garcia led the way, rifle turned upward, followed by the first few squadmates. Assurances and words of explanation broke through the din and shuffle as the rest of the squad followed: take care of everyone, safety check, required by regs, have to search, don’t be alarmed. Nothing personal. Please stay seated.

“Split right.” Garcia’s assistant squad leader directed the handful of marines moving in ahead of Tanner and the newbies. Her gesture reversed as Fonseca and Alvarez approached. “Move to the left,” she said.

Tanner passed through the entrance into the heart-stopping sight of Morley’s cargo bay. Ordinary people of every age and gender filled it. They wore everything from shipyard coveralls to suits to the sunny styles of Archangel’s warmest climate. They watched the marines with relief and hope.

His breath caught and his eye developed a twitch that didn’t seem to want to stop. They gave him his first real sight of home since the day he left. His heart ached.

A rifle swung to shoulder-level at his side. “Oh my god, they’ve got dogs!” shouted Gould.

Tanner swatted Gould’s rifle barrel down and held on. Three shots exploded from the muzzle and pain erupted from Tanner’s foot in a spray of blood and sparks. People screamed. The dogs barked.

“Hold fire! Hold fire!” shouted Garcia, and his assistant squad leader, and practically every other marine.

Gould stared at Tanner with wide, shocked eyes behind his armored faceplate.

Shaking with agony, Tanner stared right back at him.

“Hold fire! Everyone calm down!” Garcia continued.

Two words escaped Tanner’s gritted teeth: “Let. Go.”

Gould complied. Tanner jerked the rifle away, flipped the safety, and dropped it on the deck, keeping his weight concentrated on the uninjured foot. The other foot screamed.

Faces all around him were blank with fright. He had an injury to tend, scared new guys to settle down, and Jesus fucking Christ I’m gonna strangle Morgenstern the minute I limp out of the fucking infirmary, but right now he saw only terrified people from home who’d already been through months of hell.

Tanner tore off his helmet and let it fall. Pain shot up his leg through his whole body; he had to fight to keep his eyes open, to keep his good foot and leg steady, and to hold his profanity in check. He was shaking.

“Welcome to Free Archangel,” he managed, voice cracking. “We’re glad to see you!”

LOSSES

Admiral Yeoh put on a great defense, but nothing has moved in over a year. We’ve got the weapons and we’ve got the people. It’s only been a question of leadership. The president is putting Yeoh on the bench at the end of the week and giving me a crack at this. We’re going to put the occupiers on the back foot.

NorthStar still sends out freighters of looted resources from Michael. That’s where we start. Put together a task force and let’s hit ’em where it hurts.

—Admiral John Snyder

Naval Command Memo, April 2278

Impact nearly took Tanner out. His helmet slammed against the bulkhead behind him and only his seat restraints kept him from bouncing away. He hurt from back to front. Whatever thoughts had been in his brain were gone now. His eyes opened to the lowlight overlay of his faceplate lenses, showing a cargo bay of similarly jostled marines and Navy crew in rows facing one another.

Oh right. I’m in the Navy and we’re all fucked.

Ravenell was already out of the seat to Tanner’s left. Baldwin unbuckled to his right. He didn’t know why. They weren’t dropping, he didn’t hear an order, and most others were still seated. Then he noticed the writhing, jerky body language of two men in the row facing him and the slumped head of another.

Regular lighting returned, revealing blood everywhere. His helmet baffles had deadened the last couple seconds of noise to protect his hearing, but now the cries and groans of pain caught up to him, along with calls for the corpsman and frantic shouts for help.

Tanner unbuckled, too.

Urgency overwhelmed training for the first seconds. Tanner got to his feet and checked on the slumped form of Private Sanders before checking the rest of the situation. The shard of metal embedded in the private’s neck went way beyond any corpsman’s ability to treat, let alone Tanner’s, and it wasn’t Sanders’s only wound. If he hadn’t died instantly, loss of consciousness was a blessing.

Tanner searched for some good he could do. Check the scene first, then take care of the victims, Chief Everett scolded from three years ago. Tanner looked around the cargo bay and found small holes in the overhead. Whatever hit St. Catherine sent shrapnel through the bay, mostly on the other side. Emergency sealant systems had kicked in to prevent loss of air. Most of the platoon escaped injury, but only by a narrow definition of “most.”

Shrapnel through the overhead didn’t bode well for St. Catherine’s crew, or for the corvette itself. He had to leave that to someone else, along with the battle outside.

Baldwin pulled Quesada out of his seat to reach an ugly wound at his back. Ravenell wrapped Espiga’s shoulder with static tape. At a glance, Quesada needed more help. Tanner grabbed his shoulder and helped Baldwin settle him face down in the aisle.

“We’ve got you, Quesada.” She backhanded Tanner’s hip to make sure he was listening. “You get the auto-suture, I’ll hold him down and dope him.”

The device was in Tanner’s leg pocket, though he had hoped for opposite tasks. An auto-suture did much more than the name implied. Tanner unfastened Quesada’s combat coat and swept the armor-lined fabric away. As soon as he laid the twenty-centimeter box along Quesada’s bloody back he had readings and vitals glowing beneath his fingers. “Scanning. Foreign metal with internal tearing and bleeding,” the device reported in its dumbed-down-for-laypeople voice. “Please remove clothing from the affected area.”

“Fuck.” Tanner was afraid of that. He pulled his survival knife and cut a larger gap in Quesada’s vac suit and shirt underneath. More blood welled up. Quesada bit down a shriek.

Baldwin jabbed Quesada with a pen-shaped cartridge of painkillers, but it was her knee on his shoulder that helped Tanner more. Tanner put the auto-suture back onto the wound and held it steady. Tiny arms and scalpels went to work before Quesada was well and truly numb. He squirmed against Baldwin’s knee, his welling blood making it hard to hold the device in place, but not any harder than the next wobble of the whole ship.

Either St. Catherine’s artificial gravity was weakening, or the corvette was taking some truly rough evasive action to feel it this acutely. Tanner hated every answer that came to mind.

“Operating,” said the auto-suture. “Please hold this device steady.”

“Yeah, I’m trying,” Tanner grumbled.

“Second Platoon! Give me casualties,” Gunny Janeka barked from the front of the cargo bay. “By the squad. First?”

“Nores and Simonson are down,” someone shouted. “Ruiz is hurt but not bad.”

“Second squad?”

“Shit, how bad is it?” Quesada groaned. “I can’t even feel now. It’s hard to breathe.”

“Oh, that’s me.” Baldwin pulled her knee back now that Quesada struggled less.

“You’re gonna be alright,” said Tanner. At least he could say it honestly. He missed the list of names until he heard Ravenell call out a report on Espiga. “Sanders is down, Quesada is wounded,” Tanner called back.

“Aw fuck,” Quesada hissed. “Fuck no.”

“Don’t think about it now. Best you can do for anyone is take care of yourself,” said Baldwin.

“Debris removed,” the auto-suture reported. “Closing the wound. Do not remove this device.”

That at least allowed Tanner to look up. Most of the platoon were out of their seats, either to give first aid or receive it. Everyone still in their chairs slumped to one side or another. The lights flickered and gravity lurched.

This is bad. This is really bad.

“Bridge, Second Platoon,” Lieutenant Kilmeade shouted at the front of the bay. “Bridge? St. Catherine, is anyone there?”

“Lieutenant,” Janeka broke in.

Good. She was there to take care of him. Y’know, take care of the guy in charge, Tanner thought. Because that’s a job someone has to have.

“Almost done, Quesada.” Baldwin pulled a slap-pad dressing from the aid pouch in her coat.

“I’ll tape him when you’re done,” said Tanner. “Gotta get him airtight, too.”

She shook her head. “I’ll do it. I spilled half my kit, anyway. Go help someone else.”

Tanner blinked, finally noticing the bits of gear scattered around them. He wasn’t the only one struggling after that hit.

“Procedure complete,” said the auto-suture. “Remove this device and clean the wound. Proper cleaning is vital—”

“Rav, you good?” Tanner asked, shoving the auto-suture back into his pocket.

“I’m set.” Ravenell had Espiga back in his chair and was working to secure the seat belts.

Rising to his feet, Tanner got a better look at the situation. Sealant foam plugged the holes in the overhead. Lights, gravity, and life support held steady, implying at least some things about the ship’s condition. Tanner already knew Baldwin and Ravenell were okay; a second look found Alicia and Collins among the helpers rather than the hurt.

That covered his top priorities. It seemed every injured person had someone tending to them, if not two or more. Jesus, half the platoon is hurt. He called out, “Who needs help?”

“Malone, come here,” said Janeka.

He picked his way around Ravenell and the other marines in his aisle. Janeka was stuck close to Kilmeade at the computer station. She blocked the view of the monitor for most of the platoon, but Tanner got a look at the tactical screen once he came close.

St. Catherine drifted deeper on the wrong side of NorthStar’s destroyers, with Joan of Arc and St. Mark pulling away under pursuit. Beowulf and her escorts couldn’t cover St. Catherine at this distance. In the other direction, the “treasure ships” continued on their way out of the gravity hazard zones toward a safe jump to FTL. Nobody would be capturing them now.

“Talk to me. Somebody talk to me,” Kilmeade muttered, tapping at the monitor keys.

“Gunny, what do you need?” asked Tanner.

“I don’t know yet. You said you’re available. Wait for it,” said Janeka.

“Second Platoon?” asked a woman’s voice from the computer station. “This is Chief Villa in engineering. We can’t reach the bridge. Can you?”

“Neither can—ah, this is Lieutenant Kilmeade,” he corrected. “We can’t reach the bridge, either. We’ve got casualties in here. What happened?”

“We got tagged hard by a defense gun on final approach to that freighter and then the lasers piled on. We’re cut off in here but we’re busy keeping systems online, anyway. Main thrusters are down and the secondaries dumped fuel cells to avoid rupture. I don’t see anything from the helm. We’re drifting fast.”

“Can you take over the helm?” asked Janeka.

“Yeah, I’m about to, since I can’t raise anyone else. It’s not just the bridge. Nobody else is answering, either. I think everybody’s either dead or knocked out. But I’ve got nothing beyond maneuvering jets to work with.” Notification tones sounded in the background as she worked. “There, I’ve taken control. Joey, I need you over here on the helm.”

On the monitor, St. Catherine continued from the main points of contact, drifting closer and closer to safety from enemy weapon range—until the frigate Jackson hung back from the advancing line. Her threat range still covered St. Catherine.

“Shit, shit, shit,” breathed Kilmeade.

“Lieutenant. May I?” Janeka didn’t say it as a request. Kilmeade nodded. “Chief, I recommend we do not course correct. Keep us drifting and don’t respond to anything short of enemy fire.”

“You want us to play dead?” asked Chief Villa.

“Correct.”

“Gunny, if they fire—” Kilmeade began.

“They could throw a missile at this range and we’d have to respond,” said Janeka. “They haven’t fired, because they might hit. They don’t want to destroy us.”

Kilmeade stopped, steadying himself against the computer station. Tanner didn’t know whether to sympathize or to punch him, but his feelings leaned heavily toward the latter.

“Chief, tell me again about secondary thrusters. Are they damaged?” asked Janeka.

“Right, right, we’re on the same page,” the chief replied. “I see the path. The secondaries could take us clear, but they’re physically out of fuel. The whole chamber had to dump to avoid an explosion. We’d need to reload, and I can’t send any of my guys out. I’ve got one hatch blocked and the other reads a fire on the other side. We’re trapped.”

“We’re not.” Janeka turned back to the cargo bay. “Engineers! I need my engineers now! Drop what you’re doing and move!”

Three people parted from the tangle of first aid and recovery work. Tanner recognized Franco from his height and the machinist mate insignia on his arm. Damage Controlman Brown and Electrician’s Mate Barrett were strangers to Tanner.

“Garcia’s hurt bad, Gunny,” Franco reported as he stepped out of the crowd. “Johnson’s dead.”

“Shit, are we it?” asked Barrett. Second Platoon brought extra engineers on this run in hopes of a ship capture, but only the youngest and least experienced were still on their feet.

“You’re enough,” said Janeka. “We need you to put new fuel cells into the secondary thrusters. The snipes are all stuck in engineering, so this is on you. Chief, I’ve got your work crew,” she said to the station. “Where should they pull cells?”

“Ah—shit, sorry, I’m doing five things here,” said Villa.

“The magazine is the easiest to reach,” Tanner spoke up. “Everything else might be blocked.”

“Magazine? Yeah, he’s right,” said Villa. “Missile launchers are fucked, anyway. You’ll have to pull the cells from the missiles but that’s probably easier than getting to main stores right now.”

“Alright.” Janeka turned back to her impromptu team. “Coordinate with engineering via ship’s intercom if you can, but do not send any signals for any reason. If it doesn’t go through a wire, it doesn’t go. If the lights are out, you work in the dark. Got me? Have any of you served on a corvette before?” She saw shaking heads. “Malone, you know your way around. Go—”

“Gunny.” Kilmeade pointed to the tactical screen. NorthStar’s line pushed Archangel’s ships farther away, while Jackson drew closer to St. Catherine. The frigate’s pace implied caution, but her heading was unmistakable.

“Move,” Janeka told the engineers. “No signals!”

“Up the ladder and left,” Tanner pointed. The others were between himself and the steps, and Brown had to throw the overhead hatch manually. He had to wait as they rushed through.

“Gunny, hold on,” said Kilmeade. “We can’t outrun them on secondaries and we can’t fight. If that frigate demands surrender and we’re still—”

“Who cares what they demand?” she cut him off coldly.

Tanner knew exactly where Kilmeade’s mind went. He hustled up after the engineers, nearly pushing into Barrett on the steps.

“Malone!” Kilmeade called after him. Tanner pretended not to hear.

In his wake, Janeka grabbed Kilmeade’s collar at an angle no one would see and pulled him close. “You don’t know what they’ll do to Malone if they catch him,” she hissed. “He’s not the only one on their list. We do not answer any calls. We do not surrender. Ever.”

Tanner heard none of it. He found Brown, Franco, and Barrett in the passageway above, checking the next hatch before going through. No hazards registered on the other side. “Magazine’s closer to the center, right?” asked Franco.

“Yeah. Couple ways there, just have to pick one or the other.” Tanner lead them around another turn to a hatch. They were only meters away, but protective design kept the missile magazine buried behind other compartments.

“Hey Malone, you ever do this before?” asked Barrett.

“Nah. I remembered it from a test.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever dismantled a missile,” said Franco.

“We’ll figure it out,” said Barrett.

Tanner appreciated Barrett’s confidence. He felt better working with engineers than marines. Engineers had to be smart.

“Only missile I’ve used is the one I gave your mom,” said Brown. Franco and Barrett laughed.

Oh god, I’m gonna die with a bunch of smart assholes, Tanner grumbled.

Life support sensors at the hatch indicated low air pressure on the other side, but not vacuum or a fire. Tanner thought about voiding the compartment to conserve oxygen, but stopped. “Janeka said no signals, no matter what,” he said. “If we vent, we can’t talk.” Seeing nods and shrugs of agreement, he opened the hatch.

Air rushed loudly inside. The path ahead was barely wide enough for an adult’s shoulders, lined as it was on both sides with panels for system and machine access. Sparks flew from a damaged panel on the right, while the left presented a jagged piece of metal embedded half in the magazine panel and half in the bulkhead.

There was a fist-sized hole in the hatch at the opposite end losing air, suggesting a hull rupture somewhere beyond. Tanner felt a hole somewhere in his gut, too, but he held it together. “That’s magazine access at the bottom with the shrapnel jamming it shut. Can you handle it?”

“Yeah.” Franco moved in. “Somebody plug that hole.”

“Brown, that’s you and Malone. I’ve got the electrical,” said Barrett.

The squeeze would have been comical in better circumstances. Franco pressed himself against the bulkhead to avoid sparks before crouching in the middle of the passage. Barrett stopped at the crackling panel before Tanner and Brown moved in, forcing them to slide past one and climb over the other.

At the far hatch, Tanner got a peek through the hole while Brown plundered Franco’s gear bag for a plug. The passageway on the other side opened into space with a hole wider than Tanner could span if he stretched from fingertips to toes. He could even see part of the corvette’s badly-scarred starboard wing through the erratic lighting of electrical flashes.

“Here, hold this.” Brown pushed a canister of sealant into Tanner’s hand before lining a simple wooden cone into the hole. He shoved the cone in forcefully and followed with a few hammer blows before Tanner followed with the sealant, spraying an airtight foam around the gap. The foam hardened in seconds and ended the last whistles of escaping air.

Behind them, Franco already had the shrapnel vibrating itself loose under a sonic contact lead. Barrett had the electrical problem silenced. “Shit, this is mainframe routing. We could tie into the network directly from here. Hey, do we need help from engineering? Should they talk us through this?” asked Barrett.

“Nah, I’ve got it.” Franco opened the magazine access panel and ducked inside.

“Okay. I can check in with the platoon?”

“No.” Tanner’s breath caught when Barrett looked back; now he needed a way to avoid explaining his reluctance to talk to Kilmeade. “Wait, you’ve got mainframe access? Can you tie us into tactical?”

“Sure.” The electrician’s mate carried a diagnostic pad with cable hookups. Barrett tapped through menus on the screen while Franco grunted and Brown waited. “Here you go… damn, that’s not good.”

St. Catherine moved ever farther from friendly ships, which themselves were pushed back by NorthStar’s counterattack. Jackson now lurked within thirty thousand kilometers. Overlays usually filled with internal activity and status readings showed little life—except for a flashing notification from the communications system.

Jackson was calling. No one answered.

“You think the LT sees that?” asked Brown. “What’s with Janeka’s signal silence, anyway? She afraid they’ve broken our crypto?”

“They don’t need to know anyone’s alive here at all,” said Tanner.

“That’s obviously a surrender demand,” said Brown.

“Right. If we respond, it’s gotta be a yes or a no. If we tell them no, they shoot. If we say yes, that’s false surrender, and it’s a war crime. There’s no rule against shutting up.”

“Here. It’s heavy,” said Franco. A thruster manifold wider than Franco’s hips emerged from the open panel. Brown and Barrett pulled the meter-long missile free while Franco exhaled with relief. “How many do we need?”

“Get a couple more just to be sure.” Barrett tapped Tanner’s leg and pointed, directing him to hold the warhead while Brown held the weapon steady on the deck at its other end. “Okay, disable arming code first, then propulsion,” Barrett narrated to himself as he went through the steps. “Don’t want this thing shooting off on us.”

Tanner’s eyes snapped wide with alarm. He looked to the display. Jackson approached slowly, twenty klicks out now, but still coming. “Wait. These will launch outside the launcher?”

Barrett and Brown stopped and looked up at him. “It wouldn’t be as steady or accurate,” Barrett thought out loud, “but… yeah.”

“They’re gonna get close enough to grapple us. How accurate does it need to be?” asked Tanner.

The two engineers looked at one another for a single heartbeat before turning back to their work. “Franco, we need another one fast,” said Brown. Barrett popped the locks on the propulsion frame to free up the fuel housing. The cell inside looked much like a cylinder of ordinary concrete twice as thick as Tanner’s forearm and about the same length.

As soon as it was open, Barrett tugged the cell free and hefted it up. “Here, take it,” Barrett told Tanner. “It’s one or nothing, anyway. You know where to load it into the secondaries, right? You know how to do that?”

“Yeah, it’s not hard—wait. If you want to take a shot, someone has to actually—”

“We know, and someone has to refuel the ship,” said Brown, crawling around to help Franco with the next missile. “Go. We’ve got this.”

With the cell in his hands, Tanner glanced at the tactical screen. Jackson was now within fifteen klicks. St. Catherine had only the electrostatic reinforcement field running through the hull for protection. The ship needed fuel, and he couldn’t help with the missile Brown and Franco pulled from the magazine.

He slid past the engineers and pushed through the hatch.

Second thoughts chased him through his passage aftward: Jackson would be close enough for its grapples anytime its captain damn well pleased. If they were in grappling range when the missile flew, the blast radius would hit St. Catherine, too. Even apart from that, whoever had the helm had to be ready to capitalize on the move.

Life support sensors flashed with warning lights for smoke and low oxygen. Tanner couldn’t wait. He tucked the heavy cylinder under one arm and threw the wheel on the hatch. Smoke poured from the cramped space on the other side, obscuring another wall of machinery. Broken metal decorated the deck and emergency sealant coated the overhead. Flashing red text on a monitor warned of the emergency fuel cell dump.

“Loader, bypass lever, receiver,” he remembered out loud. Nothing about the process involved automation or computers. The emergency loader was simple metal and gears. With the last lever thrown, a green light confirmed his results. Tanner released a tense breath.

A solution to another problem awaited on the bulkhead to his side: the compartment’s network panel had come through the hit unscathed. He tapped the screen and brought the video intercom to life. “Engin—no, main network. Main network,” he instructed. Split screens displayed an array of empty or dark compartments, but he saw a batch of marines putting out the fires outside engineering and others moving onto the bridge. Most importantly, he found Chief Villa at engineering and Kilmeade at Janeka’s station.

“Chief, Gunny, it’s Malone. Secondaries have a fuel cell.”

“I see it,” Villa answered. “Is that all? One won’t last long.”

“We’ll never get away,” said Kilmeade. “They’re fifty klicks out. We should answer—”

“Chief, listen.” Tanner tapped through shipboard cameras through the feed closest to the hull breach. Three figures in vac suits hauled a missile and a wire-connected diagnostic pad to the gap in the hull. “Camera seventeen. Go to seventeen. The engineers have a live missile ready to fire from the breach. They’ve got the tactical feed. They’re taking the shot.”

“What? That’s crazy,” Kilmeade exploded. “I didn’t order any—”

“Sir, you don’t command the boat,” said Janeka.

He tapped the holocom on his wrist. “Second Plaaaawk!” Kilmeade’s head and shoulders dropped out of the screen amid a flail of his own arms and legs. Janeka barely moved.

“Joey, keep your finger on it,” Villa warned. The chief was on the same page.

Franco, Barrett, and Brown no longer showed up on camera seventeen. Tanner saw only a dark passage with a jagged hole into space on the other side, and a cable crossing the passage to hang from the top of the gap.

The bright orange glare of a missile launch flashed right where he was staring. In nearly the same instant, a red flash rocked St. Catherine. Tanner slammed against the wall of machinery before hitting the deck. “Evasive roll!” shouted Chief Villa as the secondaries roared to life. Sudden acceleration reached through St. Catherine’s artificial gravity and pulled Tanner against the bulkhead.

The sensation stopped almost as soon as it began. Camera seventeen showed nothing but static. His head still spun, but his ears worked fine. “Damn it, that laser caught all three of them. Not even bodies,” said Chief Villa. “Get us out of here.”

* * *

“I wouldn’t call the operation a failure.” Admiral Snyder tugged on his dress uniform coat full of decorations and insignia. His bushy white mustache lent an air of experience and maturity to counter his longevity treatments, or at least that seemed to be its purpose. “In fact, I’d call it a good day for us.”

“But you didn’t capture any of their treasure ships,” said Bob Norris. Raphael Public Media’s best journalist turned up the pressure without so much as leaning forward in his chair, let alone raising his voice. “No territory was gained and several ships were severely damaged.”

“I might dispute characterizing it as ‘severely,’” said Snyder.

“Three ships are out of action, along with numerous crew casualties, according to my information.”

“I’m not going to comment on our readiness status, but it’s no secret that one of theirs was destroyed outright. We brought all our ships home while they lost Jackson, a frigate. That’s significant.”

“Is that a favorable pace of attrition against the largest shipbuilder in the Union?” asked Norris.

Snyder grunted, shifting in his chair.

“Here you go.” The cook’s voice drew Tanner’s attention from the interview on the bulkhead screen and back to the chow line. A special order slid out from the line onto Tanner’s tray. He opened his mouth to say thanks, but the cook had already turned away to other tasks.

Beowulf’s galley ran on a mix of automation, careful scheduling, and advance orders. Tanner’s order created no hassle or kink in the system. He still felt silly and needy to ask for it.

With his tray filled, Tanner abandoned the interview in favor of finding a seat at a table. He could read the transcript and get pissed off at Snyder later. A glance around the galley found none of his few friends, but at least empty seats were plentiful enough to keep to himself. He settled into the end of one bench and tapped his holocom for something to read or watch while he ate.

“Malone.” Janeka appeared out of nowhere like she always did, standing in the aisle beside him with a mug in hand, as if she ever needed mortal comforts like coffee. “May I join you?”

The words formed a request, but Tanner knew better. He wasn’t sure Janeka ever requested anything in her life. She required things of people. “Sure,” he answered slowly.

She took the seat facing his. Her eyes held his gaze. No smiles. No relaxation. Janeka Standard. “How are you feeling?”

“Um.” Don’t say “um.” Don’t “um” the gunny, you fool! “Fine.”

“You’re a good liar, Malone.” The statement chilled his heart, but she said it with neither approval nor rebuke. It was a simple, firm observation. “Very good. Straight face, no mumbling, no ticks. But you can’t keep it up forever, and you hate doing it.”

“What’s…?” Tanner struggled to navigate this. Lying to the gunny had to be bad, but she didn’t seem angry. Where did this come from? “When have I lied?”

“You are not fine.”

“How so?”

“You grew up in Geronimo and half your family is Mexican.” She nodded to his tray. “That is white rice, apple sauce, and grilled chicken with nothing but black pepper.”

Tanner’s frown could’ve dried out the whole tray. “Gunny, you know how often I get sick.”

“From low gravity and vertigo, not diet. Your defensiveness proves my point.”

“You watch what I eat?”

“I watch the people I rely upon when I have reason for concern. You are not fine.”

“Did my lunch prompt your conclusion, or did it support a preconception?”

Her eyebrow rose. “Malone, you are a nerd.”

“Yeah,” he conceded.

“Do you tell people the truth about St. Jude? About the crew?”

“Where’d that come from?”

“I’ve seen your interviews. I know how you feel about the military, and I know how the machine works. Archangel and the Navy needed relatable, likeable martyrs. They needed dead heroes. How did you feel about them, Malone? Don’t answer for the media. Answer for me.”

Tanner couldn’t help glancing to either side, though he knew no one was listening. This wasn’t some setup. St. Jude was ancient history, and Janeka didn’t play games. He sucked in a tense breath. “I wouldn’t have pissed on them if they were on fire.”

“That is also not true,” said Janeka. “You would put them out because it’s the right thing to do, and that’s who you are. You would resent it; that’s also who you are. But you would help. And you know the importance of how they are remembered.”

“It’s not the machine, Gunny. Fuck the media. They had families. Some had kids.”

“That is the real Malone talking,” said Janeka. No approval, nor rebuke.

“Gunny, what is this?”

“The missile was your idea.” If she saw Tanner’s shoulders tighten, she didn’t let on. She stayed the course. “You were careful in how you explained it and how you wrote the after-action. You let everyone believe Franco, Barrett, and Brown came up with the idea on their own, but they did not. They worked out the tech. They implemented it. But it was your idea.”

Tanner shook his head. “Barrett was the first to say anything.”

“Another careful statement.”

“Gunny, I don’t know weapons tech better than three engineers.”

“No. But they were three junior engineers in a dire situation on an unfamiliar ship,” said Janeka. “You aren’t an engineer, but you were the smartest guy there, and you weren’t preoccupied by the technical task. They had to focus. Your mind was still on the fight, and you don’t give up in a fight. It was your idea.”

“Why are we having this conversation, Gunny?”

“Because you didn’t tell the full truth about what happened. You said what people needed to hear, just like you did after St. Jude. Except this situation is different, isn’t it?”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No. You should probably get another Silver Cross.”

“I don’t want any medals for this,” said Tanner.

“No, I’m sure you don’t. You think you got them killed.”

Tanner froze. Everything in him stopped, except all the ugly feelings that never left.

“St. Catherine was crippled and cornered. Her crew and half the surviving marines were concussed. You had a fast, gutsy idea to hit the enemy and save all of us, and you knew better than to ask permission. You imagined climbing out onto the hull and taking the shot yourself, but they knew the tech and you knew the ship. You were the natural choice to take care of the fuel problem. They fired that missile and died from Jackson’s batteries in the same breath.”

He didn’t speak.

“You think you got them killed.” She nodded to his tray. “It’s sitting in your gut, makin’ you sick. Probably can’t sleep, either. You blame yourself.”

He didn’t speak, but she just waited.

“…yeah.”

“You wish it had been you instead. Maybe you live, maybe you die. You wanted to take that chance yourself, not put it on anyone else.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think they didn’t know that?”

“It’s not—it doesn’t matter if they knew. They’re gone and they shouldn’t be.”

“That’s everyone in this stupid war,” said Janeka. “They knew that, too. None of us are conscripts, Malone. Archangel doesn’t punish conscientious objectors. We choose to be here.”

“There’s not a lot of choice when you’re under invasion,” said Tanner.

“Not for us, no. That’s on the enemy, just like the rest of this war, and just like the shot that took out our guys. You didn’t kill them. The enemy did that. You saved the rest of us. You and Franco and Barrett and Brown.”

Tanner’s eyes fell. He shook his head. “Doesn’t feel like I saved anyone.”

“When there’s a cost like this, it never does. Those guys made all the same choices you did, Malone.” She stared, letting it sink in, and then she stood. “Your after-action report said all it needs to say. They’ll get Archangel Stars once it works through channels. You should put this behind you. They were Archangel Navy and they knew what they were doing. Don’t take that away from them, and don’t take the blame away from where it belongs.”

Janeka left him to sit with her words.

Weariness crept into his shoulders, and then his chest. His brow sank. God, he felt tired.

He’d felt tired ever since the fight. This was different. He felt sleepy, and hungry, too. Hungry beyond the mere chore of eating. His eyes fell to his tray of plain, bland, safe food.

The war sucked. The Navy sucked. Everything sucked… but he could eat better than this, and maybe he could sleep tonight.

MOSTLY HYPE

We need to keep pressure on Archangel, but CDC is crumbling and Lai Wa isn’t coming back to this fight. We can’t afford the losses of an assault on Raphael, Gabriel, or Uriel. We need to draw their forces out elsewhere.

Augustine is all alone on the edge of the system. We bombed their base in the opening offensive, but we’ve left it alone since. Archangel has to defend it if we attack, which gives us a chance to hurt them. I know it’s chump change, but think of the psychological impact. A planet’s a planet.

—Internal communications, NorthStar Fleet Command

July, 2278

Tanner never, ever, ever wanted to come back to this dark and frozen fucking rock. He sure as hell never wanted to fight over it.

“Transit station! Back to the station!” shouted Brandt. The order had been clear over the platoon net, but she still had to shout to get people moving—including Tanner. He had a good bit of cover with his piled rubble and a collapsed projection board on top. Material like that held up against beam weapons better than concrete, and he was ready to take the first turn of suppressing fire while the others pulled out.

A wide red beam shot out of the night, cutting through the last remaining wall of the pub. Tanner’s faceplate optics blinked out, leaving his ordinary vision nearly ruined by the flash. His helmet’s baffles mitigated the thundercrack of superheated air, but couldn’t touch his fright. Tanner curled into a ball as the wall collapsed.

Nothing he noticed hit him with enough force to injure, and he was happy to let adrenaline and fear override pain. Hurting later beat hurting now.

Optics recovered and he looked to his field of fire. That blast had to come from a cannon or a tank, but he saw only wrecked buildings and rubble across the street. “Fuck,” Tanner hissed, searching frantically. “Fuck fuck f—”

“Malone! Malone, you okay?” called Brandt from outside the ruined pub. At least that meant she didn’t get hit.

“I’m good,” he answered. “Ready.”

He nearly got up, but saw movement and fired first. The figure across the street ducked behind cover and took several others with them. Tanner’s field had gone from no targets to half a squad in half a second. He flipped the selector on his pulse rifle to rapid fire and sprayed while his brain flipped to how-do-we-get-out-of-here-without-getting-shot.

They needed a better escape path, but he didn’t know this part of the city, despite living here nearly a year. Captain Stevens had kept St. Jude’s crew on one-hour recall, even when base command didn’t require it or maintenance kept them grounded. Morales and Freeman warned about unreliable transit and penalties for reporting back late. Maybe it was one more way to mess with him, but the result of life on Augustine was that he didn’t get off base much for that whole miserable year.

In fairness, Tanner did see someone miss a recall here on Augustine. That was also the first day Tanner saw a shipmate die, and the day he started killing people.

Augustine held only a spaceport, a small college, idiots who refused to evacuate at the start of the war, and endless night. And ghosts. Lots of ghosts.

He didn’t want to stay here with them.

“Peel in five,” said Brandt. “Four. Three…”

His legs moved, sliding him into a seated position, ready to go, and then something exploded across the street—Brandt’s airburster, he realized. She was there behind the back corner of the pub, now really a “wall” no higher than her knees, sending another ball of supercompressed air to explode amid the enemy. The rest of her squad was hauling ass away from her, and from Tanner.

This was how a withdrawal was supposed to work, with squad members taking a turn at suppressing fire while the rest ran. They didn’t need to talk about it. They’d all been to weapons and tactics school, all been in fights before. Tanner slid off his rubble pile and ran across the pub floor.

The next boom didn’t come from Brandt’s airburster. She leaped away too late as a grey tank crashed through the remnants of the sidewall.

Tanner saw her fly away from the tank. It moved fast, and then its bulk blocked his view, and then came the dust. He caught only a glimpse, but it was enough—she was gone.

They couldn’t call each other pals, but he got along with her as well as most of the marines. Most people in the Navy altogether, really. He had few friends in the military.

She deserved better than this.

He felt nothing, staring into the dust and debris. The absence of horror and grief hit harder than the loss. Amid the crashing and booming and racing heartbeats, part of him wanted to cry… but not so much for Brandt. Her, too, but not so much.

He’d been scared since Beowulf lit out for Augustine, and terrified as soon as Second Platoon got their orders: ground action, evacuate remaining civilians, hold as long as possible. His terror spiked once they landed, and then the shooting started and it held on. He’d been terrified to the point of emotional exhaustion. The numb sensation confirmed he was still exhausted. He knew that.

But Brandt was dead and that wasn’t the worst he felt about anything.

How fucked up is that?

Something screamed inside him. He stared at nothing for all of two, maybe three seconds. A clatter from behind yanked him back into the moment, and Tanner spun with his weapon raised to find a black ball bouncing down his rubble pile.

He dove left, away from Brandt’s body and the tank. Not a ball! Not a ball! The emergency exit behind the bar yielded to his shoulder as the grenade detonated behind him.

…but then he was in the alleyway, exposed to enemy troops on both sides of the street.

“Oh fuck!” blurted the NorthStar trooper, and his buddy, and Tanner, all at once.

Tanner ran—away from the gunfire, and the tank, and from the rest of Second Platoon. Away from the transit station and his way out of here. He ran exactly where he didn’t want to go.

People really think I’m some bad ass like I’m not just running and hiding all the time, the back of his mind grumbled while the rest of him panicked.

Shouts followed him between buildings. More troops were strung out along the street. Many of NorthStar’s people didn’t speak English or Spanish, and Tanner didn’t have his helmet translator active. Probably disrespectful of me, he conceded, but the sense of profanity and “Get that guy” were easy to gather.

Chased by bullets and lasers, his muscle memory took over to zig and zag through alleys and junctions. Buildings away from the pub were in better shape, but that only meant less concealment for him and more organization for the enemy. He looked for a turn-off to his left, wanting another alley or door or anything before a wide-open street would expose him, and felt a surge of gratitude at just such a door a dozen paces ahead—but enemy fire was still coming.

Break contact, break contact, he shouted inwardly. That meant more than just running and turning; he needed to return fire, or throw a grenade he didn’t have, or do anything to break up sight lines. Tanner sprayed his pulse rifle in an arc from his feet to the wall on his right to kick up dust and kept shooting when he turned to the door. It never would have given way without the blasts to soften it up, anyway.

The dark hallway of some business greeted him—clothing shop, maybe? No, a salon—but he kept running. North, now. North was better when Second Platoon and the rest of Archangel’s forces were west. North was closer to west than east. That checked out. Sure.

Quiet meant nothing. NorthStar had scanners, and computers, and plenty of plain old eyeballs. Electronic warfare made drones unreliable and dangerous, but there were always countermeasures. He wouldn’t be on the ground if Archangel held solid control of space around Augustine, either; any NorthStar vessel with an eye on the surface would have a perfect view.

He had to hope they wouldn’t blow up an entire city block to get one guy, but they could.

The salon wasn’t safety so he kept moving. The foyer stood dark, its opaque storefront windows blocking the light outside. The security system was beeping in response to his break-in, and he knew the actual alarm would hit in seconds. Stay outside and get shot, or stay inside and draw everyone’s attention, Tanner thought. Because of course the staff turned on their alarm systems when they evacuated… oh. Hey.

A single tap against a window converted it to one-way opacity, confirming an empty street for now. Tanner escaped the same way he entered, using his rifle as a key—and then he shot that key at the first door he saw across the street. The locks couldn’t duck for cover, let alone shoot back, which made for a nice change of pace. He blasted open a ramen shop, and then a delivery office, and then a florist with wedding window displays. Alarms screamed from two of the three, but these didn’t have the convenient delay the salon’s did.

He couldn’t stop here. Couldn’t stop anywhere, short of the right side of the conflict lines. NorthStar’s guys wouldn’t want a problem running around their backline while they pushed the rest of Bravo Company the other direction. The ramen place gave Tanner a second to stop and think, and pay attention to the chatter on the platoon and company links.

“More tanks and infantry coming up the commercial district,” someone said. “No available support from overhead.”

“Collins, get out of there,” barked Gunny Janeka. “Transit station. Now.”

“Fourth squad isn’t accounted for. We’ve got casualties,” answered Collins.

Fourth squad. Brandt’s squad. I’m not accounted for. Tanner opened his mouth to report in.

“The transit station is where you take them,” Janeka replied firmly. “We need to hold it. Move, Sergeant.”

“Second, Malone,” Tanner spoke up—and then the ground shook. Red light bright enough to overpower the opaque windows flashed. The city block outside still stood, so that couldn’t be the target, but everyone got their answer as to why no overhead support was available.

“…the station,” Janeka growled through static. “Now.”

Okay. Okay. Then they didn’t target the transit station either, Tanner realized. NorthStar clearly had the skies for the moment, or at least they had one warship with the freedom to turn its whole laser cannon on the ground. But they wanted to take the city, not raze it… and that decision was out of his hands.

This whole fiasco came from decisions way out of his hands. He could’ve told everyone on both sides that Augustine wasn’t worth fighting over if they’d just fucking asked him.

“Second, Malone,” said Tanner. “I’m cut off, now east of last position. Brandt is down. Acknowledge.”

No response came. People spoke and shouted amid static, and not even the squad heads-up display changed with his input. “Personal, tactical status,” he said to switch feeds. A map of the area appeared in the upper right corner of his vision, along with big red highlights warning of unreliable data and connections. He switched back to the previous setting to find no changes. Brandt’s name appeared in the same dull grey as Vargas, Costa, and the others, all now dead.

“Malone” appeared in standard, Everything’s Cool, Don’t Worry About Me bright blue.

It explained the cannon blast from space: they must have targeted the nearest comms relays, and probably the whole city block that hid them. NorthStar appeared to be winning the ensuing battle of countermeasures.

“…been ordered back,” said Lieutenant Kilmeade. “Get… transit… now. Pulling out.”

Nobody even knows I’m out here, Tanner realized with a new pit in his stomach. Nobody but NorthStar.

He had to move.

Tanner risked a peek through the shop’s door to check the path west, which meant pushing it open a little. There was yet another tank three blocks ahead, and with it a pack of infantry—and half ducked for cover while the rest dropped prone with weapons raised in his direction, because of course they had rear-facing sensors active. Of course they caught the door opening a few centimeters. But they didn’t have anything other than a simple motion warning, or they’d have annihilated the whole shop and Tanner would be dead, not pulling back inside.

West was blocked, at least from here. South and east were obviously counterproductive, so north he went. Tanner took the exit he found in the back of the kitchen, scanned the dark pedestrian streets for danger, and snuck out while he could.

His path took him to taller buildings, largely apartments and offices, all dark. It was work to maintain cover on the move, but he managed several more blocks. He still saw NorthStar troops and vehicles, but no tanks. They seemed intent on guarding the flank of the main force. Thankfully, they didn’t do a good enough job to detect Tanner.

Some of them even seemed… Tanner hid behind a darkened info kiosk and watched a quartet on one corner, just standing around. Not bored, he thought, but not active, either. Pensive. Waiting. Another explosion hit a couple klicks to the west, this time followed by a pulse cannon. The troops looked up but didn’t move.

He kept going: more apartment buildings, another chance for a westward turn. He crept toward a cargo alley built for trucks. Voices made him freeze; once again, it wasn’t English, but the holocom on his wrist took only a tap to activate.

“Hold on, it’s this one. This is the gate.” Tanner’s HUD flashed with “Mandarin.”

“Make sure. I don’t want to call in for the wrong gate,” said a second man. “Hindi,” said Tanner’s HUD.

“It lines up with the map, sir.” Tanner didn’t need a translator for the third man. He even had an English accent. “The access tunnel should take us straight to that transit station.”

God damn it. Tanner swallowed hard. He didn’t know they had access tunnels here, but it made sense. City transit was built like this elsewhere in Archangel, and these guys had better maps than Tanner, too. Beyond that, “transit station” was as good as saying “aid station.” It was also the evacuation point.

If they’ve only just found it, maybe I can use that tunnel? Tanner couldn’t be that lucky. Quickly tapping controls, he tied his rifle’s barrel camera to helmet optics before sliding it around the corner. Nobody could aim reliably enough in combat like this, but he needed a peek, and risking his gun beat risking his face.

Five NorthStar troops crowded around a locked access gate against one alley wall, relieving Tanner’s fear of finding another whole platoon supporting a tank. None of them reacted to movement from his direction, either. The access gate held their full attention. It was big enough to drive a truck through, once someone opened the sliding metal barrier.

Tanner noticed insignia on one man’s arm and zoomed in. Sappers, he recognized. Shit. That explains a lot. Not great. They probably had a bigger unit nearby, and now they had a straight, undefended line to the transit station—the aid station full of wounded marines, now evacuating.

Sappers would have plenty of explosives. An absurd amount. Plus, they were enemy troops under arms in a live combat zone and completely valid targets—they were even good enough to bunch up together, blocks away from their buddies.

Yeah, sure, cool. Creep up and murder five guys who probably don’t want to be here anymore than you do, after you left your squad leader dead in the rubble. Doing some real good guy shit today, Malone.

“…blow their fucking rally point sky high before they know we’re there,” said the Englishman.

Tanner’s hesitation and tension dropped like a stone. He flicked off the camera, checked the selector, and fired. Rapid trigger-pulls sent shot after blue shot in a controlled sweep against the clutch of troops, blowing through two before the others had time to turn or flinch. The last of the five made nearly made the corner before a pulse of energy caught his hip and sent him spinning.

They collapsed together against the gate. None of them cried out. Their body armor could protect against a lot of harm, but not solid, close-range hits.

Tanner looked left and right before creeping forward, rifle trained on his targets, listening for trouble or running feet. He covered five steps without a single nearby sound, and then one of the fallen gasped in pain. The trooper clutched frantically at fasteners on his torso to tear off the upper vest of searing-hot armored plates.

NorthStar’s helmets had fully transparent face shielding, rather than the metal-with-lenses of Archangel. He had nothing to hide his expression when the vest came off and he saw Tanner standing over him. He looked older than Tanner, though longevity options made it impossible to guess how much older. “Oh shit… oh fuck.”

“Don’t call out. You need to treat that right away,” said Tanner. The vest had saved the Englishman from the worst, but the fatigues underneath still showed a nasty, bloody burn. “Might be carbon and bits in your bloodstream. You need a negator and burn gel. Gimme your battlemap.”

“Wh-what?” The Englishman made all the natural glances in search of help that wasn’t coming. His buddies were dead beside him. “Oh no.”

“Battlemap,” said Tanner. “Unlock it and hand it over.”

“B-but I can’t… what?”

Tanner racked his faceplate and growled, “Give me your fucking battlemap and I’ll go.”

The man behind that grey-tinted visor turned several shades paler. “Oh god, it’s you. It’s you!”

“What the fuck?” Tanner blinked. “Who the hell recognizes me in this…?” Nametag, he realized. Your nametag says “Malone.” It should say Dumbass.

“Oh god, what’re you gonna do? Don’t… don’t torture me!”

Tanner’s face screwed up with disgust. In the Englishman’s defense, he was hurt and his friends were dead, but it was the most insulting thing anyone had said to Tanner in months. That’s you guys, he wanted to say, and you’re the assholes who invaded us, and the whole point of my rating is to prevent war crimes, and torture is stupid and ineffective and wrong, and even I would never sink that low, and I’m just trying to stay alive, it’s all your buddies out here trying to kill me. Tanner’s stress and urgency crowded within him until he blurted out, “Do I look like I’ve got time for that?”

The Englishman choked.

Tanner grabbed the guy’s wrist to tear away his armored computer pad. “Unlock it. Now!”

“G-g-golf-two-three! Unlock!” said the Englishman. Then his head jerked ever so slightly left, as if hearing someone. His mouth opened. He hesitated.

“Bennington, report,” shouted a muffled, distant voice… inside the Englishman’s helmet. “Hold on, we’re coming.”

Tanner looked over Bennington’s comrades for gear. A backpack at their feet bore the old-fashioned bomb icon of demolitions, and Tanner knew all about their plans for its contents. Without time to consider the rest, he snatched the backpack and gave Bennington a kick in the shoulder to keep him down. “I’m taking this,” Tanner grumbled, and then he ran.

He almost made the corner and the next street before the shooting resumed. Bennington’s rescuers arrived in a hoverscout, opening on Tanner with the mounted machinegun. Bullets chased him as he hauled ass around the corner.

The battlemap, at least, stayed unlocked while the pad and its protective shield flapped in his hand. Clear of danger for the moment, Tanner glanced down at the red-on-black overhead display of the neighborhood. Glowing icons marked out tanks and other vehicles along with infantry units. Tanner would not have been so sure he was at the center of the map without everyone suddenly converging on him.

A left and then a right gave him the best option of surviving the next twenty seconds. He rushed through the walkway between a dingy apartment building and its utility shed, then between the same apartments and those beside them. There was a parking entrance, sheltered but not blocked or gated.

Battlemap, or keep going? He wouldn’t have the advantage of intel for long. Tanner hopped over the low concrete parking entrance and moved inside, settling crouched behind two cars and ensconced in shadows.

There was more on the battlemap: unit names and numbers, positions, flashing calls for aid, targeting priorities. God, that’s a lot of people, thought Tanner. He didn’t like the numbers pushing the transit center. He really didn’t like the arrows suggesting an Archangel pullback from the center.

Shit. Okay. They’re leaving. Shit shit shit. His holocom showed improved signal strength, but he knew it wouldn’t last. Tanner held his holocom with the captured pad for optical transfer. “Second, Malone. Second, Malone, please confirm.”

“Connection confirmed,” said the recognizable voice of the tactical manager program. He’d prefer a live human being, but the manager would at least get his message to the right people, leaving only a question of when someone could catch up on the net.

“Second, Malone. I’ve captured a NorthStar battlemap. Transferring data now. Sappers have targeted the transit station. I’m out of position and cannot reach the transit station. Please respond. I’m out on my own here.”

“MA2 Malone, Second manager. Acknowledged,” said the artificial voice. “Transfer underway. Notifications sent. I advise you to locate a secure…”

Tanner missed the rest with an alert from the battlemap. Units pushed into his area from rear positions, presumably coming to find Bennington’s dead team and the threat that took them down. Still more NorthStar people spread out in an arc blocking Tanner off from the transit station, even this far north of his original path. He could still go farther, find a defensible shelter like the tactical manager said, and—

The battlemap cut to a NorthStar Security logo on a dark background. Tanner tapped it in vain before giving up. Probably lucky it didn’t lock sooner. He slammed it hard on the pavement and hit it with the butt of his rifle for good measure.

The garage wasn’t safe. He might be hidden from most scans, but the battlemap could have been reporting his location. A reasonable search for him would investigate the garage. He had to go, and his choices of direction hadn’t changed. At least there were a few bigger buildings for cover as he continued north.

A service exit wasn’t hard to find. It even had an old-fashioned doorknob.

“Sergeant, you think it’s really him?” asked the translator in Tanner’s helmet.

Tanner froze with the knob turned and the door opened a few centimeters. Fuck. Oh fuck.

“Pff. Get serious,” replied a lower, older voice, this one in English. “It’s hype. The corporate PR people needed a bad guy for their propaganda and that kid fit the bill. Now you all think every asshole in an Archangel uniform is Tanner Malone.”

“It’s not propaganda when it’s true,” said another, also translated. “He blew up the Saratoga. He would’ve vented everyone on Hercules, too. Like that pirate ship.”

“Stop. All of you, stop,” said the sergeant.

All of you? Tanner wondered. Shit, is this a whole squad? More? They weren’t on the battlemap. Oh god, are these elites, or…? No. These people might be off grid for some scary reason, or more likely, he missed them on the map. Mistakes happened.

“Pirates aren’t shit, okay?” the sergeant went on. “They aren’t shit, and Archangel hyped all that up ’cause they needed a hero. Our side needed villains, and he showed up on the security videos sent from Hercules before she was captured. It’s all convenient bullshit.”

“Thought we’d get in trouble for talking like that,” said another.

“If someone snitches, yeah. You think they review every single squad’s chatter feed?”

“You don’t believe in this fight, Sarge?”

“Did I say that? I’m here, aren’t I? These people are assholes. They asked for this. I’m saying it’s not my first war. Some shit plays out the same every time. You’ll learn. Meantime, we—hold on. This is Sergeant Patrick, go ahead.”

ShitshitshitshitJesusfuckingshit. Tanner slowly, carefully pulled the door back and held onto the knob. Either they weren’t looking his way, or the door moved slowly enough to escape notice. He relaxed his hand, one centimeter per second. Please don’t latch loudly. Please don’t latch loudly.

“Alright, fine,” Patrick spoke again, muffled by the closed door. “Doesn’t change shit. He’s just another guy. Maybe I’ll get my hands on him and you’ll see. Better if we shoot the fucker outright. Don’t listen to what they said about a bonus for capture, ’cause that’s just gonna get ambitious morons killed. A hostile’s a hostile. Thawan, check that.”

The door rattled. Tanner’s heart tried to beat right out of his chest, but the door held.

“Locked,” said the translator. “Should we breach?”

“No,” Patrick agreed with Tanner’s inner monologue, though with considerably less alarm. “Keep moving.”

No one came through the door. Tanner stared, rifle ready, expecting a sudden reversal and blast of terror. He swallowed and counted to five, then ten, and remembered how much he had to get out of here. Patrick’s squad wasn’t the only one looking for him.

Me, specifically, apparently. Maybe they identified him with video from Bennington’s helmet. It hardly mattered. As Patrick said, any hostile running around the back line was a problem. Tanner was also the first to agree about all the hype.

With nothing heard on the street, he counted to ten before cracking the door. Patrick’s squad was out of sight, Tanner saw no other hostiles, and he wouldn’t waste this break. He ran for the other side of the street, cringing away from another explosion blocks to the west. Something else blew up in the sky. Tanner hoped it was theirs and not ours.

His breath was ragged. He needed rest. The next block had shops on the ground and apartments above, all of them dark and presumably locked. Armored hovercars passed in the street beyond it, giving Tanner another heart attack, but they continued west without spotting him. Tanner passed a veterinarian’s office, an empty shop made of mostly clear windows, and a grocery with its front blasted to rubble… and beyond it, a cathedral.

Grey spires and lancet windows of stained glass. Arches and buttresses. Statues at every corner and pillar. 23rd-Century Spanish Revival, according to his stepmother’s art books. St. Joseph’s, according to the sign at the front.

All necessary steps must be taken to preserve and protect religious sites, read the manual stuck in Tanner’s brain. Combat in or near such locations must be avoided. This includes use of such locations for shelter or operations.

The vet’s office would be all locked up. The shop’s walls gave no cover, the grocer was missing half theirs, and the church was off-limits. He had to keep going, no matter what his lungs and legs had to say about it. Not really in a turning-to-God mood, anyway.

The rumble of another tank and shouts in the distance changed his mind.

Amid war and strife, with everyone else’s doors shut, someone left the cathedral unlocked for anyone who needed it. Tanner had to give the church that much credit as he accepted their offer.

Light flashed all around while he pulled the door open—white and soft instead of colorful and explodey, but alarming just the same. Tanner saw headlights and silhouettes down the street, but didn’t linger to count or evaluate. Armored hovercars? he thought. The door swung shut and the cathedral foyer went dark. Another squad? Maybe more?

Did they see me? Fuck, did they need to? It’s 2278, they’ve got sensors. I can’t be this lucky forever. They’ve gotta know.

“Think,” he hissed. “Think, dumbass. You’ve got your gear and your brain, and…” His lowlight optics adjusted automatically, and he remembered the backpack hanging from his arm, full of bombs. He was Master at Arms. His job was to prevent war crimes, like maybe bringing a bunch of bombs into a church. Tanner’s wandering eyes found was a painting of The Man Himself staring back at Tanner with his hand held in a gesture of peace.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Tanner exhaled.

He pushed through to the main chamber. Better to have some depth of space to work with if the enemy came in after him, which would lead to exactly why Archangel troops were supposed to avoid religious sites, but he was here now. Fuck it.

Long and orderly pews welcomed him under a vaulted ceiling. The stillness created a sense of unsettled peace. Tanner didn’t go for ghosts or overt miracles; if God existed, he stuck closer to his rulebook than Tanner clung to his. Yet for all Tanner’s irreverence, for all his growing distance from faith and resentment against the may-or-may-not-exist, being in the cathedral felt wrong.

This place mattered to people, even if it meant little to him. The rules mattered, too. “Don’t… don’t torture me!” Bennington’s plea echoed in Tanner’s mind. Fuck you, jerk. Torture’s what bad guys do. You’re the fucking bad guys. I’m… the asshole hiding in the church.

Not the same level as torture, though. Fuck you, jerk.

He was here now. Fine. He needed a place to rest. Any random pew might work, but he didn’t want to be trapped in rows of FauxWood. To the right were confessional booths, and straight ahead rose the sanctuary with an altar and a ten-meter Christ on the cross. Ahead and left, in an alcove, Tanner found an artful statue of an angel on a dais. Yeah, okay, he decided, walking toward her. I’d rather be with working stiffs than the boss.

Once in the alcove, Tanner sank his back against the wall, concealed from the main entrance. He racked his faceplate back while one heavy breath after another escaped him. His shoulders sank without really relaxing. I’m not staying. I have to get out of here. This is bad.

The second he reached for the holocom on his wrist, he heard the chamber entrance open.

Fuck.

Lights flashed across the pews, the sanctuary, everything. Tanner counted at least three. He didn’t dare pull his faceplate down or move, lest they hear. Even quiet movement would get picked up by audio aids. This is bad. So bad.

“We should move in and sweep,” his helmet translated. Tanner gulped and tapped the button to turn the volume down.

“Fuck that.” No translation this time. He didn’t need it.

“What do you mean? It’s the job.”

“Yeah, we should, but I’m not gonna. Fuck that. If he’s hiding in here, he’s not shooting at us. Sounds good to me.”

“That only means someone else has to deal with him later.”

“That sounds good to me, too.”

“Patrick will nail us to the wall if he finds out.”

“So Sergeant Patrick shouldn’t find out. He can deal with this fucker. I’d pay money to see that fight, but I don’t need to be part of it. You here to be a hero, or are you here for the loan benefits? Okay, fine. Go in there and sweep. I’ll cover you from here.” A pause, and then a correction: “We’ll cover you from here.”

Please fuck off, thought Tanner. Please fuck off. I don’t want to fight you, either. Just fuck off.

Only one of the lights repeated the sweep before flicking away with the others. Tanner heard footsteps and a closing door. After another ten-count, he peeked to find the cathedral dark and quiet. Every noise came from outside.

He brought his floating blue and red holocom menu to life. Not much had changed since his last look, but signal strength was still shit; most likely, his data had changed. He saw no response to his status report, nor his battlemap find, beyond the same confirmation of receipt a hundred meters and four heart attacks ago.

If nothing had come across, Bravo Company might still hold the transit station. They might be evacuating civilians. He might have a shot at getting back, if he could find—

Behind the angel statue and out the window, light flashed, accompanied by a boom that shook the stained glass. Tanner saw a vertical streak, lingering for only a brief second, unlike the blink of a laser. He realized the boom didn’t fit, too.

His holocom flared to life with updates: position orders, fire coordinates, casualty reports. Words like withdraw and regroup and rally point, and most importantly, St. Bernadette and St. Catherine are the last rides out.

Oh god. That sound was one of them. They’re gone. Above the skyline, the corvette had the angle and signal strength to cut through jammers, explaining the backed-up stream of messages. They wouldn’t launch St. Bernadette until they had all civilians, but that meant St. Catherine would be close behind. Maybe loading up already.

Everything from basic to rating school to regular pep talks held that the Archangel Navy never left anyone behind, but everyone also knew that had unspoken limits.

A rumble-roar passed by, probably a tank at high speed, then another. They could move freely here. Another boom rocked the cathedral, this time not the sort from liftoff. Tanner felt it in his spine.

I was a klick away before I started running in the wrong direction. They aren’t responding. Signals suck. Everyone’s pulling back. The bad guys know I’m here—me, specifically. Second’s gotta be loading right now. Even if I could run out in the open, I couldn’t make it in time.

They’re gonna leave me here.

His breath shook on its way out. His throat clenched. He felt hollow.

Augustine. They’re gonna leave me on fucking Augustine. Cold, dark, assholes-on-St. Jude, no social life, nowhere to go, cry-myself-to-sleep Augustine… now NorthStar-occupied Augustine.

“I just want to go to school,” he whispered. “I just want some fuckin’ cats.”

“—last civilians onto St. Catherine, now! Move!”

Audio? Tanner blinked. That was Gunny Janeka’s voice. I’ve got audio?

“…moving up… avenue with armor,” said another voice. “We can’t hold, and they’ll shoot us down if we launch.” A blast cut into his transmission, but he picked up again. “They’ve got more coming toward the plaza.”

“Collins, back them up,” Janeka ordered. “Ravenell, Baldwin, go with them.”

Tanner called up the map on his holocom. The plaza had to be Memorial, north of the transit center. That meant a pincer move by the enemy, and even worse things for him.

“Gunny, we can’t hold.” Tanner recognized the voice. Sergeant Keane was an ass, but he wasn’t another Lieutenant Kilmeade. If he said they couldn’t hold, Tanner believed him. “We don’t have the people.”

“I know the numbers. They aren’t moving like they should,” said Janeka. “We need minutes, not hours. I’m getting you a withdrawal path now.”

Shit. Shit. Tanner zoomed in on his map and searched the streets and alleys. He needed a path. Any path. He needed time, too. “Second, Malone,” he said. “Second, Malone. I’m stuck out of position. Can anyone hear me?”

Nothing came, and then: “Malone, second manager,” from the artificial voice.

“Shit.” He stopped listening. Minutes, Janeka had said. Probably shoving scared civilians into St. Catherine’s cargo bay, maybe even carrying some. The rest of Second Platoon would pile in after them—if they could get a launch path away from that armor and NorthStar’s cannons; if not, they were just as fucked as Tanner.

He needed a path. Emerald Avenue ran behind the cathedral, right outside that emergency exit near the back. It had to be good enough. Tanner grabbed his rifle, slammed down his faceplate, and ran for the door.

No threats on the street. Scarce lights came from flashes of combat to the west. Tanner hurried in that direction, mindful of sight lines, sounds, and cover.

He crossed three blocks before he ran into trouble.

Hovertruck! Shit! It wasn’t alone, either; a handful of NorthStar troopers stood around it, arguing and pointing. Tanner let momentum carry him to the next sheltered doorway, slamming to a stop against the concrete just before a trooper looked his way. Tanner took a better look at the hovertruck.

Ammo truck, he corrected silently.  The hexagonal tubes on the cargo bed were generators meant to recharge everything from tanks to pulse rifle magazines. Smaller boxes on the sides likely held bullets, rockets, grenades…Tanner realized a second truck waited right in front of the first. Why are they this far forward? This is stupid—

—and they wouldn’t be doing something so stupid if it wasn’t necessary. Maybe the offensive had a timing hiccup, or the fight through the city was harder than expected. Maybe too many people were dead. Regardless, someone up front needed ammo. That means they definitely shouldn’t get it, Tanner thought, and reached for the sapper’s bag over his—Fuck! I left it in the cathedral! Fuck!

Tanner brought his rifle to his shoulder and flicked on the optical systems. By default, he kept it to “iron sights” and natural vision, but he had nothing against using every available aid. Generators wouldn’t explode from a pulse laser, nor would the ammunition; safety measures left most forms of ammo inert and inexplosive until they were unloaded and ready for use. The bosses still wouldn’t let Tanner pack a plasma carbine, and he was out of grenades. Thankfully, the same couldn’t be said for the troopers down the street. Some of them even had plasma grenades.

He wished he had some of those himself, but in the meantime, he had Aim Assist. “Target plasma grenade,” he said under his breath, and kept as close to the target as he could. Patience and guidance systems did the rest.

Half the street detonated in a flash of green and orange. Amid the flames, the closer hovertruck tilted onto the sidewalk. The one beyond it went up in an explosion of its own. Bodies flew, but Tanner didn’t count or watch for survivors. He needed to move, preferably forward. Flames didn’t cover the entire street, and Tanner’s combat coat and vac suit had heat insulation. That should be enough if I stick to the other side, right? he thought as he rose and moved.

“Hostiles! It’s him!” shouted someone amid the flames. That answered Tanner’s question about the heat, but with his answer came lasers. The beams pushed Tanner back the way he came.

The wrong way.

Fucking hell, he fumed, but he couldn’t make out a target and couldn’t afford to get bogged down in a shooting match.

“…the fuck was that?” someone asked over the crackling platoon net. “East side! You see it?”

“That was me! I’m on the wrong side of the fucking line!” blurted Tanner.

“What? Who’s ‘me?’ Identify!”

“Malone!” Tanner shouted as pursuing lasers shattered a window as he passed. “It’s Malone! My name’s on the goddamn heads-up display!”

“Zero chatter! Zero!” barked Janeka, ordering everyone into silence with the code phrase. “Air threat incoming, zero-eight-five…”

Tanner kept running. The air threat was someone else’s problem, right up until the snub-nosed NorthStar corvette appeared two seconds later. Worse, it hovered, tilting to give its belly turret a shot at him. They can’t seriously be coming at me with a whole—the street lit up in red and boomed with the crack of superheated air first, then some other, even louder explosion too close to distinguish. He didn’t know which boom took him off his feet.

And then he hurt. He hurt all over, sprawled out on his back. Even breathing hurt, though he forced himself to inhale and open his eyes. Oh god, did I black out? How long? To one side, he saw the cratered, spider-webbed window that caught him in flight. To the other, across the street, he saw a low-rise apartment building in flames. The snub nose of the wrecked NorthStar corvette poked off the side of the rooftop.

Get up. Get up or you’re gonna die here. Get the fuck—

“Got you,” someone huffed. A figure appeared over Tanner, body armor and helmet silhouetted by fire. Their pulse rifle was trained low as they kicked Tanner’s weapon away. “Murdering motherfucker, I got you. Charlie Platoon,” he called out, presumably switching to his communications net. Carson, his nametag said.

Carson led with his weapon and leaned a little too far to Tanner’s left. The risk was better than the alternatives, so Tanner snapped his hand up, pushing the barrel and pulling Carson with it. The resulting blast hit the sidewalk by Tanner’s shoulder, and then Carson was sprawled across his body.

One of them was ready for this. Tanner’s elbow came down hard on Carson’s oblique, and again on his ribs. His other arm slammed against Carson’s helmet to little harm, but it kept the trooper reeling. Tanner sat up and hit again. His pistol and knife were both hard to reach with an opponent still halfway on his lap, but Carson’s knife wasn’t. Tanner snatched it from Carson’s belt sheath and stuck it right back into the trooper’s leg.

Carson howled and Tanner kicked him off. The NorthStar-brand rifle beside them wouldn’t fire for Tanner, but it worked fine as a club. A single thrust against that clear-visored helmet finished the fight, at least as far as Tanner was concerned. By the time Carson rolled away and pulled his sidearm, Tanner had scrambled around the nearest smoldering car.

“Cha…Charlie Platoon. He’s moving east! I need a medic!”

Tanner didn’t spare a glance for Carson or his lost weapon. The pulse rifle would be somewhere under a car or in whatever trench that corvette’s laser had dug in the half-second before it went down. Someone with a missile launcher had saved his ass, or maybe it was St. Catherine’s gunner back at the transit station. He didn’t know. He knew he hurt, and he had to move.

Headlights and silhouettes swung around the intersection up ahead. A hovertank’s thrusters roared from the north. Ow ow move move ow move!

A narrow alley invited him into a left turn, but it was south and the wrong way from home. His legs kept pumping; going back was no good and staying was not an option. Dueling red beams flew on either end of the alley before Tanner spotted a break to his left—east, still the wrong way, but he took it.

People shouted in the alley and in his helmet. He had no time for either. Something new exploded behind him. A grenade? They’ve got tanks and grenades and I’ve got a pistol. Light shined through a window ahead before Tanner dove right through it. He was on the other side when the thundercrack of a tank laser blasted a hole in the building. Debris tagged his leg, his back, and his shoulder, knocking him forward. Only his relentless training from Janeka pushed him into a roll and on his feet again.

Joke’s on you guys. I already hurt all over anyway.

Another block with a wider lane. Shadows reached across the path ahead and stopped, and Tanner saw someone lean out of cover. Tanner fired, driving the newcomer back, and rushed until he was only meters away. Common sense told him to find cover, even just a doorway. Instead, he hooked around the corner with his left hand high and open.

The trooper yelped when Tanner palmed his transparent visor and pushed him around, but he howled when the laser pistol stabbed into his midsection and fired. The rest scattered and backed out of their buddy’s red mist, not knowing one person from another while Tanner left the trooper on the ground.

He dove onto a service dock, firing wildly over his shoulder to make his pursuers worry or at least scatter. He made sure to kick up dust and smoke by shooting the walls. His lungs burned and his legs were numb, but he didn’t stop.

The church. Tanner didn’t think of it until he saw the sidewalk and the steps ahead, and then it was the only plan he had. Cathedral. Still open. It’s all you’ve got. Maybe—

The gap between himself and shelter lit up as Tanner approached. He fired to his right without aiming, purely a guess, but he wasn’t wrong. Something tagged the tail of his combat coat. A bullet rocked his hip, held back by armor, but the impact half-turned him. He let the momentum carry him to the door to face his shooters. Scattered figures at the end of the cathedral’s block knelt or dove for cover.

“Shoot, god damn it, shoot!” demanded a voice Tanner heard earlier tonight. The door swung outward between Tanner and danger, letting only one laser pulse tag the back of his helmet.

“Graagh!” Tanner racked his faceplate and released the collar seals. He stumbled into the vestibule while his helmet clattered away. Searing pain at the back of his skull overwhelmed anything from the landing, but it sharply reduced his panic; if he could think and feel, he couldn’t be dead. He wasn’t dying. His helmet and vac suit did their jobs. So did the door.

Door! Tanner rolled and sat up, training his pistol on the entrance. Ten reasons this was stupid crowded into his mind with visions of everything about to blast right through the barrier. It won’t hold. They can shoot right through. The other doors are open. You’re surrounded. They can flatten the whole cathedral. You’re dead. You’re fucked.

“Breaching!” someone yelled on the other side.

“No, don’t—!”

The door moved. Tanner blasted its left side and right in quick succession. The enemy’s cries of pain demonstrated why Archangel trained people not to shout ahead of room entry. Tanner heard the wail of a dazer grenade, though he expected it was supposed to go off inside the doorway rather than outside.

Tanner felt no pride or victory. He could empathize with anyone who made a mistake out of fright. A stream of bullets ventilated the door in retaliation and scared the living hell out of him. He curled into a ball and protected his head while rounds sunk into the opposite wall. A few ricocheted everywhere, including his combat coat. Every one of them hit like a punch.

“Back! Get ’em out of there!” ordered a familiar voice. “We’ve got him now. Don’t rush.”

Tanner crawled out of the vestibule but doubled back for his helmet. The electronics might still work; he wouldn’t know until he checked, and he probably couldn’t get out of here without them.

You’re not getting out of here at all, idiot.

“Surrounded,” came a shout from outside, and not directed to him. “…wait for back-up.”

Yeah, you’re surrounded. They’ve got fucking tanks. Tanner clambered to his feet with a wince and staggered into the nave. It wouldn’t be dark and empty for long. He held the still-warm helmet close to his ear but the platoon was quiet. You’re on your own. Just you and Jesus over there, and he’s not getting involved… huh.

Ahead and to one side, the angel stood tall within her alcove. The sapper’s pack sat right beside her. Sucking up his pain, Tanner strode forward and opened the pack. Clean, ready-to-go KB-6 sat in pop-out cartons, like ice cubes in a tray. The package even contained a detonator with numbered keys for each charge. Any random moron could figure out how to use them. Even me.

Tanner looked back to the guy hanging over the altar with a frown. “Is this an offer, or a test?” He looked to the angel. “Or is this you, and not him? Are you on different pages here?”

Neither Jesus nor the angel answered.

“I mean, you know what I’m gonna do.”

Still no answer. Tanner didn’t know if he believed, and he’d write off any response as a hallucination, anyway.

Tanks rumbled outside. Shouts became orderly, calm, and purposeful. Inside, Tanner traced out load bearing supports to his best, untrained judgment and started throwing charges across the nave. The doors to the foyer got a couple extras, along with the emergency exit. “If you give me a hammer, I’m gonna pound everything like a nai—um.” Tanner glanced back at the guy on the cross. “Sorry.”

He kept a clearance radius between himself and the angel. It might not make a difference, but he wasn’t crazy.

The battle continued in the distance outside. Closer in, things were quiet. They weren’t about to call on him to surrender. Given the detonator in his hand and the quick work of his fingers, he couldn’t exactly blame them.

Doors from front to back crashed open as Tanner remembered his helmet. Dazer grenades flew in, some before Tanner got his helmet secure. “Go, go, go!” someone shouted in the din, while someone else had the unfortunately bright idea of laying down covering fire. They even picked the right direction to shoot at him. Tanner curled into a tight ball behind the statue and hit “Activate All.”

His world exploded.

Orange flames went dark almost as fast as they were born, smothered by smoke and dust. Everything rumbled longer than Tanner expected, throwing off his usual cycle of oh-god-panic-wait-no-I’m-still-panicking-I-must-be-alive. He couldn’t breathe through the dust until he racked his faceplate down and internal filters engaged. The baffles in his helmet protected his hearing, even if the screams would linger in his memories. Great thunder coiled around him. The roof, he realized. Oh god, that’s the roof coming down.

A lifetime later, the chaos receded, and some of the cathedral survived.

Tanner got to his feet, debris still bouncing around him. Tiles rained onto pews. He couldn’t wait it out while the teams outside got over the surprise. A single, sweeping glance through grey clouds had to be enough to pick a direction—and it was, once the crucifix fell across the altar and revealed a path north. OK. That gets a thank you, Jesus. Tanner moved to it.

The butt of a rifle swung across his face, staggering him. His faceplate lenses blanked out. “Motherfucker!” someone shouted as Tanner bumped into the dais. The rifle butt came again into his side before he recovered his bearings. “Ambushing piece of shit.”

Instinct sent Tanner leaning right, where he escaped the next blow. He swept off his helmet and turned in time for Sergeant Patrick to elbow him in the cheek. A handful more troopers appeared behind Patrick at the base of the alcove steps. Tanner’s pistol was swatted from his hand.

“You blew up a fuckin’ church?” Patrick swung again, catching Tanner’s midsection.

“Fuck him up, Sarge,” shouted a trooper.

“You’ve got him,” agreed another. Tanner heard at least three other languages echoing the same sentiment.

“You aren’t shit,” Patrick shouted amid his blows. “Just another murdering—”

The rifle butt swung again. Tanner’s hand came up behind it, slapping it further into a curve and over his head, turning Patrick with it. His fist drove into the gap between Patrick’s chestplate and backplate. The resulting wheeze escaped Tanner’s notice, but not Patrick’s jerk of pain. Tanner snatched his head and slammed him against the angel’s dais.

Patrick’s armor had shifted, leaving his lower back open for a fierce blow to the kidney. The sergeant roared and swung backward with one arm, rather than holding his rifle with both. Tanner caught it and twisted until he heard a pop.

Tanner flung Patrick off the steps with a final shot of contempt. He meant to kick the sergeant in the ass, but his boot landed a few centimeters forward. A yelp of shattered dignity escaped Patrick’s throat before he landed at the feet of his squad.

They looked on in silence, four or five in all, covered in dust and blood. There were bodies everywhere. They looked back and forth between their fallen sergeant and the lunatic only a couple meters away, hesitating… and Tanner realized he had hesitated, too.

Shit.

Fresh infantry ventured toward the new gaps in the walls, with rifle-mounted flashlights and broader searchlights behind them. They lit up the demolished rubble front of the cathedral, where tanks waited in the street. They all had nightvision and sensors. They didn’t need visible light to spot Tanner, but it exposed him, cut up, bruised, and cornered.

“Aw, Christ,” he breathed.

Everything shook—this time brighter, redder, and louder, without the benefit of noise baffles in Tanner’s helmet. Broad, powerful lasers strafed the street beyond the front entrance, sweeping with focus through the handful of tanks outside. Tanner cringed while the enemy ran.

The white dagger shape of St. Catherine dropped out of the sky to hover, her bow jutting into the cathedral’s entrance. Tanner couldn’t hear his holocom or the voice shouting in his fallen helmet, but he heard the corvette’s loudspeaker perfectly fine: “Move, Malone. Let’s go.”

He obeyed. He even thought to scoop up his helmet.

Tanner ran the length of St. Catherine while gunfire followed him. Under her white wings toward the lowered cargo bay ramp, Archangel marines showered the street with suppressing fire. If anyone on the street shot back or even tried, Tanner didn’t notice. He had enough trouble trying to manage a pull-up while wounded on a cargo ramp hovering two meters up. Ultimately, Ravenell did much of the work, pulling Tanner by his coat collar.

Nobody let him collapse onto the ramp. That would’ve been too indulgent. “Move, move,” shouted Collins, shoving Tanner while the ramp lifted and St. Catherine vibrated.

Inside, Tanner found a cargo bay with frightened civilians huddled against every bulkhead, marines and navy crewmen packed in the center, probably only a little less scared… and Gunny Janeka, racking back her faceplate to provide her ever-reliable disapproval.

“Malone, where is your weapon?”

“Lost it, Gunny.” Tanner winced. “Sorry.”

“Did I ask you for an apology?”

“No, Gunny,” he exhaled.

Her up-and-down glance shifted her expression from one type of scowl to another. She turned to other business. “Bridge, Janeka. That’s everyone. We’re clear.”

St. Catherine’s engines rumbled. Tanner looked around the cargo bay. He’d already found Ravenell and Collins; he spotted Sinclair in a corner and sighed with relief when he saw Baldwin. A pair of corpsmen and others tended to the wounded laid out on the floor—including a marine with a life support mask over her face.

“Is…” Tanner swallowed. “Is that Brandt?”

“Yeah. It’s fuckin’ crazy,” said Alicia, coming in beside him. “Soon as we lost her squad on tactical, half the NorthStar thrust did a one-eighty and turned east. They broke through our lines, but it’s like all their back-up suddenly had something better to do. Brandt’s fire team doubled back to get her. Said they couldn’t find you, though.” She nudged his arm. “You had me worried.”

“Yeah,” Tanner mumbled.

“You okay?”

His mind clouded and his stomach churned. St. Catherine lurched with speed and direction almost no one within the ship’s artificial gravity noticed, but Tanner did. His body always noticed whether he wanted it or not.

He bent forward and vomited on the deck.

“Aw, man,” someone groaned.

“Ugh,” grunted Alicia.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” said Ravenell.

“Malone, god damn it.” Lieutenant Kilmeade stepped close and kept his voice low, as if that helped. “Nobody wants to see you throwing up all the time. It’s bad for morale. Get it together.”

BETTER DAYS

No overt enemy action has targeted Apostle’s Station since the initial invasion. The station is considered safe and remains open to civilian traffic and habitation. However, safety is maintained only through constant vigilance and high security measures. The presence of covert enemy operatives is a near-certainty. Enemy fleet activity could target the station at any time.

Beowulf personnel on Apostle’s Station are permitted limited use of alcohol, however drunkenness or any activity of similar incapacitation is prohibited. This includes personnel on overnight or extended liberty. Personnel found out of compliance will be subject to disciplinary action under Article 11.

Incidences of disorderly conduct or similar infractions while on Apostle’s Station will result in enhanced disciplinary penalties.

Enjoy your liberty. Stay vigilant. Stay safe.

--Crew Memorandum, ANS Beowulf

April, 2277. (Four months after the invasion)

“Why in the hell would anyone get in a fight here?”

Baldwin’s eyes rolled hard enough to practically see the white beret on her own head. “Tanner, you’ve been a Master at Arms for six months. You’ve been to MA school. And you’ve had a marine literally punch you in the face in the chow line. You know why people start fights.”

“We’re on liberty!” Tanner waved at the shops, restaurants, clubs, and bars lining the lanes and reaching upward three decks in every direction. Dance music poured from the doors of the Eclipse, fading into modern rock closer to the Nebula. Holographic athletes played low-grav soccer over the awning of the Comet. Above, a wide lane of darkness and stars followed the curve of the station. The whole image was fake, but it added a little romance for travelers roaming the Galleria. More than a few of those guests wore uniforms, including Tanner and Baldwin.

“We’re on duty,” Baldwin grumbled. If the berets didn’t mark that well enough, the sidearms did. “Liberty At Readiness” mandated the ship’s crew stick to grey or blue vac suits while on the station, but only MAs on patrol carried pistols and stunners on their hips.

“Well, yeah. But we’re off the ship. It’s not all cramped spaces and wall-to-wall regulations. Even shore patrol means a break from the same old food all the time. And nobody’s waiting to spring a shipwide drill on us.”

Marines around a bar patio laughed and shouted as if to illustrate his point—right until one of them noticed the two MAs. He nudged the nearest buddy, then grunted something to the others. They fell silent until Tanner and Baldwin passed. Tanner sighed; it wasn’t the first time.

“Feels like we could have a drill, with everyone still having to wear uniforms,” said Baldwin.

“Yeah, that part’s dumb, too,” said Tanner.

“You think so? Mr. Better Safe Than Sorry? I’m surprised you didn’t bring your helmet.”

“They required vac suits but not helmets, which tells me their whole line about being ready for an attack is bullshit. CDC’s tapped out, Lai Wa has practically bailed on the war, and we beat up the last NorthStar cruiser to show its face. It’s only been a couple months since they lost their big support ship, too. Nobody’s making a run on the station or Raphael anytime soon.”

A Navy rating staggered out of a shop, laughing and clutching a bag. Her companion followed, throwing popcorn at her until they caught sight of Tanner and Baldwin. They straightened and swallowed their laughter. One of them scowled at the interruption. Oh my god, we don’t care, Tanner grumbled inwardly.

“Ooh, look who’s a military strategist now. You’re turning into a real pro, Malone.”

Tanner’s eyeroll fell short of the drama of Baldwin’s, but it still released  the tension. “I’m sorry. I’m glad we’re off the ship for a bit. I shouldn’t complain, especially at you.”

“Honestly, your rant made me feel better. I hadn’t thought of the whole situation with the war your way.” Baldwin met his surprise with a shrug. “The brass aren’t talking, but I trust your judgment more than any media pundit on Raphael. Nerd.”

“Thank you.”

“Tell anyone and I’ll deny it. Anyway, I figured they wanted everyone to leave the helmets on the ship so nobody lost theirs or left it behind in a bar.”

That thought clamped Tanner’s mouth shut. Even after months of keeping their helmets within arm’s reach around the clock, somebody would manage to lose theirs on liberty. Probably a lot of somebodies. A pillar of his logical assurance against enemy action crumbled under the simple reminder that people could be careless and dumb.

Hell, I’m probably fifty-fifty at losing my helmet on liberty myself.

“I’m just saying. The uniform requirement is dumb. The other liberty restrictions are dumb. Putting us on ‘shore patrol’ is also dumb. We do not need to go this hard on a port call.”

“It’s the first liberty in port for Beowulf in months,” noted Baldwin. “First since the war started. People are gonna get crazy.”

“Let ’em. If they don’t hurt anyone, who cares?”

“I’m with you, why are you bent out of shape about it?”

“Because we’re out looking for trouble. Looking for it, if we do this the way Chief Lockwood wants. Down to citing people for uniform infractions.”

“Yeah, but we’re not really looking. We’ve hit two makeup stores and a Burrito Hut on this ‘patrol.’ Neither of us is citing anyone on a uniform problem. When do we ever go as hard as Lockwood wants?”

“We’re supposed to watch everyone. And everyone knows it.”

“So?”

“So, after all Jacobson and even Admiral Branch have said about the MA department not being out to bust people, here we are. Wandering around, looking for people to bust. Whether or not we really do that, it’s what people see. You notice how everyone clams up and waits for us to pass by like we’re the school snitches?” Tanner shook his head. “I’m bent about it because I never wanted to be a cop.”

Baldwin made a face. “Then why did you become an MA?”

Because you wanted the security clearance, his brain answered readily, but he held his silence. Because you think the Intelligence Ministry is up to something shitty with their secret ships, and because you don’t trust the decisions that got us into this war or your orders, and being an MA seemed like the best chance to find out what’s going on.

You could tell her. What’s she gonna do? Rat you out? You can tell her.

“Process of elimination made up half of it. I wanted to go corpsman or science tech, but they wouldn’t work out. When I looked at the rest, MA seemed like the best way to avoid anything shitty or war-crimey. Best way to stop it.”

Baldwin snorted. “Isn’t that the definition of being a cop?”

“That’s the image and ideal they sell. If that’s what they do, great, but a lot of it can come down to intimidation over petty bullshit. Kinda like we’re doing now. It’s still the whole ‘strong arm of the state’ thing, like the military, except maybe more so.” They wandered on. Tanner caught Baldwin’s grin with the corner of his eye. “What?”

“You really did catch a pack of rebel teachers at that NorthStar high school you went to, huh? How did they not get fired? Is this them talking?”

Half a dozen holographic models strutted past a store window in glitzy party dresses. Real, live children ran past them into the toy store next to it. A flashing ad panel for Burrito Hut reminded him of his longing for something approaching actual Mexican food—and life in Geronimo, and other things he couldn’t get back.

“Mom was a metro medic,” he answered finally. “She met a lot of cops. Worked with them. She said way too many took the job for the wrong reasons, that lots of them were a mess if you looked close enough. They power-trip. Others don’t even realize they’re doing it. I don’t want to be like that.”

“So don’t,” said Baldwin.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve talked about your dad and your step-mom,” Baldwin ventured. “Is mom still around?”

“She died on the job. Mom was working a vehicle wreck and, um.” He swallowed. “Asshole in a suit drove right around the warning lights and smashed hovercar in the middle of the road ’cause he was late for a meeting. He didn’t even slow down.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I don’t… There’s nothing to be said or done. I don’t like bringing people down.”

“It should be more about you.”

“I’ve dealt with it over and over again. I keep dealing with it.” Tanner shrugged. “Anyway. It’s a long way from here.”

Baldwin gently elbowed him. “She’d be proud of you.”

“Oh, I know she would. Nobody’s gotta tell me that.”

“Heard from your dad and step-mom?”

“Yeah. They’re doing okay. What about your parents?”

“They’re fine. We get along, mostly. They weren’t happy about their girly-girl daughter joining the Navy, but now there’s a war on. They’re obligated to be proud of me.”

Tanner laughed. He had heard enough about Baldwin’s family to know what she meant. She was about as much the “military type” as he was, though her distance came more from lifestyle and personality than despondent thoughts about society.

“Why’d you decide to go Master at Arms?” asked Tanner.

“Because I’m nosy as fuck,” Baldwin answered casually. “Figured MAs get the good gossip.”

You could tell her, Tanner thought again, but let it go.

“Munchies?” Baldwin nodded her head toward a walk-up stand crammed between stores. Only a couple people stood in line for the counter. Fries with any of sixty different toppings and seasonings awaited.

They would doubtlessly get an official glare from the boss if caught walking around with food on patrol. Tanner saw plenty of uniforms up and down the lane, but few looked likely to intervene in such a vile crime. “Sure.”

They got in line. Tanner gave their surroundings another scan before his eyes settled on the long list of potato-based options. If they got chewed out for this, fine. Whatever.

“Hey.” Baldwin leaned against him with an affectionate bump and put her arm around his waist. Tanner turned on reflexive curiosity but consciously escalated into a full hug. Shorter than Tanner, Baldwin tilted her head forward into his shoulder. She held him tight. “You okay?”

“I—yeah?” He wasn’t sure what to say. Hugs came in depressingly short supply over the last couple years. He hugged her back. “Better now. Thank you.”

“Don’t make it weird, but… ’m glad you’re here.” She let him go.

“Yeah. Same. I—”

“Baldwin. Malone.” The glaring eyes and angry brown mustache of Chief Lockwood confronted them as soon as they parted, standing right beside them with hands on his hips. He tilted his head back. “Over here. Now.”

Tanner’s shoulders slumped. Baldwin’s eyes rolled with another pained yet silent groan. They had both looked around before getting in line. The hug hadn’t lasted even five seconds. Lockwood practically appeared out of nowhere.

The pair followed the chief’s white beret and stompy stride around a tree in a concrete planter. Though still in plain view in the middle of the Galleria, the spot took them away from the snack counter and the earshot of anyone not deliberately eavesdropping. He kept his voice low, too, but that didn’t take the edge off. “I should call you both to attention, but we don’t need the scene. What the fuck are you two doing out here? Are you on patrol, or out on a date?”

“Chief—” Tanner began.

“Shut up. You think I want to hear anything you’ve got to say?”

Tanner blinked. “Honestly, I can’t tell the difference between rhetorical questions and interrogation right now.”

“Do I look like I’m in the mood to fucking play with you two?” Lockwood seethed.

Once again, it sounded like a question expecting an answer. Tanner took the alternate tactic and held his silence. Apparently, it was the right call.

“You know your orders. You know the expectations. Patrol doesn’t mean wandering around with your hands full of food. That’d be bad enough without the public fraternization. I know you’ve both been warned.”

“Oh my god, it’s not fraternization,” sighed Baldwin.

“It’s not?” Lockwood pointed to the snack line. “You think anyone or their mother would see that and think you aren’t a couple?”

“It was a hug, chief. Not a kiss. We’re not holding hands. I’m looking out for a shipmate. Malone’s hurting and he needs a little human support like anyone else, okay?”

“Support?” Lockwood snorted. “What’s the matter, Malone. You having a bad day? Is an afternoon in the Galleria too much for you?”

Tanner had been ready to show deference and say he was sorry and all the rest, even with the insinuations about Baldwin. Now he dropped it all for a stone-faced stare. “My planet’s under enemy occupation, Chief. I don’t know how many people I’ve lost. It’s been months and all I know is it isn’t getting any better. So no, Chief. I’m not okay. Nobody is.”

“You don’t get to hide behind that shit,” growled Lockwood. “Plenty of people have got the same problems. You think you’re fucking special? You think your medals mean you can talk back to me? I ought to shit-can you right now. Go to the chaplain or a shrink if you’ve got emotional problems. In the meantime, you’re in the Navy. Suck it up.”

Half that is what I just said, Tanner thought.

“And that’s just for opening your mouth. It still doesn’t cover that dumbass display.” Lockwood gestured to the fry stand. “What the hell are you thinking? You’re in uniform, on patrol, and in public. You’re supposed to set an example, not make out in front of—”

“Gross.”

“You got something to say, Baldwin?” Lockwood fumed.

“He’s feeling like shit. It was a hug. We’re friends. I’m sorry it was public; it won’t happen again. It’s not fraternization. He joined the MA shop before Christmas, Chief. If I was gonna fuck him, I’d have done it before now.” Her sour tone sent Lockwood’s eyes flaring in a way Tanner didn’t expect, but she kept going. “It’d be like banging my brother. I dunno if that’s a fetish for you, but I’m not into that.”

Guess I’ll just accept that kick in silence, Tanner grunted inwardly.

Despite the blow to Tanner’s self-image and idle crush, somehow Lockwood seemed to be more bothered by Baldwin’s response than Tanner. “Stop—stop it,” said the chief. “That’s enough out of both of you. We’re done. Maybe you’ll get the message when you see the next duty rosters. If there’s nothing going on, you won’t care when you stop getting put on shifts together. In the meantime, I don’t have replacements for you, so get back to your patrol and stick to the rules. No food. No more funny business. I’m watching. Got it? Say, ‘Yes, chief.’”

“Yes, chief,” they intoned. They even withheld their sarcasm.

Fuming like he was of half a mind to keep on scolding, Lockwood spun and stalked away. Around them, shoppers and travelers roamed on. Music drifted with the crowd. Nobody else looked their way.

“Somehow that was less than I expected,” said Tanner.

“Not every NCO has the same ‘instant withering ass-chewing’ skills,” said Baldwin. “Plus, he isn’t lying. He doesn’t have enough people to go around. And he knows he can’t hit us with more than a general ‘cranky chief’ complaint for an Article 11. He doesn’t have us on fraternization. It was just a hug, and the rules are stupid and badly written. It’s not the first century of girls and boys serving together. Not like boys never hug each other, either.”

“Okay, but even so, he looked… I dunno, embarrassed?”

“Southern Uriel Catholic.” Baldwin shrugged. “Went to one of those schools where they whack your knuckles if boys and girls talk to each other, and God forbid you touch each other before marriage. He doesn’t like talking about icky sex stuff. Being dirty or crass gets him all tied up.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“You can’t use it a lot or it’ll lose its impact, but yeah. Don’t ask me how you get along in the Navy if talking about sex is so taboo, let alone make chief.”

“Jesus Christ, how do you get through life like that?” asked Tanner.

“I do not know. Anyway, we probably are in for shit duty for a couple weeks.”

“Yeah,” Tanner sighed. “Think he splits us up on shifts?”

“I think he tries. Once he sits down with the schedule, it won’t work. They need to keep us both in line with Bravo Company for alerts and training. Plus, you’re already stuck with the collateral duties nobody else wants. If he moves you, somebody else has to take over your spot on the cleaning list. Nobody wants to do that.”

“Never thought being the bathroom janitor would give me job security,” muttered Tanner. “Is the Bravo Company thing enough to keep you on our watch, though?”

“That, and most of the other watches can barely stand me.” Her answer carried a quiet, smug pride. “The chief can order a change, but he wants them to get along. I think he’ll cool down and it’ll be fine.”

A couple of navy ratings, both women, dropped one another’s hands as they crossed paths with the MAs. Twenty yards later, a random marine private bopping along to music in his earpiece straightened and even nodded in greeting as if to play off the lost military bearing in his stride. Tanner smiled and nodded back, only to feel bad when the private blinked and tripped. He couldn’t be more than a month out of basic. To him, an MA was a walking threat of disciplinary action, not another shipmate.

The lost step didn’t lead to a fall, so Tanner walked on and pretended not to notice. Better to leave the guy alone than make him wonder if a friendly approach was only a smokescreen for some citation.

“Plus, we do the job,” continued Baldwin. “You ask too many questions and I’m too funny, but Commander Jacobson knows the difference between that and a problem. We’re good MAs. It’ll be fine.”

They walked on.

“You really think that much of the shop doesn’t like you?” asked Tanner.

“Yeah. Definitely,” she laughed. “They don’t show it around you because we’re friends. Half of them figure we’re banging. For a lot of them, that’s reason enough. It’s not jealousy over me specifically—I mean a couple, sure, they’ve made stupid noises—but they resent us having a good time when they’re not. Even if it’s only in their imaginations. And the rest is…” Baldwin shrugged. “I’m like you. I don’t buy into all the military culture bullshit. I don’t take it seriously. The difference is you’re openly critical while I’m funny about it.”

“Think that’s why we get along?”

“I think we get along because you’re a good guy and you never let the macho stuff get into your head. You’re not threatened if I speak up or do a better job. The rest is probably age and upbringing and all that.” Baldwin looked down at her feet, then their path, then glanced at him again. “You okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“We were talking about heavy stuff before Lockwood showed up. What you told him sounded honest, too. I got blunt about sex ’cause it makes him uncomfortable, but he’s probably just as scared of dealing with actual emotions, too.”

“I’m bothered by a lot of stuff.” Tanner sighed. “Can’t really do anything about it. I’d rather be annoyed than sad.”

Baldwin considered it. “Man, fuck the chief, huh?”

“Seriously.”

“I’m not dating you, though.”

Tanner laughed. “What did I just say about being sad?”

Baldwin kicked his leg. “Shut up.”

“Y’know, you’re the one real friend I’ve made on the ship. Los Angeles or Beowulf,” Tanner corrected. “Same crew on both ships, right? It’s been hard to make friends since I enlisted.”

“You’ve got other friends on the ship,” said Baldwin.

“A few, yeah. They’re all friends I made back in basic. Most of the time I only catch them in passing. The MA shop and Bravo and the rest just aren’t actively shitty to me. I can get along. I wouldn’t call them friends. You’re the one person I’d hang with by choice outside of work.” Tanner grinned. “And I’m not saying it’s a default or anything. I’m saying you’re cool, and I’m grateful we’re friends.”

“Aw! Tanner.” Her mouth curled into a frown. “Now this is too sappy.”

“Man, fuck the chief,” said Tanner.

“Fuck the chief,” Baldwin echoed.

The holocoms on their wrists buzzed in synchronicity. Both blinked at the “urgent” flag from their shift lead. “Fucking hell, has he got us under surveillance?” Tanner muttered before tapping the flag to open the call. “Malone here.”

“Baldwin here,” she confirmed for her own message.

“Ballgame at the Comet.” That was the MA shop code for a fight. Lockwood spoke at a tightly controlled volume, urgent like the message flag, but neither loud nor panicked. “Get here right away. Don’t run. Don’t draw attention. But drop what you’re doing and get here now.”

Baldwin and Tanner pivoted and were on the move before he finished. They knew the location. The Comet had been along their path and its holographic displays were within sight.

In the background of Lockwood’s call, Tanner heard a shout, a crash, and more shouts in response. “Chief, you okay?” He followed Lockwood’s example by holding his voice down, but he was concerned. Lockwood had been an MA longer than Tanner had been alive. He had experience, but he’d also been at a desk for years—and he didn’t have the depth of close combat training common to the “new guard” of recruits since Tanner joined. The chief wouldn’t call in a brawl if it only involved civilians, either.

“Yeah. I’m out of it. Get here,” Lockwood repeated.

“The smart people are leaving,” said Baldwin. Within a few more steps, Tanner saw what she meant. Civilians and people in uniform alike streamed out of the Comet’s open doors, spreading out into the broad lanes. Some appeared shocked and unsettled. Others laughed it off, either nervously or genuinely. Few moved far from the entrance, but at least they spread out enough to allow the new arrivals to pass.

The threshold opened into tables, chairs, and wall-to-wall sports on screens and close-up holos. There was a cacophony of thumps and shouts upstairs. “Okay, you were right and I was wrong,” Tanner grumbled. Their purposeful stride picked up into a hustle. “What the hell are we fighting about?”

Lockwood came into sight at the top of the stairs, his back to one wall and with the benefit of framing as cover from the other side. A tumbler flew through the portal and shattered. The grunts, thuds, and general racket of the fight got louder. Vigilant and seemingly calm, Lockwood greeted their arrival with a cautioning hand.

Tanner took in a scene of ongoing holo-stages at every wall, music blasting, and a good twenty or so combatants going at it amid overturned furniture. He saw more uniforms than civvies, and vac suits trending blue rather than grey. Tanner didn’t recognize any faces until finally he did, and then it clicked. “Aw, man. Alpha Company.”

“They’re not all from Beowulf,” said Lockwood. “Some of these are station guys.”

“We’re here. Should we move in?” asked Tanner.

“What? No.” Lockwood frowned. “That’s ridiculous. We wait. The other patrols are on the way. They’ll be here.”

A big man in simple civilian clothes wrapped his arms around a marine for a body slam into the nearest table. The marine had an ally that disrupted any follow-up with a punch to the civilian’s jaw. He kept piling on punches while he had the momentum. Beyond them, another fight between two marines collapsed into a booth-bound wrestling match. Lights flashed when some navy rating went face-first into one of the big screens.

“We just stand here? People are getting hurt,” said Tanner.

“Nothing lethal happening yet,” Lockwood explained calmly. He watched the crowd rather than his subordinates. “If that changes, we jump in. Past that, it’s lowest possible force, remember? Give them a minute and they’ll wear out.”

Tanner frowned. He more than agreed with using minimal force, but he also saw the value of ending the fight as fast as possible. The MAs all carried stunners. If they dropped even a couple of combatants, the others would likely stop—if we go in blasting, Tanner conceded. He didn’t like that idea on principle, either.

Stunner training came with lots of warnings about head injuries when a victim dropped like a stone and other complications, but they hardly seemed worse than the ongoing fight. Also, despite Lockwood’s assessment, Tanner’s experience of fights tended toward escalation. Most of these people were marines; new guard, from the looks of them. They had certainly been trained to fight for keeps.

“Take a breath. Watch,” said Lockwood.

The brawl raged. Tanner didn’t see whatever Lockwood wanted him to see… until he did. The body-slammed marine groaned and rolled off the table rather than leaping back into the fight. His friend took a hit from the big civilian and retaliated, but slowly, taking none of the obvious openings. The next attack looked more like a shove than a punch.

“Come on, motherfucker! Come on!” yelled the marine. Or maybe someone else. Shouting started to outweigh the actual violence. The match in the booth continued with awkward punches for probably little harm; another marine caught sight of the looming MAs and sat in a chair rather than diving back in.

Baldwin met Tanner’s glance with a shrug. If she objected to Lockwood’s approach, she didn’t say. A couple more MAs arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

“You still want to charge in?” asked Lockwood.

“I don’t want to, it’s just…” Tanner shook his head. His hands clenched and unclenched, breath shallow, entire body tense from shoulders to calves. His body waited to jump in at any second, but he recognized what Lockwood saw. “I’m used to fights being worse than this.”

“That’s ’cause all you kids know is training and actual combat. You’re not used to the stupid shit that falls in-between.” The chief glanced at his collected force. “Alright, seven of us? Ortega and Wills, block the exit here in case some idiot runs. Everyone else, cuff them, separate them, and sit them down. Minimal force but shut ’em down hard if they try anything. Let’s do it.”

They moved in. Lockwood took the lead, orders shouted at impressive volume, turning the attention of more than a few brawlers. Some carried on, too focused or drunk to notice the new arrivals, at least until authority stepped right in their face.

“Sit down. Now,” Lockwood shouted to one marine. “You! You’d better be holding that chair to put your ass in it. Yeah, I mean you.”

“Shit,” sighed the first navy crewman to make eye contact with Tanner. His shoulders dropped and his hands came up.

“Sit down,” Tanner echoed the chief. He still felt jittery walking into a fight without a target and an attack plan, but he was more than happy to lean on the chief’s primary weapon of projected annoyance if it actually worked. The crewman sat as ordered. Tanner took that as a good sign.

Not every conflict stopped instantly. That big civilian made sure to get a couple cheap shots in on his marine before pulling back and raising his hands. Lockwood didn’t let him get away with it. “Asshole, you know better,” he growled, slapping a cuff on one arm and immediately twisting it hard around the guy’s back to drive the message home. The chief had technique on his side, but not strength. Still, he didn’t meet much resistance.

Then they heard a bottle break.

“Chief!” Baldwin warned.

The battered marine lunged up from the floor. A bloody cut over one eye said everything about his mood and the jagged weapon spoke loudly of his intent. His target had turned, though, putting the chief between them. Vulnerable.

Tanner abandoned his “suspect” to dive in and catch the marine by the wrist. Lockwood got a great look at jagged glass inches from his face before Tanner and the marine hit the floor in a tangle.

“Master at A—!” Tanner began. His head bumped against a table while the marine struggled and growled. Somewhere in the background, Tanner thought he heard the marine’s friends shouting at him to calm down. It didn’t work. Tanner slammed his hand toward the floor to crush the rest of the broken bottle, but that marked only a partial victory. He still didn’t have a compliant suspect.

“Tanner, I’ve got him,” came Baldwin’s voice. “Get clear.”

He knew Baldwin’s sensibilities. He also fully agreed. With the marine on his side and the bottle resolved, Tanner gave the guy a shove and rolled in the opposite direction—only to catch an elbow right to the nose before he could get any distance. Stars burst against his eyelids. It wasn’t even a deliberate attack. Tanner knew it was only a wind-up. That didn’t make the crunchy-wet pain in his nose any better.

The crackle of Baldwin’s stunner settled the issue. She stood directly over Tanner and the unconscious marine, weapon in hand and concern on her face. “Aw, fuck. That looks bad,” she told her partner.

“It is bad,” Tanner groaned in a nasal burble.

“Take it easy. It’s okay,” Lockwood counseled as Tanner rose.

The rest of the barfight had drawn to a close, with only the bark of MAs and the downcast looks of brawlers to mark any conflict. Lockwood gave Tanner a once-over with a frown of guilt, which held as he glanced at Baldwin. Whatever his thoughts, they passed with a sigh. “Malone, switch out with Ortega at the exit and take care of that nose. Baldwin, secure that idiot and get on with the others.” His intensity dropped with his irritation. “Good looking out, both of you. Thanks.”

Tanner gingerly tapped and pinched his nose, head bowed as he shambled away from the scene. Baldwin got back to the job.

No change of schedule or watch assignment ever came.

* * *

Phoebe hurried down a hallway of dueling music muffled by closed doors and the smell of burnt popcorn muffled by nothing. Streamers dangled from the ceiling where they should have hung out of the way. Someone must have swatted them down in passing, or maybe they didn’t secure both ends well enough. She didn’t have time to worry about it.

The Resident Advisor’s door stood closed. She was afraid of that, but ready to suck it up. Phoebe pounded on the door with rapid slaps of both hands. “Tanner? Tanner, are you in there?”

“Yeah,” came his voice. “Yeah, coming.”

Please be sober. Please be sober. Please be sober, Phoebe thought in the four-second eternity before he opened the door. Tanner wore the same linen pants and loud flower shirt that had won him a trophy made from empty pizza boxes only an hour ago. Apart from his lack of shoes, he hadn’t changed at all since she last saw him. He seemed sober. Then again, she never saw him drink. “You’ve gotta come quick. There’s a fight,” Phoebe explained. She already had her hand on his wrist, tugging him out of his room.

“What kind of fight?” Tanner asked. He didn’t resist.

“The fighting kind,” she answered. What sort of question was that?

“Who’s fighting?”

“I don’t know them all. It’s big.”

“What is that smell? Oh god, did Rhea make popcorn while stoned again?”

“Tanner!” Phoebe pressed. He wasn’t moving terribly fast. “Come on!”

“I’m coming. Without my shoes. Where are we going?”

“It’s at the Lantern. You don’t need shoes.” Phoebe corrected herself mentally—the student pub took up the far corner of the building across from the dormitory, so it wasn’t much of a walk, but she was dragging him to a fight. Maybe shoes would have been good, but it was too late now. “A bunch of guys from Brisbane came in and started a bunch of shit.”

“This is a soccer thing?” he asked skeptically.

“It’s a fight! They already broke a window and a table, and I saw blood.”

“Is it anyone from our floor?”

“Siraj and Jason, and Chet took a swing at someone and missed and punched that picture of the first campus buildings instead. He broke the glass. I didn’t even realize it had glass.”

Tanner sighed. “Goddammit, Chet.”

“I’ve never seen such a big fight. It’s serious,” said Phoebe.

“It’s Brisbane fans and our students. Did you see any weapons?” The doors opened. Tanner exited the lift with somewhat less urgency than Phoebe felt. “It’s not a crisis.”

“Okay, I know not everything is a literal war, but people will get hurt,” said Phoebe.

“Probably. It’ll be okay. We’re on the way, Phoebe. Take a breath.”

“Don’t patronize me! I need you to take this seriously!”

“I’m not patronizing you. I am taking this seriously. That’s what I mean.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I need to not treat this like it’s a literal war,” Tanner said evenly.

Phoebe paused. “Oh god. I’m not reactivating your trauma, am I? You’re not gonna freak out and have a flashback and go all combat mode, are you?”

“No.” Tanner frowned. “It’s not like that.” His frown doubled right there on his face. “Mostly. Look, I’m not gonna freak out, but keeping perspective is part of that, okay? These are college students. It’s not gonna get that out of hand.”

“You mean like when Sue found her boyfriend cheating with Audrey and she put all his stuff into that acid Chet had in his room?”

Tanner rolled his eyes. “Okay, I may have gotten that one wrong.”

The lobby doors slid open to a warm evening of soft breezes and shouts across the lane. Tanner picked up his pace, but didn’t run like Phoebe had run all the way from the Lantern. “I’m just saying, you sometimes think things aren’t a big deal when they are.”

“Phoebe, I’m not even five years older than you, and that difference is all a weird enough time that I’m not sure it should even count. I don’t claim to be any sharper than you or the rest of the floor. I get lots of stuff wrong.”

“Then shouldn’t we be running?”

“No. It’s only been a minute or two, right? It may already be over.” They heard the crash of a broken window and the shock of onlookers. Tanner winced. “Or maybe not. Anyway, if I have to get physical, my biggest advantage is if everyone else is worn out. And I don’t want to get physical if I can avoid it. I hate fighting. Fighting hurts.”

“I figured you’d walk in and army-shout everyone down.”

Tanner shook his head. “I’m only scary because NorthStar tells people I’m scary. Drunk college students won’t remember any of that. I’m not intimidating on my own. I’d only embarrass myself.”

Phoebe frowned. Tanner was, in fact, dramatically less scary once she knew him past the media. He was silly, warm… and, she thought, a little lonely. This also wasn’t the first time she came running to him for help. She didn’t seek aid from people who scared her.

He never spoke of the war and all his fights with any enthusiasm, either.

They saw spectators as they rounded the corner, some still holding drinks from the Lantern and others who wandered by. The collection didn’t qualify as a crowd, so Phoebe and Tanner had an easy view of the fight that had spilled out of the pub. Two guys Phoebe didn’t know stayed almost out of arm’s reach, throwing punches that didn’t land.

“Okay, yeah,” said Tanner. “This guy doesn’t want to fight anymore and that one maybe took a summer boxing class, but he’s drunk. If either of them kicks, they’ll—don’t kick!” he warned, but it was too late. The one in the Fremantle University shirt went for it with one leg only to fall in the grass.

Through the windows of the Lantern, mostly still undamaged, the fight looked smaller and less intense than Phoebe remembered when she left. People still brawled, though, including Chet with his back to the open front door.

Shaking his head, Tanner moved between the two guys on the lawn. “First one to move gets to fight two of us. Do you want that?”

“Two of you?” The one on the ground squinted. “There’s only two of you?”

“Can’t get anything past you,” Tanner conceded. He gestured to the fallen one while looking to the other. “Are you proud of this? You gonna brag to your friends later?”

“Man, fuck you,” he grumbled, but he backed off.

“Let ’em fight!” complained a bystander.

“Hey, are you a freshman? Do you live in the dorms?” Tanner shot back. They sullenly turned away. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Tanner pressed onward to the door of the Lantern.

“You still want more? You still up for it?” Chet taunted.

“You haven’t done shit,” said whoever he was fighting.

“Chet. Chet,” Tanner began. Phoebe thought he sounded more annoyed than threatening, but he was too loud to be ignored. Chet’s head almost turned, but then he took a big step backward and wound up one arm for another punch—with his elbow going right into Tanner’s face. “Chet—oof!”

“Ooohhhh, shit,” Chet breathed when he looked back. His stance changed completely. With a quick, wary glance to whoever he was fighting, he stepped the rest of the way out of the Lantern with his hands over his mouth. “Oh god, Tanner? Is that you?”

“Jesus on a goddamn fuck!” Tanner straightened, one hand pinching his nose shut, but blood already flowed. Tanner still looked more annoyed than threatening—although he was much more annoyed now. “Chet. Grass.” He pointed. “Sit down. Now.”

Chet did as instructed, casting an embarrassed look at Phoebe along the way. Tanner pointed into the doorway. “Yeah, stupid. You, too. Fight’s over. Sit down over here.” He pointed to the grass on the other side and away from Chet.

“Who the fuck are you?” came a voice from inside. The challenger followed his question out of the door to confront Tanner, taller and brawnier in his Brisbane shirt. He launched a meaty fist as soon as he was in range. Phoebe almost couldn’t track Tanner’s response. He made only one step toward his attacker and caught him, and then the bigger man flew around Tanner to sprawl onto the grass precisely where Tanner had pointed.

“I’m the only one here who actually knows how to fight. Everybody thinks you’re big and bad right now. Do you want me to ruin that image? No? Then stay there.”

If the Brisbane fan had second thoughts, they ended with a warning shake of the head—from Chet. “Whatever,” the guy grunted.

Tanner pinched his nose again, spitting out profanity before shaking blood from his hand to the ground. When he looked up, he saw Phoebe staring back at him. “What?” he asked.

“I’m sorry.” She gestured at his face. “I didn’t… you hate this stuff. I’m sorry.”

“Heh. Hah. It’s fine, Phoebe. My life is so much better than it used to be.”

Phoebe bit her lip. Somehow, that didn’t assuage her guilt, but at least his smile seemed genuine under the blood.

Tanner inhaled deeply—through his mouth, of course—and turned back to the doorway of the Lantern without his grin. “Siraj! Siraj, put him down! Siraj, I will call your mother!”

FRIENDS

Frustration and worry in the dormitory hallway grew with each passing second of silence—or at least what passed for silence. Rhea’s fuzzy wombat slippers and Fremantle University sweats hardly made a sound, but even this late hour held the murmur of music seeping through soundproofing fields of one room or another. Rhea also heard the occasional yelp or shout or laugh, and a steady thump underlying it all… oh god, was that her heart? Could she still hear her own heart?

Or was that someone else’s heart? Or like, everyone’s hearts, all beating together in harmony?

Damn it, her last hit was hours ago. She really should’ve been sober by now.

Rhea stopped into the hallway to breathe and focus. She touched her tightly curled black hair and brought her dark brown face to the palm of her hands, looking for serenity, feeling the texture air flow in through her nose and out and—

A thump and rattle in the overhead caught her attention. Rhea followed the sound around the corner, hoping for another clue around the bend.

Instead, she found more silence. And then she found Phoebe, blonde and blue-eyed and innocently bright in actual pajamas—wow, who wore those?—with donuts and a drink from the rec room clutched in her hand. “Rhea? You okay?” she asked.

Phoebe had donuts.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m good.” Rhea nodded. Maybe too much, from the look Phoebe gave. Damn it. Well, as long as she was here… “Hey. Hey. Have you, um…?” She waited and watched. Phoebe waited, too. Rhea nodded again. “Okay, you haven’t. Cool.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Seen… never mind.”

“Seen who?”

“I mean, you’d know if you knew.”

Phoebe’s innocent eyes narrowed curiously. “Is it someone who’s not supposed to be here?” she asked quietly, as if Phoebe could keep a secret.

“Not—No! Naw. Naw. Not that. No biggie.” A tiny thump and rattle overhead turned Rhea fully around in a snap. She listened and watched for any follow-up that might hint at a direction, but heard none.

“Rhea?” said Phoebe.

“Shh shh shh.”

Phoebe waited. “Rhea.”

“It’s fine, I’ve got this.”

“Do you need help? Who are you looking for?”

“Bat.”

“A bat?”

“Ssshhhh, don’t make it a thing. It’s fine.”

“You brought a bat into the dorms?” Phoebe hissed.

“Brought a bat? Pssh. No. Who said that? Me?” Rhea looked around at the overhead again. The bat, sadly, had not breached the ventilation grill or the ceiling tiles.

“Rhea, are you stoned?” Phoebe asked warily.

Rhea turned back to her, shoulders dropped and a frown forming on her face. “Okay, no. It’s a real bat, alright? I’m only a little bit high. She’s the only bat in the zoology lab, and she’s not full-grown, and she looked lonely, so I was like…”

“…you were higher in class than you are now?” Phoebe finished once Rhea trailed off.

“I mean that is how time and metabolisms work, yeah. I’m definitely not as high as I was when I put Ruby in my bag. Can you help me? C’mon.” Rhea took Phoebe by the wrist and led her stumbling down the hallway.

“What am I gonna do? Catch her with my hands?”

“If we can lure her or scare her down the right path in the vents, she has to come out in my room. That’s the only place where the vent is open.”

“Unless she goes to one of the other floors.”

“Oh god, don’t say that. She needs to stay here.”

“Rhea, why did you have your vent open when you had a bat in your room?”

“I didn’t have it open, I just had it kinda loose so I could… um… get stuff.” Rhea frowned. “Shit, do you know if Tanner’s around?”

“You hide stuff in your vent so Tanner doesn’t see it?” Phoebe deadpanned. “It’s not like we get room inspections. How often is he in your room?”

“Only when my accelerator breaks. Or the window. And the shower drain.”

“Your shower drain breaks?”

“Did you know there’s a little ring beneath the drain that’s supposed to zap all the runoff so it breaks up any clumps that could clog the pipe? Mine was broken before I got here. Wasn’t my fault at all. But then it clogged up and got super gross. It was all, like, soap and hair and gunk. Tanner just got down and scooped it out by hand. He wore a glove, but… by hand.” Rhea made a face. “I think the navy really messed him up.”

Phoebe sighed. “Bat?”

“Yeah. Bat. Just…” Rhea paused and took a different turn in the hallway, slowing her steps and sticking close to the wall for stealth. Thankfully, Phoebe got the clue and did the same. They came to a halt together to peer around the corner at their Resident Advisor’s door and found it closed—with a stranger leaning against it as if listening intently.

Longevity treatments could keep a face young, but age showed in other ways. Tall and well-built, square-jawed and mildly tanned, with blond hair kept short but in fashion, the stranger could fit in here. His khaki pants and stiff grey jacket were less youthful. The guy carried a certain physical appeal… if Rhea wanted to date someone’s dad. Or a professor. Instead, she frowned.

He was looking right at her and Phoebe.

“Oh, hello.” His expression brightened as he stood straight and waved. “Hey, is—” he gestured to the door. “This is Tanner’s room, right? Do I have the right floor?”

“Yeah.” Rhea rounded the corner to come closer with Phoebe in tow. “Who are you?”

“Sorry. Hi. I’m Joe. Tanner and I served together in Archangel. We’re Navy buddies. Kinda wanted to surprise him. It’s a thing with us. But he’s not answering his door, hence the listening. I’m sure that looked weird.”

“Nah, we do that all the time here,” Rhea lied.

“You served with Tanner?” asked Phoebe.

“Yeah. On the Los Angeles, and then the Beowulf. Our rooms were right next to each other. Let me guess, he doesn’t talk about the war much, huh?”

“No,” said Phoebe.

“That fits. He’s humble. So, I know it’s a little late, but I’m on kind of a clock. Would he be around here? Or is he probably out?”

“I don’t—”

“Date night,” Rhea said over Phoebe’s answer, and then clamped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, shit. Sorry. Not date night. Not seeing anybody. Know what? I’m gonna go. We’re gonna go. Haven’t seen him, but he should be back soon. Or not. You should call him. We’re gonna go.”

“It’s just, I’m only on Fremantle for—um? Alright? Bye?” Joe stammered as Rhea tugged Phoebe back down the hallway.

“Rhea, what—?” Phoebe began.

“Not supposed to talk about the date,” Rhea hissed. They were almost at the corner.

“What date?”

“Oh my god, shh.” Rhea hauled Phoebe around the corner, nearly costing the donuts. Her cloudy mind pushed hard to decide on a direction: her room? Phoebe’s? Which was closest? The answer came with an opening door right across from them.

Arthur peeked out of his doorway with bleary eyes and a bad case of bedhead. Ignoring the strange state of his hair and the pillow creases marking his face, Rhea pushed Arthur right back into his dorm with an assertive hand on his bare chest. Phoebe followed, her wrist still a prisoner of Rhea’s. “Shut the door,” Rhea whispered, and then realized Phoebe had both hands occupied and she had almost pushed Arthur over the back of the couch inside his dorm’s common area. She frowned and quickly did it herself, following up by tapping the sound dampening option on the environmental panel.

“Uh. Hey?” Arthur brightened.

Rhea’s frown deepened into a scowl. “This isn’t a wet dream and we’re not here to make one real.”

“Oh,” mumbled Arthur.

“Do you have a shirt?” Phoebe ventured.

“Yeah, I was only—wait, it’s my room. Why are you in here?”

“There’s a weird guy outside Tanner’s room,” answered Phoebe.

“Oh good, you thought he’s weird, too?” said Rhea.

“Yeah. Obviously. I was trying to play it cool.”

“I was trying to play it cool to help you,” Rhea countered.

“What was that about a date?”

“I made it up so he’d think we were hiding something harmless instead of running away from a creep. You use an obvious lie to distract from the more important lie. Didn’t you ever hide anything from your parents?”

“What do you mean, ‘weird?’” asked Arthur.

“Weird like too normal weird. Too normal to be here,” said Rhea.

“O…kay?”

“He said he’s a navy friend of Tanner’s,” said Phoebe.

“Yeah. That’s how we know he’s suspicious,” said Rhea.

“How?” Arthur wondered, and winced at the scolding looks he received.

“Tanner doesn’t have any friends from the military. He hated everyone,” answered Rhea.

“He doesn’t have any male friends. He liked a few women,” Phoebe corrected.

“Did they like him?”

“Rhea! Why are you so down on him?”

“Because I always feel like he’s gonna bust me!”

“He cleaned out your filthy shower drain with his bare hands!”

“Ew, really?” Arthur replied.

“He wore a glove,” Rhea mumbled with rolling eyes. “Look, Joe out there is trouble one way or another. We should call Tanner. Do either of you have your holocom? I left mine in my room.”

“So did I,” Phoebe admitted.

Again, Arthur winced. “Mine’s broken. Got all polarized during a project today.”

“What kind of project does that?”

“A polarity project, obviously. Anyway, it’s broken and I’m alone.” He gestured to the closed doors ringing the common room. “Everyone else is out.”

“So, we can’t call him and we don’t know where he is,” said Phoebe.

“Well, that’s, um. That’s not all true. Hold on.” Arthur wandered back into his room.

Rhea glanced curiously to Phoebe, and then nudged her out of her stare. She made a face at Phoebe’s self-conscious surprise and mouthed silently, “Arthur?”

“No,” Phoebe shot back, equally silent. Then she shrugged. “I mean he’s nice enough,” she whispered. “He looks better without a shirt.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know how to dress.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Phoebe countered.

Arthur emerged from his room with a tucked-in triangle pattern shirt and his hair slightly better, as if he’d at least run his hands through the mess. “I think I know where we can find him. I wasn’t supposed to say anything. C’mon.” He looked back from the doorway but shrugged. “Guess if it’s some bad guy, he’s not looking for us, right?”

“He didn’t stop us from walking away,” said Rhea.

“Okay. Maybe we should be quiet, anyway.”

“Where are we going?”

“Dan and them. Tanner might be in their room.”

Together, they ventured out into the hallway, alert eyes watching for trouble and strangers in every direction. They mindfully stayed clear of the turn leading to Tanner’s room and the stranger, if he remained. Their tension became explicit when a thump and a cheer from one of the other rooms made them all jump. Someone had scored in some game. Rhea, Phoebe, and Arthur all looked to one another and held hands the rest of the way.

Dan lived in the end suite with Jason and Siraj. No noise came from their room. Arthur tapped the doorbell—really just a low electronic tone on the other side of the door—and waited, but not long. He tapped it again.

“Kinda busy, sorry,” came Dan’s voice from the door panel.

“Yeah, I know,” Arthur fumed. He tapped the bell again.

The door opened little more than a sliver. Dan glared through the gap, nineteen years old with hair grown barely beyond stubble even with his last cranial implant operation. “What?” he fumed, only to retreat and stumble when Rhea pushed around Arthur and through Dan. Her entourage followed.

Familiar residents filled nearly every seat in the common room. Clad in a rugby team shirt and shorts, Siraj took up most of one couch with his hands over his face in some frustration or another. He was peering at them through his fingers. Jason sat on the other couch still dressed for the day, holding the hand of another young man—the only one present who didn’t live in the dorms.

Hunched over in the chair between the couches, Tanner looked up at the new arrivals without a word or an expression of complaint. His eyes gave the loudest Oh God What Now look Rhea had ever seen this side of her own beleaguered mother. “Uh. Hey,” said Rhea. “Need to talk to you for a second.”

“We’re in the middle of something, Rhea,” said Dan.

“This is important,” said Phoebe.

“So is this,” protested Jason.

“No, it’s fine,” said Jason’s friend, or maybe more than friend.

“We’re not dropping this,” Tanner said to them, and then looked to Rhea, Phoebe, and Arthur. “Is anything on fire? Police on their way? Anyone bleeding or crying?”

“Crying?” Arthur blinked.

“Anything with tears usually isn’t my business, but I’m trying to be more sensitive with my priorities,” said Tanner.

“Nobody’s crying here. You don’t need to make this your business,” said Jason.

“Okay, stop,” said Tanner.

“Really need to talk to you, Tanner,” said Phoebe. “It’s urgent.”

“Is this a Catholic thing?” Jason pressed.

“What?”

“Me and William.” Jason clutched his companion’s hand. “Do you have a religious problem with us being together?”

Tanner’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened. None in the room had ever seen him so stunned. “The fuck is—Jason, I’m barely a Catholic and it’s 22-fucking-80! Even the hardcore Catholics don’t give a damn about this stuff anymore. Do people where you’re from care if two guys get together?” He waited, and then saw Jason’s face go red. “Jesus Christ, they do? Aw, man. I’m sorry. That’s so dumb.”

“It’s a small town south of—that’s not important right now,” said Jason.

“Tanner, our thing is kind of important,” Arthur pressed.

“Hold on,” Tanner told him, and then looked back to the others. “William, I’m sorry, you can’t stay here. Jason, you can’t have your boyfriend move into your dorm room.”

“Why not? He’s a student here. He’s entitled to housing.”

“Yeah, but that’s not—”

“We’re both adults.”

“I know, but the dorms are limited space and—”

“Tanner, do you have someone special to you?” asked William. “What if someone told you that you couldn’t live together when you’re ready?”

Tanner bit his lips down into a single line as if holding his patience and tact captive while they tried to escape. “I’m here on political asylum. Also, she’s the captain of her own spaceship. Our situation is a little different.”

“Aw shit, he does have friends from the military,” Rhea winced quietly.

“What is this about?” Tanner asked her.

“Are you going to report us?” Jason asked, bluntly stepping on Tanner’s question.

“Have I ever reported anyone here? For anything?” Tanner waved at the others in the room.

Every single resident twitched and glanced away.

“You can’t have your boyfriend live with you in your dorm room, Jason. He’s two years past freshman status and can’t live in this dorm, you don’t get to impose another resident on the roommates you’ve already got, and I’m not gonna hide this from the other RA staff. I’m not being a hard ass here, Jason. I’m saying it doesn’t work.

“Besides, if you get to have your boyfriend move in with you, then so does everyone else. Do you want Heather’s boyfriend living here? The poetry guy with the ‘natural lifestyle’ scent? Do you want that?”

No one spoke. No one until Siraj, silent before now. “Damn. I thought I was the only one who didn’t like Heather’s boyfriend.”

“No, everyone’s being polite for her sake, but fuck that guy,” Tanner grumbled. Then he looked around the room. “Nobody ever say anything about that, either.”

“Okay,” Arthur swallowed.

“Fuck that guy,” said Phoebe. Everyone looked at her. “Okay, can we talk to you now?”

“Tanner, there’s a guy here looking for you,” Rhea went on. “He was outside your door and says he’s a friend from the military.”

A different look came over Tanner’s face, still calm but growing serious, as if he hadn’t been serious before now. “Is he tall, South Asian, friendly? Or a tall Black guy, easygoing? Uniform?”

“No uniform, and no. White guy. Kinda big. Seemed nice. I don’t remember his name.”

“It won’t be his real name. Does he know I’m here?”

“Shouldn’t,” said Arthur. “He didn’t see us come in. I only knew you were in here because, um…” He shared a guilty glance with Dan.

Jason looked from one to the other. “Oh, did one of you tell Tanner about William?”

“Tanner literally lives here, Jason,” Dan sighed.

“Putting that off for now,” said Tanner. “Who talked to this guy? What did he say?”

“We talked to him,” Phoebe answered, including Rhea with a gesture. “He said he used to live next door to you on one of your ships. Made out like this was a surprise visit.”

“And he was right outside my door? How long has it been?”

“Only a few minutes. He was leaning in at your door like he was listening for you. Rhea made it sound like you were out on a date and we walked away.”

“Okay. Not a friend. Not someone looking for an interview, either, or he’d have had more questions for you. He may be in there now, or he’s waiting for me to come down the hall, so I don’t want to go either of those ways,” Tanner thought out loud. He stood and looked around. “You wouldn’t have serious weapons. None of you cook and you don’t have power tools, do you? Please tell me one of you owns a hammer.”

“Yeah, in my dresser,” said Siraj.

“If this guy is trouble, should we call campus safety?” asked William—and then found everyone staring at him. “What?”

“Yeah, he can’t live here, Jason,” said Rhea. “Not cool.”

“Seriously,” Phoebe agreed.

“We don’t call campus safety here,” said Arthur.

“They aren’t ready to deal with this kind of shit, anyway.” Tanner appeared more irritated than alarmed or concerned, but his serious attitude remained. “Lock the door and then keep clear of it. Everyone stay in here. Whose room is that over there?”

“Mine,” said Siraj.

“Cool. Hammer?”

“There’s a kit in the closet, and… uh… are you…?”

Everyone watched Tanner pass through Siraj’s door. He found the hammer, slid up beside the window rather than going right to it, and looked warily out into the night before popping the manual bypass to the room’s “butler” controls. The release allowed him to slide the whole pane out—and climb into the darkness.

“Wait, do you have a balcony?” a shocked William asked Siraj.

“Nah, man. You see any balconies on the outside of this building?”

“We’re on the seventh floor!”

“Yeah, and?” said Dan.

“Then where’s he going?” William pressed.

Rhea opened her mouth to answer but closed it. Tanner had just said the guy might be waiting in the hall, or he might have already broken into Tanner’s room. Either way, that made going through the hall dangerous—for Tanner. “Oohhh, hold up,” said Rhea. She tapped the lock on the door and walked out.

“Rhea, no!” Phoebe whisper-yelped. “He said stay—!”

Fuzzy wombat slippers and long, careful steps carried Rhea silently down the hall. Sneaking around some creepy stalker bad guy used some of the same skills as sneaking in and out of the house past curfew. Now that she knew to be careful, Rhea watched the few reflective surfaces and shadows in the hallway for warning signs before she glanced around the corner to Tanner’s room. She knew “Joe” wouldn’t see her peek—and confirmed it when he wasn’t there.

That left her pretty sure where he’d be.

If the guy wasn’t at Tanner’s door, he’d have a line of sight on it. If he didn’t have that, there was only one place he’d be. Tanner had to have figured all that out, too, hence the path he took.

That meant he could use a distraction. Instead, he told everyone to stay in Jason and Siraj’s room. Like there was ever any chance of Rhea doing what she was told.

Rhea came to Tanner’s door, stood to the side of the control panel, and counted to ten. If Tanner needed more than that, it was his fault for not coordinating with her. At arm’s length from the door and the panel, she tapped in the security bypass code she wasn’t supposed to know. Touchpad keys beeped obediently. The lock unlatched.

Searing blue flashes of light ripped through Tanner’s door. Rhea escaped the pulse lasers purely through the forethought of standing out of the way. Thankfully, the walls adjacent to Tanner’s door stopped the shots where his door had not. She hadn’t thought of that part before setting off the attack. Oops. Rhea backed away in a hurry.

Haze and smoke reversed its billowing course when the ventilated door flew inward. “Joe” emerged with some fat gun or another close to his chest in a weird hold Rhea had never seen in the holovids. He rapidly swept the hallway—ending with her.

His eyes widened with the look of a man who’d been busted. Rhea knew that look. Then the part where he was holding a gun caught up to him, and to her, and she hated her whole stupid plan.

A hammer clocked him in the side of the head with no hand to hold it, falling to the floor while Joe reeled. He leaned forward and groaned but won the struggle to stay on his feet. Joe turned his attention back to Tanner’s room just in time to catch the door slamming shut on half his body and fall victim to a punch to the head, followed by an efficient disarmament.

Heavy blows reverberated through the walls. Rhea winced at every thud and shout. “Fucking asshole!” Tanner shouted. Then came a crash, and a grunt, and a gasp.

The pulse pistol flew out into the intersecting hall, toward Jason’s room and Phoebe and all the rest. Rhea had a second to wonder if they stayed put as instructed before she heard Arthur shout, “Don’t touch it! You’ll set it off!”

That answered her first question. Rhea wanted other answers. She ventured closer.

“My fucking dorm!” Tanner barked. Something else broke. The next painful grunt sounded like it was Tanner. Then she heard a crash like breaking glass and a decidedly awful yelp. “That’s what you get! You opened my fucking window!”

“Kill you, shit,” growled Joe. Another thud hit, and then a loud wooden crack. “Go to sleep,” Joe hissed. “Go to sleep. Go—no!”

Flailing boots swung out of Tanner’s doorway, starting at Rhea’s height and flying upward. Joe’s legs hit the top of the doorframe before falling to the floor again. Debris came along with them, mostly drywall and dust, but from out of the doorway tumbled a small, rectangular ventilation grate.

Rhea’s eyes snapped wide. “Oh shit! Ruby!”

Joe found his footing and lunged back into the fight. Rhea rushed after him. Out of the corner of her eye, Rhea caught sight of a crowd of dorm residents in one end of the hallway and expected more on the way. Lotta good you’re all doing me there, she thought as she dove into the fray.

Tanner had Joe up against the wall, hitting him faster but also more awkwardly than in media. Rhea had no time to stare, looking instead to the open air duct over the doorway and searching for a way up. The dresser had already been smashed. The bed was too far, too low, and too heavy to drag, anyway, and the laser knife stuck into the mattress gave it a creepy, smoldering vibe. Then again, the bed offered something else she needed.

Bodies flew across her path, one propelled by an elbow to the face from the other. They fell out of the way to allow Rhea a solid grasp of Tanner’s bedsheets. The injustice of Tanner having a bigger bed than the other dorm units would have to wait for later. Rhea wrapped it into a protective grip.

“C’mere!” A big, angry hand reached for her face, only to fly away again. Tanner pulled Joe back with a twisting, ugly hold around his other arm.

The bony “pop” that followed made Rhea wince. It was much worse for Joe. His eyes bulged and he suddenly rushed away in a twist. Tanner pivoted and hurled, and then Joe was gone—along with most of what remained from Tanner’s broken window.

“Oh shit,” she mumbled.

“Rhea, what the fuck are you doing in here?” Tanner panted with his lip split and an even uglier cut on his forehead. “I told you to stay in the other room!”

“My bat!” Rhea blurted out.

“What?”

“My—Ruby!” On instinct, Rhea flung the bedsheet upward at the first dark flutter to emerge from the vent. She missed, cursing herself, and watched the terrified flying fox curve around Tanner’s room in a desperate bid for escape. Though she tried, Rhea knew she wasn’t fast enough for another lunge with the sheets before Ruby made it to the wide-open and broken window.

Tanner got in the way in time. Ruby collided with his chest, dark brown wings flapping against his shoulders and face. He wrapped his hands and arms around Ruby in a struggle that nearly put him on the floor. “It’s okay! It’s okay!” he assured Ruby unconvincingly. “I’ve got you!”

“She doesn’t want to be got,” Rhea scolded. She swiftly wrapped part of his bedsheet around her hand as an improvised glove. “Give her to me. You’re scaring her.”

Scooping Ruby’s clawed feet away from Tanner’s now torn shirt, Rhea brought Ruby away to hang from her hand despite continued fluttering and complaint. “Shush, shush, we’re good. He’s not gonna hurt you. Let’s get some fruit, okay?”

Tanner watched her leave without a single sensible word coming to his brain, let alone his mouth. His face hurt. His chest hurt. His fists hurt, too, and his gut, and everything else, honestly.

Through his doorway, Tanner saw half a dozen stunned faces. A glance outside and down the hall revealed more. Most of his floor stared back at him while Rhea and her bat wandered off.

Tanner’s shoulders dropped. He let out a breath. “I’ll call campus safety. Nobody go outside until I deal with the body.” He turned toward the elevator.

Nobody listened to him, of course. Everyone but Rhea and Ruby followed him outside.

About the Author

Elliott Kay is a survivor of adolescence in Los Angeles, service in the United States Coast Guard, classroom teaching, a motorcycle crash, chronic seasickness, summers in Phoenix, a winter in Alaska, serial monogamy, and reading comments on the Internet. He resides in Seattle with his wife and four cats.

His military sci-fi novels Poor Man’s Fight and Rich Man’s War are published through Skyscape, with the rest of the series also available on Amazon. His urban fantasy novels Good Intentions, Natural Consequences, Personal Demons, Past Due, the related short stories in Life In Shadows, Small Victories, and the fantasy novella Days of High Adventure are independently published and available through Amazon and Audible.

Wandering Monsters and the space opera romance Hot Restart are available through Amazon.

Table of Contents

WARNING

TRUST

A MOST NOBLE QUEST

THE SPIRIT OF GIVING

STRANGERS

ACCOMPLISHED

AMENDS

STRICTLY BUSINESS

THE MEDIATOR

INSIDERS

VIGILANCE

LOSSES

MOSTLY HYPE

BETTER DAYS

FRIENDS

About the Author