Alan Goodspeed is an ordinary teenage boy with all the hopes and dreams of any other teenage boy. Except for when he was a teenage girl. And then there was the whole pixie parenthood thing. That's fairly normal... right?

 

Fair warning, this is Chapter 2 in a series that I've not finished yet. That being said, for those who do decide to proceed, it's all plotted and I do intend to finish this, even if it is at the normal Jemima pace of things and will be woven around producing chapters of 'We are Family'. Thanks for reading this far and I hope you enjoy this second chapter! Fair warning, it is a little darker than the first chapter in places (see tags) but like any story it needs dark to sustain the light. And of course *big hugs* to everyone who took the time to kudos and comment on chapter one. It was genuinely appreciated. Thank you.
 

Previously in Chapter 1

 
"What are you?" I giggled, still struggling to put any urgency in my voice. I had a horrible feeling I was going to die but not end up being too bothered about it when it happened. At this rate my tombstone would read 'Here lies Alan Lewis Goodspeed. Age 17. He died. Meh.'

"A metamorph. What your people once called a changeling. They intend for me to replace you.”

“Pffft,” I exclaimed, suppressing another giggle. “We both know that while a changeling can fool a mundane, they can’t fool a Warlock or Witch for long. Those with the Talent have second sight.”

“True… unless I take your essence into mine.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Bone marrow.”

“Where are you going to get a surgeon for that procedure at this time of night?”

“There’s no need for any surgeon,” she replied, the nails extending from her hand like talons. “If it’s any consolation you will probably pass out from the blood loss before I start sucking the marrow out of your bones.”

Oddly enough it wasn’t any consolation though on the plus side at least I knew what sort of movie I was in now. It was in a horror movie... with a cliff hanger. I couldn't help but wonder if it was too late to hold out for the octogenarian porn option?
 
 

~o~O~o~
 
Chapter 2

Why do these things always happen to me?

I’m a pretty good guy on the whole, when I am a guy that is. It’s not like I’m a bad girl either. If my life had story tags it would be a ‘good boy to good girl’ kind of story. I care about people and try to be kind. I even sort my recycling properly. And what do I get for a reward? I’m about to be eaten alive by my changeling neighbour. All I can say is hope she realises how difficult it’s going to be to get the stains my blood leaves out of the carpet. I know it’s a bit passive-aggressive but the happy juice in my system is keeping me from getting anymore worked up about it.

*sigh* Why me?

Actually, that’s a good point. *giggle* Why me? I mean I know I should be freaking out big time right now but the happy juice is kind of making everything seem less urgent… calmer… and it’s actually giving me a chance to think things through a bit more easily rather than following my natural urges to start screaming and never stop. Still, there’s got to be a way out of this. I just wish I knew what it was.

I glance over at Agnes and immediately wish I hadn’t. Using her extended talons, she carefully slides them under the skin along her jaw line and with a horrible, wet ripping sound begins to lift her skin from her face. It’s almost like something out of the 1960’s Mission Impossible TV show disguises as she pulls off Agnes’ aged face and grey hair and casually discards it on the floor to reveal a much younger looking woman beneath it. A much younger woman who doesn’t look like me. Actually, even with all the blood over her face and hair that is masking her appearance a little, you’d have to be blind to think we even looked remotely alike let alone that she resembled Agnes — even a younger Agnes — in any way.

“Ahhhhh…. That feels soooooo wonderful.”

There’s a slight accent to her voice. It’s a little sing-songy. Not Scandinavian sing-songy but definitely European sounding. She tilts her head back like some sort of sun worshiper enjoying the first light of dawn and for a few seconds the only sound in the room is that of her breathing as she takes several lung clearing deep breaths.

“Who… who are you?”

The smile she flashes briefly before it clouds over is young and full of life but at the same time tinged with melancholy.

“Danique… my name, my real name, is Danique. Danique Goed. I’m sorry we get to finally meet under such circumstances Alan.”

Retracting her talons she reached over and squeezed my arm in an incongruously touching gesture from the woman who is going to kill me.

“I meant it when I said earlier that I had been grateful for your company these last few months. It wasn’t easy being Agnes and you… you made it easier than you will ever know. Being able to speak to someone so much closer to my real age meant a lot to me, even if I was under orders not to reveal my true nature... or to warn you of the danger you and your family faced.”

“You mean danger beyond that of having the marrow sucked from my bones?”

“Yes…” she replied, turning away from me. “What they will make me do when I’ve replaced you… you wouldn’t want to be around to see it any more than I want to do it. They will use me to destroy your House from the inside. So much blood will be spilt.”

“You keep saying ‘they’ and acting like you have no choice Ag… Danique,” I said, trying to reach out with numb fingers to grasp her hand. “Who are they? How are they making you do this to me? There is no one else here in this room but us… please, call my father…”

“The easiest question to answer is how they are making me do this to you,” said Danqiue, holding her blood stained but newly youthful hand up to show that Agnes’ wedding ring was still firmly attached to her finger. “I know you have no Talent Alan but have you ever heard of the ‘Ring of Servitude’?”

“No,” I replied with a happy juice inspired giggle. “Does it do the housework for you or something?”

“I wish it did,” said Danique, flexing the talons from her fingertips. “It’s one of a number of artefacts developed on the orders of the English Witchfinder General during the witch hunts of the 1640s. As I’m sure you know, whilst a mundane has great difficulty spotting a witch or warlock who isn’t actively casting magick, those with the Talent can see it in others through their auras. This ring and others like it, gave the Witchfinders an accurate way of hunting those with the Talent.”

“The Hounds…” I whispered, childhood nightmares being recalled unbidden.

I may have rebelled against my heritage and resisted going to the Institute with all the other good little warlocks and witches but I had heard the stories of our collective past at my grandfather’s knee. Witches and warlocks enslaved in the service of the mundane Witchfinders and forced to root out others in the Family. In all the tales I heard the nature of the enslaving artefacts always varied but the end result was the same whether it was mothers betraying children or lover betraying lover. The Hound would be forced to watch as each of the people they identified was hanged, hunting others until they had in the eyes of the Witchfinders paid their debt to God. Then and only then, would their time come at the gallows. For many of the Hounds, their death could not come soon enough, with tales of them thanking the hangman when the time came for them to die. The thought of being made to betray my own chil– my pixies– in such a way made my eyes sting with unshed tears. There were many sorts of monsters in the world but the worst weren’t always the ones from mythology.

“I see you’ve heard of them,” said Danique with a sad smile. “Then you know something of my fate.”

“But… there hasn’t been any Hound’s for hundreds of years. The Great Houses gathered up all the artefacts and destroyed them in the 18th Century. The Hounds are just stories now, ways of keeping errant Family members in line. Y’know, ‘wooooo… behave or the Witchfinders will come for you and make you a Hound’. They’re both as much history now as the black death or…”

I was going to say the bogeyman, but as I know they were real it undermined my argument somewhat to deny their existence.

“Or… other stuff form the past that’s no longer around like... kipper ties?”

At least I hope they aren’t still around. For all I know hipsters wear them ‘ironically’, thereby demonstrating they don’t know the meaning of the word ‘ironically’.

I watched Danique try to say something, her lips twitching and flexing, but the only sounds that she could make were unintelligible.

“The ring?” I asked, noticing the pleading look in her eyes.

“Yes… I tried to say something about…” she said, pausing as her lips contorted soundlessly. “About that which they don’t want me to. What you just saw is what happens when I try.”

“Can you say it without talking about it?” I asked, hoping that it made more sense to her than it sounded to me now that I’d verbalised it.

“I… I could tell you a story… legend says that the fabled artificer John of Sheffield made the artefacts by which the Hounds were controlled. Like all of those with the Talent he had tried to hide from the Witchfinders. Unfortunately, he didn’t hide well enough and they caught him. It is said that he was brought before the Witchfinder General himself where John was offered a deal, for his skill as an artificer was known even to the Witchfinders. The deal offered was that if John would forge artefacts that would enable the mundane Witchfinders to find those with the Talent, then he and his family would be spared.”

“He was a fool to even think about making that deal with a man like the Witchfinder General,” I giggled, rolling my eyes at the forced burst of happiness.

“You’d be surprised at how many people would do the most reprehensible things to others in order to save their own life or that of their family,” said Danique, staring at the ring. “Anyway, John set to work on forging the artefacts, hoping that an opportunity would arise for his family to escape if he took as long as he could to make them. The flaw in this plan was that John had failed to take into account that the Witchfinder General was a famously impatient man. When John told him that it would take at least a month to forge the artefacts, the Witchfinder General told him that if that were the case his family would not live to see out the week.”

“Driven by love and desperation, John worked the metal and enchantments night and day for five days. During the day, the Witchfinder’s finest blacksmiths worked gruelling shifts in an attempt to keep up with John but come the night only John would be left working. His only company would be the ringing of metal-on-metal, the constant hiss of air from the bellows and the crackling of the bonfires that lit the darkness to enable him to continue his work. On the fifth and final night, John stopped and announced to the Witchfinder General that the artefacts, his greatest works, were finished save for the final sealing of the enchantments under the first rays of the morning sun. In exchange for his work he asked for his family to be freed as he had been promised. ‘But they are free’ replied the Witchfinder General as he placed an arm around John’s shoulders and pointed to the bonfires that ringed the forge. ‘I’ve been so impressed with your work that I’ve been setting one free from their sins each night as a reward’. Realising his folly, John lashed out at the Witchfinder General gouging out one of his eyes before he was killed. As the Witchfinders were unable to incant the final enchantments when the sun rose, the artefacts set with a number of flaws. Flaws like the requirement that the Ring of Servitude be willingly accepted.”

“So… you’re saying that the ring makes you a Hound?” I asked, looking again at the non-descript golden band on Danique’s finger.

“I’m… so much more due to my metamorphic nature. I’m not just a tracker but through the Ring of Mastery, they intend to make me an assassin. I can assume 3 or 4 different appearances in the course of a year. You see the other ring gives its mundane wearer complete control over whoever wears a linked Ring of Servitude. It enables them to see through the eyes of those they control and instruct them as required.”

“I’m sorry. But I still don’t understand why you accepted the ring in the first place?”

“Because although you have to accept the ring voluntarily, you don’t have to know what it is you are accepting… and I was a stupid woman in love,” replied Danique, a sad smile crossing her face.

“Changelings can fall in love?”

I wished I hadn’t said it the moment the words left my lips from the pained look Danique gave me.

“Of course. Birds do it, bees do it… all intelligent life does it. Metamorphs aren’t evil. We’re not even creatures of the Golden Court. We’re an offshoot of humanity. Linneaus called us ‘Homo Mutato’, the ‘Changing Man’ in his catalogues. I grew up in Amsterdam and other than missing the odd school day a couple of times a year due to my need to shed my skin, I was like any other girl. I had a house, a family... even a pet rabbit.”

“You… you’re saying that you’re human?”

“Is it so surprising given you come from a family able to wield magick that there are humans who can shed their skins like snakes? Like some mammals lay eggs, so we evolved the ability to shed our outer skin 2 or 3 times a year. Unlike a snake though we can change our new skins appearance. How does that make us any less human, or you any more human, by virtue of us being different? You sound like a warlock.”

And she was right. It could have just as easily been my mother talking about my pixies. Danique’s differences had led me to classify her as different. To deny her in my mind the most basic of things. A home life. A childhood. Love. Wasn’t it the cry of every conquistador, every empire builder, and every bigot? To quantify those that were different in ways and terms that removed the common bonds of humanity to make them something else, something to be feared... or persecuted. I couldn’t help but wonder what Homo Neanderthalensis first thought of Homo Sapiens. Would they have recognised us as also being humans despite the differences in our appearance?

“I’m sorry. You’re right.”

“Thank you Alan. It means a lot to hear you say that.”

“So how… why did you accept the ring?”

“I was 24 and had recently taken a job with a large multi-national company based in Amsterdam as a junior lawyer. I’d just returned from a year of travelling the world and moved out of my parent’s house. That’s the house of my biological parents I should add as we aren’t the child stealers of legend. Anyway, I met a man through mutual friends at a bar. His name was Pieter and he worked for another law firm in the city. He was handsome, funny, charming and best of all he seemed to like me. We’d been dating for about six months and were getting really serious. Serious to the degree that I knew I had to tell him about myself soon. On our anniversary he surprised me by whisking me off to Paris for a romantic weekend.”

Danique blotted a single tear that had cleared a track down her blood stained cheek with the back of her hand.

“It… it was at dinner that night that he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I remember sobbing hysterically while repeating ‘ja’ over and over in answer to his proposal as he slipped the ring onto my finger. Then… then I don’t really remember much. Snatches of conversation, brief images of scenes and people until I regained my thoughts again on the floor of a small hotel in Brighton. I remember seeing a terrified old woman tied up on the bed in front of me and I remember the first and only time I met the wearer of the controlling ring in person. I couldn’t believe it was him at first. He should have been dead for centuries but there he was, looking just as the legends say.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say… the ring won’t let me. He instructed me never to reveal his identity. It was weird seeing a childhood nightmare in human form standing before me. A man of the past in modern clothes. That wasn’t the only contradiction in him either. He… he…”

I watched Danique wipe at more tears this time, smearing the blood on her face to reveal clear batches only to cover them up with more blood with the next wipe.

“He… he kissed Agnes on top of her head, like you would a small child, and he thanked her. He thanked her for living a good life. He thanked her for being a pure child of Adam, untainted by the Talent or knowledge of the Craft. He thanked her for her sacrifice. And then he walked to the door, only stopping to put his hand on my head like you would a faithful dog. In the same tone of voice you might use to tell someone the time of day he told me to take Agnes’ form, ensuring I took her very essence from her bone marrow into my being when I did so, and then if she was still alive at the end of the process I was to kill her.”

I felt some of my own tears silently running down my face at the thought of the way poor Agnes had died. Terrified and alone. It made my stomach churn a little at the thought. No one deserved to die that way.

“And I’m sorry I have to do this but the ring is reminding me that a timescale was set in my commands for dealing with you.”

With a flick of her wrist she raked her talons across my stomach, thin lines of red visible through my ripped clothing. I giggled in response to the searing pain.

Yeah, giggled.

It seemed by accident of wanting to keep me quiet, Danique’s masters had robbed me of the ability to summon by one asset, my pixies, to help me. Yes, I could feel sorrow but the happy juice quickly replaced it with a feeling of almost euphoric happiness. I couldn’t project alarm through the empathic link even under physical pain, so there was no way I could trigger a defensive response from Sunflower or Canada. Oddly though, part of me was glad that this was the case. Did I really want to endanger my chil–the pixies–in such a way? I couldn’t see a way out of this without someone dying. I would rather die than make my pixies, my… my babies… killers. I couldn’t summon them to help but I’m not sure I wanted to anyway. What a mess. Or to put it another way, my canoe seemed to be in the river but lacking an oar.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated again, before proceeding to suck my blood from the end of her talons. I hoped I was a poor vintage.

“I need your blood to start the transformation. While I can copy your form from a visual impression, blood enables a more perfect copy. If it’s any small consolation I look no more forward to becoming male than I did becoming Agnes.”

Two thoughts came to mind. One that I wish she’d stop constantly apologising to me and two, boy was she in for a shock when she started to change given my current female state under the glamour.

“Why Agnes? And why me?” I asked, trying to find a way to stall for as much time as I could.

The very end of my fingertips and toes had started to tingle in earnest suggesting there was a limit to the time the happy juice would keep me immobile. I just had to live long enough to exploit it and hope the mysterious ‘they’ hadn’t been intelligent enough to set Danique’s operational timeframe to the time it took for the happy juice to expire.

“Why Agnes? Because she was a mundane who had recently moved next door to the head of House Goodspeed. They have a particular grievance against your family line because of… of…”

I watched Danique struggle again trying to articulate words that never came out. With a sad shrug, she stopped and continued speaking.

“They knew she had already been vetted by the Family when she first moved to Ackholt and wasn’t under any suspicion. The timing of Agnes’ visit to Brighton to see her sister was perfect for their timetable so the decision was made to take her then. As for why you, well you were the only mundane in your family. I have no Talent so I couldn’t replace someone with the Talent, which ruled out others in your family.”

Ohhhh… now that’s got to be a bad joke. I’m going to die because I chose to reject the use of my Talent, which the mysterious ‘they’ have interpreted as my not having a Talent. Great. Peachy. Wonderful. I’m going to go to heaven hearing my mother’s “I told you so” ringing in my ears. Unless…

“Would it change anything if I told you that I had the Talent?” I asked, a hopeful note creeping into my voice. Maybe I could reason myself out of this mess.

“Please tell me that you aren’t lying?” she begged, grasping my arms firmly in her hands. I winced in pain as her sharp but partially retracted talons dug into my flesh. “You can free us both with your Craft!”

“I’m telling the truth but… but I might as well not be,” I replied, a moan dying on my lips as it changed into a giggle. “I have the Talent but know only the most basic ABC’s of the Craft. I couldn’t even cast a primary school level spell.”

“Why?” cried a visibly distraught Danique, her grip tightening on my arms. “Why would you not know your Craft?”

“There was an… incident... I witnessed when I was younger…” I said, my voice trailing off as I bit my lip to hold back the memory. Even now it had the capacity to reduce me to tears.

“There must be something you can do? I don’t want to do this, be this… puppet. I want to be me again. Can’t you try to do something? Even a badly cast spell might attract some attention!”

“I’m sorry but even if I wanted too, I just don’t have the knowledge to do so. I always said I would live or die by my choice. I guess that turned out to be true.”

“At least you get to die,” snapped Danique. “I would rather die than live through what is ahead of me. Damn you, Alan Goodspeed. Damn you!”

“Trust me, I don’t want to die,” I said with a giggle.

Yeah, that really should have been said more grumpily. It seemed my emotions were still zigging when they should be zagging. Danique let out a grunt of pain as her features rippled, her skin taking on a paler colour closer to my own.

“It’s started,” she hissed between clenched but reforming teeth. “What… it’s not changing…”

A confused look on Danique’s face suggested to me that she’d noticed the lack of some very specific changes as her face started to mirror that of girl me.

“Surprise?” I asked, letting a genuine giggle escape this time.

“You’re a… but how… that’s not possible…”

Concentrating on my right hand, I found that I could move my fingers into a clumsy approximation of a fist, in part thanks to Danique’s unintentional stimulation of my arm muscles with the points of her talons. The confused look on Danique’s, well actually I guess my, face at the changes she was undergoing told me that this was probably ‘the’ moment. That moment in a Hollywood film where things look their bleakest and then the action hero says a killer one liner before escaping and shifting the film into the third act. This was ‘the’ moment. This was my moment.

And I couldn’t think of a killer one liner. I’d make sure that they changed that in the movie of my life.

Clumsily and with a great deal of body twisting, I swung my arm upwards, my loosely clenched fist slapped hard against the underside of Danique’s jaw summoning just enough force to rock her backwards onto the floor. With a cry that Serena Williams would be proud of I pushed myself up and towards the door. Behind me I heard Danique snarl and knew she wouldn’t be stopped for long, the instructions from her ring master probably covering what to do in the event I tried to escape. Focusing on the door and freedom, I made it half a step before the rope tied around my numb legs pulled tight and my legs buckled under me causing me to crash to the floor.

A floor which oddly smelt of wildflowers and grass and tickled my nose as it waved on a soft breeze. I really needed to find out what carpet freshener she used.

“Let’s get her up. She hasn’t got all day,” said a voice from somewhere behind me. A voice with a strong Cornish accent. A voice that wasn’t mine or Danique’s or Danique’s copy of mine.

I felt two strong arms grasp me on each side and hoist me to my feet, causing my long hair to fall across my face. Another surprise was that my legs seemed to have found some of their strength again and I could see that they were free of the rope that had bound me. Carefully placing my weight on one leg I realised that my helpers were more bracing than carrying me.

“Did my father send yo–“

Any further words I might have said died in my throat as I cleared my hair from eyes. Instead of standing in the spare bedroom of Agnes and George Gentry, I appeared to be standing in a field overlooking a grassy plain. In front of me stood an imposing golden fabric tent, a row of banners gently fluttering in the wind in front of it. Each banner seemed to represent something or someone unknown to me.

“Queen Joan awaits an audience with you, Mistress Goodspeed.”

I crooked my head to get a better look at the voice to my left. I’m not sure what I expected to find but it mostly definitely wasn’t a tall blue skinned amazon, her athletic body marked with white painted Celtic tribal markings all over with the exception of her mane of long flowing white hair. Her torso and upper thighs were covered by leather armour and a large sword hung from her belt. In the hand not supporting me she held a large round shield. She made quite an imposing sight. A sight made all the more imposing by the gossamer like pixie wings protruding from her back at shoulder blade height. Turning my head the other way, I saw a similarly attired blue woman supporting me.

“Queen Joan?” I asked. The name seemed to be familiar to me but I found I couldn’t place it.

“Aye, her majesty will see you now.”

“Queen Joan of where?” I asked, leaning against the women as we slowly started walking towards the golden tent.

“Of everywhere. Though to her people she is known as Queen Joan the Wad.”

“Wait… Queen Joan the Wad? The Queen Joan who is Queen of all the Pixies?”

“Yes, which other Queen Joan do you know of?” asked my Cornish voiced rescuer, the hint of amusement dancing in her voice.

“I’m not in Ackholt anymore am I?”

“Yes and No. You’re still in Ackholt as well as being here. Here is Buckland St Mary in Somerset at the same time as being somewhere else that isn’t.”

“Well, that seems fine then.”

And then I passed out because it seemed the right thing to do in the circumstances.
 

~o~O~o~
 
“–will help but I really hope this one isn’t going to make a habit of this. We don’t have time to wait for her to wake up, as she must return soon. Use the water.”

My eyes shot open just in time to see a crystal pitcher of water being upended over my head. Coughing and spluttering, I rolled to my side gulping down much needed deep waterless breaths.

“Ah good, welcome back little one,” said a smirking blue face as it leant down to my field of vision. “If you would like to collect yourself quickly your audience with your Queen awaits.”

Slowly moving to an upright sitting position I saw that I was in some sort of anti-room in the golden tent. To one end of the room I could see through the tent flaps as they wafted on a light breeze to the grassy field outside and to the other end of the room stood two more tall blue women standing with crossed spears blocking entry to whatever was beyond. Accepting an offered hand I rose unsteadily to my feet, finding that I still needed assistance to remain standing.

“I have a lot of questions,” I said, leaning heavily against my companions as they guided me towards the guarded entrance.

“I’m not surprised. However, the one thing you don’t have right now is time. I’m sure the Queen will explain what she can though.”

In response to a curt nod from my more talkative companion, the guards uncrossed their spears and pulled back the flaps to let us through to the next room. In comparison to the well-lit ante-chamber, the next room was much darker with the only light source coming from a ring of small braziers dotted around the outside of the room that did less to illuminate than create a monstrous shadow puppet show against the golden canvas walls of the tent. At one end of the room were two golden thrones, identical in every way, seated next to each other on a small dais.

At the sound of our entrance an older blue woman who was wearing an ornately embroidered golden robe banged a long staff three times against the floor of the dais.

“All rise in the presence of Queen Joan I, co-regent of the pixies, Lady of the moors, the forests and the gardens, Lady of the dance and Keeper of the Golden Torch!” she proclaimed. As my legs were starting to ache I felt exceedingly grateful that I had no need to adjust my position.

Given the blue furred nature of my pixies and the blue skins of my new more humanoid companions, it would be fair to say that I expected Queen Joan to be similarly hued. It therefore came as an immense surprise when a woman with a deep golden tan and a mane of brilliant golden hair entered the chamber. If it wasn’t for the fact that she literally glowed, throwing a deep golden light across the room, and wore a crown encrusted with a myriad of gemstones I would have pegged her for nothing more than a well-tanned glamour model.

“Well met, Alan Goodspeed, scion of the Houses of Goodspeed and Grimm. We greet thee as one mother to another and proclaim to all who ask that as our daughter-in-spirit she is well beloved by our most royal self.”

Taking the hint as my companions pushed gently down on my shoulders, I shakily bent down to one knee to kiss the offered ring covered hand.

“Your majesty, you do me great honour,” I replied. I might not know what was going on here but it seemed a safe bet to say nice things to a queen, just in case she was an ‘orf wiv his head’ type of monarch as opposed to the ‘my government and I’ sort.

“No, you do us the honour Alan. Please sit with our most royal selves,” she replied, gesturing to a plump padded bench nearby. Royalty, the only way you could refer to yourself in the third person and not get committed to an institution.

“We are sure that you have many questions you would wish to ask of us.”

“That would be an understatement.”

“Then perhaps let us start with an easy one?” she asked.

“Where am I?”

“Excellent question. It leads to so many others. Such as why you are here. You should know that physically your body is in Ackholt still and once this meeting is concluded we will return you to it. Be assured that in Ackholt only a few seconds will have passed when you return. We regret having to meet in such a way but we are unable to meet in person at this point in time so we had your astral form summoned to us. We are on the astral plane at a place modelled on Buckland St Mary in Somerset as it was fifteen hundred years ago at the time of our peoples’ greatest victory. Given what you will face, we thought it fitting to show you the very place from which we defeated our mortal enemy.”

“Who?”

“The Fey. To be more precise faeries.”

“Wait… like Tinkerbelle faeries?”

I’ve seen Peter Pan and think I could handle that kind of threat. It certainly seems like I’d have a better chance against them as opposed to being eaten alive by a changeling.

“The humans’ ability to rewrite history never ceases to surprise me,” she replied with a dismissive way of her hand. “No. Ferocious carnivorous flying swarms that would devour a human caught alone in the woods in minutes, the flesh stripped from the bone before his remains could hit the ground. Tricksters leading humans to their deaths on the moors and in the marshes by offering false lights for no reason other than they could. Kidnappers who lure children away from their parents never to return. These are the creatures of darkness not Disney.”

“But this is history surely? Given that most of them left with the rest of the Golden Court?”

Yeah, there is this whole other history of the world you aren’t taught in regular school but that those in the Family are raised with, whether we like it or not in my case. Honestly, I could think of a few bestselling fiction authors who would give their right arms or a few other right things for the real history of the world. That being said, if I had a choice I’d live in ignorance like the rest of the mundane. It’s much better to live an A J P Taylor version of world history that makes sense than it is to know the Lovecraft / Stoker / Shelly version. Suffice to say when I was told the real story behind the assassination of Prime Minister Spencer Perceval as a small child it gave me nightmares for weeks afterwards. As part of this other ‘history’ every child with the Talent knows that the aristocracy of the Golden Court left our realm in the 5th Century, though nobody knows where to or why. Oh, there are lots of theories but I think at the time my ancestors were just glad that the Golden Court had gone and weren’t keen to question why in too much detail in case they came back.

“History? Not anymore. The Golden Court is planning to return from its exile in that other realm. We will need all our people and the allied races who stood against the Golden Court last time if we are to stop their advance forces establishing a foothold in this realm. Failure would see the return of the dark times.”

“So the attack on me is from the agents of the Golden Court?”

“Oh no, of course not,” replied the Queen, patting my hand affectionately. I felt like a small child who had just asked a silly question that amused an adult. “They do not consider you a sufficient threat to warrant that sort of attention. At least not yet anyway. As far as they are concerned you are just another human with the Talent. No, the attack on you is a human matter. It is of no consequence.”

“Of no consequence? I was about to be eaten alive!”

“We will deal with that in a moment my child,” she replied, placing a finger against my lips. “Please do not become distressed over the matter. Rest assured that we will not let our daughter-in-spirit come to any harm.”

“I… I don’t want to die…”

“Then you must learn to let go of human concerns. The humans played no role in our war against the forces of the mad Queen Mab last time and we foresee no role for them this time,” she said, placing an arm around me so that my head came to rest against her shoulder.

“But I am human.”

“Looks can be deceiving as you should know. Human? Once you were my dear,” she replied, tenderly stroking my hair. “Now though you are Pyskie, our daughter-in-spirit.”

“Pixie?”

“No Pys-kie,” she replied, emphasising the syllables. “Those who were once the human guardians of the pixies. The pixies are children of the wild magick. Did you not think it would have any effect on you?”

“I’m no Pyskie. I’m still human. I’m still Alan Goodspeed,” I said, flicking a strand of my long blonde hair out of my eyes.

“As were all the Pyskie once,” said the Queen, pointing to one of the blue skinned women in the room. “Aelfwyn for example was once known as Aelfgar. She was born in 425AD by your calendar, the second son of a blacksmith in a small Cornish village.”

“But she looks like at most she is in her mid-twenties.”

“Another blessing of being one of the Pyskie. You will have a life span on a par with that of the Elves. In normal circumstances Aelfwyn could expect to see another millennia of life easily.”

“I don’t want to be a Pyskie. I don’t want to be a warlock. I just want to be me. I just want to have a normal life.”

“And what of your children, our daughter-in-spirit?”

“I can have a normal life and still care for them, love them.”

“As every mother should,” she replied with an approving nod. “Yet without our assistance you will most certainly not see out the night. Unless of course you intend to use your Talent?”

“No… not that I could without knowledge of the Craft anyway.”

The Talent was just the ability to use magick. I had that and could do nothing about it. It was genetic. However, the Craft was the knowledge of how to use magick and that was what I had rejected, refusing to learn it.

“Suppose we could give you the knowledge of the Craft at the click of our fingers?”

“I would not use it.”

“Then your only other option is to embrace your Pyskie side. Pyskie’s do not need the Craft for physically they are stronger, more dexterous, and faster than a normal human... or a changeling.”

“I am not a Pyskie.”

“So what other options are left to you?”

“You could summon help for me from the Family?” I asked hopefully.

“We could but we will not. Such an intervention by us would not go unnoticed by the Golden Court.”

“So?”

“And by doing so it would alert them to your existence, our daughter-in-spirit. Do you honestly believe that you could protect your children against an Elf or a Troll?”

For Elves think less Legolas, and more Bruce Lee. Skilled in unarmed and armed combat with lightning fast reflexes. They couldn’t just kill you with a bow, they could kill you with a piece of paper given the chance. As for Trolls, think gamma radiated comic book characters on steroids with a taste for human flesh. As dangerous as they were during the night, they were even more dangerous during the day when their skin hardened to become as tough as stone. Against either of these creatures I didn’t stand a chance but luckily most of them had left with the Golden Court.

“No… but you could though.”

“Yes we could but to do so would cost us the coming war before it even began. Our husband and co-regent, King Jack, has a portion of our forces in your realm but not enough to win an outright confrontation with the forces of the Golden Court. We still need more time to organise the remainder of our forces and those of our allies, many of whom such as Brownies, Bluecaps, Pucas and Hobs are not by their nature warriors or of a warrior mentality. Our husband seeks to rally those of a warrior nature who have no love for the Golden Court to our aid but we simply do not have enough warriors now.”

“So where does that leave me?” I asked, fairly certain the answer was still in a canoe afloat on increasingly smelly water but lacking paddles.

“The same place you were before. If you do not wish to use your Talent then you must embrace your Pyskie nature.”

“I choose neither,” I replied, my contrary nature bristling at the forced options being put before me. I refused to believe that these were my only choices. That my continued survival was dependent on giving up something of myself.

“Then we will see you in the next life,” said the Queen, her voice heavy with sadness. “For you cannot triumph over a changeling alone.”

“You don–“

“My Queen,” interrupted one of the blue skinned Pyskies. “It is time.”

“We are sorry our daughter-in-spirit, but it is time for you to return to your realm,” said the Queen, gently cupping my face with a hand. “We wish that we could have spent more time with you for you are truly dearer to ourselves than you realise.”

“How do I do that? Return I mean?” I asked, as I was being helped onto unsteady feet by my former companions once more. “Do I click my heels together three times and say ‘there is no place like home’?”

“If that works for you then yes. However, it is more traditionally done by releasing the astral tether that holds you to this place and letting the spiritual anchor of your body pull you back to your own realm.”

“And if I don’t return?” I asked.

“Then time will continue to pass but at an equal rate here and in the physical plane. Your physical form will be consumed by the changeling, who will take your place while your spirit will forever be trapped on the astral plane unable to return or pass onto the next life. Meanwhile, your children will die of starvation, assuming that the changeling does not kill them first.”

When she put it like that, it didn’t seem much of a choice.

“Take a deep calming breath, close your eyes and feel the tether,” said the Queen placing a hand on lightly on my chest. “Breath slowly our daughter-in-spirit. Feel the tether.”

I closed my eyes as instructed and slowed my breathing as much as I could, taking in deep breaths and slowly exhaling through my mouth. Focusing on the sound of my breathing I tried to let go of the world around me and focus on my mysterious unseen tether.

“Can you feel it our daughter-in-spirit?”

I could feel it alright. I could feel a previously unnoticed soreness from the hours I had been walking around braless and the bruising from where I had fallen face first against the floor. I was fairly certain that was going to leave a mark. I could also feel where my underwear was riding and if that wasn’t enough I could feel how hot my multiple sock layered feet were. What I couldn’t feel, Obi Wan, was the force.

I shook my head, opening my eyes to look at the Queen.

“There is no shame our daughter-in-spirit,” she replied, reaching out to straighten my tie. “Very few can do it first time as most have difficulty letting go of the physical illusion around you.”

“So what do I do? You said I didn’t have much time left.”

“Aelfwyn,” said the Queen gesturing to one of my two companions. “Let Arden bear her weight while you help our daughter-in-spirit return to her realm.”

“As you command, my Queen.”

“We ask once more our daughter-in-spirit, will you accept your true nature?” asked the Queen. I shook my head in reply.

“So be it. While we cannot help you we can take steps to prevent your children from coming to any harm,” said the Queen. Reaching into a pouch hanging from her belt she sprinkled some sort of dust over my head.

“What did you do?”

“Fear not, we did nothing to you save for keeping your children out of harm’s way. We will ask you one more time our daughter-in-spirit, will you accept your true nature?”

“No. As the great philosopher said, ‘I yam what I yam’. I’ll live or die by that,” I replied with more bravado than I felt.

“Then we wish you well, our daughter-in-spirit. We will make you this offer once more today and it is our fondest hope that you are in a more receptive frame of mind on that occasion. You may proceed Aelfwyn,” said the Queen, with a click of her fingers. I felt a weird pain in my head much akin to an ice cream headache and let out a small grunt of discomfort.

“Mistress Goodspeed?” asked Aelfwyn, calling my attention back to my surroundings. “I will momentarily distract you which should be sufficient to release your tether to this plane. Are you ready?”

“I guess,” I replied, my voice not entirely hiding my scepticism over whether this would work.

“Look! A troll!” shouted Aelfwyn, pointing off into the distance. I glanced in that direction momentarily before turning back to her.

“I think you’re going to have to do better than tha–“

And then she punched me in the face.

Hard.
 

~o~O~o~
 
Opening my eyes, I found myself staring at the pattern of the spare bedroom carpet back at Agnes’ house. Reaching up to rub my sore jaw, I vowed that next time I met Aelfwyn I’d return the favour to her.

Reaching up…

Wiggling my fingers I realised that I had regained feeling in them and motor control had returned. While my head felt like it as full of cotton wool, my body seemed to be responding just fine and I rolled onto my back. I started to sit up only to be knocked back down by a snarling Danique, her taloned hand extended above me like a fleshy Sword of Damocles.

“Damn it!” I cursed, reaching out to lock my fingers in hers so as to force her taloned hand back. “Fight it.”

“Who are you girl?” said my newly formed twin. “What happened to Alan?”

Glancing down between us I noticed the glamour also seemed to have gone, revealing my current physical form for the first time to Danique. The physical form that she now wore.

“It’s me but it’s complicated,” I replied in understatement worthy of its own Guinness Book of Records entry.

“Before… that was a glamour?”

“Yes,” I grunted, the muscles in my arms stinging in pain as her superior strength started to press down on me. “As I said… it’s… complicated.”

“Then you really have the Talent?” she asked, hope creeping into her voice. It seemed she needed a physical demonstration to believe my earlier statement.

“Yes… but… I… have… no… knowledge… of… the… Craft…”

Her talons were inching closer and closer to me and I knew even using all my strength to resist that I couldn’t hold out for long. As my arm started to shake under the pressure, I felt a tear run down my cheek at the thought of all that I had yet to do in life, at the loss of my family and my chil–the pixies... my babies.

No.

They could take everything else from me but I wouldn’t let them hurt my babies.

With a scream I pushed with all my might against Danique’s hand, channelling all my will as well as my strength into one last desperate attempt to break free. As my fingers locked tighter against Danique’s I felt the warmth of the Ring of Servitude against my skin. A warmth that quickly rose to a burning sensation.

“What are you doing?” screamed Danique, her hand pulling back from me as sparks erupted in the air around it. Still despite this I kept my own fingers firmly locked against hers, not wanting to give her the chance to come back at me.

“I won’t let you hurt them,” I hissed, the light show around her hands intensifying.

As I pushed Danique’s hand further back my eyes briefly locked with hers and I saw the mixture of confusion, fear and hope in them. Yes, hope. The hope that I might be able to free her from her entrapment. Shifting my grip slightly, I tried to trap the ring between two of my fingers and slide it off her hand. For a moment it moved and I thought I might yet be able to free her. However, a searing heat that caused both of us to scream in pain locked the ring back into place on her finger.

“Try… try again,” whispered Danique through gritted teeth, the pain she was feeling evident on her face. “You moved it. Try again.”

Squeezing the burning metal between my fingers again I tried once more to slide it off her fingers. Just as I was rewarded my another slight movement I felt Danique’s hand press down against mine hard, forcing my grip on the ring to loosen as her razor sharp talons moved closer towards me.

“Damn it,” I hissed, “You have to fight it. Try and stop doing that or I’ll never get it off.”

“It’s not me…” replied, Danique her eyes wide with fear.

“Of course it’s yo–“

Anything further I might have said died on my lips as I saw a ghostly third hand pressing down on the back of Danique’s. Tilting my head to get a better look beyond her I saw a smartly dressed handsome man. Yet at the same time there was a brittleness to him that made him seem like some sort of male clothing model. Handsome but at the same time… plastic. Soulless.

“Who?”

“My… my master,” whispered Danique. “He’s using the ring to channel his presence.”

Turning my attention to the ring, I noticed that it had started to glow a deep red and as I once more tried to press my fingers against it the sensation changed from that of hard burning metal to something more akin to hot sticky marshmallow. It slipped out of my pincer like grasp each time I pressed against it.

As the tips of the talons started to brush against my clothes I pressed back with renewed vigour, trying to focus my very being into pushing Danique off of me. Once more the air around our locked hands seemed to spark but this time I felt something else, a tickling sensation in the back of my head that seemed to emanate from the Ring. I felt my whole body shudder as the tingling ran up and down my spine and then my world seemed to explode as image after image flashed through my mind. Images of Agnes’ life. Images of Danique’s life. Images of…

I screamed as something pressed back in my mind blocking the flow of new images. As I looked upwards at the figure behind Danique I noticed him shimmer and blur for a moment. Gone was the handsome smartly dressed man and in his place was a figure wearing the armour and clothing of a Civil War New Model Army cavalryman. Behind his lobster-pot helmet’s three barred visor I could see a face that might once have been called handsome were it not for the long jagged scar running up from the cheek and across the left eye. A left eye with a yellow animal like iris that was in stark contrast to his normal blue-grey right eye.

“So… a wolf in sheep’s clothing are you boy?” hissed the voice.

The accent had a strong East Anglian sound, with ‘you’ sounding like ‘yer’ and ‘boy’ sounding like ‘boi’.The accent seemed to come and go giving his voice an odd quality as it flipped between ‘BBC’ English and East Anglian.

“Like that bastard ancestor of yours, you hide your true nature from the world. Only this time ol’ Matty’s ready for you.”

With a flick of his eyes at my hand still entwined with Danique’s, I watched in horror as the squishy metal of the ring started to separate and part of it flow across to my own hand, wrapping itself around my finger like some sort of metal serpent.

“It seems that I’ll have you under the ring as well.”

“No! I… won’t… accept… it…”

“You’ll accept it boy, or I’ll kill your mother. Do you really want to be responsible for your ma’s death as well as your own? Accept the ring boy and you’ll both live, you have my word.”

Renewing his pressure on Danique’s hand I screamed as I felt the points of her talons start to break the surface of my skin and slowly sink into my flesh, coming to rest against the bones of my rib cage. Feeling the splash of something on my face, I peeked up at Danique to see that despite the snarl that possessed her face, the tears running from her eyes told another story.

“Accept the ring!” hissed the figure again.

“No-ooooooo!” I replied, my words again ending in a scream as the first of Danique’s talons pierced the flesh between my ribs, sinking deeper into me.

My eyes met Danique’s for what I thought would be one final time as the rest of her talons pushed deeper into my body and I watched a tear run down her nose and fall towards me.

And then stop, suspended in mid-air.

“So, our daughter-in-spirit you persist in denying your true self?” whispered a disembodied barely audible voice.

“Help me… please” I sobbed. The pain radiating from my chest was becoming unbearable and I was fairly certain one of Danique’s talons had punctured a lung.

“We are sorry but we cannot intervene directly our daughter-in-spirit for the reasons that we explained,” replied the Queen, her voice tinged with sadness. “It seems however that we have made a most terrible miscalculation for which we are truly sorry. However, you are the only one who can save yourself now. You are at a crossroads. Choose the Craft. Choose your true Pyskie nature. Choose to die. Choose to become a slave to the Witchfinders. These are the only paths open to you now. Whatever choice you make my daughter-in-spirit, you must choose wisely for your decision will have far greater repercussions than you may at first realise. You may yet be the first casualty of the coming war.”

“Help me…”

“Choose wisely my daughter. Know that I love you more than you will ever know.”

The tear splashed against my face as with a rush, the sounds around me returned. The grunting of Danique as she struggled both against her controller and the insane gloating noises coming from our ghostly companion.

I had a choice to make and no time with which to think about properly. It felt like I was being pressured on some game show - ‘we asked one hundred people what Alan would do in this situation and they said...’ kind of thing. Well, there was no way I was going to let Danique be made to kill me and by extension my babies. No way, no how was accepting the Ring of Servitude and the half-life of an existence that went with it. Those were both big crosses on my imaginary game show board. I dreaded to think would my new ghostly master would do with his control of my pixies through me. So, that left embracing the Craft which I had spent most of my life rejecting or take a leap of faith into the unknown and accept being a Pyskie with whatever that entailed.

It was no choice at all really.

“Accept the ring,” hissed the ghostly figure above me as I felt a talon pressing against my heart. “Accept the ring before it is too late.”

“Go. To. Hell!” I screamed, pushing back with the last of my strength.

“Been there. It couldn’t hold as pure a soul as mine!”

At first nothing happened but then slowly, inch-by-inch, Danique’s talons slid free from my body. I think the look of surprise on Danique’s face probably mirrored my own as I was watched blue skin spread out from under my sleeves up towards the tips of my fingers. As the blue skin came into contact with the squishy band of gold on my finger, it caused the metal to bubble and evaporate leaving a trail of golden sparkles in the air.

“No! Kill it! Kill it now!”

“Let her go!” I shouted, pushing Danique further off me as I started to rise to my knees but still keeping our fingers interlocked.

Focussing on the fading tickling sensation in the back of my mind I pressed hard against it, feeling the residual connection from the Ring of Servitude. I could ‘see’ a thread running from Danique’s ring to the hand of the ghostly figure who I assumed was the holder of the Ring of Mastery and tried to will the connection broken.

“No! I know not what you are foul creature but I defy you!”

A surge of feedback from the link rocked me backwards but I still fought to keep my fingers locked with Danique’s to maintain the connection now that my own ring was gone. I called out to Danique for assistance only then noticing for the first time why she had been so silent. With her mouth hung open and her eyes rolled back I wondered if she was even breathing for a moment but the residual link to the ring confirmed she was alive. I could only feel pity for her as the unseen battle of wills unfolding mentally tossed her around like a ragdoll.

“My… name… is… Alan… Goodspeed,” I grunted, pushing again at the fraying mental connection between the rings. “And I will not let you harm this woman!”

“No!” screamed the ghostly figure as the connection between the two rings finally broke. “She’s mine!”

Catching Danique easily in my now much stronger blue arms, I stuck my tongue out at the fading apparition.

“You can’t have her.”

“This does not end here bo–“

And then as silently as it had appeared the figure was gone.

“Alan?” whispered a faint voice muffled by my shoulder where her head had come to rest. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Ewww… well not on me,” I laughed, pushing Danique back in my arms to open some space between her.

And it was Danique. Free from the control of the ring, her features were rippling and returning back to those of the young woman I had seen earlier, Danique’s true form.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and get out of here,” I said, wiping some of the blood covering her face clear with my sleeve. “I think we’ve all had enough excitement for one night.”

I finally realised what the cotton wool feeling was in my head as it cleared. The Queen had placed some sort of filter on my empathic link to my babi– my pixies– following my return that had acted like the happy juice to stop me from alerting them to my situation. Whereas with the happy juice this had been an unintentional consequence, I knew the Queen had done so to protect my chil–my pixies from harm. While I understood why she had done this given that I had been conflicted about involving them in this myself, I made a mental note that royalty or not we would have words should we ever meet again given the danger it had placed me in. Not that I hoped we would be meeting again anytime soon. I wanted to be free of that craziness just as much as I wanted to be free of the Family’s craziness.

“Tikka?”

“Hello Sunflower,” I answered before looking up at the pixie hovering above me. “Please get my father and bring him here.”

“Tikka!” replied Sunflower, disappearing in a swirl of light. The connection between Sunflower and myself seemed oddly simple to use for once and I knew instinctively she had understood my request.

“I’m thinking there are a few things you were holding out on me about little girl blue,” said Danique, her voice heavy with tiredness. “For a start should I be calling you Alan or Alan-nah?”

“Alan. It’s Alan. Really,” I added at her raised eyebrow.

“Now let’s get you to your feet and your modesty better covered before my father arrives eh?” I said, gesturing to her torn blouse. Sliding my own torn and blood stained jacket off, I placed it around Danique’s shoulders.

“There, that should help,” I said, as she pulled it tight around her.

“Alan! Your shirt!”

Looking down at my now baggy shirt, I noticed the blood stains across the chest.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” sobbed Danique, covering the lower part of her face in her hands.

“Ummm… I think it’s okay,” I replied, lifting my shirt to look at the skin underneath. Running my fingers over the blood patches I found that I couldn’t even find a scar to show where Danique’s talons had penetrated my body.

“Alan?”

“Huh… I think my Pyskie transformation must have healed the damage.”

“You really are amazing Alan Goodspeed,” said Danique, relief flooding into her voice as she pulled me into a comforting hug. “If it wasn’t for you…”

In reply I squeezed her back, not needing any words. Danique started to speak again but I cut her words short by pressing a finger against her lips.

“It’s been a crazy night. I don’t know about you but all I want to do right now is go to bed.”

“Is that a proposition?” asked Danique with a smile. “Only I don’t normally swing that way but in your case Alan…nah I might make an exception.”

“What? No, I mean it wasn’t…” I yelped, pulling back from her. I wasn’t sure what colour blue people went when they blushed but I was pretty sure that I was doing it.

“Very funny,” I huffed, as Danique shook with laughter. “Oh, Ha… ha…”

Anything that Danique might have said was interrupted by the arrival of my father in a swirl of light accompanied by Sonnet, Canada and Sunflower.

“Al… Alan?” he asked with a frown as he looked over me.

“In the blue flesh,” I replied gesturing at my body.

“What? Who is that?” he asked, noticing Danique for the first time. “Why does she look like she showered in Ribena? What’s going on Alan? Is… is that human flesh on the floor?”

“Tikka, momma pretty!” exclaimed Sonnet as she swooped around me.

“Thank you sweetheart,” I said, rolling a sleeve up to reveal more of my blue skinned arm. “This is going to be a bitch to colour co-ordinate with though.”

“Alan! Language!” snapped my father, in what I’m sure what was a parental Pavlovian response more than conscious thought given the situation he found himself in.

“Sorry dad.”

“Where’s your mother? Where’s Agnes Gentry? Why are you blue? Will someone tell me what’s going on? And why am I standing in lumps of meat?”

“Mom!” I cried, slapping my forehead. “Girls! Find Grandma! Protect!”

In a chorus of ‘tikkas!’ the girls disappeared in little swirls of light.

“Where’s your mother Alan?” repeated my father. “Wh–“

The sounds of shots ringing out as a hail of bullets exploded through the bedroom door interrupted the conversation and I felt myself being pulled heavily to the ground by my father as items on the dresser behind where I had been standing shattered.

Kicking the door open, Aaron Gentry slowly entered the room training his pistol on each of us. In his other hand he held his mobile phone and I could hear a faint buzzing sound of someone speaking on the other end.

“Yessir,” said Aaron, bringing the phone back to his ear. “The changeling and the blue freak are here as you said sir. Also Jeffrey Goodspeed is here. Uh-huh… yessir… understood sir.”

“Message from the boss for you freak,” said Aaron, aiming his weapon at me. “See you in hell.”

Like in some dream I was dimly conscious of Danique and my father screaming as Aaron fired his weapon twice at me. The first shot went high to my right as Danique tackled Aaron. I could only watch in horror as the second shot fired into her torso causing her whole body to jerk. A third shot followed quickly into her body and Aaron pushed the limp form of Danique away from him. As her body hit the ground limply, he trained his gun back on me.

“Goodbye freak!” he yelled as he pulled the trigger.

I’m not sure who was the most surprised of us at the empty click noise from his gun but I was fairly certain though that he was the most surprised of us when my new wings ripped open the back of my shirt. As he turned and ran, I launched myself off the ground after him my new wings turning it into the sort of leap that the average superhero would be proud of. Emerging from the room, I watched as Aaron ran straight into the room on the opposite side of the hallway and leapt through the window into the night beyond.

Cursing the lack of double glazing which would have slowed his exit considerably, I swooped through the shattered glass and broken frame of the window into the night. As my eyes quickly, perhaps even unnaturally so, adjusted to the darkness outside I spotted Aaron ungainly climb-fall over the fence into the neighbour’s garden.

With the sort of bellow that Brian Blessed would be proud of, I dived towards Aaron hitting him with enough momentum to carry the two of us through a further set of wooden fence panelling and a small garden gnome infested rockery into the next garden. Despite being at the bottom of our tangled pile Aaron reacted first and hit me with a pistol butt to my face. As I rolled off him I heard the click sound that a thousand movies told me was a fresh magazine being inserted into the pistols grip.

Clearly in pain from our garden remodelling, Aaron let out a raspy chuckle-cough as he levelled the pistol at me.

“My fence!”

Distracted by Mr Parkinson’s distress at our impromptu remodelling of his garden, I leapt at Aaron grappling for his gun. Whereas before my transformation Aaron might have had the physical edge, my new form gave me the advantage and I quickly turned the gun away from me so that it was pointing between the two of us.

“You… will… not… stop... us!” grunted Aaron as we fought for control of the gun. “If it’s not me… it will be someone else.”

“I’ll… stop… you. My Family will stop you.”

“Like you stopped me killing Danique?” he chuckle-coughed again.

“You don’t know she’s dead!” I cried, pressing the gun down towards him. “My father is healing her as we speak.”

“Trust me boy… I know dead… and she was dead… before she hit the floor.”

“No! You lie!”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a swirl of light and two pink fluffy bunny slippers appear.

“A-- Alan?” asked the new arrival.

“Yes it’s me, Aunt Sophie.”

“Uh… okay. Roger, would you go back indoors and get your wand and bring Margaret with you?” asked Aunt Sophie. “Alan, you need to move a little to the side so I can see the gun. Don’t worry, I’ve got the situation.”

“He has a gun,” I repeated, no longer actively pushing it back into Aaron but using my strength to hold it in position.

“I know. Your father said. Don’t worry I’m prepared. You don’t have to let go of the gun, just move back enough so I can see it and render it inert. Turning the bullets into chalk should do it.”

“How is Danique?” I asked, risking a glance at Aunt Sophie.

“Your father didn’t say.”

She didn’t need to say any more. The way she briefly closed her eyes and looked away told me all I needed to know.

“See boy. When I make them dead, their dead,” chuckled Aaron. “Fitting really that I ended her given I was the one that captured her in the first place.”

“You… you’re… you’re…”

“Pieter,” he replied, his voice taking on a Dutch accent before he broke into another fit of chuckle-coughing.

“No…” I whispered, my voice trailing off.

“Alan, let us handle matters from here on,” said Aunt Sophie softly.

“What will happen to him?” I asked.

“He’ll be taken to Mount Tartarus.”

Mount Tartarus. It wasn’t actually the mythical Tartarus but instead a combined court and prison located in the Bavarian Alps where the Great Houses sent those who could not be dealt with through the mundane courts. The majority of its population were witches and warlocks who had turned to the Black Craft but there were some creatures of the Golden Court and a few others held there. From what I understood it was all frightfully civilised these days, a far cry from the situation when it was first built in the 17th Century.

“What will happen to him?”

“If found guilty by the Board of Magistrates, which I think we can take as a given, he will be sentenced to spend the remainder of his life there or until such time as they deem he is sufficiently rehabilitated and can be released back into the world. Most likely the former.”

“Will someone get this boy off of me and get me a doctor?” said Aaron, his face creased in a dismissive sneer as he looked me.

“No…”

“Alan… move back so I can do what I need too.”

“You heard her. Be a good boy and do as you are told,” he said, breaking up into another bout of chuckle-coughing. “Go bury your little friend. Don’t worry, your time in the ground will come soon enough.”

“No.”

A single shot rang out in the stillness of the night.

“Alan!”

Slowly rising to my feet, I tossed the smoking gun away from me.

“Alan?”

“It went off. Accidentally. Probably.”

“He’s dead,” said Aunt Sophie, crouching down to check his pulse.

“Yes. I’m sure he is,” I said turning towards the direction of my house. “He knows dead after all.”
 

~o~O~o~
 
"Then put your little hand in mine, there ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb, Babe, I got you babe, I got you babe..."

I groggily reached out and slapped at the front of my iPhone sending it into snooze. As I rolled back into bed a chorus of sleepy squeaks protested as the bed shifted under me.

"I know guys, I know..." I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "I guess five more minutes wouldn't hurt. It's not like today is going to be any different from yesterday, or the day before..."

It had been a week since what we had taken to euphemistically taken to calling 'the incident'. The real elephant in the room was Aaron/Pieter's death, which no-one was prepared to talk about my role in.

The local paper mentioned the tragic death of Mrs Gentry due to a faulty gas fire leading to carbon monoxide poisoning. I'd assumed that it was simply a matter of placing a glamour on the body of Danique and then having our own coroner rubber stamp the story. Easy enough given that the paramedics who responded to the 999 call placed was also a Family member. The paper said Mrs Gentry's body would be cremated according to the wishes of her family, or I guess that should be in accordance with the wishes of The Family to ensure no one could follow up on it. Mr Gentry it turned out was fine, just drugged and asleep in his bedroom, and a couple of days ago he moved out of town to live with his real son. It turns out Aaron had used some sort of potion on Mr Gentry to make him think he was his son. It struck me as another oddity that a group of people so dedicated to tracking down witches and warlocks seemed so ready to use magick artefacts against us. Perhaps they rationalised it in some way but to be honest, I didn’t really care enough to think too hard about it.

In typical Family style, they had already put in a generous offer for the Gentry's house which had been accepted. All nice and neat with no loose ends. Organised crime could probably learn a thing or two from us.

Dad had avoided me as much as he could beyond checking me out to make sure I was physically fine on the night. Mum was just quiet. Uncle John had found her still in the Gentry’s kitchen, the sleeping draught had kept her unconscious during everything that happened but otherwise she was unharmed. When she looked at me it was with an air of great sadness and several times it looked like she'd been crying about something. I think I would have preferred her to scream and shout at me because at least that would be normal.

I’d tried to mention my weird eyed spectral assailant but the Family Council had been less than willing to believe me. Given all the weird things that existed in our world it was almost laughable that they refused to accept the return of the Witchfinders. I couldn’t help but recall the rhyme taught to little warlocks and witches:

“Say your prayers before you sleep,

Or else into your dreams he will creep,

And spirit you away from your comfortable bed,

To a place where the hangman’s noose lays upon your head,

And from his gibbet you will swing,

While to hell One Eyed Matty doth your soul to bring.”

They did however at least accept that Aaron was working for somebody, the remains of Danique’s Ring of Servitude convinced them of that. They just couldn’t agree if it was the Witchfinders, another House, practitioners of the Black Craft or some random mundane group.

I hadn't mentioned my trip to see Queen Joan or the coming of the Golden Court because if they couldn’t accept the truth in front of them it seemed unlikely they would accept the truth hidden from them. Besides, Queen Joan had said that the return of the Golden Court wasn’t a human matter. I was also worried that Mrs Dorian might use such talk as an excuse for having me packed off to the Institute. I was certain that my dad knew that there was more to what happened than I was saying but he had declined to press me on the matter beyond the most half-hearted attempt at questioning. Given the Vow of Obligation I was under it wouldn’t have taken long to get the truth out of me.

On top of that, I was still suspended from school and under what more or less amounted to house arrest by The Family for, air quote, 'my protection'. It had been made very clear to me that all talk of the ‘Witchfinders' returning was forbidden until such time as the Family Council could come establish the truth and that was fine with me. So I spent most of my time in my room with the girls, who had become a little clingy following 'the incident', which in turn meant I had spent the entire week in girl form. In fact, not once had I changed back since ‘the incident’. A new record for girl me. Well, girl Pyskie form me. It seemed my default look with the girls now was as a Pyskie, which was going to be interesting if I underwent a forced change in public. At least going from human boy to human girl meant that most people didn’t pay too much attention to me other than to stare at my ill-fitting clothes. Being blue and having wings was a whole new kettle of aquatic chordates.

Feeling playful, I turned to Sonnet who had been sleeping on my pillow and nuzzled into her soft fur causing her to let out a warm purr and roll into me. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite as soft and soothing as pixie fur. It makes kitten fur feel like sandpaper in comparison. Of course that sets the others off and soon I'm covered in thirteen other little furry bodies all wanting to get in on the fun. I couldn't help but start giggling as Rainbow crawled under my camisole pyjama top tickling my tummy as her fur rubbed against me. They thought that was hilarious and pretty soon I was crying with laughter as fourteen furry bodies and tiny hands started tickling me. During the last week my empathic link with my pixies was pretty much back to where it had been before but the love that my litter... my babies... was projecting was just so intense that I was almost ready to forget about my troubles and just be this girl, this mother, when a knock on my bedroom door pulled me back to the real world.

"Alan? Are you decent?" called my mother.

"I guess," I panted between gasping for breath as the ticklefest abated. I carefully sat up, making sure that no one was knocked over or fell off the bed as my mother entered the room and pushed the door closed behind her.

"Alan, I thought... I thought we might talk."

She seemed almost hesitant, like she was scared of something. I briefly meet her eyes and noticed how red they were before she turned away.

"I'll clear a space mum," I replied, smoothing down the end of the duvet and clearing it of pixies. I scooted up against my headboard, tucking my legs under me and taking the opportunity to flex my wings. That was the other reason for the camisole top. It stopped comfortably below my shoulder blades which was where my new wings joined my body.

"What's up?"

"You."

"I...." My jaw worked silently as I tried to find the words to articulate my confusion. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Alan... you really can't see it can you?"

"I... I don't understand. Is... is this about Aaron?"

"Yes. No. Maybe," she said, waving her hands in frustration. “You’ve changed Alan… beyond all… this.”

Taking ‘this’ to mean my new skin colour, I pulled one of my pillows tight to my stomach and took a deep breath.

"I'm still me mum."

"Truth," she whispered sadly, placing a hand on my leg. I noticed the ring on her finger briefly pulse. "But who are you now? Girl? Boy? Something else?”

I shrugged my shoulders in response. “I don’t try and pigeon hole myself as anything. I’m just… me.”

“My son was… is… a gentle soul. Obstinate, contrary and just plain like his mother at times but he was always a gentle soul. This… ‘incident’… I have trouble seeing my son in it.”

“He killed her mum. He killed a young woman with hopes and dreams. He deserved what I did to him.”

Smiling sadly, my mother nodded her head.

“It’s okay. I knew it when I looked in your eyes that night. I saw remorse over Aaron’s death but no regret."

“And she died saving me. Me? Why? I’m no-one. Why?”

“Because she felt you were someone worth saving. Because in those moments free of the ring she was finally able to show the person she truly was? Whatever the reason, I give thanks to her each night for saving you Alan.”

“I’m not special.”

"You are more special to your father and I, than you know sweetie. Just know that if you do feel the need to talk to someone other than your dad or me we can arrange for you to see someone."

"I'm not crazy.”

"I know that. I'm just saying that if you want to, we can arrange for someone for you to talk to okay?"

"I'll think about it," I sighed.

"Thank you," she sniffled.

I gripped the pillow tighter, resting my chin on top of it.

"What did you mean when you said about changes being beyond my skin colour?" I asked.

"You can't see it can you?"

"You know I've no knowledge of the Craft.”

"You know that auras are rainbow coloured right?"

"D'uh," I snorted. "You spent enough time hammering the colour wheel into us as kids. I also remember that each colour has a meaning sort of like a Green Lantern's ring but not."

"Almost. And less of the lip young man."

"Sorry," I mumbled, staring down at my feet. "Though you probably mean 'young lady' in the circumstances."

My mother frowned for a moment, as if she wanted to say something in response before continuing.

"As I was saying... normal auras are rainbow coloured but in addition there are two other colours, which are spots rather than bands. Experience can change our auras, as can physical or emotional trauma. The colours tint or shade in response. Blue doesn’t become yellow but the shade of blue can change. Your… transformation,” she said gesturing at my body. “In your case... it's your red aura that was affected."

"What about my red aura?"

"Well red auras are different in males from females. Men tend towards shades of red like crimson, while women tend towards tints of red like amaranth. We think that your… transformation… was the reason your aura changed, effectively lightening your shade of red."

“But I’ve changed gender regularly for six months since I bonded with my litter. No one said anything about changes to my aura then.”

“Because there wasn’t anything significant. Yes, in your girl form your red aura tinted but as soon as you became Alan again it reverted to normal. Now though… now it’s… changed.”

"Changed?" I asked, a lump forming in my throat as I recalled basic colour theory. I had a really bad feeling about where this was going. "You mean that I'm now a tint not a shade?"

"If it were only that simple," she sniffled. "You were never a deep shade in the first place Alan. Yet the lightest tint of red you will ever find in a woman's aura is a pale red, at most a very red rose and never a pink rose for example."

"And mine is?"

Turning away from me for a second, she pulled a screwed up tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose.

"Come. Let me show you," she sniffled. She moved over to the full length mirror on my wardrobe.

Still hugging my pillow tight, I uncurled my legs and nervously took my place beside my mother. My wings fluttered nervously in tune with my stomach as I nodded my assent to her. She placed her hand on my shoulder and I saw her ring briefly glow as she focussed her Talent.

"Videre!" she exclaimed.

I watched as the space around my reflection rippled and the faint rainbow of my aura appeared becoming brighter as my mother concentrated. A normal aura was red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. Mine was all that except the red was most definitely a pink colour. Maybe a French Rose? If it wasn't so horrifying I might even laugh at the way the colour wheel information unwillingly hammered into me as a pre-teen came back so quickly.

"What does this mean?" I asked, unable to tear my eyes away from my reflected aura.

"No one knows for sure. The consensus of opinion seems to be that the feminine side of your personality will be more dominant in the shorter term. Some of the Elders think that it may pass with time and your natural shade of red will reassert itself."

"But you're not so sure are you?" I asked, noting the way she avoided making eye contact with me in the mirror.

"I... I spoke to your Aunt Sophie. She noticed some... other... changes to your aura."

"What changes?"

"May I?" asked my mother, holding her hand up to show the sapphire ring of her Craft. “I want to revert you back to your Alan again.”

“Knock yourself out.”

Taking a deep breath I closed my eyes and waited.

"Discute!"

I felt my skin tingle briefly, rippling out from where my mother touched my shoulder. Only once the feeling had receded did I dare to open my eyes. Reflected in the mirror in front of me was a tall, slightly plain, teenage girl standing in front of a woman who could only be her mother given the strong family resemblance that was as clear in this form as it was in my 'pixie momma' form. Turning slightly I could see my wings were now gone at least.

I dropped the pillow I had been clutching to my chest and tugged at my slightly lose camisole top. Glancing down I noticed that what I seemed to be smaller in the bust but there was still the unmistakable signs of womanhood there still that would probably have me labelled as a late bloomer for my age... if I was a girl. I seemed to have picked up some of my old height, gaining three or four more inches, and had even regained some of my old muscle definition. I was no Miss World but I was on the right side of athletic without being freakishly muscled which I was grateful for. I was momentarily surprised to see that my long wavy blonde hair had remained instead of my shorter male haircut although I guess I shouldn't have been so shocked as apart from a familiar feeling in my underwear there was very little to indicate that I was physically male in this form. Modestly endowed bean pole of a girl? Yup, plenty of evidence for that. Red blood English boy... not so much evidence while fully clothed. From the feel of things much evidence for it while naked either.

"This... this is my male form?" I asked, turning wide eyed to face my mother.

"Yes," whispered my mother as she dabbed at the tears running down her cheek. "Until your aura sorts itself out this is the closest you can get to your real self."

"No..."

"We'll find a way to reverse this Alan," said my mother, pulling me into an embrace. "Your father consulted the Goodspeed House library without any luck and left for Munich earlier today to speak to your Grandpa to see if House Grimm has anything in its records about your sort of transformation."

"Opa knows?" I asked, using the German term he preferred me to call him by. "What did he say about what I did?"

"You know your Opa. He attaches no blame to you. Family comes first and the fact we are both alive and well is the most important thing to him."

I frowned and turned to face my mother.

"Yeah, I know Opa. I also know that's not all he would have to say on the matter."

Grandpa Grimm was an old school warlock. So old school you probably wrote on a slate in chalk in his lessons. I heard him hammering the same message into my brother and sister every time we visited. Never let your guard down. Always assume that everyone is your enemy. Trust no one who isn't Family. Trust no one who isn't blood kin. Never stop at gingerbread houses.

I may have made one of those up.

"I didn't lie when I said he didn't blame you," replied my mother, wiping fresh tears from her eyes. "He blames me. I... I let my guard down with the Gentry's and... and almost lost you... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry Alan. I let you down."

I watched in stunned silence as my mother stopped speaking to bury her face in her hands. I'd expected many things from this conversation but I wasn't expecting that.

"Your Opa is right to blame me. I knew the lessons. I nearly... I should have..."

Dropping to her knees, my watched my mother's whole body convulsed in great body heaving sobs. I felt my jaw work silently as my mouth tried to find the words my brain couldn't.

"Mum no... don't do this to yourself," I pleaded, wrapping my arms around her drawing her close to me. "Nobody, and I mean nobody, suspected the Gentry's of being Trojan Horses. Things could have gone much, much worse. We're all okay."

"But for how much longer?" she sniffled. "Whoever they are they know we are here. Who knows what exactly they relayed about Ackholt? How many more like the Gentry's are planted here?"

"We're pretty entrenched here mum. A lot of the town is either Family or blood family and there can't have been that many people that moved to the town in the last year or so. Dad can get the Family to check on that."

"If these are the Witchfinders they aren't to be underestimated. That's another of your Opa's lessons," she said, wiping at her red rimmed eyes.

“You believe me?” I said, struggling to hide the surprise from my voice. “You believe me that it is the return of the Witchfinders?”

“You’re my son Alan. Of course I believe you,” she replied, before raising her hand to show me her ring. “Plus, I know when you are lying.”

I snorted with laughter at that, noting the small smile on my mother’s face.

"Opa fought the Witchfinders in the last Great Magick War didn't he?" I asked.

My mother nodded in response, wiping away her tears. She gently touched my arm to let me know to let her up.

"He was just a kid wasn't he?" I asked as she climbed to her feet and sat down again on my bed.

"You Opa was 14 when the Great Magick War broke out in '55. His father, my opa, had only just got House Grimm back on its feet after the Second World War and our numbers were quite depleted of warlocks and witches with experience. We'd pushed the Witchfinders almost to extinction in the late 1890’s but they'd used the time offered by the wars of the early 20th Century to regroup. They knew that many of the Great Houses were weakened following the turmoil caused by the two world wars so they gambled everything on a full frontal assault on House Grimm and the other major European Houses."

"But they failed though."

"Yes... though it was a close run thing and we lost many members of the Family but when the dust settled they were all gone. The Great Houses announced every last Witchfinder was dead. Since then for fifty years we’ve had no reason to doubt that."

“Until now.”

“Until now,” replied my mother. “I’d hoped that neither of us would ever live to see another Magick War. Now I’m not so sure and unlike last time with the discord between the Great Houses of Europe I don’t know if we could survive such a war.”

"I’m sure it won’t come to that again,” I said hugging my mother. "Thanks to Opa, House Grimm is stronger now. It's had two generations to rebuild after all, and then there is its alliance with House Goodspeed. The Great Magick War never reached England or its Great Houses, so we’re strong in numbers. Dad won't let House Grimm fight alone against the Witchfinders."

"Maybe..."

I released my mother from my embrace, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Maybe? What else is there that you aren't telling me?"

"Nothing," she replied quickly, wiping at her eyes as she stood. Her voice took on a more familiar tone as she addressed me. "You should get dressed. You’re going to a meeting of the Corrective Craft Group later and it will do you good to get out of the house."

"I'm freed from house arrest?" I asked, my voice filled with hope.

"It's not house arrest Alan, it's for your own protection,” she said with a sigh. Yep, mum was back.

“Anyway, the Council have said as long as you are accompanied they see no problem with you leaving the house. Aunt Sophie and Uncle John will be accompanying us for protection."

"Great," I moaned. "When are you fitting me with the ankle bracelet?"

"I don't like it any more than you do Alan but I won't risk losing you again."

"But muuuuumm..."

"No buts Alan," she replied, cutting me off with a wave of her hand. "Be ready to go in forty-five minutes or you can stay indoors or all day. I'll apply a glamour to make you look like your old self."

"Yes mum," I replied, my shoulders slumping in defeat.
 

~o~O~o~
 
An hour later, because regardless of how I looked I still had a teenage boy’s inability to be on time anywhere, the newly glamoured old me stepped out of our car in the grounds of a country house just outside Ackholt. Another of the Family’s holdings, this had once been the country seat of an ancestor of mine before my family (without the capital ‘F’) had fallen on hard times several centuries ago. Now the House and the surrounding lands were held by a Family owned trust after being brought off of an aging rock star who had acquired it as some sort of tax avoidance scheme in the 70’s and it was used by the Family as a retreat of sorts for those who needed to get away from the pace of the modern world for a bit. It was also where the Craft training classes were held, including the meetings of the Corrective Craft Group.

The air was still cold and thick with moisture and I didn’t resist as Uncle John quickly spirited me into the warmth of the building. Aunt Sophie and my mother were a few paces behind talking in hushed whispers that I could only assume meant they were talking about me. Entering the impressive wood panelled lobby, I was steered towards the sexily dressed smiling young receptionist. She had the perfect figure, curving in all the right places and well-endowed enough that I was feeling a trifle neglected by the boob fairy. Her make-up was flawless and looked professionally applied. Part of me lusted over her and part of my felt deeply insecure just standing near her. I had no idea what she was on to smile that intensely but it was clearly good stuff.

“Good afternoon and welcome to Godspeede House,” she said in her lilting musical voice. “How may I help you?”

I was pretty sure that her ‘good morning’ could cause Captains to dash their ships against the rocks it was that enchanting.

“We’re friends of the Family,” replied Uncle John, producing a piece of cloth with his Chapter symbol on it.

“Why little Johnny,” excitedly squeaked the woman who looked far too young to be calling anyone over the age of 18 ‘little’ anything. “It’s been ages since I saw you last. How’s your mother doing?”

“She’s doing fine, thank you.”

“And your father? Still the same handsome devil he was in his youth? You get your looks from him you know.”

“Thank you, people say that. My father’s well too.”

“Well, it’s been lovely seeing you again. Please tell them both that Constance asked after them,” she said, pulling a bag of knitting out from its hiding place under the desk. The child’s jumper with a cute animal on it didn’t look to me like the sort of thing that a woman in a satin blouse should be knitting.

“Of course,” replied Uncle John as he leant down to kiss Constance on the cheek. “You must drop by and see them sometime.”

“I will do that thank you,” she said smiling. “Corrective Craft Group is down the hall to the left, Master Goodspeed.”

Taking our leave of her we headed down another echoey wood panelled corridor.

“Well, well… old Granny Constance eh?” chuckled Uncle John as we walked. “I wondered what she was up to these days. I’ve seen few with her strength of Talent and it’s nice to see her still keeping her hand in.”

Granny? Oh… I mentally slapped my forehead at that.

“Why was she wearing a glamour?” I asked. Perhaps the question should be ‘who isn’t wearing a glamour?’ I thought as I looked down at my own illusion.

“It’s to present a consistent face to the public and allow us to put anyone on reception duty. She’s not wearing the glamour per se, rather the chair is enchanted to project that glamour on anyone who sits in it.”

“So she’s not really 21 and hot?”

“With the draft coming through those main doors?” laughed Uncle John. “She’s 93 and probably wearing five jumpers to keep the cold out under that glamour.”

Great. First it’s fake octogenarians who were really twenty-something’s and now it’s fake twenty-something’s who were really nonagenarians. At this rate I’d never meet a nice girl my age who was really my age.

“Here we are,” said Uncle John coming to a halt outside a room with a colourfully painted sign welcoming me to Corrective Craft Group. “This building is secure so we’ve agreed to give you some space with the Misf–with the Group.”

“You mean the Misfits,” I said, throwing my hands heavenwards. “Let’s not beat about the bush here.”

“I meant the Group,” said Uncle John, emphasising the word ‘group’. “If you need any of us we’ll be in the coffee room down the hall.”

“Yay me.”

“In you go Alan,” said Uncle John, giving me a forceful nudge into the room.

I’m not sure what I expected the Misfits to be like, but on entering the room I was fairly certain that however bad I imagined it to be this was worse.

The walls were covered with regularly spaced motivational posters showing insufferably smug looking people achieving things accompanied by trite fortune cookie slogans. In the centre of the spartanly furnished room was a circle of a dozen chairs, about half of which were occupied by assorted teenagers whom I could only assume were the members of the Misfits.

Taking a deep breath I walked towards a small trestle table that had a large hot water filled urn on it and an assortment of biscuits on a platter. Scanning the biscuit platter I made a note of the last couple of Jammie Dodgers as I pulled out a tired looking Styrofoam cup from the dispenser and filled it with hot water. Forget the Witchfinders, these people were truly evil. Styrofoam — mankinds way of saying ‘suck it mother nature’ given the sun would go supernova long before these things biodegraded.

“Hi! You must be our newest member! My name’s–“

“Sally,” I interrupted, pointing to the label stuck on her baggy sweater dress.

“Oh you!” she said, playfully swatting at my arm.

“Oh me!” I sarcastically mimicked, though from her expression I think it was lost on her.

“And you are?” she asked, spiriting a clipboard out of nowhere.

“Roberts.”

“Is that you first or last name?” she asked, raising the top sheet to check the ones below.

“Last.”

“Hmmmm. I don’t see a Mr Roberts here… what’s your first name?”

“Dread Pirate. It could be under listed under ‘D’ or ‘P’ I suppose?”

“I don’t see a ‘dread pirate’ anywhere,” she said, flicking through the sheets on the clipboard.

“Maybe I’m in the wrong class then. How about I go back to reception and–“

“ALAN LEWIS GOODSPEED!” bellowed my mother from the doorway, cutting me off in mid-sentence. I swear that woman has bat hearing.

“Or it could be filed under that I guess?” I asked, noting Sally’s cocked eyebrow and cross expression.

“Take a seat Mr Goodspeed,” she snapped, slapping my name label on with far more force than I felt warranted. Grabbing the last two Jammie Dodgers she stormed off back to the seated circle leaving me to face a bleak future filled with Garibaldis and custard creams.

Foregoing any biscuit based succour, I took my cup of hot water and took a seat as far away from the other inmates as I could in the circle. Just being in the room was killing my street cred, let alone actually being associated with anyone through social interaction.

“Okay, I think as many of us are here as are going to be,” announced Sally from her seat at the notional head of the circle. I suppressed the urge to point out to her that circles didn’t really have heads.

“I’d like you all to join me in welcoming our newest member of the Corrective Craft Group’s ‘Untamed Familiars Club’. Let’s give it up for Alan Goodspeed!”

First rule of Untamed Familiars Club. There is no Untamed Familiars Club. Anyone asks you remember that right?

I wondered if it was too late to get a pass for the bathroom. Maybe I could use it to slip free of my 'protectors' and run away to join the Foreign Legion. I had an awful lot I wanted to forget after all.
 

~o~O~o~
 
End of Chapter 2