Titania

Rejection letters are not pleasant to receive. Persistence doesn’t always pay off. On the other hand, maybe it does, even if not in the ways you might expect.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

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Dear sir,

Thank you for your submission to the Journal of the American Historical Society. We are unable to accept your article for review at this time.

Your submission fails to meet the minimum academic standards required to proceed with peer review.
Your submission is not suitable for editorial review.

Please review the submission guidelines printed in each issue of the Journal and available on our website. We hope to hear from you again and thank you for your interest.

Sincerely,

Johnathan Krant

Editor-in-chief

Journal of the American Historical Society

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Dear sir,

We received your latest submission to the Journal of the American Historical Society. We remain unable to accept your article, “Pope Joan: The truth behind the female pope,” for review.

Your submission fails to meet the minimum academic standards required to proceed with peer review.
Your submission is not suitable for editorial review.
No efforts have been made to correct defects noted after previous submissions.

We do not anticipate revisions making this article appropriate for publication in our Journal.

Please stop writing to us.

Sincerely,

Johnathan Krant

Editor-in-chief

Journal of the American Historical Society

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Dear Mr. Heartwick,

Congratulations.

With your latest submission, you have become the Journal of the American Historical Society’s most rejected author. In recognition of this supreme achievement, the editors have assigned their newest junior editor - which is to say, me - to respond personally to your latest in a long line of submissions.

I reviewed your submission in detail, and argued fiercely that we should publish it. Sadly, I must report that I was overruled, and your unbroken streak of rejections from our Journal continues. In the hopes that one day we might break through this logjam, I would like to point out a few technical errors.

Footnotes are a customary feature of published papers, but are a mixed blessing for the editorial staff. In the common event that we are unfamiliar with the referenced material, we may either track down the original to verify it or take the author’s word on faith. That is unnecessary with your submissions, and I congratulate you on finding a way to ease our burden. Including the original source material with your submission is a novel solution, in both senses of the word. The whole office comes to an awed halt when we receive one of your boxes.

Dealing with sensitive or fragile materials through the simple expedient of Xeroxing them shows an ability to cut through problems not seen since Alexander cut the Gordian Knot. Just as archaeologists learn about their subjects through the layers of dirt on their artifacts, so too can we learn by studying the layers of copy marks on each paper. I pray you do not discover Windex too soon, least you crush this new academic discipline while it is still in its cradle.

That just nibbles at the edges, picking crumbs from the giant loaf that is “Pope Joan: The truth behind the female pope.” If you had not submitted so many times, the title would suggest you have us confused with the Weekly World News.

By no means do I wish to imply that the research into Pope Joan is unworthy. The legend of the female pope has persisted for nearly a thousand years now, and reputable historians have investigated both the truth or falsity of the legends as well as the legends themselves. Not to imply in any way that you are not a reputable historian, of course.

John XX, the “missing pope,” is a common target. Officially the Popes jump from John XIX to John XXI, so conspiracy theorists have jumped on the idea that John XX has been erased from the official history to cover up the fact that he was a woman. David Blondel demolished that case back in 1650, showing a continuous line of popes - all male - and steering interested historians to study the legends themselves.

350 years is enough. I must stand with you on this one, and insist we revisit this long forgotten subject. We can dismiss Blondel by looking away from the false lead of John XX. Instead, you steer us to the 10th century pope, John XII, whose court was known for its worldliness and depravity.

History being what it is you are not the first to make this suggestion. Traditions of our discipline suggest we credit those who came before us. The 16th century historian, Onofrio Panvinio credits the court of John XII for the legend of Pope Joan. I am on your side in dismissing this mountebank. He took the entirely pedestrian view that one of John’s mistresses, Joan, held such sway in his court that she became known as Pope Joan. Not for us such humdrum theories, and neither should we credit those who would bog us down in the trivialities of mundanity.

Your theory, that Pope John XII was a man at the time of his election and punished by divine retribution for his debauchery by being turned into a woman, is certainly not mundane. Orthodox historians claim that John XII fled Rome when Emperor Otto I tried to depose him, but a sudden sex change is surely as good a reason to flee the city. A much cleaner story, and a far better explanation for his, or rather her, death at the hands of the mob of Rome when she finally gave birth.

Yours is truly a way to bring history to life and encourage the pursuit of learning in our school. Stories such as this could easily replace the dry, boring pursuit of names and dates that have truth as their sole virtue.

In other cases I might suggest submitting to more appropriate journals. For a paper dealing with the history of the papacy I might try the Catholic Historical Society, but I fear their interest in this paper is likely to be even more minimal than ours.

I close with the hope that you will continue persevering in the face of disapproval. Our lives would be all the poorer without you.

Yours,

Bernard Applekraw

Assoc. Editor

Journal of the American Historical Society

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Dear Mr. Heartwick,

It warms my heart to hear from you again. Did you know that I am now the only editor on the staff to have received a telegram? And not just one, but six in the last month? Your persistence is rivaled only by your resourcefulness.

You may rest assured that I am still alive and in good health. And yes, that I continue to review all of your submissions to our magazine.

Despite my most earnest exhortations, the Journal of the American Historical Society remains stuck in the hidebound traditions of scholarship and has not yet seen fit to publish your work.

Without any attempt to stifle your unquestioned creativity, I’d suggest that a little attention to the standards of academic publishing might pay dividends. Original evidence is always welcome in our journal, but strangely enough originality in evidence in not nearly so prized.

Pope John XII had a very decadent court and kept multiple mistresses. This has been established through contemporaneous documents. The details you add on 10th century sex clubs in the Vatican are imaginative but need more substantiation.

I am willing to accept your word that Miss Bernice Nussbaum, your neighbor’s cousin, is indeed a woman of upstanding virtue and propriety - her arrest record notwithstanding. Nonetheless, this journal can not accept her past life regression therapy as evidence.

Even if you include a tape recording of the session.

Another one.

Do you know how hard it is to even find cassette players any more?

Oh, and if Miss Nussbaum should ever find herself in New York City, I have several editors who would be most interested in meeting her.

Certainly the unconventional life and death of John XII deserve more than a conventional and lifeless retelling. The color your bring to the narrative overcomes many flaws. It would still make things easier on our editors if you recognized these departures and provided a source.

In 962, Pope John XII crowned Otto I Emperor of Rome in order to get his help driving Berengar II from the Papal States. You place that event in 960 without any fanfare. If there is a reason for the change, you should document it. If it’s a slip, correct it.

The oath you have Otto take is far more colorful than the one recorded in the Vatican Archives. I particularly like the part about, “And in the name of God I shall take no possession of lands or properties properly belonging to St. Peter or the Devil himself shall bugger me for all eternity.” It makes me wish the Pope still made rulers swear him oaths that we could hear an updated list of such punishments.

The legitimacy of that oath is only lessened slightly for being written on a cocktail napkin.

Otto’s campaign against Berengar was hugely successful. In the conventional telling it lasted just 15 months. Your version lasts 3 years due to the earlier coronation, but as you skip over any details of the campaign itself that proves inconsequential.

In both versions Otto’s success led John to fear his ambition. John XII allied himself to Berengar’s son Adalbart. Your version of John wooing Adalbert to his side is far more imaginative than the usual exchange of ambassadors and would likely do quite well as a novel on its own. It would require a paper wrapper around the cover on most newsstands.

Then in 963 Otto laid siege to Rome and John fled the city with Adalbert, only to return to reclaim the Papacy the following year.

The version of this story in your paper varies ever so subtly. As John betrayed Otto, he was punished by being turned into Joan, and that is why he - or, excuse me, she - had to flee Rome. She continued to seduce Adalbert, but at this point it becomes a literal seduction. It relies on the Vatican having a translated copy of the Kama Sutra.

While this makes for truly fascinating reading, your evidence comes largely from uncovered Masonic literature. I must point out that the Masons are an explicitly anti-Catholic organization. Your collection of 19th century pamphlets is astounding and a worthy collection on its own merits. However, they will not be accepted as actual proof. For comparison, picture a historian a century from now using one of Jack Chick’s tracts to show that role playing games led people to use magic.

A year after they returned to Rome, in 965, Pope John XII died without reaching an accommodation with Otto. Many historians already consider his death quite colorful. He died in the midst of an adulterous affair outside the limits of the city.

Your version follows the legends of Pope Joan more closely. You maintain John XII disguised herself as a man and continued her duties as Pope. At the same time she continued her seduction of Adalbart and became pregnant with his child. She delivered the child in public, and was torn apart by the mob when her ruse was discovered.

I am certain that our sales would increase were we to publish your version. The rest of the editorial staff is less certain.

Although I do not think this will have any effect, I would urge you to pursue a different path. If you clean up your grammar, you have a career ahead of you in publishing popular fiction. Dan Brown cannot hold a candle to you in revealing ancient Catholic conspiracies.

I truly hope to one day see your name on the best seller list so I can tell my friends how I helped you start this astonishing career. I only regret that I will no longer be the regular recipient of your updates.

Yours most sincerely,

Bernard Applekraw

Assoc. Editor

Journal of the American Historical Society

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Dear Mr. Heartwick,

I cannot express my joy that you have managed to track me down at my new employment. I will have to thank my old colleagues for providing you with my forwarding address. I am delighted to resume our correspondence. Indeed, I almost turned down this opportunity for fear of losing your weekly packages.

And I welcome your congratulations on my good fortune.

Or at least, I assume that’s the case once I got through the invective.

I am enclosing a copy of my article, “Anti-Catholic Conspiracies in 19th Century America,” for your perusal. Your kindly phrased supposition that you were the inspiration behind this article is in fact correct. I acknowledged that fact in the introduction and the footnotes. Least there be the slightest shred of doubt, let me acknowledge in writing that you, Mr. Heartwick, are in point of fact Mr. H.

But in no way do I intend to label you as a mere conspiracy theorist, Mr. Heartwick. Your amateur sleuthing that pierces to the heart of long forgotten mysteries puts you far beyond such simple labels. No, there is no insult or slur intended on you. Instead, you inspired my search into this field of American History. Any resemblance between your devoted pursuit of truth and the obsessive cranks described in my article is purely coincidental.

To the heart of the matter, then.

I did not list you as a co-author of my article because you were not. The Journal of the American Historical Society spells out the criteria for someone to be listed as an author, as does every other journal.

Your lack of academic credentials does not prevent you from being listed as an author. However, the fact that you were not a co-author does. Until I published, you did not even know this article existed. You provided neither writing nor research. You were, as I have acknowledged here and in the article, an inspiration. That is not the same as an author.

Take heart, please, and spare me your wrath. Your specialty is Medieval History, at least as it relates to miraculous sex changes of Popes. I would not dream of stepping on your toes within that field of research.

Any further communiques on this matter should be addressed to the University’s legal department, please.

Still yours most sincerely,

Bernard Applekraw

Asst. Professor

Dartjaw University

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Mr. Heartwick,

How I have missed hearing from you this past year. You have become as much a legend in the legal department as you are over here in History. I hope you will continue your correspondence with James Kilkelly, as I know he anticipates your letters every bit as much as I do.

I must admit I felt both surprise and dismay when I learned you changed your field of endeavor. Through these letters I’ve learned more than I’d once desired about the “bad popes” and, of course, conspiracy doctrine of the 19th century. Yes, I do indeed give you credit for launching me on this academic career path. It is thus with a combination of a heavy heart and joyful anticipation that I turn to your new… theory.

It was very tempting to send your letter - well, package really - to the Literature department. Alas, classicists such as us are no longer in vogue and the study of Shakespeare has dropped to a mere fraction of what it once was. So it falls to me once again, as it did when I worked at the Journal, to review your startling submission.

I trust we can keep it to one submission this time around.

Please.

Allow me to start my response with encouragement. You continue to surprise me.

When I saw you’d switched your research to Shakespeare I was expecting a hunt for his “true identity.” I knew better than to expect Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford and far and away the most common target for those who do not believe William Shakespeare was the true Bard of Avon. No, I expected something much more exotic, all the way to a proof that Queen Elizabeth I herself wrote the plays. In fact, had you claimed the true author was Edmund Blackadder, I would not have been surprised.

And yet, despite all my preparation, you still surprised me.

Hamnet Shakespeare.

William Shakespeare’s son. His only son.

Died at age 11, in 1596.

Or so they say.

Now, a certain amount of consistency is expected and I am pleased to see you are single handedly keeping the copy machines of a dozen Kinko’s fully occupied. However, I can assure you that I already have my own copies of all of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets. Were that not the case, I daresay a trip to the campus library could have easily remedied that situation. Or, indeed, a dozen keystrokes on my computer.

You may, in short, assume a minimal level of familiarity when it comes to sources that are not quite so obscure as those relating to Pope John XII.

The only conclusion I can draw is that I should see some great significance in the passages you’ve chosen to underline. Perhaps they differ in some great respect from those passages you highlighted. And the ones that are circled by coffee stains undoubtedly have the greatest import of all. Nevertheless I must confess my incapacity to solve the code thereby revealed.

Getting back to the actual argument, we have baptism records from Holy Trinity Church stating that twin children were born to William Shakespeare and his wife Anne. Hamnet and Judith Shakespeare, christened on February 2, 1585. Only this, if I follow you correctly, is an historical fraud.

Citing no less an authority on Church of England practice than Benjamin Franklin - an amazingly busy fellow, it seems - you show that the baptism certificate was forged, with the name of Judith added at a later date. Now let me credit Benjamin Franklin with being a prolific writer and a polymath who did indeed have a wide range of expertise. He was also a noted Freemason, providing a tenuous connection to your previous work.

Franklin’s authority on 16th century baptismal practices in England was one I had not previously suspected. The pamphlet you provide, Nefarious History, is clear on the subject. Ben Franklin’s gifts are on keen display, including the ability to use Times New Roman fonts and word processing kerning. I have not seen so clear a demonstration since Dan Rather revealed George Bush’s national guard records.

According to you, or rather, according to Ben Franklin, no one faked Hamnet’s birth. They faked Judith’s. Hamnet grew up to age 11, at which point he was… Of course. He was changed into a girl, and became Judith Shakespeare, and later Judith Quiney.

Mr. Heartwick, I wonder if you have considered the nature of your particular obsession?

Yours still,

Bernard Applekraw

Asst. Professor

Dartjaw University

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Dear Mr. Heartwick,

Your persistence is admirable, if puzzling.

Though I clearly do not agree with your flights of fancy, you do put considerable effort into them. And I am not unmindful of the fact that it was responding to your letters about Pope Joan that launched me on the academic career I have today.

In the spirit of gratitude I will critique your latest theories about Hamnet Shakespeare. Theoretically this would help you tighten your arguments for later publication, but you must be aware that will not happen. Not in any academic journal.

It is customary to provide an abstract for publication. This sets out the basic argument you will try to prove in the rest of the paper. With the regular jumps in both logic and subject, I had to read your whole paper to figure out exactly what you want to prove. Leaping subjects from the Order of the Garter to protestant martyrs to Twelfth Night is amusing, but makes for very confusing reading.

Without implying any form of agreement, allow me to summarize your argument. A knightly order, the Order of the Garter, was responsible for transforming Hamnet Shakespeare into a woman. They did this to pressure his father to make changes to the Henriad, the tetralogy of plays centered around Henry IV.

We immediately run into problems with time.

Hamnet died - or was transformed if we accept your version - in 1596. Richard II, the first play of the series, was written in 1595. Henry IV Part I was first performed in 1597, which means it was probably also written before 1596. Your argument relies on this conspiracy keeping the Henriad under wraps until they can force Shakespeare to make their changes.

This doesn’t seem a difficult change. Perhaps Shakespeare was working faster than they expected, or they only discovered the offending passages when they first saw Richard II. Your paper as written, though, assumes that they force all the changes before the first performance. You need to recognize the actual time lines.

The next problem revolves around the reason for the conspiracy, the character of Falstaff. I will admit to loving that character, but that’s a love I share with everyone else who has read or seen the plays. You insist the character was originally to be known as Oldcastle, and this is what the Order of the Garter wanted Shakespeare to change.

This is not a compelling theory for a conspiracy. The character was originally known as Oldcastle. Shakespeare changed the name to Falstaff some time well after the play was released. Richard James mentioned the name change in a letter in 1652. In the quarto text of Henry IV Part II, one of Falstaff’s speech prefixes was left uncorrected, “Old.” instead of “Fal.”

None of this is secret knowledge.

The original John Oldcastle was a famous protestant martyr who had prominent descendants in Shakespeare’s time. Most prominent among them was William Brook, 10th Baron of Cobham. He was a member of the Order of the Garter, I grant, but this was not a secret then or now. Baron Cobham quarreled publicly with Shakespeare, and had sufficient political influence to force him to change the character’s name. There was no reason he would have to resort to supernatural persuasion.

Despite your insinuation, I’m unaware of other such accusations against the Order of the Garter. Diabolic conspiracy in a knightly order usually focuses on the Templars, but I should know by now not expect the typical when dealing with you.

For instance, the Order of the Garter was founded on April 23 because that is Saint George’s Day, and he is the patron saint of their order. It has nothing to do with the anniversary of Pope John XII’s death.

There are only 365 days in the year. There will be events that fall on anniversaries without them being related.

That brings us to Twelfth Night.

You maintain that this play is Shakespeare’s attempt to tell us what happened to his son. When Viola disguises herself as Cesario, we are supposed to see that Judith is a disguise worn by Hamnet. When Viola casts off her disguise to marry Duke Orsino we are to infer that Hamnet truly became Judith when she married Thomas Quiney.

While you are not the first to find references to his children in the twins, your theory simply does not work. The play was written in 1601 or 1602, while Judith did not marry until 1616.

Even your metaphor doesn’t work, as it involves ignoring Viola’s twin brother Sebastian. While Viola thinks he is dead, he is not, and his reappearance in the play adds to the many mistaken identities that make it such a great comedy. However, it also destroys the message you believe he was trying to get across.

Even if we accept that all of these problems can be resolved, I am not entirely clear how this threat was supposed to work. The Order of the Garter could not have simply threatened to turn Shakespeare’s son into a girl, since you say they had done so. Presumably their threat was to duplicate their efforts on Shakespeare himself, but that would be an empty threat. A female Shakespeare would not be able to change his, or her, plays.

But that is already taking this theory further than I believe it deserves.

In years past I mentioned Dan Brown’s work, and will do so again. Mr. Heartwick, I encourage you to take these theories outside the realm of academic literature. I must be honest with you here, there is no chance these will ever be published in any scholarly journal. You may, however, do well enough writing popular fiction.

Heaven knows there’s an audience for it.

Yours,

Bernard Applekraw

Asst. Professor

Dartjaw University

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Dear Mr. Heartwick,

No.

I am not a member of the Order of the Garter. I am neither a Mason nor a Freemason.

I am a member of several historical societies, at least two of which are worldwide. Check my C.V., they’re all listed and I keep them up to date.

Ah, forgive me. I also belong to a Pub Quiz League and a Wine-of-the-Month club, neither of which I list publicly. I do not believe either of them qualifies as a secret society.

It is strange when I think about it, but at this point I have carried on a longer correspondence with you than with anyone else. The sheer volume of mail you have sent has kept the Post Office in business, but I have come to rely on that stream of input over the years. Our letters may not have achieved the same heights as, say, C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein’s exchanges, but over the years I have come to some affection for you.

So it is as a friend that I express my concern at the conspiratorial turn of your recent letters.

Please take a step back. There is no one hunting you for “getting too close to the truth.” I can assure you that no one has ever pressured me to avoid publishing your works. To be as blunt as I can, that was never under consideration. No pressure was needed.

I have encouraged you to publish your stories as fiction, but you have steadfastly resisted that idea. As you’ve never been able to publish in scholarly journals, and do not want to publish in popular ones, I’m at a loss to figure out why a conspiracy would be hunting you.

The idea that I am a member of these conspiracies is, I’m afraid, laughable. It should give you pause on its own face. I am hard pressed to influence my Dean, and virtually at a loss when it comes to influencing my students. The idea that I can influence world events on any level is, in all modesty, ridiculous.

I urge you again to reconsider your current path. Your references to being able to defend yourself are frankly frightening.

Take a vacation. I will still be here to receive your letters when you recover.

Your friend,

Bernard Applekraw

Assoc. Professor

Dartjaw University

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Dear Martin,

I do not know whether to laugh or cry.

When you stopped writing to me I hoped you were taking my advice and resting from your obsessions. That is not the case, as you still wring out tales of massive conspiracies. Connecting the Freemasons to the Knights Templar is indeed a feat worthy of the ages.

But even beyond that, I find your change in subject astonishing.

Just as we once passed from John XII to Hamnet Shakespeare, so now we pick a new subject.

Elvis.

Really.

I know, certainly, how many tales there have been that he faked his death. So many people could not want to accept that he was gone. I grew up hearing the stories from my mother and seeing them plastered on papers at the supermarket checkout lanes.

I cannot recall any of them making the claim that the King was transformed into a woman as part of a secret war between a religious and masonic conspiracy.

Congratulations.

It is hard to imagine anyone adding a new theory to the many that have swirled around him. But you managed.

I must admit I almost expected you to ignore the dates and decree that he is now Aretha Franklin. It would have been nicely poetic to turn the King of Rock and Roll into the Queen of Soul.

So I must admit that I am curious. This is the first time you’ve ever withheld a theory from me. Who do you think they turned Elvis into?

You drop hints of how important it is, the biggest secret you’ve uncovered yet. Then leave me hanging.

While I have never found your theories convincing, I have always read them. You do not need to build suspense. If you have something, tell it, and I’ll evaluate your theory, again, for the holes in it.

Until then, I will withhold judgment.

Yours,

Bernard Applekraw

Assoc. Professor

Dartjaw University

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Dear sirs,

I am writing to inquire if you have any information regarding the present whereabouts of one Mr. Martin Heartwick. He was a resident of this address as of six months ago. Did he leave any forwarding address or other means of contact?

I am a friend of his, and have some worries about his safety, which is the reason for this inquiry.

Thank you for any information,

Bernard Applekraw

Assoc. Professor

Dartjaw University

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My darling Monica,

I am so sorry you will not be able to join me next weekend, but I completely understand. A funeral does not make for a romantic date.

I hate to cancel our weekend getaway, but Martin Heartwick and I shared a long correspondence. While I never met the man, I consider him a friend and want to honor him at least this extent.

It’s hard to believe it’s been only three months since we met, I feel like I’ve known you forever. I certainly begrudge the time away from you, and cannot put in words how much it hurts to cancel our plans.

I wish you had known Martin too; and not just so we could be together that weekend. You share his love for historical conspiracy theories, although he lacked the sense of humor you have about them. I saved some of the material he has sent me over the years and hope to share it with you. I think you’ll like it.

If nothing else, I’m sure it will make you laugh. And that makes it worth it for me too.

I may have some stories to tell after it’s over, as I understand this will be an unusual ceremony. They never found Martin’s body after he disappeared, but that alone would never be enough to capture his eccentricities. I have been told that he had some specific requests for his burial. Without meaning to sound ghoulish, I am almost looking forward to it.

It’s a strange thing, but in some ways you remind me of him.

No, don’t laugh. It’s true.

In the good ways.

In all the years I corresponded with Martin, it was always by mail. Never a single email or even a phone call. You are the only other person I’ve ever met who still has that strange love for pen and paper. I hope you’ll forgive my phone calls over the weekend. If I must break our plans and be without your company, at least I can hear your voice as consolation.

I miss you already, and promise we will have our weekend getaway soon.

With all my love,

Bernie

Games Genies Play Part 1 of 6

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Games

Even the mighty like to play.

When genies play games, the objects of their attention must learn the rules. And fast.

In the unreachable void, beyond the limits of space and time, lies the Unbuilt City, which exists without ever having been made. Unconfined by the cramped boundaries of infinity, eternal towers rise beside crystal lakes. A galaxy of stars could not power one of those towers, yet their lights blaze with unimaginable fury.

The unseen residents know fear. Beings far mightier than even their impossible city can bear move among them. Five genies, each one capable of making and razing a universe on a whim, meet.

"Hey, I saw that. Get a fresh chip, don't double dip. The rest of us want some too."

"What're you talking about? It wasn't me."

"Not again. How about we get this party started before these two get even pettier?"

"This I don't need. How about a game to start off? Shall we play for the usual stakes?"

"Now you're talking my language. Let's get down to brass tacks. Rules?"

---

The sun was not even thinking of waking up when Jake pulled into Starbucks, bitter that he had to be up so early. He got out of his junker, slammed the door, and stomped his way through the darkness. He had two green shirts stuffed hastily into a bag, but he wore the black tee shirt he threw on for setting up the shop.

"Grmbr crsh mrr," he muttered under his breath as he unlocked the door. People shouldn't have to work so early. Especially him.

The counter wasn't set up and the floor was dirty. Jake's already bad mood took a nose dive. He'd get all the blame if anything wasn't clean when they opened, even though it wasn't his fault. The idiots who worked the night shift were supposed to clean up before they closed. Not that the facts ever stopped anyone from blaming him.

He turned the radio to a good station, not the stuff they played during the day, got the mop out of the closet and plopped it on the floor. Grumbling at this waste of time he pushed the mop back and forth.

Two years of college had come to a crashing end when his lousy history professor refused accept his term paper just because it was two weeks late. Of course, he'd racked up thousands of dollars in debt in those years and now had nothing to show for it.

He'd applied to work as a bank teller, an office manager, even a paralegal - whatever that was. None of them wanted to hire a college dropout, so he wound up stuck on the hellish morning shift at the stupid coffee shop. He just knew all the customers were laughing at how superior they were.

Sloshing the mop around just enough that he could point to the floor and say he'd done it allowed him to finish quickly. His anger kept him company.

Unfortunately, he finished his half-assed mopping before anyone else was in to see him working. As usual.

Shelley and Allison should have been in by now, but they were always late. The boss liked them; Shelly was gorgeous and Allison was probably screwing him. Just yesterday Allison finished the milk off and didn't bother to get a new bottle out. He had to get more for his customer and held up the line. Of course he got blamed for her not doing her job right.

He wiped down the front of the machines and checked that the water purifiers were working. A bitchy customer complained about the water last week and the boss dinged him for it even though it was Allison who served her.

The syrup bottles were sticky, so he ran a cloth over the top of them.

"I say, it's about bleeding time."

"What?" Jake yelled as he spun around. "How'd you get in? We're not open yet." He must have unlocked the door when he got in. Stupid door should have a better design, like you can only fully unlock it from inside. At least no one was around to blame him for it and this guy didn't look dangerous. Maybe Jake could give him a cup of coffee and he'd go away.

The man was tall and thin and wore a bespoke suit. He had a yellow and red silk tie, a bowler hat, and thin wire frame glasses. His short cut hair was brown, but his eyes were a blazing bright gold. They almost glowed.

"I did not walk in, young man," the interloper answered testily. "You summoned me. I can not believe how long it took for someone to rub my bottle. Don't you people clean?"

Jake reconsidered. The guy had nice clothes but it sounded like he was crazy. He lifted the bottle threateningly, figuring it was the best weapon at hand.

"Yes, that's the one," the man said while carefully polishing his glasses.

"Uh," Jake responded, puzzled. He needed to get rid of this jerk before anyone else got there.

"Yes, yes, I see it. You have my bottle. You summoned me. Tch. Vanilla syrup. No cheating, indeed," he muttered sotto voce. "I was aiming for a bar. Drunks are so much easier to please. I bet this isn't even New Orleans," he challenged.

"Well, uh, no," Jake admitted. "We're in Georgia. Atlanta. Well, Decatur."

"Decatur," the man said with a wan smile. "How... nice."

"Look," Jake said forcefully, "you can't be here. You can come back in an hour when we're open. I don't want to have to call the police." He really didn't. He'd get blamed for all the trouble. "So how about I give you some coffee and you leave?"

"How did you people ever manage to win the Revolution? Surely not everyone is so slow. Dear boy," he said while pulling out a chair and taking a seat, "I did not enter and have no intention of leaving. I am Montague Willard Drussard III, and I am a genie. You summoned me."

Jake stared at him. He didn't need the cops, he needed an ambulance. This guy belonged in the nut house.

"A genie?" he finally asked. "Like a three wishes genie?"

"Just like that."

"Then I'm your master?" he asked. Maybe he could command the clown to leave.

"Please. Your people fought a war over slavery and mine were against it long before the colonies. I am a genie and I will grant your wishes. I think that is quite sufficient, don't you?"

"Prove it," Jake challenged.

"No," the genie replied unruffled.

"But, I mean--"

"I have no intention of giving a free sample. You may believe me or not, the results will be the same. But first, the rules of the game..."

Maybe if he played along the man would leave. "Yeah, I know. Three wishes, can't wish for true love or to kill someone--"

"Nonsense. Both of those are well within my abilities and I've granted them many times. No, in this case there are, shall we say, additional qualifications."

"What?"

"Extra rules. Conditions. Things you need to know."

"No, no. I got that," the boy said with little patience. "I meant, what are they?" He hated it when people talked down to him.

"So, you're not as slow as you let on." The genie stood up and paced about the room. "You have three wishes and must wish them all before I grant any of them. I will grant two of your wishes as stated, but I will choose one and grant its opposite."

"I've never heard of that before."

"I've never done it before. I am doing it this time."

"But I thought... In all the stories you just grant the wishes--" he complained.

Sure, the guy was crazy, but he wasn't playing fair. Even Jake's madmen tried to take advantage of him.

The genie swept over to him and put his arm around Jake's shoulder like a used car salesman, "And in all the stories, the genies still found a way to get the best of the person making the wish, right?"

Jake nodded sullenly.

"Exactly," said Montague with a broad smile. "Well, this time I'm telling you precisely how I intend to warp your wishes, so you're in a better position than the rest."

Jake thought about it. Then stopped.

What did it matter? He just wanted this guy gone.

Montague tapped his foot impatiently.

"So I need to make wishes where both the wish and its opposite are good. Is that the idea?"

"Of course. I knew you were a bright boy. Now, go ahead. Wish."

"Now? Can't I think about it? I need to work it out."

Montague raised his eyes in surprise. "Patience. Unexpected. Fine. You have until this time tomorrow. Don't lose my bottle or let anyone else clean it. Make your wishes before sunrise tomorrow or lose them all."

"Sure," he answered. But there was no one there.

It worked. The crazy guy was gone and no one knew he was ever there and Jake wasn't in trouble. It would have been nice, though, to have something go his way for once.

---

Jake trudged up the dingy stairs to his third floor apartment. Neither of his roommates was home, but you'd never know it from the smell. The sink was full of dirty dishes; Jake didn't even want to think about washing them. He'd only had cereal, most of the dishes weren't his. One of his lazy roommates could clean them.

He collapsed on the old couch in front of the television, hearing the springs protest beneath him.

Normally he'd sleep or watch television for an hour or two until one of the others got home. He didn't this time. That effete bastard from the morning kept running through his head. He'd even stolen the syrup bottle. Not that he believed the guy, but just in case.

He could use the wishes. It had been another miserable day. A customer took 10 minutes to figure out what temperature he wanted his coffee and the line got huge. Shelley yelled at him for holding up the line like it was his fault the customer was a moron. He didn't know how much longer he could take it.

Pretending he had wishes to make was like playing the lottery. It's fun to dream, even if you know it's not real.

Why not combine them?

He could wish to win the lottery. If the genie gave him the opposite, and he lost, he'd only be out three bucks. If he won, he could take care of his student loans, get his own place, maybe even get a girl. He wasn't bad looking, he just couldn't afford to take a girl anywhere. If he had money Shelley'd probably be all over him and Allison would be even easier.

"Yo, Jake. What're you doing up?"

Tom, a burly ex-high school athlete, charged through the door fresh from his factory job. "Party tonight at The Crimson. You in?"

Tom annoyed Jake. Tom had all the breaks, a good factory job that paid enough to get out of this slum. But he drank and partied so much he was stuck here. "Not tonight, man. Got the morning shift again tomorrow."

Just for a moment he wondered if the genie might be real. This could be his last night in this dump. He'd never have to see Tom again.

While Tom warmed up some food, Jake got out of his way and retreated to his tiny bedroom. Sitting on the bed he thought about his wishes until he heard Tom leave. He had to be careful, since he'd get the opposite of one of them.

He felt silly, but said, "I'm ready to make my wishes, genie. Montague, are you there?"

After a moment he pulled out the bottle and rubbed it.

"So, are we ready to play?" asked a smooth voice from the other side of the bed. "Perhaps you can start by wishing for a vacuum cleaner," he snarked.

Jake hadn't heard the door, and felt his heart catch in his throat as he considered that this might be real.

"Yes. I'm ready. Three wishes, and you'll grant two and the opposite of the third."

"Yes, yes. Those were the rules. No need to remind me."

"All right. For my first wish, I wish that the next time I bought a lottery ticket I would be the sole winner. I figure the opposite is losing, and at least I'm no worse off."

"I will neither confirm nor deny the opposites. First wish made."

"Right. Next I wish I graduated from a major college. I figure I should get something out of all this debt, and if I graduate from a community college, I'm still better off than now." If he didn't graduate at all, nothing would change.

"I see you've been thinking this through," the tall man said while faking a yawn.

"OK, well that might give me money and better prospects, so I figure my love life is next," Jake blushed. He could get a girl if he had money, but just in case that was his opposite wish, he wanted cover. "This might sound a bit weird."

"I doubt that. I have granted wishes to over a hundred men. You are unlikely to come up with a new twist."

"Right." He rushed his words, "I wish that I was married to a woman who was beautiful and dumb." As soon as he got the words out, he slowed down, "I figure that way if she's ugly, at least she'll be smart. Gotta be worth something, right?"

"Three wishes have been made. Wishes granted."

The genie reached out and touched Jake on the forehead. He stiffened and fell backwards onto the bed. Before he and the genie faded away, Montague muttered, "Poor sod."

---

Jake felt an arm draped over him before he opened his eyes. Through the warmth and fuzziness he vaguely remembered making wishes and expecting to have a wife. Hoping she was pretty, he slowly opened his eyes.

Probably not. The arm was hairy. If she was ugly, it was supposed to mean something. Something kinda good. He couldn't quite remember. Oh, yeah, she'd be smart. Smart was not as good as pretty, but it was still good.

His hair pulled when he turned over but he just brushed it out of the way. His hand and nails looked strange, but he wanted to see his wife and couldn't concentrate on two things at once.

"Aaahhh," he yelled.

"What's wrong?" Tom asked sleepily from beside him. He woke up quickly. "Are you all right, hon?"

Jake sat bolt upright and felt his hair tug behind him and his prominent breasts shift forward when he stopped. "This isn't right, no. It's not what..." He trailed off.

"Shhh," Tom comforted as he sat up and stroked Jake's hair. "It's all right. You must have had a bad dream," he whispered in Jake's ear, nuzzling slightly.

This was wrong. Jake wanted to pull away. Tom shouldn't be breathing softly on his neck even though it felt so good and he wasn't sure why he wanted to get away. He purred while thinking about it.

"Hold that thought, babe," Tom whispered in Jake's ear, "we don't have time this morning. I've gotta get ready for work." He stared at Jake hungrily, "We'll have our fun tonight. Oh yeah." He rubbed his hand over Jake's breast and Jake pressed himself into it because it felt so good.

Something was wrong, but he couldn't bring himself to think about it for a few more moments.

Tom suddenly jumped out of bed and ran to the nearest door, pausing only to look back at Jake and smile, "Beat you to the bathroom - I might actually get ready on time." He laughed a little. Jake laughed back even though he wasn't sure why. Tom must have been making a joke.

While Tom was in the bathroom Jake climbed out of bed. His violet nightgown ended at mid-thigh and gave a clear view of his breasts. He was pretty sure that's not what he usually wore to bed. Then again, he thought, he was pretty sure he didn't have prominent breasts.

Breasts, nightgown, Tom calling him babe and hon. He must be a girl. How did that happen?

It had to be the genie.

He tried to remember his wishes. He knew he made some, but he couldn't quite remember what they were. He had to squish his face up into a squint to get them.

College. He wished he'd graduated.

There was a diploma on the wall. The words weren't easy to read, and he had to speak them out loud to get through it. "University of Florida," he read slowly, "Jessica Masters, Bachelor of Arts in Communication." It took him almost a minute.

Was that him?

He'd wished for a degree from a big university. He didn't say what major, so maybe that was his. Reading it had been really hard. There must be something wrong with his eyes. Glasses don't look pretty, he hoped he didn't have to wear them.

What else?

He wanted to be married to a beautiful and dumb woman. He'd had a good reason, it was something really smart. But he couldn't quite remember what it was. That one must have gone wrong, but how? Something about an opposite.

"The opposite of marrying a beautiful and dumb woman is being a married, beautiful, and dumb woman," rolled through his head in an English accent. He thought about it for a few moments and decided it must be true.

The shower was running and he pictured Tom in the shower. He sat down and clamped his legs shut.

He looked in the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. He was beautiful, he realized. He struck a few poses, pushed out his breasts and canted his hips. Pursing his lips, he could feel himself getting turned on. It felt different than it used to, but he had trouble recalling what it used to feel like.

He admired the thin gold band on his left hand and smiled. The shower was still running, and this time he didn't resist, but went in. "Need a hand in here?" she asked.

She remembered her third wish. While Tom was at work today, she had to buy a lottery ticket. That should help them out a lot. But it could wait.

She had more important things to do first, as she opened the shower door to get a good look at her husband.

Games Genies Play Part 2 of 6

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Games

Even the mighty like to play.

When genies play games, the objects of their attention must learn the rules. And fast.

Far beyond the reach of space and time lies the City of Brass. A sea of flames surrounds it and the brass walls glow hot enough to blind any visitor who made it through the endless magma. This hellish region is home to powers so unimaginable that gods themselves fear to meet them.

In a tower high above the city five genies met. Each one has enough power to shake the foundations of the world. Together all of creation was at threat. The mighty quailed at the outcome of the meeting.

“Hand me another pint, would you?”

“Haven’t you had enough?”

“Oh, give it a rest, would you? It’s a do, enjoy yourself.”

“Both of you stop. We’ve got a game underway, and still have to figure out the rules this time around.”

“What’s to figure? We go out, grant wishes, whoever gives the most poetic punishment wins.”

“Booo-ring. How many times have we done that? It gets old.”

“And I suppose you want to help them? Make their lives better?”

“Well…”

“Been there, done that. How about something new?”

“Got something in mind?”

“In point of fact I do–”

---

“Chris, where are you,” yelled Sally Antiers as soon as she entered the door.

No answer. She hadn’t expected one and was disappointed anyway. Since her son’s car wasn’t in the driveway, she assumed he’d gone out.

Also as she expected, he hadn’t done any of his chores. His books were tossed casually on the sofa along with some old gym clothes. No notes, no messages, nothing saying when he’d be back.

Annoyed, she pulled out her phone and called him. He didn’t answer, so she had to leave a message. “Chris, I want you to come home. Now. You have homework and chores. You can’t keep running off, this is not acceptable.”

She hated nagging her son, even while she was doing it. His father, her ex-husband Frank, had been an up-and-coming ad designer when they married. She didn’t nag Frank when he brought that sleazy hotel manager home. How she wished she had. She told him he shouldn’t trust that man, but left it at that. Every client she met after that seemed worse until the police finally arrested Frank for drug trafficking. When she saw Chris hanging out with the same types of people, she would nag.

Already worn out after a hard day, she slipped off her shoes and walked over to the fridge. After a moment’s thought she pulled out one frozen dinner. She doubted Chris would respond to her message any time soon.

He was probably out with his girlfriend, Tiffany, the daughter of one of her ex-husband’s associates. The man owned a car dealership but laundered money on the side. She wanted to keep Chris as far from them as possible, but the harder she tried, the more he rebelled.

Last month he got suspended for having beer at school. She was sure he got it from one of Frank’s friends to impress Tiffany. The girl was just the last straw. Sally had to take some drastic measures, but what?

While she knew that Tiffany’s father was laundering money, she didn’t have anything she could bring to the police. Maybe she could find evidence in the boxes Frank left in the garage that she hadn’t thrown out yet. And if not, she thought, she could always call in an anonymous tip. She knew he was dirty. She’d be doing the town a favor.

And she’d be helping Chris, even if he wouldn’t agree.

Tired and annoyed after cleaning up dinner, she sat down in front of the television. She wanted to meet a new man and have something to do with her evenings, but single mothers didn’t have a chance on the dating scene. The last time she had a date Chris called her three times, everything from a backed up sink to help with the homework he finally decided to do. She never saw her date again. It was like Chris was working for Frank.

She almost pushed her son’s books off the couch but then thought better of it. If she stacked them on the table they’d be visible right when he walked in. Yes, it was still a type of nagging, but at least she could do it without yelling.

A can tumbled out of his backpack when she lifted it. It was unmarked, but she suspected it was either tobacco or drugs. At first she was angry, but then relieved. At least she’d know. She was sure it was the girl’s fault, but even if she had to put her son in juvie he’d be clean and away from Tiffany and her father.

She struggled to pull the can open, but the lid was stuck tight.

She grabbed it with a nearby blanket for a better grip and twisted it around. It popped off with sudden force and flew from her hands.

She started choking as smoke billowed around her.

The smoke didn’t clear, though it did recede.

A pile of smoke remained on the floor, and a large man stood in the middle of it, visible from the waist up.

He was blue.

Bright blue.

A super-sized smurf.

“Well, well, well, congratulations,” the man practically shouted at her, “You are the owner of one genuine, one hundred percent pure, super powerful genie.”

“What? Who are you? How did you get here?” she babbled incoherently. Yelling probably wouldn’t help her.

“Didn’t you hear me? I can clear that up if you’ve got hearing problems.” He stopped. Then, enunciating each word clearly, he said, “Genie. Me.” Pointing at her, he said, “Yours.”

“A… genie?”

“Hey, hey, hey, now she’s got it. Yes, that’s me. A genie. And I am here to grant you your wishes. Yes, that’s right, you have a special opportunity today only for as many wishes as you want. That’s right, no limits. Sky’s the limit is for suckers, we can go way beyond that. No limits at all. As many wishes as you want.”

He paused his tireless speech, and suddenly frowned shyly. Holding up his hand with his thumb and forefinger just barely separated, he said, “Subject to one teeny tiny little condition.”

Sally rallied. “You can grant wishes? You’re going to grant me wishes?”

The genie’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “Anyone home in there? How many times do I have to say it? Yes. Genie. Me. Granting wishes.

“Soy un genio. Cencedo deseos.

“Je suis un génie. J’accorde souhaits.

“Ich bin ein Genie. Ich gebe Wá¼nsche.

“Get it?”

She didn’t believe it. On the other hand, she had a big blue man standing in a cloud of smoke. “Well, all right then. I wish–”

“Hold on a second, sister. There’s that one teeny tiny little condition to go over. Hardly worth mentioning, but I’ll mention it anyway.”

“OK.”

“Now, here it is. You can make as many wishes as you want, but they have to be chained. That is, the object of one wish must be the subject of the next wish. Further, you have to make a circular chain. The object of your last wish must be the subject of your first one, and once you’ve done that, your wishes are finished. Finally, I’ll choose my own place to start in the chain while keeping the subject object pairings constant.”

It didn’t help that he said all that at top speed. Sally looked confused, and finally said, “Can you repeat that?”

“Oooh, so sorry. One time and one time only. No small print, but one time through,” he said like a carnival barker. “Tell you what I can do though, just ‘cause I like you. An example. Yeah, an example’s allowed. So listen close. Are you listening?” He leaned towards her with his hand cupped around his ear just in case she didn’t understand.

Stunned, and still not entirely sure she wasn’t hallucinating, she nodded. “I’m listening.”

“Good. So, let’s take an example. I wish I had a giant house - subject is me, that is to say you, and object is the house. With me so far?”

Sally nodded. She could use a big house.

“Fine. Next I wish the house could fly. Now that’s no good see, because the house is the subject but there’s no object. Besides which flying houses are dumb. Too drafty. No cable. So that would end your wishes and you’d get nothing. Don’t do that,” he yelled.

She stared at him until she figured out he was waiting for a response. “OK.”

“So, backing up, lets say I wish the house was in New York. House, New York. Good. Finally, I wish New York would elect me governor. Bad idea - ungovernable state, but let’s go with it anyway. New York, me, and we’re back to the beginning. We have a loop, and I start granting wishes.”

She nodded. His excitement was infectious. “All right. Got it. Let’s go.”

---

“I wish my son would break up with his girlfriend, Tiffany,” she said without the slightest hesitation.

“Whoa, I like this lady. No waiting, just jump right in. Let’s keep this going.”

Sally suddenly stopped.

Rules.

Now she had to make a wish for Tiffany. She didn’t want to do anything to help her. Sure, it was her father who was dirty, but the seed doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“Can I take that back?” she asked. She could wish something bad would happen to Tiffany, but while she didn’t like the girl, she also didn’t hate her.

“No can do. Wishes once wished are wished wishes,” he answered at full speed.

“Can I think for a minute?”

“You think I have nothing better to do than wait on you? All powerful genie here; waiting around in this place watching the roaches crawl is not exactly my idea of a fun day. Take your time,” he pouted and started singing the Jeopardy tune.

“Fine,” she shouted back. “Just shut up. I got it. I wish Tiffany would move to another school, St. Sebastian’s.”

That would keep her away from Chris, which should help keep her son out of trouble, and wasn’t really ruining the girl’s life. As long as she stayed away from Chris Sally would be happy.

“And we’re moving right along. Tick, tock, tick, tock. We’ve got a break up and a move. You’re not exactly pushing my limits here. How much longer until the next one?”

“This one I’m ready for. I wish that school would offer me a job.” She could keep an eye on Tiffany, and besides it was bound to be a better job than what she had now. She didn’t have a teaching degree, so a job at the school would be an office job, maybe a principal.

“Let’s keep it going,” the genie said while tapping his foot loudly under the cloud of smoke that still surrounded him. Sally wondered idly if he was even wearing pants.

She thought. She could make a wish where she was the subject. It’s what she’d been waiting for. But now that it was here she was having trouble figuring out what she wanted, and how much longer she could keep this chain going. It didn’t help that the genie was getting impatient and had started singing 100 bottles of beer on the wall.

She decided to wrap the whole thing up.

“I wish I could make my son behave.”

The genie stopped singing immediately and looked at her. “And we have an attempt to wrap it up. I should say no go here, when you wished the school would offer you a job, the job was the object, you were an indirect object. But I like you, you have drive, ambition, moxie, and a big blue guy standing in your living room and you didn’t even blink. So, since I didn’t really break things down between direct and indirect objects, I’m going to give it to you. That’s just the kind of guy I am.”

He looked at her expectantly.

Finally he stage whispered, “Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” she said as though it was a question.

“Now don’t go thanking me. Remember that I choose where the chain starts. Oops, gotta go. Wishes granted. You’ll get ‘em as they come.”

The smoke rose back over him, and when it faded away he was no longer there.

Then another cloud of smoke rose around the can. When it faded away the can was gone too.

---

For a few moments Sally stared, mouth agape, at the spot where a large blue man stood in a cloud of smoke just moments earlier. She wondered if she was going crazy.

The smell of smoke lingered and stuck to the carpet, so she figured it just might be real.

Chris might be home early after all, if he was going to break up with Tiffany. She felt a little sorry for him even if she was the cause. She almost started warming up a dinner for him but stopped. First, the genie didn’t set a time frame. Second, genies aren’t real. Whatever happened to her, she shouldn’t get her hopes up.

Still, she thought, it wouldn’t hurt to get the address for St. Sebastian’s. Maybe she should wander over there tomorrow evening. If Chris broke up with Tiffany, she resolved, she’d call in sick and go by the school during the day.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

She broke into a wide grin when she heard Chris’s car pull up the driveway. Best not to look like she was expecting it, so she quickly turned on the television.

“Hey Mom,” Chris shouted as he came in the door. “I’ve got some big news, so sit down.” He was happier than she had expected after a breakup, but that was fine. She wanted him to be happy. That’s why she made that wish in the first place. She sat back down with an expectant smile.

“Go ahead,” she prompted.

“OK, now don’t freak out. You know Tiffany’s Dad, Mr. Mariano. Well, he’s offered to start me on the floor after school as a salesman at his dealership. It’s a great opportunity and can lead to a lot more…”

Her smile fell. She didn’t want him working for Frank’s friends. He should be telling her how he broke up with Tiffany. “I see,” she said with a frown creasing her face.

“I’ll be working late, so he’s asked me to move in with them. I know it’ll mean leaving you alone here, but you can probably do better without my messes and I’ll just be across town. Tiff convinced her Dad–” he said with a dreamy smile.

“How dare you–” she shouted as she jumped off the couch. When she was halfway up, everything froze. She couldn’t move a muscle.

Instead she heard, echoing inside her head, “I did say I could start the chain anywhere, while leaving subject and object where they were. So I started with your second wish. With that, you wished your son would move to Tiffany’s. Done.”

She could suddenly move again and finished bolting upright.

“How dare you even think of moving in with that hussy and leaving me. I forbid you from ever seeing that whore again,” she thundered.

“That’s my girl you’re talking about,” he yelled back in her face. “I’m going to have a better life than you, and she and her father are helping. You could at least pretend to be happy for me.”

“If you take one more step,” she railed despite desperately trying to stop herself, “never come back. Leave now and you’re no longer my son.”

He looked at her in disbelief. Her face was etched with hatred.

“Fine. Goodbye.” He turned and left without a backwards glance.

In her head, she heard the genie again, “And with our shift, your first wish was that you would break up with your son. Done.”

She broke down crying on the sofa while a dreadful laugh track blared from the television. Her son drove off, probably forever. Her wish doomed her to live without him. That awful genie tricked her. It was all wrong. She’d only wanted to help her boy and she drove him away.

Every time she tried to get up she would see something of Chris’s and fall back down. It surprised her when the sun came up. She’d passed the whole night in tears, but it was still too short a time to contain her regrets.

She called her work to tell them she couldn’t make it only to be told not to come in at all. They had been bought out and everyone was laid off effective immediately. She had to go by to get her severance, but that was all they could do.

The tiny, dark, messy house was not enough to contain her. She couldn’t imagine any greater disaster than meeting that genie, and was considering more drastic measures. She was tempted to give up. Forever.

Then there was a knock at the door.

It was Tiffany.

Somehow she restrained herself from slapping the bitch.

“Um, hi Mrs. Antiers. Chris told me everything that happened, and I feel bad about that. I thought, well, I thought maybe I could help you out.”

“What do you have in mind,” she asked calmly. It wasn’t what she wanted to say. Just like when she railed at Chris, she wasn’t fully in control of her actions.

“Well, I don’t want you to lose touch with Chris, so I thought you could work for us.”

She froze. Everything froze. There was the voice in her mind, “And now to your third wish. With the shift, you wished that Tiffany would give you a lesson. I replaced the direct object there instead of the indirect one.”

“All right,” she heard herself say, “I accept.”

“Great,” Tiffany gushed, “we need a maid. Keep in mind you have to behave properly. Neither Dad nor I put up with bad work, but as long as you do a good job and act like a proper maid, you can see Chris almost every day.”

The world froze again.

“And that’s your last wish. That your employer, Tiffany instead of the school, can make you behave.

And so she can.”

Games Genies Play Part 3 of 6

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Games

Even the mighty like to play.

When genies play games, the objects of their attention must learn the rules. And fast.

That which is sculpted in the Hall of Clay comes to life the next day. Most do not survive long, few artists design for life. The majority of those that live fall prey to each other. A few survive and may one day be seen in the world at large.

In another hall, the Sands of Time fall to the floor and all of history litters the floor. Artists rearrange the sands to paint histories that never happened, which is why DaVinci’s flying machine can be found over the Battle of Gettysburg.

At the center of the woeful city, rising to unimaginable heights, is the Bell Tower, which will ring only once in all of history. Near the top of this tower, but not at the top - nothing has ever reached its top - is a gathering of genies with such power that they cast a pall over the city far below. None will risk being overheard and drawing their wrath.

“So. Now. Wait. Lemme see if I got this. We’re going to tell them how we’ll twist their wishes.”

“Right-o. That’s the game. Toss me anudder pint, will you?”

“But, if we tell ‘em, won’t they, like, not wish?”

“If they don’t, you lose, tosspot.”

“I never had no one not wish. Not happenin’ now neither.”

“So are you in?”

“Game on.”

“Not yet. I gotta pee.”

---

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.” When he finished, Carl gently closed the book and reached over to stroke the old woman’s hand.

“Did you like that one, my dear? I know Christmas Carol’s always been your favorite, but I thought a change might be good. I talked to David last night, and he tells me…” The old man kept talking even though she never responded. She just stared straight ahead. When he stopped speaking she reached out to him, putting her hand awkwardly on his rich silver hair. He smiled at her with a tear in his eye.

A nurse was by the door when he finally left. “Today’s one of her good days, Mr. Schmidt. She was happy you were here.”

“Yes,” he answered sadly. “I think she remembered me today. It was nice to see her smile again.”

“You don’t have to come every day, you know. We will take care of her. And, I’m afraid, she wouldn’t know.”

“She wouldn’t, but I would. She’s my wife, and I’d miss her.”

The nurse gave him a bittersweet smile before turning away. “Let me get you some water before you head back outside.”

“Thank you, young lady,” he answered and sat down. He rested his cane against the wall. He tried to bear the pain in his hip with equanimity, especially after seeing the ravages his wife had to bear.

He walked back to his cabin. One of the reasons he and Marjorie chose this nursing home was the private quarters you could enjoy as long as you remained able-bodied. For a time they’d lived in the home together, but when her Alzheimer’s got worse she had to move into the hospital full time. Though he saw her every day he still missed her.

He told himself he was walking slowly so he could enjoy the grounds. It had nothing to do with the pain in his hip that forced him to walk with a cane. It had nothing to do with heading back to a dark and empty home and an afternoon alone. If he was going to delude himself, he resolved to do a good job of it. He tried to enjoy the flowers.

In the end it wasn’t the flowers that held his attention, but the children. The small playground was busy with someone’s grandchildren yelling and chasing and trying to climb up the slide the wrong way.

In his mind’s eye he saw his oldest son Tommy trying to slide while standing up. He had tumbled off the side and wound up with his arm in a sling. Marjorie cried and lectured him on safety. Carl worried, but didn’t want his boy to be afraid to try new things, so he told him “Anything good comes with risks. Remember what the view was like from up top.” Tommy once told him that was the best advice he’d ever gotten.

A touch of depression welcomed him home. Turning on the lights helped, but the house was still empty.

He went right to the curio cabinet. It was Marjorie’s pride and joy since she bought it forty years ago. She displayed the pictures and treasures they collected during a lifetime together. She used to change them every week so they would always see different parts of their life.

Carl had teased her each time she changed the display. When she first went to the hospital he left the cabinet as it was so he could hold on to her last display. It didn’t work, and soon he started changing the displays. Oddly, he felt closer to her that way. It was like a part of her was still with him.

Carefully taking her box of treasures from the closet, he opened it up and started rooting through the pictures and knick knacks. A wealth of memories greeted him with every photo.

The better Marjorie was doing, the less likely he was to display pictures of the two of them. Instead he picked pictures she would have liked. This week he decided to show off the kids. Somewhat whimsically he chose pictures of their children when they were five, and grandkids at ten. He was amused by remembering the children when they were younger than their own kids.

To keep Marjorie’s style he couldn’t stop with pictures. He pulled out souvenirs from trips with the children. He found a small plastic Aladdin’s Lamp from a trip they took to Disney World with their grandkids Donna and Peter.

Donna was married now and lived in Virginia Beach, while Peter was still in high school. His mother told him she thought Peter had a girlfriend but didn’t want to admit it. Peter had shown him how to use Skype, so Carl considered calling him and trying to tease it out of him. It used to drive Marjorie crazy how much he’d tease all the grandkids.

They’d been together so long. There just wasn’t any part of his life that didn’t make him think of her.

“They’re very nice pictures,” said a young woman from behind him.

He turned around slowly. “Are you new here? I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Carl Schmidt. Is it already time for my medicine?”

The woman didn’t look like a nurse. She had rose harem pants, of all things, with a green and red vest that revealed a bit more of her chest than was professional. Not that he planned to complain, of course.

“No,” she laughed, “I’m not a nurse. I’m a genie. My name is Daphne, and that,” she pointed to the plastic toy, “is my home you’re rubbing.”

“I’m… sorry,” he said while setting the toy down carefully. “I don’t get company very often, and even more rarely such a lovely young lady. So why don’t I just take your word for it?”

She looked at him expectantly, so he added. “If you’re here to rob me, I don’t have much. It’s not like I’m in any shape to fight back. If you’re willing to entertain an old man first, I can offer you some tea.”

“You’re really clever, aren’t you? You’re expecting one of the nurses to stop by soon, and you’re trying to delay me until then.”

“All right, you got me. Take what you want. I doubt I could do anything to stop you.”

“No one’s going to come by. I’ll make sure of it. And Carl, I’m not here to rob you. I meant what I said. I’m a genie. I’m here to grant you your wishes.”

With a small leer, he said, “Oh dear young lady, I’m afraid I’m just not up to it. Even ten years ago you might have made my wishes come true, but now…”

He’d played the dirty old man before. He threatened to steal his daughter-in-law away from Tommy every time they got together, and she played along shamelessly. They kept Tommy veering between annoyed and embarrassed. Marjorie never minded their games, rather she enjoyed it when he used the same lines on her.

“Tell you what,” Daphne said, “let me explain the rules, and then you can decide whether to– take advantage or not,” she added with a leer and a laugh of her own.

He took a deep breath and nodded at her to continue.

“You have three wishes, but have to make them all before I grant any of them. Each wish must involve a number, and the numbers may not share any prime factors or I don’t grant any of them. I can rearrange the numbers at will. Have you got that?”

She was serious. She might be crazy, but she believed what she was saying. Then again, he thought, maybe he was the one who was crazy. Here was a chance to make wishes and he was doubting it. What was the harm? Maybe he’d been wrong about magic all his life, and wouldn’t that be exciting?

“All right, Daphne. I’ll make my wishes. But first, let me make that tea I offered you.”

---

“We used to have loose leaf tea,” he told her while he tapped his way back into the kitchen. “It was one of Marjorie’s indulgences. We always managed to find it, no matter where we were. None around here, though, so I’ll I’ve got is tea bags.”

He was falling into the old man trap of lionizing the good-old-days. He knew better. He turned on the electric kettle. It was faster and cleaner than burning on the stove. And it was plastic, so it was easier to keep clean. Wonderful stuff.

He still didn’t like tea bags.

“Thank you for the tea,” Daphne said. “Will you let me pour?”

“Thank you,” he answered, sitting back. “It’s nice having guests. I don’t get to do this often enough.”

“What about all those pictures,” she asked. “Don’t your children come to visit?”

“They do,” he admitted. “When they can. They could never visit as much as I’d like, of course. They don’t come as often recently; they don’t like seeing their mother like she is, and I can’t blame them. They’ve all offered to let me stay with them, but I don’t want to leave her.”

“Won’t your neighbors wonder what I’m doing here?”

“No, I don’t think so. If anyone sees you, he’ll just assume you’re one of my grandchildren, or maybe that you’re someone else’s but you’re being nice and visiting a lonely old man.” He laughed, “I think your reputation is safe.”

He decided to have a little fun with the girl while they had their tea. He launched into one of his favorite stories, when he and Marjorie took a trip to San Francisco before they had any children. While seeing the sights, they joined with a crowd to protest the war. It was less a protest than an excuse to smoke and party.

They wound up sleeping together in a public park and getting arrested for it. An exasperated judge let them go after a stern lecture. Soon after, Marjorie got pregnant with Tom. Carl always liked to believe that was when it happened.

He was quite proud of his story; he got the pretty young genie to blush.

Suddenly she peered out the window, distracted.

“Carl,” she said seriously, “you want to use your wishes to save your wife, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he answered. “Still thinking about how, but–”

“There are boundaries I don’t cross. Make your wishes. Now.”

“Oh no. God no.” He understood exactly what she was saying.

“You have time. Make your wishes.”

“I wish– I wish my wife and I were 21 years old again.”

“Got it. Keep going.”

“I wish I had a job I could work at and be happy with for 40 years.”

“Good. Please hurry.”

“Let’s see,” he mumbled, “That’s 2, 3, 5, and 7.” He’d helped his children and grandchildren through math classes. “Good. Then I wish we owned the house at 19 Cherry Lane in Virginia Beach.” Near their granddaughter, Donna.

She smiled. “You made it in time Carl. Wishes granted.”

An old woman nearby idly wondered why the oddly dressed young lady was coming out of the empty cabin. Probably checking it out for her parents or grandparents. Then she forgot about it.

---

For the first time in years, Carl did not wake up in pain. His joints didn’t hurt, his hip was not bothering him. He was comfortable.

Best of all, better than all the rest, there was someone else with him. He could feel warmth, feel the sheets pull, feel the mattress dip, feel her. He wanted to weep with joy, but didn’t want to wake up Marjorie. Trying his best to lie still, his excitement broke out in an irrepressible grin.

The bed shook as Marjorie suddenly bolted upright. “My God, what happened?” It wasn’t her voice. It was deep. Male.

Shocked, Carl jerked himself up too and could tell that he wasn’t in his old body. He had breasts and was wearing a nightie. He was a woman.

First things first. “Marjorie?” he asked. His high pitched voice was strange to his ears, but he could deal with that later. His wife, if that’s who this was, came first.

“C– Carl?” the man next to him asked.

He almost collapsed in joy. “It’s me, my dear. It’s me.” The man in bed with him was a stranger, he’d never seen him before. It didn’t matter. He didn’t have the slightest doubt in his mind. This was Marjorie. His Marjorie. “This might be a little hard to explain…”

The man took a deep breath and looked straight at Carl. “If you tell me, I’ll believe it.” Carl could see it in her eyes. Marjorie knew him, too.

He explained about the genie, the wishes, and the conditions. He left off the literal deadline for his wishes. If she didn’t remember her dementia he didn’t want to be the one to tell her.

“Well,” she said when he finished, “I’d say your genie managed to get the better of you. But I can’t remember the last time I felt this good. I– remember,” she choked. “You can’t imagine what it was like, to know the world was there but it wouldn’t make sense. No matter what, I love you for saving me from that.”

Carl sagged. He hadn’t realized how tense he was. He was afraid she would blame him for their sex change. The surge of emotion felt strange; he could feel it in his breasts and further down.

“Let’s get up and look around. Maybe we can find out who we are,” Marjorie said hurriedly. Carl didn’t need convincing.

A small stack of cardboard boxes stood against the wall. Their bed was just a mattress on a wire frame. No pictures hung on the walls. They must be just moving in.

Carl couldn’t resist sneaking a peak at his wife, now wearing just pajama bottoms and leaving her hairy chest exposed. She made a handsome man, he thought.

Embarrassed by his reaction, and unwilling to look at his new body, Carl ran to the closet and found a sweatshirt and jeans. He couldn’t face the bathroom yet. While he got dressed, Marjorie checked out the rest of the house.

“We’re at 40 Cherry Lane. Small but nice place, and I’d have to say we just moved here,” she gestured at the boxes. “I also got our names from the mail. We are Edward and Janet Bauer.”

“My parents were going to name me Janet if I was a girl,” Carl, or rather Janet, announced. “Wait. Bauer. That was your maiden name.”

“Not so much anymore,” Edward responded with a nervous smile. “Are you all right with that?”

He, no she, thought about it for a moment. “You know what? I am. I’m still with you, and I’m your wife,” she giggled. “So of course I’m Mrs. Bauer now.” She felt unexpectedly happy when she said it.

“It looks like I’m going to school and working nights, and you’re…” He paused and looked away sheepishly. “I, uh, I went through your– purse to see what I could find.”

She laughed again, it felt so good. “I’ll let it go. This time,” she put on a mock threatening face, the same one Marjorie used to make towards Carl. She relaxed as soon as she saw Edward smile.

“Well, you’re a secretary. I guess you’re helping put me through school.”

“A secretary. And that’s a job I’m going to have for a long time. I wished for a job I’d like, though, so it’s probably better than it sounds. How old are we?”

“Pretty young,” he grinned while drinking her in with his eyes. “We’re nineteen. Got married early, I guess.”

“So 21 years as a secretary,” she grimaced slightly. “At least I’ll be with you.” She walked hesitantly towards him, towards her husband, and finally leaned in to hug him.

She could get used to it.

Edward knew better. He didn’t say a word, she’d figure it out in her own time.

She wasn’t going to be a secretary for all those years. He would finish school and provide for them, just as Carl once did. Janet would have a far more rewarding job, one he knew she’d love. Being a mother, raising their children, was a job for a lifetime. He’d had his turn at it, and thanked a genie he never met that he could offer the same opportunity to the love of his life.

Games Genies Play Part 4 of 6

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Games

Even the mighty like to play.

When genies play games, the objects of their attention must learn the rules. And fast.

From the tiniest seeds grow the greatest of wonders. When the Choir Invisible played the music that created all that is, was, and ever will be, a single singer was late with a single note. That one misplaced note left a void in Creation, a piece that was left unmade.

From that void have sprung dragons, titans, and genies. Though they have caused much chaos, the wonders and marvels that they leave in their wake have created a vivid world of imagination that lives beside the world of reality. It is in the delay of a single singer that the hand of the Creator is manifest.

Deep in that unknowable void a conclave of mighty genies meets. Creation trembles in anticipation.

“So how do we judge this one?”

“Usual. Who does the most ironic twisting? Hey, you got any corn dogs? I love those things.”

“So make some. They’re disgusting and no way I’m creating them. We can’t just go for irony, the conditions would be pointless.”

“I’ll buy that. So who can get the biggest twist from intentions just by the conditions you spelled out.”

“Who judges?”

“Me. I’m fair.”

“Phhht.”

“Consensus vote.”

“Oh yeah, that always works well. We each wind up getting one vote.”

“Can’t vote for yourself.”

“And if mine really is the best?”

“Then you’ll get four votes. Still can’t vote for yourself.”

“Fine.”

---

The young woman walked down the street while talking to her phone, ignoring everyone around her. It wasn’t a problem, everyone else was doing the same thing, each wrapped up in a conversation that was important enough to ignore the world around him.

“There were at least twenty at the casting call, but, yeah, I think I got a shot at it.” Pause. “Yeah, I think the marketing guys liked my hair best. Of course I know they’re the ones who’re important here.”

Weaving through the crowd without seeing a single person, she continued, “Oh yeah, she was there but is just out of luck. Completely luckless. Total bad hair day. So I’ve at least got her out of the way.”

Tracey was a good looking woman; tall, thin, and fit. Shoulder length brown hair with frosted tips drew eyes to her clear face, but they swiftly drifted down to her ample chest. If she lived anywhere but Hollywood she’d be a striking beauty. In Tinseltown she was one more pretty wannabe actress among hundreds.

“Oh, I don’t know. Dog food, I think. Their agent was doable, that’s for sure. Yeah, I’ve seen the director before. He did that soup commercial I didn’t get. Whatever. I can work with him. Just need them to call me.”

She had another casting call that morning and then she had to get to her paying job. Her car was in the shop and she didn’t have money for a cab, so she was on foot. Better than missing an audition. This one might be her ticket to stardom, but only if she showed up. She was lucky both auditions were in the same area, but she’d have made it, somehow, even if they were at opposite ends of the state.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Tracey continued to her phone, “the next one’s the big one. No, just breakfast cereal. One of the ones that’s all sugar. No, Ive never tried it. Oh, yeah, they’ve got Bruce Willis for this one, so I could get to work with him. No, don’t be silly, he won’t be at a cattle call, but some of his people will, so I can do some networking. Never know…

“Oh, here I am. Gotta go get my face on. Say hi to Ken for me. See ya later.”

She walked into a room full of beautiful women and signed in. Then headed right to the bathroom to straighten her hair and fix up her makeup before they called her number.

A few long hours later she ran from the studio to catch her bus. As soon as she found a seat she dug out her phone and started checking messages. She updated her Facebook status, lying that she was hopeful she’d get the part. She knew better, but maybe it would pressure the car commercial people who’d been waffling between her and another girl for a week now.

She ran into the mall and headed to Macy’s. In the employee’s restroom she quickly changed and fixed her makeup again. Looking pretty was a primary qualification at the perfume counter, even if her job was mostly to spritz people walking by.

She knew she was lucky to have a job at all. At the cereal audition, three actresses she knew confided that they’d have to go home if they didn’t get a gig. Bringing in money meant she could stay in town longer, and that gave her more auditions, more chances for a break. She wanted to keep her job, so she did it with the same heart she threw in to her auditions.

Quickly changing and taking her place on the floor she prepared herself for a long shift. She locked her smile in place and started greeting shoppers.

“Tracey,” snapped a floor manager, “clean up the cabinets.”

“Yes sir,” she smiled while picturing herself coming back some day as a star with an entourage and seeing him fall over himself to escort her around.

With pleasant daydreams running through her head she unlocked the cabinet and started straightening and cleaning the bottles. Suddenly the noise stopped.

No muzak.

No bustling crowd.

Not even crickets. Not that there were crickets in the Mall or possibly anywhere in LA. It’s just that movies had conditioned her to expect to hear crickets when it got quiet.

And why did it get so quiet anyway?

She turned around slowly, expecting a man in a hockey mask. Or a crowd of zombies.

“Hi there. About time,” said a little girl in a gingham dress. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

“About time for what?”

“About time you rubbed my bottle and let me out,” the girl piped. “You can’t imagine how terrible it is to be trapped in there. I mean, that stuff smells nice at first, and in small doses, but try living in it.”

“Oh. My. God.” Tracey exploded. “You live in a bottle. You’re a genie. You’re going to give me wishes.”

The little girl looked around nonplussed. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Oh this is fantastic. I wish I was a–”

“Hold on,” the little girl shouted. “First, there are rules I’ve got to– And what’s with this ‘you’re a genie’ stuff? No one believes in genies anymore. I like convincing people.”

Tracey bent down to her height, “Well, you came out after I rubbed a bottle, said you lived there, and stopped time. I didn’t see any better explanation.”

“Hmph,” she snorted. “Fine. Then there’s no point in the disguise either.”

She grew suddenly, ending up an inch taller than Tracey. Her hair turned from blond with pigtails to brunette, falling lusciously down past her tiny waist. Her poor homespun dress turned into something smooth and shimmery. “That’s better. Stand up, Tracey dear, you don’t need to kneel to me.”

She was still bending down to talk to the little girl. The genie’s size change took her by surprise, but she recovered. With the same single mindedness that kept her going to audition after audition despite nothing but rejections, she asked, “So, about the wishes?”

The genie scowled, “Changing size like that isn’t easy. A little appreciation wouldn’t hurt.”

It dawned on Tracey that the genie liked performing. She needed to cultivate her like she was a talent scout or producer. “Oh, it was very impressive, I’m sure. You just made it look so easy I didn’t even think how much had to go into it. I guess that’s the down side of being so good at it, you make everyone think there’s nothing to it.”

That brought a smile to the genie’s lips, “I guess it does at that. Thank you,” she said with a small curtsy. “Now, like I said, we have rules for wishes. You’ll get three wishes, but you have to wish them all before I grant any of them. All your wishes must have prepositions in them, and I can change any prepositions at will, with any other changes to make sure the wish still makes sense. Fair enough?”

“Oh. Uh. Prepositions?”

The genie groaned.

---

“Just a second,” Tracey said triumphantly as she pulled out her phone. A moment later she asked sheepishly, “Can I get internet access?”

The tall, glamorous woman tapped her foot impatiently. “A preposition is a word governing the relation between a noun and– Sure. You have access,” she said with a negligent toss of her hand. “I’ll just sample some of the wares while you read.” The fact that the cabinets were locked did not hinder her and she began collecting perfumes and makeup.

Tracey was dreaming of fame and fortune and trying to figure out how to ensure there was a preposition in each wish.

“What if I don’t have a preposition in a wish?”

The genie looked over, “Then I don’t grant that wish. You lose one third of them. Try including one.”

“Then I wish I could work with Angelina Jolie,” she blurted.

“Good. Wished.”

“Wait. I can do better. That’s just one job. Let me do it better.”

“No can do. No backsies.”

“This is harder than it looks,” she complained.

“Everything is,” the genie quipped while trying a completely unnecessary concealer.

Working with Angelina would get her exposure and a job, but she wanted more. She wanted to rule this town. That took a lot of movies. She still had two wishes left, she could do this.

Just had to make sure to include a preposition.

“Could you help me out? If I tell you what I want, could you help me make the wish right?”

The lady started, honestly surprised. She laughed, “I didn’t think people could still surprise me. I believe you’re the first person to ever ask me that. Yes, you are. In all of history, you are the first person to ever ask me to help make a wish.”

It wasn’t mocking laughter. She wasn’t laughing at Tracey. It was honest laughter from surprise and amusement. Then it stopped.

“No. I won’t help you. You’re on your own.”

Tracey pouted, even though she knew it wouldn’t help.

“Can I think about it?”

“As long as you want. The whole world’s frozen, though, so you might want to wish before you get hungry. Or have to pee,” she added.

“Fine. I get it. OK, forget it. I’ve got my next wish. I wish I would be in two movies a year for the next ten years.” That should cover her.

“Twenty movies. Two a year for ten years. Wished. One more. What will it be?”

That would handle her profession. She should have wished she starred in the movies, but she knew she had talent. If she could get in, she’d have a hit. Still, money wouldn’t hurt. And maybe something on the love life so she wouldn’t have to worry. She had it.

“Last one, then. I wish I had a rich boyfriend to take care of me.”

The genie sighed heavily, “Asking for my help was such a promising start, but then you got so predictable. Fine. Come with me.”

Tracey followed her through a crowd of statues.

---

“Let me get my purse.”

“Don’t bother,” answered the genie. “It’s not yours anymore.”

“What do you mean,” she asked with a touch of worry.

“I mean that purse belongs to Tracey Clint, and you’re not Tracey Clint anymore. She isn’t the person who can fulfill your wishes, so you’re not her anymore.”

Nervously, she looked in one of the store mirrors. She was still herself.

“Yes I am,” she insisted.

The genie stopped. “We’re moving through space, not time. As we get closer to our goal you will become who you need to be.”

“Where are we going?”

“Paramount Studios, Sound Stage C.”

“Why?”

“That’s where Angelina Jolie is working on Dead Plains Drifter.”

She jumped with excitement and nearly twisted her ankle. Jumping in heels is not a good idea. It wasn’t nearly enough to spoil her mood.

“Yes. Oh, fantastic. What’s my role? Who do I play?”

The genie kept walking, not saying a word but smiling grimly. Finally she said, “No one. You’re not in the movie.”

“But that was my wish.”

“It was indeed,” the genie agreed. “But I got to change the preposition. You are working for Angelina Jolie. Not with.”

“Oh,” she slumped.

The tap-tap-tap of her heels on the sidewalk changed and her feet dropped. She looked down and saw she was wearing flats. Brown. Probably better for an assistant since she’d be running around a lot.

She tried to look on the bright side. She’d be on a movie set and could meet a lot of important people. If she impressed Ange– Ms. Jolie, she could still go far. And she had her other wishes too.

Despite losing her heels her head was at the same height. She’d gotten taller. Her skirt got longer and divided. She was wearing a pantsuit. That was a unusual for her. She liked to show off her legs, but she’d wear the uniform if she had to.

“Soon you’ll figure it out,” the genie said cryptically.

“Figure what out,” Tracey asked. “What’s up with my voice? Am I a smoker now?” Her voice was huskier than she was used to.

“While working on a set? Please. Bombers, psychopaths, and rapists can be forgiven. Smokers, never.”

When she lost her nail polish and saw hair on her arms she figured it out.

“You’re turning me into a man,” she accused.

“Not at all. You are a man, and have been since you finished your wishes. I’m just bringing you to the place where that will be obvious.”

“But I don’t want to be a man. I like who I am.”

“Then you shouldn’t have made any wishes. Too bad. Your name is Hans. Hans Smithfelt.”

“What if I stop moving? Will I stop changing if I stay away from the studio?”

“Yes. Until you starve to death. No, that’s a lie. You’ll die of thirst first.”

She could still be in the movies, she thought. And walked.

Her pantsuit became a suit. Grey slacks, white shirt, thin black tie and a sport jacket. Her breasts collapsed into a flat chest. Her hair was short and slicked back, and she had a pair of glasses.

Even knowing it was coming she was surprised when she felt a growth at her groin and had to change the way she walked to avoid rubbing it.

“Here we are, Hans,” the genie said, handing him a small box. “Welcome to your new life.”

She vanished, and in an instant people were moving around him. He’d never been so happy to hear sounds.

“There you are,” a woman said to him. He looked up to see Angelina Jolie. Remembering something he didn’t know a moment before he made sure not to look her in the eyes. “Tea,” she demanded.

He handed her the box he was carrying, hoping that it held her tea. It was.

It was a long day. He was little more than a gofer. “Get the new script pages,” Ms. Jolie commanded. It was the first thing she’d said to him since she demanded her tea. It was also a chance to impress her so he took off at a run. People got out of his way. A running man must have a mission. He liked that.

“Can I get the new pages for Ms. Jolie?” he asked at the writer’s pit. He wasn’t sure how he knew where to go. Genie’s work, he guessed.

“You can go to the trailer, you know. You don’t have to come all the way down here.”

“How else can I make sure I’ve got the latest?”

“Are you bringing in more donuts tomorrow?”

A bit confused at the change of topic, he decided “Sure thing.”

“Then here are the changes we’re looking at for tomorrow too. They’re not final,” he warned.

Hans didn’t get any acknowledgment when he handed the pages to his boss, but she did smile slightly. He’d done good.

At the end of the day he found his address in his wallet. He looked for his purse before catching himself. He had a car, a Prius. It had a GPS inside, so he didn’t have to worry about finding his way home, to a much nicer neighborhood than he used to live in.

Things were looking up as he climbed the stairs to his second floor walk in.

“Well hello there, stranger. Long day, huh?”

He snapped his head around in surprise. A shockingly handsome red haired man rolled out in a wheelchair. He was smiling, but Hans could tell he was putting on a front. Somehow he didn’t mind. It was better to pretend to be cheerful than to wallow in pain.

“Hello yourself,” he answered back.

“Are you going to make me stand up before I get a kiss today,” he asked teasingly.

The third wish. He wanted a rich boyfriend to take care of him. It looked like he’d be caring for his rich boyfriend instead. He could live with that, he thought as he crouched down to give him a welcoming kiss. There was something enchanting about him, working so hard to appear cheerful despite pain.

“I heard a tasty rumor today. They’ll be looking for a director for that horror pic in a few months. If you can get a good recommendation from Angelina, I bet you’d be a shoe-in.”

Hans smiled, “I’ll work on her. I bet I would, long as I have a good luck charm like you in my corner. But that is for tomorrow.”

There was another advantage to being a man. He could lift his boyfriend out of his chair to carry him.

Games Genies Play Part 5 of 6

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Games

Even the mighty like to play.

When genies play games, the objects of their attention must learn the rules. And fast.

Leprechauns hide their gold at the end of the rainbow. The Vikings thought it was a bridge to Asgard. To Christians and Jews it is a covenant written in the sky. Modern men think it is light refracted through water droplets suspended in the sky.

None of them are right.

It is not the ends of the rainbow that matter but the thing itself. It is not a sign or a promise or a reflection. The rainbow is the intrusion of an otherworldly realm into our own. Light scatters in terror at the interloping world, the first sign of the destruction that will fall upon all of reality should it get any further.

It is strange indeed that destruction looks so beautiful.

When genies meet in the City of Brass, rainbows multiply on Earth. People stare and point and even take pictures. Fewer than one in a million quakes in terror, knowing what is coming.

“Game on. Ready– go.”

“Hold on there. Let’s make it a little more fun.”

“What do you have in mind, sweet cheeks?”

“No taking our bottles. We find new ones.”

“Don’t be an idiot, I’m not traveling without my bottle.”

“Scared to operate without your crutch? Can’t do it on your own?”

“Fine. New bottles.”

“And you. No cheating.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Now. Go.”

And there were no genies in the City of Brass.

---

Darren looked away from the window before slinking to his room. He already knew what he’d see outside. He could hear them outside chanting and shouting at him.

His mother watched him sadly as he marched up the stairs like he was going to the gallows. She didn’t say a word, and that cut deeper than the chanting crowd outside. Darren knew she believed him, she’d said so. Sometimes he thought he saw something different. She had doubts.

The letter was on his desk.

“The National High School Triathlon Competition has considered your appeal. Your invitation to compete this year remains rescinded. As your school suspension is of indefinite length you do not qualify for this event. Our organization does not tolerate sexual assault.”

It was just one in a pile of letters, but it hurt more than the rest. He’d attended the State competition for the last three years, but this was the first time he’d made it to Nationals. He had a solid shot at winning. Now gone.

While getting kicked out of Nationals hurt, he knew he had bigger problems to face. The meeting yesterday with his lawyer laid it all out.

“It’s a good deal they’re offering. No jail time, just community service and supervised probation. It also avoids the publicity that’s sure to follow with a trial.”

“But Darren would go on the sex offender’s registry,” his father pointed out. “That would kill his college chances and job opportunities. No. We won’t do it.”

The lawyer paused, and Darren knew bad news was coming. “I’ll be blunt, Mr. Hamn. The registry won’t make a difference. This case has gotten too much press. Darren will not be admitted to any major school. He’s going to have to settle for a community college. I’m afraid his employment options are similarly limited.”

That hit his father like a blow, and Darren flinched. “No,” his Dad insisted. “Darren didn’t molest that girl and we’re not going to say he did. If the judge finds him innocent, it’s got to–” He trailed off helplessly.

His mother looked like she was about to say something but she just leaned over and put her hand on his Dad’s arm. She wanted to take the deal, but she wouldn’t fight with Dad. She believed Darren, he hoped, but she was tired of the pressure and didn’t think they could win.

“We’ll talk about it again later,” the lawyer hedged, “the offer’s good for two weeks. Let’s go over your story,” he turned to Darren. “It’s important that you don’t change anything.”

“It’s not a story,” he insisted, “It’s the truth.”

“Of course,” the lawyer said without the slightest pretense he believed it.

“I’d asked Sally out a few times and…”

“How many and when,” interrupted the lawyer.

“Three times. The first was to a Halloween party, then the winter dance, and then last month to go to a movie. She always said no, but that last time she cut me down pretty hard. So, yeah, I got pissed off and called her a bitch, and then I wanted to get back at her so I started telling people that she’d given Satoru a hand job in return for letting her cheat off him in a math test.”

“I will advise you again that I don’t recommend admitting to bullying or harassment. Juries will hold that against you,” the lawyer said.

“Well, I did,” Darren admitted. He might have been ashamed of himself if not for what followed. His tribulations had washed his sins from him so he was as pure as the driven snow. “It’s the only reason I can think of for what she did.

“It was two weeks after that, and her friend Cathy asked me out behind the bleachers after school. I mean, I thought she wanted to fool around so I went with her. We just talked, that was all. Yeah, I copped a feel when we were done, but I thought that’s what she wanted and she didn’t complain.

“The first I heard about Sally was when the police came to question me. I never touched Sally. I hadn’t even seen her since English class that afternoon.”

“But no one saw you go behind the bleachers. Do you have any witnesses?”

“Cathy saw me,” he muttered sullenly. He knew what the answer was already.

“She denies it. It’s your word against hers.”

“Yeah,” he answered.

“Very well. I will warn you again,” he said to Darren and his parents, “against talking to the press. I know there are a lot of nasty stories out there, but we’re better off if the prosecution does not know our defense until discovery. We have a much better chance of poking holes in their story if they can’t prepare. Bad though the publicity may be, jail is worse.”

Darren hadn’t been in school since that day, since Sally’s parents got a restraining order keeping him 1000 feet away from her. Nationals was pretty much the only thing he had to look forward to, since they were a few hundred miles away from her. Now he didn’t even have that.

His wall of trophies sat there mocking him, knowing he’d never add any important ones to it. In a fit of rage he grabbed one and almost threw it at the wall. Stopping just in time, he put it back and rubbed off his fingerprints. It wouldn’t do to have someone outside get this on their cell phone and make him look prone to fits of rage.

“Thanks buddy. I wasn’t looking forward to hitting the wall there. Mighta gotten mad if you busted up my home.”

There was a small green man with a large head and antennae sitting on his dresser. Very small. Less than a foot high.

“Gazoo?”

“Son of a– You’d think Bill Hanna would have been more grateful for those wishes. Instead he’s made me a bloody laughingstock. No. I am not Gazoo,” the little guy practically yelled. While going through his tirade he floated off the dresser and hovered in midair. Just like in the Flintstones.

“Got it,” Darren said quickly. “So what do I call you?”

“Kazam,” he answered. Then added, “Yeah, I know. Alla Kazam. That’s me. Another guy I helped a long time ago. Let it go.”

“OK, sure. Kazam, are you here to…”

“You betcha. Your problems are solved. I’m here to grant you” he paused dramatically and lifted his tiny arms over his head, “three wishes.”

“Oh God. Thank you.” His prayers were answered. He wanted to believe it so badly he didn’t question it. A genie. Sure, no problem. “You can save me from this nightmare. I wish–”

“Hold on, kid,” the tiny floating green man cautioned, “it’s not that simple. There are some conditions on the wishes.”

“What are they? It doesn’t matter,” he rushed to say.

“It matters, boyo, it matters. See, if you get any of your wishes wrong, if you don’t meet the conditions, you don’t get any of them. So pay attention. And I don’t mean pay attention like you do at school where you nod along while I’m talking, I mean pay attention like you have to listen if you want to get any wishes.”

Darren nodded and listened.

“You must make all three wishes before I grant any of them. Each wish must contain a comparison; greater, less than, same as, I don’t care. I can grant the wish by changing either side of the comparison.”

Kevin looked confused, so Kazam clarified, “OK, let’s say you wish you had as much money as Bill Gates. I can do that by having you come into billions, or Mr. Microsoft can meet a sudden disaster and his bank account will be equal to yours. Got it now?”

He nodded. The crowd outside was still chanting about justice and vengeance, but if he could make the right wishes they’d soon stop.

---

Darren thought.

He wanted to wish that Sally would tell the truth, or that she’d never accused him in the first place, but he couldn’t see how to do that with Kazam’s rules.

“What’re all these trophies for anyway,” the diminutive genie asked.

“Triathlon, mostly. A few other track and field, but it’s mostly triathlon.”

“You must be good at it then. Gonna wish to be as good as the best?”

“No chance,” he replied, surprising himself with his vehemence. His dreams of glory had turned to ashes with the rejection letter on his desk. They wouldn’t even give him a chance. It was a bitter pill to swallow and he wasn’t ready to forgive and forget.

No, it was more than that. He’d seen his parents’ fear. He was a good athlete - no, he was a great one. But that was all. If he lost that, and he’d seen how easy it was to lose, he lost everything. He shouldn’t be worrying so much about the future, but he couldn’t help it when he saw the panic in his father’s eyes.

Now he had a chance, if he used it right, to get out of the whole mess. He was through with triathlon, through with athletics. It all fell apart too easily. He’d give his parents a better reason to be proud of him.

“Too bad,” said the genie, “I like sports wishes. It gives me an excuse to watch the events. Still, just as likely I’d have ruined the other guy for fun,” an evil grin spread across his tiny face, “and you might like watching him. So probably a good choice.”

“There’s that too,” Darren mumbled. The wishes could go either way. He might better his situation or make someone else’s worse.

It made his first wish an easy one.

“I wish Sally was in more trouble than I am now.”

That should do. She could get in a lot of trouble, or he’d get out of it. Either way was fine with him.

“I can work with that,” said Kazam mysteriously. He floated over Darren’s head for a few minutes while the boy thought about his next two wishes.

Already he could feel the temptation to get back into sports, mixed with his revulsion of the same idea. No. School. He would concentrate on school, make his parents proud, and get himself the skills he’d need. He could just wish for smarts or grades, but he still liked to compete. An edge, that was all he needed.

“I wish I studied for school even more than Satoru.”

“And one more,” the genie cried while lying down on his back in midair.

One more wish.

His friends, or people he thought were his friends, deserted him after he was arrested. Even his oldest friend, Sam, stopped talking to him as his trial became a full blown scandal. He could get back at them.

But then he thought about his parents. They disagreed how to handle this, but his mother always supported Dad, and they were both stronger for it. He wouldn’t get in trouble with girls again if he had someone like that.

“I wish I had someone who loved and trusted me as much as Mom does Dad.”

“Got it,” Kazam said and vanished with a pop.

---

Darren walked to the window. The chanting was still going. He could see the crowd through the blinds. He waited for another pop.

The rejection letter from Nationals was still on his desk. No luck there either. He’d wanted all his problems to just go away.

He shook his head, wondering for a moment if he was going crazy. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. No, it was too weird. He couldn’t have made it up, it had to be real.

Even suspended, he still had schoolwork. It was hard to concentrate so he was way behind. It also wasn’t going to get better on its own so he pulled out a history book and started reading. He read for over an hour before he wondered if that was an effect of his wish. He hoped so; he didn’t have anything against Satoru and didn’t really want to see his work suffer.

He suddenly realized what he’d done. His wish might have made Satoru slack off in school. He didn’t really care about the bookworm, but his last wish might break up his parents.

“G– Good night, Mom,” he called. “Where’s Dad?”

“On the phone, hon. Don’t interrupt him. Good night.”

He couldn’t tell if he’d done anything to them. He was too tired to find out. He stumbled to his bed and fell fast asleep.

And woke to police sirens.

He leapt from bed and fell flat on the floor. He was all wrong, shorter, no muscles. He was wearing a nightshirt rather than his PJ’s. Hair past his shoulders, and weight on his chest.

And there was too much noise and commotion outside to concentrate but he had to.

Something was seriously wrong.

He wasn’t himself.

Stumbling to the door he hit the light switch like it was going to hit back. There was a pretty girl staring back at him from the mirror. She moved with him, it was him. It wasn’t his room either.

His door slammed open, a policeman moved smoothly into the room, gun drawn.

“Against the wall,” he ordered Darren as his partner followed him into the room. Darren followed orders, and a moment later the officer asked him, “Are you all right? Have you seen or heard anyone come through here?”

“No,” he answered and grabbed at his throat. The high pitched voice coming from his mouth wasn’t his. The police either didn’t notice his reaction or put it off to fear. “I was asleep. I didn’t hear anything until your sirens.”

The second officer said, “Please come with me. I’ll take you to your Aunt and Uncle. Just stay calm, miss.”

He didn’t know what was going on.

It had to have something to do with the wish, but he couldn’t see what. He felt strange. His body was so much weaker than he was used to, and his balance was way off. He stumbled on the stairs and nearly fell. This girl’s body was awkward and clumsy.

“What happened,” he asked as soon as he saw his parents.

“Pam, thank heavens you’re all right,” his mother screamed as she enveloped him in a deep hug. She didn’t let go, just started crying right into his shoulder. He hugged her back, trying to figure out what was going on.

“It’s… It’s Darren,” his father finally said when his mother backed away and they all sat down. “He’s missing. The police caught that girl Sally running away from the house. Oh God. She had a knife and we don’t know…” He’d never seen his father cry before. No matter how bad the crowds or stories got he’d always been a rock. Not now.

He couldn’t tell his father the truth. No one would believe him. He also couldn’t bear to watch him suffer without doing anything.

He gave his father a hug. “It’ll be all right Uncle Andy. It has to be,” he said, remembering the policeman told him they were his Aunt and Uncle.

He knew his father well. He couldn’t let a girl suffer, and soon his father was hugging him back to try to give him strength. “We’ll wait here while the police search the house, then try to find out where she took our boy,” he croaked helplessly.

While they waited Darren looked around the room. A new picture on the wall stood out. His Uncle James and Aunt Lorraine, his mother’s sister, hadn’t been there before. They’d died when he was just a boy, their little girl with them. Their little girl, Pam. Same age as him. But now she hadn’t died. She had moved in with them. She was in the family pictures, with her parents and Darren, with him.

He had a sinking feeling that no one would ever find Darren.

And that Sally was going to be in far more trouble than he was.

It was a long and unpleasant night. The police sealed his old room and did not let any of them in, but he saw blood on the walls when they opened the door. His parents held each other through the vigil, and he found some minor relief that he didn’t destroy their marriage.

The crowd that had been harassing Darren started to reassemble as soon as the sun came up. For a change it didn’t get started. The police cars put them off and most people left without demonstrating. Some braver souls asked what happened and left hurriedly when they found out that Darren had been attacked. Only one person had the bad taste to cheer the news, and Darren rejoiced when a cop started questioning him.

A small scuffle by the side of the house drew his attention - her attention, if she could ever get used to thinking of herself as a girl. He heard his father say “Let him in, we know him.”

His old friend Sam was just hearing that he was dead. “No, I can’t believe it,” he insisted. His father tried to tell him more, but was having trouble getting the words out.

Darren pulled Sam aside. “Pam, I’m so sorry to hear. I hope they find him, he might still be…” Despite his shock, Sam was trying to cheer him up - Darren was already getting tired of everyone assuming he was frail.

“Sam, it’s all right. It’s me. It’s Darren,” he whispered. “There are genies. I made a wish, and this happened. It got me out of the whole trial, but…”

“Darren? Really? That’s– well, that’s fantastic.”

“That’s all it takes? You believe me?”

“Of course,” he answered simply. “If you say so, then I trust you.”

His third wish. Love and trust. Like his mother for his dad.

Sam? With him?

That sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach returned with a vengeance.

Games Genies Play Part 6 of 6

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Games

Even the mighty like to play.

When genies play games, the objects of their attention must learn the rules. And fast.

Outside the Universe, unbound by physical laws, sits the City of Brass. An empty room waits deep in the city, and when a room in the city is empty, it is truly empty. Not only is there nothing on the walls, there are no walls. The room does not exist when it is empty, it is nothing but empty space.

Even empty space is full compared to this.

And then it is not empty.

Shag carpeting covers the floor and goes right to walls decorated with chrome and neon. Curving sofas give plenty of room to sit and are conveniently located by the fully stocked bar. Party decorations litter the floor along with spilled food and drink.

Five genies are in the room that didn’t exist. They act as though no time has passed since they started their contest.

Then again, it didn’t.

For beings of their power, time is strictly optional.

“That was fun. Now to pick a winner.”

“No need. It was me, let’s just acclaim it and get on with the party.”

“Oh please, get real. You can’t possibly think you beat me. Mine was brilliant.”

“Get out. An imp could have done better than that.”

“We did agree to vote on it, no voting for yourself. How about we do what we said? If nothing else, it’ll be a pleasant change.”

“Then how about a show? Tell each other what we did.”

“We already know.”

“OK, let’s change it up. Look in on our marks a year later.”

“Why not? You go first.”

---

A crowd swirled around the young man in glasses. “Rewrites in for approval in 20.” “Lighting needs input, are we still cloudy?” “They’re sobering her up, she’ll be ready for the noon shoot.” “Props has a fix, they want to run it by you.”

Each person got a nod, a few words, or a short acknowledgment that he’d get back to them. “Looks like we’re 30 minutes behind on the set, spread the word,” he announced. “I’ll be with lighting for when the next emergency pops up,” he told the aide standing at his side.

“Got it, sir,” was the instant response.

Hans Smithfelt was in constant motion for several hours, only sitting during the brief rehearsals and filmings. After each one, he jumped right back into motion, with orders or questions for cast and crew.

“Break for lunch,” he finally ordered. “Be back on set in one hour, people.”

While most of the crew ate the fine lunch, he went back to his trailer. “How are you doing, handsome?”

“Fantastic,” his lover replied weakly from his chair. “I can’t believe all this. Robert Downey Jr. stopped by this morning just to say hello.”

“He’s a great guy. I’ll have to thank him for that.” With a quick kiss, Hans added, “Only got an hour, so how about some lunch?”

“It’s ready. Your first movie hasn’t even hit the theaters yet, how’d you ever get this one?”

With a smile and a laugh, “Luck, the support of a loving guy, and just a little bit of magic.”

---

“Hah,” laughed the little girl, “I knew I liked him. Smart. He figured out that I switched being in two movies a year to being over two a year, as the director. So he takes advantage of it. The wish guarantees him two movies a year, so he only tries to get two. He knows they’ll have to hire him, so he only goes after the best.”

“What, you’re proud of the fact that you were outsmarted?”

“Not so much outsmarted,” she said as she changed back to her adult form, “as that he’s making the most of what he got. I thought he had it in him back when he was Tracey and asked for my help making his wishes. Take advantage of anything you’ve got at hand. Moxie. It’s a good thing, and I like seeing it.”

With a grin, “Besides, I like Robert Downey Jr, and it’s looking like a great movie.”

“Hey, let me just compliment her on good conditions. The seemed clear and simple but left a lot of room for changes. She had to change the grammar a bit on that last, the whole care of to care for thing, but it was tricky and a good job.”

“I think not. There’s no sense of irony, no cosmic justice involved. Far from it, she just gave him a better life than he had.”

“I’m not having that,” the lady replied as she shifted into the form of a crone. “I gave him a chance, but he’s the one who took it. Working for that starlet wasn’t easy, but it was those recommendations that got him the director’s job - the wish could just as easily made him a lighter and working over the movies literally. And the boyfriend gives him money, but it’s also a lot of work caring for him, and he’s doing it well. No, all I gave was options. The better life comes from working at it.”

“I like it. Some tough challenges, but if he can meet them why not let him have the rewards? Pretty clever - and hey, some time we can catch those movies maybe?”

“Yeah, of course you’d like it. You like happy endings way too much. Let me show you how it’s done.”

---

The screen changed. A graveyard at night.

Here lies Pamela Allen.

Taken from us too soon.

You are always loved.

Rest in Peace.

---

“See that? It doesn’t take long. Clean, simple, no muss, no fuss.” The small green man floated around happily.

“Sorry old man, but you need to give us more than that. How did she die? What did it have to do with your wishes? You know the rules. Explain.”

“He,” Kazam emphasized the gender, “never had a chance. He was isolated. All his peers blamed him for Sally’s troubles due to proximity. With his new body he needed friends if he was going to adapt.

“He should have stuck with sports, he’d have had friends. His wish compelled him to spend his time alone, studying. The only friend he had was Sam, and Sam put too much pressure on him to be a girl. Isolate and ruin, easy as pie.”

“So killing the boy was your goal? Suicide was not his only option, he could have made it. I’ve seen it before. They’re stronger than you credit.”

“Of course that was my goal,” he exploded. “They’re nothing but upjumped monkeys. If they dare to fool with the very basic stuff of creation they deserve nothing but destruction.”

The others stared him down. There had been a time genies went to war over their differing goals. Whole galaxies had been destroyed. A single crack ran through the wall around the City of Brass. That scared them into a truce. Kazam caught himself and stopped.

“Of course he might have adapted. He loved his parents and wanted to live for their sake. It was his friend who made sure he wouldn’t. Every time he thought about changing, about being a girl, he was faced with the thought of loving Sam. Isolated, alone, his old life destroyed by his wish, guilty because his parents mourned his death, guilty because the girl suffered for a crime he knew she didn’t commit… He couldn’t take it and saw only one way out.”

“All right. Distasteful or not it’s a fair result of the wish. Your conditions were honest. You even gave him what he asked for in each case. The result wasn’t what he expected but he did it to himself.”

“Darn straight.”

“Hmph, yes. I think you can do better– no, he had his say and I’m having mine. You took the easy way out and just aimed for destruction. If you want to show we’re superior try to make them better. Now I’ll stop. I’m not starting up the wars again.”

Silence fell.

“Ahem. Right. Just so. Why don’t I pick up from here?”

---

Jessica strutted down the sidewalk, her heels clicking with each step. She was reading the signs in the shops, stopping to sound out the names. “Ben-ni-gans.” Later, “Star-bucks.”

Reading was tough. It wasn’t just the effort, it dredged up disturbing memories and made her feel like something was wrong. Walking in heels, for instance, was natural but somehow not. But then she’d see herself in the windows, strike a pose and admire the way they made her legs look. The leggings and skirt helped. A little kick made her look sprightly.

And all those nasty memories went away.

“The Chop-per Shop,” she read. “This is it,” she cried excitedly to anyone watching her.

“Hello there, gorgeous,” Tom said as she came in. “Hey folks, this is Jessie.”

She almost turned around, then remembered that was her. She wished Tom would settle on one name for her. Jessica, Jess, Jessie, it got really confusing sometimes. And she could have sworn he called her something else once, something that was really her name. But she forgot about that when he came over and gave her a kiss. It felt too good to worry about anything.

“This is what we did with the money, babe. Our own bike shop. Here’s the sales floor, the shop’s in back. We do custom jobs and sell ‘em straight. What d’you think?”

Tom wanted her opinion. She was so proud. He’d been talking about this a lot. She remembered he owned it. So she looked around before answering.

“Oooh, it’s pretty. The motorcycles are all shiny.” She jumped up and down to show him how excited she was.

“Your wife can come by any time, boss. Keeping her on the floor’ll increase traffic all by her lonesome.”

Tom smiled at the man, so Jessica decided he was making a joke. But Tom didn’t laugh, so she didn’t either. It mustn’t have been funny. “Come on, babe, let me show you around.”

---

“Had we merely looked half an hour later when they went back into Tom’s office we would have seen how much Jessica enjoys the result of her wishes. Perhaps we should take a look, just to be complete…”

“I think we’ve seen enough, Monty.”

“Very well, be a killjoy. It was all the result of her wishes. My conditions were simple to understand, clearly stated, and she still set herself up. As you can see, she is quite happy with the result.”

“Hardly fair. She’s not even bright enough to know what’s wrong.”

“Yeah, your taste in bimbos comes through again.”

“I reiterate, it was her wish. I merely followed through, per the terms of our arrangement. And she’s brighter than you might think. Very… imaginative. Again, let’s jump ahead that half hour.”

“That’s not necessary. I mean, I hate to admit it, but the beauty and stupidity were straight from the wish, so that’s fair. But the increased sex drive, let’s face it, is all you Montague.”

“Weren’t you just lecturing us to be kind to these humans? That helped her adapt to her new form and ensures her constant happiness. And if her loveliness and– enthusiasm should also happen to bring joy to the men nearby, who am I to complain?”

“Hah. I’m not complaining. Only thing is, as dumb as she is, how did she get a degree?”

“It’s not doing her any good, for certain. Still, I am not the one who made the wishes. In answer, her matriculation was accomplished on her knees and on her back.”

“Whatever. So how much money did you wind up wasting on them on this wish?”

“She did quite well. Thirty five million, I believe. Tom has handled it for them. He has… other distractions than drinking and partying now. They don’t need the new business, in truth, but it is something he’s always wanted to do. I am certain his colleague was correct that Jessica will be a draw in her own right.”

“Giving Jake as much time as he wanted to think over his wishes was a nice touch.”

“Thank you. I prefer the classic touch of letting people make their own pressure. It lacks a certain je ne sais quoi to rush them through.”

“Yeah, I know you’re talking about me. Real subtle. I haven’t done this as much as the rest of you. But let’s take a look. My turn.”

---

“Sally,” a man called.

“Yes, Mr. Mariano,” the woman curtsied.

“I’m bringing back some clients tonight. Make sure the dining room is spotless and set out the good stuff.” With a critical eye he added, “Wear a shorter skirt.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered while trying to stop her cheeks from burning with shame.

“Come on Chris, busy day today.”

“Looking forward to it, Mr. Mariano.”

“One of these days I’ll expect you to start calling me Dad,” he responded.

Sally almost spoke, but a sharp glance from the smiling girl at the table shut her up instantly. With a grimace like she’d been hit, Sally ran to the kitchen and came back before the men left. “Coffee for the trip, sirs,” she offered.

With nothing more than a nod, Chris grabbed them and hurried to the car. She thought he looked good in his suit, but she couldn’t tell him unless she got permission.

When the men left she started clearing the table while Tiff– she couldn’t even think it, while Miss Moriano finished her breakfast. With a grin, the girl said “Go ahead.”

Sally stumbled like the hand holding her strings suddenly stopped. “It’s like he doesn’t even know who I am,” she whined. “I did this just to stay close to him and he barely even sees me.”

“He knows exactly who you are,” Miss Moriano replied. “You are Sally, the maid. Nothing more. Now, clear my plate. I’ll be going out for the day but expect my clothes cleaned and pressed for dinner tonight.”

Rigid again, she curtsied quickly, “Yes ma’am.” She took the dishes and started another long day while the younger girl went about her amusements.

---

“She’s got a miserable life in front of her and all due to her wishes. Just as stated.” The large blue genie waved his hand about dramatically.

“Well old bean, I have to give you this one. You certainly had the most complicated conditions. I’m still not sure I’ve got them figured out.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, “I know I’m the newest one at this. I mean, I was just so excited you all invited me here I guess I went a little bit overboard. Probably not in your league yet, but I’m working on it. Anyway, thanks for letting me play.”

“My word! What’s this? Modesty in a genie. This is a day for surprises. You may have won my vote there. And don’t worry so much, you’re doing fine. It takes practice is all.”

“Now wait a minute, here. You can’t go voting based on speeches. We’re competing over who did the best with the wishes.”

“The only rules we actually agreed on were that most votes win and you couldn’t vote for yourself. The contest is, well, a guideline.”

“His entry was too uneven. I mean, misery’s fine, but he didn’t spread it around much. He made the girl’s family rich enough to have a maid, and probably improved the boy’s life as well.”

“Sure,” the blue man jumped back, “it hardly seemed fair to ruin them when they weren’t the ones wishing.”

“What’s fair got to do with it? We’re genies.”

“Right. But if they stop wishing, then what are we?”

“You know, guys, I think this one might be dangerous some day. He’s a thinker. But sorry, Blue, I don’t think you’ll get my vote. The conditions were a bit too tough, pushing he into making the wishes was unnecessary, and yeah, the outcome is a little messy. A bit more, I don’t know, poetry, would have helped out.”

“Oh, that’s OK. Practice makes perfect, and it’s good to get the feedback, even if I don’t win,” he shrugged with a disarming grin.

“That modesty routine is very becoming, though. Keep that up as long as you can.”

“It’s disgusting, but the kid’s still in the lead. I can’t vote for myself and he’s the only other one of us to go for misery. Even bimbo-maker over there leaves everyone happy.”

“Really?” he smiled.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself just yet. We still have mine to look over.”

---

“Oh my, he’s got quite the grip there. Don’t you, you cute little guy?”

“He’s just grabbing at anything you put in front of him,” Janet replied proudly. “You can see him trying to figure out the world.”

“Come here, Carl,” the woman on the couch said to the little baby as she picked him up out of the bassinet. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not. Carl loves his Auntie Donna, doesn’t he?”

The baby gurgled as she lifted him to her shoulder. “I told you my grandfather was named Carl, right? Yeah, this little guy’s going to be just as big and handsome as he was,” she said while tickling his stomach.

“I think you mentioned it,” Janet answered easily. “We liked the name, but I’m happy for the coincidence.”

While she’d wished to be in Virginia Beach to be near her granddaughter, she and Ed had agreed not to try to tell her who they really were. They’d gotten to be good friends with Donna and her husband, although it felt strange to have a granddaughter a few years older than them.

To be fair, it wasn’t the only strange thing they’d had to get used to. It barely made the top ten.

“How’re you two holding up? Is there anything we can do to help”

“Please,” Janet demurred, “you two have brought us so many dinners I’ve almost forgotten how to cook.”

The first time she tried to cook she made hamburgers. She’d grilled them as a man, how hard could they be? She wound up serving hockey pucks on bread because she’d gotten distracted by the broccoli that she wound up boiling into mush.

Ed offered to do the cooking; times had changed, it was all right for men to cook. She insisted. It was a way for her to show Ed she was going to try to be his wife. She was getting better at it. The cooking, that is. The being a wife, too.

It was a new life for them. They wanted to take advantage of the opportunity and try to do new things.

“Well, anything we can do to help, you can count on it.” Donna looked at the floor before speaking again, “I figure you’ll be able to return the favor soon.”

It took her a minute.

“What? Really? Congratulations, honey.”

She cried too loud in her excitement and Carl started fussing, so the two of them were distracted trying to quiet the demanding infant. Soon they had him back in his bassinet peacefully grabbing at a piece of colored plastic.

“Yeah, really,” Donna said quietly. “We wanted you to be the first to know. Well, first outside the family, I mean.” That hurt, but only a little. Family was important, and Donna didn’t know who they really were - or rather, who they used to be.

“We’d kept putting it off, wanting to be more established, have everything more in control. But then you two… Well, you were an inspiration to us.”

Only barely hiding her tears, she hugged her granddaughter gratefully.

---

“I thought they’d do well, as long as they stayed together,” said Daphne quietly. “Looks like I was right. I’m happy for them too.”

“Yes of course, because everything must be saccharine sweet–”

“Get off your high horse,” she shot back. “They didn’t have to. It’s not like a sex change wouldn’t throw off a lot of couples. They decided to stay together and to keep loving each other and they worked at it. They deserve the rewards.”

“I’m with her.”

“Thanks, but let me keep going here. He had his say, now it’s my turn. People are amazing, and they can be even more with a nudge here and there. We can do that. Give them a chance to fail, sure, but they also need a chance to succeed. You’ve got to leave that door open, and if they take it they get the rewards.

“Carl and Marjorie raised three kids to be great parents. It looks like they’re on the way to repeating that, and the world will be a better place for it. No matter what the outcome of this contest, I know the truth. I did good.”

“Well said, dear heart, but I think that calls for a change of topic back to the contest itself, don’t you? I can appreciate the artistry, and may I compliment you on that - Janet is a wonderful looking girl - but your conditions seemed flat. What was that bit about prime factors all about?”

“Ah,” she blushed, “I’d originally intended to say I could switch around the prime factors rather than the numbers themselves. But then I thought that would just make the whole thing too confusing. It encouraged him to spread out the numbers a little bit in the end.”

“It made him think a little bit longer about his numbers, so there’s that. And I liked them. Nice people. Good job.”

“I’ll echo that, and I thought it was a nice twist. Just switching numbers didn’t leave you a lot of room to play with his wishes. Making being a mother into a 21 year job was clever and well done.”

“Glad some people appreciate it. That’s everyone then. Shall we?”

An instant later.

“There it is. Two for the Lady, two for Blue, and one for Monty. Tie.”

“I went for you, Lady,” piped up Daphne. “What can I tell you? I like a happy ending.”

“Well I went with Blue, just like I said I would, and for the opposite reason as you,” snarled Kazam.

“I went Blue too, as I said. He’s an odd one, and I’m curious what he’ll do with his victory,” the Lady smiled.

“Um, I went with Monty,” said Blue. “Petty, maybe, but I thought Jessica was, well, hot.” He blushed as Monty grinned in appreciation.

“It should be quite obvious at this point,” Monty put in, “but my vote went to the Lady too. All talk of outcomes aside, I liked her conditions the best.”

“We didn’t actually set up rules for a tie. What do you say, Blue, shall we share the victory?”

“Really? We can do that?”

“We’re genies. We can do pretty much anything.”

“Sounds good.”

With a nod the others relinquished their control. For the remainder of the party Blue and the Lady could control them, their forms, memories, and personalities, as easily as they could a mortal.

For the near omnipotent genies, a night being at someone else’s whim is nothing more than a change of pace. Winners and losers alike consider the outcome a win – a wild night of fun.

And all it cost was chaos on Earth.

God Given Face Complete (epub)

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

17,500 < Novella < 40,000 words

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

God visits Shawnee, Kansas, changing lives in His wake.

This is the complete version, in epub format.

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God Given Face.epub	316.89 KB

God Given Face Part 1

Author:

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

When God visits Shawnee, lives will be changed forever. One plumber tries hard to avoid a fate he doesn't know is coming.

God has given you one face, and you make yourself another

Hamlet. Act I, Scene 3

God came to Shawnee on Thursday.

It was the first thing the waitress said to Stan when he went to the Hickory Diner, "Mornin' Stan, hear the news? We got God came in this morning."

"That so?" Stan grunted back. "Who is it? One of the big ones? And can I get some coffee?"

"They say He's called Jack. Never heard of Him before. Coffee coming up," she said while hurrying off to her next customer.

Jack, thought Stan. Unusual name for a God. They usually went with classic mythological names or some multisyllabic nonsense that sounded impressive. He would not think about Ares. Or Divinitrice.

The TV news showed Him arriving at the temple in the early morning hours. Apparently Jack didn't like to be photographed, since a large black spot was all that appeared where He should have been. He arrived at the temple at 3:30 that morning.

That was the same time Stan got a call from Rosa Ramos about the burst pipes in her basement. It was probably just a coincidence, he thought. Twenty years ago he'd travelled in Ares' war host, and he knew that coincidences could be dangerous things when They were involved. He forced himself to stop thinking about Ares. It would lead to thoughts of lost friends. Stan added sugar to his coffee, thinking it through.

Rosa Ramos was a young widow managing her late husband's properties. She didn't try to fix things on her own; she called in experts when there were problems as soon as she knew about them. That looked bad to Stan, more of a coincidence than he liked when God was concerned. On the other hand, the basement was flooded when he got there. The pipes had clearly burst two or three hours earlier. It might have taken time for the tenants to notice, or maybe to waken Rosa since it was after midnight. Either way, whatever accident resulted in him getting up before dawn had taken place several hours before Jack's arrival.

Stan still distrusted the coincidence, but he'd satisfied himself that there was no likely relation between the events. Since there was nothing he could do about it anyway, he put it out of his mind.

A few seats down, a man he didn't know was talking to the waitress, Lita, about the last time a God visited Shawnee. Five years back, Ptah had come through and stopped for a few days at the temple to relax. That man had been there when Ptah roughly doubled the temple's size and put in the new marble front. He was hoping to see something equally amazing this time around.

Stan was hoping he'd see nothing. He expected to be disappointed.

Soon Lita came around to him to take his order. "You don't usually make the breakfast crowd, hon. What's up?"

"Early morning call, burst pipes in a basement," Stan answered. "Some new parent figured they could flush cloth diapers."

"And you make the call before breakfast?" she answered incredulously. "I'll give you a call next time I have plumbing problems."

He smiled back, "Sure thing, long as you're willing to pay my premium rates. Heard anything about the new God? Like, is He staying long, or here for a reason?"

Lita rested her elbows on the counter and leaned in closer, "Well, I heard from one of the cops who was there when God came. He's a boy, looks like a teenager they say. All black hair and black jacket and the like. But He walks a few inches off the ground, at least that's what I hear.

"He announces himself at the temple, and waits for the priests to welcome Him, that's when they got the footage you see up there," she said pointing at the television. "The priests come out and escort Him in, probably none too happy to wake up that early, not that they say anything with Him there. That's all anyone's heard. I'm sure we'll hear more soon."

He watched the news while eating his apple pancakes, but it turned out they didn't have anything to add. Stan reflected that he learned more by talking to a waitress than listening to people whose job was to find things out.

His day was already booked, so he finished breakfast, paid, and left. He figured he'd hear more in the evening.

â˜

Stan drove his old truck up his driveway that evening, after a long hard day. The light brown paint on his one-story, three bedroom house was faded in places, but he wouldn't have to repaint this year. Maybe next year. The light was on in the large front window.

Inside was his wife's domain, but the yard was his. He looked around before going inside. It was in good shape, well maintained and reasonably weed free. He had a white picket fence surrounding the house, freshly whitewashed so it looked clean and welcoming. His house was not the largest or even nicest in the neighborhood, but it was his and he was proud of it.

"Hi there Sweetie," he called out as he opened the door.

"Finally. You're back," answered his wife Ellen. Trouble.

At 44, Ellen remained a beautiful woman, especially in Stan's eyes. She was a tall woman, just a bit shorter than him. Her black hair reached to her shoulders, curled in front, a style Stan always found sexy. There were no grey hairs on her head, and by common agreement Stan never saw any of the hair color products in the bathroom. Her Chinese grandmother gave her upturned eyes that made her stand out in the Kansas heartland. If those eyes were always a touch too close to tears, that was also something Stan had learned to ignore.

"Do you know what your boy did today?" she accused as she stormed out of the kitchen.

He was right. Again. Trouble. Their son Luke was 'his boy' when he got in trouble, which was more and more recently.

Before she built up too much steam, he gave Ellen a hug and kiss. There may be trouble, but that's no reason to forego the necessities. "What did he do now?"

"He got into a fight in school and has detention for two weeks. He could have broken a bone, or the other kid could have had a knife. They could have kicked him out of school so he wouldn't graduate, and then where would he be? I grounded him, but he just ignored me and ran off with his friends. I tried to call you. Why was your phone off?" Her voice rose steadily through her tirade. Stan would soon be the target of her rage if he let her continue.

"Sorry, it wasn't off, I was in basements most of the day. Bad reception." He put his hands on her shoulders and looked right into her eyes, "You know I'd never ignore you. Hearing your voice always makes my day a little better."

Ellen was calming down, so he added, "Just let me say hello to Maria and I'll go find him." He paused briefly, grinned at her, and said, "She's not in trouble too, is she?"

Ellen smiled back briefly before putting on her angry face again. She waved him on and went back to the kitchen.

The family room had pale beige paint with a walnut chair rail and a Japanese ink print border near the ceiling. An old but serviceable black sofa and loveseat dominated the room, both pointing towards a 42" television mounted on the wall. The spinning ceiling fan cast moving shadows on a portrait of the family from three years ago on the side wall.

A small eight year old girl was sprawled on the textured carpet in front of the sofa, talking on her phone while an old Happy Days episode played on the television.

"Hey there Princess," Stan called. She put the phone down to give her father a hug.

"Hi Daddy," she chirped. "I got an A in spelling today."

"Good for you," he praised. "Don't let me keep you from your important conversations," Stan teased, pointing to the phone. "I'm going to go pick up your brother. Be good, OK?"

Five minutes, he thought to himself. A full day's work, and all he gets to spend at home is five minutes before he has to head off again.

"I'll be back with Luke," he called. He hoped he sounded more cheerful than he felt.

â˜

Stan suspected he'd be able to find his son at the Shawnee Skatepark. The concrete jungle was a popular hangout for teenagers because it was easy to find secluded spots. It had not been maintained, so you didn't even have to worry about sharing the park with bikers or skateboarders.

Stan had used the park to get away from his parents when he was a teenager. It was a slightly morose thought for him, as so many of the friends he'd go there with had not come back from the wars.

A yellow sign announced the park was condemned, but there was a large hole in the chain link fence right next to it. Numerous other holes had been cut for those teens too lazy to simply climb over the fence. Stan slipped in easily.

The park's concrete bowls and half pipes were cracked and crumbling. Benches were broken, and only the frames of the old picnic tables remained. It had decayed since Stan's youth, but it had been in bad shape even then. The graffiti that covered so many surfaces was new.

"Rape Dawn" was accompanied by a suitably vulgar drawing. "Scorpions Rising" was a traditional secular rallying cry, but one rarely voiced in public. "Screw God" or some variation was popular. A large "Z" was accompanied by the slogan, "Let 'em eat." Stan felt chilled. How far had things fallen? Were these the rantings of teenage showoffs, or was there a movement against the power of God? He was tired. He'd think about it some other time.
He looked in a few bowls without luck, but the sight of cigarette smoke from an old half-pipe gave his son away.

Stan was still in his work clothes, jeans, tee-shirt and work boots. He had his tool belt and weapons. His tee shirt left his burn scarred left arm visible, a constant reminder of his veteran status. His hair was thinner and greyer, and he had a slightly bigger paunch, but he knew he'd cut an imposing figure to a group of teenage boys.

"Young man," he yelled, "your mother grounded you."

Luke was sitting down smoking. He had just turned 18, had a growth spurt in the last year, and was now taller than his father. He had long sideburns and wore a black tee shirt showing off an anti-theist scorpion tattoo on his arm. He'd gotten the tattoo without permission last year, an early sign of his growing rebellion

Two of his friends were there with him, passing around the cigarette. Pete Campbell was an inch taller and more athletic than Luke. He had dark skin and close cropped hair. He had been friends with Luke since they were kids. They'd gone from playing together to getting in trouble together.

The other boy, Danny Clement, was a more recent addition to their circle. Dressed in his grandfather's army jacket, he was one of nature's natural hoodlums.

The three boys jumped up and started to run. Pete yelled "S' Mr. Overton. Scram."

Stan grabbed Luke before he could get up, letting the other two run. "Come with me. Now."

He had Luke's arm in a vise. Luke might be taller than him, but Stan was a grown man, a plumber and craftsman, and his teenage son had the same chance to get away as a mouse from Athena's owl.

They marched back to the truck. Luke complained along the way, "Let me go, I have my rights. I'm 18 and you can't do this to me. I'll call the cops. This is child abuse."

Stan didn't respond. He set his face in his best Dad-grimace and kept moving.

Once Stan had him in the truck, he opened up. "What do you think you're doing? Fighting in school! We raised you better than that. Dawn's Grace, you're going to kill your mother."

"You and Mom are such fascists," the teenage boy spat back.

Ah, Stan thought. We're on the fascist speech. Next he'll be complaining that I didn't ask for his side of the story.

"You just automatically assume the school is right, and don't even ask for my side. You take everyone's side against me. I thought family's supposed to stick together. Isn't that what you keep telling me, Dad?"

"Stop the excuses. I'm not in the mood. We're going home. You will apologize to your Mother for worrying her. Then you will do your homework." Luke started to say something, Stan stopped him before he even got going. "Don't even try it. You have homework to do."

The house looked less welcoming than it did the first time Stan came home tonight. The Sun was just setting, matching his dismal mood.

"Sorry for worrying you, Mom," Luke muttered sullenly. He noisily got his schoolbooks out and slammed them on the floor while sprawling out to study, or at least to pretend to.

It was all Stan could hope for while he ate a late supper.

â˜

Sunlight streamed through the windows when Stan took his first bite of applesauce. Seconds earlier the sun had been setting. They all turned in surprise. It was daylight.

Stan stood up to look outside. The moon shone and the stars sparkled in the night sky over a town that was lit by an absent noon sun. With barely suppressed panic, Ellen said, "God's in town."

Stan hoped it wasn't permanent.

â˜

"Daddy," asked Maria, "What was it like before the Gods came?"

Stan laughed a bit, "Daddy's not that old Princess. Anansi arrived five years before I was born."

Maria squeezed between Stan and the table to get on his lap. "Come on Daddy. Grandpa told you stories. I know he did. Tell me."

"I know when I'm beat," said Stan with exaggerated remorse. "But let's bring it to the sofa. It's a little more comfortable there when I've got little girl on my lap." He stood up abruptly, picking Maria up with him to squeals of delight.

"In the dark days before the Gods arrived to save us, the world was ravaged by Silverstorms," Stan started. He dropped his voice a bit, and used the singsong patterns he heard in the temples. "Those destructive bursts followed the Disaster of St. Petersburg and reigned unchecked for a generation. In their wake was death, for they destroyed whatever they touched."

"Like the dead lands in Florida," Maria piped in.

"That's right. The dead lands were one place a storm hit. Nothing lives there or grows there any more. A hundred mile long strip of dirt and mud. Anything that goes too far into it still dies."

"You didn't," she said.

"Well obviously, otherwise I couldn't do this." Stan started tickling the little girl in his lap, who laughed uproariously. "I just went out a few steps and started feeling sick. I shouldn't even have done that." He didn't like talking about his time in the war host, but he'd traveled more than most people because of it.

"So, where was I? The silverstorms destroyed whatever they touched. Except when they didn't. No one knows why," Stan slipped back into his storytelling voice, "but sometimes the storms changed things rather than destroying them. Wisps, mickets, and even brocken were all new things left behind in the wake of storms.

"Our ancestors were smart. Oh, a few tried to use the chaos in the storms' wake to their advantage, but most recognized the threat. The best among them worked out ways to predict the storms, and even to stop them and beat them back. It was the greatest achievement of mankind."

"That's the ticket all right," quipped Luke, "greatest achievement ever was to fail to do anything and hope God would save us."

"Don't interrupt your father like that," Ellen snapped at Luke. "Be nice. Daddy's telling your sister this story."

"It's OK," said Stan in peacemaker mode. "Luke is right, after all, that they failed. They didn't win. But they stopped a storm, something people thought was impossible. They were winning, if not for what happened next."

"The... zombies stopped it, right?" chirped Maria quietly. She looked around cautiously, like even saying the word might make one show up. Ellen put one hand over her mouth while crossing her heart with the other. Luke looked at the sunlight outside nervously, then covered his reaction by smiling and giving a quick fist pump.

"That's right Princess. A silverstorm hit Venice, Italy and left behind," Stan was surprised how hard it was for him to say the word, "the first zombies. They spread their plague, and soon they fanned out from Europe to all the corners of the world. All progress trying to stop the storms ended. They attacked, they infiltrated, and they sabotaged. Cooperation ended amid their assault. Maybe they manipulated us into attacking each other, or maybe they gave us an excuse, but the peace ended."

They were still out there. They all knew it. There was an army post in Shawnee. Its whole purpose was to watch Kansas City, to make sure the zombies didn't break out. Not that there'd be much the Army could do, but maybe they had a phone line to the Gods. And maybe if they called, the Gods wouldn't hang up.

He'd fought zombies when he was a young man in Ares' first war host. He'd learned to both hate and fear mankind's eternal foe. They called their enemies zombies, because that was the order. But they called their foe Victor. No matter what their orders were, they knew what they were fighting.
Ares was much more confusing. A brilliant leader, perhaps the greatest of all the Gods, but harsh, and more than willing to upend the lives of countless young men for his crusades. In some ways he'd rescued Stan, who was drifting after the Temple vetoed his application to attend college.
Maria was looking at him to get on with the story.

"The storms continued. God Himself stepped out of Heaven to save us. Our bodies could not contain His glory, so he entered into many. Anansi was the first. More followed. They had power beyond anything we'd ever seen," Stan said while vaguely pointing out the window, where sunlight fell without the annoyance of an actual sun. "They are many, and yet they are One. They contained the plague. They stopped the storms. In return, they ask for our worship.

"So we build the temples and we pray to them. They protect us, because that's what God does."

"Coyote crap," snapped Luke.

Whatever Luke was going to add, he never got the chance. Ellen jumped in, "Enough. Don't use language like that in the house. You're still grounded, so go to your room." She grabbed Luke's ear and pulled him back to his room.

Stan could have told Maria much more, but she was too young. Aside from protecting them with His near infinite power, God demanded absolute obedience. Their words were law. They didn't always agree with each other, they even fought each other on occasion. Mankind was left to figure out what to do when given contradictory orders.

It wasn't that bad here in the States, he thought. The Gods let us continue to govern ourselves except where They gave direct orders, and They'd used their miracles to let people maintain a semblance of modern life, at least in the cities.

The countryside was not so pleasant. Outside the protection of the cities people faced the ravages left behind by the storms. The infrastructure so lovingly built up over the last century or two was broken. The miracles that helped them bridge the gaps in the cities were sparser or nonexistent.
The cities still had problems. Miracles rarely required human intervention. As a result, people were often left with nothing to do. The city and the temple provided jobs for any who needed them, but they were little more than make-work positions.

Other countries had it worse. There was still news and communication from England, but there was a blackout from the rest of Europe. Stan had heard rumors about what happened in Germany and... He would never mention them to his daughter. There was a pantheon of Gods who took over the southern part of Africa. They called themselves the Lunatics. Stan wished there was a news blackout on what They did.
In comparison, their life here in Shawnee was pretty good. It helped if you told yourself that. Maria would learn the truth one day, but she didn't need to learn it yet.

Sunlight continued to shine over Shawnee until a few hours after midnight, when darkness returned.

--SEPARATOR--

The Sun came up the next morning and supplied its light in the usual manner, without any additional miracles. Stan and Ellen got the kids off to school. He reminded Luke that he was grounded, and was to come straight home from school. Luke sulked his way to the schoolbus.

Barely into the start of his day, Stan got a call from a local gym, Fitness World. "We've got a problem here Stan," said Bob Katsoulis, the gym manager, "All the hot water in the men's showers is out. Can you get over here for repairs?" Bob called Stan whenever he had plumbing problems, he'd been a customer for years.

Stan was already booked for the day, but the gym was a good customer, "I think I can get over there. You need me immediately?"

"If possible, yes."

"That's emergency rates, then. But yeah, I can make it within the hour." He ran through the day's jobs, and figured if he skipped lunch he could still get to all his customers today.

He got to the gym, checked in with the manager, and went right back to the men's room. The first thing he did was to turn on the showers and confirm there was no hot water. He'd gotten bad reports before.

The next thing he did was to check the sinks. They didn't have hot water either. The whole men's room was missing hot water. He'd hoped for an easy fix, changing the balancer or maybe some washers in a few showers.

"Bob," he called out to the gym manager, "Can I get in to the utility room? I want to check that no one shut off the hot water valve by mistake. Thanks." He'd learned long ago to always check the obvious problems first. User error was always an obvious problem.

The utility room was in back of the gym. A bunch of men were in the gym working out. Most of them had city jobs that were only part time, and this was one of the ways they filled in the rest of their day. He'd had to live that way for a few years before Ares, and vowed never to return to that life. He knew some of the men casually, so he waved before continuing.

He checked the valves in the utility room in a few moments, and unfortunately everything was hooked up properly.

Stan thought about the problem. This was a big, obvious issue. There was no hot water reaching the men's room at all. All the valves were open, and the water heater was working properly. If there was a leak, it was a big one. Something should be flooded, but nothing was. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he offered a quick prayer to Dawn and Ares that he was wrong about what he was thinking.

He made sure his pistol was loaded and ready, safety on. Among the dubious gifts of the silverstorms were a variety of creatures with a love for water pipes. Hot water disappearing without a leak was the main symptom here. Stan thought again, and checked that his portable welding torch was fully charged. He had to take some risks as part of his job, but he could minimize them.

He sought out Bob again to keep him up to date. "I'm going to have to check the pipes leading to the men's room. Might mean going into the walls. I'll try to avoid it."

"Whoa, hoss," answered the manager. "That's sounding like more'n I signed on for. What's the big problem here?"

"Don't know for sure," Stan answered, "but if I was taking a guess, I'd go with a water wisp."

The manager's eyes widened. He'd heard of them, of course. Wisps could cut through any barrier. Nothing could stop them. They could only live in water, but they could steer it, make solid tubes of water in the air.

"Yeah, OK," he stammered. "I'll be, well, I'll be up front. Sorry Stan."

"No worries," said Stan, "this is my job. Been here before. Only once, mind you, but I have done this before. Keep safe, and keep folks away from me. K?"

â˜

A flash of light.

A wall of sound.

Stan and Bob fell off their feet. When the ringing in his ears died, Stan heard sirens blaring outside. He and Bob went to look outside, following a crowd of exercisers doing the same thing.

A Shell gas station was hanging in the air near the lake, a hundred feet or more off the ground. The convenience store hovered in the air, with the nearby gas pumps attached to nothing but keeping their positions relative to the store.

"What do you think is going on?" Stan asked.

"God. Jack," answered the manager.

Stan nodded, though that much was obvious. He listened just in case someone else knew what was happening.

"What do you think? Zombies in the lake?" "What's He got against gas?" "This is gonna kill on the drive home."

A wag commented, "He's showing them how to really raise the prices," to general laughter.

A pillar of fire shot from the sky, pierced through the aerial gas station, and plunged to the ground beneath. The pillar stayed in place, while three small javelins of fire flew down alongside it to hit the ground. The pillar vanished.

The charred remnants of the gas station settled gently back to the ground. Sirens wailed as rescue crews headed towards the disaster. The crowd's laughter had vanished as soon as the fire began raining down. It dispersed as quickly as its earlier mirth faded. Few re-entered the gym, instead going off to more serious or at least more solitary pursuits.

The entire spectacle lasted less than five minutes.

â˜

Stan watched for a few more minutes, but when no more miracles manifested themselves, he went back inside to get to work. He decided that Jack had made his job easier, praise him and all that. The gym rats were scattering, so there would be fewer bystanders for his work.

The pipes ran through the ceiling, between the floors, so he was able to trace them easily enough. He found the problem, and sadly he'd had it right. There was a stream of water leading from the pipes floating in mid air like there was an invisible pipe leading away. It had been almost a decade since Stan had seen its like.

He panned over the pipes with a bright flashlight. Wisps hated light, one reason water pipes were a nice habitat for them. He had to concentrate on the job, but he kept thinking about Ellen and the kids. Wisps were dangerous. He scanned the entire area three times, until he was at last satisfied the wisp was no longer present, then he marked the section of pipe.

He turned off the hot water to the men's room and returned. The tunnel of water in the air got lower and lower. When there was only a bit of water left, the whole thing collapsed and the last bit fell down onto the ceiling tiles.

He swept the area with his flashlight again, and then once more to be sure. Finally convinced it was safe, he cut out the section of tube the snake went through and replaced it with a new one.

He turned the water back on, went back and checked the area one last time before finally checking that the men's room had hot water. It did.
"Bob," he called, "Got it fixed. The hot water's back on in the men's. It was a wisp, but from the trail it's already out of the building."

"A water wisp, damn," replied Bob. "Thanks for fixing it up. I don't envy you this one."

"Let me know if you have any more problems the next few days. They don't usually double back or anything, but you never know."

When Stan got back to his truck, he collapsed in his seat. He was sweating and nervous. The front he'd put on in the gym was gone, he was exhausted. Worse still, it wasn't over.

He had to find it. A wisp could go through any barrier, including human skin. If it got inside you, it would rearrange the blood pumping through your veins, a particularly vicious way to die. Plumbing was a dangerous job now, but that's why he went prepared. He didn't have to do it alone.
He started calling the other plumbers in town. He knew them all, and they had to know. The hunt was on.

â˜

When his family was at the dinner table, Stan told them the news. "It seems we've got a small problem here, other than whatever Jack is up to," he started, hoping to make the whole subject seem light. "They weren't getting hot water at the gym today. Turned out to be a water wisp, so it seems we've got a hunt on our hands." He hoped his casual delivery would keep Ellen calm.

It didn't work. She paled. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened to a pencil thin line. Stan knew the look. She was building up to an explosion.
While she smoldered, Luke threw gasoline on the fire. "What a tool. You risk your life to support the crypto-fascist town elders." He laughed.

"Don't you dare talk to your father that way," yelled Ellen, her fire directed at Luke for the moment. Maria fled from the table to her room and shut the door tight.

Stan watched his son. Luke had to know how his mother would react. He didn't like drawing Ellen's rage any more than Stan did. Luke was up to something. Stan was pretty sure he knew what.

Luke and Ellen argued. Stan let it run its course, knowing that Ellen would get back to him in due time. Luke reached the end first, standing up with both hands on the table, sideburns flaring, and yelling, "Fine, be that way. I'm out of here."

That was Stan's cue. He'd figured out the plan early on. He grabbed Luke's arm. "You're still grounded. Your room."

He stared down his son. Luke was angry, but then gave a wan grin when he realized his father was onto him. He slumped to his room.

Now it was his turn. Ellen went from anger to tears as soon as she heard Luke's door slam shut. Her dark eyes were dripping, her cheeks stained with tears. "You can't do this," she sobbed quietly. "Let some one else... Not again."

Stan held her hand softly. "I already let everyone else know it's out there. And I'll be careful, I've got all the tools for it. It'll be OK." He stroked her hand gently.

He understood her fear. They once had another child, Charlie, a wonderful boy who was taken from them when he was just four years old. Divinitrice's Waltz, ten years ago, destroyed every child in Shawnee five years old or younger. Ellen never recovered. She tried to destroy all traces that Charlie ever existed. Stan's few photographs of his second son were well hidden. He thought she was over it when Maria was born, and for a few years she was, but the fear came back. It never left her.

Once she calmed down enough to let him, Stan held her close and murmured reassurances. He reminded her there were other plumbers looking, and most likely one of them would find the wisp. He told her he'd always come back to her, and eventually he just kept repeating that he loved her.

When Ellen finally calmed down, Stan went to Maria's bedroom to talk to her. His precious little girl claimed she wasn't upset, she just didn't like it when Mommy yelled. Stan told her everything would be all right, and hoped he was telling her the truth.

Finally he went to check on Luke. To Stan's surprise, his son was in his room. He'd expected Luke to have sneaked out through the window, instead he was talking to one of his friends on the phone. Luke glared at him and gestured his father away. It was enough to see he was still there, so Stan left.

It wasn't quite family togetherness, but Stan had done the best he could. He settled down to do the books for the evening.

â˜

The wisp kept Stan busy over the weekend. Water was going out across town, in houses, apartments, businesses, and parks. He was getting emergency calls in the middle of the night and working through sunset.

Ellen had set up a dinner date for Saturday. They were meeting an old high school friend of hers and her husband. Stan got along with him well enough, so Ellen counted them as one of their couple friends. Stan was swamped with work, but he knew Ellen was panicked over the wisp. If he cancelled dinner, he knew what she'd think. He made sure to meet them, but was not pleasant company. He kept thinking about the wisp and all the trouble it might cause.

After dinner, Ellen confronted him, "You were rude in there. You didn't say ten words all night. What do you think Ed thinks of you now?"
"Sorry sweetie. Early job this morning, I was just tired. I'm sure Ed understands."He had to be cautious. He had another job to do that evening, and he didn't want to set her off.

"It's the wisp, isn't it? Risking your life and your family and now worrying our friends too."

"Shhh," he interrupted. "We're trying to keep it quiet, avoid worrying people." Catching himself, he switched to flattery. "You're strong enough to deal with it, but I don't want to worry others. We tell each person that they're the first to be hit."

Enough places had been hit that all the plumbers were starting to worry it was a small nest. He wasn't even going to hint at that to Ellen.

"Please," she sobbed, "let someone else find it. Don't let it be you. Think of us."

He always did. "All of us are looking. I'm sure one of the others will find it." He'd been the first to report the wisp, so all the other plumbers were relying on him to plot its movements. Again, there was no reason to worry Ellen further.

He took her home and went to fix one more pipe that night. He was getting tired. He couldn't work late every night like he once could.

Jack kept things busy too. While driving to a job on Sunday, Stan's truck stopped dead in the road. He couldn't get it started, then noticed everyone else had stopped too. All traffic in Shawnee came to a stop. People got out and wondered what was going on. About 20 minutes later the cars started moving again.

He never learned why traffic stopped. He heard the newscasters discuss the traffic outage, but they only said the Temple had no comment. Jack was not big on explaining Himself.

Stan finally caught a break after an early start on Monday. Between the call he had just made, and one from another plumber, he understood the wisp's movement. It was travelling some copper pipes he'd just laid last fall.

He knew where the wisp would be next. It was going to a dentist office, Bright Smiles Dentistry. He called Ellen while driving over. She did clerical work Mondays and had to leave her phone off, so he left a message.

"Ellen, it's me. I've got it, I know where the wisp is going. I'm on my way now. I know you're going to be worried, but it'll all be over by the time you get the message. I'll be fine, don't worry. I love you, and give my love to Luke and Maria. I'll see you tonight, everything'll be fine."
It was a mixed message. He didn't want her to panic, but he also knew the worst could happen. Reassurance that he'd be fine mixed with possible goodbyes. He couldn't dwell on it. It was time to concentrate.

â˜

Jane Krispin was the receptionist at Bright Smiles Dentistry. She was working the desk when Stan came through the door. He had a miner's hat on, a big yellow hardhat with a light on it. "Do you have an appointment?" startled but professional.

"No," he answered, "I'm not here for an appointment. Can I talk to Dr. Isaacs?"

There was a water wisp loose, and it was probably headed right here. He asked the doctor if he could access their plumbing to try to kill the snake. Dr. Isaacs knew the plumber, and gave permission, "If you're right, and kill it, I'll give a free checkup to your whole family."

"What do I owe if I'm wrong?" asked Stan. Jane wasn't sure whether or not he was joking.

The doctor chuckled, "Oh, let's just call it even if you buy me a beer some time. Go ahead. You know where everything is. Jane, make sure Stan gets anything he needs and keep people out of his way."

"Keep the lights on," Stan called as he headed downstairs to the basement.

One of the patients decided to cancel his appointment after overhearing the conversation. She rescheduled him while loud metal banging echoed from below. Stan was either noisily checking the pipes, or trying to attract the wisp with noise. She wasn't sure which.

She checked paperwork distractedly while paying ever more attention to sounds from the basement. She heard water spray for almost a minute, then it stopped. A steady drip followed, water on water. He'd opened one of the pipes, let it flood the basement. Then he closed it off, but let it drip into the puddle he'd made. More trapping, maybe, like cheese for a rat.

Drips continued to fall while she went over the same insurance claim form six times. Dr. Isaacs stepped back out front to see what was happening, took a few steps towards the basement, then turned back to his office. He looked ruefully at Jane but didn't say a word.
Crack.

She jumped out of her chair.

A shot, a flash of light from a small explosion came from below. Stan's screams of pain were followed by a hiss of flame. There was a fight, and Stan had lit his blowtorch. Shadows from below shifted oddly as the light and torch moved. She could not have taken a step towards it if her life depended on it.

"It's OK. Got it," came a call from below.

The door opened and Stan came up the stairs. He was covered in blood, his right hand clasped securely over his left arm. Blood gushed beneath his hand, flowing wetly down. But he smiled broadly, borne aloft on an adrenaline high. In his left hand he held a tiny greyish blue worm. The wisp was barely 5" long and charred black. Stan held it by the tail, and kept it away from his body.

"Think I can get a bandage?" he asked cheerfully.

"That's it?" Jane asked incredulously. "Sorry, I jut thought a water wisp would be, well, bigger." She was babbling, and Stan was bleeding. "Sorry again, let me get the first aid kit."

Dr. Isaacs came back out while Jane tied up Stan's arm. He had her call an ambulance, since Stan would need a few stitches on his arm. "Then call the temple. They need to dispose of the wisp." Like Jane, he had a hard time looking away from the tiny worm.

Jane looked forward to seeing her girlfriends that evening. She could get free drinks for at least a week retelling this story.

--SEPARATOR--

The next day Stan rested. Ellen picked him up at the hospital. She cried in rage and relief. She yelled at him with passion, and just as passionately made love to him that night. Stan clung to her in joy, both at her passion and his own continued existence. The pain didn't return until morning.

At the joint orders of his doctor and wife, Stan took the day off. He relaxed and caught up on the news. The ringing phone woke him from a nap he'd never intended to start. Luke was in trouble at school, Stan had to go in.

Luke was waiting with his friend Peter. The secretary sent Stan and Luke into the office, where the principal waited behind his desk.

"Mr. Overton," he started, "I'm afraid your son Luke was drinking beer on school grounds. This is not his first offense."

"I'm sorry. His mother and I are very angry at him. I don't know what he's thinking anymore." Stan glared a warning at his son. "He will be punished for this."

"Well and good. Remember, Mr. Overton, it is illegal for students to have alcohol at school. I do not want to bring the police in on this, and I hope I don't have to." Stan had heard on the news that the police were being co-opted by God at the moment, but he understood and appreciated the sentiment.

The principal continued, "Graduation is coming up, and Luke can still complete his schooling. If I suspend him, he would have to delay his graduation. I am willing to have him serve detention for the remainder of the year. However, if there are any further incidents or if he misses any of his detentions, I will follow through with suspension, even if that means he does not graduate. Am I clear?"

"Yes," muttered Luke.

Stan prodded his son, "Say it again, and nicer."

"Yes sir. Thank you." Luke was no more gracious, but at least louder.

"Let's go," Stan said to Luke. Then to the principal, "Sorry to take up your time with this." He dragged Luke out to the truck and just stopped himself from throwing the young man in through the door.

In the truck, he exploded at his son, "What were you thinking? Are you trying not to graduate? Do you want to kill your mother?"

"Get off it," Luke retorted, "You're the one chasing wisps. What do you think Mom gets from that? That good for her?" He was working up his own head of steam, "Jack's swinging cock, is this pissant town more important than Mom? Than me?"

A God's visit almost always resulted in a new blessing and a new curse. Invariably, the curse came first.

"Language," Stan cautioned. "At least wait until He's gone," he added in a whisper. "This isn't about me and you know it, don't try to change the subject. We do what we have to." Stan wanted to scratch the stitches beneath his bandage. They itched. It wouldn't be the right time.

"You're going to graduate next month," Stan continued. "What are you going to do? City job? They don't pay much, just enough to stay alive. It's a miserable life. I know, believe me. I was there. And it was still better than being in the war host. Ptah's Left B..." Stan stopped himself. "I want better for you."

"Oh please," snarked Luke. "Just because you haven't seen through the facade of this society doesn't mean I have to play the patsy too. We don't matter. Nothing you've done, nothing I'll ever do, it just doesn't matter. Give it to God, sure, just have fun in the meantime."

Stan pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, but didn't get out of the car. "Luke." He spoke clearly and calmly, no trace of yelling.
"You're not the first, but you're wrong. It does matter. What we do matters. Did you know that the wisp killed two people before I got to it? A man and a little girl. Big Tony found both of them. Jack wouldn't stoop to stopping a wisp, it's just not big enough, not important enough. We have to do it. Two people died, but at least it's not going to be more. We make a little difference. If we do, maybe..."

His son wasn't listening. The teenager was already getting the blank look he got when tuning out a lecture.

"Look, forget it. Think of this. You're right, the wisp could've killed me. That would make you the man of the house. How would you take care of your Mom and Maria?

"Would you?"

He stopped. Luke jerked his head around and stared at Stan incredulously. Stan had hit a nerve. Maybe Luke cared more about his family than he'd let on. Stan hoped so, he liked to believe it. Luke stammered, but had no answer.

"Screw it." Luke got out of the truck and ran to his room.

â˜

Luke went to his room and stayed there. Stan returned to studying boiler repair. Knowing how to fix things was ever more important, as replacements were not always available. Even repairs could be problematic when spare parts were sparse.

Ellen and Maria came home together, and Stan hugged them both happily. He whispered to Ellen, "Luke got in trouble again. We need to talk later."
Ellen backed up, eyes and mouth narrowing to slits in anger. Maria stepped back against the wall trembling. Ellen relaxed for her daughter's sake. She quietly nodded at Stan and let Maria tell him what she'd done in school that day. Stan listened distractedly until she said, "Look. It's snowing."

"In May, Princess?" he started, then looked. "Oh, no, it is, isn't it? Sweetie," he called to Ellen, "come look."

The windows were icing over, but it was not actually snowing. Frost spread over the lawn like a blanket. The leaves on the trees turned white from the tips, with spiderweb traces onto their bodies. Stan felt his leg seize up with the cold. Getting old, he thought, followed by minor curses at God for bringing winter back.

"Looks really cold out there," said Ellen. "If it keeps up we just might have to make cocoa. But you," she pointed at Maria, "are staying inside."
The little girl turned away. She tried to avoid her mother's attention until she noticed Ellen was smiling. A second later she burst out laughing.

"Wait, what's that?" Stan said pointing down the street. "Look. That's not snow, what is it?"

A large black cloud barely higher than the rooftops moved towards them. Heavy sleet poured out of the cloud, leaving a trail of ice behind it as it moved into position. It stopped at the entrance to their street and continued to pour out ice.

It turned from a mound to a heap to a wall. Within minutes it was the height of a grown man, and within half an hour, their street was blocked completely. It shone like ice, a solid wall taller than a man.

"I think," said Stan, "that we're staying in tonight." He held his leg against the pain from the cold.

â˜

"Since it's cold outside," Ellen announced, "we're having pot pie tonight. Maria, come help me chop vegetables." It was an obvious ploy to keep their daughter inside.

Maria gave her mother a suspicious glance but nodded agreement. Ellen didn't usually let her use the sharp knives and she didn't want to miss her chance. "Are you OK, Daddy?" she asked first.

"Of course, Princess. Cold's just hurting Daddy's leg. I'll just sit down here and watch my favorite girls cook me dinner." He smiled while she ran back to help her mother.

Maria enjoyed working in the kitchen while Stan watched. He noticed that she didn't look to her mother for approval, Ellen's constant fears were driving her daughter away. "Are we going away for vacation again this summer?" she asked while peeling the carrots. "I liked Texas last year. Corpus Christi was fun, the ocean was big."

"So it turns to winter outside and you start thinking about the beach." Stan started to stand, but his leg had nearly gone numb from the weather, so he stayed where he was. "We haven't really talked about it yet, and we'll have to see what roads are open, but I was thinking you kids have never seen New Orleans."

"No." Ellen turned sharply.

"Or maybe we could go west," Stan tried to continue smoothly. "I hear Phoenix is nice." It hurt him to see Maria inch away from her mother, afraid of what she might do next.

"We can go back to Corpus Christi," said Ellen in something between a question and an order.

Stan shared an exasperated glance with his daughter before saying "That would be nice. Let's see what happens."

Luke came out of his room for dinner but was quiet. No point antagonizing anyone when they were bound to be discussing punishments. Maria carried the conversation, excited by the frosty weather outside. There were several ice walls within view of the house, one of them just across the street in front of their neighbor's driveway. The trees were covered by ice, and the loud snap of breaking branches punctuated dinner.

After dinner Luke slouched back to his room, while Maria wrapped herself in a blanket and settled in to watch television. Stan helped clear the table after a meaningful cough from Ellen. His leg ached from the cold, and his arm from the wisp, but he refused to worry Ellen by complaining. "So, what did he do now?"

"Beer in school," Stan answered. "Him and Peter. They used to be such good boys. I don't know what we did wrong."

"So what are we going to do with him?" Her tone was a bit too sharp.

"We can ground him, but that's not going to hold much longer. He's almost done with school. I don't know what more we can do but hope he learns to behave on his own." Stan saw a bleak future of city jobs and making do for his son. He'd gone through that life himself after the temple vetoed his college application, until Ares impressed him into the war host.

"No. We have to do something." Louder still.

"I talked to him. I'll try again. I'm not sure, but I think I might have gotten through to him this time." He really did. He'd talked to Luke about his future many times, and knew all the blank looks he got in return. When he talked about the family, about taking care of Ellen and Maria, he saw something different. It made him feel better about his boy.

â˜

By morning the frost had fled and the ice was melting. Stan was ready to get back to work after a day of recuperation. He had a full day with all the pipes that had burst from the cold. Since the roads were still icy, he got to have breakfast with Ellen while the kids slept in.

He was just cutting into his egg when the kitchen suddenly brightened. "What's He up to now?" Stan complained automatically as he looked out the window.

Ellen jumped back and screamed. "Stan!" An edge of hysteria crept into her voice, "it's you."

Stan leapt out of his chair. A shining yellow halo surrounded him. A thread of brilliant gold led from his aura to somewhere outside the home.
Luke and Maria ran out of their rooms, Luke in jeans and t-shirt, Maria still in a pink nightie with a puppy dog picture. "What happened?" Maria cried, while Luke said, "What's up with Dad?"

"Stan," cried Ellen, "your leg."

Stan looked down. You could see through his leg. Blood, muscle, and bone were visible to the eye. Bright blue lines snaked through his leg. Maria saw it, exclaimed, "That's gross," and hid her eyes.

Stan stammered. He wanted to say something, to explain any part of this, but he didn't know what was going on. Ellen looked on with growing panic.
"What's going on Stan? What is this? Why us?" Stan knew she didn't really expect answers. He also knew he had to calm her down.

"Ellen, I don't know, but I think I need to follow the yellow line. I'm sure it'll be fine." He wasn't sure of anything of the sort.

He knew it might worry her, but he had to say something to the kids too, "You be good, Princess, and remember Daddy loves you. Luke, listen to your mother and behave. I know I can count on you." He was trying to keep his voice from breaking, fearing he was telling his family goodbye. The hardest was yet to come. "I love you sweetie." He took her in his arms and kissed her hard.

His vision blurry with suppressed tears, Stan got in his truck and followed the golden line. A few other yellow lines led through town. Everyone was avoiding them. He didn't pass a single car on the road his whole way in. He didn't even see pedestrians, though there were people peering at him from inside windows.

It didn't surprise him that his path led to the temple. He'd expected it since he realized it was a summons. He touched the statue of Dawn for luck before going in.

â˜

The golden thread led through familiar areas of the temple. Like most people, he went there every week. He saw other people in the temple, but they stayed resolutely out of his way. Stan recognized one of the monks who oversaw the orchards, "Do you know what's going on? Am I supposed to follow this?"

"Keep following it," the monk replied tersely. The priests might be more comfortable around miracles than the townsfolk, but they had no more desire to interfere with God's design.

Stan walked through the administrative areas of the temple into the private quarters, the area of the temple where God stays when He visits. Stan had never seen the private quarters before. Few mortals had. Even the priests were not permitted in this section of the temple without permission.
The living quarters were lavish. The entrance, presumably a reception area, had a fireplace, hardwood floors, and sumptuous furniture. A silver platter and half empty bottle of wine was on one end table. Portraits of all the Gods that had visited Shawnee decorated the walls. Dawn, Raven, and Baron Samedhi, the three who fought the Battle of Kansas City, held pride of place. Ares stood tall in front of a faceless army. The portrait of Divinitrice still hung on the wall, but covered artfully with white cloth, so none would gaze on the Mad God by accident. Ptah's portrait was the most recent, standing in front of the temple as he changed it.

Stan's path led through the room.

It ended in a dining hall. A long rectangular walnut table dominated, a crystal chandelier lit the room. Stan's attention focused on the God at the head of the table.

Jack was there. He was thin and young, a year or two younger than Luke. He had crew cut black hair, an intense expression on his tightly drawn face. He wore jeans and a loose tee shirt with a picture of a dragon on it. A young woman lay on the table in front of him. His hand glowed brightly just a few inches above her. Stan recognized her an instant later.

It was Rosa Ramos, lying there asleep or unconscious. Stan hadn't seen her since he fixed a broken pipe in one of her basements a week ago, the same day Jack arrived in town. She was a good looking young widow. With sharp facial features and dark olive skin, she looked like an Incan statue come to life. Her thick black hair hung straight down her back, accenting her almost dark black eyes. She'd moved into town when she married Ollie Ramos, but he died a year later. Ollie was the last survivor of his family, so Rosa took over managing his properties. A wealthy, beautiful, 21 year old widow, everyone assumed she'd remarry soon.

Now she lay supine on the table. God stood over her, his painfully bright hand a few inches above her skin. Sometimes he'd pause, and the light from his hand extended to touch her. She never reacted.

"Sit down." A hand touched Stan's elbow. A priest, Brother Jose, had approached him unnoticed. He was a pock-marked Mexican, tall and muscular. He was a good speaker, one of the more popular priests. Stan wordlessly followed his command, eyes locked on God and Rosa.

Jack took no notice of Stan or any of his attendant priests. Stan finally blinked and noticed for the first time that there were other people seated at the table. He knew some of them, but not all. Everyone seated at the table had the same halo Stan had, and some part of their body was transparent.

He knew Jeff Chen, a security guard at Gardez Shipping. They were in the same bowling league. Jeff's right shoulder was showing. He also knew Anna Lopez, a nine year old orphan and temple ward, who they'd hosted for the holidays two years ago. A year older than Maria, the two had become good friends. Anna's neck and upper chest were transparent.

The light from God's hand went out. "Finally. Done," He said. He had a reedy voice that filled the whole of the hall. He looked at those seated at the table and paced twice, "No way. A dozen more. Forget it. Not happening."

Stan looked. There were twelve people at the table. "What's going on?" he whispered to the person sitting next to him, an old woman he didn't know.
"I don't know. It can't be good," she whispered back.

Jeff had more nerve than Stan could muster, calling directly to God, "Why did You bring us all here? What's going on?"

A black man Stan didn't know turned to one of the priests, "I gotta call back to the base. How long is He keeping us?"

"Quiet." A single word from the head of the table, the thin voice of the teenage God overwhelmed all the burgeoning conversations. They stopped. Instantly. Stan didn't know if this was a miracle or not, he didn't want to test God's patience.

Jack sat down, Rosa still immobile on the table in front of Him, and gestured impatiently at one of the priests. The priests were accustomed to receiving deference, not commands. He was visibly surprised for the barest instant before he stated, "You have been summoned by Lord Jack. You have been infected by an agent from Kansas City. He has summoned you here to decide your fate. You life, your very souls, rest in His hands."

"Give it a rest," Jack interjected. "I'm sure they're worried enough already." Jack stood back up impatiently while the priest scurried away.

"This has taken too long already, and there's no way I'm going through and fixing each of them. I'll just copy her pattern," he said with a gesture towards Rosa. Stan wasn't clear who He was talking to, maybe to Himself? No one dared interrupt.

Jack's hands fired up, glowing so brightly everyone was forced to look away. He put his hands on Rosa's shoulders. She was soon glowing white. Jack lifted his hands, and beams of light shot from Rosa.

Stan felt it hit him like a freight train. He expected to fly backwards into the wall and be crushed in a painful death. That didn't happen. He didn't move or feel any pain. The light filled his world, blinding him to everything else.

It faded. Rosa was now sitting across the table from him, where Jeff had been a moment ago. To his right, where the old woman sat, was Rosa. Same appearance, same hair, same clothing.

A sinking feeling, Stan looked down. He was wearing a white blouse, a silver necklace nestled in his just visible cleavage showed clearly against his dark olive skin. He saw long black hair in his peripheral vision. Everyone else was coming to the same conclusion, he could see.

"Fine. They're cured," said Jack. His voice carried through the hall. Nascent panic was cut off by His presence. "I'm taking her," he pointed to Rosa. To the original Rosa. "The rest are your problem. Take care of them. Something good."

Jack and Rosa floated rapidly and noiselessly to the ceiling. In a flash of light they vanished.

Stan and eleven other copies of Rosa Ramos sat stunned in their seats.

God Given Face Part 2

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

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Posted by author(s)

Lives are changed in the wake of God's departure. Stan and his family must come to terms with their new situation.

God has given you one face, and you make yourself another

Hamlet. Act I, Scene 3

Silence reigned. No one moved, no one spoke, no one breathed.

Someone screamed.

The noise shattered Stan's paralysis. He looked at himself, his dark reddish-gold skin, thin hairless arms and delicate hands and fingers. Long fingernails, painted silver. His hair brushed his neck when he turned his head. Moving caused breasts to shift on his chest. He had breasts. It was too much to take in.

"What happened?" he squealed. His voice was wrong. Higher. A woman's voice. He tried shouting his question again, louder. "What happened? What did Jack do to me?" It didn't help. Same voice. Panicking, he grabbed Rosa, the Rosa sitting next to him, screaming "What did you do? I have to see my family."

Rosa pushed Stan away. "I can see. Jack cured me. Why does everyone look the same? My skin, what happened? I'm Mexican." She sounded like Stan. Everyone sounded like him.

Stan stood and nearly fell. He was thrown by the weight of his breasts shifting, pulling down as he stood up, and by his shoes forcing him to stand on tip toe. He tried to grab the table and hurt his hands. The table was too high, he'd misjudged it.

Chaos surrounded him as a dozen Rosas experienced the same disorientation. He grabbed his breasts. He felt his breasts with his hands, but he also felt his hands with his breasts. Knowing the result in advance, he still grabbed his crotch. The long skirt he wore got in his way, but he could tell he was missing his manhood.

He wanted to collapse in tears, but couldn't. His family needed him. He had to get home. He had to tell Ellen what had happened. He didn't know what she'd do, he didn't know if they could do anything, but she had to know. He could not let his wife think he'd deserted her. Repeating that like a mantra he forced himself to stop panicking.

"Sit back down," commanded Brother Jose from the front of the room. He pounded the table with a gavel to gain everyone's attention. "Guard the exits. No one leaves. These women are temple property by order of God.

He commanded, "Line up and give your names. We will assign you rooms and duties"

"What do you think you're doing, Brother Jose?" called a female priest. She confronted him directly, "These women are guests, not property." She was a small woman, just a few inches over five feet tall, but her blue eyes were blazing as she spoke.

"This is not the time, Sister Paula," responded Jose. "Lord Jack's order was clear." He was angry, flustered, and ready to fight. This clearly wasn't their first disagreement or confrontation. Neither Stan nor any of the other Rosas were interested in watching.

Determined to get back to his family, Stan went for the door. He nearly tripped in his high heeled shoes, so he slid them off his feet. His long skirt restrained his motion. He had to take smaller steps than he wanted, but he thought removing the skirt might be a bad idea. Walking in general felt wrong; his center of balance was off and his hips moved differently. He kept himself from thinking too much about that. One thing at a time.

"Out of my way," he said to one of his many twins as he pushed his way to the door.

"I can't let you leave, ma'am," said a tall young novice standing in the door. Stan tried to push through, but the boy may as well have been an iron gate for all he moved.

Stan was floored. The boy had called him "ma'am." It was wrong. No matter what Jack had done, he was still Stan Overton, not Rosa Ramos. The young novice towered over him. Stan was small, weak. He felt like he'd lost a foot or more, even if he knew Rosa was only 5 or 6 inches shorter than he used to be.

"I have to see my wife. I have to see my kids. Let me out," Stan yelled. His voice rose as he panicked. It got worse the more he heard himself speak. He could feel tears breaking through.

"Let me through, I have to open my shop." "My mother's sick, let me take care of her." "Just let me out." Other voices, all twins of Stan's, cried out.

"FWEET." A piercing whistle came from the front of the table. The woman, Sister Paula, had her fingers in her mouth to make that screech.
Once she had everyone's attention, she announced, "No one leaves. You will stay, and you will do as instructed. You were all infected with a new parasite from Kansas City. We cannot release you yet. So please cooperate.

"Brother Jose," she gestured at him, "will take your names and any other information needed. When he is satisfied, you will be escorted to your chambers." She sounded like a drill sergeant, Stan thought. Great command voice, he hadn't heard that since leaving the war host over 20 years ago.

It was effective. The clones stopped clamoring and pushing for the door. Sister Paula's command presence and the knowledge that they'd been infected by zombies made a huge difference. They were reluctant, but they gathered around Brother Jose. Stan was the fourth person to give his information.

"You were a man, then?" questioned Jose after Stan gave his name.

"Yes," he answered in his new feminine voice. "And I am married and have two children. Will you let them know? I don't want them to worry." He thought for a second, "At least, not that I'm dead or abandoned them." He was uncomfortably close to crying, but managed to keep his voice clear.

Jose nodded, with a sideways glance at Sister Paula. "We'll inform families." He took their names and wrote them down.

Stan was moved to the side. An elderly monk escorted four of them out of the private quarters, down some hallways, and into a small room with a sink, two bunk beds, and four footlockers.

"These are normally pilgrim's cells, so there's not much in the way of amenities." The old man continued, "We'll be posting guards at either end of the hallway. We'll bring food. I guess the priests will let you know more once they've decided anything." He turned back without waiting for a response.

â˜

Stan claimed his bed, taking the bottom bunk before the monk left. It was a habit from his time in the war host. Claim your bunk fast.

There was a small mirror over the sink, but Stan realized he could get a better idea what he looked like by looking at the other women. While he knew Rosa, he hadn't ever studied her too closely. He was a married man after all.

He had dark skin, between olive and red, with black hair that fell past his shoulders. He was about 5'4" but had fairly large breasts. He didn't know how to size them, but they were a little larger than Ellen's. He was in good shape, trimmer stomach and wider hips than he'd had before. His legs and arms were hairless and lacked both the scars and the muscles he had built up over the years. Good looking, but no Barbie doll, for which he was thankful.

"All right," he said quietly, making sure not to scream when he heard his new voice, "Who are all of you? I'm Stan Overton."

"Anna Lopez," said one of them. Stan was floored. He knew he shouldn't be, it was a miracle after all. His daughter's playmate, the thin little orphan girl was suddenly a healthy adult woman. His twin, he reminded himself. She sounded just like him. He reminded himself not to be surprised. Again.

"Jeff Chen," said the next.

"Martin Silasson," said the last.

"So three of us were men," said Stan. "I think that was all of us, right?" He'd concentrated on Jack, not on the other people at the table, but he was pretty sure there were only three men there. He thought there'd been a black man, so that was probably Martin, but he was too embarrassed to ask.

The others agreed that there'd been three men there. Anna had been the only child in the room. It seemed likely they'd been placed together deliberately.

"We're the hard cases, I guess. Anna, just in case you don't remember my name, I'm Maria's father. She's friends with my daughter," Stan explained more generally. "Jeff and I were in a bowling league together. I don't think we've met, though, Martin."

"I'm Martin," said the woman Stan thought was Jeff. There was no way to tell each other apart. "I was a soldier at the outpost. Remote tour, family back in Georgia. Thought it'd be a right easy post at a city. More fool I."

"I can't tell you apart," complained Anna. She opened the footlockers. Two were empty, but one had an abandoned notebook and pen. She ripped off some paper. "Nametags. Like the first day of school."

Stan agreed. He avoided looking at the mirror in case he couldn't pick himself out of the crowd. He was already starting to feel like he wasn't a real person, just a copy. That was worse than being turned into a woman. He wanted to run screaming from the others. Anna's idea would at least help.

"Wait a second," Stan exclaimed. "Paper and pen. We can't leave, but we can write. Maybe the guards can deliver our letters. Jeff, what do you think?"

"I'm all for it," he responded. "You go first, then gimme the pen. Either o' you have anyone?"

Martin also wanted to write, one to his unit, one to go home. Anna didn't have anyone. They wrote their letters, using the footlockers as desks. Stan tried to ignore the fact that they all had the same handwriting.

"Excuse me," Stan called to the old man at the end of the hall. "Could we ask a favor? We wrote some letters to our families. Would you see if the priests can deliver them when they tell our families what happened?"

The guard looked down at Stan and Anna. "Sorry, but I can't leave my post." Anna did her best little girl pout; it was still effective in her adult body. "Look, I'll take the letters. When they come by with your food, I can give it to them, and they can bring it to the priests." He shrugged, "Best I can do."

Stan accepted that and handed over the letters. As they returned to their room, some of the women from other rooms came to see what was going on. When they saw Stan and Anna's nametags, they insisted on making their own. Anna was the center of attention, making nametags for everyone. They all started rummaging through the footlockers in the other rooms to see if they had anything else left behind.

There were guards at each end of the hall, young novices or old monks. The guards raised no objections to the meeting in the hall. Six rooms, three on each side, lined the way. His room had four women, three other rooms had three, and two were empty. There was a rest room at each end, a men's room and a ladies'. Stan reflected that he'd be using the ladies' room now. Or not. There were 12 women and no men in the hall. They'd have to use both bathrooms, so he could hold on to an old habit a little longer.

Novices brought lunch; bread with apple butter and a simple salad. To Stan's delight, the guards handed over the packet of letters. Almost everyone had written some letters, Anna was one of the few exceptions. Stan hadn't been able to say everything he wanted, but he felt much better after sending Ellen and the kids a letter.

A few hours later, Brother Jose stormed into the hall and called everyone out of their rooms. He held the packet of letters in his hand.

"No more of this, understand," he shouted. "You are property. You may not leave the temple. You may not communicate with anyone outside these walls. Do not cross us. You will obey."

He did not wait for a response.

â˜

"They're not going to deliver our letters?" exclaimed an open mouthed Stan.

"I bet it's worse'n that," responded Jeff. "I don't think they're telling our families anything. Maybe 'at we're dead. That's why they don't want letters, it says we're still alive."

A woman charged the guard in anger. Without seeing her nametag, it was impossible to say who she was. The old man pushed her and she fell backwards to the ground. He warned, "No more of that. I will hurt you if you try to escape."

"Jessa second," said Martin, ignoring the guard and fallen woman, "What was it as he was saying 'bout us being property?"

"No," stated Jeff. "He's saying we're slaves. I am not a slave. Not t'the temple, not to anyone. C'mere," he pulled in the four of them after searching a bit for Anna.

Once they were all back in their room, with the door shut, he whispered, "I was already thinking about this, now I'm sure. I'm getting out of here. Tonight. Don't care what the priests say. I'm not staying here. I don't think they're really organized yet. Tonight's our best chance."

"I don't trust him," Stan said, speaking of Jose. "I don't think he's going to tell Ellen, tell any of our families, what's really going on. I'm with you Jeff." He had not even started coming to terms with becoming a woman, he wasn't about to accept being a slave too.

"Not me," chimed in Martin. "Still a soldier, at least til someone tells me otherwise," he gestured at his body, looking at his long painted fingernails to indicate he wouldn't be one soon enough. "Now don' worry none. Ain't gonna squeal on you or nothing, but count me outta any escape. We ain't bein' held by the enemy. Give 'em time, I say."

Stan thought about it. He thought about how Ares once treated his 'guests.'

"Martin," he said, "I understand, but I think you're wrong. We're not just being held, we're not allowed to communicate. That's a setup. You're army, right? The oath is still to the Constitution, not to the Church. Yeah, we have to follow the Gods, that's the 29th amendment and all, but we all heard Jack, He didn't say anything about making us slaves. I say we go."

"I'm with him," Anna said, pointing at Stan. "I've been around the temple a lot, they fed me and took care of me. I don't like Brother Jose. He's mean."

Stan was certain he could get them out of the temple if they could reach the boiler room. He'd been down there before, and knew a way into the city sewers. Anna knew the temple layout better than any of the others. She could get them from the pilgrim quarters to the boiler room if they could get past the guards. Jeff was a security guard himself, he swore the guards would relax come night. He was sure he could get them out.

They had a plan.

â˜

After everyone was asleep, they put their plan into action. Jeff removed the mirror over the sink and used it to watch the guards. As he predicted, they were barely paying any attention. Both guards were at one end of the hall chatting.

"Temple's not a high target for thieves," Jeff explained in a whisper, "People don't want to mess with God. Guards get lazy, they're not used to watching people who might want to get out."

The plan went off without a hitch. They sneaked past the guards, keeping a wary eye out but seeing no one. Anna led them right to the boiler room.

Stan tried to lift the access plate, only to come to a jarring halt when the plate didn't budge. He pulled as hard as he could, and it barely budged. "Blood and balls," he muttered, "can't move it."

One of the others came over to help, and together they moved the plate aside. Stan had to read the nametag to find out it was Jeff who'd helped him. Stan led the way into the crawlspace. He was much smaller than the last time he'd had to navigate it, which helped. Crawling in a skirt, however, was something he could do without.

They reached the sewers and could stand again. Anna complained about the smell, but they were all committed at this point. After a short walk, they exited the sewer near his old favorite, the Hickory Diner.

"They're open 24 hours, and the morning waitress, Lita, is friendly. She'll help us once we explain what's going on," Stan reassured the others. The lights were on, though the lot was largely empty.

They were an odd sight. Identical triplets in identical outfits, wet and stained with dirt and mud. They all had their shoes off, and were climbing out of a sewer pipe at 3 in the morning. Stan pulled off his nametag and went in the door.

"Lita," he called. She came over looking puzzled. "Can I talk to you for a minute."

"Rosa?" she answered. "I heard... Wait, you have twin sisters? What happened?"

"Lita, I need to talk to you. Please."

She sighed, looked at the two college kids eating, and waved the girls over to a corner. "All right, what's going on?"

"I'm not Rosa. I know this'll sound really strange, but I'm Stan. Stan Overton. Jack, he did this to us and left. We need to see our families to tell them what happened. Lita, we need your help."

Lita opened and shut her mouth a few times and backed up a step or two, "What? What do you want from me?"

Stan understood. He'd feel the same. "A change of clothes. Spare uniforms is fine if you've got 'em. Your phone, we'll call for help."

"All right," she said slowly. "Girls keep spares in the lockers in back. Come here, and look see what fits you all. Come back up when you're done."

"Can't believe we made it," said Jeff. "I shoulda worked for the temple, could've shaped 'em up some. Fifteen years and no breakins. They can't say the same. Really overrated."

They went through the outfits in the lockers while Jeff rambled. They could all use the same clothes, since they were all the same size. They were all getting tired of that.

Stan found a pair of pants that was a touch too large for him, but it felt very nice to put on pants again. They had wide hips, and fastened tighter than he was used to, but at least it wasn't a skirt. Watching the others get dressed excited him. He still got turned on watching women undress, which pleased him. But that now meant tightening nipples, and dampness in the groin. Very strange, off setting. He rationalized that he was learning what his body looked like, then laughed at himself. Even he didn't buy that excuse.

When they were ready they looked like poorly dressed messy waitresses. They all had green collared shirts with the Hickory Diner logo on them and grey slacks. Stan slipped his heels back on. They were the only thing that fit perfectly.

"Poop," yelled Anna when she went back to the front.

Two cops were waiting there with Lita. Stan briefly considered running, but there was no point. He could barely walk in heels, let alone run, and if he took them off he'd be running barefoot. Staring daggers at Lita, who at least looked embarrassed, he surrendered to the police.

"You're gonna have to close up for a bit, Lita," said one of the cops. "We have to take you in too. Got word from the temple. Your customers too."

"What? I didn't do anything. I called you," she protested.

"Orders. We gotta go too. Anyone who's seen them." He indicated the girls with a jerk of his thumb.

Jose and Paula met them at the temple. A third priest was with them, radiating impatience.

"You defy the Word of God. You are church property," ranted Brother Jose. "You will, you must, obey. Brother Nestor, the bracelets."

The third priest said "Give me your hand," to Stan. Stan was frightened. Brother Jose's rants and the police standing stoically behind him made him feel weak and vulnerable. He didn't know how much was the situation, and how much was his new body. Brother Nestor took his tiny hand and tied a small iron chain around it. He did the same to the other two.

"Those," said Jose loudly, "are prison bracelets, a gift from Lord Ares. You cannot remove them. While wearing them, you cannot leave temple grounds. You cannot communicate with anyone outside the temple, by voice, writing, or other means. You cannot attack or try to harm anyone.

"Do you understand?"

They nodded glumly. Sister Paula led them back to their rooms while Brother Jose swore the diner occupants to secrecy.

"That was a stupid move," Paula scolded while they walked. "Brother Jose's opinion on God's command is not official. It's not even widely accepted. I don't agree with him for one. Stunts like that one hurt your cause. Those who don't much care will side with Brother Jose just to make the problems go away."

She continued while Stan, Anna, and Jeff blushed, "And it won't work anyway. Those prison manacles are just one miracle we have. We will catch you if you escape. Don't make us.

"You don't care about yourselves? You're willing to take the risk?" Sister Paula's voice was rising, "Fine. What about the others? Do you want to condemn them too? Don't answer. Think. Now get back to your rooms."

She left. Anna started to say something, Stan held up his hand. "Tomorrow. We'll talk about it tomorrow." He was too tired to admit that Sister Paula was right.

â˜

For the next week, all of the transformed women were kept in seclusion. They only saw each other and a small selection of the priests. Sister Paula took charge of Stan's room. She was to teach them about their bodies and how to act like women.

They started with a lot of lectures and embarrassing practice sessions to learn about feminine hygiene. Even Anna found it hard to learn about her body so publicly, but it was far worse for the former men. They argued with and yelled at Sister Paula. She was patient with them, and they eventually went along with her since they did need to learn.

At first Stan thought it was humiliating. For instance, they had lessons on going to the bathroom. He hated to admit it, but he did need to learn to wipe every time, and go from front to back. This was his body now, he reminded himself regularly, and he had to learn how to operate it.

Today's lesson was hair care. They'd had the lectures, and were now in a room Sister Paula had set up for them.

Stan was working on Martin, brushing his deep black hair with a brush. Anna was on the next chair over, with Jeff brushing her hair. They had mirrors in front of them so they could see what they were doing to each other.

They all had on different outfits. When they were first transformed, they all had the same clothing on. At first, the temple gave them all novitiate robes to wear. That left them all looking and dressing identically, and it wore them down quickly. Stan felt like he was somehow less than human, a simple automaton. It only lasted three days, ending when Evelyn attacked a priest who called her Anna. Stan never thought he'd be so grateful to be wearing women's clothing.

The temple claimed Rosa's property and donated her clothing to the transformed women. She had a large wardrobe, but it wasn't enough to clothe twelve women normally. The temple supplemented it, beginning with an emergency supply of bras and panties. Stan and Martin started calling it the 'strategic covering reserve' to general laughter.

While the temple expected the women to share Rosa's clothes, they had other ideas. They universally disliked being confused for each other, they all wanted to stand out. Clothing was one way to do so. Stan wore a yellow headband and claimed all of Rosa's yellow clothing. It wasn't much, he thought it entirely reasonable. He was amazed at just how upset he got when Evelyn wore Rosa's yellow blouse. He nearly assaulted her. He would have if Martin hadn't stopped him. It still freaked him out that he was so attached to some pieces of women's clothing.

He was wearing that blouse today with some pale blue slacks and open toed sandals. Sister Paula promised, or threatened, that they'd need to learn to accessorize soon, but the only jewelry he had on was the prison bracelet he couldn't remove. Except for Martin, they all wore one.

Sister Paula knocked on the wall and coughed impatiently. Stan came out of his reverie. She'd instructed them to talk to each other while working on their hair. Until now, Sister Paula hadn't given much thought to the differences between men's and women's behavior. She hoped to ease her group into feminine behavior, and conversation was part of it.

"So, Martin," Stan asked, taking Paula's cue, "bet you're sorry you didn't come along on the big escape now? Still get the same assignments, but without the fancy jewelry." He held up his arm with the iron band around it, looking at Sister Paula to acknowledge the instructions. She wasn't happy about the topic, but nodded back.

Jeff jumped in from the next chair, "Next time let's pick a route at's not quite so dirty. Anna's finally gonna get the last of the dirt outta my head. Maybe a rooftop escape, 'cept Martin's dress might give some folks an eyeful."

Martin chuckled. It sounded suspiciously like a giggle. "It has been one of the few high points of excitement, I'll give you that. Do you really think it's the best idea to plan our next major caper while our minder looks on?" He made a slight head turn towards Sister Paula. "I think I see why your first plan didn't work."

Stan smiled back, and turned Martin back towards the mirror to resume brushing his hair. Sister Paula smiled ruefully, and said, "Very well, ladies, you may have your privacy. I will be in my office. Keep at your exercises and remember to keep talking to each other." Stan didn't much care for being called a lady, but knew Sister Paula was trying to help.

"Have you heard anything from outside?" Stan asked. "Has the base tried to contact you?" He kept brushing Martin's hair.

"No, nothin'," he replied. "I saw a volunteer cleaning the halls the other day. A novice done rushed her away soon as I saw 'er. I think we're all still a state secret."

"I want so much to get a letter to Ellen," Stan complained. "I miss her terribly. Even more than seeing her again, I need her to know I'm all right." He paused a minute in thought, and stopped brushing Martin's hair, "We lost a boy when Divinitrice came through, and she's never been the same. Fragile about loss." Stan could feel tears welling up as he spoke. He put both hands on Martin's shoulders and leaned forward for support.

Martin did not draw away. He understood Stan's need. "I don't know so much about getting word out to my unit," he said, "It's a kinda embarrassing way to ship out. I'd like to find out how they separated me, make sure my wife gets treated right. I'd be pissed if they wrote me off AWOL."

"That'd be like the military, wouldn't it? OK, that's enough with the brushing out. Let's try some braids, shall we?" Stan started separating and braiding Martin's hair.

"It's not just Ellen," continued Stan, "My boy Luke's going to graduate high school soon. He's been getting in trouble lately, fell in with some bad friends. I was having enough trouble getting him to straighten up while I was there. Can't be a role model for him like this, even if I could see him. I worry about him."

"We just have the one kid," said Martin slowly, "and I miss her every day. Lot younger'n your Luke, sure. She'll be five next month. Soldier's life, I always knew I might not get to see her grow up, but this ain't what I figured on. I feel for you. You did say you had two kids though, right?"

"Yeah," he answered fondly, "My little girl is Maria. She's as sweet as can be. She'll turn 9 in the summer. Ellen was so happy when we had a girl. She's as pretty as can be, she'll be a heartbreaker any day now. It's cruel, maybe, but I was looking forward to scaring her boyfriends and seeing her get mad at me."

Martin tried to turn his head to look at Stan, but Stan held him steady to keep braiding his hair, "Tell me about it. Liza's only 4 and I's already practicing my 'just cleanin' my gun' speech."

"OK, I've got the braid, let's see if I can do the next step." Stan twisted the braid, pulling Martin's hair back. He made a it into a circle and pinned it up. "Turn around, let me see," Stan commanded.

"Probably need to get the braid a bit tighter," Stan critiqued his work, "and it looks pretty severe from the front," as he looked at Martin, "but I guess it could work for a formal situation."

Martin looked in the mirror, "I don't know. I see naughty schoolteacher written all over this. Is it wrong to keep thinking that about yourself?"

"Way too deep," answered Stan, "I don't want to think about it. Why don't you do me now, and then we can go show our work to teacher?"

Sister Paula had been listening in the whole time on a receiver. No matter how they did on the hair care, she was very pleased with their progress. They needed more work, but they were making progress. She just had to get them time.

â˜

The following week was less pleasant. They had to deal with their first period. All the transformed women had it at the same time. In retrospect it was obvious, but no one thought of it ahead of time.

The other women assured them that their time of the month was fairly mild in Rosa's body, and traded stories of what their old ones were like. Stan, Martin and Jeff found random stomach cramps frightening, and bleeding from their vagina worrying. Necessary though it was, getting tampon lessons from Sister Paula was humiliating.

When it was over, Stan knew he'd changed. If he could remove the prison bracelet, he'd still send a message to his family, but he no longer expected to return to them. He accepted the temple teaching that he was a new person, he just wasn't sure who that was yet.

They'd continued their lessons with Sister Paula while dealing with their first periods. Stan enjoyed the cooking lessons, he'd been a terrible cook before. The makeup lessons, however, brought him face-to-face, as it were, with his change. It further reinforced the temple's teaching that he was a new person.

That morning a novice informed them that the temple was having a lunch and all the transformed women had to attend. The previous day Sister Paula had cancelled all her training sessions. While Stan was thrilled not to have to struggle with makeup again, he and his friends were very bored. The women in the other rooms had also been free. Everyone knew something was up.

Jeff said, "What do you think is going on? Anyone hear anything? Can't be that we all just finished our, well, you know." He gestured downwards. Stan was glad Jeff started the conversation. They were all thinking about it, but it wasn't easy to say anything.

"No, I doubt that's it," said Stan. "Maybe they're going to let us talk to our families?" he said hopefully.

"Probably not, Stan," piped up Anna. She had become the leader of their group. She'd adapted better than the others to her new body, and had proven to be a very keep observer. She was the only one of them that could always recognize the others. That alone made her popular. She was also much better than the others at figuring out what was going on in the temple. "Have you seen how stressed Sister Paula's been all week? I think they finally decided what to do with us."

"Don't like the sound o'that," said Martin. "She's a friendly lady. If she's stressed out about it all, that don't, eh, that doesn't, sound good for us." Sister Paula had been working with Martin on his diction. He was a good soldier and worked hard at it.

"Maybe," said Anna, "but I don't think so. I think she'd be upset if things were going bad. I think it was a tough decision and argument, and that's why she was stressed. Wait until we see her to guess how bad it'll be."

Stan finished dressing. He had on a pale blue sundress with yellow flowers, pumps, a silver necklace and earrings. They had a makeup kit in their room, but they all decided to do without. None of them had gotten very good at it. Stan curled his hair the way he'd always liked on Ellen. He hoped that if he was a model prisoner he could see his family again. He no longer felt like he was cross dressing when wearing a dress, but wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

The mess hall was not as large as God's private room. It had a raised head table and 5 smaller tables on the floor.

Brother Jose and Sister Paula were at the head table with 3 senior priests. Stan sat with his friends and two other transformed women. They all wore nametags, since even they had trouble telling each other apart. To Stan's disappointment, no town members were present.

Remembering Anna's comments, he studied Sister Paula. She was quiet while Brother Jose spoke genially with the other priests. That was a bad sign, he thought. While she seemed quiet, Sister Paula wasn't broken down. He had to hope for the best.

The meal was better than what they got in their quarters. They had an apple walnut salad followed by barbecued chicken with green beans and tomatoes. Brother Jose stood up as they finished.

"Ladies, I have some fine news for you," he announced, looking pleased with himself. His smile was as broad and genuine as a used car salesman's. "There has been much discussion over the last two weeks of your status, as I'm sure you're all well aware." In fact, they weren't well aware, as the temple did everything they could to hide such discussions from them.

"Lord Jack has gifted you to the temple with orders to take care in your final disposition. We are taking our responsibility for you seriously, and are pleased to announce that we have found a place for the first of you." He gestured at the head table when he said 'we.' Stan noticed that Sister Paula and one of the older priests did not look back. Whatever was coming, Stan was sure it was not a unanimous decision.

"Evelyn Schmidt," Brother Jose paused and stared at them, but couldn't read the nametags from where he stood. Eventually he continued, "Evelyn Schmidt will be moving to Enid, Oklahoma. She will be a nurse and nanny for the children of Father Demetiriou, whose wife was tragically lost two weeks ago.
"The rest of you will begin working in the temple while we try to find a position for you," he continued despite an outcry from the table across from Stan. "It will all be work suitable for acolytes, mostly cleaning, cooking, and serving. One day a week you will work in the orchards. The town has been told that you are gifts to the temple from Jack" He looked meaningfully at Sister Paula.

"You will receive your assignments later this evening." After making this announcement, the head table filed out of the room.

A low buzz of conversation started at the tables. "Why was Evelyn so upset?" Stan asked Anna.

"Not sure," she whispered back, "Probably because she'll be working for a priest, she never liked the temples, you know." Stan hadn't known that. He knew Evelyn was the oldest of the transformed, but that was about it.

"They're getting her out of here as fast as possible," said one of the women from the other rooms, Joyce. "It's punishment. Evelyn managed to get word out about what happened to us. Really threw a bee in Brother Jose's bonnet there, she did."

Stan was shocked. "What? Really?" He hadn't known any of the other women had complaints, let alone that there was an active resistance. His own efforts, telling Lita at the Hickory Diner, hadn't come to anything. Evelyn's had. Good for her.

"Really?" Anna jumped in when it was clear Stan couldn't do more than gape. "I hadn't heard about that. How'd she do it?"

Joyce told Anna the story. Stan was interested but a woman's hand touched his arm. It was not the same dark olive that he and the other transformed all had. It was Sister Paula.

"Help me," she said. She gathered Stan, Martin, and Jeff. "Brother Jose doesn't have nearly the support he thinks he does. I'm not going to go through the theology with you now, but I don't think this is what Jack wants."

"Sister," Jeff interrupted, "we want to know what's going on."

"That's fair enough. I'll try to keep you better informed. You need to know that when you're all causing trouble, Brother Jose's simple solutions become more appealing. They are faster, for certain. You three," after a pause, "and Anna too, are more important than you know. We had a rough start," she pointed at the prison bracelets, "but since then you've been fantastic. That's helped a lot. You give people a reason to wait. I need you to keep trying, you have no idea how important you are for all of you."

It all came together for Stan in an instant. He'd just had a period. He'd seen Evelyn, one of his sisters, made into a nanny for opposing the temple. Now he had Sister Paula's plea. He made a decision, and put his other hand on Sister Paula's and gripped it comfortingly. "I will. I promise," she said from the heart.

--SEPARATOR--

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Overton, but there is nothing more I can do."

Larry Elliot had been practicing law in Shawnee for over 50 years. He was a white-haired old man who was very good at projecting an air of geniality. He was using his well-practiced social skills to keep Ellen Overton from panic.

She had bags under her eyes, her clothing was rumpled. and her cheeks were stained with silent tears. He knew she was suffering, and hated that he had to deliver even more bad news.

"But they have to," she protested. "They have to let me see my husband. Don't they?"

"I'm sorry," said Larry kindly, "but no, they don't. The temple has taken a surprisingly hard line here. They are not letting family members see them. They claim Jack's Gifts as church property, and have a divine pronouncement to back it up. I'm afraid they can do what they want."

"He didn't say they were property," screeched Ellen, a line she'd used many times.

"True, He didn't." Larry was patient but firm. "Everyone is clear on that. The temple interprets His wishes that way, though. Now, we both know that the city is allowed to challenge temple interpretations, but they don't do so often, and they have chosen not to this time. Again, Mrs. Overton, I am sorry about this, but neither you nor I are allowed to make such a challenge."

"Please," she begged, "there must be something we can do. The children need their father. The temple can't keep him from them, can they?"

Larry disliked this part of his job. He had to explain to his client that she couldn't get what she wanted. He couldn't do anything, and the city wouldn't. Without the temple's permission, she had no chance of seeing Stan again. Larry wasn't a harsh man by nature, so he tried to say it kindly.

"Mrs. Overton, this is difficult. The temple claims that when God transformed the Gifts, they became new people. Stan Overton died that day as far as the church is concerned. They don't recognize the new person as your husband or as your children's' father, I'm afraid. I've been in contact with the temple Synod, and they hold this position very firmly."

The lawyer looked kindly on Ellen. She closed her eyes in pain, shuddered slightly.

"Mrs. Overton, have you eaten today?"

"Not yet," she answered quietly. "Just made toast for the kids."

Larry called his secretary and asked her to bring in some tea and cookies. It wasn't much, but he could at least help Ellen a little.

"Now," he continued, "while the Church considers Stan deceased, the city considers the Gifts to be the same people they were. They won't pay out any insurance policies. I can continue to work on getting you survivor benefits, and there is some hope, but..."

Ellen interrupted, "I don't want money, I want my husband back."

"Mrs. Overton," Larry interrupted firmly, "not to put too fine a point on it, but even if you got to see her again," he put an emphasis on the word 'her,' "she would no longer be your husband."

She started crying. Larry felt ashamed of himself. In a master stroke of good timing, his secretary arrived with tea, and he was able to take some time serving and comforting Ellen.

Larry decided to change his tack, "Your son graduates next week, right? That should help your family, no?"

It didn't help much, "He's got nothing without his father. Luke needs his father. He's just going to get a city job without Stan's help. Even Maria's having trouble, she's stopped doing her homework and just watches television. We need Stan back, you have to get him back."

Larry felt sorry for the poor woman. He would see if there was anything he could do to get them a settlement from the city or the church, but for now, he escorted her out of his office and went back to other work. He feared Ellen was losing touch with reality.

â˜

On a warm Saturday evening, Luke escaped yet another evening of his mother's ranting by going to the skate park. He met his friends Peter and Danny for a smoke.

"It's just wrong, dammit," stated Luke. "There was a war to get rid of slavery, it's not right for the church to bring it back."

Danny took a long drag on his cigarette, "Yeah, and this got nothing to do with the fact that Daddy's one of 'em."

"Stroke off, dickweed" he countered, "It doesn't change nothing. It's still wrong."

It was strange, Luke thought. He sneaked out of his house to get away from his mother's obsession, but as soon as he started talking to his friends, he went to the same place. He and Maria had been left to their own devices the last few weeks. Whenever Mom was around, she only talked about getting Dad back. More often, she was pleading with lawyers, priests, or officials to try to get him back. He didn't want to go down that track, but couldn't stop himself.

"Hey Luke," said Peter after a punch on the arm to get his attention, "I asked around. It's not like he's really a slave. It's like God told the church to look after them and find them a job or position or something. I mean, we could use that too."

"You think he can say no? People have rights, real rights. Dad didn't commit any crimes, but he can't leave the temple. They take charge of his life, don't let him decide. When people are things, when they're tools, they're slaves."

Luke knew Peter was trying to cheer him up. They'd been friends since they were toddlers and though they understood each other's moods, Peter was shocked by his old friend's passion. He'd never seen Luke get this worked up over anything.

"Dude," piped up Danny, "your Dad ain't a him anymore. She's a chick, right? Maybe they'll find somethin' hot for her to do, eh? Get to see old Dad swingin' on a pole, maybe, if they swing it."

Luke jumped up to take a swing at Danny, who was ready for it. Peter saw it coming and held Luke back. Danny had been needling both of them for the last few weeks. "Hold it Luke, it's what he wants."

Still holding Luke, Pete changed the subject. "Speaking of jobs, you guys got anything lined up after graduation?"

Luke went along with it. He didn't have a chance in a fair fight against Danny, and Danny wouldn't fight fair. "Nope. Diner's not hiring, thought that could work out. Probably just go down for a city job."

"Same," grunted Peter. "Still got a shot at a reclamation crew; go outta the city, claim abandoned stuff. They do more testin' than I'd figured though, and don't think I got great odds. Might do it freelance, maybe. Grab a broken down car and fix it up, got pretty good at that."

"Losers." Danny was straightforward. "Get a job. Settle down," he mimicked in a singsong voice. "Not for this guy. I got an in with the Fiery Scorpions," naming one of the more notorious criminal gangs. "Money and women, men, that's where it's at."

"Shya right," scoffed Luke, still mad about the cracks about his father. "You don't know any Scorpions." The tattoo on his arm was in honor of the Scorpions, but he'd never met an actual gang member. He'd really gotten it to annoy his father and shock his teachers.

"Oh yeah, man, I got connections. They'll be givin' me an initiation test, but then I'm set. Set for life."

Luke and Peter pondered this. Luke knew Danny was both ambitious and amoral. He could make that work for him.

"Danny," he said. Peter and Danny paid attention to Luke's sudden change in demeanor, since he'd been ticked off a moment ago. "Wouldn't the Scorpions be more impressed if you took initiative on your own, planned your own caper?"

"You got somethin' in mind?" sneered Danny.

"Yeah, course I do. It'd take real balls of fire to, say, steal from the temple. We can break in and get the slaves out. Free them from the tyrants of the church."

"Hah," Danny laughed in response, "you're still on that free-your-Daddy kick." He paused. "Still, that would impress them. If you got a plan, yeah, I'm in."

"Whoa," cautioned Peter, "Guys, seriously, you're talking about the temple here. Jack was just here. Sorry Luke, but it's true. God protects it."

"Come on Peter," said Luke, "We've been friends since we were kids. How many times has my Dad helped you out? Picked you up? Remember when he got us after the cops nabbed us for tagging the library? He didn't tell your Mom. Help me out here."

Peter was uncomfortable. Luke didn't often call on his loyalty, and he did owe him. "Fine. I'm in. But outside the temple only - lookout or driver, something like that. I'm not going inside."

"Wuss," from Danny.

"No problem at all," smiled Luke. "We can do this."

It was a long night, but Luke felt better now that he was trying to do something.

â˜

Luke finished high school and scarcely cared. Like his mother, he was going through the motions of life, applying at City Hall for any open position and pretending to listen to his mother's rants. Each evening he got together with his friends to plan their assault. That was his life.

The day came.

It was past midnight, the small hours of the morning. Warm and cloudless, the crescent moon left the night dark enough to hide them.

They parked several blocks away from the temple and walked quietly until they were within sight of the temple gates.

"Phone check," Peter whispered. The others nodded. Peter dialed the others. Their phones went off, low but audible. "OK, I have you two on speed dial. I see anyone coming, or lights going on inside, I'll buzz you."

Luke nodded. Quietly, he clasped Peter on the shoulder. He was thankful for his friend. Peter disagreed with the plan, but came along to support him.
A stone wall surrounded the temple, but the gates were open. They were only closed when the town was under siege. Luke and Danny dashed from hiding to the sides of the gate, plastering themselves against the wall. They paused dramatically. Luke poked his head around the gate and pulled it back suddenly. With a hand sign he indicated he didn't see anyone.

The main doors were unlocked, but they might be guarded. So they dashed from tree to tree, carefully staying out of sight of anyone watching from inside. Behind each tree or rock they'd carefully peer around before silently signalling to the other than the coast was clear.

They proceeded in this fashion for several minutes before reaching the kitchen door on the side of the building. They'd found out that this door was left unlocked so the staff could prepare breakfast before the priests woke up. The cooks started arriving around 4, so they had 2 hours.

They passed through the empty kitchen and peeked beyond. The hall was empty. The ease of their caper was bothering Luke. No one had stopped them or challenged them. Their elaborate entrance was wasted with no one even looking for them. If the place was this lightly guarded, they had to have other defenses. He was going to mention this to Danny, but his partner was already heading off. In the wrong direction.

"Hsst," whispered Luke urgently. "This way."

Danny turned back briefly, "Don't think so. Scorps ain't interested in chick-Daddy. 'm after bigger game. Luck." He kept going while Luke stared open mouthed.

Good or bad, he was on his own. He was always on his own.

He went to the temple every week, but only knew the public areas. He was pretty sure that the prisoners were in the Pilgrim's wing. He knew the way and started heading there.

He wondered if Danny's departure was good or bad. Being in different places increased the chances of one of them getting caught. If Danny got caught, the distraction might give Luke some extra breathing room to get his Dad out.

He tried to move quickly but quietly, avoided lit areas, and stopped to peer around corners. Hugging the walls while moving was overkill, he decided. He did see one person up and roaming the halls, but Luke just stood still for a while and that person moved on about his business.

The entrance to the pilgrim's quarters was unguarded. He looked in one room, opening the door slowly. It was empty. Two bunk beds and some lockers, but no people.

The next room was full, four women sleeping in the bunk beds. He had to hope one of them was his father. He looked at the women, but of course he couldn't tell them apart. As far as he could tell, they were all Mrs. Ramos.

He thought back to his father's stories and remembered he made a big deal out of picking the bottom bunk. He said it was important. So, if one of these women was his Dad, he could narrow it down to two. He went over and shook one of the women. "Shhh, please." He whispered while waking her.

"Hey, what's going on?" the woman cried as she woke up. Luke's hand on her mouth shut her up, but she struggled.

"It's me, Luke. Dad? Stan?" He felt the woman struggle briefly and then relax.

"Luke?" she asked quietly once Luke released her. "Luke, wow. It's good to see you again." She was excited but whispering, which made her sound very strange. "I'm Anna. Anna Lopez. Suzanna's in the other bunk," she said, pointing across the room.

"Who? I want to see my father, Stan Overton."

"Keep it down," she whispered back, "You're not supposed to be here. And she's Suzanna now. Here." At a gesture from her, Luke backed off. She woke up the woman in the other bunk.

Luke slapped himself, "Guessed wrong, of course." The woman woke up, Anna shushed her, then pointed to Luke.

Her hand flew to her mouth, "Aaah. Luke." She leapt out of bed, ran and jumped at him, putting her arms around his neck to hug him. She quieted quickly, "Luke," in a whisper, "Thank you. How did you get here? Oh, it is so good to see you. I've missed you so much." The two women in the top bunks woke up, complaining.

The woman, his father, sat down on her bed. She patted the mattress next to her to invite Luke over. Anna quieted the others and told them what was going on. Luke was stunned. He couldn't believe this woman was his father. She acted so different. Luke's father didn't hug, he shook hands. He certainly didn't pat the bed to invite someone over. Still, Luke went and sat next to her.

Suzanna put her hand on his arm, "How is everyone? How is... Ellen?"

The tone was right. He hurt. It was him. "She's not doing good, Dad. It's why I'm here, to get you out so you can take care of her. She can't take it."

Suzanna looked down, sadly, "I was afraid of that, but I'd hoped. I'd really hoped. Oh Luke, I'm so sorry." She paused, looked him in the eye and leaned towards him, "How is Maria? And you?"

"Dad," Luke answered impatiently, "we can talk about this later. We've got to get you out."

"No," she answered slowly. "You can't." She held up her arm, pointed to an iron band. Luke noticed, for the first time, that she was wearing a nightgown, with her hair tied up and her nails painted and filed. "It's a prison bracelet. I couldn't leave the temple if I wanted to.

"I do want to leave, but Luke, I couldn't go unless we could get all of us out. And keep us out. The temple has ways to find us." She looked away shyly. "I doubt I could go home anyway. Do you think Ellen would accept me like this? It sure wouldn't help her. I could do it for you and Maria, maybe, but I'm not sending you two into exile while the temple hunts us. Not like this."

Now it was Luke's turn to look away. There was no denying she was a woman. A woman would not reassure his Mother. He shook his head no.

Luke wanted to talk some more, find out what was going on, when they heard guards yelling, "Thief."

Suzanna turned, "Anna, look outside. Luke, are you alone?"

Luke flushed, "No, I came in with a friend. I thought he was going to help me, but he broke off to rob something. I don't know what."

Anna gave an all clear sign. "OK, Luke," said Suzanna, gripping both his arms, "we have a way out. It's a bit dirty," she grinned, "but you can do it. I want your promise. Don't do this again. You need to take care of your mother and your sister, OK?"

Luke promised, and Suzanna leaned in close, hugged him tight, and kissed him on the cheek.

Luke, his father, and another of Jack's Gifts who Luke was pretty sure was Anna, ran down some hallways into the boiler room. They had to dodge some disorganized and sleepy novices. Before he knew it he was crawling out of the temple through the crawlway, trudging through the sewers, and coming up near the Hickory Diner. He looked back longingly at the temple, thinking he'd never see his father again.

â˜

Luke dressed up as much as he could for this meeting. He was wearing a button shirt, his best jeans, and dress shoes. He'd gotten to the Hickory Diner early, so he was waiting at one of the tables on the patio when Sister Paula arrived.

"Luke Overton, I assume," she said while reaching out to shake his hand. Sister Paula wore a business suit with a skirt, the broken circle of the church hanging low like a necklace. Her blue eyes shone.

"Yes. Sister Paula, right?" he asked in response.

"I don't know how I do this," Luke said hesitantly. "I'm appealing for temple mercy, I guess. Do I need to do something special?"

"No." Paula replied, understanding that this was a big step for Luke. "There're no rituals, just explain your situation. I already know what happened with your father. Your mother made several appeals to the temple, but I understand that's not what you wanted to talk about. Feel free to tell me about it if you think it's important, though. It's surely better to repeat things I know than to leave out something I don't.

"But before you start, you need to understand that temple mercy has limits. We can intercede with civil authority, but without God's command, we can't override any laws. The only thing we can really do is get you heard."

"Yeah," said Luke, "well, I hope that'll be enough then. It's not my father, it's my sister."

In the month since he tried to rescue his father, Luke had come to accept that he was gone for good. He hadn't seen Danny since that day, and he and Peter never spoke of it. Despite his best efforts, life went on. It had led him to this diner meeting.

"My mother, that's Ellen Overton, had a heart attack. She's in the hospital. You said you know about my father, Stan. He was one of Jack's Gifts from when Jack visited. My mother asked for temple mercy to get him back and tried to go through the city too, but I guess you knew that already. It was eating her up, she stopped sleeping or eating. Anyway, it all got to her and I guess she couldn't take it anymore."

Luke worked hard to keep his voice level and even. Sister Paula seemed sympathetic, with her hands crossed in her lap as she watched him. He wanted to yell and rail at her, but knew that wouldn't help his case, so he controlled himself.

"I got a city job, but all I could get was a twice a week janitor slot. Not much money, especially with Mom in the hospital."

"I see. Go on." Paula knew he was still building up to the real problem. A little encouragement could help.

"With all that going on, I guess my little sister's gotten a bit out of hand. She, Maria, my sister, she got in trouble. Got caught stealing from the deli and got arrested. Now the judge is saying I can't provide for her, and they're going to take her away until Mom gets better. Doctors don't think she will, so that'll be forever. Please help us."

Paula took a sip of water. "I sympathize with you Mr. Overton. Your family has been through some tough times. What do you think the church can do for you?"

"Well, a few years ago, we kept an orphan girl with us for a few months during the holidays. Anna Lopez, her name was. She's also one of Jack's Gifts now, so you can check with her. She was a church foundling. So, I was thinking you could take Maria as a foundling, then let me keep her, so she'd be outside the city's reach." Luke started hesitantly, but his voice gained strength as he went through his plan.

"That's very clever. It really is, but it wouldn't work. When the Church takes a foundling, we are still subject to the city's jurisdiction. That means we have to place them in homes capable of them. City officials check up on them like they do anyone else.

"Now Mr. Overton. Luke. I've looked at your record. You've been in trouble several times. All juvenile crimes. Now a small time city job. You haven't shown any strong attachment to your family in the past. Why is this so important to you?"

Paula wasn't telling him the whole truth. Most of what she knew about Luke came not from his records, but from listening to Suzanna. It was also why she wanted to help the boy if at all possible.

"I made a promise to my father."

That was not what she expected. "Tell me."

Luke thought for a second. Did she know about the break in, or was she fishing for more information? It didn't really matter. If he was going to keep Maria with him, he knew the story he had to go with. It was even true.

"It was the night before Jack changed my Dad. I was in trouble again. My father got me. He'd just fought a wisp, and he said his biggest worry was that if something happened to him, I wouldn't watch out for our family." Luke looked down. "I don't want him to be right."

"Luke, I can't keep your sister safe or with you. If I intercede and tell child services to let you keep her, they'd refuse. It's even possible they'd consider it improper interference, and they might take it out on you.

"But I might be able to do something. I can probably get them to delay action until the fall, if I ask it as a favor. If you can keep her out of trouble and show you can look after her, you might change their minds."

Luke smiled. Hesitant, but genuine.

"Thank you." He had a goal. He couldn't fail.

--SEPARATOR--

Sister Paula thought back to her meeting with Luke a few weeks later while editing the Liturgy of Jack. It had been nearly three months since Jack had left Shawnee, and Luke's family problem was just one of the issues He'd left behind for the church to deal with. The liturgy was exposing growing divisions in the clergy. To her discomfort, Paula had become the leader of one of those factions, with Brother Jose her opposite. The Synod, the representatives of the Gods who had visited Shawnee, were content to allow proxies to conduct the battle. Either Paula or Jose would almost certainly join the Synod in Jack's chair.

Sister Paula had yet another revision of the Pillar of Fire miracle. The facts were not in dispute. A zombie from Kansas City had created a new creature, a Vozhd. The creature infected people, but it wasn't clear why or what the infection would do. Jack traced the vozhd to a gas station and destroyed the creature. He also killed five people who were there at the time. Sister Paula had ensured their names were all recorded in the Liturgy a few edits back.

She wanted the Pillar of Fire story to recognize that He killed some only to save many more, that Jack was acting as a protector of mankind. Brother Jose wished to show that the threat from the monsters was growing, and that we must do whatever is needed to defeat them.

The disputed passage read:

"And with the Source of the Plague located, the Lord Jack did waste no time in ending its threat. Though evil hid behind innocence, He would brook no delay in ending it. He did lift the home of the Source into the sky itself, and called forth from Heaven the fire which laid it to waste.

Neither the living nor the dead was permitted to escape, their earthly bodies consumed in their entirety. Then did he allow the frame to return unto the ground, where it would be interred and sealed against the memory of all."

If only He'd spoken, she thought for the umpteenth time, but He said nothing that night. She once claimed He was mourning the loss of innocent lives. She'd been overruled and forbidden from imputing emotions to God without evidence. Paula was a loyal follower, as was Brother Jose, and accepted the rebuke.

She changed the second sentence to:

"The nature of Evil is to hide behind Innocence, yet more would suffer should He not act." That should work, she thought. Jose could let that through, as it would easily allow him to teach that the growing threats required harsh action. It would also permit her to teach that the God was a protector and the temple must stand in for Him as needed. She had cleaner victories elsewhere in the Liturgy. For the Pillar of Fire, she'd have to take what she could.

Her paperwork done for the day, she moved on to other duties. She supervised some of the transformed. She refused to call them Jack's Gifts. Brother Jose had tried to pin the transformed men on her as a punishment, but it was the group she wanted to work with. They needed help, and she was eager to give it.

Her girls were cleaning the kitchen before the cooks arrived for dinner. She listened before going into the room. The kitchen overlooked the orchards, and they were watching the harvest while they cleaned.

"There she goes again, see," said Suzanna. "That's the third time Molly has just happened to brush up against Ed. She's making a play for him."

"Oh I hope not," replied Melissa. The former men had taken new names. Martin had become Melissa. "Ed's been staring at Lisa every chance he gets. You watch, he'll be going over to help her carry her bushel soon as it's full."

The two continued while scrubbing the counters, gossiping about who was seeing whom, who was jealous, and who looked good. Sister Paula was very pleased with their progress. Just listening in, they sounded like normal women.

"Zombie crap," said the third girl, Julia. She used to be Jeff, and was Sister Paula's holdout. Even more than the sex change, the transformed disliked losing their individuality. They used color and clothing to tell each other apart. Suzanna kept a yellow headband on, while Melissa wore her green scarf. Julia insisted on continuing to use her name tag rather than commit to some feminine clothing.

"Who cares who's going out with who?" Julia asked in frustration. "Let's just get the cleaning done already. I want to go run."

When Julia took up running, Paula had hoped it would lead to her getting to know her body better, and maybe adapting. It didn't work. Julia ran so obsessively Paula was sometimes sorry she'd approved it.

"Don't worry, Julia. We won't take too long. We can even join you if you'll let us. But come on, watching and talking at least gives us something to do," soothed Suzanna.

Paula decided she'd listened long enough. "Good afternoon. How're we all doing today?"

"Sister Paula," replied Suzanna smoothly, "Have you heard from Anna? Did she arrive safely?"

"Yes, she did. We heard a few hours ago. I'm sorry, I should have let the three of you know immediately. She got to the temple in Biloxi last night, and should be able to take her novitiate vows within the week. They were excited to get a novice who had been transformed by God. I think she'll do well there."

Paula was pleased with Anna's decision to join the temple. In the fights to dispose of the transformed, that was far and away her biggest victory.

"I'm sure she'll write to you. I'll let her know you asked about her. Melissa, if you wish to write, I'll be happy to send out any letters for you."

Paula could not remove Julia or Suzanna's prison bracelet unless she got permission from the Synod, so neither would be capable of writing to Anna. All of her efforts to get the prison bands removed had come to naught.

"I'll do that," said Melissa, "and thank you." She knew not to offer to include anything from the other girls. They wouldn't be able to, and would just get angry.

"Suzanna," continued Paula, "I like the highlights in your hair. Very nicely done. Well," she laughed a bit, "I like anything that makes it easier to tell you apart."

An awkward moment of silence fell. Sister Paula recognized her mistake. The girls were mirror images of each other, and did not like being reminded of it. Suzanna finally pushed her hair up slightly with her hand and broke the silence.

"I wish I could take the credit for it. Anna did it before she left. I have to learn to do it myself soon. I'm glad you like it, so do I."
Paula talked with them some more before heading on to her other duties. She was pleased. Jack commanded the temple to do good by them, and she believed that helping them adapt furthered God's will.

â˜

The last rumbles of an afternoon thunderstorm were fading when Brother Jose got back to the temple. He was wet, dirty, and tired but pleased with himself for a hard day's work. An unexpected truckload of basic supplies came in the morning with no one to offload it. He organized a quick group of men and had to pitch in himself. It left a lot of administrative work for the afternoon. He suspected it would be a long night, but it was worth it.

The latest copy of the Liturgy of Jack was on his desk. It could wait. Sister Paula was winning too many of their disputes of late. The Liturgy was not reflecting Jack's will. Delay was Brother Jose's ally at the moment, to allow time for the winds to shift.

He was in charge of the temple's relief efforts, so he turned to that instead. Ghosts hit in the north, Billings was requesting support. Brother Jose got to work arranging transportation for food and equipment. A long trip was risky, but he'd developed a strong network of contacts over the years. He made sure to offer to take any orphaned children on the return trip. Ever since Divinitrice's Waltz a decade ago he'd worried about the gap in their population. He admitted to himself that he had a soft spot for children, but he didn't want that to get out.

On his wall was a picture of Mexico City before it fell, a sword mounted beneath the picture. He lived there once, was there during the fall. The sword had seen plenty of use on the long trek north. On the march he'd made the decision to join the priesthood. He'd give his life to aid the fight so others wouldn't have to go through the same struggle he did. He'd learned a lot since joining the church, including the most bitter of knowledge.

Mankind was losing.

In a generation, maybe two, they would no longer be able to hold the cities. The survivors might scatter and hide, but they'd have little chance. They'd die quickly. Fifty years. At most.

Back to work. His efforts would add to the cause. His supplies might let Billings hold out that much longer and stave off disaster another day. Too many, even in the priesthood, did not understand the urgency of their task. In the end, God would have to carry the fight, but they had to give Him the fullest measure of support.

He was thinking of the Liturgy again. No, relief work took priority for the moment. He got his concentration back.

"Excuse me, Brother." One of Jack's Gifts was at the door. "Father Francis asked me to bring you some dinner. Can I leave it here?" She was carrying a tray with bread, cheese, half a chicken, and cider.

"Yes, yes," he answered irritably. "Leave it here."

Jose was going to thank her, but she was not wearing a nametag. She had jeans that ended halfway up the calf, a white shirt with flowers on the sleeve, and a yellow bow in her hair. Then he saw she was wearing a prison band. Since they had let the orphan girl take vows in Mississippi, that made this girl one of the men.

"Who are you? Why don't you have a nametag?"

"I'm Suzanna." She pointed to the bow in her hair. "I wear yellow in my hair to set myself apart. Or, like you just did, you can ask."

Sister Paula was working with that group. She was trying to make them more feminine. Brother Jose thought the girl's answer was too aggressive to be feminine, but that was true of Sister Paula also. "Before you go, do you know what Sister Paula wants to do with you? Do you know she's trying to arrange marriages for you?"

He could see it in her face. She didn't know, and wasn't pleased. "She's not the one who made sure we have no say in the matter," the girl retorted before spinning around to leave. He was on the phone before she was out of the room.

Everything was set up within a day, but he had to wait three more days until he had the letters he needed in hand. He asked to meet with Sister Paula and the Synod, at least those deciding the Gifts' fate.

"I have a request from the New Orleans temple for one of Jack's Gifts. A local dance club, the Fallen Rose I believe, will make a substantial donation to relief efforts for one of them. If you look at the financials of the Montana efforts, that amount would enable us to start the Fortress Billings project. I believe we must give this proposal serious consideration."

"No we don't," countered Sister Paula immediately. "The Rose isn't a dance club, it's a brothel. We cannot send any of the women there. There's no doubt that goes against Jack's will."

"A brothel?" exclaimed Jose with practiced innocence. "The priests from New Orleans are quite insistent it is a dance club. I've got," a quick ruffle through the letters, "Father deCalais' statement, for instance."

"Father deCalais?" murmured Father Francisco. The father, representing Baron Samedhi, was Sister Paula's biggest supporter. He was also one of Father deCalais' students, so neatly neutralized. Jose saw Sister Paula realize this.

"Even so," she replied lamely, "why send a girl to a dance club? We can do much better for them."

"Perhaps so," said Jose with mock thoughtfulness. "Dancing girls don't have a high reputation. I believe," he pulled a letter from the Rose, "they think one of Jack's Gifts would raise the status of the other girls there too. We would be doing good for many this way."

"Hardly," said Paula, recovering. "That's a weak rationalization Brother Jose. We need to care for the women, not use them for our own ends. A hope like that isn't worth considering." Father Francisco nodded approvingly, but the other Synod members waited for Jose's reply.

"Only if there is a potential for better, I'd contend. Sister Paula has been putting heroic efforts into readying some of the Gifts for arranged marriages. A valiant effort, but I see one of the former men has been actively resisting." A glance at his notes, like he didn't know this by heart, "Julia, I believe. Very athletic, but actively masculine. She won't become a good wife. As a dancer she may acquire the femininity Sister Paula cannot give her, and will further support both the survivors in Montana and her fellow club members."

"Julia?" Sister Paula was obviously shocked. "No. She couldn't. She just couldn't. She's not ready."

"Is she ready for marriage? For anything you're doing?"

"Not yet, but she will be."

It was over. The argument would last another hour, but from that moment, it was just haggling over details.

â˜

Losing Julia to Brother Jose's machinations was a serious blow to Sister Paula, both personally and professionally. It hurt her when dealing with the last two transformed men. Suzanna and Melissa were not as willing to work with her anymore, they didn't trust her. And, she thought, that was with them still thinking the Fallen Rose really was a dance club. Failure could feed on itself. If they started to neglect their lessons, Brother Jose might be able to make similar arrangements for them. He was already working on profitable positions for some of the natural women. His success would then influence his take on Jack's Liturgy.

To cap off a generally miserable week, Paula arrived at Reason and Elliot Law Offices to speak with Larry Elliot. She had dealt with him over the summer, writing official requests from the church to give Luke more time with his sister Maria. She'd gotten an urgent call to deal with the matter one more time.

"Sister Paula, it's always a pleasure to see you, though I wish it could be under better circumstances one of these times."

"As do I. How's Claire?" They spent a few moments talking about his grandchildren. Larry's southern charm was one of his greatest assets and weapons.

"To the matter at hand. School has started, and the city has gotten complaints about Maria Overton's condition. She lost nearly ten pounds over the summer. She's not healthy and her behavior has deteriorated. At this point, I don't think there's anything the temple could do to keep protective services from taking her. I have already informed Mr. Overton of this. You have been involved throughout, so I wanted you to know."

"I've met with Luke several times over the summer. He would be devastated if he lost his sister. He's lost his father and mother right in a row. I am not sure he could stand another loss. It wouldn't be good for Maria either. Luke has changed from, let's face it, a juvenile delinquent to a solid citizen with a job. I want to help the boy make it Larry, and I need your help."

"I agree with you there," Larry responded. "The boy's doing what he can, finally. Might be he started too late, but he has started. He's getting his act together. I don't expect it'll last if he loses the girl either."

He paused, "Maybe you can tell me why you're so involved with this. Not to be snitty, but neither town nor temple will lose much if we're short a janitor. His father I could see. Good plumbers are in short supply, and he did it on his own. Luke, not so much."

"There's no secret. It's for his father. God changed him and gave him to us to take care of. I think that charge extends to those who were touched by His miracle, and I want to take care of the families where I can. They deserve better than they get from us."

"It's very nice of you, I'm sure," said Larry kindly, "but have you thought that it might be better for Maria to be somewhere more stable? Able to provide for her."

"Yes. I've thought about it, but I don't believe it. She needs her family, as much as she can get of it. Speaking of which, have you heard about Ellen? How is she doing?"

"No change. They've taken her off everything but food and water. She might recover, of course, but it'll have to be on her own. I'm surprised you didn't know that already."

Paula laughed regretfully, "If you think civil-temple relations are poor, you should see what we have to deal with from the hospital. Unless it's a family member in there, we'll get nothing from them. Sometimes I think they'd fight God directly, let alone requests."

"I hadn't realized. I feel sorry for the family. At least you can help the father, Stan."

"She's Suzanna now. I had hoped for more time, but I need to talk to you about her. Legal matters." Sister Paula could feel her palms sweating. She thought up this plan two days ago. Larry would be the first test on whether it might work.

"Hold on there, little lady. I thought I called you here to talk about Luke. Do you have some divine power to influence events?" He laughed lightly.

"Just coincidence. No, I've been planning this for a little while. You know the church's position, that Suzanna is a new person, created by Jack from the stuff that once was Stan, but she is not the same person. I understand that this is not the city's position, right?"

Larry was puzzled. He didn't want to answer without knowing where she was going. Giving up, he answered, "That's right. As far as the law is concerned, she is still Stan Overton, though changed in sex and age. I think I could dig up the paperwork for it if you need it.

"She'd," he paused to make sure Sister Paula noted the change in pronouns, "even still own all her old property and be responsible for old debts except that the church declared her property. That triggered inheritance, so Luke gets the house and what little they had saved up. No death benefits, but he didn't have life insurance anyway."

"All right. Now, church and civil laws are generally pretty close, but they can differ, as in this case. Let's say that the church makes a ruling under their law that leads to consequences under civil law. Would the city accept that?"

"I'm sorry Sister, but I haven't the foggiest notion what you're talking about. I'll try to give you an answer, but you've got to give me a question."

Sister Paula explained. Larry went from shock to dismay to delight. Paula felt much better after hammering out a few details.

â˜

It was a bright Saturday in the middle of September. Suzanna was wearing a simple white dress while Melissa stood by her side.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Suzanna complained.

"I'm going to miss you," Melissa answered.

"This is not the way I ever pictured this. If it weren't for Maria , and Luke too I guess, I'd never do this."

Sister Paula knocked. "Suzanna, it's all I could do. Please forgive me."

She took the prison bracelet off Suzanna's wrist.

Suzanna sniffed and turned her head away from Sister Paula.

Wagner's Bridal Chorus filled the air. The doors swung open and Suzanna began her march down the aisle, Melissa right behind her.

At the far end of the aisle, waiting by the altar, was her son, Luke.

God Given Face Part 3

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Suzanna returns to her home and family in a new role, and they all must figure out how to adapt to the changes.

God has given you one face, and you make yourself another

Hamlet. Act I, Scene 3

The wedding was short and simple. Suzanna and Luke kissed awkwardly at the priest's command, and she was Mrs. Overton, married to her son. Rather, she reminded herself, she was married to the man who had been her son back before she was transformed. No matter how she felt, she was not Stan Overton any more. She had Stan's memories, but was not Stan.

For the first time in months she was able to leave the temple, and she was returning to her old home. "It's so great to be back with you two, and finally out of the temple." She wasn't sure what she was feeling, but determined that she would appear upbeat.

Luke shut her down, "And this is all it took?" None of them spoke again during the ride home.

Suzanna felt tears well up when they got to the house. She never thought she'd see it again. The yard was messier than she left it and the fresh coat of paint she'd put on the fence in the spring had weathered, but it was still her home. It wasn't fair. The house should have changed as much as she had. It was, instead, an island of stability.

"Luke," she asked, "could you carry in my things?" She had been allowed to bring some supplies from the temple. A few changes of clothes, some makeup and toiletries. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

"Yeah," he grunted in return.

Their home was a mess. She should have expected it. Ellen did most of the cleaning, neither of the kids was neat, and she had only helped out when Ellen asked her to. With Ellen in the hospital, the house deteriorated. The kitchen was the worst, with a week's worth of dirty dishes piled in the sink.

Maria ran to her room as soon as they were inside, leaving her alone with Luke, her husband.

Luke gave a halfhearted apology for his silence. "I didn't want to do this. It's just weird. But Sister Paula said it was the only way to keep Maria. I'm sorry Dad. I just couldn't let her go."

"She told me the same thing," She wanted to reassure Luke, but didn't know how. She reached out to hug him, but he stepped back. She didn't press it. Kissing him during the wedding was difficult for both of them. Further contact was awkward.

"It's a loophole. The city accepts any marriage the temple performs, and the city still considers me Maria's, well, father. That makes it harder for them to take her away legally. You did the right thing, protecting her."

Luke sagged. "Great. So I'm not a complete failure." Bitterness crept into his voice, "You can keep your old room. I'll stay in mine."

"All right," Suzanna agreed. She picked up her things and brought them into the room she'd shared with Ellen for the last 2 decades. Same room, but different. Larger and emptier. Her old clothes were no longer hers. She pulled an old sundress of Ellen's from the closet and held it against her body, looking at herself in the mirror. The dress was large, Ellen was taller than her. It was too small in the chest. She had larger breasts than her wife. Her former wife.

Suddenly realizing what she was doing, Suzanna put the dress back in the closet. She felt guilty. Ellen had been in the hospital for two months, but these were still her things. Suzanna had no idea what they'd do if Ellen got better, but the prognosis was poor. It only added to her guilt when she thought that was at least one problem they wouldn't have to deal with.

As she was getting closer to breaking down, Maria quietly entered the room. "Are you really Daddy?"

Suzanna looked at her daughter. She used to have to kneel down to talk to her, but Maria was only slightly shorter than her now. The young girl was growing like a reed, while Suzanna, of course, had shrunk. She forced herself to remain calm. Deep breath.

"Yes, Princess, I really am. Sort of. God changed me, so I can't be your father any more, but it's who I was."

"I can't call you Daddy. What should I call you?"

The pain returned. She struggled not to show it, not to even hint at it. She knew her little girl was right. "Call me Suzanna. Sue would be fine too." She tried to get a laugh with, "But not Suzi." It didn't work.

"OK" She nodded and walked back out, leaving Suzanna nonplussed.

She wanted her family to feel normal again. They didn't have a reception like when she'd married Ellen, but she could prepare a good dinner for everyone. She started by cleaning the kitchen. After months doing it at the temple, she knew she'd be able to make at least a basic meal now.
She had to use what Luke and Maria had on hand, so they wound up with pigs in a blanket, peas and carrots cooked in butter, and applesauce. Not much, but she could do better after some shopping.

"Dinner's ready," she called proudly after setting it all out on the dining table.

Maria came to the table and sat down, "Thanks Sue. We haven't had dinner since..."

Luke came too, but looked surly. "Guh," he grunted. He grabbed the plate Suzanna had made him, took it, and went into the family room to watch television.

Suzanna was stunned, but didn't say anything. She never thought this would be easy, but she'd hoped Luke would cooperate. She sat down. Maria looked at her brother, picked up her plate, and went to join him.

Suzanna ate alone.

At night, in her old bed, she cried herself to sleep.

â˜

Any hopes she had for a happy homecoming were soon dashed.

Luke avoided her. He worked two days a week, but found reasons to stay outside whenever he could. She tried to engage him one evening, "Glad to see you back. So what were you doing today?"

"Watching the guy who helped me break in to the temple to rescue you get publicly flogged," he sneered.

That was one of their longer conversations. She usually got grunts or stares from him. His rejection hurt her more than she'd ever expected.
Maria was little better. She followed her brother's lead. She would speak to Suzanna, but not enough to ease her pain.

"Hi there Princess. How was school today?"

"Same."

"What did you do?"

"Nothin." By then she'd turned on the television or head back outside.

Suzanna was losing her family even while she was with them. Her loss was worse due to crushing loneliness. She had hated having her duplicates around her, but that was because they made her feel unreal. On the other hand, she'd gotten used to having people around her all the time. Now she didn't, and found she missed it.

It might have been possible to spend time with neighbors, but she gave up on that her very first full day back, when she went grocery shopping.
"It's Jack's Gift."

"Can I get your blessing?"

"Tell Jack to heal my daughter."

People were waiting outside her home. She didn't know how to react. Her first thought had been relief that Luke and Maria were not here to see this, until she realized they had to have seen the crowd when they left earlier. After the initial shock it became annoying. It was frightening by the time she got home. She slammed the door on one of her pursuers' face.

She stayed inside the rest of the day. She could not go meet neighbors with her stalkers outside. She wasn't sure she wanted to either. They didn't know who she was, and she wanted to keep it that way. She was a new person, and it would be too embarrassing if anyone learned who she had been. Of course, there was little danger. She barely knew her neighbors' names. That was Ellen's department.

Each night she sobbed alone in bed. Her children... no, her husband and sister-in-law, didn't want her. She was alone, lonely, a freak. She couldn't go on but didn't know what else she could do.

Each day she cleaned and cooked and tried to avoid looking out the window. She dreaded having to go for groceries or the mail, so she avoided those tasks for days on end.

She didn't recognize the first ray of light when it came. As is so often the case, she would only pinpoint it much later with the benefit of hindsight. She'd made chili one night. Luke and Maria ate by the television as normal. After dinner Luke confronted her. "We can't keep doin' this," he said waving the empty bowl angrily. "We can't afford to eat like this every bloody night. I only work two days a week."

"I've been doing the best I can. This is cheap." She was put off. It was almost the first full sentence Luke had spoken to her since she'd come home with him and it was to accuse her.

"And Mom's in the hospital and the truck's not paid off and there's all the other bills I got." He braced his hands on the table across from Suzanna, his frustration clear.

"What? How bad is it?" She felt hard pressed. Luke spent so much effort avoiding speaking to her, and now this. Fear, frustration, and anger all vied for her attention. Sister Paula's lessons in restraint stood against it, and she held her poise for the moment.

Luke didn't. "You want to see?" He stomped back to his room, came out with a pile of bills and threw them at her. "That's how bad it is. So stop it. Just stop. Just..." His voice broke and he stopped, went back to his room.

"Sue?" asked Maria timidly, "what does he mean? Are you going to leave again?"

"No Princess, I'm not going to leave you again. Ever." She'd make it true.

Maria hadn't run. Suzanna was proud of her. "Gather up those bills for me, let me go through them."

Hours later, after Maria went to bed, she knocked on Luke's door. "We can do this," she told him. "Most of the bills are from the hospital, for... your mother. We can delay most of them, and might get temple coverage if we can convince them her illness was due to Jack's visit."

She paused. Luke opened his door, came silently into the room with her. "You're right. It's not going to be enough. We need to budget more. Your... no, Ellen and I had to do that for years. We can do it too. I can, well, I can help. Get out of the house, get a city job. Bring in a bit more. It all helps."

Sullenly, but at least participating, Luke said, "What about plumbing? You can take the truck back." He would not look her in the eye.

"No, that won't work anymore. Not strong enough."

"There are women plumbers," Luke insisted, still looking away from her.

"I know. But I won't be one of them. This body just doesn't have the strength for it. Some women might be strong enough. I'm not one of them."
"You hated the idea of working for the city. It ain't right I have to make you. It's all wrong. It's my fault."

"Luke, it's not your fault. It's no one's fault. It happened, and we have to deal with it. I'm in this with you, and will do what's needed. You know that."

His shoulders slumped. "So now I'm on the temple's side, using you. Fine. Whatever." He finally looked at her. His eyes watered. He went back to his room.

Suzanna wanted to follow, but didn't know what to say.

â˜

She got dressed the next morning in a long yellow skirt with a green and yellow patterned blouse and a wide black belt. She had gotten used to wearing yellow while in the temple to identify herself, and it looked good against her dark skin. She curled her hair and put in a pair of dangling earrings.

She looked herself over in the mirror to confirm there was no sign of Stan Overton there. There was no reason there should be, she had a new body, but she felt better after confirming it. Thus armored, she boldly walked out of the house.

She was let down by the lack of an audience or reaction.

Her stalkers and passers-by had apparently given up. Cheered by her absurd reactions, she walked to the bus stop. No one reacted. On the bus, one person she didn't know called her Rosa. Suzanna shook her head no. She heard an old woman stage whisper "She's one of Jack's Gifts," just before her stop. She scurried off the bus without drawing more attention.

Walking to city hall, she thought about her reaction leaving the house. She was disappointed that her stalkers left her alone. Why?

None of her old friends had come to visit since she came home. They didn't know who she was, of course. She hadn't felt any urge to reconnect with them either. Some part of it was shame, but a bigger part was that she didn't have any good friends. Ellen had friends, she had Ellen and her family. Since the war host, she realized, her twins at the temple were the best friends she had.

She'd changed more than just her skin. Was this part of Rosa, part of being a woman, or part of her given license to be friends again? She didn't know.

At city hall, she stopped thinking about herself and made an appointment to apply for a job. While waiting she picked up a fashion magazine and paged through looking at the women, but now looking for hair and makeup ideas. Or so she tried to tell herself. She was still attracted to beautiful women. Then again, she reasoned, these magazines were made for women, so she wondered just how much natural women were attracted to other women too.

Getting out of the house seemed to spur her to deep thoughts. She'd have to try it more often.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. "Finally leaving the house then, Mrs. Overton?" came a voice from behind her, with a heavy stress on the 'Mrs.'
She turned to see Brother Jose.

"I'm applying for a job. Not that it's any business of yours," she said coldly.

"Of course it's my business," the priest snarled at her. "God commanded we find something good for you, as Sister Paula reminds us. God's commands don't end because you are no longer on temple grounds. As long as you are in town and I can keep track of you, rest assured that your business is mine."

He loomed over her, staring down, "When our newlywed Gift spends an entire week in her house I'd say it's a sure sign we found her a fine position. Perhaps many positions," he leered. "But then I see your husband leaving the house each day while you remain behind, so perhaps I'm mistaken."
"Our home life is none of your business."

Pointing dramatically at her chest, he spouted "Didn't I just tell you, your business is my business? No matter what Sister Paula says or believes, God gave you to us. You belong to the temple. We may send you out and we may take you back. Don't ever forget it. You are ours for life."

He paused, looked dramatically around the waiting room. "You can leave now. You will find nothing here. I've seen to that."

"What? You can't do that."

"I can and I have. It is the temple's job to find you a good position, and a city welfare position is not it. If Sister Paula was wrong to place you here, you are still our responsibility and we will find you a new home. I have informed the city planners of our position."

"We need this. My son, my husband has had a lot to..."

"Hah," crowed Brother Jose. "He is your son, not your husband. I will break this farce of a marriage and see you sold to benefit God and the temple, Mrs. Overton." Once again, he placed a strong emphasis on the Mrs.

Brother Jose left. The two other applicants stared at her, but looked away whenever she looked back.

After a few minutes, she left. It had turned into a pretty miserable day.

â˜

Without a second income, things stayed tense at the Overton's. Brother Jose was successful, assuming that had been his goal. Suzanna drew up a budget and got Luke to acknowledge it. Luke at least recognized her existence, but rarely spoke more than a full sentence.

Suzanna stretched the family meals and tried to learn to sew. Ellen had a sewing machine, but it proved harder than it looked. She could darn socks, at least, and pledged to keep practicing. Every little bit helped.

For her own sanity, she walked into town every day. She wanted to get used to seeing old neighbors in her new body. She was called one of Jack's Gifts far more than she liked, but at least that's all she was called. No one knew who she used to be.

In early October, Suzanna got a call from Maria's school. Maria had been caught skipping class. Suzanna swore out loud after hanging up, covered her mouth in embarrassment, and then laughed at herself. There was no one else home.

She had gotten used to seeing people and saying hello, but a personal meeting was something new. She and Luke were Maria's guardians. She dressed up in grey slacks, a green blouse and scarf, and pumps with a small heel. She put on some makeup, and made sure to bring some with her in her purse. Clothes were her armor, she hoped she could withstand the slings and arrows.

The last time she'd been at the school she was still Stan. She went to see Maria sing in the annual Winter Festival program. This was her first time as Suzanna. She was nervous each time she had to return to someplace she'd been before changing. She calmed her nerves by checking and refreshing her lipstick. It was a surprisingly effective calming technique, only available to women.

Maria was waiting, and the two of them were soon escorted in to see Brenda MacHale, the school counselor.

"Mrs. Overton, Maria," the matronly woman started, "I'm sure you both know why we're here, but I'd like to go over it to start us off. Maria was caught behind the bleachers during her religious history class.

"This is not the first incident we've had with her. Her grades have fallen steeply, she has gotten into two fights, and she has had multiple behavior complaints from her teachers. Now, we understand she lost both of her parents last year, and are prepared to be understanding, but we must deal with these problems."

Suzanna turned. "What's going on, Maria?"

The young girl squirmed in her seat. She looked at everything in the room other than the two adults, then shrugged in the way so well known even to pre-teens, "I dunno. Nothin'."

"I'm very sorry about this, Mrs. MacHale. I will make sure she behaves in the future." Suzanna tried to project calm and authority.

"I'm sorry to say that might not be enough," said the counselor. "Maria has been suffering from all the disruptions in her family life. She would have been removed from her brother's care last year, but for your marriage. If she continues to act out, we might need to remove her from your home, even if only temporarily to let things settle down."

"No," said Maria suddenly, "No, don't take me, everyone will go away. I don't want to leave Luke and Daddy."

Suzanna gasped. She turned to Mrs. MacHale and tried to cover the slip. "Her family is tied to that house. They have pictures and memories everywhere. Please let her stay with us." She was as alarmed by Maria's vehemence as her inadvertent exposure of Suzanna's identity.

Unperturbed, the counselor asked Maria to wait outside, and then returned to her desk to speak more with Suzanna. "I'm pleasantly surprised, Mrs. Overton. After all she's gone through, I thought your arrival was making things worse. It's not unusual. Young girls often feel like they're being replaced when a woman marries into the family. Treating her brother as her father is not a long term solution, but it's healthier than I was expecting."

Confusion, followed by relief. The counselor misheard Maria's outburst. She thought Maria called Luke her father.

Mrs. MacHale continued, "We can work with this. Maria wants and needs parent figures. I know you are one of Jack's Gifts, and the temple..."

"Please," interrupted Suzanna, "Don't call me that. I am not a gift. I am Luke's wife."

"Of course, I didn't mean anything by it. My apologies." Brenda was suddenly on the defensive. This was the time for Suzanna to press her advantage.

"You're right. I've been remiss in caring for Maria. I've been preoccupied with the changes to my own life," she gestured at herself, "and situation. I apologize for that. You have my word I will pay more attention to Maria's school work and behavior." She apologized in order to end the meeting. While saying the words, Suzanna realized that it was the truth. She hadn't paid attention to Maria. She was ashamed of herself.

The counselor had seen parents make promises before, so she didn't expect results. She let Suzanna go with a warning, "I hope we do not have to call you back in the future, but we'll take your promise for now. Best of luck to you."

Suzanna left the room and grabbed Maria's hand, "We'll talk about this again at home," she said firmly.

Brother Jose was waiting for her outside school, "Well, well, now your little girl is in trouble at school. You are still the temple's responsibility, Suzanna. Now I have to go look over Maria's school records to see if the Church must get involved. I do so apologize for the intrusion into your life," he added with no sincerity at all.

Her newfound resolve carried her, "Enjoy yourself. I know how much you like looking," Suzanna said as she walked off with a bump of her hips. She was pleased when Brother Jose got flustered.

â˜

On the ride home, Suzanna thought more about her promise. She had been wrapped up in her own problems. Luke and Maria had as much pain as she did. She was part of the problem. She was getting better thinking of herself as Suzanna, but she still thought of Luke and Maria as her children. They weren't. Luke was her husband, and Maria her sister-in-law. She was Maria's guardian, and had to act as a mother to her.

She spent the ride back trying to figure out how.

When they got home, Maria went right for her room. Suzanna stopped her. "Hold on there. We have something to talk about."

"What now?" Maria acted exasperated, but Suzanna knew she was trying to avoid being punished.

"When I came back home, you asked what you should call me, remember?"

Maria nodded, confused.

"Right, you were going to call me Sue. Well, thing is, I never asked what I should call you. I kept calling you Princess. I don't think that's right anymore. What do you want me to call you, Maria?"

The little girl's eyes widened. She thought about it, trying to figure out what was going on. Tentatively, she asked, "Could you maybe call me Tiger? I kinda like it."

Suzanna smiled. "You got it Tiger. Now, go get your homework. We're working on it out here. And we're going to work on it every day for an hour. No going out with your friends until it's done."

"Hey. You tricked me," Maria complained without conviction. She ran to her room but returned a moment later with her books.

They spent an hour reading and reviewing spelling. "Work on that essay now," Suzanna told her, "while I cook dinner. We'll go over it when I get things on the stove."

Maria stuck out her tongue playfully but got out paper and pens and started writing. She seemed happier than she'd been all month.

Dinner was a simple chicken stew, but it took time to cut everything up and get it in the pot. She got back to Maria, looked over what she'd done, and helped her improve it.

Luke came home shortly before dinner. He was mildly surprised to see Maria doing homework. "You're back," greeted Suzanna cheerfully, "How was your day?"

Luke made a quizzical face and grunted "Fine." He went over to the television and sat down.

Suzanna let it go, but when she'd set the table a few moments later, she announced, "Dinner's ready. We're all eating at the table tonight." Maria got up and came over. Luke did not.

"Unh, unh," he said from the sofa, only turning his head, "Not t'night."

Suzanna was prepared. She gestured at Maria to stay where she was. She went to the sofa where Luke was sitting, and sat down next to him. She put her legs up and sat on her knees next to him. She put her arms around Luke's neck and whispered in his ear.

"I can't make you eat dinner with us, but I'm asking you. I'm your wife. We are a family, and I want us to act like one. Please."

She asked, begging. There was more than there seemed in her plea. She couldn't be Stan anymore, and was making sure Luke knew it.

Luke looked at her. She knew what she looked like, a woman with her arms around him, kneeling fetchingly on the sofa next to him. It didn't surprise her at all when he got up and came to the table.

--SEPARATOR--

Suzanna called Luke the following afternoon. She asked him to come home and fix a clogged pipe.

"You're kidding, right?" Luke's incredulity carried over the phone. He caught himself and tried to cover, "I can come home and help, sure. No problem. Just, well, you've got a problem with clogged pipes?"

She laughed but sounded sad when she answered, "I turned off the water but can't loosen the pipe. I don't have the strength for it anymore. Think you can help?" She tried to sound casual, but Luke could hear how much that request cost her.

"Of course. Be right there. Don't worry about it." Luke wanted to be nice after their tentative reconciliation last night. He tried not to sound smug or prideful, but was not entirely successful. Suzanna in turn tried not to let it bother her.

She welcomed him home. The kitchen sink was clogged. "Grease?" he asked.

"No, or at least, grease plus something else. I tried snaking it, but couldn't break the clog. Need to pull the pipe, and that's where I got stuck." She looked away.

"No problem. Don't worry. Let me at it. You can walk me through it, right?"

"Let's see what you remember," she answered sharply. Softening, she added, "I'll be here if you have problems."

Luke looked at her a little too long. She started to blush under his gaze. Then he turned away, "Let me get the toolkit, just in case." He carried it in easily, while Suzanna would have trouble lifting it with both hands.

He checked that the water actually was off. Suzanna approved. She knew she'd turned it off, but she also knew better than to ever take the customer's word for what she'd done. Luke saw her nod of approval and smiled in return. It was his turn to feel warm.

He got to work, disconnected the pipe, and got splattered with water and grease. Suzanna laughed despite herself. Luke cycled rapidly through anger, embarrassment, and laughter himself.

"Yeah," he said looking at the pipe, "It's clogged all right, tight. Grease and food. Sorry, but that's probably Maria and my fault. It just took time to build up. Looks like the pipe's dented too, which is why the snake got caught. If we replace it, should get better drainage overall. I got it."
"I'd agree with all that. Thank you."

Luke went back to work. Suzanna heard him humming while stuck under the sink. She stopped herself from laughing, as she'd had the same habit. When he finished he tested that everything was working, made sure there were no leaks, and only then cleaned off his face.

"All done," he said proudly. "Look, Suze, I'm going to head back out, OK? I'd stay here with you a while, really I would. I was helping Peter out though. He got some old cars from a reclamation crew, and he's gonna see if he can get them working again. I was helping him move 'em to his place. I'll be back later."

"Of course, go help Peter."

She was honestly surprised. Luke explained what he was doing and cared what she thought. She hadn't known that he was helping his old friend, or that Peter was trying to start his own career. She surprised Luke in turn by giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before he left.

She was happy. She wondered if she'd have to break something else before Luke got the idea to take up plumbing jobs on his own.

â˜

Suzanna got dressed for a lunch meeting a week later. She put on her yellow skirt with a pale green shirt and vest. After some thought, she put on her heels. She still needed practice walking in them, but wanted to make a good impression. It was worth the risk. With silent apologies, she went through Ellen's jewelry to add a bracelet and necklace. She tied back her hair with the same yellow ribbon she used in the temple.

Sister Paula was already waiting for her when she got to the diner.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," she said while kissing Paula hello. "It's good to see you again."

"Not at all, I just got here a few minutes ago. You're looking good. I've missed seeing you around the temple."

"We go every week," she said defensively. "That's not what you meant, is it? Sorry, it's been busy. I will try to get up there to see all of you soon." She took off her jacket and placed it with her purse on the chair next to her as she sat down. Paula noted her feminine mannerisms approvingly.
"I'm afraid that I asked to see you so I could ask for help," she said.

Paula smiled, "That's usually the case. What do you need?"

"I need a job, or at least to get Brother Jose off my back. It's pretty tight for us right now. Luke's got his janitor job and he's starting to drum up some plumbing work. He's got a sink repair job today." She smiled proudly. "I want to help more. Brother Jose made sure the city won't hire me. I was hoping you could get him to back off."

Sister Paula looked away, then turned back to face her. "I might be able to help, but I doubt I can get Brother Jose to back off. There's temple politics involved in every decision concerning all of you. I'm sure you know that already. It hasn't stopped. You, specifically, bother Brother Jose. He's got much more support pursuing you than I'd have expected. I wish I knew why.

Changing the subject, how're you doing? Anna's busy in Mississippi, so I don't hear much from her, and Julia, well..." Paula paused, then added, "I liked working with all of you. I'd love to hear how you're doing."

"Like I said, money is tight. Luke wasn't ready to take over when Ellen had her stroke. Some things fell through the cracks. We're putting it all back together, but it's not easy."

"I was sorry to hear she passed away."

"Thanks. We were expecting it, but it hurt. I'll always miss her. So will Luke and Maria."

"So, how are you and Luke doing?"

Sister Paula was Suzanna's mentor at the temple, and honestly cared about her. She was also a priest, and just as honestly devoted to God. She took Jack's commands seriously. Suzanna was sure she'd agree with Brother Jose that the temple's responsibility for her extended for life. In the end, she decided to tell the truth. If nothing else, it would be a pleasant change.

"It wasn't working out well at first. I think we're getting better, but it is slow for both of us. Please don't tell Brother Jose, I know he thinks our marriage is a fraud. It's not. But it's also not really, well, real either. We are getting there, though. Really." She sounded silly, but she was relieved to have said it out loud.

Sister Paula's surprise was obvious. It took a moment before she responded. "I won't tell him. I'm surprised you're telling me."

"You were a harsh taskmaster, but you were always honest with us. You tried to do the best by us you could. I figured I could return the favor."

Paula smiled, "Thank you, I think. What do you mean when you say it's going slow?"

Another pause. This was becoming an awkward conversation. "When I came home, neither of us acted like we were married. I still do it. Look what I just said. I said I was coming home, not getting married. It was tearing us apart. Luke resented me. I was both his father and his wife. That combination sucks. Sure, I did the cooking and housework, but only because I didn't want to go outside. It hurt." Her chest shook with silent sobs.

"So what changed?" Paula asked after giving her a little time.

"Maria. She got in trouble in school. Don't get me wrong, we hold her responsible for what she did and punished her. But I was responsible too. She and Luke couldn't accept the way I was acting. So I could hope for Luke and her to change, or I could change. So I did."

"Good for you. I'm sure it's hard, but it's doing you good. You look absolutely great."

Suzanna smiled. "Now you're just being polite. I'm a mess."

"No really, you do. I'm sure Luke notices too. So tell me," she said with a sly smile, "how does sex compare as a woman?"

"Whoa. Hold on. You're a priest. I can't."

"What? You think I don't know what a wedding means?"

Suzanna looked around warily, then gestured Paula closer to her. They leaned their heads over the table so she could whisper. "I don't know. I'm sorry, and please don't tell Brother Jose. When I came home we started sleeping in different rooms. I've only just started acting like his wife. And I'm scared."

Paula grabbed Suzanna's hand, but held it reassuringly. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe. Sex is part of being married, though. Don't be scared. I wasn't always a priest. Let me assure you that celibacy is a real sacrifice. You will enjoy it."

"I'll try. I promise you that."

Paula gripped her hand harder and smiled warmly. "I'm glad to help. I'm even happier that I think I've found a friend."

Suzanna smiled back.

Sister Paula almost jumped, "Oh my, I'm sorry, I completely forgot. I think I can help with what you came for. Shawnee runs road crews every day. You can't get a city job, but Shawnee contracts out administrative duties to a private company, Primus Call Center. Road crews don't always show up, sometimes they need more people, and they need people to track who showed up, things like that. It's all paperwork and phone calls, and it's early morning work, and it's only a few hours a day, but it is every weekday. I happen to know they need a new caller. Here's a number to reach them."

"I'll call them today. I can't thank you enough."

"Actually, you can. I have a favor to ask too."

"Anything," responded Suzanna.

"It's Melissa. She hasn't been the same since you left. She's the last of the transformed in the temple. I've got a political marriage for her. He's a good man down in Texas. Brother Jose is making a strong case that she's not fit for it. He hasn't cancelled the deal, but if he can set something else up he might. It's not just that. She's depressed, lonely. Could you talk to her?"

"That's a favor? Go talk to a friend? Sorry Sister, but I think I still owe you one after that."

They smiled at each other.

â˜

Suzanna was in a great mood the next day when she set off to the temple. She'd spoken with the manager of Primus Call Center, and would be able to start work on Monday. Luke was enthusiastic and gave her a kiss when she announced the news. It was the first time he spontaneously kissed her. Maria eagerly volunteered to start making breakfast since Suzanna would be gone in the mornings. Her family was feeling like a family again.

It was still warm out, so she wore her green and white patterned dress, one of the few dresses she had. She got a brand new yellow headband, figuring that would amuse Melissa, and set off.

It had been over a month since she'd last seen her friend. She was so excited she nearly skipped on her way to the Pilgrim's quarters. Then the first words out of her mouth were, "Dawn's Grace, what have you done to your hair?"

Melissa was wearing a pair of women's blue jeans and a grey turtleneck shirt. Her hair was straight, but tangled and frizzy. She might be Suzanna's twin, but she was a twin who'd hit hard times. Suzanna's heart went out, she hadn't realized just how much she'd missed her friend.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "It's been so long, and it's so good to see you Mel."

Melissa was stunned. Then she started laughing. "Suzanna, it's good to see you too." She came over to give her friend a hug. They both felt better. "I guess I do look a bit of a mess. Just a bit depressed, I guess."

"Well, we can fix the first bit. Sit down and let me work on your hair. Give me that brush." They did each others' hair regularly when they were learning to be women, so this was like old home week for them both.

Melissa's hair was badly tangled, so they were quiet while Suzanna brushed it out. After wincing a few times, Melissa broke the silence, "How have you been doing? What's it like?"

Suzanna knew what she meant, and also knew what Sister Paula needed her to say. "It's different, but it's not bad. Sister Paula's lessons helped more than I thought. Take clothes for example, dressing up is fun. Before, I used to dress for function, or just to blend in. Now I dress to draw attention. I'll admit it made me nervous at first, but I've gotten to like it when people notice me." She knew Melissa wanted more than that, but Suzanna wanted to start with the easy things.

They spent some time gossipping while Suzanna continued brushing Melissa's hair. They didn't know a lot of people in common, but she could catch her friend up on those few that they did both know. She'd made a point of going out to the base to find out where some of Melissa's friends were now.

They also talked about the temple goings-on, where Melissa had the better knowledge. Of course the fight between Brother Jose and Sister Paula was still going on. Sister Paula had the upper hand, but they both knew Brother Jose could still turn things around, and they'd be right in the middle of it if he did.

They had more fun talking about the people they used to watch in the orchards. The long running love triangle between Ed, Lisa, and Molly had finally resolved. Lisa nabbed Ed. Molly didn't mourn her loss for long, and was now dating Francisco. Melissa had great fun telling the whole story. She proved a particularly nasty mimic. Suzanna had to stop working on her hair to laugh.

When Melissa's hair was brushed out, and Suzanna started braiding it, Melissa went back to serious mode. "Have you heard what Sister Paula has in mind for me? She wants me to get married. I don't know if I can do it. How do you manage?"

She knew that question was coming, but Suzanna wasn't as ready as she thought. She didn't want to lie to Melissa, but she was in the middle of the temple. Sister Paula was her friend, but Brother Jose was not. She had no idea who might be listening, so she had to be cautious.

"It hasn't been easy," she hedged. "I mean, we're acting like women right now. I'm sitting here working on your hair. Believe me, nothing drives home that you're a woman now like being a wife, having a husband."

"How do you? I mean, sex. As a woman." Melissa was agitated, making it hard on Suzanna to continue working on her hair. This wasn't the time for that, so she stopped.

"You were married before, right?"

Melissa nodded.

"Did you and your wife ever play? I mean role play?"

"You want details?" she asked archly.

"Maybe later," Suzanna replied in the same vein. "I's like that. Act like you're playing, only play the wife role. It might be awkward at first, but it gets easier the more you do it. It takes time, but eventually you get into it and it is fun. It's easier if your guy is nice and caring too. Thing is, as you keep playing the role, it gets easier and more real. Keep at it, and soon the role is reality." She smiled suggestively, "There are other benefits that come with it."

Melissa didn't entirely buy it, but she felt better. They went back to working on her hair, gossiping, and just reconnecting. When she was heading home, Suzanna reflected that the advice she gave Melissa was pretty good for her too. Same thing that happened at Maria's school. She might have to listen to herself more often.

On the way home she stopped at Victoria's Secret. For later.

â˜

While Suzanna and Luke were more pleasant to each other, they continued sleeping separately. They were both feeling their way into their new roles. Suzanna's morning job helped with the finances, and Luke was getting more plumbing jobs.

Her call center had an annual dinner for their employees. Luke resisted going when Suzanna told him about it. He didn't like dressing up and didn't know anyone there. She pointed out that meeting new people was the way to generate new jobs. He accepted that and agreed to go along. It didn't occur to her until later, but Luke was serious about plumbing and he listened to her advice. She felt better inside when she realized.

Suzanna had a black dress from Rosa's wardrobe. She had never worn it and was surprised at herself that she was looking forward to it. The dress showed a fair amount of cleavage, which she'd avoided until now. The low back prevented her from wearing a bra, but the dress had its own support built in. She'd gotten so used to wearing a bra that she considered this unusual. She had to go through Ellen's jewelry collection again to find something appropriate. A ruby necklace and long earrings completed the outfit. Maria had to help her with her makeup. They worked on it together for almost an hour before they were satisfied. Like Luke, she'd never enjoyed dressing up this much before the change. But then, she thought, she didn't look this good back then.

To her further surprise, she was looking forward to making an impression on Luke as much as her coworkers. She got a gasp from him when she stepped out of the room, but she was just as surprised by him.

"Luke honey, you look fantastic," she exclaimed. He was wearing a grey jacket with a blue tie and dress shoes. He'd gotten a hair cut, and to her amazement, he'd shaved his sideburns.

"So do you Suze, so do you."

"Hey, get a room, you two," Maria broke in as they each admired the other.

That broke the spell. Suzanna straightened Luke's tie, and brushed his shoulders. She wasn't even sure why. Luke opened the door to the truck for her and helped her in. She needed the help, given her heels and dress, so really appreciated the courtesy.

They got to the Ambrosia restaurant in plenty of time. Suzanna introduced Luke to her coworkers. "This is my husband, Luke. He's the handsomest plumber in town, if you need one." By the third time, introducing him as her husband seemed almost natural.

They sat down at a table with a coworker, Carole, her husband, and two couples she didn't know. They talked a bit about work and the town. Carole and Jim had a three year old, and asked if they had any kids of their own.

"None yet," answered Suzanna while Luke looked on flustered. She took Luke's hand as she said, "Luke wants to get his plumbing business on its feet before we have any kids."

"Don't put it off too long, kids are a blessing," she answered back.

"Before Carole gets going any longer on her spiel," interrupted Jim, turning to Luke, "how is the plumbing business? It's pretty gutsy trying to set yourself up that way. Love to hear more."

"There aren't enough plumbers, and a lot of old pipes are breaking down. There's a lot of recycling old parts and patching things. I can replace broken pipes when I have them, but that's not often enough. Regular maintenance helps prevent breakdowns in the first place, so there's plenty to do for people who know enough to hire us." Suzanna was impressed. Luke was selling himself. Confident and relaxed, pushing the idea that he could do the repairs. He'd be drumming up some business tonight.

"Of course, I've got to give Suzanna here a lot of the credit. No way I'd have done this on my own without her behind me."

"Oh come on now," she answered, "of course you would. But thanks." She was flattered, put her arm around him and leaned in to him. It felt good.
After dinner came the speeches. They'd all had a bit to drink, and were willing to listen. They introduced the new employees, including Suzanna. In the process, they mentioned that she was one of the people transformed by Jack.

"I hadn't realized," said Jim when the speeches finished, "you're one of Jack's Gifts."

"Hey," interrupted Luke before Suzanna could say anything, "she's not a thing. She's not a gift."

Jim backed down. "I didn't mean anything, that's just what they're called, right? Really, sorry, I didn't mean any offense."

"None taken then." He looked cautiously at Suzanna, then back to Jim and Carole, "She is a treasure, though."

That brought a laugh from Jim. Carole needled him, "And why don't you have such a silver tongue?" Suzanna just stared at Luke, seeing him anew.

She walked out after dinner on Luke's arm. She was smiling, happy, and expecting a big night with her husband when they got home. Instead, they ran into Brother Jose. He accosted Suzanna angrily.

"You're not fooling anyone. You're not married, you're not sleeping with your son." He spoke angrily but quietly enough not to be overheard. "Sister Paula may have gotten her way with Melissa, but I will show you are a fraud. Just wait. I'll be there when you slip. As for you," he said while pointing at Luke, "Cheating God is heresy, and you'll see what we do to heretics."

Luke pulled her away. The mood was spoiled, and they went to their separate rooms to sleep.

â˜

"Wha' happened to your face, man?"

Peter greeted Luke in surprise the day after Suzanna's dinner. Luke had fixed an irrigation system in the morning but his afternoon was free, so he went to help Peter chop up an engine for parts.

"What can I say? Suzanna never liked the sideburns, figured it was time for 'em to go. 'Sides, I'm trying to be a respectable businessman. Gotta look right."

"OK, what happened to my old buddy? Who is this stranger?" Peter smiled as he teased. He grabbed a bottle of cider and threw another to Luke. "Doesn't the tat sort of break the image?"

Luke smiled back. "Yeah. I sorta keep that covered now." Looking down, "Probably have to see about getting it removed when it warms up again."

This time Peter really was surprised. "OK. I could ask. But truth is, I don't really care." They both laughed. "Got lots to do, and I'm glad for the help. Let's finish these and get to it."

"Slavedriver," said Luke in a stage whisper.

They spent an hour in companionable silence. Peter knew his way around cars, even if it was just to break them down.

Peter was right, he knew. He'd shaved his face for Suzanna and it wasn't like him. He'd married her to save his sister and he'd do it again. It meant he's failed in so many ways. He couldn't provide for his sister without help. He was serious back when he called the temple slaveholders, and now he was participating. Every time he saw Suzanna he felt guilty.

"Lift."

Luke came out of his thoughts as he and Peter tugged an old engine out of the car. Peter had a good pulley rigged up, but it took muscle and attention to stop it swinging.

"You got anyone lined up for these yet?" asked Luke.

"No, just got a few more junkers. Figured I'd break 'em down, try to get the better ones working."

"I bet the base would pay for parts you got. Anything doesn't go to getting something running, try selling to them." Luke was still getting used to thinking how to sell and look for opportunities. It was worth sharing with his friend. "Suzanna knows some people over there, can probably give you a name."

Peter was dumbfounded. "Sure. Sounds good. Thanks."

They finished and washed up. Luke was leaving when Peter said, "Hey, I'll check on the base thing. It's OK if I ask your... Suzanna for a contact?"

"Yeah, of course."

"She's good. I don't think I know this woman who's getting my buddy to grow up." Grinning.

Peter was right, of course. Luke had changed, and Suzanna was a big reason for it. He'd stopped feeling like a failure for one thing. No, more than that. He wasn't acting like he had in school. Peter had it again, he'd grown up. Suzanna knew him better than anyone, but he didn't know her nearly as well as he thought. She was a different person now, Luke carefully avoided thinking about who she used to be. She was making her own choices now, and maybe it was time for him to stop feeling guilty about a situation neither of them caused.

He was excited about getting to know her better.

About getting to know his wife better.

â˜

For Suzanna, life was getting better. Her part time position combined with Luke's job and his growing plumbing business were slowly getting them back on their feet. She was doing the housework as well as keeping the books, which proved to take more time than she'd once expected. She made sure to clear time to help Maria with her schoolwork each afternoon, and started making friends in the neighborhood. She was leaving her old life behind, and doing it on her terms.

One night after Maria was in bed, she told Luke to make sure to keep Friday evening free. Maria had a band concert at school, and they would attend.

"OK," he responded, "but I didn't even know she played."

Suzanna smiled kindly, "It was a deal we made. I got her an old flute at the pawn shop, and she could play as long as she behaved in school and kept her grades up. She practices a lot, and really likes it."

"How come I never heard her play then?"

"She didn't want you to know, so she practices before you get home. Now be nice to her."

Luke faked a frown, "I don't know. If all the women in my life conspire to keep secrets from me, maybe I should put my foot down and not go."

Playing into it, Suzanna poked him in the chest, "Don't even try it buster. You're going, and you're taking us out for ice cream afterwards." She leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.

He gave up and agreed.

The warm weather fled by Friday, it was cold and windy. Suzanna wore her dress and heels to look nice for Maria and Luke, but then had to cover it up with a winter coat. Luke didn't suffer at all with a jacket over his shirt and tie. Suzanna thought that was completely unfair. However, when she complained about the cold he put his arm around her. She decided she could manage to like cold weather.

The Fall Concert was just what she'd expected. It was a performance for the parents and other children. The fun came from seeing your children on stage. Luke cheered for his sister as Maria haltingly played John Phillip Sousa, John Williams, and other school staples. Suzanna clapped and took delight in Luke's obvious pride and surprise.

After the concert, Luke made Maria cajole him into going for ice cream. "What do you mean, take you out for ice cream? I didn't know anything about it."

"Come on, Suzanna promised we'd go out for ice cream after the concert."

"Well that's between you two. I don't see what that has to do with me, and I'm driving."

Suzanna knew all along Luke would take them, he just had to mess with his sister. It came as a surprise to realize Maria knew it too, and was enjoying the game every bit as much as her brother. Suzanna was closer to them now than she'd ever been before.

It was a cold night for ice cream, but with Luke holding her against the cold, she didn't mind. She had chocolate. It bothered her a bit that she liked chocolate so much since she changed. It felt like a cliche, but it tasted so much better than it used to. Luke got vanilla despite her and Maria teasing him about it, while Maria got her favorite, chocolate peanut butter.

Luke complimented Maria's playing, especially since he'd had no idea she had taken up the flute. Suzanna took the opportunity to praise her hard work, both in music and at school. Maria ate up the compliments, and then launched into a rambling discourse on all the friends she'd made in the band.

They got home late, but everyone was in a good mood. Suzanna told Luke to put Maria in bed. She was old enough to do so on her own, so Luke knew something was up. Suzanna took the time to change into the red baby doll teddy she'd gotten nearly two weeks ago. She walked out of the room, and Luke's eyes grew wide.

"Do you... Do you like it?" she asked shyly.

"You look amazing," he gaped.

She spun coquettishly. Luke hugged her tightly, then picked her up in his arms. Shrinking during her transformation was usually a source of frustration, but not now. Now she was small enough that Luke could hold her.

He carried her into her room. No, she thought. He didn't. He carried her into their room.

--SEPARATOR--

Shortly after Thanksgiving, Suzanna met her husband at the Hickory Diner for lunch. He was a plumber full time now, he'd quit working as a janitor two weeks earlier. Suzanna started her job before he was up, so they rarely saw each other in the morning. They met in town for lunch when they could.

"All right, you were right," laughed Luke, "mingling at your party has paid off big. Between the work he's thrown at me and all the references, I should be putting Jim on the payroll. Gotten so much I'm running low on PVC, and if you know anyplace to get copper pipes I'd love to hear it."

"PVC we can manage," Suzanna told him, and let him know who he could contact for that. "Copper's always a problem. Check with the junk dealers regularly, best I got for you on that one. Doesn't Peter get his wrecked cars from some reclamation crews? Ask him who, they might have copper. Let's have him over for dinner some time."

Luke was still learning the trade, and meeting for lunch was a good way for Suzanna to give him tips or training. They were also a way for them to get together during the day. Luke's hand only left hers when it went to her waist or leg. She was little better, though she preferred rubbing her foot along his leg or thigh. They'd gotten closer each day since Maria's concert.

Suzanna moved all of Luke's clothes into their room the day after they first slept together. Luke never said a word about it, just smiled and kissed her. He put his things on the nightstand but otherwise accepted whatever she did. She understood what he meant. The nightstand was his. She should leave it alone, but he wouldn't say so in case she needed to clean. She'd used the same code once.

Once she got started it was hard to stop. She had left the home as it was before her transformation, but no more. She repainted the family room. She added some pictures of their new family, while keeping ones of Luke and Maria as children. Sister Paula helpfully donated some pictures of Rosa as a child. Suzanna put them up after thinking about it.

Luke kept talking while she was lost in thought, and suddenly she pulled away from him. "Say that again," she commanded.

Luke put on his hurt puppy dog face at her sudden withdrawal. "What'd I do?"

"Sorry, honey." Suzanna knew it was important to mollify her husband. "You were saying something important, and you can make it hard to concentrate on what you're saying..."

Luke smiled back. "Well, it was a repair job this morning. The pipe burst from the inside. It was discolored black around the hole, but no blockage or obvious reason for the break. Simple enough patch job, just thought it was odd was all."

Suzanna paled. "Blackwater eel."

â˜

Two days later Suzanna's cell phone rang while she was at work. It was Luke, "I found the nest, Suze. I'm going in. Just wanted to tell you I love you first. I'll be fine. Don't worry."

She wanted to yell, to command him to wait. Instead she offered encouragement. "You'd better. Be careful. Good luck, and I love you too." It surprised her how hard it was to say that, to just let him go when she wanted him to come to her and let someone else handle the eel.

Her friend Carole overheard, and when she found out what was going on, got Suzanna to go home. Carole could cover for her. She didn't really want to leave, but she wasn't getting anything done, so she went.

She was angry her house was empty. Maria should be there with her to wait. Or Luke should be home so she didn't have to worry in the first place. She cleaned the breakfast dishes and started dusting the living room.

After drifting from dusting to dishes for the third time, she gave it up and got on the phone. "Hi Melissa, have you got a minute? I need a friend."

"For you? Any time. What's going on?" Over the phone, Melissa's voice didn't sound exactly like Suzanna's, which pleased her.

Suzanna filled her in on Luke's hunt for the Blackwater Eel nest.

"How're you holding up?" Melissa asked after hearing her story.

"Not so well. I want to do something. I was driving myself crazy, so figured I'd talk to a friend instead. Distract me, please. Tell me how you're doing."

"It's not as bad as I feared, you were right about that. Sister Paula found me a good man, I guess. Daniel's a politician, and having a God-touched wife gives him some extra notoriety."

"God-touched. I like that a lot better than Jack's Gift."

"Yeah, he came up with it himself when I bitched at him about it. Seems to be catching on."

"So, working out well all around, then?"

"I know what you're getting at," Melissa replied suggestively. "No, we haven't had sex yet. I haven't told him who I used to be, and probably won't. He thinks I want to get to know him first, since I first met him the day before our wedding. I guess he thinks I'm a traditional girl for making him wait." They both giggled. "We've kissed and played around a bit. I took your advice. It won't be much longer. Oh, and that man is good with his hands."

Suzanna laughed again, "When you get to it, make sure he uses his mouth too. Dawn's saggy tits, if I knew what it felt like I'd have gone down on Ellen every time. Do not pass that up."

"This is going to be one of those conversations, is it? I'll have you know I can match your dirty mind any day, girl."

"Hold on, that's his truck," interrupted Suzanna. "It's Luke. I missed you Melissa, but can I call you back another time?"

She hung up and flew outside. Luke was just opening the door, "It's all right Suze, I got them. Oof."

He wasn't able to finish whatever he was going to say as Suzanna barrelled into him and wrapped him in her arms. After reassuring herself he was there she kissed him deeply, taking his tongue into her mouth and breathing his breath.

"I was worried," she said when she pulled her mouth from his. She stepped back to look at him, seeing the cut on his leg. "What happened to you?" She knelt beside him to look at the bloody bandage he'd wrapped around his leg.

"It's nothing. Pipe burst when I was there, got hit by a shard."

"Back in the truck, my love. Now. I'll drive. You're going to the doctor's."

"Really, it's nothing. I'll put on a clean bandage..."

"Now." Suzanna raised her voice, prepared to yell and scream if she had to. Luke got in the truck.

Suzanna drove faster than she needed to the doctor's office, where they took Luke in quickly once they heard what had happened. Suzanna waited, worrying, for an hour before they called her back.

"He's alright," the doctor announced. "No infection. Don't let him tell you otherwise. It was good you brought him here. Silverstorm infections are always a danger. We want to keep him here for observation for 6 hours, but if there's no other symptoms, you'll have him home for dinner."

Relieved beyond words, Suzanna went in to see Luke lying comfortably in the hospital bed. His leg was tightly bandaged, but nothing worse. "See that Suze, told you I was all right."

She took his hand in hers and held it softly, kissing it and saying, "And I'm very glad of it. I don't want to lose you, love." More saucily, "You know you're a hero now. Luke Eelslayer. Tonight you get the hero's reward. See if I can slay an eel too." She went from kissing his hand to sucking on his fingers.

Luke smiled, content.

â˜

The New Year came and went. Snow covered the ground and winds blew outside, but it was warm and cozy inside the Hickory Diner. Suzanna met Paula for lunch.

"Congratulations," Paula started. "Brother Jose has given up on you. He's no longer trying to show your marriage is fake."

"About time. I don't know how much more real he expects it to get. Paula, I know you took a lot of flak over this marriage. You took some of it from me. I'm sorry. You were right. I love Luke, and couldn't be happier."

"I'm thrilled. And thank you, it means a lot to me. You certainly look as happy as I've ever seen you."

"Hey, speaking of congratulations, I hear they're in order for you too. It's Mother Paula now, isn't it?"

She smiled broadly. "It is. I'm on the Synod now as Jack's representative. We've agreed that Julia and Brother Jose's other placements were not proper. I'm working on getting them back, but it's going to take some time. Never ends, does it? So, changing the subject, how were your holidays?"

"My first as Luke's wife. I loved being with my family, but wish we could have had a bigger celebration. It was a pretty tough year."

She paused. Both women looked at each other and broke out in laughter.

"Wow that felt good," said Suzanna finally.

"Did Luke get you anything special?"

"A few things," she answered with a faint smile. "The best were the ones he didn't intend."

"Playing at riddles, now? Come on, spill." Mother Paula was fully drawn in, a girlfriend rather than a counselor.

"I don't know how you'll feel about this one. I'm not sure how I feel about it, but he gave me back, well, me."

Paula said nothing, just peered at her.

"We went to Ellen's grave. We put down flowers, Luke and Maria spoke to her. When they were done, Luke told me to stay and spend some time alone with her. He told me, 'Just come back to me, OK?'"

"I'm not sure I see..."

"I had to stop being Stan before I could love Luke. As a woman, I mean. It was hard. You can tell me I'm a different person all you want, but I felt like the same one. Making myself believe it, well, it took work. It was worth it," she smiled, "but it wasn't easy. I didn't realize how much I missed it until then. I also don't know how I'll... how we'll deal with it. But it means a lot to me. And we will deal with it."

Paula hesitated. "Don't cut yourself off from friends, OK? I'm happy for you. Just concerned too."

"So am I. And it's the help of friends, you and Melissa, that tells me I'll make it through this change too."

They ate their salads and gossiped about the church, townsfolk, and the other transformed women. Paula heard from Anna, while Suzanna kept up with Melissa. They each shared their news. As they finished, Mother Paula turned serious again.

"I have one other big piece of news for you. Brother Jose's pursuit of you always struck me as overkill, and he had support from other members of the temple. I suppose you noticed?"

"Well, yes, obviously."

"There was more to it than just Jack's Liturgy. Your grandfather was involved in opposing the creation of the church. He did more than just oppose it, at one point he instigated a riot. He used the chaos as cover to assassinate two priests."

"I had no idea." Suzanna was honestly surprised. "I knew he wasn't a churchgoer, but didn't know about the rest."

"Well, your whole family has been marked. It's why you, as Stan, were denied entry into college, and why Brother Jose could keep you from a city job. I've lifted that punishment. If she can keep her grades up, we'll raise no objections if Maria applies to college."

"I guess that brings me to Luke's other gift." With a hand on her stomach and a smile the Mona Lisa would envy, Suzanna asked "Will that also apply to our children?"

In the Shadow of Shiva

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

500 < Short Story < 7500 words

Genre:

Transgender

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

In the Shadow of Shiva

Titania

A pilot fighting a doomed war is recruited for a secret mission that has the potential to save a world. The cost will be more than his life.

Major Devin Riley raced down the halls, giants shadowing his every step. Yelling “move aside,” he pounded down the slate gray corridors. Most people were polite enough to get out of his way. Those who did not got a small shove as the four foot tall barrel of fury pushed through.

He shouldn’t have to run. He’d gotten his new assignment at the morning briefing. He should have had more than enough time.

“The 34th will be on 3 week deploy to Orbit 16. They’ll be at wing, in case any single cubes try to break the line. New York was our last failure. We will not lose another city. Captain Korda will take command. Major Riley, you are being reassigned to R&D for evaluation. Special orders.”

That was it. That was his bloody notice.

But then, after the briefing he spent half an hour arguing and yelling at the Colonel, to no avail. So now he had to run to make his appointment. There were times he regretted his temper. He and his men had been ground-side for half a year, but people still forgot about him and didn’t get out of his way.

He’d been marked as a Dart pilot when he was a child. A regimen of drugs dampened his inborn nanocytes so he could be kept at a child’s size. His white hair, blue eyes, and pale skin were a side effect of the drugs, accentuated by years out where the Sun was just the brightest pinprick in the sky.

With a quick smack to the door, he rushed in. “Major Devin Riley, reporting as ordered.”

Three people in lab coats were inside working. One of them was a woman, unusual in the military, but apparently more accepted in research. They all stared at him, but he didn’t let the silence hang for long. “Right. Which of you is Major Chen?”

“Let me get him,” replied a man who was 10 years younger than Devin, yet towered over him by more than a foot. Devin resisted the urge to kick him into gear.

“That’s ‘let me get him, sir’ to you. Now go.” He was in a foul mood, and it was not getting better.

The lab tech returned a few moments later. “Dr. Chen, this is Major Riley.”

Dr. Chen also wore a lab coat rather than a uniform. He was an elderly Chinese man, and like everyone else, he towered over Devin.

The old man came over and shook hands with Devin. Devin was annoyed again. Saluting was proper, not handshakes. He didn’t like it because it drove in the size difference. Dr. Chen’s hand enveloped his. Still, the man was his equal in rank, and probably superior in the org charts, since he’d gotten Devin pulled from duty for at least a week. Best to be polite for a while.

Major Chen escorted him back to his office. “Mr. Riley, …”

“That’s Major Riley,” Devin interrupted. Enough is enough.

“Hmph,” Dr. Chen snorted. He stared down at Devin. “For the next few weeks, Major, we will be putting you through a battery of medical tests. You are one of very few people to have passed the initial screening.”

“For what?” Devin asked impatiently. He nearly started tapping his foot to show his annoyance, but restrained himself.

“I can’t tell you yet. Only that if you pass, you might yet save this doomed world.”

â˜© â˜© â˜©

8 months ago

Devin landed his Dart at the orbital station. Jupiter’s pale light shone through the hatch as he stepped out. The battle outside was still going on, but his squad was done with this one.

The Shivan craft were small, only half the size of his tiny ship. An individual cube, as they were called, was barely a threat. But cubes could join together and form new, more powerful craft. Those were major threats. The cubes traveled through space individually, only joining together near a gravity well. His squad of Darts had to kill as many as possible while they were slowing, and then left the battle to the heavier craft when the Shivans joined together.

His awareness of the battle slowly faded as his ship detached itself from him. When he was joined with his ship he was special, a fighter that floated through space and killed his enemies. When away from it, he was only a child-sized freak. There were times he wanted to stay permanently attached to his ship.

The final separation came suddenly. The massive Hawk Firing Platforms fighting a Shivan Twelve vanished, he could only see the walls of his Dart around him. He heard the pressure seals open, and started crawling out of the comforting womb into the cold, sterile walls of the Jove 12 satellite.

His squad mates were crawling out of their ships. They looked as weak as he felt, but he was in command and couldn’t show it. “Visual inspection,” he shouted. “I want reports in five.”

He went over his own ship, looking for any signs of damage. He was clear. The others shouted their reports, everyone was clear. “On your way.”

They filed out of the hangar into their section of the satellite before any maintenance crews came. The child-like Dart pilots were kept strictly segregated from the rest of the crew. Their quarters were built to their small size, so they could feel normal for a little while. Devin believed that it was also for the rest of the crew’s convenience. They didn’t want any reminders of the price Earth had already extracted from its soldiers.

“Charlie,” Devin yelled to one of his pilots, “you had lowest kills.” The other pilots stopped in the corridor as Devin began his ritual humiliation of the worst performer. “Any cube that makes it through us can join and become trouble for the biggies. We will show them what we can do. You’re going to be polishing boots before showers. Everyone, give Charlie your boots, then hit the showers yourselves.”

Weak smiles all around. Every pilot, including Devin, knew that a low kill was a possibility regardless of skill. But they also knew that, this time, it wasn’t them drawing Devin’s fire.

“Incoming cubes detected,” blared over the speakers. “Counting two hundred cubes. ETA four hours.”

“You heard it,” said Devin. “No rest for the weary. Prep up. You’re off the hook, Charlie,” he added with graveyard humor.

Where were they all coming from? How many were there?

â˜© â˜© â˜©

Present

Devin crawled out of the swimming tube he’d been in for the last two hours. A poor swimmer with no practice, he was completely exhausted. The highly oxygenated water still filled his lungs. He coughed spastically as it was replaced by air.

Dr. Chen and the female scientist, a black woman with intricately braided hair, were waiting for him to recover his feet. “Take five, Major. Sally,” Dr. Chen said to the striking giantess standing next to him, “get the sensor net.”

“What’s a sensor net?” asked Devin, working his way up to pacing.

“Your next test,” the senior scientist answered uselessly.

He stared up at the man’s gray hair and dark eyes before turning away. He knew he wouldn’t get anything else out of the old man. Devin slammed the wall in frustration.

In a few moments Sally returned carrying a silken spiderweb over her left arm. “I’m going to put this on you,” she said smiling softly. “Please stay still.”

She knelt down next to him, bringing her face to his level. From his head, the web draped down past his shoulders. She tightened it, rubbing her hands over his still damp bare skin. He felt warm from unaccustomed female attention.

Then he felt a wave of dizziness as the world faded out and twisted around him. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t see; his ears pounded, his nose felt like it was bleeding. A booming echo pulsed through his skin, knocked him off his feet. He flinched as something pounded him, hitting him like a freight train.

Noise. Pain. Nausea.

He curled into a fetal ball. Whimpered.

His head exploded.

Wait. That was noise, that was him whimpering. They weren’t his senses any more, it was coming through the webbing. It wasn’t quite the same as when he merged with the ship, but it was the same principal. He shut it down, blocked everything, one sense at a time. Then turned them on.

“He’s not going to make it,” Dr. Chen sneered, “Physical tests are one thing, but he doesn’t have the mental strength to pull through.” Devin could hear Chen’s heart beating irregularly. He smelled stale sweat from some morning exercise, and the scientist was sweating anew now, nervous about the results.

“He might,” from Sally. She was as athletic as she looked, heartbeat steady, a hint of sweat and pheromones under the perfume she’d sprayed on the previous night.

“That’s right,” he said as he stood up. “I might.”

Dr. Chen started in surprise, and Devin heard his heart speed up. “Fine Mr, er, Major Riley,” the scientist said. “It is time you know why we pulled you from your squad.” Devin perked up.

“It requires tremendous energy, and only one person in a million might survive it, but we have discovered a means to send a person through time.”

â˜© â˜© â˜©

9 years ago

“We’ve got contact!” The class heard an excited voice play back to them. “There’s no doubt, multiple non-terrestrial powered vehicles headed this way. We’re training all views that way, and will let you know more as we have it. Looks like Jormun gets the credit for first alien contact!”

“That was the first we ever heard of the Shivans,” said the muscular bald man at the front of the room. The sergeant was briefing soldiers as they headed to the edge of the solar system to wait for their foe to reach them.

“Jormun was 22 light-years from Earth,” he continued, “and we received that message 34 years ago, so first contact occurred 56 years ago. The Shivans should hit the system within the next 5 years. We will be ready for them.”

“Hsst, down in front,” came a teasing whisper from behind Devin. The Dart pilots were all in the front row so they could see. The child sized soldiers had already come in for significant harassment, and he was getting sick of it. He ignored his tormentor for now.

The sergeant continued the briefing without noting the interruption. “Jormun was our first, and so far only, extra-solar colony. The news that they encountered intelligent alien life electrified people. The whole planet was listening when we received the transmission from their first direct encounter with Shivan ships. It was, of course, a disaster. Jormun’s ships were all destroyed. We didn’t get the telemetry from that encounter, but they sent more information with later transmissions. We will not be going in blind like they did.”

A soldier in the back of the room interrupted, “Why did they keep transmitting? Wasn’t that just showing the Shivans where to go next?”

“Good question,” answered the sergeant, “that’s basic operational security. But no, in this case, they were right. They’d been transmitting while the Shivans approached. The enemy already knew where to go next. And at this point, Jormun still thought they had a chance.”

“At least we have speed bumps,” came a whisper from directly behind Devin. A tap on his shoulder accompanied the message.

That was enough. Devin turned and slammed his clipboard into the soldier sitting behind him, a man who outweighed the tiny Dart pilot by at least 100 pounds.

The sergeant was playing another transmission from Jormun. “They are death, destroyers of worlds. They’ve disassembled Alfheim, taken the whole planet apart to make more of them. There’s thousands of them. We’ve got to stop them now, or we’re doomed.”

While that most famous transmission was playing, the sergeant barked, “Lieutenant Riley, that’s enough. You’re confined to quarters. Now.”

It would be a long journey for the young lieutenant, but he’d at least earned the respect of the other Dart pilots.

â˜© â˜© â˜©

Present

Devin collapsed onto his bed after stripping off the sensor web. He’d been wearing it for three days while taking dozens of other tests. They tested his adaptability by giving him direct interface to different machines, while rapidly changing his senses and chemical balance. As a result, he had a massive headache.

He could, however, enjoy one of the few perks of this ridiculous assignment; a private room. He lay back spread eagled on his soft mattress and just let himself relax, closed his eyes and enjoyed the lack of sight.

The door opened. His eyes were closed, not his ears. The tall black woman, Sally Latelle, was there. “Excuse me,” she sounded a bit shy, “can I come in?”

He sat up slowly and nodded. She ducked to enter. The room was built to his scale, so she had to stoop to come in the door, and her head was near the ceiling.

“Time for the next test already?” He tried to keep any signs of weariness from his voice, but he was not looking forward to another one. He needed to rest, get over his awful headache.

“No,” she shook her head. “It’s over. You’re the best candidate we’ve got, by a lot. I…” she paused. “I wanted to be the one to tell you. To tell you the rest.”

“Like what I’m supposed to do?” He stood up and moved over to the desk chair, waving at her to have a seat on the bed. He knew the chair was too small for her, but didn’t want to acknowledge it.

“No matter what Chen thinks of me, I’m not stupid,” he insisted. “You’ve got a plan for what I should be doing in the past. Warn people, maybe? Start building ships back then?”

She sat down, looked at him. Put her hand out towards him, then stopped. Devin was getting impatient. Finally she said, “None of that. It wouldn’t work. We ran that scenario. The odds are terrible. You’d get killed quickly, and we’d lose our best man for nothing.”

His body warmed. He wasn’t used to even slight compliments from giant-sized normals, let alone from pretty women. “So what…” He didn’t know how to continue.

“You’ll hide among them. Pass off your technology as magic. Use it to punish the stupid, reward the good. Make us better than we are.” She reached out again, and this time didn’t stop. Her hand enveloped his. He didn’t like to shake hand, but this was different.

“So. You’re going. I don’t.” Devin stammered. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. Sally’s grasp on his hand didn’t make it easier to concentrate. It was the closest contact he’d had with a woman since he left his family when he was a child.

“You’re already a hero, now you’ll be a legend,” she whispered, leaning in. “I don’t know any other heroes.” She kissed him, and he kissed back.

She didn’t leave until morning. The size difference was less of a problem than Devin had expected.

â˜© â˜© â˜©

The next day

“You were not my choice for this project,” said Dr. Chen coldly. “But your scores were far and away the best. This process takes tremendous power and exacting timing, and with the Shivans closing in, we may not get another chance. You have, simply put, the single best chance of surviving the transfer.”

“So get on with it already,” snarled Devin.

“Sally will hook you up to the machinery,” he replied. Devin smiled involuntarily as the tall dark woman entered the room. She returned a bittersweet smile. This would be a one way trip, he’d never see her again. If he did his job well, she would never exist, save in his memory. She would be, at least, a very good memory.

Her hands ran over him as she hooked him up to the sensor net and then to what he assumed was the time travel device. When she was done, he’d barely be able to move.

“We will move you as far back in time as we’re able,” Dr. Chen said while she worked. “Your primary tool will be your nanocytes. The people of the time have no defenses, so they’ll be particularly effective. Sally has already briefed you on your role, right?”

Huh?” Devin exclaimed with a jolt, earning a reproving glance from Sally, who had to readjust his fittings. “Of course.”

“Of necessity, you’ll have to use your own judgment in carrying out your mission,” Dr. Chen snapped. “Just remember that we must be sufficiently advanced to fight back when we encounter the Shivans. Staying on Earth is not an option; they’d have found us within a century regardless.”

He paused, disturbed. “There’s one more thing I must tell you. We can’t send living tissue back.”

Devin was now strapped in tight, and couldn’t move or speak, but he tried. Sally leaned in and gave him a kiss, whispering, “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“That’s why we had to make sure you could handle working through mechanical connections. You’ll be in an artificial body. You’ll need to recharge regularly, depending how quickly you use your energy outside. It’s another reason for the magical cover.”

This was sounding progressively worse to Devin, but he was strapped in too tightly to indicate his displeasure. He wanted to hit something. The two researchers towered over him even while he was standing. Seated, as he was now, they couldn’t even see his eyes as panic grew.

“Now.”

Panic was replaced by pain. He felt like he was coming apart. Then, at last, there was nothing.

â˜© â˜© â˜©

Date unknown

The pain faded and Devin could move again. He wasn’t bound into his chair, he wasn’t in the lab anymore. It wasn’t as bright; there was dim, comfortable light. He was lying on the floor and it was soft. Something wasn’t right. He started to sit up, and it hit him.

He wasn’t in his body.

Large breasts shifted on his chest. Hair fell down his back. Breasts. Hairless. Vag… Oh Gods above, they’d made him a woman.

He screamed in rage. His high pitched voice brought him to a crashing stop.

He cursed Dr. Chen for this cruelty. He kicked the floor, then the wall. The wall changed color under his pounding. It responded to him - to her. No use putting it off. She’s a woman now, she thought, so had to get used to it.

“Walls, green,” she commanded, and they turned green. She was in a virtual world, probably recharging. So, they’d at least given her that much, control of the local environment. Good, because it was pretty bare otherwise. “Mirror,” she ordered next.

A wall length mirror appeared. She looked at herself. Long hair, dark brown, almost black, curled in front. Short nose, small chin, wide lips, round face. She forced herself to look down. Her breasts were not as large as she’d first thought, but she had wide nipples. She put her hands on them, they were very sensitive. Her whole body tingled. She turned away angrily.

“OK, clothes. Give me clothes. In a closet.” A door appeared, she went in to a well appointed closet filled with dresses, skirts, blouses, kirtles, harem pants, and more. The closet stretched beyond her sight. She could get lost exploring it. “Jeans and a t-shirt,” she commanded.

It gave her a full outfit, including underwear and sandals. She had to struggle a bit to figure out how to put on a bra, finally buckling it in front and turning it around in place. “Oh well,” she thought to herself, “I’ll have a long time to practice.”

She remembered Chen telling her that her body and senses were artificial, though she didn’t notice any difference. It might look normal because she was in a virtual space. “Show me outside,” she ordered, but nothing happened. “Blast it all,” she yelled.

That broke the dam, and she cursed up a storm for hours. She yelled so much her curses should echo for the next millennium. Dr. Chen might yet get to hear them, she thought.

Eventually cursing lost its appeal. “Give me a gym.” She spent time running, only to find that she didn’t sweat or tire. She tried lifting some weights, but that too was easy. She could either lift a weight or she couldn’t, but she couldn’t push herself to just lift something. She kept trying, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t tire herself out.

Aiming for some satisfaction, she ordered, “Give me a punching bag, with Dr. Chen’s face on it.” She still didn’t get tired, but it made things more fun.

“Enough of this. Bed.” And one appeared, but before she could lie down, her world lit up, and she could feel herself being pulled out of her room.

â˜© â˜© â˜©

She found herself in a bare room with stone walls. A gap in the walls let in the outdoor sunlight, but the room remained dark and cool. Sand piled up near the door, but there was at least some sand everywhere. An unkempt man with dark skin, a hook nose, and several missing teeth stood in front of her.

“Praise be to Allah,” he shouted, “A genie.”

It hit her like a hammer. Not that she was a genie, but that she was a giant. She was huge. Looking straight ahead, her eyes were even with the man’s nose. She didn’t have to stare up.

She smiled, honestly and truly. Tears of joy welled up inside her. She stared straight at the man, and broke out in laughter.

“Genie of the lamp,” he commanded, “I, Abdullah Hamar, am now your master. You must obey me.”

Her orders came back. She was still a soldier with a mission, and had to at least pretend to follow her “master’s” orders.

“Of course, worshipful master,” she responded with a smile. Her body easily handled the translation to Arabic, she barely gave it any thought. She couldn’t get over her joy at being normal sized.

“I have been locked away too long, and rejoiced in seeing the sunlight again.” She gestured downward, and saw her home from the outside for the first time. It was a bronze oil lamp, simple in design, but intricately engraved with a picture only she’d recognize for at least a thousand years; a Dart flying in front of the Sun.

“Come to me, oh Genie of the Lamp, and give your master a kiss,” he ordered lasciviously. He was an ugly little man, and his breath reeked of garlic. Even if she were a real woman, she wouldn’t want anything to do with him. But she didn’t think it would be that hard to deal with him.

“Is that your wish, O master? I am forbidden to touch my master unless that is his wish.” She noticed that her clothing had changed when exiting her lamp. She was dressed in green silks, wearing bangles on her arm, and her nails were painted silver. Probably a safer choice than the jeans and tee shirt she was wearing inside.

“No, no,” he hastily answered. “You’ll not trick me that way, crafty Genie.” She wondered how exactly that was a trick, given that she’d spelled it out for him. “Abdullah Hamar gained your lamp through his exquisite skills in thievery, but there is more he might gain with your power behind him. I wish,” he said with a pause and a wink, “that I was the greatest thief in the world.”

Okay, she thought. This would qualify as the stupid and petty that she should get rid of. With the smallest of smiles, she said, “Your wish is granted. Be warned, this might hurt.”

His broad smile vanished as soon as he felt the changes start. He yelled, and then stopped an instant later when his throat changed. He grew scales, fell to all fours, and sprouted a tail. Within minutes, a monitor lizard stood where once was a thief. “You are still a thief, one of the greatest in the world, though it will be eggs you’re after now,” she gloated.

Her body tugged at her. She’d used too much power changing him, and could feel herself fading back into her lamp.

â˜© â˜© â˜©

She reformed inside the bottle, absolutely exhausted. Where working out for days on end did nothing but fight boredom, using her energy to transform someone wore her out completely. She was thankful she’d created a bed before being pulled out. It took everything she had just to collapse onto it.

She didn’t even notice she was still wearing her silks and makeup.

Time without time passed.

She slept without dreams.

She woke up slowly, enjoyed lolling in bed. She rolled over at last, fully awake. Her clothes were still fresh, but she felt it was time to change. Accepting her new situation, she decided to continue dressing as a woman, in a dress and sandals. She spent some time learning to do her makeup.

She ordered up books and movies, exercised until it too became boring. She bathed and lay in bed without sleeping.

She thought about the wish she granted. While amusing, she eventually decided it was a failure. The man was a lizard, he’d tell no stories. There were no witnesses. One less thief would make no difference, she had not set an example for others to follow. She’d have to do better next time.

â˜© â˜© â˜©

It was a relief when she was finally pulled from her lamp. She was indoors again. She hoped she’d get to see direct sunlight some day. Instead, she had filtered light, coming through cloth. She was in a tent.

A man stood in front of her, taller than the last one. She came up to his mouth, but it was still a relief to see a normal person as her equal in height. An uncontrolled smile broke through.

The man backed up in surprise and fear. “What? What are you? What foul sorcery is this?” The man spoke French, but she had no more problem understanding that than she did the earlier Arabic.

“I am the genie of the lamp, O wise master, and I exist now to serve your command.” She enjoyed playing it up, it was fun watching his reaction.

The man wore armor, chain over a silk shirt. He had a white tabard with a red cross over the armor. A Crusader. OK, that made sense to her. It gave her at least a rough idea of the time period. She also noticed that her clothing had changed again when she emerged. She’d gone back to silks, though this time in rose and gray. Her nails were painted bone white.

She could see fear and greed playing over the man’s face. He grabbed the hilt of his dagger, but didn’t pull it. She was not worried about swords, so just stood there calm and nonthreatening.

“A genie,” he said, “then you’ll grant a wish?” Greed won, she realized.

Time for a bit of fun. “A master who is both wise and knowledgeable,” she said with a curtsy that deliberately gave him a good look at her cleavage, “is a rare and wondrous treat. As you have freed me from my lamp, so must I grant you the wish you make.”

He grinned. Small at first, but growing. He started to laugh, and his chuckle grew into a guffaw. He released his dagger hilt and raised his hands over his head. “Thank you Lord of Hosts. You have delivered my enemy’s ruin unto me. Genie, I wish to destroy my enemy, the general Shirkuh.”

This, she thought, she could work with. She needed to encourage warriors, those who would build the weapons they could one day use against the Shivans. She needed to mold men who would do what it took to win wars. Men who would warp others to fit their weapons so they’d grow to hate themselves. So when their bodies were stripped from them and they were turned forcibly into women they’d rejoice for the simple fact of being normal.

She stopped. Where did that come from?

She wanted more than destruction, she wanted someone who was more than a warrior. This wasn’t the way. “Are you sure that’s what you wish, my master?”

The smile vanished, and the Crusader grew angry. “Yes. Destruction. I want to destroy him. Obey me, Abomination unto the Lord.”

“As you command.” Her nanocytes filled the air again, and the unnamed knight writhed as they began their work. His armor fell to the ground, his hair lengthened, his waist thinned, his chest expanded, her manhood vanished. “You are now among the most beautiful of women. Seek out Shirkuh, bed him and wed him. From there, his destruction shall be assured.”

To the new woman’s curses, she withdrew to her lamp.

â˜© â˜© â˜©

She was tired when she returned to the lamp, but not nearly as bad as when she’d turned Abdullah Hamar into a lizard. Knowing she’d be able to sleep soon, she decided to take the opportunity to try out sleepwear. She found a pair of satin pajamas in red, and was pleased at how she looked in them.

She had to think. Would she continue her mission or change it? It would wait until she awoke.

She lay back in her comfortable bed and let unconsciousness claim her.

Awakening with recovered strength, she went back to her routine within the lamp, summoning up books, exercising, and watching movies. When boredom struck, which it frequently did, she would learn something new. She tried on different outfits, learned to do her makeup, practiced dancing and sewing, even put in a shooting range and fencing arena for practice. Female she may be, but she was still a soldier.

Her boredom ended when the light in the lamp shifted. An alarm blared. A blue-white swirl opened before her, a gaping void in the virtual walls of her reality.

First try the direct route, “Get rid of that.” It didn’t work. She tried to set barriers against the intruder, and catch it in recursive algorithms so it would bury itself. None of these worked, but they did buy her some time.

“Analyze. Is it Shivan? Put it on screen,” she ordered.

“Unknown composition,” came back, followed by a string of data she could not quickly comprehend.

The light returned in force, a blue tunnel into another place. A hand, a human hand, reached through.

“Sword. Foil.” It appeared in her hand. She lunged, piercing the hand that reached through. It withdrew.

“Icy Halls of Hell,” came a male voice from the tunnel of light, “I just want to talk.” It spoke English, or something close to it.

“On screen. Any sign of Shivan technology?”

As with the previous request, the analysis came back ‘Unknown technology.’

“Come through and you’re dead,” she answered. Lacking any other information, she had to assume the intruder was hostile. No one in this time period should be able to access her lamp. “Close your entrance, or I’ll do it for you.”

“Defense 3,” she ordered quietly.

Another alarm went off, a second entrance was forming inside the lamp. From inside the first tunnel, she heard “I’m like you, we need to talk,” but it was already too late.

She fired into the tunnel, spraying bullets. At the same time the emplacement she’d summoned up did the same. Lasers and bullets rained into the entrance.

Seconds later it closed. She hoped the intruder was dead.

No, she really didn’t. If it was Shivan, she hoped so, but she had enough doubt to hope that she’d only wounded or driven off a human. What was it?

She had a project, something to hold her interest. She pored over recordings in every spectrum, analyzed digital signals and correlations. She listened endlessly to recordings of the intruder’s voice.

She was so engrossed in her research, she got upset the next time she was pulled from the lamp.

â˜© â˜© â˜©

She was in a tent again, the evening Sun streaming through the opening. There was sand on the floor, so she was still in the desert, most likely. She was once again in rose and gray.

The man in front of her was on his knees, giving her a thrill as she stood higher than him. “God of mercy protect me,” he cried.

Damage control. “Do not fear, O worshipful master,” she began. The servile routine was getting less amusing each time. Soon she’d need something new, but she’d stick with it for the moment. “I am the genie of the lamp, and must serve at your command.”

This one stopped quickly, looked at her. “I have heard of such things, pagan magics. But you are more fair than I’d ever expect of such.” He reached a decision. “No matter your origin, you are still, I think, a lady, and deserving of courtesy. Please forgive my rough reaction. I am Aubrey DeVere. Who do I have the honor of addressing?” He spoke archaic English.

“My name?” she asked, off balance. No one had ever asked before. Devin was inappropriate, both because it was a man’s name, and because it’s not who she was anymore. “I am called Daphne.” First thing she thought of. It wasn’t a bad name, at that.

“Then be welcome Lady Daphne. I’ve heard tell of genies. I hope you’ll forgive me for being forward, but is it true you’ll grant me a wish?”

She nodded. “What do you want?”

“I want to go home.”

So he was a crusader running from war. Still not what she needed.

Then she remembered floating in space, where light from the Sun was already weeks old. Vast and empty, waiting for a foe that couldn’t be beaten. Exiled from a world she - he - couldn’t share. A home he couldn’t return to if he wanted.

“My lady? Forgive me if I’ve given offense, please.”

She was near tears. “No Sir DeVere, forgive me. It is not for a genie to react so. I will… I will grant your wish.”

He waited expectantly.

“Where is your home?” she finally asked.

The man burst out in laughter, open and honest. “I am from Oxford, where my father rules as Earl.”

She smiled in return, and extended her senses as she hadn’t done since the sensor net tests. She found a bird and worked a small change on it. “It is done. A letter from your King Richard is being delivered now, calling you home.”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Somehow I expected to be whisked home instantly.”

“If you wish,” she bluffed, since she had no idea how to do such a thing, “but I thought you might prefer not to be hunted as a deserter.” She had used so little power on the bird and letter that she could easily remain outside the lamp.

“Of course. I hadn’t thought of that. Thank you most kindly.”

She liked this man. She hadn’t experienced much courtesy in her life, and found it welcome. “You know, you do get three wishes.”

He looked startled. “My thoughts have been on home of late, where one day I will succeed my father. I wish I could ever be a good lord to my people, and bring them to prosperity.”

She put on a look of concentration, then snapped her pretty fingers. “It is done. But you must always tend to the needs of your people, or my blessing will be undone.” That was easy, she thought. She’d done nothing at all, but a man who wanted to be good, and would tend to his people, would undoubtedly be a good ruler. She smiled, “You have one more wish.”

My lady,” he said looking in her eyes, “I would wish to get to know you better. May I do so?”

She smiled back, a bit shyly. “Inside the lamp, I neither eat nor drink. I miss it. Allow me to join you for dinner, and we can talk…”

â˜© â˜© â˜©

Four years later

Returned to her lamp, Daphne wept quietly on the bed. It was her choice, she knew. Aubrey would have gratefully kept her forever. She would never bear him children, and his line would end with him. A historian from Wales was lecturing in his town, and DeVere promised to build from it a center of learning. Oxford could be the key to the future, but he needed to take a wife and have a son. It couldn’t be her.

For the first time, she found herself wondering if it really was Dr. Chen who put her in this body. Maybe she was wrong, and it was Sally instead. Even knowing it was the right thing to do, she hurt imagining her man with another woman. Could Sally have felt the same about Devin?

Aubrey promised to leave her lamp far away from Oxford, but where it would soon be found, that she wouldn’t have to spend too long inside. Still, she hoped it wouldn’t be too quick. She needed time to mourn.

While she cried, her alarms went off again. The tunnel of light formed, but this time she let it. She wasn’t sure of her motivation. Had she learned patience from Aubrey, or was she hoping for an end?

“Please don’t attack,” she heard from inside. A man stepped through, a dark, red haired stranger barely an inch taller than her. He saw her, still weeping, “Forgive me. I didn’t mean… Can I help?”

This was not what she’d expected.

“Who are you?”

“Of course. I am Aaron, although I’ve used many other names. Like you, I am both genie and time traveler.”

“Excuse me?” Daphne was still mourning, but surprise was better than most things at pulling her out of her misery.

“Yes. It seems our systems are compatible, at least mostly, and I’ve been trying to visit for some time. When are you from?”

“What? I left in 2640, the Shivans were attacking.”

“Fantastic,” he crowed. Daphne scowled at him. “No,” he waved, “sorry, I’m sure that was bad and all, but I left a world dying to the Crimson Plague in 2510. It means my efforts worked. We got past that.”

“What a minute,” she frowned. “Are you saying you time traveled from a world-ending disaster, just a different one than me? Do we just go from one disaster to another?”

“That’s right,” he nodded, smiling. “I don’t know why it’s happened, but all of the ‘magic’ people I’ve met come from world ending disasters, and we all found time travel just in time to get one or two people out. Now we work to avert our own disasters a thousand years in advance.”

Daphne sat down, stunned. “There’s more than just us then.”

“Oh yes, I’ve met one other genie and a leprechaun. Both from before my time, you’re the first one after me.”

She smiled, warmly. “Then it’s possible. I can save the world. I wondered.” Looking at him, she couldn’t help but see potential, “And it’ll be nice not being alone.”

Luck of the Draw

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Contests:

2014-02 February Beholden of the Heart Story Contest

Publication:

500 < Short Story < 7500 words

Genre:

Character Age:

Teenage or High School

TG Themes:

Gay Romance

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Heart of

the Beholden.

Chris’s class would be assigned their first romantic partners. It was an event they all looked forward to. For two months the boys would get to know their first girlfriends.

At least, that’s what Chris thought the plan was.

Sometimes things don’t go the way you expect. It’s just the luck of the draw.

Author’s Note: This is not the usual transformation story I write. I decided to step out of my comfort zone for the contest. While I still hope you enjoy it, I would request additional feedback since this is a new style for me. Thank you.

“Are you psyched, Chris? I’m hoping I get Cindy.”

“You wish, Tetsuo,” Chris responded with a grin, “With your luck you’ll get Betsy Kremmler.”

The two boys stood against their lockers and let the tide of students sweep past them. Chris was the larger of the two, though they were both smaller than most boys in their class. Tetsuo had a broad excited grin that stood out against his olive skin, but Chris didn’t smile at all. A worried frown creased his face.

“CR–” He stopped suddenly. He already had two points. At five points he’d go on probation. He couldn’t risk sliding out of school; just imagining his mother’s reaction made him break out in a sweat. “You’re going red, Tats. Gotta go.”

Tetsuo nodded. His SLA had to be giving him the same warning it was giving Chris. “Later,” he muttered. They weren’t assigned as friends this term so they could only talk for a few minutes without getting points.

Chris had to avoid that. Make it through the year. Next year will be better.

He used to get counseling sessions for spending too much time with Tetsuo, but they started getting points in high school. Enough points and you’d slide out, even if you were in your first year. That would mean no school, no company job, and no property protection. It would mean living in the underground.

The worst part was that Chris was a pretty good guy. On the first day of school they were assigned their new friends and he got Liz, a girl he fought with in grade school. A single curse and he got his first point. He blamed her and didn’t talk to her that day and got another. Two points on the first day - he was practically a school legend.

His mother flipped. He hadn’t gotten any points since then but she watched him like a hawk. She was probably watching the feed from his SLA.

He pulled up his schedule and it flashed on his eye. He had a double English today. Mr. Pemberton must have something planned. He was a tough critic and Chris wasn’t a good writer, but that meant he could use the practice. He watched the lectures at home but got lost in the differences between Thoreau and Whitman.

He’d prefer if he got double math but that pretty much never happened. He was too good at it already. Next year he should qualify for the technical track, where they relax some of the social rules. You could make your own study groups, a freedom he yearned to have. His course work was going well and he had an extra project at home. He just had to keep up on his few weak subjects and above all, avoid getting any more points.

Liz sat down next to him. She didn’t like him any more than he did her, so they found sitting together in class an agreeable way to pass their required time together. She dressed in black and talked about death like it was something no one had noticed before. “Another day closer to the end,” she greeted him.

“A fine morning to you too, Liz.” Being cheerful to a friend couldn’t earn any points, but he knew it annoyed her.

“Quiet down, class,” announced their teacher, Mr. Pemberton. “I see you’ve all been doing the reading and lectures on Romantic poets but are still struggling with the writing. So today you will all be attempting to write a poem in a style similar to Walt Whitman – no,” he grinned, “I do not expect any of you to do as well as he did. Just try.”

He continued, “I’ve chosen your subject in honor of the day. You will all receive your first romantic partner during this class. I want you to begin writing about your romance before you know who your partner will be, and complete it after.”

Gasps and titters flew across the classroom. Chris was in the first group, “How do you write about it when you don’t know who it’ll be?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Liz answered him, “we’re all interchangeable.”

That was the motto of their lives.

Some called it the Equality Movement, others called it the Technocrats’ Revenge. Officially, they were the Social Equality Laws. After years of trying to make opportunities equal for everyone regardless of race and sex, logic demanded they look at the role of social status and personal contacts. In a revolutionary movement, they passed a series of laws allowing the government to mandate your social circle. Chris grew up being assigned friends and playmates. Now that they were in high school they would start having romantic relationships, and those too would be assigned to them. They would have two this year, both lasting two months.

He started writing while his classmates scrambled for supplies. Mr. Pemberton insisted they write on paper instead of their tablets. Chris had no problem with that rule; his hobby was repairing mechanical watches, so pen and paper fit with his self image.

“When will I meet you,” Chris started writing. “I do not know you, yet you fill my mind. For tomorrow has not arrived, and it is there you reside.” It wasn’t Whitman, but he was happy with his opening. It was an exciting subject and it inspired him. He pictured being paired with the blond hottie Cindy Walker even though he’d never said more than two words to her, and for a moment dreaded being stuck with his seatmate Liz.

He stopped.

It was coming.

Next to him, Liz kept writing furiously, intently pretending she didn’t care.

Inside his eye he got the name.

“Ryan Bremer.”

Ryan Bremer.

Ryan.

His face fell. He dropped his pen.

Around him he could hear the reactions, gasps of surprise, a small cheer, a moan. He couldn’t bring himself to look at who was saying what. Next to him, Lizzie muttered “Damn it,” and slapped the desk before going back to pretending she didn’t care.

Chris knew the rules. Ten percent of relationships were homosexual and they were assigned randomly. Why’d he have to be one of the ones who got it?

Yes, the odds were highly in favor of everyone getting one same sex relationship during high school. Why’d it have to be his first?

And Ryan.

He remembered the chubby little kid who was the other finalist in the grade school spelling bee and the way he cried when Chris spelled “equestrian” properly. Ryan grew half a foot over the summer and started playing sports. He kept pressing Chris to join in pickup baseball games just to get even with the chronically uncoordinated boy. After the third dropped ball Chris stopped taking the bait and just put up with the embarrassment of saying no.

They hadn’t been assigned as friends since then and Chris never missed it.

“Choices made for you are choices made wrong,” he wrote in one of his more rebellious acts. It was an assignment, part of the poem, he probably wouldn’t get any points for it. He hoped. But he didn’t care. It was the easiest way to keep his tears from flowing. “I can only take solace in knowing you feel the same, a strange pleasure in another’s misery. In shared solace we may yet find joy, for tomorrow has come too soon.”

---

“You are so lucky,” Chris’s mother cooed, “and you look great, honey.”

“Stop it, Mom,” he scowled, rubbing his shoe in the carpet while looking down.

“Really, sweetie, this is great for you. You get to experience something new and it’ll look great on your record. You need some good attention after getting two points on your first day. I don’t want to see you get any more, so you be good with this boy.”

Chris loved his mother, but he also knew she was the type of person they passed the Social Equality Laws to stop. She was a hard charging account executive who’d risen to corporate vice president by dint of talent and hard work. If she’d had her way, Chris knew, she’d never have married his father. She’d have chosen a high placed businessman rather than a chronic complainer and then she’d set her son up with every advantage she could to ensure his success. Even without the ability to get him into a top school or set him up with the right friends she was always there urging him on.

“It’s just a movie.”

“And dinner,” she answered cheerfully. “I put an extra twenty in your wallet just in case. Remember you’re not allowed to pick up the check, but you are allowed to split it even if your date has a more expensive meal. Now let me look you over,” she said and wiped the side of his mouth with a tissue.

“That’s them,” Chris said, glad to get away from his mother’s doting. Ryan’s father was picking them up and taking them to the mall, but of course they couldn’t leave immediately. His mother had to meet Ryan and get some pictures first.

It was their first date. Chris and Ryan had been spending their required time together by meeting before class and sometimes after. Chris’s SLA showed him that they were entering the danger zone nonetheless. His mother insisted he ask if Ryan wanted to see a movie and the boy agreed immediately. He was probably getting the same lecture from his parents.

Ryan got out of the car. He was wearing nice slacks and a button shirt with a sports jacket and looked a lot more comfortable than Chris did. “Hi there, uh, Chris,” he said while his father watched. “You look nice,” Ryan stammered and refused to look at his father.

“Thanks,” he answered while his mother watched him just as closely. “You too,” he added after she prodded him gently.

They stood together by the car while his mother snapped some pictures and Ryan’s father stood aside in silence. “Put your arm around him,” she called to Chris, “Look like a couple.”

“Sorry,” Chris muttered quietly to Ryan as he put his arm around Ryan’s waist. It wasn’t comfortable; he had to reach up, but his mother was pleased.

“It’s OK,” Ryan whispered back, “you do what you gotta.” He had an odd smile on his face and turned to face the camera.

When they had enough pictures to embarrass Chris at any time for the rest of his life the two boys got in the car with Ryan’s dad. Ryan opened the door for Chris and climbed in after him in the back seat. They passed the ride in awkward silence. Ryan left his hand across the seat and Chris pushed slightly away from it while trying not to make it obvious.

Ryan suggested going to see The Stars, Like Dust, a science fiction dystopia that had opened recently. Chris agreed without hesitation. He loved science fiction and hadn’t seen the movie yet. It had a romance subplot so it should satisfy their date requirements. It was the ideal solution.

Ryan’s father dropped them off at the theater. Ryan handed Chris some money, “If you get the tickets I’ll pick up some popcorn.” Chris agreed. He looked at the bill after Ryan left; it was enough for both tickets. He was annoyed. The whole point of this date was to avoid getting any points. Breaking the rules wouldn’t help. He’d make sure to return the change and get it all on the record.

“Hi there, Chris,” a girl said as he got in line. He turned around to see Cindy, the girl he and Tetsuo had both hoped to be paired with. Her long reddish blond hair swirled around her head like an angel on a good hair day. She wore a short skirt with a sweater that seemed modest while managing to show her every curve.

“Hi,” he answered back. “Are you two here to see Stars?” She was with her assigned date, an unreasonably lucky stoner named Jamal.

“No, we’re here for Seasons, but it looks like it ends at the same time as Stars. You’re here with Ryan, right? If you two are going to get dinner, how about you join us?” Jamal seemed less excited than Cindy, but he didn’t protest.

“That sounds great,” Chris tried to restrain his enthusiasm. “How about Ruby’s?” They quickly agreed on a time to meet up.

Ryan accepted the news and his change with equanimity. “Ah, that’s, well, that’s nice. Hey, they’ll be starting the previews soon, let’s get a seat.” He grabbed Chris’s hand to pull him along, and Chris let him but pulled his hand away once he got going.

They shared the popcorn after Chris checked it was under the allowable price point. He didn’t trust Ryan. After the ticket, he thought Ryan might be setting him up to get a point. Long delayed revenge for losing a stupid spelling bee? Chris really didn’t know why, but he’d be careful.

Ryan grabbed Chris’s hand when they both reached for the popcorn at the same time after the lights dimmed. “Let’s do this right,” the tall boy whispered to Chris and kept holding his hand.

“Mmmph,” Chris answered, unable to come up with any better response. It would probably help their standing, but it didn’t fit with his theory that Ryan was setting him up.

He wondered what kind of talk Ryan’s father gave him and if it was as embarrassing as his mother’s. The movie was not as good as Chris hoped; he wondered idly if holding Ryan’s warm and solid hand had distracted him. It didn’t seem to dampen Ryan’s enthusiasm.

They met up with Cindy and Jamal at the restaurant and got a table. “Hey Ryan,” Cindy bubbled, “It’s good to see you outside of school. Are you going to be on the baseball team again this summer?”

“Ahhh, I don’t know. If I can, maybe,” Ryan hedged. As part of the equality laws all sports had to be co-ed, but the girls had a hard time competing with boys in physical sports. Neighborhood leagues helped fill the gap by ignoring the rules but not getting official recognition. Ryan had to walk a fine line to avoid getting points. Chris sympathized.

“How can you commit to playing when they keep changing the rules, right?” Chris tried to pick up the conversation to give Ryan an out. “Like they did to you in Middle School when they made student council a rotating position,” he said to Cindy. Might as well try to impress her while he had the chance.

“Or to you,” Ryan piped back in, “when they got rid of the math leagues. You were good at them.”

Chris almost jumped up in surprise; he didn’t know anyone paid attention to the academic leagues. “Those were fun,” he admitted cautiously, “but I think they figured out that the competitors could keep score.”

They all got the joke and laughed. Ryan laughed the longest, eyes proudly on Chris. Chris was no longer entirely sure what to think.

---

“Come on in. You’re early.” Chris tried not to sound resentful. He didn’t want to invite Ryan over, but his mother insisted on it. She decided they’d have him over for dinner and that was the end of it.

“Got to impress your mother, don’t I?” Ryan smiled nervously and shifted from side to side until Chris stepped away from the door and gestured him in. “These are for her, by the way,” he said while holding up the flowers that had been making Chris so nervous.

“She’s not back yet. Let’s put them in a vase for her, I guess.” He led Ryan back to the dining room.

“So this is your boyfriend,” his father snapped. Chris groaned. Going through the family room was a mistake, but he hadn’t heard the television so he thought he was safe.

“Yes, Dad, this is Ryan,” he tried not to hear his father’s ire. Ryan lifted his shoulders but didn’t say anything. Chris knew he shouldn’t care but he hoped Ryan didn’t notice.

“Too many stupid rules, you don’t know…”

“Dad, we have to put these in a vase for Mom. Then we were going to– work upstairs. OK? Sorry. No time to talk.” He hurried along.

Chris suspected his father wanted to slide out, to deliberately stop following the rules, get enough points on his record, and live in the underground economy. He probably would have if he hadn’t been paired with Chris’s mother; his dad was one of the winners of the system. Sure, Chris knew they didn’t love each other, but his mother followed the rules so she could keep her job. His father reaped the benefits.

“What was that about,” Ryan whispered while he got a vase.

“Dad’s– not on board with everything we do. Let’s just–” He really didn’t want to say it, but couldn’t think of anything else. “Let’s go up to my room until Mom gets home.”

Ryan’s head rocked back and his eyes widened slightly but he nodded his head in agreement. He had an almost silly grin as the two of them went upstairs and shut the door behind them.

“Holy–” exclaimed Ryan. “What is all this stuff?”

Chris cursed. Not even Tetsuo had seen his collection; his hobby.

“Pocket watches. I fix them for fun. And practice. All mechanical, no power. It’s– well, engineering practice.”

“They’re cool,” Ryan exclaimed as he looked over the three completed ones still sitting on Chris’s desk.

“Be careful.” A dark cloth on the desk was covered in tiny gears and springs. Ryan was leaning over it to look at the finished pieces and Chris worried his shirt would sweep away the delicate gears.

“Do they work?”

Although he didn’t want to share his hobby with anyone, it was hard to resist showing off now that he had the chance. “Those two do. That last one keeps popping a spring. I can keep it working for an hour or two but it always breaks.” He laughed in self deprecation, “It breaks immediately if you do something stupid like, I don’t know, put it in your pocket.”

“That’s still really impressive,” Ryan gushed. “And they look so cool. When did you start?”

“Two years ago. I found one in a garage sale. It was cheap because it didn’t work, and I thought I could get it going again. I convinced Mom to get me the tools by telling her it would help with my qualifiers.”

Ryan sat down on the bed, leaving the desk chair to Chris. Ryan looked at Chris, didn’t say a word, and still pressured him to say more. How did he know there was more to it?

Chris thought about it. He didn’t want to talk but he didn’t want to stop either.

“My Mom– When I started this, she– At her office. She got selected to have an office affair. She hated it.” She didn’t want to be the subject of gossip, even if that’s why they selected people for office affairs in the first place. Her partner was senior to her and she was afraid it would ruin her career.

Chris was always surprised she kept the affair secret from his dad, even if she complained about it to Chris. He thought she’d have rubbed it in Dad’s face because she knew it would hurt him even though she didn’t have a choice in the matter. She never did.

“Well, I did some reading and engineers don’t have to go through that. They get some leeway on the Social laws, maybe because the things they do have to actually work. So I decided I was going to be an engineer, and I looked for something to practice on. Hey, what?”

He relaxed while he was talking. He’d never even told Tetsuo the reason he wanted to take the technical track. Then he realized Ryan had stood up and was rubbing his shoulders. It felt nice, but…

“You seemed tense,” Ryan said defensively.

“Yeah, of course I’m tense. No one’s seen my watches. Mom doesn’t want me to go into engineering so I usually keep the whole thing secret.” Maybe if he changed the subject back to the watches Ryan would forget he ever said anything.

“I’m glad you told me.” Ryan put his hand on Chris’s shoulder and looked down at him.

They stared at each other’s eyes.

Chris looked away. Uncomfortable.

Ryan slowly took his hand away and scuffed his foot.

With forced cheerfulness, he insisted, “Show me how you do it. The one you’re working on.”

Chris welcomed the change in subject. He sat down at his desk and pulled out his tools. Explaining what he was doing as he was doing it made him think about each step. He was trying to put in one of the gear springs, which was a sensitive bit of work. You had to get the tension exactly right or the watch wouldn’t keep time, but the spring was delicate and you could break it if you wound it too tight. If you slipped, it would spring out and could go anywhere.

Ryan watched appreciatively but his attention wandered long before Chris’s did. “Those gears are ceramic. That can’t be original.”

Chris smiled, “Saw that, did you? Yeah. I got the watch casing a few months ago and the old lady said it didn’t work. I figure someone tried to repair it and gave up. It was completely empty. So I’m doing my own design and figured I’d use modern parts. I can print up plastic gears to test my design but then I order the final pieces in ceramic. They’re more durable than the originals so I can use tighter springs and it should keep time for three days between windings.”

“Awesome. Hey, why don’t you make your own casing too?”

He paused. Thought about it. “I don’t– It’s the gears that make it interesting. I never really thought about–”

“But the casing drives the rest of your decisions,” Ryan enthused. “You can use bigger gears in a bigger case; you’d have to so you can use the side of the case to hold your springs. Thinner ones mean you can’t build out. I mean, you have to fit everything inside the watch; you should be thinking about it too.”

This was a new idea. He put his tools down carefully before turning around. “I guess I should–”

The afternoon passed much more quickly than he’d dared dream.

---

The Winter Formal marked the end of the class’s first relationship and Chris surprised himself by having mixed feelings about it. Ryan liked his watches. He’d helped design a new watch case and they printed a plastic copy so Chris could design the interior while Ryan was making a metal version. It wasn’t just the help Chris liked, it was having a partner who was enthusiastic about his hobby and helped him take it in new directions. It was exciting.

And he transferred that excitement to Ryan.

Easily.

He almost didn’t want it to end. Almost.

Chris’s mother drove them to school and the two of them got out of the car together. Ryan looked almost as discomfited by his tie as Chris was and they shared a grimace as they both straightened them at the same time. He didn’t like wearing a suit, but he had to admit Ryan looked good in one. He hoped he looked half as good in his.

“Hey there Chris. Um, and Ryan,” shouted Tetsuo as he came over to them while dragging his protesting date Liz along with him.

“How’s it going, Tats,” Chris answered. You were allowed to mingle outside your assigned friends at school parties, so he could talk to Tetsuo for a few moments. He wondered how Tetsuo would react if he ever saw Chris’s watch collection. Would he be as enthusiastic and supportive as Ryan?

Tetsuo was dating Chris’s assigned friend Liz. She wore a black dress and heavy eye make-up and looked oddly attractive for someone who considered a funeral the high point of her month. She did not manage to smile, and Chris had seen her smile while chopping up frogs in Biology class so he assumed she was not getting along with Tetsuo.

“Let’s dance,” Ryan said suddenly.

Chris didn’t want to, but his two points were still hanging over his head. Ryan knew he had them - everyone knew. Was he taking advantage? It was close to the end of the year and Chris hadn’t gotten any more. Maybe playing along was the best bet. “Sure.”

Chris didn’t know how to dance. His mother never had time to teach him and his father didn’t care. Ryan was better, if only a little, and he made up for any lack of talent with enthusiasm. With arms flailing around and feet stomping everywhere Chris didn’t know whether to be more frightened of being hit or being the center of attention. After a few moments he realized people were watching more in amusement than anger and he tried to relax.

They stopped dancing a few times when Ryan’s friends came over; like Chris, Ryan had some assigned friends and some he actually liked. A basketball player Chris thought was another of Ryan’s friends shoved Ryan instead of saying hello, “Maaan, you like goin’ homo. Gonna screw that ass myself next time we on the court.”

That stopped both of them in their place.

The music should have come to a crashing halt while everyone watched the confrontation. It didn’t. Chris reddened and might have lashed out but Ryan just started laughing, “Is that the best you can do? Was that worth sliding out?”

It took Chris a moment to realize their antagonist was on their SLA’s and had earned at least a point. Was he out? His fifth point already? It sounded like Ryan knew him. Such a dumb insult, too.

And such a cool way of dealing with it. He looked up at Ryan with renewed respect. Well played.

Ryan pulled him off the floor and Chris followed until they were in the halls and could hear each other better. “I’ve got something for you.”

“I don’t–”

“Here.” Ryan pulled a box out of his jacket and opened it. The pocket watch casing.

It was black. Dark black. “Cast iron?”

“Anodized,” he answered, “It won’t rust.”

A silver fob stood out against the black watch. Ryan turned it over so Chris could see the etching on the front, “Holy– Where’d you get this?”

“You think I only play sports?” Ryan pretended to take offense. “I’ve been sculpting for a few years, this is different but I got some help.”

“It’s too much–” Chris didn’t know what to say.

“Take it.” Ryan paused, “I want you to have it. To remember– Look, I’m not dumb. I know this isn’t what you wanted. But… It is what I wanted. I’ve wanted to go out with you– It’s silly, but since you won that damn spelling bee back in fifth grade. Keep it. Let me know you’ll keep it.”

How had he missed it? Suddenly so much of what Ryan did made sense. He wasn’t trying to be mean or trick Chris–

What should he say?

What did he think?

Chris liked Ryan. He was fun to be with and a good partner and–

He took the watch.

While staring at the floor, he told him the truth. “You’re right, but not entirely. Ryan, I’ve got two things to say,” and he looked him in the eye. “First, yeah, I’m not gay. But if I wind up getting paired with a guy like you, I think I’d consider myself lucky.” He thought about his mother and father, and knew it was the truth. Ryan smiled back sadly.

“Second, we get some privileges after this is over, we can spend some time together even if we’re not assigned as friends. Use it. I want to keep in touch. Please.”

“You mean it?” Ryan was so much bigger than Chris, yet he looked small and pleading. So happy for so little. It was wrong to want so much and have the rules keep you from it. Chris knew the odds, Ryan was unlikely to be paired with another guy; his odds of getting someone who liked him back were even worse than Chris’s.

“You know what? I lied.” He only let his friend twist in the wind for an instant. “I have one more thing to say. For ten more minutes you’re still my boyfriend–” He had to reach up to pull Ryan down to him, but Ryan didn’t resist. They kissed, deeply, and for a moment Chris didn’t care who saw them or what they thought.

The happiness in Ryan’s eyes was enough.

---

20 years later

Chris was lead engineer placing a new bridge across the Mississippi. He pulled out his watch to check the schedule, an iron pocket watch. The cover was etched in chrome, a proper English gentleman on horseback, an equestrian. Chris would never explain why it meant so much to him, or why the rider looked just a little bit like him.

It was his secret.

Shade of Night Complete (epub)

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel > 40,000 words

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Fall of Night. Where reality goes to die.

Deep in the impossible city, Pascal Hunter makes his living as a detective. The city never fails to offer up sufficient crimes to keep him busy.

Always keeping his own secrets well hidden, of course.

Attachment	Size
Shade of Night.epub	1.82 MB

Shade of Night Part 1

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Fall of Night. Where reality goes to die.

Deep in the impossible city, Pascal Hunter makes his living as a detective. The city never fails to offer up sufficient crimes to keep him busy.

Always keeping his own secrets well hidden, of course.

PART ONE

FALL OF NIGHT

Sound and light poured from the speakers around the stage. A strong bass beat shook the floor while psychedelic rainbows streamed from the speakers to fill the warehouse. The colors stuck to walls, floors, and people, making the dance floor look like a memorable drug trip.

The crowd pulsed to the music while the detective watched from a catwalk well above the floor. In Fall of Night, physical law changed with the neighborhood. In this one sound and light overlapped, so every sound left its mark in the world. The partiers below were a riotous mix of green, yellow, red and blue. His own faded leather jacket was bright blue with a splotch of red across the back.

“You Pascal?” a young punk with spiky fluorescent red hair yelled at him. He saw the question as a spray of light brown from the kid’s mouth.

Pascal Hunter nodded silently and pointed to one of the wooden barriers along the side of the walk.

The barrier was brightly colored on the side facing the stage but plain and bare away from it. As soon as they were behind it the sound dropped to nothing.

The local rules had side benefits. In the midst of a raucous concert you could find quiet. When the bright and garish colors hit a barrier, the sound stopped. A thin piece of wood was sufficient to give the two of them a quiet space to talk.

“Jimmy, right?” Pascal asked, and the redhead nodded.

The kid was about fifteen and was probably going for the punk look. It didn’t work with day-glo orange and red spots all over his ripped tee shirt and jeans. The spiky leather bracelet was meant to make him look dangerous, but it was the switchblade in his belt that succeeded.

Paz didn’t go for the dangerous look. He preferred business-like, professional, and a bit cowardly. It kept him alive. In theory.

“I hear you have Denise Latour,” he whispered in strings of gray and brown.

“Not holding anyone,” the kid retorted.

“I misspoke,” he corrected. “You’re not holding her. You know where I might find her but you have nothing to do with her being there. No problems from me.”

The kid stared intently at Pascal, as thought to see through any disguise. The most common way people would describe him was nondescript. Short mousy brown hair framed a round face with a solid chin. Brown eyes, average height, no scars; he just didn’t stand out. He could carry on a conversation with someone, and they wouldn’t be able to describe him five minutes later. It was a professional asset.

“Cash?” the teen demanded.

Slowly, with exaggerated care, Pascal reached inside his jacket and showed an envelope. Opening it, he fanned through a few bills. He did not hand it over, and shook his head when Jimmy reached for it. “The girl first.”

“This way.” He stopped, turned back, “And you’re okay with– any condition?” The words spilled from his mouth in dark colors, a nearly black purple.

“Look, kid,” Pascal cautioned, “I don’t care if you’ve been whoring her around– sorry, if some unknown other person has been. I don’t even care if she’s got scars or missing digits. Long as she’s alive her father can fix it. I’m no white knight here, I’m just bringing her back.” He let his shoulders slump, palms out to indicate harmlessness and defeat.

The faint colors of their conversation remained on the buffer as they left. Pascal considered it was an unavoidable risk but Jimmy pulled a few pins and the wooden buffer swung down. A heavy rock beat washed over them again, painting them both in bright new colors. The bare side of the wood was exposed to the music, burying their conversation in layers of color and noise.

An approving nod from Pascal was met with a grim smile from the punk.

“Like the music?” the kid shouted over the blare.

“It’s good enough.”

It was better than good. It was a sensation in a city that sought entertainment with passion.

Sun comes up, I hit the field

Wet fields wait’n for harvest yield

They’d given field songs a techno beat and changed the words just enough to suggest sex. Pascal wasn’t sure they’d changed much, farmers could be mighty lusty on their own. The band understood the local rules and created a light show to complement the visual beat. It was a masterpiece in sound and light. The crowd ate it up. In other circumstances, Pascal might have spent more time watching the band and the crowd.

Pascal and Jimmy wouldn’t stand out if any partiers looked up. Other catwalks had their own occupants. Most of the others up above the crowd were involved in illicit activities, so they actively avoided noticing their compatriots. Overall, Pascal found this an effective way to stay concealed right in the open.

Jimmy led him to a windowless door at the far end of the walk. It was covered in bright yellow and red, the same splotches that were now decorating Paz and Jimmy. Jimmy opened the door wordlessly and gestured Pascal onward.

He stepped through with confidence, spun on his heel and caught Jimmy’s hand as it rushed towards him. Reversing quickly he pulled Jimmy in, using the kid’s momentum against him.

No longer taking it easy, he pulled the sap out of the kid’s hand and grabbed the switchblade from his belt.

“OK, that was fun. Are we done playing now? Denise.”

The kid’s face fell. “How’d you know?”

“Later. For now, I’m taking you home to your father.” When the punk tried to pull away he said, “Look, kid, gimme a break. You go home, I get paid. You want to run away again after that, it’s your lookout. I don’t figure it’ll be too much of a problem for you.”

Jimmy, or Denise, slumped, ready to give in.

Then she dashed.

And tripped.

Hard.

“Good one. Almost made it there,” Pascal reassured her as he helped her up. With a serious look, he added, “But don’t do it again. Your know your father really does have the resources to fix up any injuries. I don’t want to have to give you any to get you home.”

She scowled.

“Good enough,” Pascal answered with a half smile. “There’s a car downstairs. With me, please.” He twirled the girl’s switchblade to show he knew how to use it.

He could see their conversation painted on the walls. They’d be gone before anyone had a chance to read it. It reminded him that there was a very loud concert on the other side of the door, but they couldn’t hear a single note. It would be hard to get used to this shard. At least he didn’t have to worry about the kid yelling for help.

With a solid grip on her arm, he pulled her towards a fire escape.

He took a hard look at her. Her disguise was excellent. If he hadn’t known in advance that Johnny Bravo was really Denise Latour, he’d never have guessed. Even the little things were there; badly scuffed shoes, dirt and oil under the fingernails, and a ripped belt buckle on her jeans. She was every inch the image of a street punk. A bit skinny, but that wasn’t unusual for teens, and she looked plenty tough regardless.

“I’m just going to run away again,” she complained while climbing down the stairs outside the window.

“Not my problem,” he answered back. Then he added, “Why?”

She jumped down the last flight of stairs and hit the ground in a crouch. Pascal was waiting for it and wasn’t disappointed. She took off. He sighed, wondering why she thought he wasn’t prepared.

From the stairs well above her, Paz extended his hand and concentrated. He felt the power rise and with it came the desire to leave his body behind and wreak havoc. Resisting the impulse, he pulled just a little.

Denise stopped in her tracks and looked around in a panic. Her breath was visible in the suddenly cold air surrounding her. When she backed up to the wall, Pascal dropped to the ground and strolled casually towards her.

“What happened?” she asked when he got to her.

“I caught you,” he answered. It wasn’t what she meant, but he wasn’t going to answer her real question. He grabbed her arm again and brought her to his car, a small white four door car that would not draw much attention anywhere. He pushed her in and handcuffed her to the door.

“My father doesn’t understand me,” she complained when he got in.

Ah, Pascal thought, one of those. “Your father is Park Latour; he is rich and powerful. I’ve seen your home, you’ve got everything you could want and believe me that doesn’t come easy. You can put up with him misunderstanding you, I’d bet.”

“You don’t get it,” she shouted. “This isn’t a disguise. This is who I am.”

He looked sideways. “A street punk?”

“A boy,” she retorted. A second later, “You’re not going to be able to drive home. Cars don’t work in Kuroki.”

“Not going that way. It’ll take longer, but there’s a way back that we can drive the whole way, as long as none of the neighborhoods have moved. It’s worth a try anyway. Fine, you’re a boy. Why haven’t you done anything about it? You’ve got money. Go to a surgeon, get a nano-reconstructon, or find a wizard. Fix it already.”

“Dad won’t let me,” the child answered back. “He’s got things planned, wants to marry me off to Kyle Parker as part of a business deal. He doesn’t care what I want.”

Pascal chuckled.

“Oh, you think that’s funny? Yeah, I know it sounds like a kid whining, but I’m not a girl. I won’t be some guy’s wife, it won’t work. I’ll–”

“No, that’s not it,” Pascal responded. “Kyle Parker? Skinny kid, black hair, long nose?”

“Yeah,” Denise nodded slowly.

“Well,” he answered with a laugh, “he was a runaway about three months back. You and him have more in common than you might think.” He looked over at her, “You do a better job passing than he did.”

She stared back, goggle eyed. “No.”

“Get to know him. You can help him, he can help you. Never know, you might even like each other. Comes the wedding, if you can’t get yourselves changed, I can hook you up with a wizard who can swap you two. Don’t keep running away. I’ve seen rich and I’ve seen poor. Trust me, you’ll like rich better.”

“Kyle Parker?” she muttered. “Make you a deal, Pascal.”

“You’re not in a position to make deals,” he answered.

“Oh really?” she asked, holding up the handcuff he’d used.

“What’s the deal?” he answered, crestfallen.

“I’ll go the easy way, but call me Jimmy the rest of the trip,” the boy requested.

With a small shake of his head, Pascal answered, “I don’t think so. You don’t act like a kid, so you don’t get a kid’s name. Jim.”

Jim answered with a sly grin.

This one’s a real devil-boy, Pascal thought to himself. His father will have his hands full.

- â™‡ -

Jim kept his word and didn’t try to leave the car. They had to stick to places where the rules allowed cars, so it took a while. The bright colors they’d picked up at the concert faded. Pascal’s jacket went back to its normal light brown, and Jim’s bright red hair turned almost the same color.

Jim was quiet until they crossed the Wet Wall, “Damn, does it ever stop raining here?” he exclaimed as they crossed from a clear night into a raging downpour.

“Not very often. They collect the fresh water and trade it. You’ll need to know stuff like that if you intend to go into your father’s business.”

“Even if I do it as Kyle,” Jim responded slyly. “Yeah, OK.”

Pascal had to slow down in the beating rain, and it gave Jim time to phrase his next question. It was clear he was thinking hard about it. “Say this works, and Kyle and I can switch places. Doesn’t that limit us? We couldn’t go to shards where magic doesn’t work?”

Even a quick glance told Pascal the kid was worried. It was a worry he could allay, “Most shards take you as you are, only a few undo changes they don’t support.” He relied on that rule of thumb, though there was no reason to get into that. Jim wasn’t that good at reading people and was wrapped up in his own concerns, so Pascal was able to gloss over his personal connection. “Keep an eye out, sure, but don’t worry too much. And if a rule change puts you back in your old body, you can always change again.”

That gave the kid something to think about. Pascal didn’t need to point out that he was getting way ahead of himself. Jim would have to get Kyle to agree to swap and they would have to convince their parents to go along with it. But if the kid was thinking about a solution rather than planning his next escape, that had to be worth something.

It was easy to think of the kid as a boy, Pascal realized. He’d manage to get the life he wanted. Somehow.

The Latours lived in Pinewood. He had no idea why it was called that. They had a park with trees in it, but so do dozens of other neighborhoods. It seemed unlikely they named it after their park. In the end, they were Pinewood rather than a more descriptive name because they were. They were a wealthy district, where most technology worked and it could be combined with magic to create Gates. It made for some extremely wealthy and influential families.

The tall steel and chrome fancy of Buckman’s Folly loomed overhead. Like the district itself, Pascal was sure there was a story behind the name but he didn’t know what it was. The steel between the large glass windows was carved to look like vines, and a few double and triple windows let you imagine a face peering out of the jungle.

“We’re here, Jim,” Pascal announced. He knew he was wasting his breath since the kid obviously knew his own home, but it was one last chance for him to hear his name. His real name.

Pascal pulled into the parking garage and they got out. The boy led the way with Pascal watching him from behind. He wasn’t entirely convinced Jim wasn’t going to make one last attempt to run off.

Jim only smiled and nodded, understanding and accepting the gesture. It was a very manly response. “Thanks, Pascal. I mean it,” he said as he reached over to shake hands.

A man stepped out before they were halfway to the elevator. “Denise,” he called. For a second, Pascal was tempted to look around.

“Hi, Mr. Zims,” she said with a slump to her shoulders. Pascal looked at her in amazement. As soon as she heard the name Denise, she looked like a girl again. A sad, depressed girl.

“Buck up, kid,” Pascal whispered. “Take your medicine like a man and look to the future.”

That got a smile out of her.

“Mr. Latour will see you now, Mr. Hunter,” Mr. Zims announced.

With that serving as a dismissal, Pascal watched him lead off the girl dressed as a boy. He hoped things would work out for her.

The elevator whisked him up, and up, and up some more. He hated being alone in elevators. It was too much like being in a tomb hurtling through space. He could feel the cold darkness pressing in on the capsule. Every instinct screamed at him to leave his body behind for good. He relaxed as soon as the little bell rang and the box came to a fast stop.

“Pascal,” an excited voice greeted him. Park Latour met him in his lobby wearing sweat pants and a Japanese robe but still immaculately groomed even in the middle of the night. “I hear you brought my daughter back. Thank you. And it’s good to see you again.”

Park Latour treated Pascal like an old friend every time he hired the detective. Paz didn’t know, maybe he was. Memory was a problem for him, it faded in and out. Large pieces of his life were missing, and if he went back far enough it was all gone. He didn’t how or when he’d met Latour, but he’d gotten several interesting cases out of him. He was happy to overlook missing memories in return for difficult cases to solve.

“She’s fine,” he stated bluntly. Despite his resolution, Pascal got defensive when talking to people who might know him better than he did.

Latour stared him down, “I’ll need more than that, old man.” Park was graying at the temples and showing a bit of middle age spread around the waist. From appearances, he was about 10 years older than Pascal. Appearances were deceiving.

“Disguised herself as a boy, was running scams and living on the streets. Was in a fight or two I know about, but no serious injuries on either side. I’ll give you the full report, you didn’t need to call me up here for that.”

Park laughed, a short but rich sound. “I’ve dealt with your reports before. They’re late and sketchy. I’ll ask for myself, thanks. Pascal, you’re a wonder at finding things out. You found Denise in a week; the police were hunting over a month. But when it comes to explaining things–”

“I did find her,” he interrupted.

Park stopped suddenly. “Yes. Of course you did, old friend. That’s putting things in perspective.” He tossed a box at Pascal, who caught it. “Have a cigar. I’d invite you in for drinks, like old times, but I have… company.”

“Thanks,” he said while cutting and lighting the gift. Smoking was not his normal vice, but he wouldn’t turn it down. The cigar was richer and smoother than any he could remember. It could tempt him to smoke regularly if he could afford it. “Not like it’s going to kill me,” he joked.

After a very small chuckle, Park said, “I have another favor to ask.”

Pascal just raised an eyebrow at him to continue.

“Another case. For a friend. Well, associate, really. Daughter of an associate.”

“All right. What’s the case?”

“Murder, I gather.”

Pascal’s eyes lit up.

“Thought that’d get your attention.”

Getting two cases in a row was like hitting the jackpot. If it weren’t wildly out of character he’d jump up and down with joy and squeal like a schoolgirl. It wasn’t the money; he was nicely set. It was the challenge, the joy of finding something hidden, or chasing someone who didn’t want to be caught, or figuring out who did what he shouldn’t. Without it he’d drift, always a step away from leaving for good.

“Is this client your… company?”

“Don’t be cheeky,” Latour snapped back. “Of course not. I recommended you to her. I’ll let her know you found Denise, and you can meet her at the Sunrise Plaza for breakfast. If that’s all right with you?” After a moment’s silence, he added, “It really is good to see you again Pascal.”

“You too,” he smiled and left. Park was polite about it, but Pascal could tell when his interview was done.

- â™‡ -

The Sunrise Plaza was well named. The morning sun filtered through the trees in the park across the street, dappling the pavement with brilliant patterns of light and shadow. It was a performance art piece that would change each day.

A flock of birds rose from the trees. They were just pigeons, rats with wings, but in the morning light they were entrancing. Pascal watched them take off, rise, turn in the air and head off together somewhere. They were probably headed to a favorite statue to crap on, but he liked to imagine something grander and more mystical. Perhaps they were flying off to a grand meeting of all the pigeonry in the city to decide which statues they should crap on.

He was jolted from his thoughts when a tall thin woman imperiously slammed her hands on the table. “You are Mister Hunter. I will be retaining your services.”

She was a striking auburn haired beauty, wearing a plain black dress without jewelry or ornamentation. Her thin, wan lips, bags under her eyes and pale skin made her look worried, but her aggressive posture screamed of anger.

He leaned back and cocked an eyeball at her, but said nothing.

Inside he berated himself. Too much time watching the sun and the birds, not enough time keeping an eye on people. He wondered, for the thousandth time, if this was the fatal mistake he’d made once.

Every one had to face death, but he faced it by looking behind him. He didn’t know how, be he had died. All that remained was his ghost, endlessly seeking a semblance of life. He’d learned to make the best of it.

- â™‡ -

Fall of Night was a city unlike any other that has ever been. There have been planned cities whose beauty came from the mind of the architects. There have been cities that grew organically, form relentlessly following function, with wonders of accident and design sitting next to each other. Fall of Night was neither. It was where reality came to die.

No one knew what cataclysm broke the world, but it broke them all. Everywhere. All that remained were shards. Small pieces of different realities, each with their own physical rules, drifted through the ether and occasionally collided.

Fall of Night was a collection of tiny shards pushed against each other. Some stayed for years, some moved about the city, and some vanished, never to be seen again. Hundreds, or thousands, of different worlds pressed against each other, creating danger and opportunities for those who could see them. To Pascal Hunter, it gave the chance to be more than a mad, wandering spirit.

The woman who startled him either didn’t notice his distraction or didn’t care. She continued, “My father was murdered and my family has arrested the wrong person for it. They will not listen to me. I want you to prove my case.”

Arrogant clients were not new to him. He did not need to like his employer, but he did need assurances. “And if I find out they do have the right person?” he asked.

Her eyes, dark brown to the point of being black, blazed. “They do not. But don’t worry, Mister Hunter, you’ll still get paid.”

“Not what I meant, but that’s good too. Please sit down, miss–”

“Lady,” she answered. “Lady Sofiya Stanislovna Pankov”

Paz nodded. “Then please have a seat, Lady Pankov.”

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Lady Sofiya Stanislovna.”

With a sigh and a slight slump of his shoulders, he said “Then please have a seat, Lady Sofiya Stanislovna. And perhaps we can discuss the actual case?” The abundance of titles, modes of address, and languages in Fall of Night got most people to forgive protocol lapses. But not everyone.

She had a strong accent. Pascal assumed she did not normally speak the lingua franca of the city. If she used another language, she was probably from a large shard.

There were at least a few hundred languages within the city, and uncountably many more outside. A pidgin tongue had taken root, a creole of five or six dominant languages, and was now the major language. Often called Frankish, the common joke was that no speaker was ever frank.

He wondered if the case would be worth the client.

She slid into a chair and without a pause said, “How long will it take?”

“Hold on. I haven’t taken your case yet. I want some more details first.” It was only partially a lie. He’d take the case. Park Latour recommended this one, and he saw no reason to annoy someone who might be a friend. The chance to investigate a murder was too juicy to pass up.

“I told you. I am Sofiya Stanislovna Pankov.” She seemed honestly surprised. Offended too, but mostly surprised.

“For the sake of argument,” he replied while trying not to sigh with frustration, “assume I’ve got no idea who that is. Try just explaining what happened.”

It took her a moment to wrap her head around the idea. She finally started explaining.

“My father, Lord Pankov, Stanislav Ivanovich Pankov, was found dead in his bed. He was still healthy, so we suspected foul play. The police found a piece of his bed quilt in his valet’s room, and that was enough to convict him. They arrested him and are holding him for trial.”

Pascal nodded. A waiter brought their breakfasts, fried eggs over tomatoes and spinach with fresh orange juice and, most importantly, coffee. Pascal cut his eggs to let the yolks mix with the vegetables while listening.

“Yakim Sergeyin protested his innocence, and I believe him. I told my mother to have him released and she refused me. Refused me.” She stopped speaking for a moment, indignant at the memory. Pascal sighed inside, realizing all too well what this client was going to be like.

“Why do you believe him?” Pascal asked her.

She brought her attention back to him with a small shake of her head. She was younger than he’d first thought. The black dress, aristocratic bearing, and lack of makeup made her look older than her years. She was at most 20, possibly still in her teens. He quickly reevaluated her. She might just have the certainty of youth, rather than the arrogance of the rich. That would be easier to handle.

“I’ve known Yakim since I was a little girl,” she answered. “I know him. He’s an honest man who loves, or loved, my father and the family. He would not harm Father for love or money.”

“Surely the rest of your family knew him just as long. Why do they disagree with you?” Tapping the table for emphasis, he added, “Do you have some information or evidence you haven’t shared with your family?”

“Of course not,” she pushed back away from him, eyes narrowed in surprise. She might be lying, but if so she was a particularly fine actress. “I don’t know why they believe he could be guilty. It’s just so, so, clear. He didn’t do it.” Her voice shook slightly.

She wasn’t going to make this easy, he could see.

“All right, let’s leave that alone for now. Describe how your father died.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said while shaking slightly.

“Forgive my bluntness,” he said evenly, making it clear he didn’t really care that much if she forgave him or not. “If I’m to take on this case, I need to know what I’m looking at.”

“I am not accustomed to being questioned by the people I hire,” she retorted.

“What exactly do you think a detective does?”

She thought about that for a moment. A shadow brushed her face, shaking her out of her reverie. She decided to answer. “My father was found in his bed in the morning. He was held tight by the blankets, they were tucked in on either side. When the police found a torn piece, they naturally suspected magic was at play.” Their shard’s rules must support some magic. He’d need to learn how it worked before going there.

“Our doctor and the police doctor examined him, of course. He wasn’t able to breathe, and that’s how he–.” She stopped and turned away from him for a moment. “My brothers tried to keep that from me, but I spoke with the doctor on my own and got him to tell me. When they found a piece of my father’s blanket in Yakim’s room, they believed he was responsible.”

“I see. Did your father have any enemies?”

“No, everyone loved him. There are two other noble families in Brodjach, but relations have been amicable for years now.”

Brodjach. He had a name for the shard now, but it wasn’t one he’d ever heard of before. No need to tell her that.

“So let me see if I’ve got it. Your father died in bed. He stopped breathing, and there were no signs of a struggle, but there is some evidence of foul play. Your family found evidence of a killer, and he’s under arrest, but the evidence isn’t conclusive. You want me to clear the accused killer, either by finding the real one or evidence that he didn’t do it. Does that sum it up?”

She nodded. “Yes. That’s it.”

“I charge 25 pounds daily plus expenses, or equivalent in some generally exchangeable currency. Five days in advance. I’ll report in on my schedule, which may not be as often as you like. Do not try to contact me, as my work often involves being undercover and I don’t want to reveal that. Acceptable?”

She thought about it. She was unhappy, but finally nodded.

“Yes.”

Pascal nodded. He had a job.

Shade of Night Part 2

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Fall of Night. Where reality goes to die.

Deep in the impossible city, Pascal Hunter makes his living as a detective. The city never fails to offer up sufficient crimes to keep him busy.

Always keeping his own secrets well hidden, of course.

Shortly after noon, Pascal walked the streets of his home neighborhood. Unlike Pinewood, this one was was well named, the Freezer. With a thick coat and a hood over his head, he was identical to all the other coats and hoods hustling along the street. A few horses trotted through the ice and mud, but it was mostly people hurrying by to get indoors and out of the icy wind.

Pascal prowled the frozen streets, hands deep in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold. Tightly bundled people in a hurry pushed by him without a word. A spotted dog followed him for a block, barking and whining until a boy ran out after him. A horse drawn cart with an under-dressed driver hurried through, the driver’s curses tailing the horse. Pascal wasn’t looking for any of them, he was hunting smaller prey.

It found him.

A spray of snow flew out of Patterak Alley when he passed. Reflexively shutting his eyes, he was easily tagged by a tiny wisp of a boy, his ragged red hair flopping uncovered in the frigid air.

“Got ya again, boss,” the boy cried triumphantly.

Alone on the street, the urchin child was not dressed for winter. Bare arms poked out from a cotton shirt and he wore sandals on his feet. His short dull red hair left his large ears exposed to the cold. The child had an oddly pudgy face, contrasting with his skinny and knobby arms and legs.

“OK, you got me. Good for you,” Paz growled. “Now can we get inside? Some of us get cold, you know.”

“What?” the boy exclaimed. “You mean it’s cold out here? Someone should have told me.” He idly scooped up some snow and began packing it into a snowball.

“C’mon, Brynn. Gimme a break already. We got a case.”

That got his attention. “Something good? Interesting? What? Where?”

“Not out here. Back at the Goose, I need to get inside.”

The Green Goose was an inn. Specifically, it was Pascal’s inn. He owned it, and he named it. When he bought it, the man claimed it would be the goose that laid golden eggs. Pascal had answered, “My goose is made of copper, and it’s already rusted over.” And so it became the Green Goose.

Inns were a vital institution in the Freezer. As cold as it was, and it was always cold, nothing burned. Oil was the only exception, but you had to keep a steady supply. So the inns were restaurants, bars, and gathering places. Customers would stay for hours since it was warmer there than in their homes.

The windows were framed in ice, spiderwebs of frost inching upwards as the icicles stretched down to reach them. But inside was warmth. Pascal stomped the ice off his boots, adding a bit more to the puddle in the entrance room. Brynn copied the gesture, making certain to splash Pascal by accident in the process.

After warming up for a minute he could stand up straight again. They entered the common room together. The large room was warm and bright, lit by oil burning openly in trenches along the sides of the room. New visitors were always put off by that, thinking the open flames too dangerous. It wasn’t. It was perfectly safe. In the Freezer, nothing but oil would ever burn. If you put your hand in the flames, it would hurt, but that was all. Not even the hair on your arm would burn.

“Welcome back Paz,” shouted a woman from behind the bar. Holly was a short haired sexy blond who’d worked the bar for two years now. She wore a black and white outfit and showed a bit more skin than was absolutely necessary. “How’s tricks? Get you something? How ‘bout you, Brynn?”

The men at the bar turned when Holly called him. It was that time in the afternoon when the serious drinkers were finishing up and families were going to start arriving for dinner and their evenings. The change over could be fascinating or uncomfortable as each group tried studiously to ignore the other. The barflies were trying to determine if Pascal and Brynn were part of the family crowd, but they quickly passed muster as most of them went back to their drinks.

“Bourbon, Holly,” Paz ordered.

“Whiskey,” Brynn requested in his high child’s voice. Holly didn’t bat an eyelash as she took his order. She knew what Brynn was.

When Pascal had told Jim that moving between shards would not cause problems even if your body had been changed, he was telling the truth. For the most part. There were exceptions. The Freezer was one of them. If a magical creature entered a shard with no magic, it would usually just not be able to use its magic. In the Freezer, they were forced into appropriate, usually human, bodies. A ghost got a body and a life.

Brynn’s case was different. Arcadia, a fey shard, phased in to the city some years back. The fey kept their magic in almost every shard and rapidly changed from annoyance to threat. The Freezer, in those days, was a stronghold, one of the few places the enemy couldn’t operate. Brynn was a faerie who got caught in the Freezer and discovered he liked people. He liked being one of them. Pascal understood. Brynn eventually found a particularly strong wizard who could remove his fey nature, and he stayed in Fall of Night when Arcadia finally drifted off. Like Pascal, Brynn didn’t age, but unlike him was stuck as a perpetual child.

“One bourbon and one whiskey. You know, you guys could change your order some day. They don’t actually arrest you for trying something– new.” Pascal managed a tight smile. Holly was a shameless flirt, though flirting was as far as she went. Brynn smiledmore broadly, always desperate for female attention. “Stew’s almost ready, I think it’s got fish in it tonight. And for you, on the house.”

The common room had long tables and benches, and they’d soon be filling up. At the far end of the room a large pot hung over the pit, an oil fire burning beneath it. They made a stew each night for those who ate here. Anyone who wanted something better could go into the back room, where there was a full blown restaurant. Most people stuck to the common room.

Pascal and Brynn went back to the restaurant, less for dinner than for privacy. “So, what’s the case?” the little boy asked again.

“Murder,” he said.

He knew the game. Brynn would play at disinterest and make Pascal convince him to come along. If Paz was parsimonious in doling out information, Brynn would have to ask for more, betraying his interest.

It didn’t take long, and soon he’d related Sofiya’s story to Brynn.

“So what’s this girl’s secret?” the child asked at last. “Is she boning the valet or what?”

“I’ll leave that line of investigation to you,” Paz answered with a stone face.

“Then she’s either ugly as sin or I’ve found another part of you that’s dead,” Brynn laughed at him. “Of course I’m in, you’d be helpless without me.”

- â™‡ -

“The Carrabach will see you now.”

“About bleeding time,” Paz muttered under his breath. He’d been waiting almost an hour for this meeting. He was in his Sunday best, a black sports jacket and red tie. While he hoped to impress, he would at least not give offense by being badly dressed. Trying not to offend was also why he muttered his complaint rather than state it aloud.

The luxurious waiting room had not improved his mood. If anything it had made him more nervous, but that was probably the intent. The fine red sofa, thick carpeting, and the small, tasteful, and above all expensive artwork on the wall reminded him that the Carrabach could buy and sell him a dozen times over before lunch.

“Come in, Mr. Hunter,” came the unctuous tone from the other side of the door.

“Carrabach,” he replied smoothly, “We’ve been friends long enough for you to call me Paz, please.”

The Carrabach didn’t so much stand up as unfold, towering above Paz and intimidating with his great bulk - all of it muscle. “We have been acquaintances sufficiently long for you to realize I shall not address you by such a ridiculous appellation. Take a seat.”

Pascal was alone for this meeting. Brynn might lose his temper around the broker, and that could be dangerous for them. Pascal dealt with tough customers on a daily basis, but this man always made him nervous.

The Carrabach was a major player in Fall of Night. He had a network of people working for him, moving goods from one shard to another. He always seemed to know what people would need, and got it to them for a small cut off the top. He could have taken over the Freezer with ease if he had any interest in doing so. Instead he drew others in around his orbit. The Carrabach was a major employer in the neighborhood.

He claimed to be a dragon, and Pascal was in no position to say otherwise. Paz was a ghost, after all. The Carrabach claimed he wandered into the Freezer by accident, unaware that he would change form. While he was tempted to return to his old form, he discovered that he could accumulate more wealth through trade than he’d ever managed by conquest and theft. So he stayed.

“What form of transaction are you inquiring after today?” the giant of a man asked.

“Information. A shard called Brodjach, and a family named Pankov.”

“Will you provide information on your rationale?”

“By all means, long as the answer counts against my payment.” The Carrabach did not give anything away for free, including answers. Instead, he ran a thriving secondary trade in information. While Pascal worked hard to not offend the powerful dragon, he’d learned long ago that the Carrabach never took offense at offers of trade. He might not accept them, but he was never offended.

Indeed, he got a wry grin from the man’s midnight black face. His bright teeth sparkled against the darkness of his skin. “That is inadvisable at the moment. I shall reserve the option to revisit if conditions warrant.”

He called a secretary to fetch his files while they discussed the price.

“If your request for this information indicates that you will be disembarking for Brodjach, I have a price in mind.”

That was unusual, but Pascal was happy to adapt. “I’ll confirm that much,” he hedged.

“Brodjach is a most interesting shard,” the Carrabach mused. Pascal followed closely. The dragon hated to waste time so this must be important.

“That shard attaches to Fall of Night on an unusually regular schedule. It consistently remains for three years, after which it disappears for two. On reinstatement, it possesses a most marvelous crop of tobacco which it is unable to grow while attached to the city. Mr. Hunter, I would take it as payment for this information if you find out what environmental conditions they experience that allow them to grow that crop.”

If the Carrabach knew how to grow the crop, he could find other shards with similar conditions. It was a fair deal, but deals with dragons were rarely simple. “If I’m unable to find out, what would the price be?”

His laughter was a great, booming thing. “Oh Mr. Hunter, you extinquish my flames. You see my traps far in advance. Still, we have had sufficient dealings that I understand you well. I will accept your best efforts to uncover the information I seek. Should you fail, I will consider the debt paid.”

“I’m sorry, but that seems– uncharacteristically generous.”

“Far from it. It is a judgment of your character, Mr. Hunter. Experience and information tell me that if you promise best efforts, you will give it. You might fail, but I consider that possibility an acceptable level of risk.”

With a nod, “Then we have a deal.”

He opened a file and leafed through it before continuing, “Yes, then. Brodjach is a large agricultural shard with a few plantations handling most of their trade. In the local language, Brodjach means ‘Wanderer.’ When it is attached to Fall of Night, they grow grains and vegetables. As I already indicated, they grow tobacco and fruits when they are detached from the city.”

While this was unlikely to be germane to a murder investigation, you never knew what would turn out to be important, so Pascal listened carefully and made mental notes.

“Electricity does not function within the limits of the shard. Gunpowder does, though they are limited to black powder. They rely on sympathetic magic to supplement technology. What was connected stays connected. This magical connection decays rapidly for animal tissue, less so for wood and cloth, and very slowly for stone and metal. An item once connected can be used to manipulate the other part of it.

Manipulating connections appears to be simple. They use it for farming and communication, indicating wide-spread or even universal ability. My information does not include maximum control limits, as this talent does not extend to other shards.”

That made sense. He understood now why they would suspect the valet of foul play on finding a piece of Lord Pankov’s quilt in his room. If the blanket had a magical connection to the torn piece, the valet could presumably use the blanket to smother the old man.

With a clucking noise and a shake of his head, he continued, “For you, I fear I have regrettable news. The current route to Brodjach leads through Battlefield. Unless my information is incorrect, you discorporate in that shard.”

Pascal nodded. He kept his poker face up, but suspected the Carrabach saw through it. He would lose his body on the way there and become a mere shade. The odds of Brodjach providing him with a new body were close to zero. Getting out of the case with Sofiya wouldn’t be too hard, but breaking a deal with the Carrabach was less– healthy.

“Have to change my approach, then,” he muttered. With a nod, he asked the giant to continue.

The Carrabach appeared to be satisfied. “The Pankovs run one of the major plantations in the shard, Nuvye Park. They are shrewd traders,” he added. Pascal understood that was a sign of high respect.

“Stanislav Pankov handles their affairs and typically manages the tobacco trade himself. He delegates the remaining agricultural trade to his son, Boris. Stanislav and Boris are both married, the first to Ekaterina, the second to Dunyasha. He has two other children as yet unmarried. A daughter, Sofiya, and the youngest, a son, Andrei. Both of the younger children are of marriageable age. Given past experience, I expect them to to enter matrimony when the shard is detached from the city. They are a private people.”

“That will be most useful, and thank you. Do you know anything about the servants at the house?”

“Only one. The butler is Feodor Menschikov. I have little information about him, save that he has been the butler for at least 15 years.”

Just once, Pascal thought to himself, just once he wanted to say ‘The butler did it.’ Probably wouldn’t happen. Again. But he could hope.

“I believe that will do nicely.”

“I will see you again, Mr. Hunter.” With skilled delivery, it was both a farewell and a threat.

- â™‡ -

“Good morning, Mr.– Pascal. Don’t usually see you here this early.”

“Morning to you too, Vic. If you’ve got coffee going, give yourself a raise.”

“Got a pot warming up on the stove,” he answered. “Bring you a cup right out.”

“Brynn should be here soon. And we’ve got a customer coming. Don’t mean to get in your way, sorry,” Pascal mumbled. Mornings were never his favorite time. He’d be better at them if they came a bit later in the day.

The Green Goose did a rousing morning trade with the people who spent the night in the warmth of the common room. The back room did not do a breakfast service and was normally empty in the mornings. That never stopped Vic from getting an early start cleaning the place. He’d always believed that the Goose was a fine dining establishment, and mere experience would not convince him otherwise.

Vic was another one of the Freezer’s refugees. A vampire, he fled to the Freezer to escape his curse. Like ghosts and dragons, vampires became normal people in the Freezer. His real name wasn’t Vic, but he didn’t know Pascal knew that.

Vic turned into a vampire on purpose to win a girl. He thought it would be all sparkles and romance. Instead, he discovered he really was only interested in what was inside the girl. Literally. The girl was probably dead, but Pascal carefully didn’t investigate that far.

In the Freezer, Vic was a bit on the pale side, but otherwise normal. He wouldn’t even eat rare meat.

Brynn soon chirped his way in. “What a great morning. Brisk outside, warm inside, I just can’t wait to get started.”

Paz grunted.

His partner was a natural morning person and he was also a natural pest. Brynn exaggerated his morning perkiness to annoy Paz. They both knew it, too.

By the time he finished his second cup of coffee he was ready to talk. He told Brynn what the Carrabach had told him.

“So forget it,” Brynn suggested. “It’s not worth losing you over this case.”

“No can do. I made a deal with him first. If I cancel out, I’ll owe the dragon some unspecified favor.”

Brynn groaned. “Dummy.”

Ghosting was risky. He was always a ghost, to be sure, but thanks to the Freezer he was a ghost with a body. In most shards he had ghost-like abilities even when he was solid. It was a handy if unreliable skill set because ghostly abilities varied so widely. One thing was constant; a body is more than a convenience. Without a brain to hold memories they faded, and his sense of self with them. He did not remember anything before he first came to the Freezer and was missing large portions of his life after it.

“Well, you’ll just have to rely on me to solve everything for you,” Brynn announced. “I’ll be– I’ll be the under appreciated partner whose hidden talents save the day. No, wait. The ignored child whose simple wisdom sees through all the red herrings to solve the case. Or–”

“What is this child doing here, Mister Hunter?” The door swung open as his client charged in.

“And a pleasure to see you too, Lady Sofiya,” Paz responded to her haughty opening. “This is Brynn. It’s short for something, but he changes it each time you ask, so I wouldn’t bother asking if I were you,” he added. Sofiya had annoyed him when they ate breakfast the previous day. This meeting had not gotten off to a better start. Maybe she’d be more pleasant later in the day, but he rather doubted it.

“I asked why he is here, not who he is. We have private business to discuss. I do not expect to deal with your spawn.”

Brynn giggled in his high pitched and annoying tone. “Oh lady, are you off base. If we go by age, I’m the senior partner.” He paused just long enough to let her think she should respond before he added, “Except that I really don’t know how old he is. I’m not entirely sure how old I am, for that matter.”

She accepted that with a slight upturn of her lip. “Fine. So why did you call me back here? Have you found something already?”

“You have a high opinion of my skills. No, I have not found anything. I’ve gotten some background but I’ll need to go to Nuvye Park and talk to the people involved to make any progress. We’ll need your help to arrange that.”

With undisguised impatience, she answered, “What do you need?”

Brynn jumped in. “I’ll be going, and I need an excuse to be there. What do you think? Maybe I’m a long-lost bastard you recovered from the orphanage where you left me?” The child grinned maniacally.

Sofiya grimaced, but refused to take the bait. “I can put you to work on one of the farms.”

Brynn snapped his head back in surprise. That was almost a joke. Pascal could see Brynn formulating a comeback, so he interrupted. “No, we’ll need him in the house. He’ll be working with me and we need to be able to contact each other.”

“So you will need a position too?” his client asked archly.

“I don’t think so. I’m going to have to– improvise. I’ll contact you when I can, and we’ll arrange things from there.”

“Do either of you speak the language?”

“Brynn has the gift of tongues,” Pascal answered before the boy could say a word. “He’ll learn it on the way there. As for me, I can usually find a way to communicate.”

She was puzzled, her face screwed up briefly. Finally she let it go. “As you say. For the child, I can put him in the kitchens as a pot boy. You can scrub, can’t you?”

Paz took inappropriate delight in the expressions of disgust that crawled across his partner’s face.

“Come on! Kitchen work? Me?” He settled down quickly, “Ah, it’s only until we solve it. Shouldn’t be more’n a few days. Fine. Dishes.”

“I’ll leave this afternoon,” Paz announced while Brynn muttered his way into convincing himself. “I’d like a day to set up my cover if needed. Lady Sofiya, what is your schedule? Can you stay in Fall of Night one more day?”

“That would be acceptable.”

“Remember you’ll need to bring Brynn back with you.”

Brynn made a nasty face at the reminder. To Pascal’s surprise, Sofiya did too - a bit more restrained than the fey child, but a definite face. She might just be human after all somewhere beneath that black dress.

“Well then, the next time I see you, we’ll be in Brodjach.”

- â™‡ -

Pascal Hunter was a ghost.

It was the fundamental fact of his existence. It was true whether he had a body or not, but it was far more obvious when he did not.

His body started vanishing as soon as he crossed into Battlefield. Fallen leaves rustled in the breeze, matching his mood as he faded away into transparency. He was still visible, but you could see through him. His heart stopped beating and left him for good a moment later. He stopped drawing breath when he lost the lungs to draw it into. He struggled to hold on to his form so he could still see and hear, but the world looked washed out and faded. Perhaps the shard itself was washed out, he hoped fervently.

It had been a long time since he’d visited Battlefield. He hoped the people he’d killed were not still around. For a ghost, that’s not an unreasonable fear.

There were no maps of Fall of Night, as shards moved around or phased in and out of the city. There were still patterns. Shards in the city tended to be small, and got smaller near the city center. Battlefield was on the outskirts. It was large, several miles across. The first time it appeared, many people wanted to move to its lush hills and spacious grounds. The natives didn’t agree and they fought back.

The war was brutal but short. The natives knew their land and their rules, but the city had too many people, and they could adapt to new rules. They won, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. Whether it was due to the harsh fighting or would have happened anyway, Battlefield started phasing in and out. It rarely stayed in place for more than a month. When on its own, it was a harsh land, and very few people survived it. Now it was mostly empty.

It took Pascal over an hour to cross. He followed the trade route to a large temple that opened to Brodjach. At the other end of a marble colonnade he could see bright summer sunlight. He floated through the deserted temple past statues to fallen heroes. Birdsong filled the air and he spared a prayer that the statues appreciated it. His goal awaited.

He crossed the border without pausing. He didn’t want to give himself time to reconsider. As soon as he passed into the new shard, he was gone.

I am Pascal Hunter. I am Pascal Hunter.

He repeated that frantically, a desperate struggle not to lose all he was.

It took less than a second, but it felt like an eternity. He had no body. He had no mind. Only his ego remained.

I am Pascal Hunter.

The world was a strange place without eyes to see it. Pascal sensed colors without connection. Greens, blues, and reds flowed together like strokes from a mad impressionist painter. Sound buffeted him like hammer blows that left neither bruise nor meaning.

Feelings. Feelings existed.

People, animals, even plants had feelings. They were a pervasive murmuring background that rose to symphonic spikes in places. It was a babbling brook interspersed with towering waterfalls.

He tried to concentrate. He had to remember something. It is hard to remember anything when you do not have a brain. A name. There was a name. Pankov.

He concentrated on that and tried to sort out the symphony. There was no sense of location. Near and far were meaningless. He was a ghost, a lost spirit, and it felt frighteningly comfortable. Refusing to give in, he held on to the name. Just the name. Just the feelings.

There was resonance, a flash. It was something that might be Pankov and he was there. With a fierce effort, he forced himself to remember that he was not Pankov.

I am Pascal Hunter.

It was an empty, hollow thought, but it lead to more. He was a detective come to investigate a Pankov. He knew he was confused. Time was passing, but he did not know how much or how fast. Perhaps time was as meaningless as distance. It was a dangerous state for him if he wished to stay Pascal.

The music smelled of Pankov.

That wasn’t right, but his senses were muddled and indistinct. He needed a vessel to hold him. He had to get back inside. There were shining spikes of silver and gold, beautifully tuned to hold the music that spilled from them, surrounded by dull strokes in faded colors. Animals. Those were animals. He was human. He was almost sure of it.

They wouldn’t all fit. He’d forgotten that. He didn’t fit into all vessels, they had to have the right shape to hold him. A small reddish one that sounded like rocks crumbling would do. It was small, but he would fit. He worried it was an animal. That would not be good, but if it was a choice between that and nothing he’d take it.

There was another one, translucent rose crystal smelling of wet grass and emitting a cacophonous sound like two musicians playing different symphonies at the same time. That didn’t make sense. He didn’t know what he was sensing, what he was seeing. He wanted to lash out and cause havoc, to push or break the vessels surrounding him. Lacking a body was driving him crazy already. Whatever the vessel was, it would fit. With all the resolution he could muster he forced himself to think.

I am Pascal Hunter. Remember that.

He moved in.

Soft and dark. He couldn’t see. His eyes were closed, that’s why it was dark. He opened them. It was still dark but he could see shapes. His eyes worked. He could see shapes, lines and curves. He heard insects in the distance, he smelled flowers and dust. As his panic receded his heart slowed, and he relaxed knowing he had one. With a bit of trepidation, he concentrated on himself.

I am Pascal Hunter.

With relief, he tried to remember why he was here. He felt familiar excitement when he remembered he was investigating a murder. He felt distaste at his client, Lady Sofiya. There was an echo in his mind when thinking of Sofiya. Whoever he was wearing knew her too.

He was lying down. In a bed. It was time to find out who he was.

He sat up.

He was wearing a long nightgown. Long hair swirled in front of his face as he sat. His hands were small, with tapered nails.

OK, he was a woman. Not a favorite, but it could have been far worse. He wasn’t an animal or a child, two of the outcomes he’d feared the most.

I am still Pascal Hunter, I remember that.

He’d need to make that his mantra.

Rather, he thought wryly, she’d have to make that her mantra.

There were many reasons he didn’t possess people. On a strictly moral basis, he was stealing some of his host’s life. He’d lost his life already, it was not a fate he’d wish on anyone else. There were also practical reasons. Possession required giving up his body. He would be using his host’s body and brain, filled with memories and feelings that were not his own. He could lose himself in there.

He knew the dangers from experience. There were times, as now, when he saw no other option. The last time he’d had to possess a woman, he believed it would be easier to hold onto his sense of self by remembering he was a man. It didn’t work. His body insisted he was a woman, and the conflict got so bad he was almost trapped inside her.

This time he, no she, would not make the same mistake.

She looked around. The room was beautifully decorated. Her bed was so thick and soft she positively sank into it. It was too comfortable to leave, so she looked from there. The bed posts rose into the air as silent sentries, carved to resemble spirits blown upwards in the wind. She found that oddly appropriate given her situation.

She could just make out a window with heavy curtains blocking the view. They too were finely made, falling richly to the floor. She suspected there’d be no more than a dim glow at high noon if they were pulled closed.

A vanity table stood against the wall opposite the bed, a fine stone top over beautifully carved wood. A long mirror hung above it, but it was completely covered with a dark cloth. Lamps were mounted to the wall, but they too were covered in thick cloth. A large armoire carved with woodland scenes completed the room.

She slid out of bed. Narrow waist, but wide hips, she saw. Her hair was long, falling almost to the small of her back.

She didn’t like having long hair and suspected it would cause problems. Cutting it off would draw too much attention, so she would have to bear with it. Any shard that had ghosts had ways to drive them off. She had to be careful.

Sitting down in the well padded chair by the vanity and pushing aside the cloth covering in front of the mirror showed her a fine young woman. She had a triangular face with wide cheeks and a narrow chin. A thin mouth gaped below a small upturned nose. Narrow, arched eyebrows framed large eyes, though she couldn’t tell their color in the darkness.

Brown. Light brown. No. Hazel.

Light bloomed behind her, giving rise to the sudden color.

“Dobroye utro,” came a soft female voice from the door.

Language. She had no idea how to speak the local language.

“Good morning,” she answered back an instant later, hoping her confusion and anger weren’t showing on her face. Her body, the brain she was using, knew the language. Keeping her body’s memory at bay was key to maintaining herself, to staying Pascal Hunter. But she needed to be able to speak.

She hated possessing people.

The woman was wearing a simple shift, her hair unbound and her hands dirty. “Did you have trouble sleeping, Miss Gray? May I get you something?”

Gray, her name was Gray. There was an answer within her, a comfort at hearing it. Her ears were used to it, her brain responded to it. Her last name wasn’t Pankov, so she was not a member of the family. It was definitely a luxurious house, though, so she was probably a visitor. Unless it wasn’t the right house.

“No, thank you.” She didn’t know the woman’s name, hopefully she wouldn’t notice. “The, uh, crickets woke me. I’ll go back to sleep shortly. Thank you again.”

“Of course,” the maid said while backing out of the room in confusion. Pascal was sure she heard her mutter something as she left. It probably wasn’t a compliment.

Shade of Night Part 3

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Pascal Hunter has barely started investigating Lord Pankov’s murder and already he’s sorry he ever took the case.

Forced to leave his body behind, he possesses a young woman he knows nothing about. He must hide his true identity while searching for a killer. And he must prevent the memories and personality of the body he occupies from overwhelming him.

There’s a reason he hates possessing people.

PART TWO

THE FAMILY PANKOV

“Good morning Simza. So nice of you to join us,” the Pankov matriarch said archly.

Her day just kept getting better. Pascal had gotten back to sleep only to have her maid return to wake her and help her dress for breakfast. This time the maid was wearing a uniform with a long skirt and blouse and a black armband around her arm.

“I’m sure you’re getting tired of black, Miss Gray,” she suggested, “and since you’re not a member of the family you don’t have to stay in mourning. Maybe some color to brighten up the table?”

She had no interest in being an ornament. Brightening up the table was the last thing on her mind. She was here to investigate a murder. The quicker the better. She suspected the suggestion was not so innocent as it seemed. It might be petty revenge for waking early. “No, I think I will mourn with them.”

That earned her a hard glance and Pascal resolved to find out her position here as soon as possible. The memories were there in her head. All she had to do was think about it and they’d be there. But she might not be herself if she did that.

I am Pascal Hunter, ghost and detective.

So she wound up stepping gracelessly into the well lit breakfast hall, walking cautiously in her low heels. One advantage of mourning was the simple clothing. She had to wear a dress, but it was straight, black, and unadorned. She did not have to wear jewelry or makeup, though her maid did give her a bit of perfume so she smelled of violets.

The sooner she could complete her investigation, the sooner she could get her body back. She’d open with kindness, though she didn’t expect it to work, “Thank you, Mother Pankov. I’m sorry I was running behind, I was out of sorts this morning.” Washing, dressing, and just walking to the breakfast table all took longer than it should have. It added up.

“I hope you’re all right, my dear,” said a thin young man with concern written all over his face as he stood up to greet her.

“Oh, do keep it together Andrei. At least wait until after breakfast,” interrupted the other man at the table, darker and taller than the first. These must be the brothers, Boris and Andrei.

Given his solicitude, she guessed she was here with Andrei. The mother didn’t seem to like her, so the brothers were her best bet for information. She would have to be careful not to give herself away. If the younger son knew her, he might notice when she behaved differently. All she needed was for people to suspect she was possessed and she’d be gone.

Both men stood when she came to the table. As she went to sit down, a young blond footman rushed forward to hold her chair. Her annoyance probably showed on her face, but she tried to take her seat with some semblance of grace. It suddenly hit her how short she was. Everyone towered over her, even the teenager seating her. She might not even top five feet.

“Please Boris,” the younger brother snapped back, “it is perfectly acceptable for me to show concern for my fiancee.”

Pascal snapped her head around so quickly her neck came near to breaking. So, she wasn’t quite a guest. She would have to be careful around Andrei. He would know her well and be alert to any change, but she would not not be able to avoid him either.

“Ah, thank you. But I’m fine, really,” she responded lamely.

“I hear you woke up in the middle of the night,” Andrei offered as an invitation for her to say more.

“It was nothing,” she demurred. “I was surprised how quickly the maid heard me.”

Boris chuckled. “Heard you? You pulled back the covering from the mirror. The mirrors are linked, you called her.” He managed to convey contempt for not knowing how the mirrors worked and for rudely calling a maid so early in the morning.

“Enough. We do not permit drama at the breakfast table. Decorum, please,” announced their mother.

The woman was shorter than either of her sons, but still stood a full head over Pascal. However, she probably matched either of her sons in weight, being much wider than her fit sons. Her dark red hair was streaked with iron gray and tied back severely to emphasize her chubby cheeks. Disapproval fairly rolled off of her.

“Will Dunyasha Ivatsovna be gracing us with her presence this morning?” she asked with acid on her tongue.

“No, Mother,” Boris answered. His well trimmed beard and strong square face made him look like a man but he flushed like a boy under his mother’s gaze. “Avdotya will be taking breakfast in bed.”

“She should be joining us at table during mourning,” the old woman insisted. Andrei was obviously uncomfortable with his brother’s grilling, but not enough to intercede.

“She has been– queasy. Upset stomach. She’ll join us again when she recovers.”

No one believed him. Pascal had just met him and could tell he was lying. Fortunately, their mother accepted it. Unwillingly, but she accepted it.

Conversation withered and died under her glare while the servants brought out breakfast. Perfectly poached eggs with a cheesy Mornay Sauce were accompanied by crispy fried sardines and toast with jam. They had some of the thickest coffee she’d ever tasted. She added a little fresh cream and it was smooth and rich. This body handled mornings better than her old one but she still appreciated a good cup of coffee.

She had to remind herself she was here for a case, not a vacation. It would be too easy to enjoy this. It would be unfair to the girl, Simza, to stay any longer than necessary.

There was a sudden nudge at her side. Andrei was poking her. He gave a slight nod and raised his eyes. Boris and Lady Pankov were watching her, and she realized she was digging into breakfast a little too enthusiastically.

She covered her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said with a small grin.

“Hmph,” sniffed Lady Pankov.

Boris shook his head sadly while Andrei turned back to his breakfast. She tried to eat more slowly and delicately, though it was hard to remember that in the face of such fine food. She sipped her coffee slowly but lovingly.

The wonderful food and luxurious setting almost made up for the chill at the table. Cold glares accompanied any attempt at conversation. Even the most anodyne openings were shot down when Pascal tried them. “It looks like a beautiful day today,” she’d tried.

“Only if you have nothing to do,” Boris responded. “We’ll have storms again this afternoon.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t know any better,” Boris’s mother said to him, pointedly ignoring Pascal.

It was clear they disliked her, but she did not understand the reason. Until she had the lay of the land, she resolved to listen more than speak. Her resolution lasted less than a minute.

“Sonya will be returning from Fall of Night this afternoon,” Lady Pankov announced. “And my father will be joining us for dinner tonight,” she added with a slight grimace. Pascal felt oddly cheered that the woman’s disdain was not reserved for her.

Then it hit her. Sofiya was returning today. It had taken her a full day to find a body. “I would like to meet Sofiya’s coach on the road,” she volunteered.

Silence fell like a lead balloon.

“Wonderful idea,” Andrei finally piped in with false cheer. “You two will be sisters, it’s very kind of you to meet her. You can get to know each other better.” He struggled to smile at her, but failed.

“I suppose so,” said Lady Pankov with a notable lack of enthusiasm. “Have Roman Ivanov saddle a horse for her,” she said to a tall old servant overseeing the room. After he confirmed the order, she turned back to Pascal, “Do you think you can be on time for that?” Her tone had enough acid enough to etch steel.

“That’s unfair, Mother,” Andrei remonstrated with her, “You’ve overslept on occasion as well. Look how hard it was to awaken you when father–”

“Ladies are present, brother,” the elder interrupted, “and that was a sign of how deeply connected they were. Are.”

“Yes, that was terrible,” Pascal put in. They were talking around the subject, but it was probably the murder. “It’s hard to believe his valet would–”

“Ahem. We are still at the table,” Lady Pankov announced with her hands flat by her plate. She stayed seated but looked like she was about to stand. “Whatever your people may discuss during meals, we do not raise such subjects here.”

“Of course, Mother Pankov. My apologies.” Pascal fumed inside.

The blond footmen who had seated Pascal smiled surreptitiously at his partner. She realized it wasn’t just the Pankovs and the maids who disliked her. This job was not going to be easy.

She wondered what Simza had done to earn so much enmity. The maid’s suggestion that she leave mourning looked more like sabotage and less like petty revenge. She was glad she sidestepped it.

“Do we have any visitors today, Mother?” Boris asked as he picked up another sardine.

“The Kustovs shall be paying their respects this afternoon,” she replied. “You remember them, they are the tenants on the old dairy farm. We will receive them in the gardens, I think. You and your wife will be there,” she announced. It was not a question.

“I’m sure that will not be a problem, Mother,” he answered with ill concealed irritation.

When Pascal was quiet, they directed their barbs at each other. While that was pleasant, silence would not get her any leads. She had a murder to solve. She’d need a better plan soon. It was a bad sign when Sofiya was likely to be her best ally.

- â™‡ -

“Simcha my dear, may I speak with you a moment,” Andrei called to her as they were leaving the breakfast table. His tone was a warning.

“Of course,” she agreed. He took her arm and escorted her to the library. She had to take a moment to look at the room. The walls were lined with shelves of leather bound volumes. Glass cases displayed prizes of the collection. A portrait of a man in chain mail holding a book in one hand and a sword in the other held pride of place over the mantle. She wondered briefly who he was. It was a large and impressive collection and she hoped she’d be able to find some time to peruse it.

The same dark iron lamps that decorated her bedroom were here in even greater number. They were uncovered, but she saw hooks above the lamps where covers would hang.

Andrei closed the door quietly behind him.

“What was that all about?” he said with obvious frustration.

“What do you mean?” she started to say, but stopped herself since it was obvious why he was upset. “I didn’t sleep well. Bad dreams, all night. About your father…” No sense wasting an opportunity.

“Please, kitten, be careful.” His voice was softer now, caring. “It was hard enough to get my father to give his blessing and now Boris takes over when we finish mourning. He will be Lord Pankov in five days. He can withdraw father’s blessing, and he will if my mother asks him.”

He grabbed her hands, held them close to his chest. Pascal resisted and tried to pull them back, then relented when she realized it was out of character. She could see pain in his eyes.

“Can we sit down for a few moments?” she asked him.

He agreed, and she took a seat on the plush couch. She sat down a touch heavily and found her dress pulling against the edge of the sofa. Recovering, she inched forward to sit less comfortably on the edge of the seat. The two of them were black blots against the dark green covers.

I am Pascal Hunter.

Andrei looked at her questioningly, but then relaxed.

She took a deep breath and pressed her hand to her forehead theatrically. “Tell me what happened that morning, when your father died.”

“Simcha, what brought this on?”

“The dreams I had. Please,” she lied.

With a suspicious gleam in his eye, he asked, “Is this why you wanted to meet Sonya today? I thought that was a fine idea, truly I did. But I hope you won’t share this unnatural obsession my sister has developed. Yakim Sergeyin Laskutin killed Father, and that’s the end of it.”

Andrei was upset, but he’d provided an excuse for her behavior. She wasn’t in danger of being caught.

“Humor me, Andrei,” she asked, then added, “my dear,” after a pause.

“Oh very well,” he said with a toss of his hand, “but this will end the matter, won’t it?”

She nodded, trying to appear demure, but probably failing.

“Let’s see now. Yakim Sergeyin woke me up, and I remember being surprised about that. He told me to come quickly, there was something wrong with Father. The man was agitated but not panicked, which I know now was a deliberate front. I started to dress, but he interrupted and told me to come quickly. A bit of cheek there, but I thought little of it at the time.”

“Was he dressed for normal duty?” she asked.

“Hm, well, let me see. Yes, I believe he was. I didn’t look too closely, still rubbing sleep from my eyes at the time. But he never left to change, and I know he was in uniform when the inspector got here. Suited up, tie fastened, I presume his shoes were shined and all the rest.”

She wanted to ask for more details, but had to keep it light. Investigating without appearing to investigate was a tricky business. It would slow things down, but people were less likely to clam up or lie, so it evened out in the long run. It was not her first time to operate under a cover identity.

Andrei was staring into the distance, wrapped up in his memories. Hopefully he was paying more attention to them than to her. She might be able to push him a bit.

“Boris and Fedya Illyitch,” the tall, bald butler, “were already with Father when I got there. Are you sure you want to hear this my dear? I do not want to shock you or disturb your sleep further.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “I think it will help settle my sleep and end my bad dreams if you tell me what really happened.” She tried to make her voice quaver, “It’s so horrible just imagining how it was.”

He brought his hand to his chin, thoughtful. “I hadn’t thought of that. Very well then. Boris was leaning over Father, checking his neck for a pulse and talking to him. Fedya took me aside and explained that Yakim found Father in this state– Excuse me, you said you wanted to hear the raw truth. He said Yakim thought Father was dead.”

Andrei paused and looked at Pascal. She realized he was waiting for a reaction. She had to think a moment before she realized what he was looking for. She opened her eyes wide, and put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my,” she gasped.

“Yes, well…” He could tell something was wrong, but wasn’t sure what it was yet. She might be on dangerous ground.

“I tried to grab Father’s shoulders, to shake him awake, but Boris insisted we leave him alone. He wanted to be sure the gendarmes could inspect the scene as it was. Good thing too, they thanked us for our presence of mind when they were done.”

He thought a moment, then added, “I remember telling Yakim to wake Mother, that she should be there with Father. Fedya answered for him. Turns out he’d sent Yakim to get Mother before me, but he couldn’t wake her. We all agreed we’d let Sonya sleep until the gendarmes got there. Oh yes, I think Fedya said he’d contacted them while Yakim was getting me.”

“What was the bed like?” she asked forcefully, and again got a quizzical expression in reply. She had to watch herself. Andrei was giving her a great deal of information. She had to keep him concentrating on his memories and not on her.

“It was pulled tight, as though it had just been made up and Father squeezed into the bed without disturbing the sheets. It’s funny where your mind goes; I remember thinking that Yakim must have made the bed with Father lying in it. It was a bit rumpled near Father, probably from Boris trying to wake him. But overall surprisingly neat.”

“What did you do?” She finally got a sympathetic glance from him. This, it seemed, was a question he expected her to ask.

“I wish I could impress you with a tale of heroism or detective work, but the truth is that Boris is the one who held everything together. After he stopped me from disturbing the scene, I wound up staring out the window. Boris went downstairs to wait for the gendarmes and Fedya Illyitch left to organize the staff. Yakim and I stayed with Father. I don’t think I moved from the window sill until the officials arrived.”

“How long did it take?”

“An hour, maybe less. We have a page linked to their emergency book at the station house, and they responded quickly. Sonya woke up before they got here and found out what was going on. She tried to get in to see Father, but Yakim kept her out. I remember appreciating that at the time,” he grinned tightly. “Does that help settle your mind?”

“Yes, mostly. But I don’t see why you think your father was murdered, let alone why you blame his valet.”

“This is why you wanted to meet Sonya today then, isn’t it?” He said with a rising voice. He slapped the back of his hand on his other hand with a clap for emphasis. “Has she gotten you to believe her foolish ideas? She has a child’s attachment to Father’s valet, but I assure you, kitten, that the man is guilty.” He calmed down as he spoke. Pascal could tell he was making a deliberate effort.

“Please then, tell me why. Make me see it.”

“The gendarmes sent an inspector. While they had their doctor examine Father, he looked at the bed and found a piece of it had been cut off. Of course he asked us about it, and Fedya assured him they inspected the blankets daily when the maids aired them out. They searched the servants’ rooms, and found the piece in the dresser in Yakim’s room. The doctor said Father suffocated in bed, and they arrested the man on the spot. He used the piece to control the sheets and hold Father so tight he couldn’t breathe.”

She wondered briefly if there was a reason that the police were called gendarmes. The word came from a different language than they spoke. She didn’t get to consider it for long.

Andrei grabbed her hands and held them tightly. This time she controlled herself enough not to pull away. “Is that enough for you? I do not want you to upset yourself over this. It is not an appropriate topic for a lady and we must not anger my mother.”

“Yes, thank you. I think that was a big help.”

“Please try to get on with my sister, but you don’t need to join her conspiracies,” he said with a teasing smile.

With that he put his hand behind her neck and pulled her to him. As she saw his face get closer she pulled back for an instant, mouth wide. Suddenly remembering, she tried to relax as he kissed her. It was clear he knew something was wrong and was hurt by her rejection.

She had to solve Lord Pankov’s murder quickly and without much help. The woman, Simza Gray, had her own life to live. Pascal was stealing a portion of her life, and now she risked driving off the girl’s fiance. Her body shivered with despair at the thought.

I am Pascal Hunter. And I hate possessing people.

- â™‡ -

She did not have to ride side saddle.

That had worried her, it was a stupid way to ride. Fortunately it wasn’t expected. The maids set out black riding clothes and so she got to wear pants again. She’d have to see if she could find more excuses to go riding.

Walking to the stables gave her a chance to see Nuvye Park from outside. Huge. She’d only seen a small fraction of it that morning. It had been built at that odd point in time when people still knew how to build castles for defense but didn’t really think they’d need them.

It sat on a hill with a commanding view of the surrounding areas. The ground floor was hard stone with narrow slits for windows, but the upper floors had wide picturesque windows with great views. A ditch around the base of the hill could have been a moat or filled with spikes, but instead it was a flower garden with walks leading straight to the doors. Four gray stone towers at the corners rose high into the air, and gargoyles at the top provided cover. The rest of the roof was designed to prevent rain from getting in rather than defense. It was a strange and yet beautiful place.

The stable master was a deeply tanned, heavily muscled man with black hair hanging down to his shoulders. “Afternoon Miss Gray,” he greeted her. If he wasn’t overly profuse, at least he was not openly hostile. So far, that was the best she could hope for.

“Good afternoon, Roman,” she answered back.

He looked past her, to see if she’d come alone. “None of that,” he nearly snarled. “It’s Roman Ivanov to your kind.” After a pause he grudgingly added, “ma’am.”

He was openly hostile after all. Without missing a beat she asked, “You have a horse for me, Roman Ivanov?”

“Yes, and a better one than–” he trailed off with a guilty glance at two stable boys who were leading in a draft horse. “Her name’s Bright Eyes, an even tempered filly. You’ll have no problems. The coach has two drivers, have one of them bring her back to us.” She could hear him grinding his teeth while being polite.

One of the stable boys led her horse over, a chestnut mare that looked to be in excellent condition. Roman might not like her, but he would not give her a poor horse. Mounting proved awkward. She tried to step up herself but misjudged her height and nearly toppled to the ground. The boy stepped in to help her and she shied away instinctively, only to relent and let him help her up. “Thank you,” she mumbled as she rode off.

For a moment she considered breaking into a gallop and seeing how far she could push Bright Eyes. That urge didn’t survive a moment’s reflection. It had been years since she’d ridden and she was out of practice. Instead she enjoyed a few moments alone and thought about the people she’d met and the problems she’d face. Andrei was her biggest help so far but was likely to be her biggest stumbling block if he considered detective work unladylike.

Pascal knew a different class of ladies. She remembered Sharon, a woman she knew back during the Arcadian Invasion. Sharon set up barricades, berated anyone who even thought about falling back, and managed logistics for two hundred fighting men. And she was all woman every moment. There was someone who was ladylike even when covered in dirt and soot. Especially then. Pascal rejoiced, knowing those were her memories.

I am Pascal Hunter.

Her opinions to the contrary, she’d have to try to appease Andrei. She wouldn’t ruin Simza’s life if she could help it. As much as possible, she’d try to avoid pushing him away.

The road led through a small town. People stared at her but did not wave or speak. That was probably a good thing since she didn’t know who they were. The local church steeple towered above and was visible from everywhere in town. She was very tempted to stop at a local tavern, the Bloody Chalice, to compare it with the Goose, but she decided against it. She rode past rows of houses, a music hall, law offices, and grocers. A few hundred people, maybe a thousand tops, and she was on the other side.

Down the road from the town, she pulled up to the coach and dismounted, handing her horse to one of the drivers. Sofiya was taken aback when she climbed in. “Simza. This is an unexpected pleasure.” Her tone indicated anything but.

“Well, that’s not–” she started to say.

“This child is Brynn,” Sofiya interrupted. “He is an orphan from Fall of Night, and will be joining us as a pot boy for the year. Brynn, this is my younger brother’s fiancee, Simza Gray” she added with clear distaste. If her voice could curl, it would have. “You should call her Miss Gray.”

Brynn stared at Pascal suspiciously. “Well hello there, you hot young thing, you,” Brynn said while breaking into a laughing grin.

“Do we have to go through this every time I possess a woman?” complained Pascal to her partner. With her high pitched voice it sounded more like a whine than a rebuke. “You made the same jokes when we were hunting the Brizzan Pearl.”

“That was ten years ago,” the young boy whined back. “I’ve been saving up a whole mess o’ new ones.”

“Wait. Wait. Just. Wait,” interrupted Sofiya. “What are you? I don’t.” She composed herself. “Brynn, you will tell me what is going on. I do not expect to be kept in the dark. Is this Simza?”

Sofiya was quick on the uptake. It was the first time Pascal was even remotely impressed with her. “Shut up, Brynn. I’ve got this. I’m Pascal Hunter.” It felt good to say it aloud instead of keeping her mantra locked inside her head. “I’m a ghost. Rules in Fall of Night let me have my own body most of the time, but that’s not true here. If I’m going to investigate, I need to possess someone.”

“Then why Simza?” she asked with a slight sneer.

“It’s hard to describe what draws me to one person over another,” she answered honestly if evasively. “I was lucky to get this close.”

“And how close have you been getting, Paz?, asked Brynn with a leer. “Engaged? Drat, what a waste of an opportunity. You know, I’ve been in a bit of a dry spell…”

“Enough, Brynn,” she commanded. “We’ve got a murder to solve, so let’s get serious about it. That’s the first order of business. We have to keep cover, so until this is over, remember to call me Simza.”

“Harder than you might think,” Sofiya said, “You look like her, but you don’t act like her. It’s like seeing her in a funhouse mirror. It’s just– wrong.” Tapping her chin, she said, “Maybe we can make the best of this. You can put an end to my brother’s foolish mistake.”

“No. I don’t do that,” she snapped back. Knowing moral qualms would have no impact on Sofiya, she added “It would interfere with the investigation. I need to blend in, and I’m already making people suspicious. You will have to help me with that.”

“I hired you, remember?”

“And to do what you hired me for, I need to fit in. We will find out who killed your father. As of yet, I have no reason to doubt the police. Yakim might be guilty. On the other hand, I have just started to put together a time line. Speaking of which, do you know the time of death?”

“No thanks to my brothers. They seem to think I’d fall to pieces if I heard anything. Of course I know. Between midnight and 3 AM. I overheard the inspector.”

“A three hour window. That helps. I will need one more thing from you. I would like to see the police report. You probably have connections with them that I can’t duplicate.”

“That goes without saying.”

She decided against reacting to her client’s arrogance. Instead she turned to Brynn. “You’ll be working in the kitchens, so you’ll be interviewing the servants. I want to know where they were during the murder. I can already place a few at the time of discovery, but I’d prefer independent confirmation from you. So I won’t go over what I’ve found yet.”

Brynn had a predatory smile that was out of place on his cherubic face. Sofiya shuddered, but Pascal had seen it before. Many times. “Shouldn’t be a problem. People talk so freely around innocent little boys.” As soon as he stopped smiling and started picking at the seats he looked like a normal ten year old again.

“Brynn, it should be easy for Lady Sofiya and I to keep in contact but you’re largely on your own. We’ll see what we can do, but I don’t have a drop set up yet. Watch for opportunities.”

“It’s what I do best.”

Sofiya jumped in. “Take an afternoon walk in the gardens,” she said to Pascal. “That won’t look unusual, even for her. You. Then you, Brynn, have somewhere to go to find her.”

“Gardens. Sounds good,” Pascal answered while Brynn nodded.

“And Mr. Hunter. That is, Simza. You shouldn’t be calling me Lady Sofiya anymore. Let’s make it look like this little gambit of yours worked and we’ve become– friends. Call me Sonya Stanislovna or just Sonya.”

Pascal smiled. “It sounds like we’re ready to go,” she said.

Shade of Night Part 4

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Pascal Hunter has barely started investigating Lord Pankov’s murder and already he’s sorry he ever took the case.

There’s a reason he hates possessing people.

Three footmen and the towering butler were waiting by the front door when the coach rode over one of the picturesque bridges. It was a big difference from Pascal’s unceremonious departure. The footmen rushed forward as they disembarked in the courtyard.

“Welcome back, Lady Sofiya,” intoned the butler. Feodor Menschikov was completely bald and had a long nose. With his great height he had to look down to speak to people, making him resemble nothing so much as a perching vulture. “I am glad you made the trip safely too, Miss Gray,” he added. Pascal suspected his graciousness was more for Sofiya’s benefit than her own.

“Thank you, Fedya Illyitch,” Sofiya responded as he gave her his hand to help her out of the carriage. She introduced Brynn and asked the butler to find him a position in the kitchens.

“Of course, Lady Sofiya. I will inform Raisa Irinova.”

Just like that, Brynn was on the staff, without delay or argument. So that, at least, was done.

“Go on ahead,” Sofiya said to Pascal while Brynn went off with one of the footmen. “I want to get everything unpacked first.” She turned back to her conversation with the butler.

The light streamed through the doors behind her and illuminated the grand entrance hall. A throng of iron lamps hanging on the walls failed to do more than vainly attack the deep shadows. The dark paneled walls soaked up the light, but the polished brass rails of the double curved staircase drew the eye by reflecting all the light that remained. The ground floor pretended to defense, so was nearly windowless. The entrance hall was designed to focus all attention on the stairs leading to the more welcoming spaces above.

A stick figure appeared at the top of the stairs and came down to greet her. “Simcha, darling, how nice to see you back. Come, get cleaned up and let’s have some tea together.” The woman was average height, though that was still taller than Pascal at the moment, but she seemed even taller due to her painful thinness. Her long blond hair and watery eyes added to her wispiness and made her look more the ghost than Pascal.

She struggled to work out the woman’s identity without dipping into Simza’s memories. The woman wore a flowing black dress, so was either a family member or guest. Since Pascal was the only guest this must be Boris’s wife, Dunyasha. “Certainly,” she answered simply.

By the standards she’d faced so far, after all, Dunyasha was positively brimming with friendliness.

Her room had already been cleaned and made up. Back in the Freezer she made her bed regularly at least once a month and her clothes were kept within easy reach on top of whatever surface she could find. A clean room was a novelty.

The lamps were uncovered and glowing without any fire burning within. They took advantage of the shard’s sympathetic magic, with all the lamps in the house cast from the same iron. They could light one lamp and all of them would glow. It also explained why they had lamp covers above them. Extinguishing the master lamp turned off all the lamps in the house, but covers would darken a single room.

Now that she understood how things worked, she looked in the mirror and said, “I’d like to change for tea, please.”

A few moments later a maid appeared at the door. It was not the same maid she had that morning, but a mousy middle-aged woman with short brown hair.

Pascal stripped off her riding gear and washed herself from a basin the maid provided. She had to remind herself not to pay undue attention to her body despite the temptation. The maid brought out a long black skirt and blouse. She wasn’t sure if a skirt was better or worse than the dress she had to wear in the morning. Pants were far preferable, but she’d have limited opportunities for that.

Her maid took one of the fine perfume bottles from the vanity and put a few drops on her neck and wrists, one of the few concessions to femininity permitted during mourning.

“Those bottles are beautiful,” Pascal blurted despite herself. The five bottles on the vanity were tinted glass blown into intricate and fanciful patterns. Light reflected from the facets into other faces so they seemed to shine from within. They were all sealed with gold stoppers.

“Yes, Miss Gray. They’re part of the Egyptian collection,” her maid answered. “Old Lord Pankov’s grandmother collected them. They’re only used for prominent guests now.” She even smiled. The maid’s pride in the house overcame her distaste for Pascal. Since all the servants seemed to share that distaste, she was glad to find a way through it.

“I forgot to ask,” Pascal put in since she had an opening, “Do you know where I am to take tea with–?”

As hoped, the maid filled in the pause, though with a trace of contempt, “Lady Dunyasha Ivatsovna? In the sitting room, of course.”

She found the sitting room easily. It was in the front of the house with a magnificent view of the lawns through a wide window. Chairs and divans were artfully arranged to give each person a view of all others while not concealing any of the statuary or paintings lovingly scattered about the room. An intricate crown molding drew the eye to a tremendously detailed wooden ceiling.

“Good afternoon, Dunyasha Ivatsovna,” she said with a slight bow when she came into the room.

“Oh please, Simcha dear, don’t be so formal. We’re going to be the two outsiders married into this family. We must stick together, no?” She blinked distractingly during this otherwise friendly speech, her eyes constantly watering.

And that began a rambling discourse in which Pascal had no opportunity to speak. She could nod agreement, or shake her head, but Dunyasha’s torrent of words would brook no interruption. Pascal suspected she could jump up and down, scream, and strip naked without interrupting the woman’s stream of gossip and innuendo.

So while drinking overly sweet tea and nibbling on some iced fruits the maids brought in, she heard details about the travel plans of people she didn’t know. The Alexsayivs were moving to their summer home near the lake, but leaving the father behind to manage the farming. The Minkins, or at least the younger ones, were to spend a month in their hunting lodge, and wasn’t that suspicious? Pascal had no idea whether it was suspicious or not.

She perked up briefly when Dunyasha started talking about a recent death in town even as she cursed herself for her ghoulishness. But it was just a rant that “with Mr. Chernov dead that little Jew Goldstein will be running the law office until we get back home,” and how much of a disgrace that was. Pascal keyed in on the part about getting back home. If she understood correctly, Brodjach went to the same place each time it left Fall of Night. Dunyasha seemed to consider that place her true home, rather than the city.

It was only when Dunyasha said, “So with Boris spending all his time preparing for his Assumption, I will join Yulia Radkovna for a few days. We must continue to fulfill our social obligations, mustn’t we? I’ll be sure to let you know all about it and I’m so sorry you won’t be able to join me,” that Pascal got an opportunity to jump in on the conversation.

“So you’ll be leaving? When will you be back?” Pascal couldn’t imagine this woman staying quiet long enough to kill anyone, but leaving the scene was grounds for suspicion.

“I’ll be back for Boris’s Assumption when mourning is over. I’m so tired of wearing black I couldn’t bear it for another week. Besides, it’s good to show Boris I have an independent streak. Keep him wanting me, don’t you know?”

She paused briefly instead of continuing with her lecture, so Pascal decided to take a chance. Even the most direct questions would not make this woman suspicious. If she gossiped this much with everyone, she might even know something interesting.

“Aren’t you worried that the killer might strike again, when Boris is the new Lord Pankov?”

“Not at all Simcha dear,” she said while patting Pascal’s arm and blinking rapidly.

“No, that valet, what was his name again? Yakim something or other? Yes, that was it. Dreadful little man, I don’t know what Poppa Pankov saw in him. He’d kept the man on for years, even though he was clearly unsuited. Always had a red nose, looked like he’d had too much to drink every time I saw him, most unsuitable. But then, that was Poppa for you, loyal to his people to a fault. You can be sure I will not let Boris tolerate such loose standards.”

She took a breath, and Pascal almost managed to get a word in when she started up again.

“But the gendarmes have him, and he’s no danger to anyone anymore. Wouldn’t hurt my Boris even if he was free again. It was a crime of passion for him, you see.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “He’d tried to get his nephew hired as a stable boy. Had it all set up, the boy was ready to go and everything, when Poppa Pankov stopped it and said no. Not a word of explanation, but it’s obvious enough he thought the boy would be as unsuitable as the man. Poor Yakim just couldn’t take it, that’s all there is to it. The lower classes are not as stable as we are, you know how it is. You must always keep an eye on them, Simcha. Never forget.”

Dunyasha paused to take a sip of tea. It was the first time she’d touched her tea since they sat down, Pascal noted with amusement.

“My tea is cold,” she proclaimed with annoyance. “Who served me cold tea?”

She ran off without another word. Pascal took a moment to enjoy the blessed silence before moving on herself.

- â™‡ -

The scene of the crime.

Did she really hope to find anything, Pascal had to ask herself. Almost two months had passed since the crime. Her odds of learning anything were pretty close to zero. And of course, she was not supposed to be in Lord Pankov’s room.

She did it anyway.

She’d gotten lucky before. Besides, she just wouldn’t be a private eye if she didn’t investigate the crime scene. It’s just one of those things you have to do, she told herself.

I am Pascal Hunter. I investigate crime scenes.

She also hoped to learn a little bit about Lord Pankov by seeing his private room. Like finding clues to the murder, her odds were not good. This was a manor, and she could never be certain how much the neatness or decor reflected the man and how much the servants. It was still worth a try.

At least she wouldn’t have to stumble about in the dark. With all the wall lamps linked to a master downstairs, the ubiquitous lights were shining away. Being seen through windows might have been a problem, but the curtains were drawn during mourning.

A thick rug with intricate patterns covered most of the floor and muffled her footfalls. While the curtain and rug minimized the risk of detection, she had to watch out for the mirror. A large mirror sat on the dresser and was almost certainly linked to another, just like the one in her room.

The bed was made. It was the first thing she looked at. The corners were intact. They had changed the quilt and probably the sheets too. She figured they would have. Seeing the torn sheet had been a long shot at best.

An easel with a large drawing pad on it sat at the far end of the room. A charcoal drawing of the house gardens was on the front. The small table nearby was dark cherry with a pale white edge. It held charcoals, pencils, and gum erasers laid out evenly about it. The pencils were all the same size and lined up perfectly. If Lord Pankov organized it himself, the man was anal.

She had never heard anyone suggest Lord Pankov had an artistic side so she had to take a look at the other drawings. They were workmanlike sketches, good but far from brilliant. Mostly landscapes, with a few architectural drawings scattered about. He had many drawings of his own gardens in different lights. There were a few scenes she recognized from Fall of Night, though none of the Freezer. Lord Pankov liked to patronize the higher tech areas, or at least to sketch them. There were were several seascapes, high cliffs with waves crashing beneath, that she didn’t recognize.

Each drawing was in triplicate. There were always two rough copies before the finished product. In two cases she found rough copies with no finished drawing.

Near the easel sat a glass display case with a collection of clocks and watches. If this was not an inherited collection, the old man did not like the gaudy, but the intricate. None of the pocket watches were jeweled or ornamented. Instead they featured detailed etching or a fine painting on the face.

She thought she had a feel for the man. He was interested, even fascinated, by art. While he tried his hand at drawing, he didn’t try to put it forward as more than it was. He was organized, maybe even regimented.

That didn’t mesh with Dunyasha’s story that Lord Pankov turned away Yakim’s nephew on a whim. She had painted a very different picture, of a man set in his ways and willful. Both pictures were limited. Pascal was guessing at the man’s character from his room, and Dunyasha was eagerly gossiping. Both impressions were probably incomplete.

She turned to the bed. She had to be careful, as the dresser and its large mirror stood next to it.

The bed had a large dark hardwood headboard carved with an intricate moonscape. The moon was an inlay of light colored wood. The footboard was a lighter wood and carved with a rising sun. Most beds with a sun and moonscape would have the Sun on the headboard. She wondered if the bed was inherited, or if Lord Pankov liked the art or the reversal.

The mattress was large, but was only made up for a single person. One large pillow was centered in front of the headboard. The room was supposed to be stay untouched until the Assumption, so she took it as read that Lord Pankov slept alone. Lady Pankov had her own room. No feminine items were in his chambers.

“Are you looking for something in particular, Miss Gray?”

She wheeled around, hair snapping about her face.

The butler, the ominously named Feodor Illyitch Menschikov, towered in the doorway. His giant sized frame almost blocked the light from the hall. His tone was level, but his face was unforgiving.

Honesty, or at least something in the same general neighborhood, might serve her well. She tried to seem shy by peering at the ground, and said quietly, “I was looking for anything the police might have missed. To see if it really was Yakim.”

“The gendarmes have said so, and so it is,” he pronounced with finality. “It is not your place to second guess the authorities, Miss Gray. That is not your role.”

He left her an opening and she took it. “Is it your role, Feodor Illyitch?”

“Most certainly not,” he humphed. “Nor would I even if it were. Yakim Sergeyin must be held for his crime. Now, I will not presume to give orders to Lord Andrei’s guest,” he said with that slight twitch Pascal was getting used to seeing, “but I shall call for Lady Pankov if you do not remove yourself from the Old Lord’s bedroom.”

It was a long shot to begin with. She’d gotten all the feel for the victim she could hope for, little though it was, so she left without complaint. “Why do you believe the valet was guilty? Sonya doesn’t seem as sure.”

The butler raised an eyebrow in surprise at the name Sonya, but didn’t comment. “Lady Sofiya is a kind girl with an unfortunate childhood attachment to her father’s valet. I remember that morning with shame. Yakim Sergeyin approached me in the breakfast hall when he should have been dressing Lord Pankov. He calmly pulled me aside to whisper that there was something wrong, and I should come immediately.”

Pascal nodded encouragingly, “That seems–”

“Wrong,” the butler exploded. He took a deep breath and continued, “An innocent man who served Lord Pankov so long would have been panicked or worried. Instead he calmly collected witnesses to muddy the waters.”

He took another deep breath with his eyes closed. When he opened them he took a step forward so Pascal had to crick her neck to see his face.

“Miss Gray, the gendarmes have assured me that the man who discovers the deed is the culprit more often than not. There is no doubt that Yakim Sergeyin discovered Lord Pankov’s corpse, and you’ll excuse the indelicate term.” He eyed her crosswise, and said sub rosa, “Of course you will.”

Still unsure of her footing, she smiled grimly and let him continue.

“It is a matter of some embarrassment to me, as you may have noticed.” His outburst had displaced his anger at finding her in Lord Pankov’s room. “I was responsible for hiring Yakim Sergeyin those years ago. It was a favor to an infantry officer of my acquaintance who was seeking a position for his former aide de camp. If there were a suitable replacement among the staff I would offer Lord Boris my resignation on his Assumption. Sadly there is not and I must continue.”

“I’m sure that’s what he would want,” she said consolingly. It was the obvious response.

“Yes, well, that’s kind of you to say,” he replied after a start. Recovering himself, “I trust we will see no repeats of this behavior, Miss Gray. Lord Andrei has taken considerable pains to bring you here, and it would be a shame to see his efforts so poorly repaid.”

“I will do my best not to embarrass him,” she promised. “Although I do not share your confidence in the authorities.”

He stared down at her. “Try harder, Miss Gray.”

The butler thought for a moment before continuing. “Lord Andrei has– changed for the better since meeting you. He was a rebellious child and yet it hurt Old Lord Pankov badly when he left. He won his father’s blessing not just by returning, but by convincing him he’d matured. He did that for you, Miss Gray, and he struggled against his father’s anger to keep that blessing. Do not risk losing it.

“I hate to admit this,” he continued, “but at one point I’d feared the fighting had gotten to Lord Andrei and he attacked his father. He had been out so late the night before– well, I was relieved when the gendarmes pointed to Yakim Sergeyin. Lord Andrei has done much to win you. You may be Rom– well, that’s not your fault.”

The butler took another deep breath. “You have been good for him.”

With her mouth hanging open, he seemed to feel his job was done, and left her alone.

Shade of Night Part 5

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Murder investigations shouldn’t go like this.

Pascal Hunter is possessing the lovely body of Simza Gray. She hopes to solve the case before the woman’s thoughts and feelings completely overwhelm her. Some of those feelings are towards her new fiance. The rest of the family, and their staff, resent her presence.

She is hoping her partner, the eternal ten-year-old Brynn, has better luck than she has had.

PART THREE

NUVYE PARK

A massive thunderclap rattled the pots overhead. To Brynn’s delight the cook jumped at the loud noise.

Her fear and discomfort was the only joy he had while scrubbing away at the pots and pans from lunch. Grimly certain that Pascal was taking delight in his misery, he comforted himself by imagining his partner in dresses, heels, and makeup. He took it as a given that misery was better shared. It was better still when it belonged to someone else, of course.

He had not seen Pascal since the coach ride. He’d spent an entire day cleaning and scrubbing and not making any progress. Cleaning dishes was dull. Dull as– well, dull as dishwater.

“New boy,” the cook snapped at him, “do you call this clean?”

He looked at the large copper pan and thought about it. As far as he could tell it was spotless, but he suspected she wouldn’t have asked if that was the answer. “I have a name, you know,” he answered instead.

“Cheeky boy,” she answered with a slap from the back of her hand. Another peal of thunder rumbled when she slapped him. Brynn was disappointed. He had the timing right, but had hoped for a more dramatic clap.

It was enough of a coincidence to startle the cook, Raisa Irinova Nesterov, and she backed away from further punishment. The woman was only a little taller than Brynn, but no one would ever call her small. Her girth made her look bigger than she was, and her command of the kitchens effectively made her a giant. No one crossed her in her domain.

Brynn amused himself by thinking of ways to embarrass the petty tyrant.

If I’d ever seen her sit down I’d do the old pin on the chair routine. I wonder how fast she’d jump, or even if she could. Spitballs would be a riot. Bet I could get her to turn around at least three times before she caught me. I wonder if I could swap the salt and sugar bowl without her noticing. It would be worth ruining my dinner just to see her go all red.

On the other hand, any time he took pulling or being punished for pranks was less time on the job with Pascal. And that, in turn, would mean more time scrubbing dishes. So despite her desperate need to be taken down a peg or two, the cook might yet escape his righteous wrath.

“Do it again, and clean it right this time,” she commanded, putting the pan back in the pile for him to clean.

“Yes’m,” he grumbled, imagining all the ways he could humiliate her if only it wouldn’t impede the investigation.

Two whole days in the kitchens and he hadn’t made any progress. It was galling. Pascal might solve the whole thing without his indispensable aid. And that would mean his aid wasn’t indispensable. And it was. Indispensable.

So he had to do something. He thought while he scrubbed.

“Who killed Lord Pankov?” he asked the cook suddenly.

“What? Get back to work, boy,” she said with a quick slap to the back of his head.

That was just dumb enough to work. It should have worked. Back to the drawing board.

She left the kitchen while Brynn was still toiling away. He’d be at it another hour, at least. More if he kept stopping to complain to himself.

With Mrs. Nesterov away from the kitchen, the rest of the staff relaxed slightly. Three kitchen maids and an assistant cook were busy at their tasks, but Brynn could see they all breathed easier when the head cook left.

The kitchen was a large, if plain, room. Bare stone walls rose above the numerous stoves and ovens. A large fire pit dominated the far end. There was a large cupboard near the fire pit, and a pantry on the opposite side of the room.

The room smelled of smoke despite a clever vent to get the worst of it outdoors. A small door leading outside stood open to help air the place out even when it was raining. It added to Brynn’s work, since mopping the floors was one of his jobs.

“You’re Brynn, right?” one of the kitchen maids asked him as she peeled carrots nearby. At 13, she was the youngest of the maids and had been the newest member of the staff until Brynn came along. She was a pretty girl, with light blue eyes and dirty blond hair reaching down to her shoulders. She even looked good in the unflattering kitchen uniform.

“That’s right,” he answered. “I’m Brynn. You’re Tamara, right?”

She giggled and put her hand on his arm, “Oh, just call me Tomo, why don’t you? I wouldn’t go bringing up the old Lord’s murder with Mrs. Nesterov if I were you.”

“Thanks Tomo, but why not? Seems a lot more interesting than, well, this,” he said while holding up the plate he was cleaning.

“Lord Pankov’s valet was a good friend of hers. That’s the man they arrested for it. She’s not gonna want to talk about it.” With her hand still resting lightly on his arm, she smiled broadly and her eyes lit up, “How would you like to help me out a little bit? I could use a big strong man on this one.”

Since she’d already given him more than he’d found out since arriving, he figured he could help the cute girl. No ulterior motives there, no. He was as pure as the driven snow. He figured she just wanted help carrying things.

“Great. Thanks so much,” she gushed. “I’m going to take Brynn down to help with the feeding,” she called.

Feeding? He was no longer so sure what he’d gotten into.

On the other hand, anything is better than scrubbing dishes.

“So do you agree with her? With Mrs. Nesterov?” he asked as the girl opened the door to the cellars.

“Oh, I don’t know. I barely knew Mr. Laskutin, but he was a nice enough man from what I did see. Everyone except Mrs. Nesterov seems to believe it, so I wouldn’t go asking too many questions.” They descended down the steep stone steps. The cold cellar was used to store food for the kitchen. Ham hocks hung from hooks in the ceiling while barrels of fruits and vegetables lined the walls. They walked between narrow shelves laden with grains, sausages, and preserves. There was enough food to feed a small army for a year, he thought.

“If she doesn’t think it was the valet,” Brynn pressed, “surely she has a suspect of her own, doesn’t she?”

Tomo grinned at him, “You’re really into this, aren’t you? Yeah, she does. She blames Lady Pankov’s maid, Miss Schuykov. She’d been stepping out with Mr. Laskutin but keeping it quiet. So Mrs. Nesterov figures the maid was using the valet. She thinks Miss Schuykov went and, well, you know… And then with Lord Pankov– well, Mr. Laskutin would be brave and take the fall to cover for Miss Schuykov, even if he knew she did it. Ah, here we are.”

He was looking at the girl rather than the cellar, so he heard it before he saw it. Slithering. Sliding past each other, softly rustling. There were cages of animals. He saw rats, turtles, frogs and lizards. And a large cage of–

“Snakes?” he croaked.

With a queasy smile, she answered, “One of Lord Pankov’s favorite dishes. He got a taste for it in some foreign land. Insisted we keep them alive so they could be cooked fresh. To keep them alive, we gotta feed them.” She pointed to the cage of brown and gray rats. “Be careful. The snakes are poisonous.”

This was the time to impress the pretty girl. He just had to say something witty and clever, to show off his relaxed attitude towards danger. He’d win her heart despite looking like he’s a few years younger than her.

“Poisonous?”

Or maybe not. He’d come up with plan B later.

“Very,” she answered while gripping his arm supportively. “But you don’t need to get close to them to feed them. Just grab one of the rats and throw it in there. Do that a few times so they all get one. The rats aren’t poisonous, don’t worry.”

Brynn didn’t worry about rats. Rats were fine, he had no problems with them at all. Anyone who lived on the streets in Fall of Night for long got to know them well. They were practically his pets. There was a big white one in the Freezer that could feed a family of four if anyone ever managed to kill it. No one had. Yet.

Ah, well. What have they ever done for me?

He grabbed a rat by its tail, opened the top of the snake cage and tossed it right in. The snakes stirred into motion, and the rat was dead in seconds.

While he reached for a second rat, he ordered, “Tell me more about Lady Pankov’s maid, keep my mind off this.”

“She’s the one with the long nose. You’ll see her at dinner. She’s good with horses and Lady Pankov lets her take one out whenever she wants. Been here a long time, and all the family likes her, so Mrs. Nesterov keeps her suspicions here in the kitchen.”

She watched him throw another rat in the cage, looked around to make sure no one was listening, and leaned in towards him. “OK, here’s what Mrs. Nesterov told me. Miss Schuykov took Mr. Laskutin out for a ride a week before Old Lord Pankov was killed. She’s not supposed to do that. She’s allowed to take out the horses, but she doesn’t have permission to bring anyone else with her. But they went out at night so no one would see. Yeah, well, that didn’t work. Mrs. Nesterov sees everything. So she figures that’s when Miss Schuykov spun her sob story for the valet, so he didn’t say what he knows even though he’s getting blamed for it.”

She thought about it for a bit.

“Pretty romantic, isn’t it?”

“Sure. I guess,” he mumbled the proper manly response to romanticism. Even for a ten year old, there’s only one permissible answer.

Pretty weak theory, but it’s the best I’ve got. I wonder if she could have done it. Does a lady’s maid have access to the Lord’s room? I guess she’d have to for when the Lord and Lady do it, wouldn’t she? And if she could get into the room, she could cut the bed sheet as easily as Yakim. And if she was screwing Laskutin, she’d have access to his room to hide the evidence. Hey, this isn’t as bad as I thought.

Brynn had a lead to follow, and hoped he was ahead of Pascal. He also got to spend time with a cute blond. And all he had to do was kill a bunch of rats.

- â™‡ -

The rain stopped well before sunset and brought with it blessed coolness. While Brynn pretended to ignore the weather, hot or cold, in truth he wasn’t made for heat. He’d take ice and snow any day of the week. He lived in the Freezer for the strange people he could meet, but the weather was a pleasant bonus.

He’d finished his work until after supper was served. That wouldn’t stop Mrs. Nesterov from finding work for her ‘new boy’ if he was in her sight. So he went elsewhere.

Tamara had gotten him to help feed the snakes, so he figured he could get her to help him in turn by providing a cover. The little blond was cute and Brynn was always hungry for female attention. The women who might be interested in a boy like him were too creepy, so even a chance to win Tomo was welcome. Getting her to do him a small favor would get he to like him more. It’s strange but it works. That it helped with the case was a bonus.

“Hey Tomo, if her nibs asks, tell her I’m running an errand for–” he paused briefly and grinned, “Who should I be running an errand for?”

That should get her mischief-circuits working overtime. “Mr. Menschikov is the safest, she’d never question him,” she said, naming the butler, “but it’s a bit risky. She sees him around. Go with Mr. Zefirov, the stable master.”

“Beautiful,” he responded cheerfully. “I was planning to– or, that is, my errands will take me out there anyway.”

That brought a smile in return. She actually enjoyed helping him avoid work in the kitchens. He was ahead all around - avoiding tedium, working on the case, and getting a pretty girl to like him. He’d have to get her involved again when he could. If he could manage to upstage Pascal too, the day would be perfect.

He broke into a run as soon as he was outside, stripping off his shoes and enjoying the feel of grass on his bare feet. The grounds of Nuvye Park were huge and he could easily forget that this was a single family’s home. There was no way a single family needed that much room. He did well with a one room apartment in Fall of Night.

That’s hardly fair. I have the whole city to run around in. It’s not like my apartment building is small. The Pankovs have all of their servants living with them too, just like there are other people in my building. Nope, can’t convince myself. It’s still too big.

The stables were bigger than most carriage houses in the city. There were at least 50 stalls, with yards to hold more if needed. They had equipment to handle riding horses and draft horses, including some specialized pieces he didn’t recognize. It smelled of sweat and straw. They were good clean smells he liked.

“Hi there. I’m Brynn, I’m new here. Can I see the horses?” he said without a pause for breath. Acting like an excited boy was second nature to him.

A man with sun darkened skin regarded him indulgently. “Well hello there, Brynn. I’m Roman Ivanov. Have you worked with horses before?”

He was in.

I’m going to beat you Pascal. I’m going to beat you.

He let himself do a little little sing song while teasing Pascal in his head. He could tell Roman liked kids, and he was prepared to exploit that shamelessly.

“I’ve seen them, and always wanted to pet one. Can I feed him?”

“Well,” the man said carefully, “I don’t see any harm in that. Don’t want this one to get spoiled, mind you, but she won’t come to no harm for another carrot.” He gestured Brynn forward and handed him a carrot. Brynn listened to the instructions, keep your hand flat, etc. He knew it already, probably a lot better than the stable master, but it wouldn’t do to show any impatience.

Brynn fed the horse and made sure to act excited. He laughed when the horse rubbed against his hand. Roman smiled, and Brynn knew he had a catch. There are men who take great pride in helping young boys and showing them the ropes. It was an admirable trait and Brynn always felt guilty when he took advantage of it. He already had plenty of guilt and could always manage to squeeze in a tiny bit more.

“That’s sooo neat,” he gushed. “Can we, I mean, well, in the house…” He screwed up his face and took a deep breath, “Can I ride one?”

Roman laughed slowly but kindly, put his hand on Brynn’s shoulder, and knelt down to look the child in the face. “Sorry lad, but these horses aren’t for us to ride. You work in the kitchens with Raisa Irinova, right?”

Brynn nodded soulfully, his eyes wide and serious.

“Oh, don’t you worry none. I won’t tell her you’re sneaking out here,” he smiled kindly to reassure Brynn he could keep a secret. “You do your work well for her, might be you get promoted up the ladder. Might be you can work out here in the stables even. Officially we don’t ride. Unofficially, there’s a lot we got to do with the horses that can only be done while riding. If it’s part of the job, not for fun, well, that makes it all right with them all.”

With some feigned confusion, Brynn said, “But I thought I was supposed to try to work up to footman–”

Roman took pity on him, just as Brynn intended, “Well, if you go that way, you might still learn to ride, but it’ll take longer. The Pankovs like to take their favorite staff with them when they ride. Lady Pankov even lets her maid ride whenever she wants, long as it doesn’t intrude on her duties. So even if you stay in the house, it’s possible. Of course, that’s only if you come back to us next time we reach Fall of Night.”

Paz said something about them phasing in regularly, and Brynn almost asked more about it.

No. I want to get a lead before Pascal. That’s all. Just this once.

“Whenever she wants. Wow. I’d be out here every day,” he said while gazing wide at the towering horse.

“Good for me she ain’t you then,” he said while ruffling Brynn’s hair. “She hasn’t been out here since the old Lord died. You know, son, you might be able to help me out with something. Just a small favor, and then maybe I can arrange for you to do some work out here with the horses.”

Did I misjudge him? He’s trying to pull a fast one, figures a kid won’t catch on.

Making sure his surprise didn’t show, he answered, “Sure Mr. Roman, whatever you need.” He could make promises easily enough. He didn’t have to keep them. Besides, if he didn’t promise to help, he’d never learn what the stable master wanted.

“You’re gonna have to learn your manners if you want to work here, boy,” the man said with humorous sternness. “You can call me Roman Ivanov when you’re sneaking out here ‘cause I like you. If you’re ever out here officially, make it Mr. Zefirov. And you better remember, because that Mr. Menschikov is a bleeding pussy cat compared to your Raisa Irinova.”

“Yes, sir,” Brynn said earnestly, nodding his head.

“Now as I was saying,” Roman continued, “the last time Larisa Grigorina, that’s Lady Pankov’s maid, was out here, she brought the killer, Yakim Sergeyin, with her. They came out here straight from the house and Yakim had a book with him. He went and left it in the saddle bags. We weren’t supposed to let him take a horse, but we did. Kind of a favor to her, I guess. Anyway, since we weren’t supposed to, I haven’t really said anything, especially since that was the night Lord Pankov got killed. Now with you working in the house and as we’re good friends, I figure you can bring this back to the library. Then maybe tomorrow I can show you how to brush down a horse after a ride.”

Wow. This is big. She took Yakim riding on the night of the murder. And Yakim brought along a book of poetry. He thought it was a date. Either this guy is as cold blooded as Crazy Doc Gupta, or Sofiya might be right about him. I’ve got to find out when Yakim and Larisa got back from their date. If I play this right, we can wrap this up by morning. Be a shame if I lose the chance to make out with the cute maid, but maybe I can guilt Paz into putting his sweet body to good use.

While thinking about the case, he was also marveling at Roman’s offer. The stable master was getting Brynn to cover up his involvement in Lord Pankov’s murder and in return he’d get Brynn to do extra work for him. To be fair, he was being friendly and giving a promising lad a chance to work with his beloved horses. Brynn just had to look around the stable to see the horses were well tended and cared for. So, “Oh boy, really? You bet. Thanks Mr.– Thank you Roman Ivanov.”

With a smile, the man handed him the book and watched as Brynn ran back to the house.

- â™‡ -

At the staff dinner that night Brynn tried to identify Lady Pankov’s maid. Not that he got to eat with them, no. Kitchen staff had their own supper apart from those who tended the family. It wasn’t enough that they were servants, they had to make their own rank structure beneath it. He never got over the ways people came up with to act crazy.

He guessed which was Larisa and got Tamara to confirm by pointing. She was a nice looking woman, average height, with brown hair down to her shoulders. She had thick legs, but was otherwise trim. Her hair had a slight curl and she had an unfortunately large nose. If she put some effort into it, she’d be very pretty. Brynn figured she tried to look plain since she was Lady Pankov’s maid. Anything to make the fat old broad look better by comparison.

The poor woman was isolated even when surrounded by the staff. No one was rude, but they didn’t speak to her either. The only exception was the man sitting next to her, a tall blond man with dark, prominent eyebrows.

Her friendly neighbor was Gennady Pavelov, Lord Boris’s valet. He stuck by Larisa out of a sense of solidarity. As personal servants, he and Larisa were dressed in black; not just wearing a black armband like everyone else. Gennady’s brown valet’s kit stood out against his otherwise mournful color, always prepared for any sewing emergencies.

When the house staff finished eating, the kitchen staff would clear the table and set up their own supper. After they ate, Brynn would be busy cleaning the pots and pans until he went to sleep. The brief interval between dinners was his only free time and the only chance he’d have to corner Larisa.

If she’s the killer, I should be careful. But if not, maybe she can clear or convict the valet. I don’t want to be a target– well, not without Paz playing backup. Probably best to do the oblivious little kid routine and hope I don’t get Roman in too much trouble.

“Psst, Brynn,” Tamara whispered as she passed by.

He nodded to her.

“See that footman over there, Sergey?” He looked over at the young man and nodded, his stomach sinking to the ground.

“Don’t let him talk to me after service, OK?” She put her hand gently on his arm, friendly and even a little flirty. “Get in his way or something when I carry off the plates.”

“OK, sure,” he said with a friendly nod.

Damn, she’s playing hard to get with tall and blond there. Face it, she wasn’t really interested in me anyway. She might still help on the case even if there’s no chance of… Damn it, he thought with as little bitterness as he could manage.

He had two people to deal with and only a few moments time. The challenge made it fun and almost made up for having to help Tamara with her romantic games. He saw the answer in a flash and he knew it would work.

When the butler indicated supper was over, everyone stood. He joined the rest of the kitchen staff and started picking up the plates. As soon as the footman moved to corner Tomo, Brynn scooted over to grab his mug.

“Hey, kid,” the footman grumped with a minor push, “I’m not done with that.”

Yeah, the steam rising off the coffee didn’t give that away already. “I thought we were supposed to clear everything now,” he complained back.

“Leave the coffee alone until we’re done,” the footman snapped. He spoke just a little too loudly. Brynn counted on it, with the boy overeager to spend more time with the cute kitchen maid. Sadly for him he spoke loudly enough to earn the attention of the formidable Mrs. Nesterov, who burst out of the kitchen to confront him.

“Sergei,” she yelled at him, “did you get promoted to cook and no one told me? Footmen do not instruct kitchen staff. Footmen don’t instruct anyone. You are a footman, so you do not instruct anyone. If you have a problem, you come to me, do you understand?”

Lord Boris’s valet, Gennady, stood up and took a step towards the budding row, only to think better of it and sit back down. Brynn could see similarities; the two had the same chin and the same hair. He wondered if they were brothers or cousins, but his little distraction wouldn’t buy him enough time to look into that.

Brynn’s turn was coming. Mrs. Nesterov would chew him out for his “mistake” once she finished ripping apart the unfortunate footman. That gave Brynn a few minutes to slip away with a briefly muttered apology and talk to the lady’s maid.

“May I speak with you for a moment, Miss Schuykov,” he asked quietly and a little shyly.

The woman looked down at him with an indulgent smile. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I can spare you a few moments, young man.”

He stepped into the cupboard for a bit of privacy. Larisa shook her head but smiled and stepped in with him. “This isn’t–”

“I need your help,” Brynn interrupted, “returning this to the library.” He showed her the poetry book he’d gotten from the stables.

Her smile vanished in an instant. “Where did you get that?” she said in a fierce whisper.

“From the stables. Mr. Zefirov had it. He asked me to bring it back to the library and told me to keep it a secret. But I don’t know where the library is. Then I thought that you already know Mr. Laskutin borrowed this. It’s not telling a secret if you tell someone who already knows, right? You could get to the library and return it and I can tell Mr. Zefirov it’s done.”

That should cover him. A story like that from an adult would make her suspicious, but she bought it from Brynn. It paid off in spades as she started reminiscing, assuming a boy wouldn’t follow.

“It was a mistake,” she said quietly. “Lady Pankov lets me ride, but going out that late, and bringing Yakim, was wrong. I shouldn’t have… And when I think what he was planning while we were together…”

She was misty eyed, looking at her memories rather than the cupboard walls. Brynn questioned, “But if you were out late, then he couldn’t have done it, right?”

She snapped back from her reverie, which isn’t what he wanted. She also appeared hopeful, which wasn’t as good as misty but better than the alternatives. “Do you think? No, no, no. We got back a bit after midnight. He could have– done it any time before morning.” Her eyes tightened with tears or anger, and her voice rose above a whisper as she said, “He might have gone to the room right after we got back. He must have been planning it the whole time.”

“Was he tired that day? If he was out with you, and then had to– do that to Lord Pankov,” he purposely avoided specifying what Yakim did, “he couldn’t have gotten much sleep. He’d have been out of it the next day.”

That brought a smile to her face, a bit dreamy. “That would be nice to think, wouldn’t it? I don’t know though, we were all out of sorts that day, I don’t know if anyone would be able to tell if he was acting off. It wasn’t a normal day for any of us. No,” she turned suddenly, “he was just using me. He wanted cover or access or something. It wasn’t what I– It was just a way to get some cover.”

She could be lying, Brynn considered briefly. But if she’s not, her story helps Yakim more than it hurts him. She didn’t cover for him, after all, and going out on a date right before committing murder is a pretty dumb plan. Not that I haven’t seen plenty of dumb plans, but still…

“So you didn’t tell anyone? The police?”

“Hush, child,” she went back to a whisper. “Of course not, and you’d better not either. That’s not why Her Ladyship gave me permission to ride, and she would not thank me for casting doubt on the case. Yakim did it and he can suffer for it.” There was venom in her voice, and Brynn knew he was done for now.

“Right. Excuse me,” he said with a start while he pretended to remember his courtesies. “Thank you for your time, Miss Schuykov, and for your help returning the book.”

That brought her back to smiling. “You’re a good lad, Brynn. You’ll go far here, I think.” She gave him a pat on the head while she left.

I wonder if she’s lying. Did she do it and try to cast the blame on Yakim? Not the best theory there. She didn’t have to do anything to cast blame on him, so her efforts were pretty useless. Maybe a backup plan that wasn’t needed? Well, at least I’ve got some doubt on Yakim being the killer. Now, if I can just get to tell Paz before he finds out something. I’ll be winning.

With some dread, Brynn went back to have supper with the kitchen staff and to receive the telling off he was sure to receive from Mrs. Nesterov. She was waiting for him.

Shade of Night Part 6

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Murder investigations shouldn’t go like this.

She is hoping her partner, the eternal ten-year-old Brynn, has better luck than she has had.

A feather bed was one of the things Pascal liked about this mission. It almost made up for having to possess Simza and become a woman. If she were honest with herself, there were many things she liked. A life of luxury carries with it, well, luxury. People with the money to do so made life comfortable. It shouldn’t surprise her that she found it surprisingly comfortable.

At this moment, the feather bed was what she liked.

She sank into it, feeling her body relax in the soft and gentle mattress as it supported her curves. Her head rested lightly on the pillows, every movement or twitch only putting her more at ease.

She knew she was dreaming when she stepped into the Green Goose. Her first clue was that she was in her old body. She was him. Next, the crown molding around the common room was a bit more intricate than it had ever been in reality, where he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not they had any. Finally, while Holly generally dressed nicely and a touch sexily, for work, he was pretty sure he’d never seen her behind the bar in a full length ball gown.

“Evening Holly,” he greeted her. “Nice dress tonight. Hit me up with a shot of bourbon.”

“Sure thing boss,” she answered chirpily. “I like your dress too.”

He was wearing a black dress with matching black shoes and scarf. Clearly he was still in mourning. At first he wondered why no one other than Holly had commented on his dress until he remembered there was no one else here at the Goose other than the two of them.

A wagon rolled into the inn, pulled by a team of oxen. Two other wagons appeared while he tied the oxen to a tree that he didn’t remember planting in the common room. A troupe of people in brightly colored clothing piled out and began setting up a stage near the fire pit.

He wanted to tell them that fire wouldn’t burn in the Goose but realized it was too late to tell them since they already had it burning. Instead, he decided to help by setting up the rope walk while Holly flirted outrageously with some of the men and served them drinks. Paz found himself hoping the men wouldn’t be too drunk to pick some pockets when the show started. They could use the extra cash.

A crowd gathered while they set up and the brightly garbed women smiled and flirted and twirled their hips to ensure the crowd would be as large as possible when night fell. Paz was working with the women and wearing a dress, but his dress was black and he was a man, so he decided not to join the women in that particular task.

An old woman with bright purple nails and a checked green and blue shawl tapped him on the shoulder.

“Yes,” he answered as he spun around. The old woman had Simza’s face but was much older.

“The man will be here again tonight.”

“Many men will be here tonight,” he answered.

The old woman hissed at him. “Do not play the girl with me, Simza Hunter. The man has followed you through three shows. He wants you and you must get the best price you can when he buys you.”

The door to the back room opened. Instead of the restaurant, one of the lavish halls of Nuvye Park was attached to the Green Goose. The iron lamps along the wall were glowing brightly, reflecting off the paneling and molding beneath them. The dark cherry door of Old Lord Pankov’s office, locked during mourning, cracked open. Andrei peaked out, looked around, and exited. Straightening up, he walked into the Green Goose to join them by the fire.

Andrei Pankov looked taller without his brother standing next to him. He was more attractive for being a bit messy, with a tear on his right sleeve and his light brown hair mussed in front. Holly served him drinks and he kissed her hand. Paz felt a surge of jealousy. No, not jealousy. It was possessiveness. Either way, it was inappropriate. He watched Andrei take a seat on a log bench that was wildly out of place in the Goose’s common room.

A lovely young girl in shockingly high heels and a bright red and blue peasant dress with a long cut on the side started dancing for him. Her hips swayed in time to the drumbeats. It looked like she was dancing for the crowd, but her eyes always went to Andrei, and she always showed a bit more leg in front of him.

Paz didn’t feel jealous or possessive this time. The woman dancing was him. It was Simza, who was him, or her. He was watching and she was dancing. He decided it was something that could only make sense in a dream, but he was dreaming, so it must make sense. That satisfied him and her.

The show was over. The Sun had set, and the dim light streaming through the Green Goose’s windows went dark. Purses had been cut and pockets had been picked, but for now the marks were none the wiser. A few guests, none of them marks, remained while they packed and danced the dances they didn’t do for strangers.

“I cannot believe my good fortune in meeting you, Pascal Gray,” Andrei whispered to the girl sitting so close by his side she was nearly in his lap. Pascal stood behind them, listening in, but the boy was so besotted he didn’t notice the strange man in a dress standing behind him.

“The fortune is mine, Andrei,” the girl whispered back. “My family approves of you, and they are very picky. I worried they would not, and I would have to abandon them to run away with you.” She laughed gaily and enchantingly.

“I would never have you leave them,” the young man answered with grave seriousness. He turned around and faced Pascal. “Since that day your brother taught me to recognize when I’m being cheated at cards,” he said with a bitter laugh, “you have turned my whole life around. I would not be the man I am now without you, one who can face my family with pride. Simza Gray, I would make you my wife.”

The old woman with Simza’s face pulled him away from Andrei and Simza. “Now you see why you must leave, meddling spirit.”

“Then you know what I am?”

“Of course not, don’t be silly. I’m just a figment of your imagination, but these are the real Simza’s memories you see. Her family’s fortune depends on this marriage. She’ll not let you ruin it, even if she must destroy you in the process.”

“I only need her for a short time, to solve a mystery for Sofiya. Surely the good will that earns is worth the inconvenience.”

“Only if the good will were to go to her, but Sofiya knows who she hired. Try again, spook.”

“The rest of the family does not know, nor do the servants. Saving a beloved valet will surely earn her their affections.”

“Only if you do not drive away Andrei.”

“I will work on that, and try to solve the case quickly.”

“Then we give you time. But not much. Try to free the valet. But see to it that you do not destroy my Simza’s life in the process,” the old woman said.

“I don’t understand,” Pascal responded.

“Don’t pull that with me,” the old woman responded with irritation. “I told you that you’re dreaming. If you didn’t understand, I wouldn’t have said anything. You don’t want to believe it, but you do understand.”

Pascal awoke with a start, sitting upright in her bed. The light from the lamps was just barely visible under the masking cloth. She recited the dream to herself so she’d remember it, and then drifted back to sleep.

- â™‡ -

Only two more days of mourning, Pascal thought as she let the maid fasten her black dress of the day. The lack of color bothered her more than the dress itself. It was a side effect of possession. Her dream had made it worse. Even inside, she was confusing herself with Simza. It was, after all, Simza’s body and brain, there was no way to avoid it influencing her. She had to make an effort to hold on to her real self.

I am Pascal Hunter. I’m borrowing this body while investigating a murder.

And that was her latest problem. She and her body had different priorities. As a detective, she knew that Andrei was a suspect. In her dream she had seen Andrei sneak out of Lord Pankov’s private office. She wasn’t entirely sure whether that was real or not, but had to treat it as a real memory for the moment. Combined with the butler’s offhand comment that Andrei had been out late the night before the murder, she had to investigate him and learn more. Her body, heart and brain, told her to ignore that. She wanted to apologize for upsetting him and win him back.

At the breakfast table, she said good morning and greeted Andrei by touching her hand to his cheek. She was not quite ready to kiss him, though with his mother at the table that would probably be out of line anyway.

“You’re in a much better mood this morning,” he said with a smile.

“Start the day off with a smile, you can stay that way the rest of the day,” she answered back cheerfully.

Sofiya lifted an eyebrow suspiciously. “I’ll start the day off with a smile when I can do something with my hair again,” she replied, watching Pascal like a hawk while waiting for her response.

“Oh, not me,” Paz responded with exaggerated innocence, “We are still mourning your father and must approach that duty with solemnity. I’m not at all looking forward to getting back into bright reds, cheery greens, and stunning yellows.”

That brought welcome chuckles from Boris and Andrei, a fair trade for the disapproving glare from Lady Pankov. “That will be quite enough of that, girls,” she glowered. Sofiya and Pascal both managed to look ashamed.

They were spared more lectures as the footmen brought up breakfast. There was a bright green chili sauce to go on their soft boiled eggs, accompanied by fried tomatoes and sausage with a fresh brown mustard. They had more of that extremely strong coffee. Much though she loved black coffee, she had to cut theirs with cream. She wondered briefly if that was due to her body’s tastes or the coffee’s strength. It didn’t matter. She remembered to control herself and eat more slowly and daintily, sipping at her coffee throughout the meal.

She had to stop herself from scratching her arms. It was probably while riding to meet Sofiya, but she’d gotten some insect bites that weren’t going away. She was worried that her body had allergies, but she didn’t have a good way to find out other than dipping even further into her host’s memories.

I am Pascal Hunter. I will stay Pascal Hunter.

They briefly discussed some of the outlying farms, but the main topic of conversation was Boris’s upcoming Assumption. Lady Pankov was handling the arrangements.

“It would have been so much simpler to let Mr. Chernov handle all the paperwork. With that young Jew taking over the office I have to check everything myself. I wouldn’t put it past him to make a mistake on purpose, and you know how picky they can be at the Arrondissment.”

“Mother,” Sofiya interrupted, “do we still have the Bishop lined up to perform the ceremony?”

Lady Pankov grimaced in confusion. “You know we do. He promised during the funeral. When we return we’ll get an archbishop for the full–”

“Yes, of course. I was just looking forward to seeing him again,” she said quickly.

Pascal carefully kept her face neutral even though she understood exactly what was going on. Sofiya was the only person at the table who knew she was an outsider. Wherever they went when they were not connected to Fall of Night, that’s where their real government existed. Brodjach was huge, but it sounded like this other shard was even larger.

They discussed their plans for the day. Andrei was going to be overseeing some irrigation repairs while Boris would be at one of the outer farms looking into reports of wolves. She and Sofiya were free from any duties.

“I must say,” said Andrei, “that canceling all entertainment during mourning may be unpleasant, but we do get an awful lot more done.” He managed a mournful smile while saying that.

Boris gave him a steady gaze in return. Paz was sure they both knew what they were talking about, but they avoided mentioning it in their mother’s presence. She hoped it was something innocent, but feared otherwise. Just like in her dream, she found Andrei more attractive when he was a little impish.

Boris grabbed his valet, a handsome blond man named Gennady, as soon as he finished breakfast. The young man removed Boris’s jacket and took some supplies out of his kit to clean whatever stain had gotten on it. Pascal was glad for the distraction, as it let her get Andrei’s attention.

“Have you got a few moments, Andrei?” she asked as sweetly as she could.

“For you, kitten, always.” It was amazing what a little charm could do. Andrei was in a much better mood than he’d been the last two days. They went to the library together.

This was going to be difficult for her. The job and her body’s instincts were in conflict. She had to question Andrei without angering him. She gripped his hand tightly, looked up into his eyes, and said sadly, “I do not mean to upset you, my dear Andrei, but please let me ask you more about your father.”

He tried to pull away from her, but she kept her hands on his. “You are going to make Mother angry and– No, that’s not fair. You’ve been spending time with Sonya, haven’t you?”

She didn’t answer, just kept staring at him.

“Well, that’s good, I guess. My sister is– Well, I’m glad of it. Go ahead and ask me what you will.”

“What does your father keep in his office?”

This time he did pull away, jerking his hands back and tightening his mouth. “What? I don’t see how– What does that have to do with anything?”

“Perhaps nothing,” she answered, “but it’s been locked while we’ve been mourning. The inspector didn’t go in there and I’m sure you’ve been there with your father…”

“Oh, yes. Certainly. He has–” She could see the guilt in his eyes. Her memory was real. “Books and records of the various farms, all the tenancy agreements. A writing desk and accounts. It’s all business for him in there. Part of his India collection, for decoration, but nothing of value.”

“Oh,” she said with evident sadness. “I guess it’s not important then.” She reached up and put her hand on his neck, drew him in for a hug. “Thanks for telling me.” He’d told her more than he realized.

He smiled again and kissed her before leaving for the day’s work. She let him and managed not to flinch.

As Andrei exited the room, the butler entered. He held up a finger, asking her quietly to wait. When Andrei was out of sight, he stepped in close to her and said, “You would be well advised to drop this, Miss Gray. Lady Pankov will not extend the same leeway to you that she does to her daughter.”

He towered above her, staring down at the top of her head. Though he was smaller than the Carrabach back in Fall of Night, Paz was smaller now too, and the effect was similar.

She knew the butler overheard her and decided not to try bluffing her way through. “Some one did it,” she answered back with spirit. ”If it wasn’t Yakim then it was someone else. And if that’s the case, he’ll get away with it unless we stop him.”

She’d never seen someone harrumph before. It was just an expression. But Feodor Illyitch had it down pat. There was no other description that would fit. Starting from the curled lip and nose, and extending to the shaking head and forward shoulders, it was the perfect, literal harrumph.

“Romany justice is not practiced here,” he pronounced with finality.

“Tell me what happened that morning anyway,” she insisted.

“Yakim Sergeyin brought me to the room. I woke Lord Boris and brought him to see his father. I sent Yakim to get Lady Pankov, but she would not wake up. While I contacted the gendarmes, Yakim woke Lord Andrei and Lord Boris stayed with his father. Does that tell you anything new?” he asked archly.

“You told me once that Andrei was out late the night before?”

The butler scowled. He looked down that long nose and said, “Lord Boris’s valet, Gennady Pavelov, informed me of that some days later. The mirror alerted him to Lord Andrei’s return in the small of the morning. His bed was unused and the master was still dressed but he did not call for help and Gennady returned to sleep.” He silently indicated his displeasure at not sending help regardless of the hour, but did not elaborate further.

This time she knew what to say.

“I do not think Yakim Seregyin did it. We both know it was not Andrei. I will find out what he was doing, Feodor Illyitch, and show you it could not have been him. Then Sonya and I will find out who did it and get vengeance for Lord Pankov. He deserves it.”

With a shake of his head, the butler just muttered, “Most unladylike.”

But he smiled slightly as he left.

- â™‡ -

The morning was already hot and muggy with clouds piling up for a big show in the afternoon. Brynn ran lightly through the grass to the stables. He was running from work in the kitchen to work with the horses, but at least he was working outside. That had to be worth something.

Roman had convinced Mrs. Nesterov that hard work made little boys more docile, so she consented to letting Brynn work in the stables each morning instead of cleaning up for lunch. Brynn wasn’t sure whether he’d gotten the best of that deal or not.

The stable master was happy to see him, at least. It always feels good to see a welcome smile even if it’s just in advance of hard work. A groom was checking a black stallion’s hooves while a pair of broad draft horses watched with great interest from nearby stalls. Roman tossed him an apple before setting him to his tasks.

“Let’s get you started,” Roman ordered with a smile. “Bring in the hay from outside. A bale for each stall.”

Those things weigh almost as much as me. Is he kidding? I wonder how hard I should try before asking for help. Is that the idea? See how hard the kid’ll work before giving up.

He struggled to pick up one of the bales. He could just get it off the ground, but it was too big for him to walk with it.

The groom saw his trouble and yelled over to him, “Swing it on your back.”

He did, and it worked. It was still heavy, and he’d have to struggle to do them all, but it worked. Roman smiled at his groom.

That son of a bitch. He’s not testing me, he’s testing his older guys. They need to help out and train the younger kids and do it nicely. I might have to watch myself. He’s smart.

Brynn was starting to like Roman. Like Mrs. Nesterov, he was the undisputed master of his domain. But he ran things with a lighter touch and a bit of humor.

When Brynn heard a voice he recognized, he peaked out of the stalls.

“Roman Ivanov?” a lilting voice called out.

It’s Pascal. Wonder why he’s looking for Roman. If he doesn’t know I’m here, I can have a little fun with him. I should tell him he looks cute in a dress, or maybe go the other way and say he needs beauty tips from Holly. Darn it all but that’s a nice body he’s got, wonder if he’d be willing to have a little fun before giving it up.

“Yes, miss– Oh, it’s you,” he snarled. Brynn hadn’t seen that expression on Roman’s face before. It wasn’t just distaste, it was active hatred.

“I’d like to ask you some questions about the night Poppa Pankov was killed,” Paz replied. Brynn could tell he’d seen Roman’s reaction, but chose to ignore it.

Roman turned away and went back to prying a stone from a hoof.

“I asked if–”

“Heard you the first time,” Roman interrupted. “You can ask regardless of what I say, so didn’t seem any point in answering.”

Brynn thought he had Roman figured out. He might hate Pascal but he would step through broken glass before he set a bad example for a child. It was time to give his partner a helping hand. Brynn jumped around the corner. “Good morning, Miss Gray. Do you need a horse saddled? Mr. Zefirov, can I saddle a horse?”

Brynn watched the two men react to his appearance. Pascal was surprised but hid it quickly and well. That fast uptake was one of the things Brynn appreciated in his partner. Roman showed less surprise but didn’t hide it at all. He’d forgotten Brynn was there.

“No, Brynn, Miss Gray doesn’t need a horse right now, she just has some questions. You get back to changing the feed, and maybe you can walk her back to the house when you’re done.” Roman controlled his voice, trying to be nice, just as Brynn intended.

“Good to see you again Brynn,” Paz lilted with a smile. “I didn’t know you were working out here, but I’d love to have an escort back to the house.”

Good for him, he can see it. Roman likes me, so if he’s nice to me, Roman likes him a little more. Give him another century or two and he might be nearly as smart as me.

“What was it you wanted, Miss Gray?” Roman asked while continuing to work with the horse.

“The night before Poppa died,” she began while scratching her arm. “Did Andrei come out this way? Did he take a horse?”

Don’t be so blunt next time, you bloody fool. Roman expects you to act all ladylike and helpless. Wait? The younger son too? And Larisa, and Yakim? Was anyone in the house to kill off the old guy?

Roman looked up from the horse with a jerk of his head. “Now I know he hasn’t told anyone and I haven’t either. How did you come to know that, ma’am?”

Unfortunately, Brynn had to fetch another bale of hay to keep up appearances and he missed the next stretch of conversation. He could still see them. Roman stood up and led Pascal back deeper into the stables. His partner tripped slightly on his heels, to Brynn’s amusement, but quickly recovered. He had a bit of a sway to his hips. The shoes must make him walk like a lady.

When Brynn finally got back in earshot, he heard Roman telling Paz, “– poachers. He’d been going out after them twice a week, taking it as serious as I ever seen the old man do. Wanted to surprise Lord Pankov with a finished job. Of course I helped him out.”

“But he had to bring his pistols. Was it that dangerous? What if they fought back?”

Paz sounds like he’s really concerned. Good acting on his part. The gasp and hand over mouth really makes him look scared. Great way to get sympathy, partner.

“Lord Andrei’s a good rider, he always was. He could get away from any poachers. As it happens they never got the chance to fight back when he caught them. He shot one and the others run off and haven’t been back. Might be you know the one he shot,” Roman spat with venom, “He was Romany.”

Pascal stopped and looked around a little, like he was lost. Time for Brynn to ride to the rescue again.

“What’s a Romany, Mr. Zefirov?”

“You shouldn’t be eavesdropping, boy,” he snarled. Then he caught himself, relaxed, and said, “Romany is another word for gypsy. If you don’t have them in Fall of Night, you’re lucky.”

Wonder what he’s got against gypsies. They’ve been fun every time I’ve seen them. Wait a second, Simza’s a gypsy name. Pascal’s a gypsy. Cool. I wonder if he can read my palm. Maybe I can get him to read some other part of me.

“So the poachers were Romany,” Pascal came back. “If they’re poaching from these grounds, they’re no friends of mine.”

Roman glowered at her, “Is that it?”

“One thing more. When did Andrei get back?”

“Was a late night. Two, maybe three in the morning.”

Paz thanked Roman and stepped outside to wait while Brynn finished up. Roman warned Brynn to be careful and bring her back to the house.

He and Paz traded information on the way back.

“So the lovers got back a bit after midnight,” Brynn summarized. “And your squeeze gets back a few hours later. Either of the lovers had plenty of time to kill, but since the maid set up the date it pretty much takes the valet off the hook. Going out on a date’s not a good warm up for murder. The maid would be a better suspect if she got any advantage from using Yakim, but I don’t see it. Your honey gets back a bit too late to be in the lead but it’s still possible. If he was out hunting poachers, he probably didn’t have much control of his schedule. It would be bad planning

So we’ve got three suspects and don’t like any of them.”

“Sounds like you’ve gotten ahead of me on actually clearing Yakim. We can’t eliminate him, but you’ve raised real doubts,” Paz admitted ruefully.

“Darn straight.” With a leer, he added, “Maybe we can change the bet for who makes the best progress. Give me a peak before you give up that sweet body?”

Paz drew back, offended. “Don’t even joke about that.”

That’s odd. He’s usually fine with my dirty jokes. What’s happening inside that sweet little head of yours, partner?

Brynn thought about it in silence as they walked back to the house.

- â™‡ -

Just as he’d expected, the heavens opened up into a massive thunderstorm in the afternoon. Brynn had to add mopping up puddles by the door to his duties scrubbing pots.

His work in the stables, while tiring, was more interesting. The drudgery of the kitchens was wearing on him. The high point of the day was finally getting to contact Pascal and trade information.

The poor guy has to investigate his fiance for murder. I can just picture the interrogation now. Rub that sweet body against him to get him in the mood, then whisper sweetly in his ear, “And what were you doing on the night of the murder?”

From there he let his imagination have free reign. The endless toil got a little more fun.

CLANG

Mrs. Nesterov banged a pot on the counter next to Brynn, making him nearly jump out of his skin. “Don’t use a wire brush on copper, boy,” she shouted at him.

The kitchen came to a halt as everyone turned to stare at the confrontation. This could be the evening’s entertainment. He knew the right response, the only response. He bowed his head, “Sorry, Mrs. Nesterov.”

If I grab the pot with enthusiasm and toss it in the soapy water, I can get us both soaked, he thought. Despite the temptation, he didn’t.

A few moments later Tamara idled over to him and whispered, “Don’t take it too hard, Brynn. She’s been like that all morning. You were lucky to miss it.”

With a nod and a glance to be sure Mrs. Nesterov’s attention was elsewhere he whispered back, “So what’s eating her?”

She leaned in so they wouldn’t be overheard. Brynn spared a vain hope that she wanted to get close to him. At least he could pretend while the cute girl whispered in his ear. “You know Lord Andrei’s intended, the gypsy? Well, Gennady Pavelov, that’s Sergey’s brother, is Lord Boris’s valet, and he says she’s been stirring up trouble over Lord Pankov and really upsetting everyone.”

That’s not fair. I’m the one figuring things out. If anyone should be upsetting people it’s me.

“So why is Mrs. Nesterov upset?” Brynn whispered back, enjoying putting his mouth close to her ear and pretending he was doing more. “I thought she liked Mr. Laskutin.”

“Hsh,” she hissed, turning away suddenly and going back to her work with a feigned air of angelic innocence. While no one was fooled by her act, least of all the martinet cook, she let it pass in favor of getting started on dinner service.

That was all he did for the next few hours. He scrubbed pots and pans until they shone, cleaned glass until it was all but invisible, and washed plates until– well, until you could eat off them.

When he finally got a break Tamara grabbed his arm, “Come with me. I’m going to meet Sergey by the smoke house and I need you there.”

She didn’t wait for him to answer before dragging him off. He wound up tromping through the rain to the small wooden building where they smoked meats. The smell made his mouth water as soon as he got close to it. Pastrami, ham hocks, salmon, beef, and who knew what else were hanging inside the hut while a low smoky fire was kept burning round the clock. The tall teen-aged footman was waiting for them under the eaves and out of the rain.

“Hi there Tomo,” he greeted them. “Is this your chaperon?” he asked as he bent down slightly to greet Brynn.

Brynn didn’t know it was possible, but he managed to hate Sergei even more.

“Brynn had a break the same time I did,” Tamara replied with a negligent toss of her head. “So we just decided to come out here together. Nothing more.”

Tease.

She meant to tease Sergei and was getting Brynn for free. What a deal.

“Your brother’s got Mrs. Nesterov in a mood,” Tamara needled. “So tell us what’s been happening. If we’re going to suffer for it, we might as well get in on the good stuff.”

Sergei put his hand to his chin and acted like he was thinking it over until Tamara finally got impatient and shoved him. Brynn was impressed. Sergei knew Tamara was playing with him, and he could play back. It would make it harder for Brynn to make his move. There was no way he was going to let the opportunity slip.

“First off,” Sergei started with a slow drawl, “we aren’t going to have to answer to the gypsy lady for much longer. Lady Pankov is furious with her and she’ll get Lord Boris to revoke the old man’s blessing as soon as he’s sworn in.”

Too bad for Pascal. Hope he got some nookie in first. How many opportunities like that do you get? Hey, if he’s not engaged any more, maybe he’ll give me a shot at him before he gives up that bod. Sweet.

“Too bad for Lord Andrei,” Tamara said in return. “He seemed so happy with her.”

“I guess,” sulked Sergei, who’d clearly expected a more cheerful response. “He used to be pretty wild I hear. There was a heck of a stink when he came back with a lot of gambling debts to pay off anyway.”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Brynn, “but Mr. Laskutin? The murder?”

“Eager little fellow, aren’t you?” The footman looked down at Brynn and rubbed his hair affectionately. Brynn knew what he was doing. Being indulgent towards him made Sergei look older and better to Tamara. Brynn was annoyed he got used so easily. Still, case first, romance later. The teen only had looks, height, and age on Brynn. He didn’t have a chance.

“I got this from Zhenya,” he said. That was Gennady, Lord Boris’s valet. Since he was Sergei’s brother, the teen was allowed to use the familiar name. “But he saw Lady Pankov’s maid, Miss Schuykov, sneaking a book into the library. He checked and found out Mr. Laskutin borrowed it.

“Now, the way I see it, that makes her the killer. She must have brought Lady Pankov her sleeping draught the night of the murder but doubled the dose so she wouldn’t wake up. That gave her plenty of time to sneak in and kill Lord Pankov. She’d been stepping out with Mr. Laskutin so she could get into his room, plant the torn blanket, and take the book.”

That’s not too bad. The bit about the book doesn’t fit, but that was my doing. No need to tell him that, but maybe I can make him look stupid later. I wonder why Miss Schuykov would have done it. I might have to take another look at her.

“So why’s Mrs. Nesterov so angry about all this?” Tamara complained.

“Oh that. Zhenya told Mr. Menschikov about the book so he could tell Lady Pankov or Lord Boris. Mrs. Nesterov overheard the whole thing. But Mr. Menschikov stopped it cold. He told Zhenya not to repeat the story to anyone. So she’s angry about it since she wants to get Mr. Laskutin out of lockup and maybe put Miss Schuykov in.” Sergei was grinning like a madman. He liked gossiping and being the center of attention.

Tamara laughed cheerfully for the same reason. Brynn scowled.

He was annoyed. Doubly annoyed. He’d just watched his rival make time with the girl he wanted– and she didn’t even know Brynn was a rival. And the case got more complicated. He had to add another suspect to the list. What else could go wrong?

“Brynn.” They all heard the cook yelling from the kitchen. “Get back in here. These pans are still filthy.”

He should have known better than to even think that.

Shade of Night Part 7

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Murder investigations shouldn’t go like this.

She is hoping her partner, the eternal ten-year-old Brynn, has better luck than she has had.

PART FOUR

DARK TURNS

The pouring rain put paid to Pascal’s walk through the gardens. She walked around the inner courtyard instead so she could see the gardens without getting soaked. The afternoon walks were supposed to be part of her cover, a way to meet with Brynn. To her surprise, she found out she liked them.

At least the rains should keep the mosquitos down. She wasn’t sure if she’d gotten attacked in the stables or the gardens, but she needed to watch out. Her arms and chest itched and distracted her from thinking about what she’d learned. And she’d learned a lot by finally comparing notes with Brynn.

While they hadn’t yet met in the gardens, she finally did meet up with Brynn. He’d been busy and made excellent progress learning about the servants’ involvement in the murder. He’d found out more than she had about Yakim. It almost made up for his not-quite-as-subtle-as-he-thought leers.

Brynn did get her to laugh at her situation. “A dead mad engaged to a murderer. That’ll be a real killer wedding.”

Her partner could be annoying at times - all the time, really - but he never failed to find humor in his situation. She needed that.

Not that she could let him get in the last barb. She could see the fear in his eyes as they got closer to the kitchen and she took unjustified delight in it. When she heard the cook yelling for him, she needled, “You know, I think my glass had a spot on it this morning. Maybe I should have a word with her.”

Now on her own, she tried to work through the possibilities. The knew of three people out unusually late on the night of the murder. Of the three, Andrei was the least likely suspect. She was oddly cheered by that thought. He came back a bit too late to be the killer. It would also be surprising to hunt poachers right before a murder.

Yakim and Larisa had the timing, but going out on a date beforehand is a poor setup for a killing. By all accounts Larisa set up the outing, so Yakim was the less likely killer of the pair.

She’d pored over the information in her head again and again. Finally deciding she didn’t have enough to pin the crime on anyone, she turned to clearing Yakim. There was a piece of evidence she hadn’t seen yet. It was time.

Paz sought out the butler.

Feodor Illyitch, if you have a moment?” she asked.

“Of course, Miss Gray. I hope this does not concern the same matter as this morning,” he said gravely.

“Then you will be disappointed,” she answered with what she hoped was a disarming grin. A twitch of his eyebrow was her answer, but she’d take amusement over contempt any day.

“I would like to see the murder weapon,” she almost whispered. He had to lean over to hear her.

“What? There is no weapon.”

“The blanket. That’s the weapon in this case. The piece that was cut out too, if you have it.”

“Miss Gray, I do not know what has brought on this obsession between you and Lady Sofiya. I will not encourage it or–”

“It wasn’t Andrei,” she interrupted.

“Excuse me,” he huffed.

“He wasn’t in his room the night of the murders. But he wasn’t involved. He was hunting poachers on the grounds. Roman Ivanov can vouch for it. He went straight to his bed after stabling his horse. Too late to have done anything,” she continued speaking softly. It wasn’t strictly true. Andrei had just enough time, but misleading is not the same as lying. “That’s what you were worried about, wasn’t it?”

The butler looked like he’d swallowed a lemon whole. He screwed up his face, finally relaxed and breathed out. “Of course not Miss Gray, of course not. There was never any question at all. I don’t understand what you hope to gain by seeing Lord Pankov’s blanket, but we have kept it, of course. Our gendarmes are fully satisfied, but the authorities in Katerinaburg will want to review their findings.”

Pascal took note of that, she had the name of a city where they went. The Carrabach’s request had proven simple since everyone treated her as a native. They attached to another shard when they left Fall of Night. Since she hadn’t seen any equipment to harvest or dry tobacco, she assumed they bought it there. They kept their secret through isolation. Everyone was motivated to hide it through fear of an attack. Coming to Brodjach through Battlefield was almost poetic.

Without another word, the butler led her up the stairs to one of the towers. They were dark and cold with bare stone along the walls. The stairs were clean and dust free but largely undecorated. The towers may never have been used for defense, but they found another function. The large open areas intended to store weaponry and food for the tower watch were now storing seasonal furniture for the rest of the house.

Her eyes lit up at the sight of the quilt and she could not hide her excitement. Mr. Menschikov watched her with worry, not fully aware of what he’d gotten into. He’d expected the girl to shrink back from the sight of the death cloth or to be disappointed with its very ordinariness. Instead he got a misplaced eagerness.

The quilt was thick and soft. The stitching was superb, the stuffing even and airy. It was done in blues and grays, alternating stripes that got darker on one side.

“The cut is down–” the butler started.

“One moment,” she interrupted, stepping back. “This is larger than the bed by quite a bit. How much of the quilt was tucked under the foot?”

Mr. Menschikov was openly surprised. For the first time, he was also impressed. “The top of the blanket is kept one foot from the headboard,” he responded evenly, and Paz was sure that he meant that to the inch. “With this blanket, the last two feet fold under the mattress.”

“This is straight and unwrinkled. Did you have it aired out after Lord Pankov died?”

The butler was impressed again. “No. We left it alone until the gendarmes arrived. They told us to store it until we get back home. We will, of course, destroy it after that unless the authorities decide to keep it for themselves. It will not be used again.”

She continued peering at the blanket but her gaze dropped to the bottom, where a piece had been cut.

“So, this corner would normally be folded under the foot of the bed?”

“Not as such, no,” he answered gruffly. “This would be at the side, hanging down. It was visible when Yakim brought me to the room in the morning. I’m embarrassed to admit I did not notice until the inspector pointed it out.”

She turned her head to look at the butler, “Did Yakim bring in anyone else before you?”

He shook his head. Of course not. I did not, at the time, suspect him of any harm.”

“Nor should you have,” she responded. “Did you look closely at the cut?”

He drew closer, almost touching her as he leaned over her shoulder to look at the roughly square piece cut from the cloth. “It looks just like it did earlier.”

Paz smiled, “How was it cut? Look at the hanging threads, pulled here at the edge. Look at the corner of the cut, rounded.”

“Yes?” he asked, clearly puzzled.

“This was cut with a knife, a hunting knife probably. From the corner, I’d say at least a six inch blade.”

The butler scrunched his eyes quizzically. “I see. Yes. But what does that–”

“Yakim was a valet, no? When Gennady was helping Boris this morning, he had a kit with him. It’s a leather pouch, about this big. I’ve never seen him without it. Now, I assume that Yakim had a similar kit on him. He wouldn’t have a big knife in his kit. But he would have a good, sharp pair of scissors. Wouldn’t that be true for Yakim as well?”

His eyes widened in revelation. “It would. He would have made a much cleaner cut.” He paused. “Unless he were trying to disguise who did it.”

Paz waved her hand dismissively, “True. This doesn’t prove he’s not the killer. It is evidence in his favor. It is, I would hope, reason to report to the police– the gendarmes.”

“Yes. Yes.” Growing in strength, “Yes it is. Miss Gray, thank you. I will inform Lord Boris and Lady Pankov this evening. I am certain they will write on his behalf, and perhaps he might be released from holding at least.” After a slightly awkward pause, he added, “If I might ask a favor, may I keep this a secret from the rest of staff? I do not wish to raise hopes prematurely; Yakim had many friends.”

“If you think that best, of course.”

“I hope we will be able to bring them better news soon, Miss Gray.” He looked her in the eyes, which involved looking down quite far, but this time it was friendly, “Lord Andrei was, I think, most fortunate to find you.”

- â™‡ -

Pascal didn’t like fishing. She considered it the most mind-numbing sport she’d ever come across. Its only redeeming feature was that it was a good excuse to drink, but that’s not an issue when you own a bar. She developed her dislike of fishing before she’d encountered needlework. It had all the tedium without the side benefit. No drinking. Unless you count tea.

She didn’t.

Sofiya overheard Feodor Illyitch telling Boris that he had new evidence to present to the gendarmes, and she wanted to know what was going on. She gently but firmly suggested they find some time to get together. As a result, Pascal found herself in the sewing room trying to make her stitches resemble flowers more than colorful blotches. The only consolation she could take was that she largely avoided sticking herself with the needle.

“Boris refuses to write to the gendarmes,” Sofiya complained. “Fedya is convinced we could get Yakim out of prison, at least, but my brother won’t have any part of it. Mother backs him up– Ha, she probably told Boris his opinion. I told them it wasn’t Yakim from the beginning, and now Boris will let him rot in prison just to spite me.” The woman was bitter.

“No,” Pascal responded. “That’s not fair to Boris. We’ve gotten a reason to question Yakim’s guilt, not enough to clear him. He probably would have cut the blanket with his scissors rather than a knife, but that’s just not proof. Oh, I’m sure the gendarmes would release him if your brother asked them to, but I can’t fault him for not doing it. I’m not entirely sold either.”

Her bug bites had gotten worse overnight and she had to hold herself back from scratching in front of Sofiya. She had to stop reviewing the case to ask, “I’m sorry, do you know if Simza is allergic to anything? I’ve been developing a terrible rash.”

While she was not happy with the change of subject, Sofiya had enough concern to answer “We have a doctor on staff, Dr. Rogov. You should see him. Andrei never mentioned it if you have any allergies, but he might know.” With a slight grin, she said, “You’ll need to watch out the day after tomorrow. We serve my father’s favorite dinner for the last time. It’s snake,” she grimaced. “If you’re allergic to anything, it’ll be that.”

Paz had eaten far worse, but still frowned in sympathy with Sofiya’s clear dislike. “I’ll watch out, thanks.”

“So you’re still not sure that Yakim is innocent,” Sofiya insisted, bringing things back to the case.

“No, I’m pretty sure. I think you were right, but I can’t prove it,” she said. “The timing is wrong. Yakim left the house that evening without knowing when he would be back. If it were a crime of passion I could still buy it, but this was too cold-blooded to leave it to chance.”

“What was Yakim doing outside the house?” Sofiya asked with genuine curiosity. This was the first she’d heard about it.

“I can’t tell you. I promised to keep that information secret,” she responded. Brynn had made the promise to Larisa, but Pascal regarded that as binding on her too. Of course, if Larisa was the killer, she’d throw those promises out in a second.

“I am paying you, Mr. Hunter,” Sofiya countered with anger. “I do not expect you to keep secrets from me.”

Putting her hand up firmly, Pascal answered, “First, Sonya, please remember my name even in private.” Sofiya’s face softened and she looked down. Pascal knew that was all the apology she’d get.

I am Pascal Hunter. Even if no one calls me that.

“Second, I got this information by promising to keep it quiet. I couldn’t bring it to the authorities because my source would deny it. Since Boris won’t write to them, there’s little point in pressuring my source to help free Yakim. Our best course of action is still to find the real killer.”

“And who might that be?”

“Right now, my best leads–” she said with some reluctance, but then stopped when one of the maids came in with more tea. Paz gave quick thanks for the lack of privacy in the house. There wasn’t much to tell. Even her best suspect, Larisa, was a weak case with far too many holes. In the end, she didn’t want to even admit she was checking up on Andrei. She could try to write it off as moral qualms, that she didn’t want to hurt Simza, but she felt the same reluctance herself.

“I’m afraid it will take quite a bit more practice before I can do this properly, Sonya,” she said while holding up her needlework for the maid’s benefit.

“Nonsense, you’re doing fine,” Sofiya answered and then laughed, “Well, you’ll get there.” The maid smiled gently but refrained from actually laughing at Pascal.

“Oh, is that Andrei over there?” Paz saw him through the door the maid opened.

“Yes, Miss Gray. He and Lord Boris had to go into town to refile some papers at the last minute with that Mr. Goldstein. It’s a terrible shame about Mr. Chernov, he’d have known what to do with all the legal papers.”

Pascal excused herself and went to talk to Andrei. Ever since he acted guilty when she mentioned Lord Pankov’s office, she had become fixated on her dream vision of Andrei leaving it. If it was real, she was afraid of what it might mean.

Andrei greeted her with a kiss. She was still uncomfortable kissing him, but she was getting better at accepting small endearments. He could tell something was wrong, but wasn’t sure what it was.

“Sonya and I were just talking about Yakim, Andrei,” she announced. “Do you think you could convince your brother to write to the gendarmes on his behalf?”

“I do not wish to talk about this, Simza.” Andrei scuffed his feet on the walkway and turned away from her. She didn’t like upsetting him, but it did keep him from getting suspicious when she failed to return his kisses.

“How long have you known your father’s valet?” she asked indignantly. “Now we have evidence he didn’t kill your father. You can’t just leave him to rot in jail. The best way to get him out is to find out who did it. I can’t believe you would let an innocent man take the blame.”

He turned to her with eyes and lips narrowed to dangerous slits. “This is not a fit subject for women.” With an effort he calmed himself, relaxing his face while she watched. “Forgive me, Simcha, that was rude of me. You did well to take what you found to Fedya, but you should not exert yourself further on this matter.” With a slight smile, he added, “I do not want you to turn my mother against you.”

“But Andrei,” she pleaded, “don’t you see? If it wasn’t Yakim it was someone else. He might be after your family. You and Boris may be in danger next. We should look through your father’s papers to see who might have a grudge against him. Did he keep them in his office?”

“How would I know? That was his private room. Why do you keep going on about his office?” Andrei was upset with her, but not so much that he overlooked her question. The whole argument over Yakim was just to put him off his guard for this question. It didn’t entirely work.

“Who has the keys?” she continued while deliberately ignoring his piercing looks. “Your mother, or Boris? Can you get us in?”

“No,” he snapped. “We are still in mourning until tomorrow and will not break the lock on his room. And before you get any more ideas, it will be Boris’s room after the ceremony, and neither of us will go in there.”

A private eye gets used to seeing liars, and Paz had seen more than her share. She’d had to deal with professionals, Andrei was an amateur in comparison. He thought outrage would cover him. Passion could cover deception but it was easy to see through if you knew what to look for. Getting so worked up let a lot of subtle cues slip. Andrei’s regular glances towards the office might as well have been a flashing neon sign saying “I did it.”

“Forgive me,” she said with contrition that was every bit as real as Andrei’s outrage. “I got too excited.”

She was sorry she’d asked. Andrei had to stay on the list of suspects. But he couldn’t be on that list for Simza’s sake. She was not sure what to do.

“Just stop, Simcha. This is not your problem. It is not our problem. You don’t know how much I had to go through with Father– We cannot turn my mother against us. After we are married, you could– No, my brother will lead the house, we will find our own home. Let it go.” Bitterness, anger, and regret mingled in his voice.

Andrei left and Pascal watched him go. For a moment she had been sure the break-in was important, but now she was not. Andrei’s anger wasn’t at her, but she didn’t know what it was about. She debated checking further. If he was involved, did she want to reveal it? It could damage Simza’s plans, but wouldn’t she be better off knowing if Andrei was a criminal?

She really didn’t like possessing people.

- â™‡ -

Pascal was getting tired of wearing black. It was a definite warning sign that the possession was getting to her. Nonetheless it was true. She was dreadfully tired of black. Nothing but black.

On the other hand, there were times when that was an advantage. For instance, if you are going to break in to a locked office at night, black is definitely in fashion. Since she was still in mourning for one more day, she’d draw no attention if she was spotted.

It bothered her that she needed a reason. Simza was bleeding through her personality. Her strong desire to wear bright colors again was not her own, it came from the brain she had been using for the last week.

I am Pascal Hunter. I wear what’s useful.

Shadows deepened in the setting sun. The house lamps were not lit, though they soon would be. She’d chosen her time for just that reason. Feodor Illyitch would be seeing to the lights as she broke in. She could avoid the other servants but the butler had proved to be a better observer. If she thought he would leave Brodjach she’d consider hiring him on as a partner. Even if mostly to annoy Brynn.

But that would come later.

The butler had treated her more kindly since she tried to help Yakim. He’d smiled when she arrived for breakfast. It was just barely a smile but it was there. When the blond footman whispered something to his partner, the butler broke it right up. For all that, she knew he would not go so far as to actually disobey orders for her.

She shut the door behind her as quietly as she could, but the click was louder than she liked. Almost alone in the family quarters, Old Man Pankov’s office did not have a rug on the wood floor. She removed her shoes so she could move silently across the smooth floor. Her black stockings practically slid on the highly polished surface.

A thin coat of dust on the furnishings testified that this room had not been touched for two months. Boris would soon take over and claim the office for his own. This was Pascal’s last chance to see it as it was. She was not entirely sure whether she was looking for evidence of Andrei’s guilt or seeking a way to cover it up.

A large picture window gave her a magnificent view of the gardens. Being on the third floor provided some protection against being seen from outside but she could not take that for granted. She would have to be even more careful once the lights came on.

A dark desk with a fine ivory inlay on the surface depicting a three masted sailing ship dominated the room. There were only two chairs; a desk chair and a fine sitting chair with a foot rest. A three legged smoking table sat near the footstool. This was not a place to receive visitors, but a room for work.

Shelves on the wall held a small collection of books along with mother of pearl cutlery and a crossed pair of kukri knives. A small table beneath the shelves displayed an intricate bronze clock. The clock was stopped, which made sense if it had not been wound for two months.

There weren’t any mirrors. Lord Pankov didn’t expect to summon servants while he was in here, and did not want anyone watching him. One less thing for her to worry about.

The lights came on and she froze in place. She would have to be careful not to be silhouetted against the window. She still itched but had to restrain herself from scratching. Her rash had not gotten any better. She resolved to see the family doctor before Boris’s Assumption tomorrow.

The items on the desk were perfectly arranged just like they were in the old man’s bedroom. That was probably his doing, then, and not servants managing things for him. Two inkwells were lined up with each other, pens arranged neatly beneath them. Three piles of letters sat neatly stacked in the opposite corner. One pile was unopened, the second was opened, the third had responses. That last pile had been disturbed. The envelopes didn’t line up. Alone on the desk, it looked messy.

She looked but didn’t touch. Not yet.

A key hanger was mounted on the wall near the desk but it did not hold any keys. Four pegs, all empty.

Three of the desk drawers were locked. The main drawer was not locked so she checked it first. He kept writing paper there, neatly arranged as always. There was a straight razor with a scrimshaw handle depicting a whaling ship. She wondered briefly about the nautical theme between the razer and desk. Next to the razor were three pencils and a gum eraser. A steel letter opener with a jeweled handle was near the back of the drawer. She’d first thought he used the razor as his letter opener, but that made less sense now.

The locked drawers were next. She glanced at the clock and laughed very quietly. Clever, she thought. Lord Pankov must have had a reason to hide his keys. He knew or suspected someone would try to break in to his desk. He would still want the keys nearby for his own use. The clock was complex and intricate, just the place to hide small pieces of metal. If he knew what he was doing, he could hide them so anyone trying to get them would break the clock, thus leaving traces. It had that touch of artistry that she thought would appeal to him.

She’d never met Lord Pankov but was starting to like him. He was organized to a fault and more than a little bit anal. He loved art and tried to do it himself but never as more than an amateur. And he used that love of art to set up intricate puzzles with just a touch of whimsy. She suspected anyone who knew him well would see more good than bad. Simza had known him, but Pascal didn’t have any sense that she liked the old man. A pity, really.

With his cleverness and ingenuity, he would make a puzzle that would be fun to solve. Paz was tempted, truly tempted. In the end, she decided against it. She got into the office by picking the lock, and she was more than skilled enough to get into the desk drawers without keys. No need.

The locks gave up their secrets in no time at all to her skilled hands. She had a good lockpick back in Fall of Night, but she could do these with a simple pin. Her knowledge worked in concert with her body’s reflexes. This was not the first time Simza had picked a lock.

The first drawer contained a cash box. It had its own lock but it had been broken open. Scratches near the lock showed that someone had tried to pick it first, someone who didn’t know what he was doing. It had been forced open afterwords. She could see a fold in the box near the lock where it had been pried open. Though it was tempting to look inside, she suspected Lord Pankov set up a warning. All he’d need was a small linked mirror inside the case. She decided to leave it alone for now.

The next drawer had six stacks of finished correspondence. As expected, each stack was neatly arranged and alphabetized. Someone had been here before her. One stack was shorter than the others and the letters didn’t line up evenly. Whoever did this was sloppy, but it was clear something was missing.

The last drawer held the old man’s ledger. A single book, lying flat in the exact center of the drawer. She felt bad picking it up. His penmanship was excellent, florid strokes written precisely. She looked through the book. He’d detailed every letter received and every response delivered. The first entry was two years back.

“Returned to Fall of Night, 0.3” rainfall. Rec’d lettr V Radkovna, drafted and answered. Rec’d ordr Viceroy, drafted deferred answer, final at Chernov.”

She crept under the desk to read the volume without exposing herself to the window. Being shorter than normal, she didn’t have to fold up as much as she would have in her old body. Every entry was like the first. He noted the weather, any correspondence, and all his tobacco trades with merchants in Fall of Night. She looked, there was nothing else. No personal accounts, no family notes, nothing. If he kept notes like that, he didn’t do it in his office.

She felt surprisingly disappointed. Curious, she thought about it for a moment. She wanted to know how he reacted when Andrei brought her home. No, when he brought Simza home.

I am Pascal Hunter.

Victor Chernov, the family solicitor. His letters were missing. She compared the missing letters to the journal entries. There were a lot of missing letters. She checked the unfiled letters on top of the desk. The missing ones there were also to Chernov.

Interesting, she thought. Money and letters to the family lawyer gone. What did it mean?

She put everything back and sneaked back to her room. With a little luck, her activities would be entirely unnoticed.

Shade of Night Part 8

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Someone killed Lord Pankov, and it wasn’t the man arrested for the crime. The ghost, Pascal Hunter, is on the trail of the killer. Possessing the body of Simza Gray, she must battle to hang on to her sense of self while also trying to solve the mystery.

She and her partner, the former fey, eternally ten year old Brynn, have accumulated too many suspects. They’ve also made a few too many waves in the normally placid household.

PART FIVE

ASSUMPTIONS

Pascal woke up with a start. She couldn’t breathe.

She could hear her labored breath as she struggled to draw air into her lungs. Something pressed hard on her chest, choking. Air was thick, limited. The dark room faded in and out. Purple and red spots flashed in front of her eyes.

She was tangled in the sheets and lashed out against them only to have them wrap even tighter around her. Terrified that there was about to be another murder, she lurched from the bed. She expected the sheets to hold her tight. They did not. She fell to the floor and hit her head hard.

For an instant she considered abandoning Simza’s body. She would survive. She might take another body or go back to Fall of Night and leave the case to Brynn.

Only for an instant.

Simza would be weak if she left and would certainly die. She was responsible for the body she borrowed.

She tried to stand but the sheets still bound her tight and she fell over. Breathe. Move. She crawled to the vanity and pulled hard on the mirror cover. Tried to yell, or speak, but only gasped.

Blackness.

Without transition she was in the Freezer, bundled in a thick coat with gloves on. The wind howled by her, tearing through the streets and threatening to knock her over with its force. She remembered this.

The Freezer had moved. That was nothing new, the neighborhood shifted every few months. One of their new neighbors was warm, almost tropical. Weather did not normally travel from one shard to another, but sometimes it did. This time the contrasting temperatures created a never ending barrage of wind from the Freezer to Highclime. It lasted months.

She was a man when that happened. She was Pascal, not Simza.

She might still be. The thick clothing concealed her body from her gaze. She was dreaming again.

Or dying. She remembered.

Someone pushed her and she stumbled forward. She couldn’t tell who did it, someone gray and faded. The street was full of them. Gray, faceless people pushing through the howling wind.

Except one.

She was beautiful, short and curvy with long black hair. The only color on the sepia street, she wore a flowing green and red dress with bare arms, completely inappropriate for the cold. The dress and her hair whipped in the wind, but she walked towards Pascal without bowing to its force.

“You killed us,” she said. Her soft voice was clearly audible over the howling wind.

“Simza?” Pascal yelled back, his voice masculine but carried away in the maelstrom.

“Yes. As are you,” she answered.

“I am Pascal Hunter,” he shouted. Insisted.

It was his mantra, and just saying it gave him strength.

“We are Simza Gray. We are dying.”

“We’ll live,” he demanded of her. “We’ll live. I got to the mirror. We’ll get help.”

“You are stealing my life,” she insisted loudly.

He wanted to protest, but it was true. The strength he’d gained from speaking his name out loud fled. The wind tore through him like he was naked before her, the cold numbed his fingers and toes. “Only for a short time. Only to solve the case. Then you can have it back.” It was weak, and he knew it.

“Then I can have my life back? Do you think that makes it all right, if you only steal a little? And if you die before you give it back? It is my life. It is not yours to take.” She was indignant, radiating heat in her passion.

He was guilty and he knew it. “Please,” he pleaded. With the cold wind penetrating him he could not raise his voice. His cries were carried away so quickly he could barely hear himself.

“Please. Let me do this. I don’t have a life. Mine is gone, all gone. The only– this is all I have left. The only shred of life remaining. Solving puzzles. I feel it then. An echo, just an echo of life but it’s there. I try to use it to help, to avenge. It’s all I have. I can’t bear to… Please.”

Why did he tell her that, he wondered. And was it true? He wasn’t sure himself.

“We are linked, you and I. Now. You made the link, but I can use it. Know this, ghost,” she spat. She was firm but not vitriolic, and Pascal thought he saw pity in her eyes. “Know this. You will not outlive me. If you leave me to die, you will die too.”

“I wouldn’t,” he protested.

She would have none of it and continued, “And if you ruin the life I’ve made, you’ll only wish I destroyed you.” He had to wonder where his visions got such strength. “Get Andrei back. Be a woman for him. Be me for him.”

He was on his knees. When had that happened? He could not feel the icy stone beneath him, nor could he look away from the strong woman standing before him. “Yes,” he whispered.

She lifted him up and embraced him. Heat flooded his body and he was blinded by a sudden flash of light.

The light hurt his eyes, but he saw shapes in it. He was lying in bed with Andrei sitting by his side. Her side. She was still Simza. A maid stood by the door. She could smell mint and tobacco. She could breathe.

“Thank Heaven,” Andrei exclaimed, “you’re awake.”

“Yes, what happened?” she tried to say. Her throat was too raw. It came out as a croak, “Ye. Wh’ap?”

“Don’t try to talk,” her fiance said uselessly. For all his concern he was still stiff towards her. “You’ve taken ill. Doctor Rogov has given you a compress to help you breathe, but you must take it easy.”

The maid jumped forward. It wasn’t one of her morning maids. Pascal didn’t recognize her. “He went to fetch his medicine bag, Miss Gray. He will be back soon, but you must stay in bed, he said.”

Andrei smiled, a bit tightly, but enough to indicate approval. “That’s right. And you will listen to him, won’t you?”

She nodded rather than try to speak again. His approval gave her strength. As weak as she was, she’d do anything to keep him happy. Memories flooded her mind, of seeing Nuvye Park for the first time with him by her side, of dancing for him, of promises and hopes. Not her memories, but Simza’s.

I am…, she started to remind herself, but then stopped.

Andrei sent the maid to tell the doctor Simza was awake. When she left, he turned back to her. “You scared me, Simcha darling. Don’t talk,” he insisted when she tried to speak. “Just let me. I behaved badly to you and it’s because I first behaved badly to Father.”

Barely able to speak, she only nodded.

“Your brother– Well, I’m afraid I was a poor gambler. Your brother was not the first person to beat me handily. I think you know that already. I tried to be a better man for you, but I had so many debts. My father would not pay them. He didn’t believe me, and I’m afraid…” In a rush, he blurted out, “I stole money from Father’s office.”

She’d have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. All Andrei saw was the smile.

“It’s not all right, Simcha,” he answered with a mix of anger and laughter. “It was wrong and I know it. It took time but I brought Father around. That’s why he gave us his blessing. I was afraid you’d find out if you looked too deeply into his affairs. You and Sonya. I had to tell you myself.”

He took her hand in his and held it. Pascal kept smiling.

The door opened and Sofiya rushed in. “Is she all right?” she asked breathlessly.

Sofiya was wearing a blue skirt and jacket over a white blouse with pale pink stitching. It hit Pascal like a brick, mourning was over. Andrei wore brown, the maid did not have a black armband. “How long?” she choked out.

“Shhh,” cautioned Andrei. “Not long, you were only out a few hours. Boris’s Assumption is this afternoon. You won’t attend, of course, but he understands. Even Mother understands.” Andrei was still hiding something. He was stiff, even angry, and he was trying to hide it from her.

“Do you know what happened?” Sofiya asked quietly. “Are you still going to… carry on?” She was trying not to talk about the case with Andrei present, but was not doing a good job.

Pascal nodded, not trying to speak.

Andrei saw. She was pretty sure he understood. He nodded, but with a grimace.

The staff doctor returned with his bag. “Too many of you,” he gruffed. “Lord Andrei, Lady Sofiya, please leave. You may come back later. Nina,” he said to the maid, “fetch some hot water and come back.” Everyone filed out under his commands.

“I’m going to have to give you a shot, Miss Gray. Lord Pankov got us a full suite of medicines when we got back here, you’re in fine shape.” He kept talking while checking her over, always calmly. “You’re going to have to take it easy for the next few days. You got something on your skin. I thought it was poison ivy at first but all the tests were negative. It got in your lungs, which is when it got dangerous. Now, don’t worry. You’ve pulled through and this booster shot is just to help you recover faster. Don’t exert yourself and call me if you have any problems, all right?”

She could still feel the rash on her neck, chest, and both wrists. As she drifted back to sleep, she spared an accusing glance at the vanity table, where her perfume set still sat innocently.

- â™‡ -

“Are you all right, Brynn?”

“Huh?” Brynn turned, startled. “Sorry, I’m fine Tomo.”

The kitchens were buzzing with activity, so that was all the conversation they could squeeze in before Tamara had to carry out more platters of pastries with raspberry and lemon sauces.

Brynn was just as busy scrubbing and polishing platters that would soon be scooped high with whatever magic Mrs. Nesterov was preparing for the main course. They were already clean. He’d cleaned them that morning instead of working with the horses. It didn’t matter. They had to be cleaned again.

The house was not in mourning, except for Lady Pankov. It was a trivial change as far as he was concerned. He didn’t wear a black armband with his kitchen uniform. Those who had been with the Pankovs longer made a bigger deal out of it. They were allowed to be cheerful again. Lady Pankov had to stay in moruning for five more years. Weird customs, but Brynn didn’t plan to stick around too much longer.

His partner was laid up so Brynn was on his own for the investigation. He didn’t believe for a second that Paz was sick. He figured the man had been attacked. People got prickly about murder investigations, especially the murderer. Between his work in the kitchen, worrying about Paz, and trying to figure out the case, it’s no wonder Tomo thought he looked stressed.

He wanted to sneak off and see Paz, but his odds of that were close to zero. Everyone was busy, and that meant Mrs. Nesterov kept a close eye on everyone in her kitchen.

That just makes it more fun.

Mrs. Nesterov was a whirlwind of culinary fury as she bustled from the oven to the stove to two pots she had boiling. She was constantly shouting orders to her three assistant cooks, who were working on a myriad of other dishes.

At one point the butler, Mr. Menschikov, came in to check that everything was going as planned. It didn’t go well for him, “When I need your help in the kitchen, Feodor Illyitch, I will retire from the kitchen and live in the forest. Now get out of here and come back when I call you.”

He went, cowed.

One of the cooks laughed and became the next target of Mrs. Nesterov’s wrath.

Bad move, but better you than me. She’s in a nasty mood today.

Tamara was busy running in and out with platters of food. Occasionally she was dragooned into cutting fruit and they could exchange a few words. There was enough food to feed a small army, Brynn thought, so this Assumption must be a pretty big deal.

“Brynn, sweetie,” Tamara whispered sweetly to him when she swept back in, “could you help me out? See Sergey over there. Get him out of sight, maybe one of the pantries, would you?”

“Sure,” he nodded smiling.

Come on, at least pretend you’re interested in the little boy. This is downright insulting. Oh, yes. Sorry about this, Tomo, but I see an opportunity.

He put down the platter he’d been polishing, waved, and said “Be right there.” That pantomime would buy him a minute or two.

“Sergei,” he whispered to his teen-aged rival, the boy who would grow up in time, “the pantry in two minutes. Meet Tomo.” He hurried back to his work, catching the smile on the footman’s face from the corner of his eye as he did.

Tamara watched her beau and saw him disappear. She followed a moment later. Less than a moment after that, Mrs. Nesterov went to the pantry herself to fetch a bucket of blueberries.

“What is this all about?” she screeched.

The kitchen came to a halt as all eyes turned towards the screaming dervish. Except Brynn’s.

He was already on his way out.

Running up the stairs, two flights up. He didn’t pass a soul once he was out of the kitchen. Everyone was occupies with the ceremony in the gardens. He barged through the door, praying he wouldn’t barge in on a doctor or visitor. It paid off. Paz was alone in bed.

The smell of mint almost knocked him over. Pascal’s chest was wrapped in poultices that filled the room with the sharp scent. It was strong enough to dampen Brynn’s ardor to sneak a peak at his partner’s breasts.

“Hey there Paz,” he spouted cheerfully, “how’s it hanging? OK, OK, I know, not the right time for chit chat. Looks like I’ll be doing all the work for a bit so I thought you might want to fill me in. Oh, and how are you?”

The woman in the bed looked frail, and Brynn had a moment’s worry for his partner.

Don’t sweat it. The old ghost’ll live forever. Or whatever it is ghosts do.

Paz shifted, opened his eyes and turned, “Must be Brynn,” he croaked.

His voice was scratchy but he could make himself understood. He told Brynn about breaking into Lord Pankov’s office and finding stolen money and letters. Brynn could see him hesitate but he also revealed that Andrei stole the cash from his father’s office.

Andrei’s a thief and has a taste for hot women. It’s official. I like him.

“And me,” Paz croaked. “Rash is from– perfume.” Brynn stifled his laughter. “Magic linked. Bottles are from Egypt Collection. Find out who has rest of collection.” He swallowed, and Brynn could tell his throat was still raw.

“Hey, don’t worry about it buddy. Just lie back and relax.” With a forced grin, he said, “It’s not like I need your help for a case this simple.”

“Be careful,” Paz whispered. “Stay safe, mora. Friend.”

“Uh, yeah. You too.” Paz should have had a snappy comeback, at least an insult. He said something in another language too, probably something Simza know. Whatever’s wrong must really be taking a lot out of him.

- â™‡ -

Brynn rushed from the bedroom back to the kitchen. He made it. He slipped back in without anyone noticing and went back to scrubbing. Well, almost no one noticed.

“That was your fault,” Tamara whispered with acid in her voice.

No point denying it, “Maybe a little.”

“I thought we were friends,” she whined.

He didn’t bother answering.

She’s not going to be interested in a little kid. Too bad, I’d show her a great time.

Then she surprised him.

“Did you go see Miss Gray?”

What?

He turned without meaning to. His mouth hung open, his face went slack. If she turned blue and started tap dancing he wouldn’t have been this shocked. He didn’t know how to react. “How’d you–?”

She smiled. She was quite pretty. “You’re doing something for her. I don’t think anyone else noticed. Let me in on it. You can make up for using me as a distraction.”

Brynn almost started flapping his mouth in surprise. First she managed to catch him, then she surprised him again by trying to join him.

She’s amazing. Pretty, smart, and adventurous. The case be damned. I have got to get this girl.

“Tonight,” he nodded. “After the ceremony.”

That was all the time they had before Mrs. Nesterov saw them together and put them back to work.

Judging from the empty dishes that came back, the Assumption was a rousing success. At one point they all stopped working and got a single glass of wine each. Boris was now Lord Pankov. Nothing changed as far as Brynn could see.

The lights were lit by the time they finished cleaning and scrubbing. Tamara cornered him in the hallway to make sure he didn’t leave her out of his plans. Even though he never intended to, it felt good to have her chasing him for a change.

Remembering to use his partner’s fake name, he whispered, “Someone attacked Miss Gray. She thinks it was through her, well, her perfume bottles. She’s got a couple bottles of something they call the Egypt Collection. We need to find out where the other bottles are and who has access to them.”

“Oh. That’s easy,” she answered and ran off. “Hey Nina Vasilin,” she called down the hallway, her voice echoing off the cold stone walls.

A small maid with black hair turned around. “What do you want, Tamara?” She sounded worn out and impatient, Brynn thought. Tamara had gotten a shot of adrenaline when Brynn told her what was going on, and he rarely got tired. Even after a long day, they were both ready for anything.

“The perfume bottles in Miss Gray’s room,” she said, “Where’s the rest of that collection?”

The direct approach. That’s my way of doing things. It never works, but it can be fun.

With a squint and a shrug, Nina answered, “Lady Sofiya has one of them, and the other two are in Lady Pankov’s room.” After Tamara thanked her, Nina turned and went on her way.

It worked. That’s going right back to the top of my list.

“Wait,” he cried out. “Who can go into those rooms?”

Nina looked down at Brynn, annoyed. “I probably don’t want to know what you two are up to, do I? Fine. In Lady Sofiya’s room, any of the housemaids. Lady Pankov’s room would be limited to Larisa Grigorina.”

She didn’t say it, but Brynn took it for granted any of the family could go in too. At the very least, Sofiya and Lady Pankov would go into their own rooms. “Thank you,” he remembered to add.

“So what now?” Tamara asked him with excitement in her voice.

“Now,” he paused dramatically and was rewarded when she leaned forward expectantly, “now we go visit Lady Sofiya.”

He got just the reaction he wanted. A gasp, bright eyes and slightly parted lips.

Tomo was scared and excited as they ran up the stairs and entered the family quarters. When a maid chastised them for being upstairs, Brynn jumped in “I have a message for Lady Sofiya. I was told to deliver it in person.” That was all it took. The maid brought them right to her. Tamara beamed.

Sofiya’s room was a masterpiece of gold and red, as large as the entire wing where Brynn had his cot. “You have a– You?” she exclaimed when she recognized Brynn.

“Yeah, me,” he responded easily. Tamara was not impressed this time. She was scared, or maybe upset.

“I’m sorry about. I’m sorry about Simza,” Sofiya said after a long pause.

“He’ll be fine,” Brynn tossed back. He caught his mistake as soon as he said it. Tamara noticed that he called Pascal a man. He did what he always did when he screwed up; he ignored it. “I hear you’ve got one of the perfume bottles from the same collection she has.”

“The Egyptian Collection,” she answered evenly. “It was a favorite of mine when I was a girl.”

“Who could have gotten to it? Used it?”

“No one,” she insisted. “Really, no one,” she repeated when Brynn looked skeptical. “I like the French bottles now, so I keep the Egyptian one locked up.” She pointed at a collection of clear crystal bottles that looked very different than the ones in Pascal’s room.

“That leaves your mother’s room,” he muttered.

As they left, Tamara narrowed it down further as soon as Sofiya wouldn’t overhear. “And that means Miss Schuykov.”

Shade of Night Part 9

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

She and her partner, the former fey, eternally ten year old Brynn, have accumulated too many suspects. They’ve also made a few too many waves in the normally placid household.

“Oh Bry-inn,” the little kitchen maid called out when Brynn got back from his morning job in the stables. If she could have extended his name another few syllables, he was sure she would have. Tamara had decided he was exciting now that she was working with him. She was trying to wrap him around her finger and he was planning to enjoy the attempt.

“Yes, Tomo?” he asked back. He was happy to play along with her games. She’d surprised him once and he just loved surprises.

“I could use someone strong and manly to help me,” she cooed. “Mrs. Nesterov’s making a special dinner tonight. Her last time to make one of Lord Pankov’s favorite meals. Maybe you could help me carry up the… special ingredients?”

The snakes. She knows I know it’s the snakes. She has to play anyway. By all the Gods I wish she was old enough to leave this place and come back to the city with me!

So he nodded and agreed.

The cage was heavy, but he didn’t need to open it like he did when he was feeding them. “So she’s cooking them this time?”

Tamara was quite pleasant and chatty when she was getting her way, so she answered happily, “Yes. It was a special meal the old Lord Pankov liked. The new Lord Pankov gets the old one’s favorite at his first family supper. Tradition.” She dropped to a stage whisper, “But I think Mrs. Nesterov is going to be happy to get rid of these things.”

She added softly, “I know I will.”

Brynn didn’t say anything, he just grunted. The cage was heavy.

He dropped it at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily. “I hope I don’t have to kill them too.”

She smiled flirtatiously and ran a finger along his arm, “You mean you would leave that to poor little me?”

While Brynn stammered and failed to find an answer that would work, she laughed gently, “No, you don’t have to. The butchers kill most of our animals, but Lord Boris, I mean, Lord Pankov, does for the snakes. Mr. Menschikov will let him know.”

That’ll almost make lugging them up there worth it just to see one of those aristocrats step foot in the kitchen.

“Wait. Why don’t the butchers do it?”

The cook had drifted over to check on them, “And how long does it take you two to fetch the livestock?” she glowered. Instead of going on one of her usual tirades, she relaxed and looked around. She put her hands on Brynn and Tamara’s shoulders, drew them in towards her, “I won’t be sad to see the other side of these things, and that’s God’s honest truth. The late Lord Pankov had some strange tastes after his trip to– after spending some time in the city.”

How slow do they think I am? Even Paz figured this one out. They go back to a really large shard, always the same place. I wonder what they plan to do with me. They all expect me to leave when they phase out, but then come back when they hit Fall of Night again. Do they think I’ll never catch on? Or maybe they plan to invite me to stay with them for good if I come back next time? Or kill me, I suppose. Someone here knows how to kill, after all.

“The butchers did do it the first time Lord Pankov had us make this,” the cook reminisced. “Doctor Rogov was standing by with his medicines in case anyone got bit. The children snuck in to watch. I think they dared each other into it. Boris got too close.” She was smiling, so Brynn knew the story would end well. “I still think little Sofiya pushed him or tricked him somehow.”

She almost laughed, but then turned it into a sigh.

“The young lord got too close, and one of the snakes bit him. The butcher panicked and got bit too. So did one of my cooks when she tried to help. Doctor Rogov took charge as soon as we’d rounded up the beasts. It’s the only time I let someone else give orders in my kitchen. Little Lord Boris, though, didn’t need the medicine. The bite was there plain as day, but there was no swelling. Doctor said he’s just naturally resistant. Lord Boris made it a point of pride and insisted on learning how to kill the snakes himself to keep everyone else safe.”

A warm smile crept over her face while talking about Lord Boris. It was a side of the cook Brynn never suspected.

“He’s killed the snakes ever since. He’s never been bit that bad again, but he has been bit, Never suffered more than a rash. So he’ll do it for us this one more time.”

Brynn looked suitably impressed. He stared at the snake cage.

“Don’t think about it boy. I just might decide not to waste any antivenin on you if you do something stupid,” the cook snapped.

Both Tamara and Brynn laughed at that. He managed to look abashed enough to appease Mrs. Nesterov. “Enough with the jawboning, back to work.”

She’s the one who was just taking up our time, and she knows it. Was that her attempt at a joke?

A short time later, the new Lord Pankov entered the kitchen. They overheard a thin blond woman ordering him to leave it to the butchers before she stormed off. He wore a blue jacket with rose trim and tight blue pants. His dark brown beard was closely trimmed, and he was smiling broadly. “Mrs. Nesterov, may I help with the snakes for what I truly hope will be the last time?”

She tittered, “Oh, Lord Pankov, please.” She was laughing because he should have called her Raisa Irinova. Instead, he still spoke to her like he was a child. “We are all most grateful for your help.”

He smiled back, “I’ve been Lord Boris to you for far too long, and I hope that won’t change now.” He frowned, but Brynn could see he was still playing. “I do have one favor to ask of you, though.”

“Of course,” she answered without hesitation. Everyone in the kitchen stopped working to listen. Brynn preferred being the center of attention himself, but failing that he’d take entertainment where it’s offered.

“I would never dream of dishonoring my father. But after tonight’s dinner, I trust that even if we have guests from–” He glanced unobtrusively at Brynn, “even if we have guests who want this dish, I trust you will have sadly forgotten how to make it.”

“I’m sure everyone knows how forgetful I can be,” she answered with a laugh of her own.

While staring at the snake cage, he commented, “I suspect my brother will miss tonight’s dinner, as he will be sitting up with his fiancee.” With a nod to the cook, he added suddenly, “She’s recovering nicely, thank you. Sonya might decide to join him in the sick room too if I’m any judge. For all I know, Avdotya might join them too. Since there are likely to be leftovers, if any of the staff wish, they have my permission to indulge in any of the dish remaining after our supper.”

His announcement was met with stifled laughter and nervous swallows. “Urgh,” croaked Tamara quietly to Brynn.

Boris held out his arms expectantly. A moment later one of the kitchen maids ran up to him with a butcher’s apron and helped put it on him. The thick white cloth covered his fine clothing but he didn’t look like like a servant. He was a natural showman, commanding attention by his presence. With all eyes on him, he theatrically picked up the butcher’s knife and the snake cage with an ease Brynn envied.

He strapped on a thick leather glove and reached into the cage. The snake he pulled out looked prettier than anything that deadly had a right to. Its green and yellow scales shone in the afternoon light. The triangular head fixed its killer in a predatory glare while it hissed and squirmed in his firm grasp.

Lord Pankov placed the snake on a wooden block and swung his blade with precision. The snake head fell into a waiting basket while the new lord tossed the still twitching body into a nearby pot. He was already reaching for the next one.

Only Brynn saw Lord Boris’s lips twitch in a silent smile.

- â™‡ -

After spending a day in bed, Pascal was cleared to leave her room. She had to have two maids help her dress to avoid aggravating her bruises. The doctor cautioned her to take it very easy, and the staff was going to see to it she listened.

Despite expecting it, she was surprisingly pleased to wear something that wasn’t black. She selected a smooth green dress with patterned yellow stitching. Her maids completed the outfit with a white blouse, pale stockings, gray shoes with a small heel and jewelry. Then came the makeup to cover the bruises on her neck, followed by painting her nails and face. She did not wear any perfume, claiming it would start her coughing again. Her maids nodded in sympathy.

She went through all this preparation just to go to the sitting room and meet Sofiya. Logically, Pascal knew it was a waste of time. Yet it felt good to get dressed up and pretend she hadn’t nearly choked to death the previous morning. Assert normality. She understood that.

“Sonya,” she greeted her client warmly when she entered the room.

Sofiya got up to meet her and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s good to see you up and around, Simcha. You’re looking good,” she said with an honest smile.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Pascal said while pointing at one of the couches with a good view of the yard. The muggy weather they’d been having had finally broken and a light breeze stirred the trees. It looked like a great day to be outdoors.

“Of course. Please sit down. Don’t hurt yourself on my account.”

Pascal smoothed her dress before taking a seat. She crossed her legs and rested her arm lightly on the end of the seat. The maid who escorted her to the room watched her like a hawk until she was safely ensconced and only then left the room.

“Have you made any more progress, Mr. Hunter?” Sofiya asked as soon as they were alone.

Pascal raised her hand gently in remonstration, “Don’t. Even when we’re alone. Don’t. I’m Simza while I’m here.” Her mantra had lost its power while she was laid up in bed. The vision she had while unconscious might or might not be real, but her promise to Simza was. As long as she held this body she would have to be Simza Gray.

“I’ll try to talk to Brynn later to see what he’s learned while I was… indisposed, but I think it’s safe to say we have made some progress.” She stopped suddenly, aware that Sofiya was staring at her in amazement. “What’s wrong?”

“The way you move,” she answered. “The way you sit. You’re pulling at your ear, just like Simza did. You have your legs tucked up, it’s like you’re a different person.”

“Hmm, yes. I don’t usually do this. Ah, possess people, that is,” she kept her voice low in a combination of shame and desire for privacy. “There are other ways, but they don’t work here, so… Stealing someone’s life away, even a little bit of it, feels like a crime itself. It’s dangerous too. Simza’s strong. She– it’s hard to describe, but she pervades her body. It’s overwhelming.” It had been a very long time since she’d talked with anyone about the problems of a ghost, but she felt better for it.

Sofiya was surprisingly sympathetic, “Are you in danger? I like having you here, but maybe I can help you leave sooner.”

“You’re grinning like the cat that caught the canary.” Paz smiled back suddenly, “You’ve got the police report.”

“Yes, I finally got a copy. An old friend is an inspecteur principal. He was at Boris’s Assumption and brought me this. You know we’re not supposed to have it, right?”

“May I?” she said as she reached for it. She took it and wiped her hands on a napkin before opening it. “Please keep an eye out while I take a look.”

She quickly paged through the report. It was much shorter than it should have been. Paz had seen this syndrome in police departments in a hundred different shards. They’d decided who was guilty right away, put in just enough work to back that up, and moved on to the next case. She supposed she shouldn’t complain, since it ensured a steady stream of work for her.

The gendarmes had interviewed Boris, Andrei, the butler, and of course Yakim himself. Yakim insisted on his innocence throughout the interview. There were pictures of Lord Pankov’s room with and without the body and pictures of Yakim’s room where they found the blanket piece. It closed out with a medical exam of Lord Pankov. Pascal had already learned everything in the report and much more beside.

“Wow,” exclaimed Sofiya after a few moments, “it’s like you changed again.”

Paz looked up, “Sorry?”

“When we were talking earlier, I thought you were just like Simza. But when you were reading the police report, you changed. The concentration, the way you hold the report, everything. Take heart,” she said while putting her hand on Pascal’s, “you’re still you.”

Paz sighed, “Good to hear. Sonya, this is very helpful. The police– sorry, the gendarmes, didn’t do nearly as much as I’d hoped, but at least they got a doctor’s report. Your father was strangled, choked to death from lack of air, no signs of struggle. Hmmm”

Sofiya gasped and put her hand to her mouth.

Paz reached over to her this time, tapping her leg, “Come on now, you don’t need to put on a show for me. I know you already know what happened.”

She frowned and looked at the floor, “It’s still unpleasant to hear it so directly.” With just the slightest hint of a grin she added, “And that’s how a lady is supposed to react to talk of injury, don’t you know?”

A discrete knock was followed by the butler entering, “Lady Sofiya, Miss Gray, a fresh pot and some refreshments, if you please.” Two maids followed him in bringing a new teapot and a plate of fruits, hard pastries with honey, and berry cakes.

“Is this your way of making sure I’m following the doctor’s orders?” Pascal asked impishly.

“Lord Pankov is most concerned about you, Miss Simza,” he responded with a slight bow. It was as close as he’d come to a confession, she decided. He was taking her illness personally. It was another sign he’d mellowed towards her. She hoped it would make Simza’s life easier when she got it back.

“Boris? It’s not from Andrei?” Sonya jumped in. “I’m surprised.”

“It’s been… difficult the last few days,” Pascal admitted before the butler could say a word. She was sure Sofiya would infer the real reason for their difficulties. “I need to talk with him.”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Sofiya responded. “Before Father, well, you know,” she said diffidently, in deference to the hovering Feodor Illyitch, “He and father had a big fight about you. I think he still feels guilty.”

Paz squinted at her quizzically, asking silently if that was true or an excuse for their audience. She nodded slightly to indicate it was real, even as her eyes widened when she realized it could be important.

“How terrible,” Paz tried to gasp, “to think he had a fight with his father just before losing… I can see why he would be upset, and thank you for finally telling me, Sonya.” She had to know more.

“He and father were angry with each other, but I believe they mended their fences before Father’s accident,” she said vaguely.

“Ahem,” the butler coughed quietly. “I do not mean to speak out of turn, but I can assure Miss Gray that Lord Pankov had accepted that Lord Andrei was going to marry you before the terrible incident.”

“Oh,” she breathed out, “well, I knew– forgive me Sonya, but I knew not everyone welcomed me. I should be glad Andrei wanted me enough to fight with his father. And that they did not– part on such bad terms.”

“Indeed. Lord Andrei was always most insistent that he would marry you, Miss Gray. I have never seen him more resolute. Lord Pankov finally agreed and was ready to welcome you into the family,” he said with finality. She could tell he’d said his last word on the subject.

She found she didn’t want to know more. Knowing that Andrei stood up for her and even fought with his father over her affected her more than she’d expected. Even if it was all for Simza. She reached for a napkin and dabbed at her eyes while Sofiya and Feodor Illyitch watched her sympathetically.

- â™‡ -

“It was Boris.”

It should have been dark and shadowy. A flash of lightning should have suddenly lit the room. The world refused to cooperate.

Brynn made his pronouncement in Pascal’s room, well lit by the smoothly glowing lamps on the wall. He had tried to meet Paz in the gardens, but Pascal was still recovering and they weren’t letting him go outside. Brynn had to wait until night to sneak up to his room.

Pascal was propped up in bed with the bruises on his neck and arms clearly visible. There was also a fire in his eyes that Brynn loved to see. His partner was not going to be scared off, he had a puzzle to solve and he’d solve it.

“He did it,” Brynn announced again with even more certainty than before.

“OK, OK,” Pascal placated him while holding his hand out gently. Brynn choked back a laugh at his partner’s long painted nails. “I heard you. Let’s go through the standards. How did he do it? Or why?”

“Come on, man, think. He’s Lord Pankov now, the motive’s obvious. How? He’s got a hunting knife. He could have cut the old man’s quilt as easily as the valet. Easier. No one would question it if he went to his father’s room at night. Okay, maybe they would, but no one saw anything so it didn’t matter. He could have hidden the piece in Yakim’s room any time the next morning while people were running around.”

Brynn could see Pascal was thinking it through, so he kept quiet.

It was a good move. His partner’s eyes flew open and he almost jumped out of bed. With a gasp and grimace he stopped where he was and sat back carefully against the pillows. His injuries were still hurting if he tried to move quickly.

“There was no sign of a struggle,” Paz recited in his new soprano voice. “No sign of a struggle.” A smile came over his face and made him look downright pretty. “Brynn you magnificent bastard,” he said with admiration, sounding more like his old self, “you’ve got it.”

“Well, yeah. Of course I do.” Pascal played his usual game and waited for Brynn to ask. He gave in. “What’ve I got? It was Boris?”

“No, no. Or at least, I don’t know. We’ve been looking at the wrong thing. The cause of death is wrong. Look at me,” he said while pointing at the bruises on his arms. “This is from struggling against blankets without anything holding me down. If Lord Pankov was held so tight he choked, he’d have bruises all over. There were none. No sign of a struggle. He wasn’t choked to death.”

A moment later he continued, “Snake venom. Seeing Boris kill the snakes might have gotten you started, but I think you saw the murder weapon at the same time.”

When he’d started explaining he sounded like Pascal. It changed as he continued. He slowed down and spoke more quietly. For a moment, Brynn almost thought his partner sounded like a girl.

Just for a minute. It’s still Pascal in there. My old buddy. He’s not leaving me, I won’t let him. Fall of Night wouldn’t be as much fun without him.

“I see two ways you can take this,” Pascal continued so quietly Brynn had to lean in to hear him. “You can try to find out when or how Boris got his hands on the snake venom or you can try to show that he could have poisoned Poppa Pankov that night. What do you think?”

“Opportunity’s better,” Brynn replied without hesitation. “Boris could have gotten the venom any time. He dealt with the snakes a lot. It was a way to show off. We can’t prove anything with that.”

“That sounds right,” Paz answered with his old determination. He was back in charge. “Let’s assume Boris is going to take advantage of his natural immunity. He can poison himself and his father at the same time.” Paz was tapping his hand as he spoke, a gesture Brynn had seen many times before. It looked a little strange with the dark red nails, but it was reassuring to know Pascal was still there.

“He’s got two limitations. He doesn’t want Poppa dropping dead on the spot and he needs to make sure he doesn’t show any reaction the next day. Both call for diluting the poison. We need to look for a dish the two of them shared.”

“Right,” Brynn expelled, “Great idea, Paz. Why didn’t I think of that? I’m sure everyone remembers exactly what they ate two months ago and will be happy to tell me as soon as I ask!”

“Calm down,” he answered way too quietly. Pascal usually answered his sarcasm with sarcasm. It was like his old friend was only there when they were talking about the evidence. “I wasn’t suggesting you question Boris. You need to ask the butler. Fedya keeps better records than you might think, and I think he might be willing to help.”

“Fedya? Mr. Menschikov? He’s not going to answer me.”

“He might, if I ask.” Paz stood up with care. His long nightgown covered all the interesting bits, to Brynn’s disappointment. He pulled a cover off the mirror and asked it to send the butler up when he was available.

Now that’s nifty. Mirror, mirror on the wall…

The imposing butler arrived in a frighteningly short time, like he’d been waiting for her call. He was even in his full attire. He showed a moment’s surprise when he saw Brynn, but covered it quickly and didn’t say a word.

“May I help you, Miss Gray?” the butler asked formally. He was much friendlier than Brynn had ever seen.

“Yes, Fedya Illyitch,” Paz answered lightly. Brynn was shocked the butler didn’t take offense at the familiarity. “Brynn here is a friend of mine, Sonya took him on at my request.” If the butler hadn’t known that, he took the news with equanimity. “He has some questions that I think might cast more doubt on Yakim Sergeyin’s guilt.”

“I’m very sorry, Miss Gray,” the butler said with obvious sincerity, “but the new master has ordered the matter closed. Lord Boris has written to the gendarmes and requested that they release the old Lord’s valet. He raised the very same points you brought to me, but he will not allow Yakim to return to this house. The investigation is closed.” From his deep tone they could tell he disapproved.

“I see,” Brynn’s partner said with equal disapproval. “I guess that’s an end to it. Perhaps you could still help my young friend. I’m sure he’d benefit from your tutoring, even if his questions are a bit strange.” Paz sagged slightly, looking tired and accentuating his bruises. It was an obvious ploy to draw sympathy, but it worked.

Say what you will of him, Brynn thought, but the butler was not slow on the uptake. His eyes smiled even while the rest of his face remained stoic. “Of course Miss Gray. I’m sure he’s a fine boy and could learn from some additional lessons.” Turning to Brynn for the first time and speaking far more harshly, he added, “Now come child, leave Miss Gray to her rest.”

They walked through the darkened halls down to the servant’s wing in silence. Mr. Menschikov walked swiftly and Brynn had to run to keep up. That drew dark looks from the butler, who disapproved of running in the house. As only the night staff was up and about, he did not reprove Brynn.

“Now, what do you need to know, child?” The butler was abrupt, unfriendly, and direct.

“On the night Lord Pankov died,” Brynn answered back just as directly, cricking his neck to look the butler right in his eyes, “what did they have for dinner? Were there any dishes that only two members of the family ate?”

Best not to tip my hand too far. If I come too close to accusing Boris, he’ll clam up.

While Mr. Menschikov was puzzled at the request, he stood up creakily and pulled a book off the shelf. “They had dark bread with an onion soup, followed by a beet salad. The main course was crisp roast pork with twice baked potatoes and gravy, candied carrots and honeyed biscuits. They had a dessert of fruit crepes with rum sauce. Neither Lady Pankov nor Lady Sofiya had any biscuits, but otherwise all dishes were enjoyed by the whole family.”

How can anyone live like that? He keeps notes on what everyone ate for dinner. Lucky for me, I guess. Still, that’s no good. Nothing that just Boris and the old man ate.

“What about drinks?” he asked impulsively.

“A wine with each course, shared by all. There were drinks before dinner as well. Lord Pankov had his liqueur, while the women had a cocktail. Lord Boris and Master Andrei took pepper vodka, so there is a dish shared by two,” he said triumphantly. “Ah, another one, the after dinner drinks. Lord and Lady Pankov shared a milk and vodka cocktail she quite enjoys. The rest of the family had bitters before retiring to the sitting room.”

“Nothing with Lord Boris and his father,” Brynn squeaked out against his will.

Mr. Menschikov stopped in his tracks, looked down at Brynn with open hostility, and intoned, “Most certainly not.”

That was the end of that. He was dismissed.

Shade of Night Part 10

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

She and her partner, the former fey, eternally ten year old Brynn, have accumulated too many suspects. They’ve also made a few too many waves in the normally placid household.

PART SIX

RESOLUTIONS

“Andrei,” Pascal called. Feeling both guilty and obligated, she added, “My dear.”

Another night’s rest had done wonders for her. While she was still sore, she was eager to get back to work.

The change in her mood was matched by the change in the weather. The oppressive heat and humidity had fled and the day was sunny and warm with a cool breeze. It was ripe with possibilities. She would begin by fulfilling some obligations, not just to the job, but to Simza.

Andrei was riding his horse into the stable when she called, fresh from inspecting some outlying farms and still dirty from the ride. The time he’d spent by her bed during her recovery had repaired some of the damage she’d done to their engagement. But it hadn’t fixed everything. She could see indecision on his face.

She ignored it. Grabbing his horse’s reins, she led him into the stables.

For all that she liked to ride, Pascal had little practice at it. Even when she had a solid body she could not get near a horse in most shards. Animals, with the notable exception of cats, shied away from her. Horses reared if she tried to mount them. While possessing someone, animals treated her like anyone else. It was a pity she hated possessing people. Since she was Simza now, she wanted to take advantage of the opportunity. It almost made up for the heels and makeup.

“Please tell me you don’t have more questions for me. You need to be a proper lady.” It was not a promising opening.

“A lady, yes. Proper? We’ll see,” she said with a saucy grin. When she came up with this plan, she’d expected to feel disgusted with herself. Instead, it was fun. Andrei looked puzzled.

She was dressed for riding, in tan pants and boots, with a lovely blue shirt stitched in yellow and white. Her jewelry was understated but visible, and she had a fine broad hat to shield her from the sun and show off her lightly curled hair. She wore slightly heavier makeup than she would normally to hide her bruises.

“Roman Ivanov, is my horse ready?” she asked as she led Andrei’s horse towards the stable.

“Yes, Miss Gray,” he answered with something that almost approached kindness. He would never be friendly towards any Romany, but Fedya had quietly let the servants know she was helping Yakim. It made a huge difference in the way she was treated.

Brynn was feeding one of the horses and looked at her with surprise. She gave him a pleasant smile and a small head shake. She didn’t need his help.

Roman inspected Andrei’s horse while she mounted her own. This time she accepted the stable boy’s help with a smile and grace. When Roman pronounced Andrei’s horse suitable for riding, she started off.

“Where are we going?” Andrei asked. His sour greeting was already forgotten.

Looking at him over her shoulder, Pascal teased, “I should keep it a secret, you know. But I figure you’ll trick it out of me. Blackheart Lake. Your sister says it’s nice in the summer and I haven’t seen it yet.” It would take about half an hour to get there.

Once he knew where they were going, Andrei took the lead. She let him, and they rode in pleasant silence for a while. When they turned away from the road into town, she smiled flirtatiously, nickered and moved her horse into the lead.

“So, the lady wants to race, does she?” he teased back as he pushed his own horse into a trot.

With a laugh as her only answer, Paz pushed her horse into a run and soon they were galloping down the trail. Both of them were laughing as they went, and after a few moments, Paz reared back, “OK, you win. You can lead the way.”

Andrei turned around to face her and with his own laughter still fresh in his throat, answered “Darn, but I forget just how good a rider you are. You’re going to embarrass my sister the first time I take you on a hunt.”

“That might not be the best idea,” she laughed back. “I am trying to be friends with her, after all.”

It could have been a sour note. Paz knew she was taking a risk. She reminded Andrei of all the inappropriate questioning she’d been doing. However, she reminded him of that in the context of becoming friends with his sister. She gave an implied reason for her behavior over the last week. So he answered with just a grunt and a nod.

The lake was as nice as advertised. While it was not as manicured as the gardens, they had stone benches, hedge walls, and a clear field of cut grass by the shore of the lake. The waters were deep. They were clear blue near the shore, but quickly darkened to pitch black in the center. Deer and squirrel prints were visible in the mud, but the only animals they could see were birds and insects.

“This is a great spot,” she gushed.

“I always liked it,” Andrei admitted. “We used to come out here to swim when we were younger.” With a rueful smile, he added, “We tried to sneak away, but our governess always caught us. She usually let us go anyway, she just came along and watched.” He laughed, “One time Sonya wanted to let the horses out the night before so we didn’t have to go to the stables. She thought we could catch the horses in the fields. Boris thought we could run here.”

“And did you ever have any diabolical plans?” she asked with a leading grin.

“Hah. Did I ever,” he announced with pride. “And mine would have worked. Boris was just too chicken to jump off the roof in the wings I made for him. No one would have ever followed us.” She laughed with him.

Paz waited for Andrei to help her dismount and ordered, “Here, you tie up the horses. I brought us a small lunch. I’ll set up.”

Andrei agreed. When she decided to take this trip, she went down to the kitchen to ask for help. She was astonished at how much help they provided and how quickly. The cook pushed her to be much more elaborate than she wanted, while a footman started planning the place settings and dishware. She insisted they keep it simple and eventually she got what she wanted. She set everything out on a blanket. They had sandwiches, a selection of hard cheeses, berries with a bit of sugar and cream, and a bottle of wine.

When he saw the spread, Andrei smiled at her and put his hands on her shoulders. He remembered that she was injured and only touched her gently, making her shiver in delight. “This is a pleasant surprise, but didn’t Dr. Rogov warn you to take it easy today?”

“Well, yes. Maybe I shouldn’t have ridden quite so hard,” she said while looking down shyly, “but otherwise a relaxing afternoon by the lake sounds like just what he ordered.”

He laughed. “I’m glad to see you back in a good mood. Let me pour,” he said while picking up the wine.

She relaxed. She didn’t love Andrei. Since she shared Simza’s feelings, she assumed the gypsy didn’t either. She was fond of him, she liked him. He was handsome, easygoing, and humorous. She worried about her family – Simza’s family, that is. Marrying Andrei would provide for them; he was a far better match than she’d hoped to arrange. Driving him away would be very poor way to repay her host.

So when they finished eating, she told him “A good meal should come with entertainment. Don’t you agree, my dear?”

When he nodded and cocked his eyebrow, she stood up and danced. Her hips swayed to a beat she heard in her head while she lifted her arms high and let them swing to the same count. Pascal could dance, but only passably. He could certainly not dance without music. Yet this felt natural to both body and mind.

The horse race should have given it away. As Pascal she rarely got to ride; she should not be that skilled. Sofiya had noticed it when they were speaking. To an ever greater extent she was more Simza than Pascal. She was not certain she’d be able to put herself back together.

She wanted to repeat her mantra, but was afraid she’d get it wrong.

“Now that was impressive,” Andrei exclaimed.

“We have dance for every occasion,” Paz responded in an exaggerated accent. “Even dance for side of lake with no music.” She stared boldly in his eyes, “We also have dance a girl only does for her husband.” Rubbing her finger slowly against his cheek, she purred, “I think you’ll be looking forward to that one.”

His face lit up, “Oh yes.” He grabbed her waist and pulled her tight to him.

When he kissed her this time, she did not pull back.

- â™‡ -

“If I never see a pot again…” Brynn thought to himself as he scrubbed the black iron kettle. The chef glowered at him while she busied herself butterflying chickens.

Tamara was kneading bread dough with a smile on her face. She was happier than Brynn was. Maids who got to prepare food, even simple tasks, had a chance to move up in the kitchen. When she saw Brynn looking her way she grinned and silently mouthed, “Don’t worry.” Then later, “Tonight,” while pointing at the orchards outside. That was one message too many. Mrs. Nesterov saw her and slapped her hand with a wooden spoon.

Brynn knew exactly how much that hurt.

Between helping Brynn on the investigation and discovering that he knew both Sofiya and Simza, Tamara seemed confused around him. She was very friendly to him, but varied between acting like a big sister and a flirty girlfriend. As an ancient ten year old, all of his relationships were complicated. He could read and enjoy the mixed message. She was acting like a flirt, but she was just arranging to climb trees after work.

No messing around, then. Probably. Even if not, climbing trees is fun.

He’d been a ten year old for decades. Of course he took advantage of it, like being able to climb trees for fun without drawing undue attention.

As soon as Mrs. Nesterov was concentrating on her sauces again, he tapped Tomo’s hand, smiled and nodded at her.

It’s a date. Wonder if I’m getting more action than Paz. Doing it as a babe would be so cool, but the guy’s so uptight he’s probably avoiding it. More fool he.

Tamara had tried pestering Brynn for more information but he hadn’t told her what he was really up to yet. Last night she was so in awe that she spoke directly to Lady Sofiya that she didn’t ask too many questions. Her curiosity grew overnight and Brynn suspected she’d be back at it tonight.

“Tamara,” Mrs. Nesterov snapped. Both Brynn and Tamara looked up, assuming she caught them in small talk again. Instead, she ordered “Bring me the cactus seeds for the chocolate sauce.”

With a quick “Yes ma’am,” she ran to the medicine cabinet and out of whisper range. Brynn gave her a quick sad-face as she went and got a quiet giggle in return.

Once she got the seeds Nrs. Nesterov sent her to the butler. She wanted to be sure he provided a flavored vodka for the dessert course since the cactus nectar was a stimulant. Tamara wouldn’t be back at her station any time soon.

There goes the one bit of fun I could count on. Back to scrubbing. Scrub, scrub, scrub. When Tomo gets back, I wonder if she’d– Hold on, I think I just missed something.

“Cactus? Stimulant? Mescaline?” He nearly shouted.

The thickset cook turned in surprise. “You know it? That sounds like what they called it in their language, yes.” She took a step towards him. “I thought you didn’t know anything about cooking, child. How do you know about this?”

How to play this one? If they keep drugs in the kitchen I need to know about it. Paz would kill me if I didn’t follow it up. I need to keep my cover too, so I can’t draw too much attention.

“Miss Sofiya, oh, sorry, I mean Lady Sofiya rescued me from Fall of Night. You know that. Well, I, um, I didn’t live in one of the good neighborhoods, Mrs. Nesterov. I know I’m lucky to be here now. I used to see, well, things like that a lot.” He tried to sound like he was ashamed of a past he was inventing on the spot.

Mrs. Nesterov was flustered. “Well, it’s safe enough in my recipes. But no going after it straight up, you hear me?” She announced loudly enough for the whole kitchen to hear, which was almost certainly her intent.

A few moments later, much to Brynn’s surprise, she came over to speak to him. Looking down at him, she said. “Listen boy. You’re a good worker, and I want you back here when we return to Fall of Night. But you stay out of trouble while we’re gone, you hear? Live in a different neighborhood. Got it?”

“Um, uh, well, yes ma’am,” he finally managed.

I’ll be damned. A woman did get me at a loss for words, just not the one I’d hoped.

Opportunities exist to be taken. So Brynn took it.

Trying his best to sound casual, he said, “I guess it’s good to know you can cook with those things. I mean, to know that they’re good for something. How do you know how much to put in? Isn’t it dangerous?”

It didn’t entirely work. Mrs. Nesterov peered at him in surprise, suspiciously. “I follow recipes and I am careful with them. I don’t want you trying to be a supplier here. I deal with respectable men who know their trade.”

“Of course not. You’re the only one who works with these, then?”

Without another word she grabbed his arm and dragged him to the pantry. Once out of sight of the kitchen staff she knelt down to his level and looked him in the eyes. “Who have you seen in my cabinet?”

“No one. I haven’t seen anyone.”

Quake just a little, look sideways so I don’t see her eyes. Hide a hand behind my back.

It worked. She didn’t believe him.

“Tell me, boy. Brynn, who have you seen in the cabinet?” He quaked in the face of her anger, then saw her relax suddenly. “Was it Sergey? Or another one of the footmen?”

Relax. Start to nod, then stop, eyes wide open but look to the side.

“Is that, I mean, I don’t want to get him in trouble…”

Mrs. Nesterov smiled, “Lady Pankov puts poppy juice in her drink when she wants to sleep. Sergey brings it up to the dining room for her. That is all right.” She put her hand on his head and rubbed his hair, “But it’s good of you to check. If you see anyone doing something wrong, you tell me or Mr. Menschikov. We’ll treat staff fair, have no fear. And that includes you. You do a good job, we’ll treat you fair.”

He nodded solemnly. Inside he felt like dancing a jig.

I solved the case. I beat Paz. He was poisoned with the perfume bottles in the mother’s room. It wasn’t Miss Scuykov. It was Lady Pankov. She didn’t get drawn in after the murder, she was working with Boris from the beginning. How do I get away to tell Paz?

Tamara provided the answer when she got back. “Can I borrow Brynn? They want help upstairs rearranging chairs.” Mrs. Nesterov barely glanced at the pots before giving permission.

“You looked antsy,” Tamara explained as soon as they were out of earshot.

“You’re a lifesaver, Tomo,” he answered to a bright smile. A bit brighter than he expected. He stopped and grabbed her hand, “Tomo, why are you helping me? What do you want?”

She seemed surprised in turn. Somewhat bashful suddenly, “You’re nice, and smart, kind of cute, and both Mrs. Nesterov and Mr. Zefirov picked you out to advance after just a week. I like you and thought I could be your friend. Then when you come back next time we’re here, you’ll be older, and maybe then…” She trailed off.

It hurts being this small forever. In three years you’ll be sixteen. In three years, I’ll still be ten.

“How would you like to go to Fall–” he started to say, but stopped. He looked at the cute girl in front of him. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t even ask.

“I hate to do this Tomo, because I like you too and wish things could be the way you want. He gently took her hand in his, suddenly seeming much older in the girl’s eyes. It was the first time he held her hands, a bittersweet pleasure. “I’m going to be leaving soon and I won’t be coming back. Maybe, if you still want to when you come back, you can go to Fall of Night. Find the Freezer. I’ll be there. I promise.”

It shouldn’t be this hard, I’ve only known her a week. She’s just another girl. I hate being noble. Stupid Paz rubbing off on me…

“I don’t under–” Tamara broke away from him, her eyes moist. “Yeah, OK,” she said in a flat tone. She turned away and went back to work.

With leaden feet, Brynn left to find his partner.

- â™‡ -

“So that’s how they did it,” Brynn announced triumphantly.

Pascal nodded, tapping her tapered finger lightly against her chin. “It works.” She smiled, “It does work nicely.” Her smile turned evil, “You do know we’re not done, right?”

Brynn’s face fell. “What d’you mean? We’ve got it. We can tell Sofiya and go home. I’m tired of washing pots and I already said good bye to Tomo.”

Pascal raised an eyebrow at that. She had seen Brynn with the blond kitchen maid but hadn’t known he’d gotten serious. That was an oversight, she realized. Pretty girls were Brynn’s biggest weakness. For someone as old as he was, or at least as old as he claimed to be, he fell in love often and hard.

They were walking through the courtyard gardens together. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the manicured grounds. Pascal had come out here almost every afternoon, just like Sofiya had suggested on their first day in Brodjach. This was the first time they managed to meet there. She didn’t regret the time she spent alone in the gardens; they were lovely and soothing. There were times when she wondered whether those feelings came from her or Simza. She didn’t remember having any great love of flowers or landscaping, but she had lost so many of her memories over the years that she wasn’t entirely sure. It didn’t matter, she liked them now and enjoyed her walks even when she didn’t meet Brynn.

“We don’t know why,” she explained. “It’s a good story you’ve got. It’s really good, I can believe it. But in the end, that’s all it is, a story. It takes a lot for a man to kill his father. No one would believe us unless we got a confession. Right now I could make a better case for Andrei with the fights he had over me the last few weeks. This wasn’t a crime of passion, it was planned,” she grinned and saw Brynn perk up. He knew something good was coming. “There is one man who might know what was going on.”

“Spill, already,” Brynn finally jumped in when she let the dramatic pause last a little too long.

“Yakim, the valet. Fedya told us that Boris finally wrote to the gendarmes and asked them to drop the case. If you’re right, we can see why he refused to do that at first and suddenly changed his mind. It would all be part of covering his tracks. Anyway, Andrei is taking me into town tomorrow to do some shopping,” she blushed slightly. From Brynn’s reaction she was sure he noticed. “I should be able to get away from Andrei for a little while and track down Yakim.”

There was no way she’d tell Brynn about making up with Andrei. He was taking her into town to listen to a string quartet. It was his way of returning her gesture with the picnic, giving them a romantic evening together. She told him that her brother, by which she meant Simza’s brother, was in town and she wanted to see him. That would give her an hour by herself to find Yakim.

- â™‡ -

Between dressing up and keeping her hand on his arm throughout the concert Andrei was in a great mood and he asked no questions when she left him to speak with her brother. While she was uncomfortable lying to him again, she didn’t want him to know she was still investigating the case. She did not need to feel guilty for ruining Simza’s life even further.

She found herself in the lobby of a rundown theater. The darkness concealed the dirt on the windows and gave the faded decor a misty glamor. She recognized the valet even though she had never seen him before. Simza knew Yakim and Pascal had her brain. She was having an increasingly hard time telling which memories were hers.

The tall man with with gaunt eyes above his neatly trimmed beard walked up to her eagerly. “I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Simza,” he said with his head bowed. “I treated you abominably and now I have you to thank for my freedom. Nothing I can say will ever make up for how I’ve acted, but I still hope you will accept my most humble apologies.”

She wondered what the man had done to her that was so horrible and whether or not it was worth inquiring further. Immediately after thinking that she was flooded with relief. She didn’t know what he’d done. Some part of her was still Pascal. She wasn’t all Simza.

Vagueness was an old and dear friend. “They aren’t needed, but I accept them anyway, Yakim Sergeyin.” She felt like she needed to say more and a leading question wouldn’t hurt. “I know Andrei’s family did not welcome me and I can hardly blame a faithful servant for following their lead. That is the reason, no?”

He nodded with relief but then stopped and shook his head. “No ma’am. I cannot pass off my faults on them. It is true that Lord Pankov did not welcome you at first but when he saw how much his son wanted to be with you– well, for a time he changed his mind. But even when he was most friendly to you I was not. Like too many of us who served, I would not accept a Gypsy among the family.”

“Andrei tried to shield me from his family’s views. Perhaps too much. I knew his father was angry when he brought me home, but I never knew he changed his mind. I wish I’d gotten to know him,” she tried to lead him along. “Sonya and I have become friends while we were working to clear your name.”

Yakim turned aside to hide his reaction to that news. “Lord Pankov did change his mind, about Andrei and you. Old Lord Pankov now, I guess, though it’s hard to think of him that way.” His loyalty to the old man was clear. Pascal wondered how anyone ever thought he was the killer.

Yakim went on, “I think it did Lord Pankov good to see you two together. Lord Boris’s wedding was a fine affair and a well made match, but neither Lord Pankov nor Lord Boris have ever approved of Lady Dunyasha. He had so much to deal with, so many problems this year, and at first he thought Lord Andrei’s return was one more. It took him time to see that his son had grown up while he was gone, but he did. It was a bright light for him. Don’t take this wrong please, but I fear he disapproved of you, as it were, but approved of you for his son. If that makes sense, Miss.”

It did. She gave him a small smile and hoped it looked a little sad. “I can understand that. I still wish I’d gotten to know him better.”

That brought a smile to the former valet’s face. Despite his ill treatment, he thought well of his employer. Then he frowned and told her, “That all changed near the end. His burdens overcame him. He fought with Lord Andrei, furiously, over you. If he’d known what you’d do for me, I’m sure he wouldn’t have. And I hate to speak ill of him after he’s gone, but that is the God’s honest truth.”

“Andrei told me he took money from his father to pay gambling debts. Was that the cause? Did he blame me for that?”

“No, Miss Gray,” Yakim insisted. “It wasn’t that. I mean, Lord Pankov was very upset with Lord Andrei over that, but that happened when he first returned home. I do not know why he changed his mind near the end. He had a great many cares and they were taking a toll on his health.”

This was going in the wrong direction. Far from narrowing things down, Yakim was adding them in. Fedya Illyitch had mentioned the renewed fight between father and son, but Yakim made it seem much worse. Was Andrei a suspect again? Lord Pankov’s health was failing. Was all this a red herring, did he die a natural death? She would consider these, but later. She had her goals and a time limit to get back to Andrei before he’d start to worry.

“I wish it were otherwise, but I am sure he meant only the best for his family,” she said with her mouth drawn to a line. “I cannot blame a father who wants to aid his son, and I am sure that was his aim.”

This was what she did. She manipulated people. This was her gift before she became Simza, it was one she could rely on. Or was it? Simza was no slouch at manipulation either. She was a traveler who seduced a Lord’s son into marrying her. She hoped it was her skill, but whether her or Simza, she saw Yakim relax.

It gave her the opening she needed.

“Lord Pankov was a careful man, was he not?”

Yakim nodded. He didn’t know why she was changing the topic but was willing to go along.

“Some of his letters are missing,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. Andrei broke into the cash box but had no reason to take any letters. They were still a mystery, and she was convinced they held the key to the murders. “His correspondence with Victor Chernov is not in his office.Do you know what it was about?”

“Mr. Chernov,” Yakim said with surprise, “The lawyer? He was a friend of Lord Pankov’s; they went to school together. He was most put out when Mr. Chernov passed away. He didn’t know he’d follow so quickly.”

“That’s right,” Pascal exclaimed, “I heard about that. He died and a young man, Goldstein, had to take over.”

It wasn’t one death, it was two. She was more convinced than ever that the letters were the key.

Yakim stepped back in consternation. “I can’t. I knew a lot of what he did, Miss Gray, but I don’t know what he said to his lawyer. I was his valet.”

Despite his denials, she was sure he knew something. She couldn’t do her tough guy routine at the moment even if she tried, but she suspected it wouldn’t work anyway. The valet would just dig in. There were other ways. She lowered her eyes sadly before looking up with hope.

“I saw Lord Pankov’s drawings. Three copies each time. A draft, a rough, and a finished copy.” Yakim nodded. “For his letters, he filed his rough copy and sent off his final. Did he make draft copies of his letters?”

“I… that is. Well,” he stammered. He was surprised, trying to reach a decision. She would help him along.

“It’s important for the whole family.” Then, shyly, “but it wouldn’t hurt if I was the one to find them.”

“He didn’t keep the drafts in his office. He, well, he hid them. In his room, in the dresser. There’s a false back in one of the drawers.”

She thanked him, wished him the best of luck, and promised that she would not stop until his name was cleared. He thanked her in turn, though she was paying less attention.

Oddly, she was not upset over having to put off her investigation until the next day. She planned to enjoy the rest of her evening with Andrei.

Shade of Night Part 11

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

She and her partner, the former fey, eternally ten year old Brynn, have accumulated too many suspects. They’ve also made a few too many waves in the normally placid household.

Pascal ran her fingers over the leather bound books in the library. It was a marvelous collection, and she regretted she’d had no time to do more than look at the titles. Tolstoy and Pushkin were well represented; she wondered if their books were the same ones she knew. Authors were not consistent from shard to shard. She knew of one shard where Karl Marx was a poet.

They had a surprisingly large math collection. There were working notebooks from Holtz and Lobachevsky. She would regret losing the opportunity to read them, but fighting to retain her self was becoming increasingly difficult. And there was the simple issue of justice. This wasn’t her body. It was time to return it to its owner.

“Sonya Stanislovna,” she said as the door to the library opened.

“Simcha, my sister,” she replied with a subtle grin. “Your message said you had an answer.”

“Yes. You were right, it was not Yakim. I think you knew that. You won’t be as happy with the rest,” she said grimly.

“That sounds ominous,” she replied. “I see you over there, Brynn.”

Paz’s partner moved around the display case with an aura of feigned innocence. He’d planned to surprise Sofiya by jumping out from hiding. Since he failed, he’d just pretend that was never his plan to begin with. It was one more way he attempted to exploit his apparent age.

“I’ll be walking you through the murder,” he said with cruel directness.

“One moment, Brynn,” Paz cautioned with a small cut of her hand. “Sonya, we’ll be leaving once we’ve given you the explanation. What you do with it is up to you.”

“Hold on,” she said firmly, “I hired you to clear Yakim Sergeyin.”

“No,” Paz responded softly but with just as much resolve, “you hired us to prove that Yakim did not kill your father. We can do that.” Dropping her voice to a near whisper, she pleaded, “Just listen. You’ll understand soon.”

“That’s my signal,” Brynn said with forced cheerfulness. He tried to act excited, like a child with a new toy, but Pascal knew him well enough to see past the veneer. Brynn liked solving mysteries every bit as much as she did. Like her, he took no joy in painful revelations. They both knew this one would bring much more pain than satisfaction.

“Naming Yakim as the killer was not your police’s first mistake. The death scene was designed to lead them down the wrong path and it succeeded. Your father did not suffocate. There was no magic involved,” Brynn began seriously. He calmed down as soon as he started his recitation, bringing his true age to bear in a way that contradicted his appearance. He didn’t do it often, but he could use it to great effect. His childish appearance and ancient bearing made people pay attention. It even worked on Pascal, and she knew it was coming. Sofiya was rapt.

“The murder started the night before, after you all finished dinner. Lord Pankov shared a drink with his wife. Lady Pankov mixed the drink for them. She took her sleeping draft, her poppy juice, and mixed a double portion with their drinks.”

Sofiya’s eyes narrowed in anger, but she didn’t say anything. Paz could tell that she was coming up with reasons to reject their theory.

“That ensured Lord Pankov would be sound asleep when the killer came to his room,” Brynn continued as though he did not see Sofiya’s face and posture. “Lady Pankov would also be sound asleep. She was a conspirator but she did not kill her husband. A double draft of her sleeping potion was enough to keep her under until morning. You’ll recall that Yakim could not wake her when Mr. Menschikov sent him to get her. She was among the last to awaken that morning.”

That got through. Sofiya’s anger broke while she considered their theory. A good sign, thought Pascal.

“It was your brother Boris who went to your father’s room that night. He dealt with the snakes in the kitchen often enough that no one took special notice. At some point, he collected their venom. From the gendarmes’ report, your father showed no signs of struggle. There weren’t any bruises. You only need to look at Pascal to see how bruised you get struggling against suffocation. According to the report, your father had a small bruise on his left arm. That’s where Boris injected the poison.”

“Wait a minute,” Sofiya interjected, “not that I believe this, but if Father was sound asleep, he wouldn’t have struggled against the blankets. So no bruises.”

“That would be an argument in favor of Yakim,” Pascal said quietly. “But no, it doesn’t work. If the bed held him so tightly that he couldn’t breathe, we’d see bruises even if he didn’t struggle. We can see the bruise from the injection and he didn’t struggle against that either.”

“Right,” Brynn jumped back in. He hated it when people interrupted but he also knew it was a delicate situation. He didn’t show his annoyance. Paz understood and gave him a quick nod. “So after he injected Lord Pankov, Boris cut a square from the cover. He held onto it until he could plant it when everyone else was occupied. Boris left to wait for the police. That put him downstairs by the servant’s wing and gave him plenty of time to plant the evidence in Yakim’s room.”

Sofiya screwed up her face. Pascal could tell she was thinking it over, trying to be honest despite wanting to reject it out of hand. Finally she said “No. I don’t see it. You don’t have any proof, and there’s just no reason for it.”

“I’m so sorry, Sonya, but there is,” Pascal said quietly. She reached over and took Sonya’s hands in her own for comfort. “Your father was angry for weeks before he died. You knew something was wrong, didn’t you?”

Surprise again. Sofiya looked up sharply, as if she’d been struck. “How did you–? Maybe, yes. Something had upset him.”

“I don’t know how he found out but he uncovered a secret your mother had kept from him for 23 years. It brought his world crashing down around him.”

She could see the light dawn on Sofiya, but she couldn’t accept it. “No,” she said with a sharp shake of her head.

“Yes. Boris is your brother, but he is not your father’s son. Your father was going to disinherit Boris, but your mother found out about it. She arranged to have your lawyer, Victor Chernov, killed and stole your father’s letters. She got Boris to steal the copies your father kept in his office.”

“Then there’s still no proof,” she insisted.

“There is. Your father was a fastidious man. He made a draft of each letter before the copy or the final. He did not keep them with his copies, possibly against just such a theft. Here.” With tears in her eyes, Pascal carefully placed the letters in Sofiya’s hand.

“Your father was willing to let Andrei marry me. Marry Simza, that is. He was even happy that his youngest son had turned his life around. But when he found out about Boris he changed his mind. He did not want his heir marrying a Romany. That was why they started arguing again. But…”

“But Boris is the heir. He’s already inherited–” Sofiya interrupted, struggling with the revelations.

“That’s right. We could have had a parlor scene and exposed your brother in front of everyone. I’m sure we could have tricked a confession out of him or your mother. Brynn’s very good at that,” she said with a ghost of a smile while downplaying her own skill at goading people into saying what they shouldn’t.

Pascal continued with all the kindness she could muster, “I didn’t think you’d want that. You know what it would do to your family. You know the truth now and have the evidence to prove it. You can use it to keep Boris away from Yakim without destroying him. Or you can seek justice for your father at all costs. Our job was to find the truth, and we did. What you do with it; that’s up to you.”

Tears rolled freely down Sofiya’s face. “I need you. Your help. Please, Simcha.”

Paz held back her own tears, “You’ll have it. From her. Simza will be confused but she’ll remember most of what I’ve done. Help her fit in to your family, and she’ll help you in return.” Pascal was sure of that. Simza understood obligations. She’d given herself to Andrei to secure her family’s future. She’d help Sofiya if Sofiya helped her.

“I don’t know what to do,” wailed Sofiya.

“Trust yourself to figure it out,” she responded. “I’m sorry I can’t stay to help, but we must leave. Good bye Sonya.” In a whisper only the tearful woman heard she added, “Sister.”

Pascal and Brynn left quietly while Sofiya struggled to stop sobbing. They were leaving early enough to let Simza return to the house that afternoon. Pascal’s host would have control of her life again. Pascal would not return with her.

- â™‡ -

She tried to remake her body as soon as she entered the city. As soon as he entered the city, that is. She, he, forced himself to concentrate on his self-image. He was Pascal Hunter, detective. Too long outside herself, she had to strain to remember who that was. He was a detective, he owned the Green Goose.

There were shadows. He could perceive light and dark, even if they were only vague impressions. He didn’t have eyes yet, but having enough presence to sense anything was good. Cold marble was beneath him, cold winds blew through him. Memories battered him. Battlefield. He was in Battlefield, where the natives once fought invading colonists from Fall of Night. Where he once fought the natives. Regret flooded him, tore at him and nearly ripped him apart. He would not take form here.

“Way to go, boss, you’re almost visible. Got a career ahead of you as shower mist.”

New feelings piled on top of regret; anger and annoyance. It helped him remember who he was. He almost pulled himself into a human outline.

Brynn saw no reason to stop. “Hey, if we need a chalk outline for the next case, you got the job in the bag. I know I do all the work and call you an empty suit, but you didn’t have to take it so literally.”

His childlike partner’s insults gave him form as they walked.

He tried to pull himself together. Memories were elusive, fleeing when he pursued them. Feelings were easier to grasp. The child-man by his side inspired equal parts fondness and frustration. The city was even worse, love and hate fighting for dominance. It had taken his life and given it back. It was dangerous, unpredictable, and ungovernable, yet filled with possibilities. Anything could happen somewhere. A ghost could regain a small semblance of life if he went to the right place.

His feelings kept him together. He did not drift apart despite the temptation to let it all go.

Finally he crossed into the Freezer. He felt pain, intense burning everywhere as nerves came into existence. It was followed by numbness, a frigid cold that bit like flame.

“Whoa, boss. Spare my tender eyes. Turn solid with clothes on already.”

“Broken blades,” he croaked through a new throat. He forced brand new muscles into a run, streaking through the shadowed streets of his home. Shouts and laughter followed his progress. He barged into his tavern, the Green Goose, to gales of laughter. A pale man with short hair held the doors to the main room open. Vic. The name was there and he rejoiced in it. The crowd in the common room stared at him and laughed expectantly.

Finally bowing to the inevitable, Pascal stood up straight and gave everyone a good view. Bowing deeply and sarcastically, “Always good to be home, thanks for the warm welcome back.”

He turned around to go upstairs and bowed one more time. It looked suspiciously like he was mooning the room. That too met with a gale of laughter.

When he got up to his room he looked for a maid and a dress but quickly corrected herself. Himself. Pronoun trouble. That will happen for a while. He was pleased with how he’d handled himself downstairs. That was Pascal Hunter. He was almost sure of it.

“I liked your last suit better,” Holly teased him when he came downstairs for a drink.

“Pepper vodka,” he ordered without thinking.

With a grin, “If you use vodka instead of rum, you turn a Naked Lady into a Naked Gentleman.”

Pascal choked.

“Hey, don’t take it so hard, boss man. Just teasing.”

Fortunately Brynn walked in to relieve Pascal from explaining why that was funnier than Holly thought.

“Your hair’s long,” Brynn said by way of greeting.

“What? So it is,” he said as he grabbed at it. It was a darker brown than it used to be, thicker and with a slight curl. He knew how to style it. “I’ll have to get it cut,” he grumped.

Brynn chuckled. Holly cocked an eyebrow at him for an explanation, but Brynn was able to resist her charms for a change. Slowly Pascal got himself together. He remembered the Goose, and Holly, and Vic, and the crowds that started to come for food and warmth when the sun set.

He was the main topic of conversation, his naked run through the neighborhood was told and retold. Circumstance put him in the center of attention and made him interact with his neighbors. It was the best possible tonic.

“I lost a bet,” he explained a dozen times. “No, I’m not telling to who. Take a guess.”

Or, “The stakes? Well, let’s just say I’d much rather have won.”

Vagueness and innuendo were still his allies.

He had another debt to pay the next day. With a heavy heart he went to see the Carrabach.

He’d grown accustomed to the warm weather in Brodjach but the Freezer had not changed. His return to shirt and pants also meant a return to boots, parkas, gloves, scarves, and hats. Entering the Carrabach’s waiting room started with the ritual removal of his outer layers. When he pulled off his hat his hair spilled out. He would have to get it cut.

The dragon did not keep him waiting long. Paz was quickly admitted to the main office.

“It is gratifying to welcome your safe return, Mr. Hunter. Allow me to offer you some refreshment while you recount your results.”

“Thank you Carrabach,” he answered, looking up at the giant standing in front of him. The dragon towered above him just like Feodor Illyitch had when he was Simza. The Carrabach had a broad smile on his dark features, while the butler went through life with a scowl. For all that, the dragon was far more threatening.

His host’s huge meaty fingers wrapped around a crystal decanter with surprising delicacy. Pascal had never seen him so much as smudge any of his treasures. He served hard cider, which was typical of the Carrabach; enough to satisfy social obligations without being so valuable as to be hard to replace.

“You asked me to find out what conditions changed in Brodjach to allow them to grow their tobacco,” Pascal began. “I found out. Nothing changes.”

“Unacceptable,” replied the giant, though calmly. “They are temperate and insufficiently arid. You are attempting to obfuscate the issue, Mr. Hunter.”

“To an extent, yes. The answer I’ve given is true, and is what you asked for.”

“Ho ho, then. I am undone by your cleverness. I think not, Mr. Hunter. If you insist I accept your non-responsive answer I will. But evermore our dealings will be governed by technicalities.”

Pascal put a finger in front of his face, gesturing for a pause. “I hope we can do better than that. This information can be dangerous for them and since it goes beyond what you asked for, I want a guarantee.”

“And the nature of this guarantee?”

“I passed through Battlefield to get to Brodjach. That can’t happen again.”

The Carrabach understood. “Devastation provides short term profits. My interests are long term. I accept your terms. I will consider the natives’ welfare in my calculations.”

He wanted more, but would accept that. “They don’t grow tobacco. Ever. When they leave Fall of Night, they go to their home shard. It’s large, really large. Carrabach, I think their whole world survived the Cataclysm.”

“That is why you fear a new Battlefield,” intoned the Carrabach. “That explains a lot. They want to maximize their profit while disguising its origin. A compact, high value crop is believable.” He pondered. “Doubtless they have other profitable opportunities they forego for concealment. With a partner versed in concealing and laundering, the potential profit soars. Excellent news, Mr. Hunter.”

A small smile broke out on his face.

“I don’t–” Pascal tried again. “You’re not– You’ve heard of this before.”

“If their whole world survived, it will be the fourth I know of, but the only one where I could trade exclusively.” A small scowl crossed his face. “What are your contacts on the world like? I may need you as a liaison. There will be a percentage, of course.”

“Contacts?” This wasn’t how he’d expected the conversation to go. “Difficult. It depends what Sofiya does with her information.”

That led to him telling the Carrabach what happened. He listened carefully. “Send a letter to Sofiya,” he said and left.

- â™‡ -

A little over three weeks later, Sofiya showed up at the Green Goose. She wore a long blue skirt with a pale blue and yellow blouse under her heavy fur coat. Pascal considered that a hopeful sign. She was not in mourning. No one had died from his revelations.

It felt strange to see her again. He was still trying to recover, to be Pascal Hunter again. His time as Simza had changed him. He noticed it every day with his new preference for vodka over bourbon. That was a simple change, easily noted, and he didn’t care much. He worried that there were deeper changes he hadn’t noticed or memories that he’d lost or changed.

Seeing Sofiya brought it all back. She was a sister, a rival, an obstacle and a possible ally all at once. He knew those were Simza’s feelings, but they were a part of him now and he couldn’t get rid of them.

“Sorry, Jim, I’m going to have to leave you two alone. This one’s for me,” he told the boy across the table from him.

“Sure thing, Paz,” the teen snapped back.

Paz suppressed a knowing smirk. Jim brought his date to the Goose because his father trusted Pascal so they could go off without guards. Even though he liked Pascal, Jim still chafed at the restrictions and would be glad for some time alone with Ally.

Neither Jim nor Ally, also known as Kyle Parker, passed as well as they once did. Jim’s hair was tied back but getting longer and his fingernails were a bit too long and clean. Ally’s shoulders were muscular and too broad for her dress. They were making plans to switch places and each wanted a good body to move in to. As part of becoming a man, Jim had to be Denise more than when he tried to run away.

Pascal wished them the best of luck. He liked to think he was not the only person to find a new life in Fall of Night.

“It’s good to see you again, Sonya,” he greeted her.

“Mr. Hunter,” she answered coldly. Up close Paz could see she was in poor shape. She had bags under her eyes and hollow cheeks. Sadness rolled off of her in waves.

“Please step this way,” he offered while taking her arm. He led her back through the restaurant into one of the private booths Vic had made up. Not completely private, but no one was trying to listen in.

“I would ask how things are going, but just looking at you I can see you’ve had trouble.” He tried his best to sound sympathetic.

She glared at him, looked down her nose, and used all the aristocratic defenses at her command to get him to look away. He knew the tricks and waited. Finally she gave up and sobbed, putting her head in her hands.

He put his hand on hers. He drew it back quickly. It looked wrong. With Sonya here he was expecting to see long nails and polish. He was Pascal, not Simza. Reaching out again he grasped her hand and hoped he could give her some comfort.

“It’s been– It’s been terrible,” she cried. She took another moment to recover but did not let go of Pascal’s hand. When she realized she was holding his hand she almost pulled back but instead looked at him and asked, “You were Simza, right? That wasn’t a joke?”

He smiled gently, and for just a second he felt like he was Simza again. “Yes, I really was.”

Sofiya relaxed, though Pascal could tell it was a deliberate effort. “I almost didn’t come. Simza insisted.”

“Tell me more,” he prodded.

“I thought– I know what you tried to tell me. Let it alone and use the letters to make sure Boris leaves Yakim alone. That’s what you meant, right?”

It was, but ‘I told you so’ never goes over well. So, “No, not at all. It was your decision, and I knew you’d do what you thought was right. I’m, uh, I’m not good at judging, so I left it to you.”

“I wanted to. I knew what would happen if I showed everyone what you found. But I just couldn’t. I mean, it didn’t bother me that Boris wasn’t Father’s. Well, maybe a little, just thinking of Mother… But he killed Father.”

Pascal nodded. He understood all too well.

“I thought maybe Boris would leave quietly if I threatened him. I would have let him go.”

That was stupid, Pascal thought to himself, but she’s still alive so the worst didn’t happen.

“He didn’t. Andrei found out. They fought and Boris lost. Andrei was shot in the arm but Boris had to go to the hospital to recover, which probably worked out for the best.” So when she said they fought, she meant it.

“We’ve kept Mother and Boris from coming back, but a lot of the staff left with them and they are going to file legal challenges when we get home and I just don’t know if we can keep going. And it’s all my fault.”

“I’m sorry,” was all Pascal could think to say. “I wish it worked out better for you.”

“Simza, well, when she saw your letter, she got Andrei to insist I come see you. This Carrabach, can we trust him?”

“Not for a second,” he replied without thinking. After a moment he corrected himself, “You can trust him to keep his deals. He won’t lift a finger to help you without one, and it’s his interests he’s got in mind, not yours.”

“Can he– Can he do what he says? Can he hide anything we ship through him?”

She wanted him to reassure her, “I don’t know. Really. I don’t know much about his business empire. I do know him. If he says he can do something and takes payment for it, he probably can. I don’t know how.”

“Simza, well, that’s what she said. There’s a lot of money involved, and she said that would make a difference if Boris challenges us. It shouldn’t, we’re all nobles and the courts will treat us fairly, but…”

“But Simza has a feel for how things really work,” Paz filled in.

“Can we trust her?” Sofiya asked while looking directly in his eyes.

“Are they married yet?”

“With all this? No, of course not.”

“Have the wedding. Push Andrei into it if you have to, and make sure Simza knows you’re doing it. Get them married. Then, yes, you can trust her.”

Sofiya thought about it. Her fingers drummed against the table while he held his hand over hers. It was a small thing when it came. She looked down and nodded her head so slightly he could barely see it. His spirit still soared.

She would-- No, Simza would marry Andrei and be in the family. Simza would be Lady Pankov. And Sofiya would have an ally for life.

“I will see this Carrabach in the morning then, Mr. Hunter. Tell me, does justice always hurt this much?”

His joy ended. Sofiya drew back in alarm at the pain in his eyes.

“Every time.”

Shadow of a Doubt 1 of 2

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

In Fall of Night, things are never as they seem. Pascal Hunter is not in a good position to complain, as he’s a ghost working as a detective.

It is rare that his cases are as exotic as he is. This is one of them.

Everyone lies.

It’s a fact of life. Get enough liars together and it becomes a mystery. In Fall of Night, there’s one man to see about a mystery.

Pascal Hunter stumbled groggily through the door. The morning gloom almost made it through with him but was swallowed up by the darkness. The few people present stopped in surprise as he took an unsteady step forward.

“Coffee,” he commanded.

He stumbled into one of the tables in the Green Goose as the remaining diners returned to their plates. A clean shaved and muscular young man in a loose belted tunic strode to his table.

“Unless you’re dying, it’ll wait until after my coffee,” Pascal growled. “If it can’t, we’ll see what we can do about that dying thing.”

Never the fighter he pretended to be, Pascal already had three escapes planned if the stranger turned violent. It pays to be prepared. It wasn’t needed. The stranger shifted his weight awkwardly, started to speak, stopped, and finally said, “I’ll wait.” He sat down across from Pascal and drummed his fingers nervously.

A moment later a black haired man brought out a mug of coffee that Pascal took with gratitude. “Thanks, Vic. One for…”

“Cambrian,” the man said.

“One for Cambrian too,” and Pascal went back to silently sipping his cup.

They were a study in contrasts. Pascal was almost aggressively nondescript; in his late 30’s, neither fat nor thin, neither tall nor fat, with dark brown hair just touching his neck. Cambrian would stand out in any crowd. Tall, square jawed, and muscular; he could take to the football field without needing a uniform. His brown hair was cropped close to emphasize the strong lines of his face.

Paz looked deeper while pretending to concentrate on his coffee.

The boy was cold. He was not dressed for the weather. The Green Goose was in the Freezer, and the neighborhood was well named. His tunic was wrinkled from sitting in a car, but his slippers had been in stirrups recently. He carried a heavy pouch but didn’t guard it well.

Pascal put it together before he finished his coffee. Cambrian was not an experienced traveler; he switched from cars to horses too often. He wasn’t using his own money. His benefactor was the one sending him to meet the detective.

Fall of Night was the impossible city. It’s where reality went to die. At some point in the distant past the universe broke. Now shards of worlds, each with their own set of rules, floated aimlessly in the void. Many of them wash up and jostle uncomfortably against one another in the city. The rules of nature can change when you cross the street. It makes travel difficult. Cars don’t always work - in some places horses don’t work. Money eases many problems. That rule of nature seems to work everywhere.

He’d have preferred if it had taken Cambrian another hour. He could have waken up normally and even shaved. But the itch was growing.

Someone sent Cambrian. They gave him money, and a lot of it. The boy had to have left before dawn and raced through the cold. That meant this was important and the locals, whoever they were, couldn’t solve it.

“Who sent you?”

Cambrian almost jumped out of his seat.

He hadn’t touched his coffee and despite his twitching hands had simply been staring blankly ahead. Pascal understood; he was worried but also tired.

“Martan,” he answered quickly. The name didn’t mean anything to Pascal so he waited for his client to continue. “Aelune’s consort,” he explained uselessly.

“What does this Martan want, then?”

“It’s not for him,” Cambrian insisted, “It’s Aelune. She left and we need to find out who she is now. By sunset.”

It sounded like a missing persons case, except for one detail. “Find out who she is?”

“I’m from Crystal Vale,” the kid explained. “You know how it works there?”

“No.”

He tilted his head, puzzled. “Martan said… Never mind. Aelune is a spirit, she’s the High Spiritus. Well, Praetor now. They changed the title when we stopped worshiping her. She powers magic in the Vale; as long as she’s there it works but when she’s gone it doesn’t.

“Every so often she needs to take a new body. We need to install her by nightfall to get the magic back.”

Now it was Pascal’s turn to be puzzled, “We’re searching a whole shard to find out who this spirit possessed, and we have to do it in a day. This isn’t the first time, surely? You’ve got some procedure to follow, a way to identify her?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “But something is wrong. The Crystal Shell, her home, they sent up black smoke. Martan saw it and sent me to get you.”

Pascal leaned back and took a sip of coffee. “There’s got to be more than that.”

“No. Just that. Oh, Martan said to give you this.” From inside his tunic he drew out a small silver fish and dropped it on the table. “He said you’d know what it meant.”

Pascal stared at it. It was as clear as a live fish would have been. He couldn’t understand either of them.

A detective’s life is not always a safe one. His wasn’t. It had ended many years ago. He liked to think it had ended on an important case but he didn’t know for sure. Without a body, without a brain specifically, memories tended to bleed away. A quirk of the rules in the Freezer gave him a body again, and a semblance of a life, but he was still a ghost.

When in doubt, stare.

He gazed evenly at Cambrian. Finally the tunic-clad man blinked. “I can pay too,” he offered, holding up the heavy pouch. “There’s eighty pounds here, minus what we need to get back to Crystal Vale.”

“Does this Aelune have any enemies?”

“No,” he answered wide eyed. “Of course not. Well, yes, I suppose. I mean, Vynne.”

Pascal waved his hand impatiently when Cambrian stopped there.

“Vynne is the other spirit in Crystal Vale. They’re both stuck there since the Fracture, but we’ve only got the one Clear Stone. Aelune controls the stone and we get magic from her, but Vynne’s tried to take it before.”

This got better and better. An unknown client with an unknown problem and an immortal enemy who’s also unknown.

Throw in a time limit to boot and there was no way he would pass on this one. The money was a bonus, wild horses couldn’t keep him away.

“I can take a look,” he said while keeping his smile hidden.

Cambrian broke into a wide grin. “That’s great. Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”

“Vic,” Pascal called to his restaurant manager, “Sonya was going to come by tonight after her meeting with the Carrabach. Give her my regrets, would you?” A previous client, she had taken to seeing Pascal when she had business in the city. He’d succeeded in her case, and she considered him trustworthy as a result.

He went to his room to change while they waited for a carriage. On the case where he met Sonya he’d had to possess a woman, now her sister-in-law, and that experience had stuck with him. He forced himself to remember that he was not dressing to impress. Rather, he needed to impress with subtlety. A white shirt, narrow tie, and a long street coat made him look tough and gave him plenty of pockets. He checked the mirror to be sure he was presentable. Once he wouldn’t have cared, but this was the wage of possession.

He just had to remind himself that lipstick did not go with a tough guy image. He left the tube on the dresser.

---

Their carriage was waiting for them when Pascal came back downstairs. Calling it a carriage might be overstating the case. It was closer to a wooden box on wheels, but it had two horses and would be sufficient to get them to Crystal Vale without changing transport.

Cambrian ran into it to get out of the wind as quickly as possible, while Pascal climbed in after him. He hadn’t taken the time to shave, but at least had enough coffee to face the morning.

As the driver spurred on the horses, he turned to his client, “Now what’s the bad news, kid?”

When Cambrian looked at him in confusion, he clarified, “I know you were holding something back until I took the job. Spill it.”

A newborn babe couldn’t looked more innocent. If he was faking it, he had a career ahead of him in politics. “No. I told you all I know.”

“It’s going to be a long trip if you don’t have anything to say. I get antsy when I don’t know what I’m walking into, so why don’t you tell me more of what you do know? When you saw them send up a distress signal, why didn’t any of you go to help? Or did you?”

“No,” he was surprised for a moment, but then recovered. “When Aelune leaves, the Shell is sealed. No one can leave, and only the spirits can enter. We couldn’t get in if we wanted to, not until sunset anyway, and then it’s too late.”

Paz almost frowned, but kept his poker face in place. Staring straight ahead, “And if she isn’t there by sunset?”

The boy gasped, “Magic won’t work until she can change bodies again, and that can take years.” He paused and looked down, “It was tough getting out of the Vale, none of our sleds are working. I had to use a bicycle. We can deal with it if it’s only a day, but…”

“If I can’t go in, and only the people inside know what the problem is, how do you expect me to do anything?”

“Martan thinks you can get in, Mr. Hunter.”

“I see.” Ghost, spirit. How different can they be? It confirmed that this Martan did know Pascal, and knew him well enough to know he was a dead man. It wasn’t something he advertised. “Keep going. Who is Martan?”

“I thought you knew–” Cambrian stuttered. “Never mind. Sure. Martan is, that is, he was Aelune’s consort. One of them. It’s an important position.”

Paz raised an eyebrow.

“It is. Aelune’s children are wizards.” He pondered briefly before continuing, “Our shard does well when we’re part of Fall of Night. The crystal and the salt mines don’t run out.”

That was the city’s salvation. In many shards, you could dig to the limits and they’d refill, so you could pull out resources that shouldn’t be there. Some shards still drew power from outside, from a world that wasn’t there. Miracles kept the city moving.

Cambrian kept going, “When we’re in the void, though, the wizards are the difference between life and death. We don’t have a gate or any other way out, but they have strength and numbers and can keep us going. I don’t remember the last time we joined the city - I was too young - but I hear stories of what it was like. Even with all her power, Aelune can’t have children forever, so when her oldest starts showing his age, well that’s when she leaves.”

He was avoiding something. Just a little too careful when stepping around Martan’s position. “So Martan is one of her consorts. What’s your position? Why’d he send you?”

He flushed and looked like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I’m– When she has a new body she’ll be young again. She’ll need new consorts.”

“And you aim to be one of them,” interrupted Pascal.

“She,” the boy blushed and inflated his chest at the same time, “She has a type she likes. My grandmother was a wizard; I inherited my great grandfather’s looks. Aelune’s habits differ from body to body so I don’t know if she’ll want a harem or a husband, but I’ll try to be one she picks.”

That sounded interesting. “What do you mean, her habits differ? She’s not the same spirit?”

“No. No. It’s just, when she takes a new body she sometimes changes a bit. Not too much. It’s still her, but she’s different. Like she might like different foods - she didn’t like fish this last time.”

That rang true to Pascal. He hated possessing people. He had to lose his body to do it, and a real body was much stronger than an insubstantial wisp. Holding on to his personality was difficult. It sounded like spirits in this Crystal Vale had some advantages over him, but they weren’t completely in control.

“Are you sure Aelune is in the Shell? If I can’t get out, I don’t want to go in only to find out she’s still outside.”

“Yes. Well, probably. I heard it a few minutes before the smoke went up, and thought it was good news. There was a transformation,” he smiled like it was a joke, “at the Breathless Sigh.” After a moment, he added, “That’s a brothel. First I heard it was one of the ladies, but then someone else said it was a customer. Even heard it was the owner, so I don’t know. Everyone agrees someone in there changed.”

With a thoughtful expression, he added, “I mean, if it was one of the working ladies, she’d know what she was doing when– Well, I thought it was all over but waiting for night. Then they sent up smoke and Martan sent me to get you.”

No magic. That was the good news. He hated magic. So many varieties, he never knew what was going to happen. Magicians had ways of dealing with ghosts, and even when he had a body he was vulnerable to them.

Cars were whizzing by outside the cart as they changed shards. A horse drawn cart should be a problem, but most neighborhoods had adapted. Cross shard travel had to use the lowest common denominators, so drivers had to get used to slower travel on their roads. Horse drawn carts were common. There were only a few shards where horses or wheels didn’t work.

The case was going to be tough. He had a harsh deadline, didn’t know what he needed to solve, and was dealing with two near immortal opponents who probably hated each other. It took all his willpower not to break out in a smile.

---

Crystal Value tried to look pastoral, but to Pascal it looked like a battered wife who couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. Clusters of tall stone buildings, each over a hundred feet tall, towered above the trees and dirt roads that separated them. Relentlessly urban, the people couldn’t bring themselves to cut the ties to their country past and move forward. Instead they hung on desperately, hoping that one more tree or shrubbery would prove their dedication to the simple life.

The road was nearly empty. Abandoned metal platforms were common, most on the side of the road, but some right in the middle. Temporarily deprived of power, people left their transport and had to find other ways to get about.

“The Shell’s a bit further on,” Cambrian announced. With a pause, he turned to Pascal and spoke quickly, “I wish I could go in with you. Make sure to tell her how I helped. Please.”

The kid should stay far away from poker tables. Every thought passed easily across his broad face. Pascal promised.

“There it is,” he shouted while opening the door and leaping from the cart as it came to a halt. Pascal gave him a punishing glare and pointedly waited for the horses to stop before he got out.

The dark crystal temple towered above them, its central spire rising proudly towards the sun. Though the main spire dominated, a large number of smaller crystal spikes jutted from the building, making it look like some sort of stone porcupine. “Wait until night,” Cambrian interrupted as though reading Pascal’s mind, “The crystal turns translucent in the moonlight. Most beautiful sight you’ll ever see.”

“This way,” said an older man urgently when he saw them disembark. “We’re short on time.”

“Are you Martan? I need to know–” Pascal started.

“We got another burst of smoke,” the old man answered. “They need help.” He turned away before admitting, “We should probably come up with more signals. That’s all I know.”

Both the old man and Cambrian stopped suddenly, Cambrian looked like he’d hit something. Pascal couldn’t see the problem. “You’re on your own again, you bloody spirit,” the old man pronounced with a smile.

“I hate walking in blind,” Pascal complained. With a half smile, he added, “I’ll be sure to mention you, Cambrian.” The boy grinned like a five year old given a new piece of candy.

The doors opened as Paz approached. Just a crack, enough to squeeze through. He pushed them to make more room but they wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t dignified, but he pushed his way in. The doors closed with a decided finality as soon as he was through.

The entrance hall glowed, the polished marble floor reflected the light from the wall torches. Magnificent carvings along the wall showed what appeared to be athletic competitions conducted in the nude. A sign on a roped off area read “Tours every hour. Wait here.” Right next to it was a collection bin reading, “Your voluntary contributions help maintain the exhibits.”

Pascal did not have much time to contemplate the surroundings. A small woman barged into the hall a few moments after he entered.

“Glory on High,” she exclaimed, “They got in some help. I’d hoped–”

She paused, overcome. Her short iron gray hair hung almost to her shoulders, framing her square glasses. Her gray dress suit was stained along the side, and the blue cloth about her neck hung loose to the side. “You are here to help, right? How did you get in?”

“Pascal Hunter,” he introduced himself. Remembering Cambrian’s introduction at the Green Goose, he held out both his hands, palms up. She smiled and put her hands lightly on top of his before dropping them back to her side. “I’m sort of a spirit myself. I can get in.”

“I see,” she said with some nervousness. “Well, I need the help. I’m Torraline Minsk, and I was Chief of Accounts. Now… Aelune is gone and we have three people claiming to be her. They all know the pass phrase and I don’t know how to tell them apart. We’ve only got until night and I don’t know who she is.”

“Three? I thought you only had two spirits.”

“Aelune and Vynne,” she agreed. “Right. We’ve had two people in here before, but never three. I didn’t know what to do other than ask for help, so I’m really glad you’re here. I might have just had to guess.”

With a squint as he started thinking, he asked, “How do you normally determine the right person? You said you’ve had two of them here before.”

“Yes, we have,” she agreed while her body shook from nerves. She sat down on a bench that ran along the wall and Pascal joined her. “Aelune has a password, but it’s not always reliable. She tries to tell it to her new host. It doesn’t always work. And Vynne’s found it before too.”

“Tries to tell… How does this possession work, exactly?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed in turn. “Are you sure you’re here to help? Aelune and Vynne use all their strength in the first few minutes to change their host’s body to their liking and plant a few commands. Unless she can get to the Clear Stone by sunset, it will be years until she can do anything more. We need to get the right person to the Stone tonight.” The woman grabbed at Pascal in supplication.

Possession worked differently here than in most places. He imagined taking a body and molding it to his liking, but then he not doing anything more for years. It would be horrible to be a prisoner like that. Would changing someone’s body be better or worse than taking them over? He wasn’t sure. He also didn’t need to find out. His body was fine for now.

Angry at his own thoughts, he growled “What else do you have?”

“I’m not usually– I mean, I’m Chief of Accounts,” she protested. “The Minister is supposed to handle this. Or her Secretaries, but they’re both outside tonight.” She paused to think about it and said, “I think they hoped Aelune would take them, and she can’t take anyone inside the Shell. No one expected things to go wrong like this.”

“Fine. Then take me to the Minister. Let me talk to her,” he almost snarled. He wasn’t impressed with Torralene.

Another pause, “I forgot to tell you, didn’t I? She’s– she’s dead. I went to get her after Aelune left. There was so much blood. Her neck–”

“And you didn’t mention this until now?” Pascal stood up and balled his hands into fists. “Take me there,” he ordered.

Murder. Pascal knew he could feel guilty about his joy later. For now he had a real mystery to solve.

The mousy woman started walking before she stopped and turned back to him, resolution written on her face. It was new territory for it. “No. No. That’s not… That’s not what’s important now. I need… we need to know who to put on the seat by nightfall. Ma Zen… I’m sorry,” she whispered, “she has to wait.”

Pascal didn’t say anything. Instead he stared. He was good at staring and it usually produced the correct results. He didn’t have any of his ghostly abilities, probably as a result of Aelune’s absence. It shouldn’t matter. Staring should be sufficient.

It wasn’t.

He could see the clerk stiffen her spine and stand a bit straighter. She looked like a school teacher standing in front of her class. “No. Later. If there’s time. Aelune is more important. Everyone is at risk if we don’t…”

With a wan smile he gave in. For the moment. “Fine. So what am I looking for? Do they know who possessed them? Am I looking for a liar, or someone who’s been tricked?”

“They know,” she insisted.

“Where are they?”

“We had them in Aelune’s receiving room for a while,” she said while looking nervously away. “Then Dansel… he’s one of the new consorts– maybe. If she likes him. Anyway, he said it might be better to keep them apart and we…”

“Smart guy,” Pascal interrupted. He wished they’d done that from the start, but he knew the old saying about wishes and horses. “Let me talk to them. One at a time.”

“Of course. This way.” The relief on her face was clear. This was someone else’s burden now. It was his. The shard would live or die based on his deductions.

High enough stakes could make a dead man feel alive.

---

“Oh, you’re back,” said the young woman as she shook the sleep out of her eyes. “You’re new,” she grumped to Pascal. “Are we done yet? I’m gonna have bags under my eyes when you give me the Stone.”

The woman was slightly taller than Pascal, with straight black hair falling down to her shoulders. She was athletic, with long legs and small but firm breasts. She wore a brown skirt with a tight belt and an ill fitting white blouse. A pair of black flats were abandoned nearby. Striking bright blue eyes shone against her pale skin, setting off her straight aristocratic nose.

Looking at Torralene, she pleaded “I don’t want to answer any more questions. I want to get changed into something nice for the ceremony. I am Aelune and the others aren’t.”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Pascal answered smoothly as he stepped forward.

They were in a dining room with a small table that could seat ten. Paintings on the wall showed the same man and woman at work in the fields in different seasons of the year.

“Oh come on,” she whined while sitting down across the table from Pascal. “This is, what, the third time tonight. What more do you expect to find out? I’m Aelune. See? Body changed and everything. Now, I’ve got to get some sleep if I’m going to look good for the ceremony tonight. I want everyone to see me at my best, right? So if you’re going to ask me anything, do it quick.”

“Tell me where you were when you– changed? The spirit came on you? What is the right term?”

She laughed and looked at the ceiling. Good. He’d thrown her off balance and she was thinking it over. “Becoming. I became Aelune. I was out with some friends. We were at the night market looking at boys. It was nothing serious, except maybe with Sann. I think she was sweet on a guy at the cobblers.”

“How old were you?”

Her eyes flicked aside before returning to him, “I just turned 17 a month ago. I think I’m a few years older now, which would be all yuck but Aelune lives a long time so I guess it kind of works out. And I mean, this place is all luxe and all, and did you see the guys? Some of them are yum.” She warmed to her subject and waved her hands about while speaking.

“I have to ask; what was your name? I’ve got to talk to all of you, and I can’t go calling you all Aelune.”

“I am Aelune. Me. Not the others.” She put her hands on the table like she was about to stand and her eyes blazed. But her hands shook and she stopped where she was. “Dienne. Dienne Sorch.”

Pascal looked at Torralene for confirmation and the old woman stared back evenly. He cocked an eyebrow and she shrugged. She had been locked inside too, with no way to communicate out. He’d hoped they had a census or something of the sorts to confirm that there was a Dienne Sorch, but apparently not. This may have been a temple and government center once, but the tourist trappings at the entrance gave away the game that it wasn’t any longer.

“All right then, Dienne.” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to protest, “Just for now. Tell me more about when you became Aelune. As many details as you can remember.”

“We were at the market. There were,” a slight pause and a blink, “four of us. Sharing one of those mango fruit drinks from Broken Shore nearby, mostly so Sann could pretend she wasn’t watching her boy across the street.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know,” she raised her arms up and bit her lip in exasperation. “They’d rung midnight, so it was after that. All the lights went out, all at once. I jumped up and so did a lot of other people but Sann stayed cool like she was all that. Yeah, she figured it out before I did - before most people did, but it didn’t take long. Everyone was like ‘Aelune has left us,’ and all. There was still light from some of the stoves so people started making torches. A little slut across the way volunteered her shirt for a torch,” she laughed.

“I see. What happened then?”

“I felt tingly. Like my feet went to sleep, but my arms too. I thought something was wrong at first, but then I caught on. It was just like in The Bird in the Bucket.” She smiled fondly. Pascal didn’t catch the reference, but she said it like it was a given, so he gathered it was a popular children’s tale.

“I ran away as soon as I realized,” she continued. “I was worried it was, you know, Vynne. I didn’t want Sann to see.” Pascal could see the lines around her eyes. “Then I got all stiff and I couldn’t move any more, I lost control.”

“Where did you run to?” It was fascinating to hear what possession was like from the other side. These spirits didn’t seem to fear possession. He hated possessing people, a full body was just so much stronger than a shade that he was always in danger of getting lost. They didn’t have that problem and he wondered briefly if it was part of the local rules. He let that go as unworthy.

She stumbled briefly as she thought about it, caught her voice and took a moment. Looking up at the ceiling again, she said “Down one of the alleys. We were at the fruit stand, so that would be the– dressmakers. It’s not like I was looking at the time.” Pascal tried to keep his face neutral.

“Go on.”

“I could feel my body change, like it was taffy and someone was squeezing it. It didn’t hurt. Not really, but it felt strange. I’m taller now, and I lost a bit up here,” she cupped her breasts and frowned slightly. “My hair’s way too short but that’ll grow and I like the color but I won’t be getting much sun with this skin. She also changed my clothes. I had a wicked black and yellow outfit, but she didn’t like it. So now it’s this. Before her control faded I got two commands; come here, and my name is Aelune.”

She slumped in her chair and sobbed, “I was worried. I really was. If it was Vynne, if that’s who I was now, I think I’d just– I don’t know really.”

He wished he knew what he was looking for. But when you didn’t know, just keep fishing. “So you came here. How’d you get in?”

“There was a crowd in front of the Shell. I mean the lights went out everywhere and it’s not like Sann is the only one who’s smart enough to figure out what it means. They’ve only been telling us for the last month that it could be any day now. So people came to watch and it was just kind of a crowd. I sort of walked around them and got to the gate. I heard someone yell, so I guess they saw me but the door opened and I couldn’t stop myself until I was inside.”

“Who opened the door?”

She stared agog. “It opened on its own. I’m Aelune. The door opened for me.” He voice rose as she went, nearly to a yell.

“How much?” Curiosity. Did she have to squeeze in too?

“All the way,” she answered with some doubt.

“And then what?”

“I came back here. The receiving– My receiving room. It’s where she found me,” she said pointing to Torralene.

The older woman nodded. “I tried to tell Ma–” She stopped and gathered her thoughts. “Well, when one of the guards found the other girl I brought her to the receiving room and there this one was already. So we left them there.” Getting defensive, she said, “We’d never had a third. I figured the room would belong to one of them, and Aelune and Vynne were used to dealing with each other.”

Pascal nodded. “Thank you, Dienne. I think that will be all for now.”

---

Pascal saw the young woman snap alert as soon as Torralene opened the door. She got up awkwardly, almost rolling onto the floor but catching herself quickly.

“Let me guess. More questions,” she said while standing up.

She was the same height as Pascal, with curly brown hair that fell down her neck. A small sharp chin gave her face a triangular appearance like a fox, but the predatory shape of her face was offset by freckles across her nose and strongly pronounced dimples. She wore an ill fitting long blue dress, but it couldn’t hide her wide hips and large breasts.

“You’re going to try to prove I’m not Aelune,” she said to Pascal, halfway between a statement and a question. “How am I supposed to prove that she took me over?”

“You can start by answering some questions. I’m going to try to put it all together, so it would help if you tell the truth. Not that I expect it.”

Torralene frowned. She did not approve of him taking a blunt tone to someone who might be Aelune. The Shell was a tourist attraction more than a temple, but some of the old forms of respect still lingered around the spirit. It didn’t hurt that she was also rich and powerful, and was needed to give birth to wizards and for magic to function in the shard.

To make it short, she wasn’t someone to insult casually.

If this was her. And that’s what he had to find out. If he insulted her in the process, at least he didn’t have to live here.

They were in a small library and his fingers itched to pore over the books, or at least the titles. Two walls were covered in books, with a display case along one wall showing off a collection of fine jewelry. Aelune sat back down on her couch and inched forward while Pascal took a seat nearby.

“Let’s start with where you were when you became Aelune.”

“Swimming,” she said with a frown. She leaned forward and gave Pascal a great view of her cleavage. When she saw his eyes she backed up suddenly and flushed, but continued without interrupting herself, “I was soaked. She didn’t leave me dressed for the water. It was cold walking here, but they at least got me something dry even if it is a–”

She stopped, and Pascal had to provide a leading question. “A what?”

“A dress,” she admitted. “I was Derrik Blane. I’m a, that is, I was a man. Until last night, anyway.”

“So why were you swimming at night?” He saw her eyes widen. She was expecting him to react to her confession.

“It was a nice night,” she said quickly and defensively. Her hand tightened on the arm of the couch. “I like to swim. I did. I hope I still do.”

“Derrik–”

“Aelune,” she responded quickly.

“For now, let’s stick with Derrik,” Pascal insisted. “I’ve got three of you to talk to and it’ll get confusing if I call you all the same thing.”

She made a cutting gesture but got distracted when she saw her hand. With an embarrassed nod she agreed. “All right. But look, I have to get used to this. So make it Deri.”

Pascal raised an eyebrow but nodded. “That’s pretty quick adapting, Deri.” When he possessed a woman he had to start thinking of himself as a woman quickly, but he’d learned that through experience. Also, he’d been on the other end of the possession, knowing it was coming. He was surprised to see an inexperienced victim adapting so quickly.

She choked out a sob. “What can I do? You know it can happen to anyone, but you never really expect it to be you. Then it is. Weasel Spit, I haven’t even been married a year yet. What am I supposed to tell Elli? Remember your husband, well it’s me now. Do I bring her here with me or– We can’t stay married, damn it all.”

Since he didn’t really know what he was looking for, Pascal decided to follow up on that. He’d get back to the transformation later. “Is that right? Most shards are pretty open about allowing different arrangements if people want, and I understood Aelune was largely outside the rules anyway. Especially given your situation…”

Deri looked down and stared at her breasts for a moment. She moved her hands slowly towards them and stopped, putting them back in her lap and then on the arm rest. “You’re not from here, are you? It’s my job now– I have to,” she took a deep breath, “I have to have children. Wizards. It wouldn’t be fair to Elli.”

“An interesting job,” Pascal said despite himself. It just slipped out.

Deri turned away and her face turned beet red. “That’s not the only thing I have to do but it’s one of the important ones. I mean, yeah, I saw some of the guys and they look… good.” She wouldn’t come close to looking at Pascal when she said that. “But I don’t know how I’ll– I mean, I know I have to, but…”

She fell silent and Pascal waited a moment before giving her a break, “Let’s get back to the transformation. Describe what happened.”

Deri shuddered and then looked back at Pascal. “I thought I was having a heart attack and was going to drown. I panicked.” Her eyes drifted down and her hand twitched. “I didn’t figure it out until my clothes changed. I was getting dragged down because they were heavy and that’s when it all clicked. I’d heard that Aelune was going to leave soon; I think everyone knew that. I guess I was wasn’t watching the shoreline. If I’d seen the lights go out I might have figured it our earlier and spared myself a bit of panic.”

“What did your clothes change into?”

“Some kind of pull over shirt and loose leggings. Red and gray. Black slippers too.”

“So you were fully dressed, including shoes, while you were swimming?”

“No. I–” She stopped and her eyes narrowed. Finally she took a deep breath, smiled and looked at Torralene and then back at Pascal. “Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? I might not have been swimming. I was rowing out to meet a contact. We sometimes arranged for ‘specialty goods’ that don’t quite get taxed. I mean, I’m Aelune now, you won’t arrest me for that.”

“No, we won’t,” agreed Torralene.

“So how did you fall into the lake?” Pascal wasn’t going to be distracted.

She frowned, “When I started changing, my partner pushed me off.” After a moment, “I’m not entirely sure I can blame him. And I am a strong swimmer, so…”

“How far out were you?”

“About two klicks. Far enough that people on shore won’t make out any details.”

Paz smiled grimly, “A very strong swimmer then. And in a new body, weighted down with unfamiliar clothes?”

Deri frowned, a cute expression. She rubbed her upper lip. “Now that you mention it… I am a good swimmer, but that is a lot. Maybe we were closer to shore than I thought. Or maybe Aelune– I don’t know,” she admitted.

“Very well. You made it to shore. What then?”

“I was wet and it was cold, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I had to get to the temple. It’s hard to describe. I knew what I was doing, but it felt like I didn’t have any choice in the matter. I knew my name changed, I’m Aelune now, but I was also still me. I kind of wish I’d paid more attention to the stories. Anyway, I just knew I had to get here, so I did. I tried to avoid attention and went to a side door. It opened for me.”

“I see,” Pascal added when she went silent. “And once inside?”

“I was back in control, I didn’t have anything I had to do,” she answered evenly. “But I was still cold and wet and I couldn’t leave. I wandered around until I found someone, I guess he was a guard. He was surprised to see me, but he brought me to her,” she pointed at Torralene. “She told me the building was mine now, and brought me to, well, my quarters, where we found another girl claiming to be Aelune. She left us there, and soon brought in a third.”

Turning back to Torralene, Pascal asked, “Is that right?”

“Yes. Well, except that I got her that dress to change into. She was soaking wet. They were Aelune’s, the last one. I know they don’t fit,” she said to Deri, “but if you like them you can have them adjusted.”

“I don’t want to think about dresses,” Deri mumbled resentfully. “Just straighten this out. If I have to lose Elli, I at least want the Stone.”

“If you are Aelune,” Pascal answered her, “just trust me. We’ll sort this out.”

He hoped he could live up to that promise. Lying to the powerful could carry harsh penalties.

---

The sun room was bright and cheerful. Luscious plants hung from the ceiling and decorated the room. Red, yellow, and violet flowers were all in bloom. Pascal could recognize roses, but beyond that he was out of his depth. The scent was strong but not overpowering. A few leaves lay on the floor, but the room was otherwise clean.

A young woman was walking among them, pulling off dead leaves and watering dry ones. She stopped when she saw Torralene and Pascal, “Tell me you’ve finally decided I’m Aelune.”

She was shorter than Pascal with long legs leading to wide hips and a thin waist. Her dark auburn hair fell down to the middle of her back with small curls. With her round face and thick lips she was the very image of sensuality. A short tight skirt and an off shoulder shirt that left her stomach bare could have made her look cheap, but without makeup or jewelry she gave it a touch of class. The ballet slippers she wore looked out of place.

“I’d love to tell you that, but I think it would look better all around if I asked a few questions first,” Pascal joked. He cursed himself inside for playing with this woman, but she had a strong effect on him.

“Don’t,” she protested. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open. She took a step back in horror. “Just. Don’t. Don’t do that.” She held up her hand in protest.

“Don’t do what,” he asked in a flat tone.

“Don’t flirt with me,” she answered. “I’m still a man, I don’t want– that.”

“I see,” he answered. “You were a man, then. What was your name?”

“Prior. Prior Delane.”

“Fine then, Prior–”

“It’s Aelune.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you just said–”

“I know. I was a man, but my name is Aelune now. It just is,” she protested while balling her fists and moving them down in frustration. She couldn’t help but look sexy.

“I get it. But let me call you Prior for the moment. It’ll help me keep the interviews separate.” She was not adapting to her change as quickly as Deri had. This was closer to what Pascal would expect, it was what he had been like the first time he’d had to possess a woman.

She nodded and put her hand on her leg just above the hem of her skirt. “All right,” she pouted, “for now.”

“Tell me, Prior, what were you doing when you became Aelune?”

She almost looked away. Her eyes flicked to the side for a second before she looked Pascal in the eyes. “I was at the Breathless Sigh. It’s a brothel.” She was grinning widely and her eyes shone.

Pascal coughed.

Cambrian said he’d heard there was a transformation at a brothel. She wasn’t one of the prostitutes, then. “And you were there for?”

She squinted in confusion, “To screw. What else do you go to a brothel for?”

“Who were you with?”

Another pause. “She said her name was Fallah. Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. I’m not there to talk to them. Exotic looks, dark skin and black hair down to here,” she put her hand just slightly lower than her own hair.

“When was the first time you went there?”

She turned her head sharply and grabbed her ear with one hand. “Well, that’s–” She pursed her lips and stared at Pascal in anger. Finally, she said, “How’d you know?”

Pascal didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow.

“It was during the Arcadian Invasion. Forty five years ago.” She hung her head for a moment before looking Pascal in the eyes.

“So you were?”

“Almost seventy. Fine. Dirty old man, still going to the whore house. But what else am I going to do with my cash? Waste it?” She threw back her head and laughed.

“What unit?”

He could see the surprise in her eyes. She wanted him to laugh with her, or at her. She recovered quickly enough, “Eighteenth mounted.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“What kind of question–” After an instant’s hesitation she stepped towards Pascal with her hand raised in a fist. Pascal stood his ground and she stopped.

As a ghost, Pascal was much older than he looked. He wasn’t sure how old he was, so many memories had faded. But he fought in the Arcadian Invasion, and his usual partner, Brynn, was a refugee from that same war. He knew it well.

“Quarter Falls for a while,” she answered finally. “Until it fell. Then we hid for a while in Pinewood before we had to go on the march. We–”

“OK,” he answered. The eighteenth had been destroyed, but it turned out they’d been in hiding. If they hadn’t shown up in force at the Battle of Breaker Valley they’d have been hung as traitors. Prior knew their hiding place. “Back to the brothel. Describe the transformation, please.”

She tossed her head and brushed her hair back from her eyes as she changed subjects. Pascal kept his poker face solidly in place. “I had the girl on the bed with her legs spread for me,” Prior leered. It was unsettling to see a pretty girl talk like that. “I might have been old, but I could still get her off. We were going at it when my dick started tingling and it dropped. Thought it was the girl’s fault at first and gave her a bruise for her trouble– Don’t look at me like that. She’s just a whore.”

Pascal didn’t react. Torralene did. She made a tsking sound in her throat but didn’t comment further.

“It didn’t take long to figure out what was happening. The Sigh lit their gas lamps when the normal ones went out - gave the place a creepy vibe but I liked it. Once I knew what was happening I kind of enjoyed it. Got younger and stronger, but lost a bit down below if you know what I mean,” she leered again. “My clothes didn’t change, probably because I wasn’t wearing any, so I had to take some of her stuff. Then I made my way here.”

That explained the outfit.

“I was going to get her some of Aelune’s clothes after she told us her story,” Torralene interrupted, “but then Dansel said we should separate them to question them on their own. And I thought it would be better to leave them as they were.” After the damage was already done, thought Pascal.

“And now you’re here, young again, and Aelune?”

“Got that right,” she answered while rubbing her arm lightly. “This place is mine now. Almost makes it worth it. I am not looking forward to being on the receiving team. That– that’ll take a lot of drink.”

She suddenly turned her head to the side and laughed bitterly, “Hmph, guess I’m the whore now, since I’ll be doing it for all this. But boy, I cost a lot more than any girl I ever had.”

Torralene shook her head sadly. “Aelune is weak after taking them over,” she explained, “After she transforms the body and gives her commands there’s not much left. It would take years for her to do any more if she couldn’t use the Clear Stone. Once she does, she’ll have a lot more influence.” Directing the rest to Prior, she emphasized, “Aelune is not a– not a whore.”

“If you say so,” she responded with a sly smile.

“Thank you, Prior,” Pascal said simply. “It’s always a pleasure to meet a veteran. We’ll let you know what we find.”

He hadn’t known what he was looking for, but had almost found it. A working theory wasn’t enough. He needed proof. He had an idea where he could get it.

---

“Take me to the murder scene. I want to see the Minister,” Pascal told Torralene once they were back in the receiving room.

She shook her head. “I told you, Aelune’s more important. We’ll get to Ma–”

He gave her a withering stare, “You don’t find it a bit coincidental that she’s murdered the same night Aelune leaves you and you get three candidates showing up for the first time?”

She gasped and turned aside but then stopped and stiffened what spine she had. Paz was too eager to investigate a murder. “How sure are you this will help?”

So he spelled it out, “All three of them knew the pass phrase you set up for Aelune, right?”

She nodded. Her iron gray hair had come loose some time during the night and a few stray hairs bounced by her eyes. She brushed them out of the way with a small flare of annoyance.

“Aelune knew the pass phrase, so one of the three got it legitimately. How did the others find out?”

“Vynne has gotten the pass phrase before,” the old woman admitted. “She can’t enter the Shell while Aelune is in control, but she could have gotten someone who knew it to talk. It shouldn’t happen, but…”

“OK, that’s one. Your Minister knew the phrase, right?”

“Of course,” she nodded. Then stopped, realization flooding her face.

“Right. Her killer could have gotten it from her.”

“Then one of them–” she gestured helplessly back towards Aelune’s quarters.

“One of them could be her killer,” Pascal finished for her. The pain on her face was almost too much to bear.

“This way,” she choked and led on.

Pascal continued questioning her as they went up a flight of stairs. While she was in charge of the Shell with Aelune and the Minister gone, she was not doing an impressive job. It may be forgivable, as an accountant is not necessarily going to make a great emergency leader, but it still complicated his job. He was not in any mood to overlook her choking sobs or hold back because of it.

“When did Aelune depart? Exactly.”

“1:12.” When Pascal looked at her quizzically, she explained, “We have a clock powered by her magic. When she leaves, magic stops, so it records the time exactly.”

“When did your Minister die?”

“I don’t know. I’d guess it was before that. You know–”

“No, I don’t,” he said when it was clear she was not going to continue. “Remember I’m not from here. Spell it out for me.”

Another sob. “We gathered up outside Aelune’s rooms when the lights went out. Ma Zenn should have come there too but didn’t. After a while I went to get her and found her–”

“How long did you wait before going after her?”

“No more than half an hour. She can have some trouble waking up and I didn’t want to seem too eager for her. But I was there with the guards and we were waiting and eventually I just had to go and get her. Ah, here we are.

“These were priestly quarters back when the Shell was a temple,” she continued. When describing the room she sounded like a tour guide with a deeper voice and no trace of sadness. “Now they’re the only government quarters in the Shell, and are used by the Wizard Minister. The offices don’t normally have a bed, but we place one in there when Aelune warns us she’ll soon be leaving so we can have an agent here at all times.”

The sitting room was a mess. Two chairs were knocked over and even a small sofa had been overturned. A display case had been forced open, the glass cover hanging on the side by a single hinge. Doors to the office and filing room were both wide open and the Minister’s body was clearly visible among the filing cabinets.

Stepping carefully over the debris, Pascal went to the back room. A small bed had been set up and the Minister was lying near its foot. A door to the office was propped open. None of the filing cabinets were open.

While Torralene watched in horrid fascination, Pascal knelt down to examine the body. It was stiff, in full rigor mortis. He would estimate she died about 12 hours ago, which fit with what he’d been told. There was a small smooth pool of blood beneath her.

He looked closely at her neck; there was bruising along the back of the neck and skull. If he had a lab he could get more information and some of it would certainly be useful. His most useful tools were always his eyes and brain, and they’d given him what he needed.

He stood up and almost bumped into his guide. She’d expected him to take longer or do something more impressive. She was equally clearly looking for explanations. Pascal was not ready to give any. He went silently to the office.

A large desk dominated the room. The desk chair and the chairs for visitors were all overturned. All the desk drawers had been pried open and their contents scattered around the room. The ashes in a large fireplace still smoldered.

Three volumes were on the floor near the desk. The first dealt with legal issues surrounding the transition, the second was a treatise on identifying the spirits, and the third concerned spirits from other shards coming to the Crystal Vale. Some pages were dog-eared, but none were torn.

“There was a fire in there when you got here,” he announced, pointing at the fireplace. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” she answered anyway. “It’s a little warm, but she was old and liked it warm at night.”

He poked gently at the ashes and found a corner of unburned paper. “Her notes. Whatever she was reading in those books, and probably the pass phrase.”

Torralene’s face fell.

He quickly paged through the volumes, looking at the pages that had bent corners.

“Why do they always refer to Aelune as ‘she’ but Vynne as ‘it’?”

“That one’s easy,” she answered. “Spirits can be male, female, or neither. Aelune is a woman, so she always transforms her body to be female and her children are wizards. A male spirit transforms his body to be male and his children are warriors - they’re strong and usually marked in some way, you know, horns, a tail, lizard eyes, something like that. A neuter spirit doesn’t change its host’s body’s sex, and its children are wizards or warriors depending. Vynne is a neuter spirit, which is another reason we don’t want it on the Seat. We need to have wizards–”

She suddenly realized what she was saying and stopped in alarm. “That’s it, why didn’t I see it before? Dienne has to be Vynne, she’s the only one that started as a woman.”

Pascal tried to stare her down but she was too excited by the idea and ran to the door. He grabbed her arm and she spun around roughly, “What?”

“You’re assuming they all told the truth. Don’t.”

“Then–”

“Each of them lied at least once.”

“You know that?” She was incredulous.

“I know that,” he answered simply.

“But–”

“This is all wrong,” he admitted.

“Then we’re back where we started,” Torralene wailed.

Pascal sighed. “It feels wrong to have the answers with over two hours to spare. It’s more dramatic if I wait until the last minute and wrap things up just as the sun goes down. If my partner Brynn were here I’m sure he’d find some reason to make us wait, but I don’t have his flair for the dramatic. Let’s bring everyone together and wrap this up.”

She smiled the smile of someone relieved of a heavy burden.

He put it back.

“Have your guards there. One of them’s a killer.”

Shadow of a Doubt 2 of 2

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

General Audience (pg)

Publication:

Genre:

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

In Fall of Night, things are never as they seem. Pascal Hunter is not in a good position to complain, as he's a ghost working as a detective.

It is rare that his cases are as exotic as he is. This is one of them.

Pascal’s hands twitched.

He tried to act like a hard-bitten detective who just wants the case to be over. He liked to blame dramatic moments on his partner, Brynn, who was all too eager to take the credit. But he had to admit he was looking forward to it.

The big reveal.

He knew the answers, and he got to show off.

No one in the room knew everything, except him.

Not even a trace of a smile crept across his face. He kept it inside.

They gathered in Aelune’s receiving room, the same place the changed women were kept until one of the potential consorts suggested it was a bad idea to keep them all together. There was plenty of room, lots of seating, and you could see everyone at once.

Pascal saw an additional advantage. There were only two doors, one to the personal quarters, and one leading to the public areas of the Shell. Both doors had tables near enough that there were no easy lines from the chairs to the doors.

That might be important, as he had low confidence in Torralene’s guards. Dansel, the potential consort who suggested they separate the girls, was one of them, and Pascal assumed the other was also a consort wannabe. They were tall and strong but looked more like athletes than fighters. The worst part was that they probably thought they could fight; a lot of tough men thought strength was all it took to fight. Put them up against someone who had a little training and was willing to fight dirty, and they’d drop in a minute. He didn’t want to test their skills, not even against women with unfamiliar bodies. Hopefully their presence would be intimidating enough that no one would try anything.

The three girls were seated apart from each other; each one still claimed to be Aelune. The athletic Dienne, with her bright blue eyes and pale skin, was at the edge of her chair. Deri of the fox-like face sat back uncomfortably and fidgeted, still trying to sit properly in a dress. Prior didn’t even try, crossing her legs like a man and giving everyone a clear view of her panties, smiling like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Torralene sat opposite them all, chewing absently on a fingernail.

“I’m a nice guy,” Pascal started when everyone was seated. He paced slowly across the center of the room, passing before each of the three girls. “I have this all figured out, but I’m going to give you a chance to confess. I don’t know this shard’s legal system, I’ll admit, but every one I do know gives more leniency if you confess first.”

He waited, looked each one in the eye. Dienne stared back unconcerned. Deri shifted around and looked to the side, realized she looked guilty and looked back at Pascal. Prior stared pointedly at her fingernails with a wicked grin touching the side of her face.

“You know something? In all the years I’ve been doing this, no one has ever taken me up on that offer. I was really hoping one of you would be smart enough to change that. The big problem with being clever is that it’s easy to think you’re the only one. Last chance. Anyone?”

No one took him up on it. He was serious; he kept hoping, someday, that someone would. Torralene looked at the girls in turn like she was expecting one of them to speak.

After a pause, Pascal continued. “Let’s start with the easy one. There are three of you, when there should be at most two. Of course the answer to this one is simple. Only two of you are possessed by spirits.”

“That’s not possible,” interrupted Torralene. Pascal cursed silently. He wanted to watch the girls’ reactions, but now he’d have to watch the dowdy accountant instead. “Only spirits can enter the Shell once Aelune leaves.”

“I got in,” he responded simply. “Never assume there isn’t something out there you don’t know about. But in this case it’s even easier. She entered the building before Aelune left. She was a thief.”

He let that sink in. Dansel, one of the guards, quietly moved to the inner door, behind the table. Anyone trying to leave would first have to dodge the table and then him. Pascal approved. That one had some smarts behind him.

“You can give it up, Dienne. It was you. You were–”

“That’s not true. I’m– I’m Aelune, not a thief. I didn’t do anything like–”

“Your clothes don’t fit,” Pascal interrupted.

She fell silent. Her tight white blouse drew every eye. Torralene looked puzzled.

“Neither do theirs,” Dienne finally protested.

“True enough. But Deri was soaked when she came in and Torralene gave her some of Aelune’s old clothes. Prior was naked when she changed and picked up women’s clothing that was nearby. You came here in the clothes you claim were transformed from your ‘wicked black and yellow outfit.’ Transformed clothes would fit better, but those don’t fit well enough to be what you had on. The question at hand, then, is why you changed outfits. After all, if you’d stayed in your own clothes, you could always tell us they’d been something else before you changed. So why did you change?”

Everyone was quiet and looked at him. Even Dienne, who obviously knew the answer, didn’t speak up. Finally Torralene obligingly asked “Why?”

“Because the outfit you were wearing would have told us too much. Probably black and covering all your skin. Burglar’s clothes. But that’s just a guess. You didn’t burn them, but this is a big building and I’m sure they’re hidden well enough that it’ll take a few days to find them.”

“You can’t– That’s foolish, it’s just a guess. You can’t believe that. I’m Vy- Aelune and–”

“And that’s the other thing,” Pascal continued smoothly, “You were the only one to mention Vynne when I spoke with you. You made sure to emphasize that you were a woman before you changed so we’d make the connection. I’d be willing to bet the story you mentioned, The Bird in the Bucket, has Vynne pretending to be Aelune in it somewhere.”

Torralene, Prior, and both guards nodded. “Yes.” “That’s right.”

“You wanted us to think you were Vynne. After all, you don’t have a spirit in you. If you got the Clear Stone the game would be over. But if we thought you were Vynne, they’d just kick you back out. It’s too bad the Minister died, she would probably have picked up your hints and your plot might have worked.”

Torralene raised her hand and then lowered it while blushing. “So she didn’t kill Ma Zen?”

“I’m afraid she did,” Pascal answered. He didn’t turn away from the pale girl, now cowering back in her seat. “It was an accident, I’m sure. The Minister surprised you, or you surprised her, and she either tripped or you pushed her and her head hit the bed. You left her alone for a while, so I’d guess this happened before Aelune died. Well, left. Whatever. I bet it came as a shock when the lights went out and you realized what happened.”

Dienne was paler than normal. With a whimper she nodded.

“It was the mess in the room that gave you away,” he admitted. “It was a bad job to make it look like there was a struggle. Just a hint, I’ve never seen a real fight that knocked over every chair in a room. If it did happen, there’s no way it could be that rowdy and still leave a glass case open but not broken. Cutting the Minister’s throat was probably to make it look like a political killing, but the problem is that she’d been dead for a few minutes already. A slit throat sprays blood everywhere, it doesn’t pool underneath. So that was staged. Did you find the pass phrase afterwords?”

“Yes,” she murmured. She was trying not to look at anyone while all eyes were on her. The other two girls managed to look astonished, but Pascal wondered how much that was for show. One was a smuggler, the other a veteran and john. They’d seen worse.

Pascal nodded, “Don’t feel too bad. I don’t think it would have made much difference. I’ve got entrances for the other two. Deri was soaking wet when she came in, and I had a report from outside that someone from the Breathless Sigh came in. So you were the only one who could have started inside. Too much against you, doll.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she insisted at last. “I was just trying to keep my poor mother–”

“Mother, eh? Hmph, I’d figured on a sister for sure,” scoffed Pascal.

“If she hadn’t tried to jump me… Or if Aelune had just waited a few more minutes…”

She didn’t run. There was that, at least. She collapsed in her chair and wept. Pascal believed her, for what little that was worth. It probably was the first time she’d ever killed anyone and she hadn’t intended to. Might as well spit in the sea for all the difference it makes. He couldn’t even bring himself to feel sorry for her. She’d tried to cover it up with the indifference of a pro. If she hadn’t gotten caught, she would have killed again. There was no question in his mind.

When she didn’t move, Dansel grabbed her and tied her hands behind her back with a curtain tie. It would have to do.

---

Dienne did not show any signs of resistance, but Pascal was not reassured. No one could leave the Shell for a few more hours, so Torralene insisted they keep the girl here where everyone was watching. Pascal had to continue over the sounds of her sobbing.

“That brings us to the more difficult question. Which of you two is Aelune? I must admit,” he said to Torralene, “that I did not consider the question that it might be neither of them. I can exclude one, but cannot guarantee the other is Aelune.”

He’d swear her hair was grayer than it was when he first met her a few hours ago. The accountant was not cut out for the stresses of leadership. She nodded slowly, “One of them has to be…”

While Pascal mostly agreed with her, he didn’t like to rely on hope.

“Both of you changed from a man to a woman, and Vynne cannot do that. I considered the possibility that we have a third spirit here, or more likely, that a spirit or influence from another shard has gotten in.” The two women and the guards were listening eagerly, hanging on his every word, “But I believe in looking at simpler explanations first, such as that one of you is lying.”

With a theatrical glance at the ceiling that even his partner Brynn would approve of, he added, “Or that both of you are lying.”

That earned him sharp glances from everyone except Dienne, who couldn’t stop thinking about her fate. Pascal treasured the sudden fear in Deri and Prior. Both of them looked at Dienne while she cried.

“So, if I start with the idea that one of you is Vynne, then that means one of you is lying about having been a man.”

“No way,” insisted Prior, “I was a man - just ask that whore I was with.”

“So was I,” said Deri, not to be outdone. “But you can’t get to Elli or anyone else who knew me until it’s too late. But you’ve got to believe me.”

“All right, Deri, let’s take a look. You came in here soaking wet, which works with your story of being in the lake. We’re left with a few problems; you’re not sure how you managed to swim so far in a new body and fully clothed, and I’m not clear why your partner threw you overboard. You’re adapting to being a woman very quickly, insisting on the feminine form of your old name.”

“I have to–”

“I know, you have to get used to being a woman now. You’ve brought up your wife several times, which could be a distraction for us.” Prior nodded in agreement and smiled.

“But the first time I saw you was when you woke up from a quick nap. You woke up quickly, a survival trait for smugglers. You got your legs caught in your dress and nearly tumbled off the couch. It didn’t look rehearsed. At another point you leaned rather far forward and backed off when you realized the view you gave me.”

Deri turned aside for an instant before realizing where Pascal was going with this, and then turned back with eyes wide, “You believe me?”

“I think it’s more likely than not that you were a man.”

“No way,” Prior snapped as she leapt to her feet. “That means you think I’m–”

“That’s right,” Pascal responded. He stood his ground as Prior took a threatening step towards him. Her thin skirt restrained her stride and she nearly tore it open before it rode up on her thigh. She raised her hand before her in a fist.

“Is that supposed to convince me? A show of aggression? Please. If you’re going to box you need both hands. A dirty fighter wouldn’t raise them in the first place. A good fighter looks at the odds and doesn’t start a fight she can’t win. You don’t have a lot of experience fighting, I think.” He tried to look unconcerned but kept his eyes on her just in case.

She didn’t sit down but did drop her fist. “You’re wrong, but what have you got?”

Pascal grimaced briefly in acknowledgment before continuing.

“Your first mistake was your clothing. It doesn’t fit, but you have an excuse for that. The problem is that everyone else had, or claimed to have, a command to come here directly. They didn’t have the opportunity to get dressed first. Now, I’m willing to concede that a spirit might decide to change her usual commands rather than parade through town in the altogether, but it was enough to raise my hackles and get me thinking about it.

“Which got me looking more closely at your clothes. They’re too tight, but they’re too tight in, shall we say, interesting ways. You show off your assets nicely while appearing uncomfortable. You’d distract men - it worked on me for a few moments - while making women uncomfortable.”

“Give me a break,” she retorted. “This is all that was available. You think I want to look like one of them whores.”

“Actually, yes, I do. It serves your purpose,” he answered smoothly. “As does your general behavior, including comparing yourself to a whore. I’ve certainly known men who have used prostitutes, but a lot fewer who brag about it. Violence against them is common enough, but if you talk to their customers it seems no one is hitting them. Like your dress, I think your speech is designed to make people uncomfortable so they look away.”

“Oh come on now,” Prior exclaimed.

“I have to agree,” said Torralene. Prior stopped talking. If Torralene was taking a stand, she was in good shape.

Pascal had to bring things around soon. He knew how to do it, too.

“You tossed your hair.”

That shut everyone up, but more in confusion than agreement.

“When your hair got in your eyes you tossed your head at the same time as you brushed it back. That’s a skill that takes time to learn. Have you ever seen a man in a wig? He’ll blow it out of the way, toss his head back and forth, or push it back. Combining the motions, the toss and the hand, is something you learn when you have long hair.

“I know. You’re about to protest that you had long hair. Could be. A bit unusual for a veteran, but it could be. But you made a few other gestures, like putting your hand right over the hem of your skirt, that are typically feminine. Your masculine gestures were overt and aggressive, much easier to fake. Your feminine gestures were smaller and more unconscious.”

“You think a woman served with the Eighteenth?”

“No. I know none did. That was the one thing that threw me off. You knew where they hid. Still, so did I, and I wasn’t in the Eighteenth. Maybe that’s all you knew, and you were gambling I wouldn’t know be able to ask for more details. If so, it paid off. The Eighteenth was in Pinewood for a while, they even gathered some other refugees to them. I’d warrant soldiers picked up camp followers. So no, I don’t think any women served with the Eighteenth, but I’d bet strongly on some women being around them.”

“That’s not–”

“Alone, you can pick each piece apart. Together, it’s too much. It was a good gamble and you played it well,” Pascal tipped his head to her, “but you were a woman before the transformation. Do me a favor, one bullshit artist to another; tell me your name.”

She looked at him in surprise, smiled faintly, and then laughed sadly. “I should have some melodramatic speech here, shouldn’t I? ‘I would’ve gotten away for it if not for your incessant meddling.’ No, wait, it should be more of an ‘I’ll get my revenge on you yet.’ Perrin, Mr. Hunter, Perrin Maars. I’m the madame at the Breathless Sigh. It’s a pleasure.” She held out her hand to him and he took it and kissed it lightly. “Of course you’re right, my name is Vynne now. I may have missed getting the Stone, but I’m young again and it’ll be years before the spirit can give me any new commands. I think we’ll manage nicely, thank you very much.”

Torralene practically sobbed, “Then we’ve got it. Dansel, you watch that one,” she pointed to Dienne. “We’ll get Aelune ready for the ceremony. Vynne, you will leave, of course, as soon as the ceremony is complete.”

That confirmed what he’d thought.

“One second,” he interrupted. “I’ve got one last obligation to fulfill.” He spoke to Deri, or rather, to Aelune, “There’s a young man outside named Cambrian who went through a lot of effort to bring me here. He made me promise to mention him to you. Good kid, you should spend some time talking to him.”

She looked at him with fear in her eyes but nodded slowly. “I’ll do that.”

Torralene hurried her out of the room.

“I’m sure I won’t get to spend much time here,” Vynne said calmly to Pascal. “How about we take a quick look around before the ceremony?”

He took her arm and walked back into the Shell.

---

There wasn’t much of a crowd for the ceremony.

Only the people trapped inside the Shell were there. Twelve people to witness the return of magic.

As Cambrian had promised, the Crystal Shell at night was a different beast than during the day. As the sun set the crystal spikes faded and became translucent. They trapped the moonlight and reflected it into the auditorium below, allowing soft white light to bathe the chamber. It was lit as well as daylight in a meadow, and yet everything was in shadow.

Pascal had never seen its like.

He was sitting next to Vynne, who had changed into a better fitting dress she’d taken from the old Aelune. “I might as well get something out of this little trip,” she’d joked. Pascal wasn’t sure if Aelune had risque tastes or if Vynne had altered the dress around the neckline. She cut a striking figure, even if he was well aware how manipulative she was.

“You know Vynne hasn’t always lost,” he asked her as a way to open a conversation.

“How do you figure?”

“You’re here. This is Fall of Night. It’s not that hard to get rid of a spirit if you really want to. For that matter, if Vynne never won, why doesn’t she just leave and go elsewhere? They’re treating you kindly, I figure out of an agreement between Vynne and Aelune. If you win, you pretend to be Aelune and she gets another chance next time. And you only take the Stone as a woman so there are wizards available to keep everyone safe.”

She thought about it and gave him a half grin. “Doesn’t really help me at the moment, but that’s good to know. I hadn’t really thought about it before, but it makes sense.”

Torralene took the stage in a new business suit. She had a new necklace and had clearly showered and redone her makeup but the strain of the last day showed in her eyes and face. Pascal hoped she could have the quiet life she clearly wanted. She was determined to do the job she didn’t want, though.

At her gesture Aelune walked on to the stage. She wore a fine white dress that fell down just past her knees. She had a sliver tiara in her curly brown hair but it was easy to see how uncomfortable it made her. She held her head unnaturally stiff to ensure it wouldn’t fall off. Between her dress and low heels she took mincing steps and tried to smile at the small crowd.

Somewhere outside the Crystal Shell was a widow whose husband hadn’t died. Not really. Not yet. Pascal wondered if she was waiting in the crowd outside or if she was frantically looking for a man who would never come home. Would she ever know, or just think he met a smuggler’s end?

“On behalf of the Crystal Vale, we welcome the return of Aelune,” Torralene announced. With a slight touch of humor in her voice, she added, “I wondered why there was so little ceremony attached to her return, but now I think I get it.” She gestured to her audience, which barely filled a single row of seats.

“Aelune, I am pleased to present you with the Clear Stone.” She pulled a cloth off a small podium. The stone was well, if simply, named. At first it looked like a very large marble, or a bowling ball made of glass. The moonlight hit it and reflected off facets. For a moment Pascal wondered if it was made of diamond. It couldn’t be, it was too large.

He could feel the stone pulling him towards it, and could see the same hunger on Vynne’s face. Neither of them had time, as Aelune reached out her hand and placed it on the Stone.

“Thank you,” said Aelune in a clear voice, “and thank all of you for attending and helping me through a most unusual transition.” She stood easily on her heels now and turned her head smoothly without disturbing her jewelry. “We will have a lot to do in the next few days, but this has been a long day for all of us. I would like to address the crowd outside, but then I believe we should get some well deserved rest.” She smiled graciously and Pascal could see the guards respond with smiles of their own.

He scowled.

The lights were back on, glowing balls flowing like water along the walls. He broke away from the others as soon as they got outside, the roar of the crowd covering his exit. He did not go entirely unnoticed.

“Mr. Hunter, you did it!” An excited Cambrian rushed him. “She’s back. Thank you.” The old man, Martan, was with him. Despite his graying hair he was still a handsome man. The square jaw and athletic build that attracted Aelune in his youth had not entirely faded.

“Thank you, old friend–”

“Don’t. Whatever I owed you is done. I’m not coming back here.”

“I don’t understand,” the old man tilted his head, honestly puzzled.

“I caught one murderer tonight,” Pascal explained, “and gave another a palace. Worse, I helped her.”

Cambrian didn’t understand, but Martan did. “It wasn’t murder. She gave her body so Aelune could live, but she’s still a part of it.”

“Tell that to his widow.”

He could barely hear Aelune speak over the cheers of the crowd and that suited him fine. His anger burned and he did not look back. Deep inside, he feared he wasn’t angry at Aelune for killing Deri, but at himself for not taking the Clear Stone.

The Horror Within

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

500 < Short Story < 7500 words

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

There are things in this world that are both older and stronger than mankind, and if you are unfortunate enough to cross their path your life will change forever.

This story began by considering what might have happened if HP Lovecraft wrote TG fiction.

I don my armor and prepare for the night.

I have a duty to perform and it is mine alone. No one knows what I do for them. The night that I end my vigil, on that night begins the end of mankind. I do not know how much longer I can bear this horrible burden. Three times already I have tried to escape beyond the veil, but three times Charon has refused me and I remain stranded on this side of the River Styx.

I must not try to escape again.

I prepare to face the night.

My armor is not complete without my war paint. The paint I wear will determine the path I must walk tonight. Should I fail, I will not suffer alone. My failure would doom every person I have ever met alongside those I have not. Though they do not realize it, every race in the world depends on my choice, on my vigil.

And they must never know, let alone give me thanks.

My duty and my nightmare started on the same day, a time that is never far from my thoughts.

---

Cold winds blew fallen leaves across the trail. A few stray wisps of brown and red still clung to the trees like the torn remnants of a mourner’s dress. I walked the wooded trails with my coat pulled tightly around me. The dark clouds swirling above me matched my mood.

Although I can barely recall her face, I will never forget Lilith’s eyes. Crystal blue, like ice that had just started to melt. Those eyes were cold when she announced that we were through. She had entered my life like a storm, upending old certainties and birthing new dreams. Like a storm she left me and those dreams died. And her clear blue eyes never wavered.

I found some small consolation that dismal gray sky had the courtesy to not match those eyes. I was seeking solace in isolation by roaming the autumn hills across sparsely traveled and oft forgotten trails. The last thing I desired was a reminder of the fresh wound torn in my heart.

It was in this spirit of self-abnegation that I turned away from the trail to march up a steep hill against the brambles that stood silent sentinel. The brittle thorns tore at my hands and face, providing me a temporary solace from the pain in my heart. As the way got harder I pushed harder, glad for the distraction. I imagined myself an explorer, a pioneer from the earliest days of the New England settlements.

I was so different then.

Night was not yet a time of dread. I saw no need to hurry when the Sun passed its zenith. A night in the woods was little more than an adventure.

I tackled the hill like it would fight back.

And found a clearing that I wish with all my soul had remained hidden until time came to an end.

I did not know what awaited me then and was filled with misplaced elation. My first thought was to share the sight with my beloved Lilith. I reached for my phone to take a picture before stopping in disgust. My self loathing quickly gave way to renewed delight with my discovery. Pride, perhaps, that goeth before the fall.

An ancient church watched over the grove, its faded white paint still visible through the weeds and vines that wrapped it in a green choke hold. The tall steeple that might have alerted the outside world of its existence lay rotting in the ground to the side of the chapel. A hole in the roof extended along the side of the building, providing mute testimony to the violence of its fall. The cross lay stuck in the ground waiting for a penitent to drag it to Calvary.

It may seem inappropriate to take joy at so morose a sight, but I ask you to consider the position I was in at the time. I’d taken a reasonable skill in math and parlayed that into an accountant’s position at a small firm, and that looked the sum total of my future. It had proved insufficient to keep the girl of my dreams. With this unexpected discovery I saw a potential previously undreamed. Momentary fame, for certain, but perhaps also a chance to use my meager savings to purchase this land and make of it an attraction.

These may seem small dreams, but they are far more than I now possess. Looking back on them now is near enough to crush me.

No. The weight of memory can not break me. I must continue my vigil. My penance for the sins of mankind.

Filled with unjustified resolve I marched through the overgrown dried grass to the entrance of the fallen chapel. The door hung futilely to its frame by a single hinge, swaying open as though to welcome a destitute stranger. The vestibule inside was stained by a thousand rainfalls, mold growing rampant over walls that may once have been sacred.

Further inside, mottled light dappled the pews from the few pieces of stained glass that still clung to their nearly empty frames. Blood red and corpse blue flickers mixed with the fading autumn sun. Yet that light shone on an interior that had suffered far less damage than its years of neglect would justify. The dirty wood floors were not warped and the walls were sturdy. The stage where a minister once performed for his flock patiently awaited a new troupe of actors. A bright spot on the wall, an inverse shadow, testified to where the cross once hung.

Perhaps it should have been the shadow of the cross, but it was the building interior that gave me hope. The entrance was a loss, but the rest of the structure was intact and could be rebuilt.

Had I only stopped there, how different might my life have been?

Alas for us all that I did not. I resolved to explore the grounds while light remained, content to sleep in the fallen house of God should it take too long.

Headstones grew wild in the grass behind the church, several of them crushed beneath the fallen steeple. There was neither plan nor order to where they sprouted; they may have fallen haphazardly from the hands of a passing giant, left behind where they lay. The stones were scratched and stained. What names they may once have held were as forgotten as the glade and church had been.

A stone crypt stood silent watch near the woods at the outer limits of the graveyard. Its iron gate was securely shut to guard against any intrusion from the living, while the back corner had collapsed to put the lie to its promise. The fallen stone lay scattered outside the tomb, making it appear that it was those interred within who had made their exit.

My curiosity overcame me and I approached that ill omened tomb. The name that was once inscribed over the mantle was cut deep into the stone to endure long years. Yet no craftsman’s art could survive the crumbling of the facade; the center stone had fallen and no longer rested nearby. Save that the name began with a ‘W’ and ended in an ‘r’, I can tell you no more.

A strange symbol was inscribed atop the name, and like the name it was mostly missing. Only the top of the symbol remained, the apex of a triangle with an arc above it. Though I racked my brain I could not match it to anything I had seen before. It was no symbol of the Church I knew, and I wondered then as I wonder now if that is why the crypt was placed on the outside of the graveyard, so it would be furthest from the house of God.

---

I do not know what fey spirit overtook me, but I circled to the rear of the crypt to see what lay inside. Looking back I cannot recall what I expected to see or why I even thought to look. Movies had prepared me to see a sarcophagus standing in the middle of an otherwise bare room, or to see walls lined with individual tombs like a medieval morgue.

Nothing prepared me for what I saw.

The stone walls were lined with deep carvings that had stood the test of time. They reminded me of ancient mariners’ sea charts, covered with odd lines that had no apparent purpose, but of undeniable importance to the trained eye. I tried to discern their pattern, but I grew dizzy as I stared at the walls.

In truth, I spent but little time on the walls, for it was the floor that commanded my attention. It was missing.

Broken stone tiles descended into a sinkhole in the tomb’s center. A bare foot of floor remained around the perimeter, but it then fell away into darkness.

And stairs led down.

Were the stairs built with the crypt, or was the crypt built over them? Did the builders even know they were there?

That had to have crossed my mind. It must have, though I cannot recall thinking it at the time.

I was so eager. I was so wrong.

I knelt on the stone to peer down into the darkness. I felt the damp and cold stone steps. The harsh granite was solid beneath my fingers. It was crudely carved in contrast to the smooth marble of the crypt. I was sure the stairs had a different maker than the crypt.

A moment of sanity followed and I backed away from the vertiginous descent. Whatever lurked in the depths would wait until I was better prepared to face it.

Stone cold blue eyes swam in front of me. The echo of a biting voice issued forth from the stone, or perhaps from the tunnel itself. “All you want to be is a small town accountant. You’re just not man enough for me.” Those words compelled me then and have haunted me every night since.

Shaking my flashlight to be sure it worked I reversed my course and plunged into the dark gloom of the tunnel. The earth closed around me as I traded the shadows of the crypt for the midnight of the catacombs. The deep gloom was warmer than the chilly air above and it made my increased isolation feel welcoming. Cut off from the pain of the world above I squeezed into myself as I crouched low to avoid hitting my head on the dirt above me.

I pondered the men who carved these steps. They were smaller than me, as I needed to duck while descending to keep my head safe. Yet their legs must have been curiously long, as I found the steps uncomfortably steep.

I stumbled more than once and caught myself only by bracing my hands on the solid earth in front of me. That smooth tunnel had never known the passage of root or worm.

I have cursed myself endlessly for not seeing the signs that were so plain in front of me.

I have more important tasks before me. Tonight I only have time for memory, not for the indulgence of self-loathing.

I’d voyaged a few hundred feet below the crypt when the steep tunnel opened into a wide passage. I scanned my flashlight across a chamber with a rough stone floor. The stone was the same roughly carved granite that made the stairs. The ceiling overhead was still uncomfortably low but I could move about with little more than a stoop to my shoulders.

It took a few moments to form a picture of the space around me. I could only shine my light on it one spot at a time. The chamber was a poor mimic of the church so far over my head. The stone floor was rectangular and seemed suitable for pews, though there were none. A raised area forward from me would serve as a stage, and a large boulder could be a debased pulpit.

With fear roiling my heart I raised the beam of light to the far wall. Where the church still featured the shadow of a missing cross, here there was a symbol such as no man had ever seen. A triangle was surrounded by four large arcs, like a Japanese chrysanthemum. There was once a figure inside the triangle, but the deep gouge of a determined chisel eliminated it. I could not tear my eyes from that symbol as my mind filled in ever more hideous candidates for what had once been carved in its center.

In that silence I heard a dreadful pounding. It took a moment to realize I was its source. The blood coursing through my veins was the only sound in the oppressive darkness. I was powerless to move away, held in agonizing contemplation.

To flee or press on.

I wanted both, each with the whole of my being. I did not know where I was but I knew I was not welcome. The bowels of the earth are not home for men.

At the same time I felt the siren call of fame. Should I find evidence of some lost tribe of primitive men beneath our soil, what future might I build for myself? I dreamed of seeing Lilith bitter that she left me, and it was that vision that made me force my feet onward.

To my everlasting doom.

An opening beckoned beneath that scarred symbol. Too small for me to pass through even crouched, I approached the front of the profane church on my knees as a penitent. Crawling on my belly towards an ancient sacristy I nudged the light in front of me, its beam circumscribing my vision.

Only when I was fully engaged did the danger become apparent. If the passage narrowed even slightly I would be lost. For that matter I was completely dependent on the batteries in my flashlight. I rested briefly to catch my unsettled breath.

I heard a sound ahead of me and pressed towards it. Water. Blessed flowing water such as I have heard and dismissed every day of my life. But in the abyss any sound is welcome and water was the very breath of life.

Death and life are inextricably linked. What was for me the breath of life carried with it the death of all.

I soon wet my hands in a trickle of a stream as the passage widened and allowed me to crawl. The water tasted of clay and sewage, and I spit it out as soon as it touched my lips. I heard a splash downstream and turned my light in that direction, thinking to see an albino fish or some stranger sight.

What I saw was stranger than I’d ever imagined.

It froze me to my bones.

---

It moved through the dark tunnel with an ease I could never match. It was the size of a small child, but with a bulbous head and scales growing along its arms. Then it looked at me.

That face is eternally seared in my mind. It creeps into my daydreams and I wake screaming when it invades my nightmares. The elongated jaw and sloped forehead put me in mind of nothing so much as a crocodile. The eyes held the same mercy that predatory reptile shows a fish, but with a much greater intelligence.

It padded slowly towards me, its gait inhumanly smooth in the dark and narrow stream.

“Stay back,” I called out in a quavering tone, my voice falling flat into the dark void.

Whether it understood me or not it gave no sign, but continued its methodical advance. I backed up, knowing I had no chance to escape through the narrow tunnel I’d used to get there. My heart pounded in my chest until I feared it would burst.

And then I learned we were not alone.

Another of the creatures was there.

It grabbed my leg, its cold clammy touch wrapped about my ankle and held as tight as any manacle.

I yelled.

The darkness swallowed my screams without so much as an echo.

Never before or since have I suffered such panic. To truly know fear you must also know hope, and I no longer have any. My hopes were consumed in the deep dark along with my screams.

I tried to flee, but the creature’s grip was not easily broken and I tumbled into the stream. My light flew from my grasp and rolled away. The beam illuminated nothing but dirt as the water trickled past me.

In retrospect I see losing my flashlight as a rare stroke of luck. No matter how terrible the attack is in my imagination, I am certain the reality was far worse.

---

I must have lost consciousness at some point, for the next thing I remember is a dry room away from the stream where I fell. To this day I cannot tell you what that room looked like as I never once saw it.

Not only was there no light, there was an oppressive darkness that was a force in itself. This was not the mere absence of light, but its actual opposite pressing on my straining eyelids.

A slow hideous scratching sound roused me but I could not discern its source.

Stumbling about I tried to find the limits of my cell. It was a rounded stone chamber a few arm lengths wide. Neither door nor bars revealed themselves to my probing fingers.

The endless scratching stopped as I moved about and resumed when I paused. I could not get rid of the suspicion that I was not alone.

“Who’s there? Who are you?”

There was no answer.

“Are you – one of them?” I asked hesitantly.

There was no answer.

I continued like that until I grew tired. In truth I had nothing else to do and talking to my silent and possibly imagined companion kept the creeping horror of my situation at bay.

I found I could not stay silent long before panic crowded around me. To avoid giving in I would concentrate on breathing slowly and resume conversing with my silent and yet surprisingly effective interrogator. I do not know how long I continued that pattern before it changed.

Stone scraping against stone deafened me. After untold time hearing nothing but my own voice and small scratches an actual noise was more than I could bear. Bile rose in my throat when a wet claw grasped my leg. I tried to lash out at my captor only to find my hand grabbed as well.

My struggles were pointless and I was pulled down and held in place. I thought there were at least 3 attackers but in the darkness and confusion I could not be sure. They pried open my mouth, their scaly hands reaching into my throat and leaving an acidic aftertaste. I tried to bite but their grip was inhumanly strong. They poured a thick liquid down my throat and I swallowed the milky fluid reflexively.

As soon as the foul tasting drink trickled down my throat my captors released me and I heard the scraping of stone again. I tried to pursue them but could find neither hide nor hair of the passage they’d used. I soon heard the gentle scrape of my companion keeping out of my way.

“You’re still here?” I questioned. “Are you the same one, or one of the others? What did you do to me?”

There was still no answer.

My growing hunger and thirst fled with whatever it was they forced into my stomach. In fact I was bloated and soon fatigue overcame me. I ran my hands along the rough walls containing me until I could do so no longer and collapsed onto the rough dirt floor and fell into slumber.

I dreamed of blue eyes and sunlight.

I awoke to neither.

The darkness that had so long been my companion was still there. My useless eyes saw the same things whether they were open or closed. But I had been moved. I rested on stone instead of dirt.

I discovered my mistake as soon as I moved. I was not on the floor, but a raised platform of stone. I fell hard to the dirt below.

The slow scratching noise I’d grown so accustomed to hearing was still present.

“Are you still here?” I yelled as I tried to lunge at the noise.

There was no answer.

Neither did I find my watcher.

“What did you do? My voice…” I blurted out.

My voice was strange to me, changed from the resonant tone I’d heard all my life. With the stone swallowing echoes I could not be sure exactly what was wrong, but it sounded higher, almost a tenor. I felt clumsy, my legs were weaker than they were, but I put that off to my confinement and lack of exercise.

I paced around my new cell and found it sealed as tightly as the last. The roof was taller, I could stand up straight for the first time in my confinement. The walls were more rounded but there was no exit. The pedestal on which I’d awakened was the only furniture in the room. It was worked stone some 2 or 3 feet high. It was intricately carved, and I tried to find the meaning with my fingers.

It took time, but I had nothing else.

It was a map, one I knew and yet did not. North and South America, familiar to my fingers from childhood jigsaw puzzles. The contours were close, but not quite right.

Were my captors poor mapmakers, or did they lack better knowledge? No, I realized, that wasn’t it. Continents shift. This map was old; they knew the world above before Clovis. They must have been driven below ground by the men who crossed the Bering Straight, or perhaps even earlier. So long below ground, so long hating mankind.

My companion stayed out of my way. I could hear it move every time I shifted my position. Disturbed by my new voice and my new thoughts I didn’t speak to it this time.

When the urge to pound on the walls overcame me I forced myself to imagine my escape instead. I could see my home and hear the plaudits of my peers as I presented evidence of this ancient burrow. I took joy in imagining Lilith lamenting that I was no longer hers. The tears in those deep blue eyes lifted my spirits.

Such simple pleasure I took in those dreams, pleasure now lost to me.

When I heard the stone scrape again I knew what was coming. I struggled, but it was as fruitless this time as last. My captors again forced some foul thick liquid down my throat and again I swallowed it.

I quickly fell into slumber and awoke on a stone platform. Was it the same one?

I stepped off it carefully and found a stone floor beneath it.

“Is anyone there?” I asked.

I stopped. It was not my voice. I felt my throat. It wasn’t mine.

My hands were wrong. I could feel a weight on my chest, and I grabbed it. Them.

Despite my best efforts to restrain myself I was overcome by panic. I grabbed at my crotch and found that missing too.

I yelled at the heavens, but they could not hear me through the weight of stone overhead.

I pounded the floor and the walls but they took no more notice of a girl’s fists than they did of a man’s. I lashed out hoping to hit my captor only to smash my arm against the pedestal and feel pain lance through me.

My self injury brought my tirade to a screeching halt. My screams turned to tears. I drew into myself on the stone floor, curled into a fetal crouch and wept bitterly. Crystal blue eyes and an echoed thought, “You’re just not man enough for me,” turned my tears to sarcastic laughter.

I don’t remember what I did or said next. I think my mind broke for a time. I do not even remember my captors returning, but in some disjointed fashion I awoke again.

And this time I saw light.

---

I clear my head and resume my preparation. The setting sun gives me a time limit as I ready myself for the evening’s dread task. My armor consists of a short skirt with a slit up the left leg and a scoop necked blouse. I turn to a vanity covered in make-up to prepare my paint.

Despite my urgency I cannot turn my memories away from that first day when I emerged into the dim and shadowy crypt and saw the church in a new light. The fallen steeple pointed right at me, as though it had leapt of its own accord from its housing to slay this awful tomb. Then as now I regret it failed in its task. It falls to me to bear the curse for all mankind, and I know sympathy with the cross.

The first buds of new leaves were on the trees, speaking to how much time I’d spent trapped below ground. My clothes were the same ones I’d arrived in, now stiff with sweat and dirt and fitting me poorly. The legs of my jeans dragged on the ground and my feet rattled in my boots. My shirt swamped my frame and did nothing to contain the shifting mounds of flesh on my chest.

Lacking any other options I sought the trail I’d followed back in the autumn of the year - and how I hoped it was only the last year - to return to the town I once left.

A puddle became a mirror and I saw myself for the first time. The face looking back at me was a stranger. There were the barest hints of who I was, if you knew what to look for, and I resolved to hang onto that. But the biggest surprise was the eyes. Ice blue eyes stared back at me.

If I thought my horror was complete I was in for a great disappointment. As I awkwardly walked down the hill in my ill fitting boots I realized I was not alone. I felt it shift. Inside me.

In my stomach.

In my womb.

Though not the slightest bulge showed, I knew with absolute certainty that those creatures sought a way to the surface. They wish to displace men and they may succeed should they be born into our world. I have become the vessel of mankind’s defeat.

I sought an escape. A final escape.

Whether it was bravery or cowardice I cannot decide. Steeling my will I found a steep hill and flung myself from it in anger.

It worked.

I know it worked. I heard my neck snap. The last sound I would ever hear.

Until I heard another.

I woke up with a bearded man hovering over me, his truck parked nearby.

“Love of God,” he exclaimed, “Stay still, darlin’. You’re lucky to be alive. Ambulance is on the way.”

Tears rolled quietly down my cheeks without my volition. Though I have tried suicide since, I knew then that the sweet relief of death would be ever denied me.

And God have mercy on my soul, I saw the only other way.

“No,” I whispered to him. “Please, no hospitals. No police. I’m fine. Please take me with you.”

I licked my lips while speaking and turned to let my shirt fall open slightly. I saw his eyes move away from my face, just as mine would have once.

Whatever those things in the ground were, they made a mistake. Their spawn grows within me but I am still human. They are patient, but we are greedy. A human child will take all that my body provides and leave the other to languish and wait. And so it was that night that I did things that killed my soul but saved mankind.

And so it is still. I left another child at the convent. I hope the babe has not been touched by the shadow inside me, but that is all the concern I can spare her. My mission allows me no time to be a parent to those I leave behind.

I put on eye shadow, mascara, and lip gloss. My war paint. It shall hide my pain as I stand vigil in the bars and pool halls of my latest haunt and seek a man to forestall our race’s doom for another nine months.

If I can find the right man, I will take his support. I want to have a place to live and money to live on, at least for a few months. Then I will depart and move on, leaving him with a memory of eyes that are icy blue.

Theseus and the Minotaur - 1 of 2

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

Fiction

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

So you know your ancient myths do you?

Are you sure?

Really sure?

Read on and find out.

THE LABYRINTH OF CRETE

“I sing the tragedy of Theseus, son of Aegeus, who is called the Pride of Athens,” cried the storyteller.

A silver haired old man limped into the agora, the town square, announcing his story to attract custom and coins. He wore a long yellow and green tunic, the colors of a scholar. His cloak was gray and faded, the dark patterned border barely visible. Both garments were threadbare. Their age and disrepair told a story the crowd could read with ease. They knew their visitor for an easy mark, a philosopher fallen on hard times.

Clothes lie. Their stories are no more true than the men who tell them.

“Fie, old man. Why would we wish to hear such ancient stories? Why should we hear tales that glorify our foe, Athens?” The protester stood in contrast to the old man. Tall, young, and hearty, his sun darkened skin told of long hours laboring in the fields. His tunic was only one color, blue, but it was well cared for.

The old man’s disappointment showed on his face, but he’d known he faced an uphill battle when he arrived. Athens was far from popular in the Peloponnese.

An olive pit flew by the old man’s head, making a loud crack when it hit the stone paving behind him. More followed, thrown more for show than for malice. Some boys loitering nearby, given leave by a respected farmer’s heckling, decided to have some fun by expressing their distaste with the storyteller’s choice physically. The farmer raised no objection to the boys’ antics, though he resented losing his neighbors’ attention to them.

Violence was never far from away in the crowded cities. Though no one was seriously trying to hurt him yet, the old man knew the tide could turn in an instant. When a boy picked up a stone, he knew he had to gain control or flee.

“You only know the story as it is told in Athens, then?” His voice was clear and steady, belying his age and frailty. “If so, you have never heard the true story of Theseus. This story is held in secret that the shame of Athens is never known. And yet,” he paused dramatically.

Neither olives nor stones flew, though they were still held at the ready. “And yet I know the secret story, and I can tell it to you.”

“What is this secret, old man? What shame does Athens hide?” the heckler asked. The boys held their arms, waiting for his approval. The farmer was back in the lead, in control of the mob, and gloried in his position.

The storyteller raised his hand, palm outward, and lowered it slowly in a gesture for attention. “I offer the true story of Theseus, how he got through the labyrinth to fight the Minotaur, and the reason he rejected the kingship of Athens and gave birth to the demos of that city. Learn the truth. Learn that Theseus is not the hero he claims.” Another dramatic pause as he spread both arms out, palms up. “Would you hear more?”

All eyes turned towards the farmer, waiting on his decision as a proxy for their own. The heckler paused, torn between desires.

He tossed a coin to the old man, the head of Artemis the Hunter on one side of it. “Aye storyteller, I would hear more.” He’d made his decision.

Relieved, the storyteller took his seat, settling his tunic about him. While he sat down, others tossed him their coins and took their place in front of him. The old man winked at some boys who just a moment ago were throwing olive pits at him as they sneaked in to listen without the courtesy of a coin. He had coins enough today.

He hid his eyes behind his hands, then lowered them to view the crowd. He leaned forward seriously, and began his story.

Î¸

The ship was visible on the horizon when dawn broke over Athens. Both ranks of the bireme’s oars were out and its sail was up. It moved slowly but inexorably towards the harbor. The ship’s sail was black.

A woman wailed. The man next to her, her husband or brother, was shamed by her display. He escorted her away, his face fierce. Word spread from man to man, “The Black Ship is here.” The crowd dispersed, each man went to his home or at least away from the sight of the sea.

One man alone stood watching the Black Ship, his noble profile lit by Eos’ gentle beams. He was Theseus, Prince of Athens. Raised by his mother in Troezen, he had but recently come to his father’s city. He won the love of Athens by killing the Bull of Marathon and driving off the king’s consort Medea, and then by outwitting and killing the Pallantides when they tried to ambush him.

During his year in Athens he’d acted every inch the prince and the hero. He made a great effort to always show his best face. He did not know what the Black Ship meant to the city but he would not display either fear or ignorance. Instead he showed his bravery by putting on a stoic mein and standing solitary vigil as the ship sailed closer. Still clad in a short exercise robe for his morning run, he made a striking figure silhouetted against the dawn’s light.

The men of Athens saw his resolute stance. “How brave our prince, that he faces our shame so forthrightly,” some said. Others spoke of his valor, “See the fierceness in his eyes as he stares down the Black Ship. For our honor, he would renew the war on his own, were he able.” But this was Athens, where men would argue over where the Sun rises in the morning. So some said, “Observe this callous prince, who knows he will not be sacrificed for our shame. Instead he gloats as doom approaches.”

The noble prince took no notice of the crowd, but held his vigil in silence until the ship entered the harbor. Conscious always of his dignity, he left slowly and with his head upright so all could see there was no fear on his face. Theseus was cousin to Hercules, and determined to live up to the heroic burden placed upon him.

Before seeing his father, he had the palace slaves change him. Scrubbed down, oiled, and covered in a purple cloak, he sought audience with King Aegeus.

The king was in his private counsel chamber. Though it was called a private room, the king was not alone. Counselors, a few courtiers, and a larger number of servants surrounded him. Knowing the importance of his persona, Theseus spoke formally. “My king, I bear news from the harbor. The Black Ship has arrived and has caused much distress. I observed it enter the harbor, and can confirm it carries neither arms nor soldiers.”

The king stood, saying “It carries arms, my son. It carries the word of King Minos of Crete.” He walked his son to his private balcony, where none would overhear and they might speak in private. “King Minos’s son, Androgeus, died beneath the feet of a bull fifteen years ago at the Panathenic Games. Crete blamed us, launched its ships in fury and brought us to disgrace.”

In private with his father, Theseus let his mask slide. He stuttered “But, but, surely the ships of Athens…”

“Were as wind before Crete’s armada. The riches of Crete are no myth, Theseus, and they have a navy as strong as the world has ever seen. For the life of Androgeus, Athens itself was forfeit.”

“Yet we still stand,” the boy prince responded, finding his center again.

“Yet we still stand,” agreed his father. “But at a terrible price. For their forbearance, we must make tribute every Great Year, to be carried on the Black Ship.”

The Great Year came every seven years. This would be the third time Athens must pay the tribute. “And what is the nature of this shameful tribute we must pay?”

King Aegeus was pleased at his son’s perspicacity. “Seven youths and seven maidens, the cream of Athens’ crop, must present themselves to King Minos at the Palace of Knossos in Crete. At his command, they will be fed to his labyrinth to be destroyed by the great beast, the minotaur.”

Even alone with his father Theseus would not admit to a lack of knowledge. He was more than a prince, he was a hero. His legend grew each day, and he would not detract from his glory by conceding ignorance.

He knew of Crete, naturally, and had heard of King Minos. Of the minotaur and the labyrinth he knew nothing. His mother had taught him to read as well as any in Athens, for that talent is well regarded in their city. Theseus called for scrolls and read late into the night.

He learned. The minotaur was the child of Queen Pasiphae, King Minos’s wife, and Zeus, the King of the Gods, who had taken the form of a majestic bull. King Minos should have waited until the child was born, and then killed his wife and exiled the boy. Instead, he had the legendary inventor Daedalus construct a labyrinth of unimaginable complexity. The minotaur, a magnificent man with the head of a bull, was trapped in it. King Minos would send his captives and enemies into the maze to be killed by the creature. None ever returned.

The next morning the youth of Athens assembled in the agora. King Aegeus spoke while his men prowled the crowd seeking the seven fairest men and girls of the city. “It is with great sadness I carry out this duty, the cost of which must fall upon your heads. From your number we shall send seven men and seven girls to Crete, there to -”

“Six men,” interrupted Theseus. “We shall send six men from their number father, for I shall be the seventh.”

“My son! Why?”

“For the honor of Athens. Let none say we do not send the very best among us.” Theseus’s calm, in contrast to his father’s loss of composure, endeared him to the city even more than his sacrifice alone. He was just what they wanted in a hero.

“No. That’s not,” stammered the King, shaken. “My son, you are too recently returned to us. Your heroism is beyond question. Do not do this.”

“I must do this. But I shall return,” he announced proudly, the morning sun lighting his brow, “for I do not intend to die away from Athens. I shall go to Crete as tribute, but I shall return a victor. I will descend into the Great Labyrinth, and there I will fight and defeat the minotaur.”

The crowd erupted as Theseus raised his arms in triumph. Even Hercules had never received such an ovation.

“I will return in triumph aboard the very ship that carries us to King Minos. To let all know my triumph, I will change the sails to white on my return.” The spirit of victory descended on him. Only the actual deed remained.

Î¸

An eager crowd watched the Black Ship sail into the harbor of Crete. Murmurs spread like wildfire when they caught sight of Theseus. A bright green cloak separated the black tunic of the tributes from the ebon darkness of his hair. His noble bearing was enhanced by his clothing and the deference the sailors showed him. He held his hand out to stop the approaching guards, “Hold. My fellow tributes will disembark first.”

The guards stopped before his commanding presence while the crowd whispered in surprise. They had gathered for a celebration, a reminder of their glorious victory over Athens. They came to witness their foe’s humiliation, not to see him order guards about. Already, a few admired this prisoner’s audacity. They wondered how their victim came to be more than a prisoner.

It had been a difficult journey from the day they left Athens. They were plagued by ill winds that turned to storms two days later. Tossed by the winds, a torrential wave blew the ship’s navigator overboard. Without an instant’s hesitation, Theseus dove into the churning seas and swam to the drowning man. With great strength and surety, he carried the man back to the ship. In gratitude for his rescue, the captain awarded Theseus a green mariner’s cloak to wear over the tribute’s black tunic. The storms broke just as he tied the cloak over his shoulder. The sailors considered it a sign and treated Theseus and the other tributes with respect for the rest of the journey.

The sailors became so fond of the prince that a day away from Crete, the captain pulled him aside, “You’ve been blessed by the sea, and I don’t want to see you torn apart by that beast. I can tell King Minos you were washed over during the storms and claimed by the Gods. You can join us as a sailor. The King will never know.”

“Never, Captain,” he replied fiercely. Mellowing only slightly he explained, “You and your crew have my thanks for treating us well and for the honor you have extended to me. Duty and glory propel me in the same direction, and I shall gainsay neither. To Athens I have pledged my life, and to Olympus I have pledged my deeds.”

The captain shook his head sadly. Glory was a siren’s call. For each hero who reached its port, a hundred were dashed on the rocky shores. For him, it was enough that he reached Crete.

So it was that the tributes, buoyed by Theseus’s example, stepped proudly off the ship. None matched his commanding presence, but neither did any show cowardice.

“Now, you will escort us to the king please. Step quickly, we’re in a hurry.” Theseus continued to command the guards. Taking orders from a prisoner angered the lead guard, and he might have struck the young prince save for the crowd.

Admiration had spread through the mob. They were not jeering, but cheering the tributes. Fearful the crowd might turn on them, the guards escorted the tributes with haste.

Basking in their admiration, Theseus looked for any opportunity to increase his standing further. The Gods provide for the prepared mind. A young boy, jostled by the shifting crowd, fell into their path. A junior guard ran to kick the child back into place. As soon as he lifted his foot, Theseus pushed him over, yelling “Hold.”

The guards raised their spears towards Theseus, who stood poised and unruffled. Even unarmed, he was more than equal to a single guard. He had no chance against seven. The dramatic gesture and the roar of the crowd was his only defense.

He placed the child on his shoulders. “This young boy merely wished the honor of seeing his King up close, didn’t you lad?” The boy nodded, and the crowd roared.

“Come along then, and meet him with us.” He lifted the child high over his head, so all the crowd could see him.

Amid the crowd’s cheers, Theseus resumed his march. The tributes were watching him closely and followed their prince’s lead as soon as he began moving. This left the guards in the rear, only realizing the procession was moving when it was already under way. To all appearances, Theseus approached King Minos as an envoy accompanied by an honor guard. The crowd ate it up, by now entirely on Athens’ side.

King Minos had been watching the display from the beginning and was badly out of sorts as his Athens’ sacrifices approached. As soon as they were at the base of his dais he shouted over the crowd, “Men of Crete, see the price any who oppose us must pay. This is the cream of the city of Athens, come here to be fed to the dread minotaur. So perish all my enemies.”

The crowd roared again. This time the fickle mob cheered their king.

Theseus examined his opponent. King Minos was bald with a startlingly large nose. His narrow eyes glared down cruelly on Theseus. In his favor, the king had a commanding voice, perfect bearing, and the build of a warrior. Behind him and to the right was his wife, Queen Pasiphae. Of an age with the King, she was a startling beauty, and Theseus could see why Zeus himself would once have seduced her. Her large sea green eyes alone would make her a treasure, but when combined with smooth black hair, ivory skin, and wide lips, she was a beauty for the ages. On the other side of the king was his daughter, Ariadne, every bit as lovely as her mother but with the fresh bloom of youth.

“Tell us your names,” the king commanded, “that all of Crete will know those who sacrifice themselves for the honor of Athens.” He was playing to the crowd now, giving orders so Theseus’s glory would reflect back on him.

Theseus stepped forward, but instead of addressing the king, he lowered the child off his shoulders. “That,” he said pointing, “is your king. You are a Cretan, and should respect him when you are introduced. Bow to him.”

The child bowed uncertainly while the crowd laughed.

“Now on with you,” Theseus chuckled, “You’ve met your King, and may remember that into your dotage.” Before Minos could issue another command, Theseus looked at him and announced, “I am Theseus, Prince of Athens and son of Poseidon, God of the Sea.”

The crowd gasped. The King choked. Princess Ariadne smiled glowingly at him.

“What say you?” Minos glowered. “You are a Prince of Athens but claim not the parentage of the King. How comes a God’s child to take the place of King Aegeus’s son?” Theseus knew he had hit a nerve. As he intended.

Theseus stood proud, the other tributes arrayed as attendants behind him. “My mother knew both King Aegeus and Poseidon the night I was conceived. Both claim me as their son, and I claim both as my father, and let none gainsay me. Through one I am Prince of Athens, and through the other I am part divine and cousin to Hercules himself.”

“I deny you,” Minos responded bitterly. “That you are a prince of Athens I grant, and therefore you are a son of Aegeus. That you have the blood of the sea within you I deny. Let us see the proof of your claim.”

The king stood suddenly. With a single gesture his guards grabbed Theseus. The king marched back to the docks with them in tow. Two guards held the prince, while two more kept their spears high. Theseus tried to maintain his dignity. The crowd cheered weakly, puzzled by this turn of events.

By the water, Minos removed a ring from his hand and threw it far into the sea.

“Throw him in. Should his head break the surface before that ring, kill him.”

Theseus grabbed a quick breath and made a large splash an instant later.

Î¸

The waters closed around him as he sank into the Crete’s harbor. His cloak tangled around his arms and he had to waste precious seconds stripping it off. With powerful strokes he propelled himself down to the floor of the harbor, hoping against all hope to find the king’s ring before he needed to breathe again.

He felt the sandy floor more than saw it. He could barely make out shapes in the dim light, but his hands reached a solid surface. He was cold, aching, and his lungs were on fire. If he had somehow grabbed the ring now, he didn’t think he could survive to reach the surface. For a moment, he felt despair. His story would end in failure. The name Theseus would not be remembered by even the meanest singers.

Surrendering at last, he released his breath.

A bubble of air drifted up in front of him and out of reach.

He waited to die.

He waited some more.

He didn’t die.

He heard soft and feminine laughter from somewhere behind him. A pale light illuminated the world without color. A woman floated effortlessly in the water. He’d never seen her or her like before, but knew what she was. She was a Nereid, a water nymph.

Long dark hair floated freely in the water surrounding her. Wide eyes stared at Theseus over a small nose and mouth; a beautiful, wondrous triangular face. She only wore a strophion, a band of cloth women normally wore beneath the tunic, without a tunic over it.

“Do not fear, little cousin.” Her melodic voice sounded in his ears. “I will not let you drown. Not yet, at any rate.”

At last convinced he was not dying, Theseus took some time to right himself. He got his feet on the ground before responding. “You call me cousin, but I do not know you. I am -”

“Theseus. I know. And I am Thetis.”

“Thetis?” he asked, more than said.

“So I am.” Still floating a few feet above the ground, she bowed to Theseus. Her hair floated up away from her, exposing her magnificent bosom to him. A stray current pushed her forward, making the movement even more pronounced. Theseus was hard pushed to stay upright amid this vision of grace and beauty.

Thetis regarded him closely, and he thought he saw hunger in her eyes. The appetites of nymphs are well known, but so too are the dangers of approaching them unbidden. He took a deep breath to regain control and tried a neutral line of conversation, “Why do you call me cousin, beautiful Thetis?”

“My father is brother to your grandfather,” she answered. It was bad luck to speak the name of a Titan, though Theseus had not realized that applied to a Goddess too. “Did you not believe your own claim that Poseidon is your father?”

“Of course I do,” he protested. Thetis was laughing at him, he noticed as he prepared to launch a defense of his heritage. She playfully darted over and around him, dancing on currents he could barely feel. His best efforts to take control were failing, so he decided to change his tack and be direct. “Gentle cousin, I fear I must ask a favor of you.”

She laughed gently, “Of course you must. You are seeking the ring Minos threw into the harbor. Go ahead and look. I will not let you drown while I am here.” Her voice grew hard, “If you want more from me, you must pay my price.” She gazed at him, breathing heavily.

The colorless undersea world was strange to him. A stone anchor cut long ago lay half buried to his side, beyond which was a sunken coracle. To his other side drifted a torn sail, slowly sailing below the surface of the harbor, pushed now by currents instead of wind. The detritus of Crete was scattered through the harbor floor, among the crabs and clams.

It was difficult to even move, let alone search. His feet sank into the mire when he tried to walk. Swimming was easier, but he couldn’t look for the ring at the same time. While he struggled, Thetis swam nearby, laughing and watching him.

“Most lovely Thetis,” Theseus decided to take a chance, “it would surely take me a long time to search the harbor, and that would keep you occupied for far too long. Were you to seek the ring instead, we might find more pleasurable ways to fill our time.” He reached for her, but she darted away from him with disgust on her face. For a moment he feared her protection would fade.

She never vanished from sight and soon she drifted back to him. Theseus tried but failed to read her face, so conflicted was she. “Thank you for not deserting me to the water’s tender mercies, great Thetis,” he said to recover favor in her eyes. “You spoke of a price for your help, what may I pay?” He’d hoped to avoid paying a price through seduction, but paying was better than losing her help.

She smiled sadly. “Oh Theseus, do you give up so quickly? You had the price right, but surely you know to flatter a woman first.” As she drifted past him she let her hand brush his chest. Her words were playful, and Theseus was tempted to rush to her arms. The bitterness in her voice gave him pause. He worried that he was missing something.

There is no room for doubt when manipulating a Goddess, so he continued despite himself. “A goddess as lovely as you must be beyond petty flattery. How can words do justice to a face that rivals the Sun and eyes that outshine pearls? None can compare to your perfection from tress to toe.”

“Enough,” she commanded sharply. Her face softened as she drifted into Theseus’s arms. Yet she stood still and unresponsive as Theseus wrapped his arm around her waist.

“I am blessed beyond measure to hold so wondrously beautiful a woman,” he whispered to her. He did not understand her, but he could not stop now. His lips met hers as his hands caressed her back. Together, they floated off the harbor floor, wafting gently with the tide. Thetis became an aggressive lover in an instant, wrapping her legs tightly about his waist as she ripped his tunic off him and let it drift abandoned beneath the waves.

Nothing in his life had prepared him to make love to a Goddess, and doing so underwater was even further outside his experience. He learned quickly, and the lessons were pleasant ones. He lost track of time, lost track of position, lost track of everything save the eyes of a goddess and the soft quivering mass of her body.

“At last, dear Theseus,” she said after he’d given more than he had thought himself capable, “at last we are where we need to be.”

She pulled away from him and allowed her feet to rest near the harbor floor. She pulled her strophion out of the water and dressed in front of him. “You will prefer this to black,” she said as a long tunic drifted into her waiting hand. In the dim undersea light, Theseus couldn’t tell the colors. He clumsily draped it over himself and tied it off over his shoulder.

“Here is what you sought, and here is what you did not,” she said handing him the ring Minos threw into the waters, followed by a crown.

“What is this?” he asked with a broad smile.

She had an unsettled look on her face, but answered “You were better than I’d expected, and you deserve a reward. You must do more than just pass the king’s test, you must excel. This will be your triumph, and ultimately King Minos’s downfall.”

“I give you my thanks, Thetis. With your help, this was a far more pleasant task than I’d dared hope.” He was puzzled by the goddess’s concern for his glory, but accepted it gladly.

“Your task is not finished Theseus. We might yet see each other again.” He wasn’t sure, but thought she was sad when she said that.

He bowed as best he was able, but lacked the grace of the water nymph. Tucking the crown into a fold of his tunic, he took a deep breath and swam powerfully upwards. As he approached the surface, he made sure the ring broke the surface before his head.

A cheer arose from the few people still waiting for him. They gasped when Theseus, clad now in royal red and yellow, emerged from the water.

“We shall take you to the King,” announced the lead guard, the only one to maintain his stoicism. Theseus approved. He held his head high as he marched through the streets, showing Minos’s ring to any who watched. The crown he kept hidden.

“It seems you have passed our test,” King Minos announced sourly on Theseus’s arrival. “We recognize the parentage of both King Aegeus and Poseidon. My ring, if you please.”

Theseus handed it to the king, “Your ring, King Minos, was not the only thing I found in the harbor. Half of Crete has been abandoned there, it seems. Among the detritus I found this.” He held out the crown.

All eyes focused on him. No one spoke. Minos himself was stunned, his mask slipped for an instant before he stood. “This is my grandfather’s crown, lost these many years. Alas for Athens that they will lose such a prince. I would you had sent eight men, that I could spare one. In honor of this great gift, I grant you and the other Athenians freedom of the palace for this night. Until dawn breaks, you shall be our honored guests, save only that you may not leave.”

Theseus bowed, while the court looked on. None stared more hungrily than the king’s daughter, Ariadne.

Î¸

Theseus sank deep into his bath in the Palace of Knossos. Steam filled the room. He listened while the other tributes spoke excitedly about the events of the day. Hearing his exploits retold was almost as pleasurable as getting all the salt and dirt off of him.

Fetching young servant girls brought them grapes, olives, and wine while they bathed. Theseus was unaccustomed to this level of luxury. He’d been raised by his mother in Troezen, a far smaller city than Athens. Even noble Athens did not treat its princes as fine as Crete. He wished he could sample more of their wines, but feared the consequences when he descended to the labyrinth the next morning. This day had ended far better than it began, and he would make that true tomorrow also.

The king ordered a feast for the tributes, and provided them fresh clothing. To Theseus he gave a tunic in the same colors as the one Thetis gave him. While it bore the royal pattern of Crete, he also provided a gold badge of Athens. Theseus looked royal wearing it.

They ate goat from a spit and lamb stuffed with greens and dripping with oil. Servants carried plated of hummus, breads, and grape leaves. Grapes and winter oranges were available in abundance. With every dish there was wine. The tributes ate and drank as they’d never done before in their lives. Theseus sampled each dish but did not indulge. He accepted their admiration instead, and drank deeply of that.

King Minos left as soon as the feast started, to give Theseus pride of place. Queen Pasiphae and Ariadne came later to give them their blessings. “More than ever before, I wish we could spare the people of Athens this most dreadful tribute. Rest assured that we accept your sacrifice with heavy hearts and deep sadness. You shall all be missed.” While the queen spoke, Ariadne gazed unwaveringly at the prince in their midst.

When the meal was over, Theseus retired to a private suite the King had provided him. The evening’s surprises were not yet complete. The King’s daughter, Princess Ariadne, was waiting for him.

“Oh Theseus, Prince of Athens,” she cried when he entered, “all my life I have burned to meet a man such as you. I could not bear to lose you so soon. Spare me a broken heart; flee with me this night and let us run far from my father’s house.”

Copper and gold jewelry jingled when she rose to meet him. Her face was painted with chalk and mulberries, and her hair elaborately curled. Her bright eyes shone softly. She lacked the unearthly beauty of the goddess Thetis, but possessed her mother’s loveliness made fresh with youth. She trembled enticingly in his presence.

More worried about the maze than he let on, Theseus saw opportunity in her presence. He pushed her back, but kept his hands on her shoulders. Rejecting her, yet holding out hope with his touch, he told her “I can never flee from my duty to Athens. I will not die, but win eternal glory by defeating your champion and escaping the labyrinth.”

She fell to her knees before him and wept. “It cannot be done. Hundreds have been fed to the minotaur. None have returned. Oh please, good prince, flee the city with me as your prize. Surely that will be glory enough.”

Briefly discomfited that she showed no surprise at his plan, he rationalized that the king expected him to fight. He must have told his daughter. Theseus put his hand on her head, to keep her hopes high. “Even for one as lovely as you I cannot forsake both glory and duty. Surely you have gleaned some knowledge of the beast in your father’s court. With your help I may escape the maze, and then -”

“And then you would take me with you when you go back to Athens?” she pleaded at his feet. She gazed up at him worshipfully.

“You are your father’s daughter,” he said carefully, leaning down to cup her chin. “You are of Crete, and would not be made welcome in Athens.”

He made himself appear to be thinking carefully. “And yet, I might be able to convince my father to accept you, were I able to show him that your love is real.” With a simple promise, by giving his word, he might gain the edge he needed. He could always throw the girl over later, comely though she was.

“Oh it is, my prince, it is.” For an instant Theseus could have sworn he saw cunning in her eyes, like she was reading his mind. He put his guard up and watched her closely. “Let me wash your feet, please. I shall be your attendant, your father must accept that.”

She sat him down and personally fetched a basin. Then she unlaced Theseus’s sandals and bathed his feet with water and oil. She always looked at him adoringly, looked right in his eyes.

His loins stirred, but he restrained himself. He needed more than adoration from her. He needed a secret.

“Lovely Ariadne, you have touched my heart. If I could do as I would I should take you with me and make you my bride. Alas, I know my father and my city would both reject you. I must show them you will support me with all your heart.”

She lowered her eyes shyly.

Sobbed.

“My prince, there is… There is a way.”

Theseus waited. He rested his hand on her arm.

“Daedalus made the labyrinth so complex that even he could not escape it. He feared my father would entomb him in it, so he built a key he could use if needed. When he left Crete, he gave it to the keeping of a serving girl he cared for. She was my nurse as a girl, and she gave it to me in turn, against the day my father might turn against me.”

She paused. Theseus waited.

“Now I give it to you, my prince.”

Theseus smiled thinly. Inside he cheered.

“What is this key, my lovely Ariadne?”

“This.” From a fold at her waist, she pulled a spool of thread.

“String?”

“From Daedalus. Normal string will not do. The maze will cut string, or break it, or pull it, or twist it. Not this. The guards won’t even take it from you, just laugh. Others have tried making trails, but this will work.”

“I thank you, Ariadne. I will take you with me when I leave in triumph.”

She kissed his feet as though she were the meanest serving wench.

“Oh thank you Prince Theseus.” She stopped and choked back a sob. “Daedalus left instructions to be followed as well.”

“Then speak on.”

“You must follow these in order. First, you must never cross or reverse your path. The thread will mark your trail, and you must never step over it. Second, you must take two right turns followed by a left, and repeat that pattern except when it would make you cross your path. Finally, he said you must remember that there are many directions.”

“I see,” said Theseus as he memorized the words. “Hold on, what does that last part mean?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” the lovely girl admitted. She looked away so Theseus could not see her face.

His work was complete, he had what he needed at the cost of a mere promise. He wanted to ravish the girl now, but he could not risk her father finding out about it and executing him before he entered the maze.

With some regret, he sent the young princess from his chambers, and retired to sleep.

Î¸

The Labyrinth of Crete.

He’d first heard of it the day the Black Ship sailed into Athens. Now only his skill and daring would stop him from spending the rest of his life there.

Fear gripped him. His stomach churned. The ground shook beneath his feet and the world darkened and blurred before his eyes.

No trace of it appeared on his face.

He stood tall and proud before the entrance.

The guards had their spears at the ready, but they looked on him with admiration. They had wagered on how many of the tributes would try to run. With Theseus in their lead, not a single one tried to flee. None of them hid their fear so well as the prince, but neither would they quake before him or their foes.

King Minos himself pulled the lever that opened the stone gate. It swung slowly inward with a small puff of dust. Minos said no words, gave no speeches. He raised a silent salute to the pride of Athens before the tributes entered, never to be seen again.

One at a time the tributes walked into the Labyrinth, Theseus last of all. Before crossing the border, he turned one last time. The guards raised their spears high, but Theseus returned the King’s salute, spun on his heel and entered the maze.

The gate closed.

Darkness fell.

But not entirely. Far above, small holes in the roof let in some light. It took time, but his eyes adjusted. High stone walls surrounded him, leading deeper into the maze.

To Theseus’s surprise, the labyrinth walls were not bare. They were covered with intricate frescoes and painted bright colors. He thought that would make it easier to navigate, but that did not fit Daedalus’s reputation. He looked more closely. The designs were cleverly arranged to fool the eye. A turn was concealed by the carvings; it blended in from one direction while being clearly visible from the other. They were landmarks, but ones designed to mislead.

“Gather round,” he yelled to the tributes. “I can travel through the labyrinth, and I will find and slay the minotaur.” He pulled the thread from the fold in his tunic. It glowed faintly; a helpful touch in the dark depths of the maze. “With this, I will be able to find my way back. I want all of you to wait here by the gate for me. Only come after me if the minotaur approaches. When we return to Athens, I want all of us to be there.” His triumph would be the greater for it.

“Yes my prince.” “All right, Theseus.” “As you say.” “I wanted to come with you.” Answers rang out from all the tributes. They would follow his commands.

There were no handles on this side of the gate, nor any other convenient handles on which to tie the thread. He felt foolish trying to tie it around a protrusion in a fresco, but it worked. Daedalus’s key held fast. Theseus unrolled the thread as he walked.

He passed the Attic Hills, the cliffs of Sparta, and the fleets of Crete, all carved into the walls with a master’s touch. A gap yawned to his right and he took it. A proud hoplite brandished his spear, and he passed the Attic Hills again. He hadn’t turned around, and the other tributes weren’t there. He tipped his head to the craftsman, Daedalus was a genius.

Passing a gap to his left, he continued until he could make another right. After that a left. The string trailed behind him. A right, and he noticed the corner was filed to a knife’s edge. Any other string would rub against it and be cut, but he trusted the master’s workmanship.

The light changed, sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker. If not for the weak glow of his thread he’d have crossed it in the dark when he almost made a left. Instead he kept going, until he could turn left later.

An hour into the march and he measured his life by right and left. He avoided crossing his path on many occasions.

And yet he made a mistake.

He could not turn right without crossing his path. Straight ahead was a dead end. He could not turn around lest he retrace his path.

He looked at the walls. The hoplite raised his spear again. He looked at the string, where he’d been, the paths he could not cross.

He saw another way

“No. That’s not a direction.” The words fell from his mouth without volition.

It was, and it was not. A direction he’d never known was there, found in a maze only one man could construct.

“Finally, he said you must remember that there are many directions.” Ariadne’s words echoed in his mind.

“You must remember that there are many directions.” This time it was a man’s voice, one he’d never heard before, but he knew it belonged to the inventor.

He went that way.

Î¸

The labyrinth was gone. Water surrounded him. The pressure hit him at the same time as the strain of moving in this new direction.

He gasped. Water rushed in to his mouth and lungs. Panic overwhelmed him and he thrashed about, tried to spit out the water he’d swallowed. Calmness, or maybe resignation, descended. In that stillness he realized he’d been breathing water for nearly a minute with no ill effect.

With a thought, he streaked through the water. Long flowing hair snapped in front of his face. Startled, he stopped in place. His hand was small, his arm long and slender. Looking down, large breasts rested on his chest. He wore a strophion, a woman’s undergarment, and nothing more. His body was no longer his own.

Shocked though he was to find himself a woman, he could not overlook his advantages. He could breathe the water and see through the darkness as easily as brightest day. Swimming was effortless and faster than he dreamed possible. He had too many questions, he needed more information.

There was a glint of light in the distance. In a flash he was off, darting through a school of fish, watching them scatter like birds around him. He was moving faster than a trireme at ramming speed and yet doing it almost lazily. The light he’d seen was a hoplite’s armor, the skeleton of the forgotten warrior still inside it.

With silent thanks to the unknown man, Theseus peered into the armor as a mirror. Looking back was an angular face with wide set eyes and a small nose and mouth. He was a Nereid. He was Thetis.

Daedalus was more than a craftsman, he was a genius. The path through the labyrinth led through the lives of others. Unless you found that path, the way that is no way, you would wander forever without reaching the center. All experience, all logic, all existence argued against that path, unless you are forced to find it. As the thread forced him.

Somehow he was also still in the labyrinth. If he concentrated he could see the walls surrounding him, with a glowing trail of thread still leading away. The walls moved with him, swimming did not move him through the maze. As soon as he stopped trying to see the walls they vanished. The sea was real, he could feel it surround him, taste the salt on his lips. And he could feel the void at his hips, his breasts on his chest. This was real; he was Thetis.

Theseus was a warrior, a scholar, and a philosopher. Yet, if he had to be a woman for a time, it were better to be a goddess, a mistress of the sea.

So he swam. He stopped periodically to see if he’d moved in the labyrinth, but he never did. His frustration would have overwhelmed him except that swimming was so much fun. When he moved fast enough to plaster his hair to his back and his breasts to his chest he could almost forget the unfortunate truth.

He heard a great splash and saw a man sink beneath the waves. The man struggled to pull off his cloak before swimming strongly down, still wearing a black tunic. Theseus knew who it was, knew him well. It was him. It was Theseus.

With a thought he extended his protection, commanding the sea not to harm his old self. As soon as he did, he felt something stir inside him. A desperate void opened in his legs, his breasts pulled tight. He felt a hunger such as he’d never before known. He remembered what happened when he met Thetis, and knew dread.

He started to flee. He could still see the walls of the labyrinth. He saw the thread trailing away, and knew that fleeing now would reverse his path.

He had a choice. He could see it clearly.

Run, and be lost in the labyrinth.

Or see it through.

“Do not fear, little cousin,” he said, hearing his voice for the very first time. “I will not let you drown. Not yet, at any rate.”

The bravest of men might quail before speaking those words. None of his deeds had prepared him for this. Fighting vicious Procrustes was a breeze in comparison to what lay ahead.

“You call me cousin,” he heard his old body say, struggling to keep his body upright in the shifting waters, “but I do not know you. I am -”

“Theseus,” he interrupted himself. “I know. And I am Thetis.”

“Thetis?”

The waters were cool, even cold, but he was burning with need. He wondered how Thetis, or any water nymph, could live with this constant yearning. He wanted to grab his old body and ravish it on the harbor floor. His pride restrained him. Despite his body’s urging, he did not want to be taken as a woman. Even more than that, he did not want to present himself badly. He was a woman now and must play the part properly.

“So I am,” he bowed. He feared this taking too long. Need could overcome him despite his resolve. Fear was another enemy, urging him to abandon his quest and flee. So he bowed with all the grace he could muster. The sea pushed his hair out of the way and his breasts outward toward his audience. His old body got a fine view, he remembered.

His male self did not try to take him yet, instead he made small talk about their relations. The whole time he burned for his old body to get on with it. He tried to remember what he’d been thinking, why he wasted so much time. Then he tried to hide his disgust as he remembered where that led, what he’d have to do to reach the minotaur. He wished he could speed things up, while his need conquered his revulsion.

“Were you to seek the ring instead, we might find more pleasurable ways to fill our time,” the male Theseus said while reaching for him. It was just what he needed. His nymph body and his quest for glory commanded the same response.

He couldn’t do it. The look of lust on his old face revolted him. To give in was to be taken as a woman, no, to become a woman. As Thetis the waves obeyed his desires, and his thoughts whisked him away from his male body.

Realizing what he’d done, he looked for the labyrinth walls. He had not crossed his path, but he would unless he got back to his old body. Glory would not drive him, it was not enough. But glory alone had not brought him this far, he also carried duty. Thirteen men and girls waited for him in the labyrinth, plus fourteen more every Great Year. His city knew shame while the tribute lasted. Glory helped, he admitted to himself, but it was duty that carried him back.

“Thank you for not deserting me to the water’s tender mercies, great Thetis. You spoke of a price for your help. What may I pay?” The male Theseus started speaking as soon as he drifted back into sight. The sour look on his old face surprised him. He hadn’t realized he’d been so bitter over having to pay the nymph’s price.

He wouldn’t have to. “Oh Theseus, do you give up so quickly? You had the price right, but surely you know to flatter a woman first.” It hurt to call himself a woman, even to himself. Even if it were true. He, no she, was a woman, as her body so clearly insisted. She ran her hand softly across her old chest, feeling the heat between them.

“A goddess as lovely as you must be beyond petty flattery. How can words do justice to a face that rivals the Sun and eyes that outshine pearls? None can compare to your perfection from tress to toe.”

“Enough,” she commanded. She wavered again, almost ready to flee once more. Words she’d once thought fine fell like lead about her. She let herself drift close to him, certain he’d take advantage.

“I am blessed beyond measure to hold so wondrously beautiful a woman.” He stepped into her, and his lips pressed against her.

She wrapped her legs around him and ripped his tunic off as she let her need overwhelm her. She felt his hands caress her breasts and lost herself to passion. Narcissus would envy her, she thought briefly. So lost in the moment was she that she could not mark the moment when he entered her and she became a woman in truth. She took perverse pride in noting her skill as a lover, as her old body coaxed her to ever greater heights of passion. The waves carried them at the command of her ecstasies.

Finally satiated, she let them come to rest. “At last, dear Theseus, at last we are where we need to be.” She knew he would misunderstand her. She was where her path through the Labyrinth had taken her. She commanded the waves to bring her clothing, and another for Theseus.

“Here is what you sought, and here is what you did not,” she said, handing him the ring and the crown he needed. He thanked her, believing it was his skill as a lover that compelled her aid.

“Your task is not finished Theseus,” she warned. “We might yet see each other again.” She knew he would, but from the other side. Despite herself, she knew he would hear her regret at the cost this path had taken.

She watched her old body launch itself towards the surface. She was able, again, to move in that direction that is not a direction, and was no more.

Î¸

“And that is how Theseus, the Hero of Athens, dressed and was taken as a woman.” The storyteller stood to let his audience cheer. A few had wandered off and a few more had joined while he spoke, but most had stayed through the tale.

“The story’s not over,” complained the heckler, still speaking for the crowd. “He hasn’t killed the minotaur yet, or even seen it.”

A chorus of agreement met his complaint.

“Oh, I thought you wanted the story of Theseus’s shame. I thought you wanted to hear how the pride of Athens was brought low.” The old man wore mock surprise on his face. “Surely you don’t want to hear about the triumph of your foe?”

The crowd did not know how to react to this challenge. They disliked Athens and loved hearing its shameful secrets, but they were also Greek and loved to hear tales of heroism.

The heckler stood when his friends urged him on. “It’s not so much that we wish to hear of Theseus’s triumph, old – storyteller. Better to say that we want to hear the full story. We paid for it, after all.”

“Well said,” “Yes,” “Tell us the whole story.” The crowd liked this reasoning.

The old man screwed up his face in sour thought. “I don’t know,” he hemmed, “I took payment to tell the story of Theseus’s shame.” A long pause, “But the fee you paid was far more than that story alone justifies. Your generosity is limitless.”

That got approval. His audience appreciated the flattery and the chance to hear more.

“It is also gratifying for a poor storyteller to speak before such an attentive audience.” He gave more flattery, and got more appreciation from the crowd.

“But story telling is thirsty work. Perhaps some beer would allow a poor teller of tales to salvage his dignity and claim he did not tell a new story for free?” Hearty approval mingled with laughter through the agora.

The heckler, pleased the tale would continue, offered to bring a barrel for the crowd.

“Most generous. But since we will be pausing to wait for our benefactor,” he nodded politely, “I fear a spirit of hunger will haunt us and distract from my poor tales.”

A few nods, but tentative ones, met this pronouncement. They weren’t sure where he was going.

“We could continue the story tomorrow,” the old man sad with exaggerated sadness. “It would be a pity to wait. You may not know the end of the tale so well as you think. Theseus shall know more shame before he knows triumph. And his final triumph is not at all what he expects. Still,” he said with a sigh, “there would be no harm in holding the story until the Sun rises again.”

“A goat, bring in a goat,” shouted a shepherd who’d been listening to the whole tale. “I’ll be back in the fields tomorrow, and be damned if I miss the end of the story.”

“Stay here storyteller,” shouted a boy as he ran off.

The crowd broke apart quickly, each man running to get something for the impromptu feast. A few stayed to make sure the old man did not stray.

He didn’t. Beer, a meal, and coins. There was little more a teller of tales could ask for.

The story itself? That could wait until after he ate.

Theseus and the Minotaur - 2 of 2

Author:

Titania

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

7,500 < Novelette < 17,500 words

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

So you know your ancient myths do you?

Are you sure?

Really sure?

Read on and find out.

THE MINOTAUR'S DEATH

Theseus lay on a soft chair outside the palace of Knossos, shaded by a brightly colored pavilion. The sun shone brightly on the fields, the scent of olives heavy on the breeze. She was still a woman.

Dangling earrings pulled on her ears and she heard them jingle when she turned her head. Bright bangles on her arm reflected the light when she raised her arm. Looking at her body, it wasn’t her breasts that first drew her attention, it was the large protrusion of her belly.

She was not just a woman. She was a pregnant woman.

She gasped, and an attendant ran over to her. “Do you need anything, majesty?” the breathless young girl asked. “Iced milk, a plate of fruit, a fan slave?”

“No,” she choked out in surprise. She waved the girl away while looking at the fine white skin on her hands. She knew who she was, but had to confirm it. “Girl,” she called, “bring me a mirror.”

The girl ran off without question while Theseus lay still in the heat. Every movement took more effort than it should, so she tried not to move. Her stomach weighed on her, but turning to her side made her feel clumsy.

Her attendant returned carrying a small bronze mirror. Theseus peered into the polished surface. She recognized the face she saw there, though it was much younger and even more beautiful than the last time she saw it. She was Queen Pasiphae. Those bright green eyes and perfect nose were unmistakable. She touched at the soot over her eyes, smoothing it slightly so it looked like she’d had a reason to call for the mirror. It wasn’t necessary. Even bloated as she was, she was a startlingly lovely woman.

She concentrated on the labyrinth to gain her bearings. The glowing thread thread trailed behind her and to her side. As she tried to see the walls, she felt the baby in her stomach kick, distracting her. It was a foreign feeling, but strangely pleasing. She smiled contentedly.

A loud horn blast shattered the afternoon calm.

“Majesty,” announced the girl, “it’s the King. He’s coming here. We must get you ready.” She immediately started bustling around.

Theseus silently wondered what was not yet ready.

She learned. The girl set up a table and wiped down her face with olive oil. Theseus tolerated her attentions while staying as still as she could manage. She was not used to having someone’s hands in her face, and found it difficult to stay still. When she received chalk and lead powder on her face she started coughing.

“Majesty, please, hold still,” the girl hissed.

Theseus looked at her with annoyance and surprise. It was unusual for a serving girl to reprove a queen.

“The king is coming. He just saw the oracles, and…” the girl gestured uselessly at Theseus’ bulging stomach. “You must look perfect for him.” She was badly agitated. Theseus wished she knew her name.

After that remonstration, she stayed still while her attendant finished powdering her face. The girl picked up a mix of soot and coal. Knowing it was coming, Theseus managed to remain still while the servant rubbed her fingers over her eyes. Finally a mulberry paint went on her lips.

The girl looked at her, then carefully rearranged Theseus’s hair and positioned her artfully on her couch. As a final touch, she carefully draped the rich tunic to show the queen’s legs to best advantage.

The king arrived with three guards. He was a striking figure when younger, tall and muscular with a head of oiled brown hair. She couldn’t help but be impressed. With her memories as Thetis fresh in her mind she found herself wondering what King Minos would be like in bed. Reminding herself she was Theseus despite her current body, she brought herself back to the moment.

The king paused and ran his eyes over her. She found herself appreciating his interest and wishing she had a trim stomach so she could move better under his gaze. He barked, “Away with you girl,” as he waved his hands at her attendant.

The girl fled.

The king’s guards stepped back, leaving Theseus alone with him.

“I should have you killed,” the king snarled.

That was not what Theseus expected.

Danger crowded about her. She had no weapon, and would not be able to use it in this body if she did. She’d have trouble standing up by herself if it came to it.

“My King!” she exclaimed. “My love!” She used the only weapon at hand. As a man she used a commanding presence to win men over. She had to learn to do the equivalent as a woman. And fast.

“None of that,” he snapped. His hand flew and Theseus could not get out of the way. The king’s slap nearly turned her head around. Her face burned, the world flashed red, and she tasted blood.

“You carry a monster. The child is none of me. How dare you put horns on me?”

The minotaur. She was carrying the monster inside her. King Minos had just found out.

The King would imprison her until the child’s birth. It would then be abandoned to the Gods, while she would be killed. That was the law. To do otherwise would shame Minos and Crete.

Yet she knew he had done otherwise. Once. How? Why?

“Pl- Please,” she struggled to speak through the pain. “Please my lord. I–”

“No. No lies.” His fist barreled into her face. She tried to raise her slender arms to block the blow but was far too late. She fell from the couch to the ground, her face planted in the dirt.

“Eat dung,” he yelled as his foot hit her head. The warrior in Theseus wanted to rise and fight back. The woman she was would have none of it. She collapsed to the ground. Darkness.

She had no idea how long she was out, but when she opened her eyes she was still looking at the ground. King Minos stood over her in anger.

“It– It was,” she stammered through the pain, her mouth barely moving. She couldn’t take another beating, “Zeus.” Success. She’d gotten out the magic word.

His foot hovered over her face, her fate held in the sandaled sole. It didn’t fall.

“Prove it, woman.”

The world swam in front of her, out of focus except that awful, dreadful foot. “He was…” she wanted to vomit, she needed water, but stopping now meant death. She must get the words out. “He was a bull. The boy will be marked. Half bull himself, my lord, my love, and my master.” She couldn’t continue, her head fell to the ground and the world went dark. She fled pain and the shame of her abasement.

When at last the world returned, she was lying on her couch again. Her husband sat on a stool nearby, anger on his face. Her position had only improved marginally, and she was still almost blind from pain. She knew his guards were nearby, but could not see them.

“What of it?” he snarled when he saw she was awake. “If it is Zeus’s child he’ll be spared. Why should I also spare you?”

There was an opening. Theseus could see it, but couldn’t clear her head to see how to use it. She could not seduce the king with beauty or pity, but there was still glory. Glory was a call she knew well, and could use to survive.

“For you,” she said, “all for you.” The words slurred past her bleeding lip. She had to keep it short. “A God’s child in your house. Power for you.”

Minos drew back his hand in warning. “I see that, wench. I will have the child already. Why should you live?”

“Plan. The child, too strong to hold. Put him in a maze, so he can’t get out. Give your enemies to him. You are feared, strong.”

His hand wavered.

She wanted to smile, seduce, but couldn’t. “For you, a woman shared by Zeus. No other, ever, only the most powerful. Your name and Zeus’s, forever linked. I will,” she paused when blood ran from her lip, but carried on. “I will bear you more children, my love.”

He thought about it.

“It’s a good plan.” He stood and turned from her. “Have your maid clean you up.” He walked away without looking back.

Physically, she’d barely moved, yet she’d made progress through the Labyrinth. The strange direction loomed in front of her, and she moved.

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The pain was gone.

She was still a woman.

She was in a dark room. It was large but plain. A table was covered with parchments, an ink pot, a bone stylus, and charcoal sticks. Drafting tools were stacked neatly on a shelf, a bronze protractor carefully packed in a felt lined box. Wood and stone scraps littered the floor while more were stacked in a corner with nails and tools. A large bed was the only other piece of furniture in the room. Several large windows were tightly shuttered, keeping things shadowed.

She looked at herself with some dread. Her breasts were just barely visible, an observation she met with a mix of relief and disappointment. She was short, thin, with calloused feet and knees, and scars on her hands. Her body was immature, she was a young girl. She wore a short gray tunic with nothing beneath. She was either a servant or a slave.

A man in a rumpled brown and gold tunic with a green cloak entered the room. He had a short brown beard and lively eyes. He smiled, “Iola, you lazy girl,” and gave a playful slap to her rear. Theseus surmised that her name was Iola. The man continued, “throw open the windows, give me some light. Fetch some water and scrub the floors. Put the scraps over in the corner with the others,” he pointed at the pile of wood and stone.

“Yes my lord,” she replied uncertainly.

He stopped short and stared at her with piercing eyes. “Stay still, girl.” His gaze went from her head to her toes. She felt naked and ashamed before him, but didn’t move.

She did not know what was going on, and did not want to look for the labyrinth walls while this stranger watched her.

He nodded. “Very well. Get back to work. And for love of all the muses, just call me Daedalus.”

She tripped. She needed her stoic mask to keep her surprise from showing. Recovering, she went to the windows and threw them open, careful not to look behind her at the master inventor while he settled in at the table.

As soon as she could, she went to fetch water. Out of sight of Daedalus, she concentrated on the maze. It was still there, and her thread still trailed her. It was the most complex section she’d ever seen. It twisted in on itself, full of turns and crevices. She would not be able to keep her eyes on it while the maze builder himself watched her. How could she navigate it successfully, she wondered.

Knossos was already bustling in the early morning light. Without Daedalus watching her, Theseus could use the labyrinth to guide her. She found her way to the well and drew a bucket of water. The bucket weighed less than her old armor, but felt much heavier. Lifting with both hands and still struggling, she was out of breath by the time she got back to Daedalus’s quarters.

While scrubbing the floor, she watched the master craftsman at work through the corner of her eye. Daedalus sketched in charcoal, occasionally reaching for his stylus, but never using it. Once he dipped it in ink before dropping it. He seemed curiously indifferent to surface, starting on parchment, but extending to the table or walls if it seemed more convenient. She hoped she’d be gone before she needed to scrub it clean. He would sometimes stop, suddenly, and close his eyes. Then he would resume with a sudden burst of energy. And every now and again, when he thought she wasn’t looking, he would stare at her.

She quickly grew tired of being on her knees scrubbing. It was harder work than she’d imagined when watching women do it back in Athens. It came as a relief when Daedalus told her, “Fetch some bread and wine Iola. For you too.”

She left at a run. The palace was even busier than it was in the morning. She hoped King Minos was outside the palace. The beating she took at his hands was still fresh and she dreaded seeing him again. She was more likely to see him in Daedalus’s room, as the King did not enter the servants’ halls. No one paid any attention to a young serving girl. She was the next best thing to invisible. It was something she’d have to remember.

“Come Iola, join me,” Daedalus said when she got back, patting his lap.

Theseus blanched, but she had done more than that already, so she stepped towards him.

It was wrong. She could just see her glowing thread in front of her.

“Why don’t I just eat with you, Daedalus,” she said with a giggle, holding her hand to her mouth shyly.

“It was worth a try,” he said weakly. He did not seem disappointed. More than anything, he seemed curious, turning his head to look around at nothing.

When he was occupied she concentrated on the labyrinth. She could see a turn. She had to do something. Daedalus was watching her eyes. What was he seeing? It was time to take a chance.

“Master Daedalus, have you thought about what might happen when you finish this project? King Minos is a cruel man and might think it better none know his secrets. Do you have a way out if he throws you in your maze?”

She was on the right path. She hoped.

Daedalus peered at her. He looked to the right. He looked back at her, squinted and frowned.

“Why do you ask, girl? Have you heard something?”

“No. I haven’t heard anything, but I am,” she paused, thinking quickly, “I am afraid for you.”

He stood, leaned over the table and brushed the parchments to the floor. Inches from her face, he looked straight in her eyes. She did not know how to react, so she stared back.

He sat down.

“That was an error, whoever you are. You should have looked away. I think you can get back on your path. Make a left next.”

She was stunned.

“That’s a good idea, Iola,” Daedalus continued as though he hadn’t just spoken directly to Theseus. “I think I will have to make a way to escape. It occurs to me, though,” he said as though deep in thought, “that even if the king lets me go, you might still be in danger, since you know some of my secrets. I think I will have to hide the key, and tell you where it is so you might be safe too.”

Theseus’s mouth hung open. She didn’t know what to say.

She had to move. Her path ended.

As she left, she heard Daedalus say, “So that’s how it works.”

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She was still female. She was tired of it, but she had expected it. She was Ariadne.

It made sense. Theseus was putting together the puzzle. She was setting up her path through the labyrinth. The maze was a puzzle of lifetimes. She had to create the conditions that would allow her to travel through it. Ariadne had to learn about the thread from Iola in order to give it to Theseus.

She looked forward to seeing Iola now that she was grown up. It would be the first time she saw Iola’s face, she wondered what she looked like. She resolved to be as kind to her as she could without straying from her path in the maze. At the same time, she hoped not to see Minos, despite him being her father now. The beating he delivered still haunted her.

Her room was richly appointed. The seats were covered in linen and velvet, the molding along the walls carved with images of the palace. A bronze mirror polished to a high sheen hung on the wall, and she took advantage of that to look at herself more closely.

She had expected to be younger, but she was about the same age as when her old body met her. Perhaps Ariadne only got the thread from Iola when plotting to help Theseus. Her makeup and hair were in place, elaborate jewelry was on her arms, and she wore the red and yellow tunic and cloak of a princess of Crete.

She remembered it well.

It was exactly what she wore the night she appeared in Theseus’s rooms.

With a sinking feeling, she dug into the fold of her tunic. The spool of thread was already there. She had a different task tonight. She must convince her old self to take the string with him into the Labyrinth.

She thought back to that night. The princess and her mother had given a short speech during the feast, but she wore no makeup then. So this was after the speech, but before the feast ended. She would have to go to her suite.

Reason alone was not enough to convince her, so she concentrated on the labyrinth walls. She had it right. There was a touch of melancholy that she would not see Iola, but she was cheered by the thought of not seeing Minos. She did not look forward to seeing her old body again, memories of her time as Thetis rising unbidden.

Servants and slaves bowed as she hurried to the guest suite. Inside, she knelt to wait. She knew her old mind. He would not trust help freely offered, but must charm the help from her.

“O Theseus, Prince of Athens,” she cried when the door opened, “All my life I have burned to meet a man such as you. I could not bear to lose you so soon. Spare me a broken heart; flee with me this night and let us run far from my father’s house.”

She ran to him eagerly despite herself. Sparing some thought for the true Ariadne, she hoped she was not ruining the young girl’s life. Ariadne had the thread in her tunic before Theseus possessed her, so it was likely she wanted this too. The male Theseus was holding her by her shoulders to pretend he did not want the princess. “I can never flee from my duty to Athens. I will not die, but win eternal glory by defeating your champion and escaping the labyrinth.”

If only he knew the cost of that mission, she thought to herself. She fell to her knees and wept, thinking of all she’d had to go through to get to this point. It had been so much that she was even thinking of herself as a woman now. Her male self needed to convince her to give up her secret, and she wanted him to, but she meant it when she pleaded with him to run away with her.

“Surely you have gleaned some knowledge of the beast in your father’s court. With your help I may escape the maze and then -”

“And then you would take me with you when you go back to Athens?” She watched him closely to judge his reaction.

“You are your father’s daughter,” her old body said, cupping her chin. “You are of Crete, and would not be made welcome in Athens. And yet, I might be able to convince my father to accept you, were I able to show him that your support of us is real.”

He spoke the words but didn’t mean them. She knew because she remembered being him. She also knew he was wrong, she would bring Ariadne with her and would marry her. Minos would be furious at his loss and would seek revenge on Athens. If Theseus married his daughter, his rage would be less. Theseus’s daring would reflect well on him. King Aegeus would not only approve but be thrilled with a tie to Crete. Ariadne was a lovely woman, and stealing her away would enhance Theseus’s legend. But, she admitted to herself, she simply could not bear to ruin the young girl’s life when she’d done so much to help. Somewhere in this trek through lives she’d changed. She would wed Ariadne.

“Oh it is, my prince, it is.” It took too long, she had spent too much time thinking. She could see it in his eyes, he suspected something was wrong. He must be the hero, she must be the adoring girl. She hated abasing herself, but it was necessary. Promising to make it up to Ariadne one day, she pleaded “Let me wash your feet, please. I shall be your attendant, your father must accept that.”

Kneeling at his feet, she unlaced his sandals and bathed his feet first with water and then with oil. From this angle she saw his manhood stir, even after his romps with Thetis. She was impressed and proud despite herself.

His pride mollified, Theseus still demanded more of her, as she knew he must.

“My prince, there is… There is a way.” She was careful to sound fearful. Hesitant. Shy. She told him how she came to possess Daedalus’s secret. “Now I give it to you, my prince.”

She saw triumph in his eyes, and felt the same in her heart.

“What is this key, my lovely Ariadne?” She was touched by his praise, even knowing it was a front.

“This.”

“String?”

“I thank you, Ariadne. I will take you with me when I leave in triumph.”

He didn’t know it, but he spoke the truth. He would take Ariadne with him, she’d be the one to do it. In delight, she kissed his feet.

Instructions. She had to tell him how to follow the path, but she couldn’t tell him what that meant. If she told him what she’d done to navigate the maze, she knew he would never enter.

“Finally, he said you must remember that there are many directions.”

“I see,” the man said dully, until he realized the last instruction was meaningless. “Hold on, what does that last part mean?”

It meant she must hide the consequences of the Labyrinth from him, from herself, until it was too late to do anything about it. “I don’t – I don’t know.”

She could see desire and regret on his face as he dismissed her. He wanted to take her on the spot, and she reveled in that knowledge. She would soon marry this body, she was glad she found it desirable.

She left, and once more saw the way out.

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The walls of the labyrinth were visible again. Even in the dim light, he knew he was a man again. He was Theseus once more. In his joy, he almost broke into a shout of triumph, but he restrained himself. He had solved the great riddle and made it to the center of the maze. The minotaur should be near. His quest, at long last, was near an end.

Or so he devoutly hoped.

He could see his thread glowing behind him, looping through a long and complex path. He rejoiced that he could see the thread and the labyrinth without needing to concentrate. Reflecting briefly on his journey, he knew he would never look on the women of Athens the same way. He would soon have to fight, so he tucked the spool of thread under his belt behind him.

Now, he hunted.

He stood still and listened. He sniffed the air, smelling the dust of years mixed with the musk of an animal or a man who hadn’t bathed in far too long.

Lacking any weapon, he crept forward as silently as possible. Shadows made more noise. Surprise was all he had, he would not sacrifice it in vain.

Still following Daedalus’s instructions, he padded quietly through the maze. Hunter’s senses stayed at high alert.

And there, at last, was his target.

The minotaur. Sleeping.

Theseus took advantage of his fortune to study his foe. The minotaur had the head of a bull. Its horns extended at least a foot forward, and they were stained with dried blood. The tips of the horns, however, were clean and showed signs of sharpening. They would be deadly weapons.

The creature’s horns were not the only threat. His body was that of a man, but a man both tall and fit. Bulging muscles spoke of strength that would rival Hercules. It wore nothing besides a belt and loincloth, so at least Theseus did not need to worry about hidden weapons. With that as the only positive, he had to finish the fight quickly.

Quietly, with painful deliberation, he sneaked up on the sleeping beast. Kneeling behind it, the hunter grabbed the creature’s horns and with a burst of strength, twisted.

A quick break would have ended the struggle as soon as it started. It was not to be. The minotaur’s neck was thicker and stronger than a man’s, and it did not break even with Theseus’s great strength.

The beast roared as it struggled to its feet. Its bellow echoed through the maze. Theseus nearly lost his hold on the creature. But only nearly. He held on.

With Theseus clinging to its back, the mintoaur slammed into the nearest wall. Theseus grunted but held on. Once he got his feet on the ground, he yanked the creature’s horns to pull its head back.

Countering that, the minotaur snapped its head forward. Theseus tumbled to its front. With a loud crack he flew off, forward, and to the ground.

He still held one of the minotaur’s horns. The bull bellowed and stomped with fury. While its left horn was as sharp and dangerous as ever, only a stump remained on the right.

The beast’s display gave Theseus barely enough time to get back to his feet.

He had a weapon now, a sharp horn he could use as a short spear. He forced the creature to keep its distance. They circled one another warily.

“I will destroy you, little man,” the bull bellowed.

It spoke. Theseus jumped in surprise, giving the creature an opening to charge.

He dodged the deadly horn, but the bull got its arm on Theseus and pushed.

Pushed in a direction that wasn’t.

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Theseus hit a wall again. The world spun when his head hit stone, and it seemed the minotaur jumped up by at least a foot.

No, he’d shrunk.

No, she’d shrunk.

She was a small girl with calloused hands and feet. She was Iola. Again.

But now she was Iola fighting a giant beast who could give Hercules a run for his money.

“Why didn’t you change too?” she yelled at the monster in her soft girlish voice.

“This maze was built to hold me. I am not allowed even the escape of other lives.” Its low gravelly voice echoed through the temporary stillness of the halls.

She lifted the horn. It felt heavier than before she changed, but she could still lift it. Using it as a weapon was beyond her.

The minotaur watched her and laughed.

“You are undone, little girl,” it growled with delight. “Hah, you thought you were a hero, but you were wrong. You’ll beg for death before I’m through with you.” It smiled evilly, “Or you can surrender now and I’ll make you scream with pleasure before I kill you.”

Theseus saw the beast’s erection beneath its loincloth, and felt terror grip her. She couldn’t show it.

She lifted the horn in warning. “Try it,” she warned.

Then she ran.

Unprepared, the minotaur was caught flat footed, and she put some distance between them.

The minotaur was not quiet in its pursuit. As soon as she knew she was out of sight, she ducked her tiny body around a corner and hid. The minotaur bellowed as it ran past her

Silently, she crept from hiding, ran, and slashed its leg with its horn. Bleeding, the minotaur roared. The sound knocked her from her feet like a ram. She barely held on to her weapon.

With her lying on the ground the minotaur could not impale her, but it grabbed her by the hair and lifted her into the air.

“For that you die painfully little girl,” it growled while she kicked uselessly.

It hugged her to its chest, ran with her, and slammed her against the wall. Her back erupted in pain, she lost control of her body. Her prize, the minotaur’s broken horn, slipped from her grasp. The beast stepped back, turned a corner, and the pain was gone in an instant.

The maze was hot, dry, arid, and the creature was smaller than it was a moment ago. She flexed her arms and broke free with only a slight effort. The minotaur stumbled back in surprise.

Thetis.

She was still a woman, but now a goddess.

With casual ease, she picked up the fallen horn.

“Now beast, it is your turn to die. Stay still, and I’ll make this quick.”

It charged her. Under water her grace and agility were unmatched. She was slower on land, but she was more than fast enough to avoid the beast’s lunge with ease. She lashed out with the broken horn and cut its chest as it passed.

The creature wasted no time roaring or showing its fury. A fast turn and it charged her again. She moved out of the way again with no margin for error. She brought her weapon down awkwardly on the beast’s back, without cutting its skin.

They circled again, each watching the other warily.

The minotaur charged. She avoided its horn and planted her weapon to impale the beast. She underestimated it again. Its head was a bull’s, but the minotaur was no beast. It absorbed the hit, lodging her weapon deep in its shoulder. In return for the wound it was able to grab Theseus and push.

She fell back against a wall, the searing pain informing her clearly that she was no longer Thetis. Her improvised spear fell out of the minotaur’s shoulder to clatter on the floor. Glancing at it through the corner of her eye was enough to also see her body. She was Ariadne.

Before the creature could recover, she ran. The minotaur was bleeding badly, but it still stood. She was uninjured, but she was also unarmed and weak.

Hearing a bellow behind her she ducked around a corner, and then another. To her surprise she had guessed right, and was back where the minotaur’s broken horn was lying abandoned on the ground. She grabbed it, ducked, and waited.

An instant later the bull headed man came into view. As soon as it did, she stood up and threw.

The horn was not balanced so well as a spear, and she did not have the strength she did as a man.

But it was enough.

The minotaur bellowed, but its mighty roar shut off. With a wet, gurgling sound it fell forward. Its broken horn pierced its throat.

Theseus collapsed, breathless, as blood pooled around her. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. The normal post battle rush did not come, or if it did, it felt different in this body. She did not like it. She wept until she could weep no more.

Then she almost started crying again when she looked around. The thread she still carried hung limply behind her. Her trail out of the maze was broken.

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Panic was her enemy, so she forced it down. She had slain the minotaur, she was a hero.

When she calmed down she tried to retrace the path in her mind. She was near the spot the minotaur forced her to be Ariadne again, since this was where she picked up its horn. She wore Thetis’s body before that, and she worked out the path she took in that body. Her memory as Iola was less certain, as she’d been overwhelmed at the time.

She pulled the horn from the minotaur’s throat. She would need a trophy to prove her words when she reached the tributes. The maze would not claim another victim, she resolved.

From the wall she hit as Ariadne she paced back. The frescoes were made to distract, so she didn’t look at them. She found the spot, the direction only Daedalus know, and stepped through it.

Nothing.

She was still Ariadne.

Tears welled up, but she forced them down. Either she was wrong about where she changed to Ariadne, or the maze didn’t work the same in reverse. Or it didn’t work the same because she was with the minotaur when she changed last. Or because her thread broke. In each case, her best course of action was to continue her current quest to find the string.

She saw it. The soft glow of the string was off to her side. She almost made a dash for it, but her respect for the architect’s skill led her to refrain. It was too easy to get distracted and lost. So she stuck to retracing her steps by memory. It worked.

She grabbed the torn thread like an infant clutching for the breast. Soon she would be Theseus again.

She followed the thread back to where she’d caught the minotaur sleeping. A pile of animal skins made a bed. Blood and bones heaped nearby indicated they’d been a meal first. Minos fed more than men to his pet, it seemed. She felt a surge of pity for the creature and renewed anger towards Minos. She would marry his daughter, but hoped never to see him again.

She found the turn where she’d ceased being Ariadne and become Theseus again. Holding her breath and closing her eyes, she made the turn in reverse.

“Ariadne?”

She opened her eyes with a clang like a spear on armor. She was still in the labyrinth. She was still Ariadne. And yet-

And yet Theseus was standing before her.

Her body. Her male body.

“How did you get here Ariadne? Did you come looking for me? That was very dangerous.” He grinned disarmingly.

Her mouth moved, but no words came out. She couldn’t take a step if her life depended on it.

Theseus put his hand on her arm and took the minotaur’s horn and Daedalus’s thread from her.

“Come, Ariadne. It was very daring of you to come after me, but I am glad you did. Now I will not need to break into your father’s palace to steal you away. But we must make haste ere the Athenians grow restless.”

“What did you say?” she blurted.

“I said we must make haste or the Athenians will fear I died at the minotaur’s hands.”

The Athenians. Not the tributes.

“Yes,” she answered warily, “let’s go, Prince Theseus.”

He peered at her suspiciously. Her face was a mask he could not decipher.

“Well,” she said impatiently, “shall we go?”

“Of course, Princess. Follow me.” He did not hold the horn properly, she noted. He held it upright, like he was marching in a parade. It should be carried low, like a spear, so it could be brought quickly to offense.

She followed. At first she fell naturally into patrol, two paces behind him. Then she remembered she was a woman now. She didn’t have a spear of her own to justify staying that close, so she dropped further back. She was almost certain he noticed.

The labyrinth was unfamiliar. The last time she was here, she was living other lives. Neither she nor the male Theseus suffered anything more than an upset stomach when going through the strange turns that once swapped lives.

“How will you steal the ship from King Minos?” she asked.

“The Black Ship will sit at anchor for three more days,” he answered, “so Crete can revel in its strength. It is not well guarded. We can sneak in at night and launch under sail. If we leave as the tide recedes, they will have to wait hours to pursue, and may not bother.”

“That’s a very good plan, Ariadne,” she said. She had her suspicions, but wasn’t certain until he knew too much about the Black Ship.

“What? Then you know? You aren’t…” He forced himself to stop stammering and looked closely at her. Grimly, he asked, “Theseus?”

“Yes,” she answered. She could feel heat rise in her cheeks, and knew she was blushing. He probably couldn’t tell. Quietly, she gave thanks the Labyrinth was dark.

He stopped and faced her. “When I went to see you last night, I thought a God possessed me, but it was a kinder spirit than any God I know.” He smiled warmly, and for an instant she believed him. Then she saw, his smile never reached his eyes. She hid her reaction and let him continue his prepared speech. “A few moments ago I felt that presence again, and the world went black. When I saw again, it was from your body, and you were there before me. You must know more than I about how this happened.”

“Part of the maze wound through the lives of others. Yours was one of them.”

“I don’t understand,” he said too quickly.

“I’m not sure I do either. But the minotaur used it in battle and pushed me into your life. I think he pushed you into mine at the same time.”

“How do we undo it?” he asked quickly and sincerely. She wondered if her new and growing suspicion was wrong.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “We will have to escape together, as we planned, and seek out the master craftsman. You will need my help to play your role properly.”

He agreed, and she saw a chilling smile as he turned away. Her suspicions were right. He knew more than he was letting on, and she would have to watch herself. The real Ariadne was more clever than he let on.

“When we get to the tributes,” she started, “we must become each other. No one must know.” He nodded. “From now on, I am Ariadne, and you are Theseus. Remember it.”

“Then you need to watch yourself, Ariadne. It is not fit for you to give a man orders.”

She winced, but nodded. “Agreed. But we aren’t at the tributes yet. Here’s what you need to do.” She outlined a plan for him.

He agreed. “And you can teach me more when we’re on the ship, on our way to Athens. It seems I have much to learn.”

She was unsure whether to smile or weep.

Î¸

“The minotaur died by my hand. Children of Athens, we are triumphant.”

The tributes gazed heroically at Theseus before breaking into a rousing cheer. He posed dramatically with the minotaur’s horn over his head. Ariadne tried her best to stare at him adoringly while her heart was eaten out with envy. Those should have been her cheers.

“What’s she doing here?” one of the tributes shouted, a finger pointed accusingly at her.

Theseus held his palm out to silence them, then draped his arm casually about her. She had coached him on this, and still resented his claim of possession. “Ariadne provided me with the key to the Labyrinth, ensuring my victory over the beast and Crete. She did this out of love for me, and so I shall carry her off with us to my father’s house. Let all praise her for aiding Athens’ children in their time of need.”

A flowery command is still a command. The tributes looked questioningly at one another. They gave another round of cheers, this one much more ragged than the last.

Theseus examined the gate. There was a hole at the base, and he inserted the minotaur’s broken horn into it.

Ariadne understood. The horn was the key, but it only fit upside down at the base of the gate. It was cruelty, designed to taunt the minotaur. The creature could see the lock, and know it held the key, but be unable to open it.

The gates moved. It was only an inch, but they opened.

Theseus and the men grabbed the opening and pulled.

There was more noise than Ariadne wanted. Any guards in the area would be certain to hear it. Theseus had been sure there wouldn’t be any; they never remained once the gates closed.

He was right, no one waited. The entrance hall was empty save for the tributes.

“Now we wait for night,” Theseus commanded. “Rest and get ready.”

The tributes sat and rested at his command. Theseus went to each group to speak words of encouragement. Ariadne sat alone, conspicuously avoided. No one even glanced at her. She wanted to break down and cry, could feel tears welling up in her eyes. This should have been her triumph. All she had left was the warrior’s mask, the stoicism she’d learned so well, and she called on it again. It would take cunning, wisdom, and daring to turn her situation around, but she had them all.

When night fell they left. Theseus followed the plan Ariadne made for him. He sent two of the tributes ahead as scouts. They considered it an honor to help the hero of Athens. It covered up the new Theseus’s lack of experience, but hopefully no one would catch on.

The scouts were good. They signaled back when they saw guards and everyone waited. The fifteen escapees moved with silence and speed. Ariadne was pleased with the skill the tributes showed. Even the women moved with discipline.

They got to the Black Ship. Theseus was finally able to take command in truth. He understood sailing more than stealth. Under his terse and whispered commands, the tributes raised the sails, untied from the dock, and silently launched the ship.

As Crete vanished in the distance, Theseus gathered them all about. “We have escaped from Crete, but we are not safe yet. They will soon know that we are gone, the minotaur is dead, and their princess taken.” He pulled Ariadne to him, raising a cheer from the tributes.

She almost started to struggle, but restrained herself. They had not discussed this, but it made sense. He had to rally the tributes, for there was still work to do. Using her to enhance his glory served that purpose. She did not like it, but she accepted it.

“We will not make anchor, but will sail through day and night. In two days we will lay in at Naxos. The harbor there is protected from view, and we can wait two days while the ships of Crete search. Then we return to Athens and triumph. Are you with me?”

“Aye!” “The Hero of Athens!” “For Theseus!” Cheers rang out all over. Ariadne smiled worshipfully at him so everyone could see.

Theseus assigned each of the tributes tasks, and then grabbed Ariadne and retired to the head cabin. The tributes leered suggestively, while Ariadne burned.

“You must tell me how to act in Athens,” he commanded imperiously as the door shut behind them. “Our act has worked so far, but I must be better prepared before we land at the city.”

Beneath his glare, Ariadne remembered the beating she’d taken from his father, King Minos. The new Theseus learned from him, and Ariadne suddenly understood him. Her fear now was not just for herself, but for her city. That, at least, she could address.

“Of course,” she said, lowering her head in a bow of submission. “The first duty of a Prince is one I hope you will not have to fulfill before we are able to return to our proper bodies.” She saw impatience and anger on Theseus’s face, and knew she was taking the right path. “As prince, you must be prepared to take my father’s– to take King Aegeus’s place should he die.”

Theseus nodded, paying close attention.

“It is the custom of Athens that the prince must refuse the throne twice. To accept too quickly is to show too much eagerness, and the people will fear a tyrant. To refuse more than twice is to show too much reticence, and will be likewise distrusted. They will offer the crown three times, and only on the third time must you accept.” She paused, “Of course, King Aegeus is hale and hearty. We can both hope you will never need to know that.”

“Of course,” he responded. “I am sure it will not be needed.”

She wondered if he thought he was sly.

Hours passed as she told him the customs of her city and the duties he must fulfill. She taught him exercises to train as a soldier and fighter, and tried to teach him to act the part of a hero.

“Now,” Theseus said at last, “we need rest. We must still play our parts for the Athen– for the tributes. Come sweet Ariadne, to bed with me.”

“No,” she answered. She had to admit she was tempted. She knew her old body well, from both sides, and she remembered her time as Thetis fondly. She suspected that the current Theseus did not have her skill, and she did not trust him. “The tributes may suspect you have taken me, but we cannot make it so. King Aegeus must accept me as your bride, and so I must come to him unstained.”

Theseus raised his hand to hit her. Ariadne steeled herself to receive the blow, but it never fell.

“Fine,” he grunted.

Theseus lay in the bed, leaving Ariadne to comfort herself on the floor.

They saw no pursuit that night or the next day. They put in to the harbor of Naxos in the dark of the following night to hide from any ships they’d missed.

With the supplies from the ship they pitched a small camp. They rested for two days as the tributes grew ever more excited about returning home. Theseus commanded their patience, secure in his knowledge of how the Cretans would search. He continued his lessons with Ariadne.

On the third morning, Ariadne awoke alone.

The camp was deserted.

She saw the ship sailing away.

The sails were still black.

Î¸

“When he saw the black sails in the harbor, King Aegeus knew his son was dead. He leapt from the cliffs in his grief, and is buried beneath the waves in the sea that bears his name.” The storyteller paused for a drink from his wineskin. “I often wonder if Theseus was surprised when he refused the throne, and Athens accepted it. He’s widely celebrated for it, the birth of the Athenian demos, and all due to a trick.”

Laughter rang through the crowd.

“Ho, storyteller,” one cried, “how then did Theseus go on to stay a hero? You can’t claim that girl would be a capable warrior?”

Pointing, and gesturing at the man to rise so all could see him, the old man answered. “He still had the body of Theseus, the son of Poseidon, with a strength few could match. But the boy’s promise was gone. The wise warrior who broke the puzzles of the past was gone. Instead he spent his time seeking a bride. He insisted that only a daughter of Zeus was worthy of him. He teamed up with that brute Pirithous and kidnapped Helen, but couldn’t hold her. Then he did it again with Hippolyta until he grew tired of her.

No, he was basically an embarrassment by the time Lycomedes threw him off a cliff. Athens let him lie there nearly a century until his legend was useful to the city again. He may have been a hero, but he was not loved.”

The feast was breaking up, the goat nearly finished. But the crowd remained in high spirits and hoped to get a little more from the storyteller. “What of Ariadne, who was Theseus? What happened to her on Naxos?”

“Left with no food, it took her four days to build a trap and capture two birds. Rather than keep herself alive, she built an altar and offered them to the Gods. Her piety was rewarded when Dionysus rescued her. So taken was he with her beauty and strength that he took her as his wife.”

“No.” “In truth.” “How so?” Everyone there knew the name Ariadne, knew her position on Olympus, and yet showed shock at the story teller’s words.

“Truly. She approached her role with a soldier’s discipline. Dionysus is not the most diligent of Gods, and so as manager of his house she took on a lot of responsibility. The God of Wine is envied for many things, and among them is a wife who is lovely, wise, diligent and loyal.”

“How do you come to know this story, old man?” cried the heckler.

“Ariadne bore Dionysus many sons, among them Oenopion, the very personification of wine. It is from him,” said the old man, hoisting up his wine skin for all to see, “that I learned this tale.”

The laughter of the crowd started low and raised to a gale as they got the joke.

The story teller let them laugh. There are many ways to lie, and he aimed to know them all.

The sun set and the crowd broke apart. Many people thanked him for his tale, and a few gave him some additional coins. It had been a good day.

When just a few people remained, a small boy came to him with a final question. “Storyteller, Theseus was a man; a warrior and a hero. How could he become a woman?”

“Theseus was a hero,” he answered in a low voice that would not be overheard. “He had strength and skill in abundance, but his greatest skill was his composure. He knew how to present himself as a prince, and as a hero. He was not just celebrated in Athens, but loved. In the labyrinth he learned new ways to present himself as a woman. When she became Ariadne, she had to rely on those skills to seek glory. She became the wife of a God, so well loved that when she was killed Dionysus brought her out of Hades and made her a Goddess. She lives now on Olympus and ranks above all mortal kings. I’d say she did it well.”

He paused, then added, “It’s a good question, and one you should ponder well, young Hippocrates.”