We live in a world where emotions can lift people from their sorrows as easily as drown them within. They cause you to strive for something better or hold you back, wielding control both unmeasurable and unmistakable. But what if, for some, emotions held a tangible power, if they could use the emotions of the world for their own benefit? What is the chance that someone would abuse that gift?

The clear, summer night brought out the competitive spirit in both the full moon and surrounding stars, each challenging the other to chase away the night’s veil. Yet neither felt brave enough to penetrate the gloom of Hambley Woods. Those woods they unhesitatingly ceded to the dark, knowing how unwelcome would be their incursion. However, the flickering flame that pierced the wood’s canopy showed not all felt the same concern.

Approaching the light, one could see why, for it came from the lantern of a man. Only man, of all the beasts who walked the earth, sought such petty victories over nature. Maybe because few other beasts were as ill-suited to deal with it. Thus he harnessed fire for warmth or to cook his meat. Or on a night and in a place like this, he used it to chase away the dark, to expose terrors that lurked inside the shadows.

However, for this particular man, the lantern provided nothing more than light to see, for he knew the woods held nothing more dangerous than he. So had learned the predators that slunk, just beyond the lantern’s light, and so learned the pathetic, defeated survivors of the late war. Little more than scarecrows, skeletal from hunger and clothed in tattered rags of gray and brown, they shambled homeward, unsure if they would find house and family victimized by the madness supposedly ended. Ill and injured, Hambley Woods seemed a sheltered haven in which to rest or to scrounge for food. None suspected what waited for them.

The Man with the Lantern.

Like them, he too once fought in the war. For a time he served as an officer in the same army and possibly some of the scarecrows fell under his command. But where the war took their innocence, he willingly surrendered his own. Where the war broke many, it helped him understand he was already broken. It taught him what could make him whole. In the chaos and mayhem, death and destruction, he found himself adrift in a sea of emotion, floating upon waves of anger, hate, fear, and despair. Sometimes, though rarely, even love or compassion.

He discovered this miasma during a skirmish, for some meaningless hill, during his first hand-to-hand encounter with an enemy soldier, Though the enemy remained face less, as with most who followed, he always remembered the terror emanating from the man. Sudden knowledge that he caused the fear struck him like nothing ever imagined. Empowered, it took no effort to block the thrusting, bayoneted rifle and riposte with his sword. And if the initial fear struck like a bolt of lightning, the shock and terror he felt from his dying enemy proved a moment of unholy awakening. Never before did he feel as strong. So addictive to stalk that skirmish and future battlefields, creating and wallowing in the cacophony of emotion felt by men who fought and died.

Initially his commanders celebrated his prowess in leading men to victory. However, as the years passed and the horror of the war increased, they found themselves worried then sickened by his actions. After they turned him into a hero, they could not let the world know their mistake, particularly in their desperation to stave off the defeat all secretly expected. Instead of prison, they sent him home to rest. Home to the manor named for his grandfather, just like Hambley Woods.

After instilling so much fear, it surprised him to learn how those safe behind battle lines felt towards him. No fear, just pity, scorn, and very little love. At first he blamed that on rumours about his actions while in uniform and shrank from that version of himself. Yet in time he discovered a staleness, a mustiness about their feelings, as if kept too long without airing. Shocked to learn the level and the length of his family’s dislike, he often retreated to the woods, there he hunted, riding the lesser waves of a beast’s death.

Until one day, he smelled a fire. Finding it, he also found a deserter. What lurked reawakened and the man became the first victim he could not explain away as an act of war. Nor did he attempt to convince himself that he punished the man’s cowardice, he knew that he indulged an act of simple selfishness. Something enjoyed too much to provide any redeeming qualities, something he repeated numerous times before the war ended. With defeat and the number of his potential victims increasing, he almost exhausted himself in an orgy of murder. In time the woods gained a reputation as haunted, which led to fewer victims. Only the bravest or most desperate gave him opportunity to free himself from society’s norm.

With this stream of release all but dried up, he hunted further afield. But without the protection of a uniform and away from his own property, he fell into arrogance’s lure and discovered the danger of sloppy. Again he proved fortunate to escape to Hambley Manor with honour intact and his true self undiscovered. Once more left to dine on the sour fare offered by the inhabitants of his home.

It proved too much to bear. No longer could he accept himself as Eric Hambley. That Eric died on the hill at the beginning of the war.

Though Eric Hambley offered him a welcome disguise, he could not ignore the Man with the Lantern, the Hunter of Hambley Woods. His twisted needs finally brought this to the forefront. After displaying his true self to those who thought they knew him best, he set out on his final hunt. A chase that enraptured his mind. He could not believe how pure and sweet Amelia’s terror felt when compared to her false love.

Chapter 1 - Curiosity

Morning. Ken’s least favourite time of the day, tied for that position of dishonour with afternoon and evening, with night following close behind.

Not that he lived a horrid life. The Williams, who despite their name actually belong to the widespread Cabot clan, offered as good a foster home as anybody. And if bullies made him their target, well he long ago proved unmoved by their barbs and quick to heal from their bombs. The problem, his life fit into the category labeled blah. Everything stayed the same, combine that with an expectation that nothing would ever change and he could barely work up the energy to swing his backpack over a shoulder before heading out the door for another thrill packed day.

Head down, he ambled towards the bus stop, stepping upon fallen autumn leaves, unmoved by their normally satisfying crunch. Instead his mind lingered on the possibility of a different life.

Nothing spectacular, realism weighed too heavily for him think about life as a movie star, rock star, or secret agent bedding a bevy of beauties, However, how about something other than a nerdish schoolboy? And did he always need to attend private schools with stupid uniforms. Sure the traditional foundations of these schools, all eleven, no twelve now, worked to hide family secrets, but attending them sucked.

Arriving at the most recent of these schools, Ken attempted to make himself even smaller. An approach that did nothing to make life better; however, it always made life easier at St. Whoever or Whatever Academy. On this day his strategy worked perfectly. Doubtlessly enhanced by the natural sloth of the teenage, male bully on Monday mornings, he received little more than scowls in his direction.

From the entrance he headed for the silence of the library, the habitat preferred by those students in search of similar safety until first bell. Ignored by them, friends complicated secrets, Ken walked towards the back, past the history section, where he slipped into the room labeled as Records.

Inside he found the broom where he left it on Friday and with which he kept the floor spotless. His escape from reality, not even Mr. Edwards, the librarian, regularly visited Records.

Even after the bell rang he continued to sweep, knowing no one would miss him. Only when finished did he look out, through the section of the fogging on the door’s window he scraped away during his first day here. Nobody in sight, he returned the broom to its spot and walked through the back wall. Leaving nothing but false memories for his scheduled classmates and teachers.

So freeing to pass into the pocket worlds. Even if just a nexus, full of nothing but doors, used by the family to travel between the real and numerous unreal worlds. By the time he passed through another of these, which opened into a sterile hallway, Ken stood straighter, no longer worried someone would notice him. Not that his appearance changed, he still looked like a scrawny fourteen year old, but here nobody considered him a schoolboy. In this world everybody knew him as the bearer of the family curse. Something that still made him a pariah, but while here nobody would try to kick his ass.

Amongst family curses, it ranked amongst the least, which might explain why his ancestors tried their utmost to paint its caster as a black-hearted villainess. And though many believed their tale, Ken, the most intimately impacted, felt less sure.

Why would a powerful witch, and only a powerful witch could cast a spell that crossed centuries, survived deaths and reappeared with births, declare war upon an entire family of magic users? What did Alyce Cooper hope to accomplish when she doomed Ken’s ancestor, Jonathon Cabot, to never age beyond his fourteenth year? To never grow into his birthright as a man of power and prestige. And why choose Jonathan, not even a first son?

Ken suspected personal reasons. Battle-scars from thirty years of attendance in upper crust schools across Europe and North America left him an expert judge of youths of privilege. Their propensity to loom as shadows over the weak of both sexes left him doubtful of Jonathan’s innocence.

Just one of many secrets he wished to know, but magic-users zealously guarded their secrets. Most importantly, they hid their existence from the mundane world, but just as often hid their knowledge of magical workings even from family, friend, coven, or clique. This meant a constant loss of and search for knowledge around the magical universe.

For the Cabot family, this world, straight from the mind of a 1970's environmental psychologist, provided a place for the family's scientist magicians to work. And, like any real world researcher, compete for limited resources.

Fortuitously, though Ken proved a failure at the political games, his partner, Dalton, excelled at them. His one true friend, they made a good team. Living on different continents, they mostly worked different schedules, which kept them from getting on each other's nerves. Even better, they enjoyed different types of work. Shy Ken did the brain work, hidden away in their lab. Boisterous Dalton did the legwork, dealing with people, and experiencing life on many worlds.

Today looked no different. The only sign of Dalton's earlier presence, a Post-It fallen onto the floor in front of their lab. No need to read it, Dalton wrote Find Me!!! on it months ago, since which most of the glue on its back disappeared, so often did he stick in on their door.

Despite the multiple exclamation marks, Ken ignored the command. First he needed to commune with his coffee maker. Unconcerned about the old myth it might stunt his growth, Ken needed a cup before starting work. Exciting as he found the project, the day to day work proved a chore, especially after a late night trying to kill, without using an exploit, Old King Allant in Demon’s Souls.

As often happened, their project sprang from personal hardship. In this case, his need to reboot his life every three years. Ken accepted the need, but he hated dealing with the Lintel Men, who saw him almost as a leper.

Actually Lintel People, since the group included women, not least their current leader. Occupying a position of prestige within the family, they served as the custodians of the large stone lintels, split in half, used as foci when opening doors between worlds, both the real one and the magical ones.

Pocket worlds, upon which the magical community depended for sanctuary, prestige and mobility around the real world, did not come cheap. It took significant amounts of energy to open a new world, connect it to others, and fill it with structures or an approximation of life. The result, a necessity priced like a luxury, which kept the energy poor, such as Ken and, to a lesser degree, Dalton, in their place.

For example, Ken always maintained two doors; one at whichever school he attended and another at whoever's house he fostered. And the energy he transferred to the Lintel Men for a relocation equalled nearly a half of what he gathered during the times between using their services.

However, incentive does not equal a solution. Like the coffee in Ken's pot, the problem needed to percolate away in their minds. It took seven years, two and a half cycles through different foster homes, before he and Dalton crafted a theory, proved it in clinical settings, and obtained approval to begin real (pocket) world tests.

No matter how much they tried, the two could not figure a way to divorce the spell from the lintel. Research probed to them these solid blocks of granite, often as large as those used at Stonehenge, were the only thing from the earth strong enough to channel the volume of energy needed to open a new world. A spell intimately linked the stone and the opened world, making it the key to create any other door. Just split the stone in two, place each half in two world, and through the magical law of similarity a portal could be established. Which brought them back to their problem with the lintels, the Lintel Men controlled all physical access to the stones.

They needed a proxy, yet research showed how often others tried to create simulations, some elaborate, some almost the real thing. All those attempts failed.

Almost as a lark, Ken suggested they treat it as a coding issue. If only they could turn each half of a lintel into a object, one they could referenced no matter wherever it rested and they stood. Of course it proved much more complicated, but the idea provided the groundwork for a kludge. If a true programming effort, they knew it would cause a code review tool to crash, but the pilot showed enough promise to obtain blessings from most of the Elder's, an account to draw upon the family’s magical energy and a lab in which to work.

Of course, the one Elder least interested in their project was the leader of the Lintel Men. She demanded th idea first work on something other than her precious stones.

Proof of how much the others Elders wanted the theory to work came when they pressured Julia into providing an alternative. With poor grace, she admitted her people used a simple, two piece telescope as their main training device. With its tubes separated between worlds, trainees learned to establish a link, which allowed them to look through the eyeglass in their world to see what the objective lens saw in its world.

Ken now looked on that roadblock as minor and the work around as a blessing. The two tubes proved easy to manipulate, both from a physical and magical standpoint. It minimized the amount of magic they borrowed from the family bank, which in turn kept them in control of the project.

Pessimist’s mug, full of hot wake-me-up, in hand, Ken felt ready to start using some of what they borrowed.

One problem with Mondays, it gave Dalton the weekend to place beacons. Admittedly a good test, as it allowed them to discover how long a beacon remained usable (after thirty-one hours, you may as well forget it) and resulted in a refinement to the search spell to focus on specific castings. It just required a lot of casting, which continued long after he emptied the coffee pot.

The bigger problem, Dalton’s maturity level. Always a chance, one of those beacons would show a monitor displaying one of the more disturbing images on the internet Therefore, when he heard the door open behind him, Ken said, "You asshole, you almost burned out my retinas.”

“Pardon?”

Ken did not need to turn in order to identify the voice, but unwanted politeness required it. Spinning his chair, he saw his father at the door. Surprise leapt to the forefront of his mind, both because he rarely saw his father and because of how old he appeared. Sure he looked little different than most men his age, but most men his age did not have access to magic.

In their realm, few found anything more important than to extend the facade of youth. Some lived for centuries, but to do so required great skill and access to tremendous amounts of magical energy. Everybody else used spells that accomplished the promises of all the expensive lotions, anti-aging creams, and snake oils throughout the ages. The decline of flesh and skin, muscle and bone, tendon and blood vessel could be slowed. Sicknesses made to run their course quicker. Blood to flow more efficiently. Continued maintenance kept most alive for double their natural life expectancy and appearing in their twenties or thirties for most of it.

Yet Ken’s father, Angus Cabot, looked his age. The reason, the same as why he and his son rarely saw each other. Angus' wife, Ken’s mother, knew nothing of their powers. His father could not chance her discovering his secret, for he would not chance her reaction.

Secrets.

The hallmark of magic users, yet it played havoc upon relationships, particularly with those who knew nothing of the craft. In general, such a marriage seemed doomed from the start. Even when entered into with good intentions, magic proved a mistress most found themselves unwilling to do without. Few persisted, as the lure of love and want often dimmed over time.

But it never did for Angus. He loved Sandra as much as the day they met, would give her anything, including decades off his life. Never would he allow magic to cause her a moment of worry, so he always portrayed who she saw him as, for that is what he needed. Only once did his secret life almost encroach upon this well oiled companionship, when their son's magical talents quickened. In itself normal, the talents usually manifested in a person's teen years. However, a month before his birth, the family's prior curse bearer died in a car accident and turned him into the heir, triggered when he quickened. The magic Angus could manage, he managed to hide his own, but he knew he could not hide their son’s unchanging appearance. Therefore, he decided Ken needed to die.

Not a true death. Just a tactic employed by magic users throughout the ages, when they sought escape, most often from a relationship. He faked Ken's death. Something growing more complicated in the age of information, but still easy in the late 70s. Angus offered his son no choice. So while Ken grew to understand and even accept the reasons, his bitterness remained.

Thus Angus' age stood out, for he rarely saw the man. And only one reason existed for his presence.

"What do the Elders want?"

"They have a proposal for you." Angus replied, not attempting to counterfeit the reasons for his appearance behind parental goodwill.

"What?"

"They prefer to offer it to you themselves. Some believe if I were to do so, my presentation would be prejudiced by my belief that you should not accept."

A response that told Ken more than the Elders probably wanted him to know. Yet in staying true to his wife, Angus established himself as a trustworthy sort, one who would make a tough decision and stick with it. They should know he would make his opinions felt, no matter their constraints. Doubtless the offer would put his son in danger and though his father loved his wife more, even Ken would not deny his father also loved his son.

Yet curiosity drove Ken to work in a lab. Curiosity always drove him to seek answers to the unknown. Therefore, he needed to hear the proposal.

Chapter 2 - Desire

Since Angus proved unwilling to answer any questions about the matter and Ken's pride would not allow him to ask any personal questions, the two did not speak as they left the lab. Back in the nexus, they walked past numerous doors, each which led to a family, ally world, or traps, some keyed so only certain people could pass. The door they sought, randomly placed and indistinguishable from any of the others opened into a waiting room. There, with a hand on the handle of the next door, Angus broke the silence.

"Remember, they are only allowed to ask a favour, they cannot make a demand."

With these words, he opened the door and allowed his son to enter. Ken did nothing to acknowledge the warning, though it settled in his mind as he stepped into a boardroom worthy of any Fortune 500 company. In fact, the Cabot's would belong to that group if anyone knew they existed, which made the elders, sitting around a mahogany table, as much corporate board as council.

His eyes went first to the chair at the far end of the long table. In it sat Lydia Cabot, head of the family for the last twenty years. And though Angus' aunt, she appeared young enough to play that role to Ken. In general, everybody felt pleased with her leadership, though some thought her over fond of manipulation.

To Lydia's right sat one reason behind the acceptance of her leadership. Old Walter, who held the role before her, whose insular viewpoint saw the non-magical as a distraction. Fortunately, when he recognized the pace of scientific advancements in the mundane world, admittedly after most of the family, he realized he could no longer act as their leader. Yet before stepping down, he finagled a position amongst the Elders, to ensure the family did not completely divorce itself from the past.

The chair on Lydia's left held Julia, the leader of the Lintel Men. An age-mate to Angus. Though whatever friendship the two once shared died with the death of the third victim of the family curse, at a time when both looked forward to the birth of their first child. With Angus' son born a day before her daughter, inheriting the family stigma, she did little to hide her glee. A happiness mutated into a disdain towards Ken and which she transferred to her daughter Rebekka. The two of them, along with their lackeys, saw Ken as the least amongst the family and made no effort to hide that belief. Many afternoons he spent daydreaming about dropping a piano upon the pair of them. Alas, only his life belonged in a cartoon.

One member of the Council of Elders, Elizabeth, did not sit in her chair. The oldest elder, she only appeared for the most important discussions and votes. Her absence supported his father’s contention that Ken could say no to any proposal without fear of sanction. At least, so went the theory. However, the manner in which Angus distanced himself from the others, going so far as to ignore his seat and lean against a wall, caused him to suspect coercion would occur.

Cautiously he offered greetings and took a seat when invited. Sitting in the large chairs made him appear even more child-like, but Ken tried to ignore that as he said, "Angus mentioned you had a proposal for me."

Lydia looked from son to father, trying to determine how much they shared before entering the conference room. When neither face provided an answer, she said, "Your father is correct. An ally approached us to help trap a murderer."

"Magic user?" Ken asked, already knowing the answer.

"Of course, they would not ask for help otherwise."

"How can I help?"

"Although they have pursued this murderer for years, they still don’t know determined his identity. But they believe they know the identify of his next victim and plan to replace her with a double."

Ken required no additional explanations before he saw the problems with the expected plan. As casually as Lydia mentioned the double, they both knew it took a crazy amount of magical power to perform the transformation. He should know, he set aside every spare bit of magic he could and still only dreamed at the possibility of becoming an adult. Yet an entire magical organization, particularly if the allies proved those who he suspected, could manage it. A bigger issue would result from physical limitations, which required a person smaller than the target body. Something that would shrink the pool of those able to serve as bait.

"I doubt they need the meager amount of energy I can provide."

"No, that they can cover. But they want to build as many fail safes into their plan as possible. One of which involves the murderer succeeding in stealing their double out from underneath them and takes her to whatever world where he hides."

"Even if Dalton or I teach a double to cast the beacon spell, what good would it do? We don’t have a way to connect to that spot.”

"My team has been working with Dalton using your project's findings." Julia said, always ready to put Ken in his place. "However, we are still in early stages."

While Ken frowned, feeling betrayed Dalton never told him about this, Lydia said, "But Julia, you continue to report your team’s successes. And we were quite impressed with your demonstration."

"How about our numerous failed attempts? We succeed less than one in seven attempts and can only create a temporary portal, not a door. A portal we can only hold open for moments and the beacon needs to be found within an hour of casting or it loses the necessary potency for us to establish a lock. I believe it a flimsy hope upon which to gamble someone's life."

Walter interrupted to say, "However, sometimes when the reward is great enough, the gamble becomes worth it."

At this statement, the elders stared a question at their guest and it all fell into place. He said, "Surely you don't expect me to become bait? No way!"

"As Julia says, the spell is not at a stage where we can promise it to our allies." Walter said. “It may be more than embarrassing, it could damage our relationship, if the spell failed one of theirs. Better for us to take the risk.”

Lydia said, "You know the spell and your size makes you a transformation candidate. Plus, as Walter said, the reward is great."

"To be bait? It won’t be us taking the risk, it will be me."

Julia said, "Exactly, it is too dangerous."

Before he could wonder why Julia cared about putting him in danger, Lydia said, "The Samodivas have contracted the Boiis to spring the trap."

Definitely a pair of heavy hitters, which explained why Lydia wanted the Cabots involved. The question, did he want to get involved? No, but he still needed to ask, "What is this tempting reward?"

"They will transform you into someone else afterwards."

Tempting indeed. Only his very dream. In fact, it almost seemed too much. Even if it required him to become a her, something that should probably upset him more than it did, if only he did not already despise his body. How much worse would it be as a female? Specially if only as a detour around the roadblock on his path to manhood.

Instead he worried about the danger. And the fail safes the Divas built into their plan showed the risk of failure. Never-mind his father's and Julia's concerns.

Surprisingly, Ken found himself focused upon that last thing. Julia's concern? So unlike her, it made him suspect an ulterior motive. Almost as if...he struggled to hide an inappropriate smile. Had Dearest Becky decided to add the next child to their family chain? Did they fear his death would pass the curse into their line. That possibility almost provided enough incentive for him to agree, but he desired one more thing.

"I want to know the truth behind the family curse."

With agreement in place, all Elders except Angus left the room; Julia in a snit, Lydia off to contact the Divas, and Walter to obtain the necessary records. Meanwhile, Angus finally took his seat, saying nothing and keeping his opinion off his face. Not given a chance to tell his father he forsook the right to make decisions for him, Ken instead asked, "Is Rebekka pregnant?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Julia seemed more concerned than normal about my health. I'm speculating."

"Spiting the two of them would be a very bad reason for volunteering."

"Say, rather than spite, I look forward to them having a few sleepless nights. Because, despite how much my life bums me out, I'm not ready for it to end. But a chance to change it, that I must take."

Angus nodded his understanding, the two settling into silence while waiting for Walter's return. When he did so, he held a leather bound tome, which he dropped, with a thump, on the table. He said, "Here are the writings of Albert Cabot, who kept the family's records during most of the 1500's. You'll find it in the entries for 1571."

The tome proved less fragile than Ken suspected and when he opened he found typed words. Something which caused him to frown in suspicion.

"Even though its a reproduction, it holds the truth. And you'd thank me if you saw the original, Albert's writing left much to be desired."

While Ken leafed through the book, looking for 1571, he found himself stopping on a regular basis. The long reign of Queen Elizabeth I saw much turmoil, but also hearkened the rise of a merchant class that grew into a force almost as powerful as the gentry. A class amongst which the Cabots belonged, though inconspicuously, owning wealth that would surprise most. Centered at the villagers of Wolshire, they employed all who lived in and around it. From and through the village traveled their goods. This required a thriving contingent of blacksmiths, wagoners, craftsmen, and the coopers who made the casks, tubs, and barrels for moving those products.

One of these coopers had a daughter named Alyce. A lovely girl of thirteen, she set many a heart afire, including Jonathan Cabot's, a younger son of a younger son. Flattery and gift-giving from one above her own class enchanted the naive girl. In time she declared her love, which Jonathan regularly exploited in the woods outside of Wolshire.

This led to an all too common result, Alyce’s pregnancy. Unfortunately for her, her discovery of this came at the same moment Jonathan remembered his betrothal to another. Before she knew it, he disappeared to the Cabot facilities in London, leaving her alone, embarrassed, betrayed, and so very angry. A combination that caused her to replace nightly prayers with curses towards the boy who sought pleasure without responsibility, who hid behind parental skirts, who only pretended manhood. Finally, when her child showed, Alyce's despair grew too much and she cast herself from a bridge into the fast moving river below. And with that sacrifice, her curses became real.

Finished reading Alyce's sad end, Ken found himself unable to blame her for what he endured. Blame rested upon the Cabots, particularly Jonathan of whom the remaining records mentioned rarely and only in context of the curse.

“Stupid wasn’t it? She offered the family bloodline more than the twit who seduced her ever could.” Walter said.

“They didn’t know?”

“No, nor did she, nor her family. Here we see the rarest of us all, one in billions, and our family pride destroyed her.”

The rarest of the rare, the most powerful and truest of Earth’s magic users, who harnessed their own emotions for arcane purposes. For emotions fueled magic. But like the fuels known to the mundane, not all burned with the same energy or could be harnessed in the same manner. The majority of magic users relied on the emotions of others, which in turn split into two types; emotion targeted directly at the practitioner and emotions directed towards the world at large. The power of the first equated to gasoline, while the latter would seem akin to burning wood. But, as Alyce proved with her multi-generational curse, the nuclear power of the magic world rested with the personal feelings few could harness. In fact, no Cabot ever owned this ability. No wonder they hid the truth, leadership always desired the appearance of infallibility.

Lydia gave Ken little time to ponder his new knowledge or implied agreement before she returned to ask, "Satisfied?"

About to answer with a negative, if only to tweak her nose, Ken stopped himself when he saw something in her mannerisms brooked no joking. Instead he nodded his head.

"Very well, follow me."

"What? Where?"

"Our allies would meet you. They wish to ensure themselves of your suitability."

"Already? But I thought I would have more time."

"For what, Kenneth? To find an escape from your promise?"

Despite a growing desire to do just that, Ken also wanted to meet the Samodiva. The Divas, as most called them, originated in the Balkans. And while many wondered if they sought to evoke the woodland fairies of Slavic folklore or if their history formed the basis upon which those myths existed, none doubted the appropriateness of their name.

Unlike the Cabot's, the Divas passed their magic only to daughters and, from what Ken heard, each appeared more gorgeous than the last. Which explained why they ranked amongst the most powerful, for they evoked an endless supply of lust. This ready source of energy made them worthy, though frightening allies. In large part, because untempered power created an arrogance in some Diva cliques that led them to take insult from words and acts with no affront intended. This caused the Cabots to develop a relationship with a stable branch of the Divas. And if that branch still took advantage of them once in awhile, they at least provided a channel of communication in case someone ran afoul of a more mercurial member. Always best to hope friendship would offer a chance at discussion before destruction.

That fear did not explain his hesitation. As one who offered a favour, he held no fear of giving insult. Yet insult to his own vanity, what little the curse allowed, seemed assured if he presented himself to a Diva while dressed in his school uniform. Unwilling to admit this truth, he rose from his seat to join Lydia.

When his father also stood, Lydia said, "There is no need for you to come, Angus."

"I will go anyways, Lydia." Angus said, certainty in his voice.

Lydia's turn to accept something she would rather not. With a nod, she led them through numerous nexuses, from the family's into multiple neutral zones. A path that left Ken unsure of the way back.

Most of these shared worlds took the form of a restaurant or nightclub, so the cutesy little pastry shop seemed tame compared to the norm. Empty, except for a pretty brunette wearing a dirndl. Yet no matter how lifelike she appeared, Ken knew a magical construct when he saw one. Almost living, but hollowed of all humanity, both good or bad. A manikin who existed only and entirely within the pastry shop. While harmless, her kind usually made Ken uncomfortable, but on this day his thoughts looked inwards as she led them to a table.

Once seated, she poured each a cup of a tea, offered them a plate of dainties, and said, "Please enjoy."

Angus asked, “Who are we meeting?”

"Ilina Borisova." Lydia said.

“Don’t think I know her.”

While they waited, the feelings of self-loathing and mischief that led Ken to this table dimmed. In their place arose those of self-preservation and wisdom. However, before they could gain a place of ascension, their hostess arrived and all thoughts of retreat disappeared.

Chapter 3 - Disgust

For a woman like Ilina Borisova, men would commit acts of stupidity .

Non athletic, Ken never-the-less enjoyed sports as a spectator. Rarely did he miss an entire day of SportsCenter, few sports' sites did he not avidly read, just as he once read their magazine precursors. Therefore, when Lydia first spoke Ilina’s name, his mind jumped to tennis. Now, with her arrival, he saw his initial thoughts held some truth. A tall, long-legged blond, but softer, less athletic than a Sharapova or Hantuchova. Instead, if Ilina's appeared in a sports magazine it would be that famous February issue of Sports Illustrated

Hard not to stare at her in a navy business suit, the tight, short skirted type appropriate for how the fashion and television industries visualized a young executive on the rise. Without saying anything, her presence demanded their attention, immediately taking charge of the situation when she set a portfolio upon the table and sat in the remaining seat.

In a voice devoid of the expected Eastern European accent, Ilina said, "First, Kenneth, let me thank you for volunteering to hear our proposal. And yes, it is only to hear my words to which we will hold you. For I won’t accept a volunteer who does not know the full story."

Captivated, unwilling to look away from the tense beauty, Ken did not see his father settle back in his chair, no longer as watchful. Instead, he nodded and said, "I would like to hear it."

"In 1978, a non-magic inheriting niece of one of our members went missing from college. We put our collective will, which is no small thing, into finding the girl. However, we did not succeed, nor could we discover the identity of her kidnapper. One year later, to the day, her body was found, dressed as when taken, on the main yard of the university she attended. The brazenness shocked law enforcement, but the state of the body offered more surprise. Except for a single stab wound, judged perfectly to slay and not maim, she appeared healthy. No signs pointed to imprisonment or abuse. To the mundane police it meant nothing, but to us it seemed obvious."

"She'd been reaped." Ken said in a whisper. A suspicion in the back of his mind now made real.

An easy conclusion to reach for anyone who understood how emotions fed magic. At the centre of that understanding sat two scientific principles as old as magic, that of magnetism and distillation. For just as magnetism relies upon the attraction between two unlike poles, so too is there a natural attraction from one person’s feeling towards their target. All the target requires in order to find those emotions is a simple spell akin to scanning for a radio signal. But in their natural state feelings are vaporous things with a short half-life; thus the second spell, which virtually distilled them into a fuel usually stored in foci or elixirs.

For Ken, he used the magnetic strips of credit cards for his foci. The one in his wallet and another at his lab inside a copper kettle from an old moonshine still. An unnecessary part of his virtual distillery, but a cherished gift from his great-great-grandfather, a rare display of humour from a man whose face more comfortably wore a scowl than a smile.

Yet if he looked at either card's magnetic strip, they would appear faded and scratched. A sign of how little emotion he engendered. In part because of his curse, people did not like to think about it or him. But the lack also resulted from a survival mechanism, honed through years existing within private schools, where he attempted to make himself invisible. Yet he needed magic. At a minimum he needed enough to manufacture each new identity, something grown more difficult during his life.

Stinking computers.

More than that, he paid a magical tax to the family, which they used to maintain their magical worlds, most more extravagant than the sterile hallways and labs of the world in which he, Dalton, and others worked. Plus his experiments, the less he borrowed the more control he maintained.

So he understood the desire to reap; in ways he did it himself. Easy enough for an apparent teen to get hired at the local arena, Ken worked a mean concession till, during games and concerts. There he harvested the third type of emotion, a simpler process with no need to find a specific signal, he just took everything felt inside the enclosed building. And though this resulted in a lower proof, the volume he captured took care of his tax payments.

An embarrassing act, but not something spoken about only in whispers.

Nothing like one of the truest sins as defined by the Cabots, the Samodivas, their allies, and even many of their enemies. To use people, to manipulate the emotions they felt towards you. Admittedly some hypocrisy existing in how this sin translated to law. The subject of love led to many a theoretical discussion over a glass of something more naturally distilled, where some described it as a tool of easy manipulation that could lead to hurt. But only the most cynical would equate it to fear, the normal crop for reapers.

"So thought our lead investigator. Even before the body appeared, she suspected a magic user was behind the kidnapping, for who else could hide something from our focused eyes. Now with the body discovered, she jumped to the conclusion that whoever committed the crime could not be that powerful if he reaped."

Angus said, "I have learned that owning riches does not stop people from wanting more."

"A lesson our investigator soon learned. She discovered nothing. In time, our leadership suspected it may have been a result of an assumed wrong we committed. But that too led nowhere. In time the case, as they say, went cold."

"He's back?" Ken asked.

"It took us years to learn he never went away. In 1991, a member who worked for the FBI received a request to help a local police department with a case whose MO mimicked that of our own missing victim. An automated search discovered similar cases, once every four years, going back to 1970. Through another spell, which allows us to perform a similar search of dusty files, we found more cases, one every four years, starting in 1946."

"Twelve of them?"

"And four more since, we hope to stop it from becoming five."

Looking towards his father, seeing softening in previously hardened eyes, Ken asked, "But if you don't know who it is? What good is bait?"

Ilina did not offer an immediate answer, instead she slid an 8" X 10", taken from her portfolio, across the table. On it Ken saw a picture of an attractive brunette, probably in her late teens, reminiscent of someone, an actress. Then he remembered, before the Internet offered so many outlets to someone stuck in a fourteen year old body, his infatuation with music videos. The picture reminded him of Liv Tyler from the Aerosmith videos with the girl from Clueless, their performance burned into his mind for all time. From a time when Tyler exuded a raw sensuality, before her transformation into icy perfection. Not a clone, but the girl's picture bore a close resemblance.

After a few seconds to look, Ilina said, "It is true that the murderer has left few clues as to his identity. However, each of his victims lived her own story before running afoul of him and our information specialists used those stories to create a profile of his targets."

"Her?" Ken asked, pointing at the picture.

"Physically, all of his victims were brunettes with blue eyes, between 165 and 175 cm tall. None overly voluptuous, but neither were they overly slender. Similar enough, but when we delved into their lives we discovered a pattern. At the time of their capture, each was nineteen and away from home, usually at a university. All were considered good girls growing up; popular, decent grades, and active in their schools and communities. However, around the time each left high school they experienced a trauma of some sort within their life, which led them into minor rebellion.

"The picture shows Heather Theis. Nineteen years old, almost 173 cm tall, she played second base for her high school team and has competitively danced since the age of four. Currently in the second year of university, she is struggling with the divorce of her parents. As a result, she has become a bit of a party girl, drinking more than she should and jumping from boyfriend to boyfriend. We believe she is our murderer's next target."

"How can you be sure? There must be hundreds of girls that match the profile."

"Less than many would assume, but you are right, we cannot be sure. That is why we have other teams watching some other girls. But we think Heather is the most likely target and it is around her where we will place our largest effort. We are making an educated guess, since the profile is more in depth than I explained. Eight years ago, it narrowed are potential list down to three girls, one of whom was taken. Four years ago, they picked the exact target, unfortunately he slipped through our watchers both to commit the kidnapping and to dump the body."

"I can’t believe you didn't catch him?"

If not for his tone, his surprise at someone evading the Diva's power, Ilina may have felt upset by Ken's temerity in asking that question. Or maybe, as he gleaned from her response, a lack of personal involvement in the failure allowed her the freedom to ignore the judgment of others.

"I have read through the plan prepared by the team at the time, spent hours thinking about it, yet I cannot see anything I would have done differently. They inserted one of our own as a decoy and brought in the Boiis to help set up the perimeter. But they could not stay within arms reach at all times, not if they wished to spring the trap. Somehow he must have been able to open a temporary door into her room, despite our forensic people finding no trace of one before or after the kidnapping.

"My predecessor took the loss of her agent hard and so it fell upon me to take over the operation. And until a week ago, I worried I may be doomed to repeat the same failure. But one of ours found her curiosity peaked as to why your cousin wandered about a common area, casting what seemed meaningless spells. Do not think poorly of him, she is adept at getting her own way and so he had no chance to conceal your project. The information made its way into my hands and I approached Lydia with an inquiry about your progress."

Placing another mental tick against Dalton's name, Ken said, "Our project is still in preliminary stages and until an hour ago I did not know about the companion project."

"Yet you came, thinking you volunteered." Ilina said, seeing the fear of that action mirrored in his eyes. "However, we will not hold it against you if you now say no. Nor will our organization look less kindly upon the Cabots. All I ask, is that you teach the spell to any volunteer, if we find one."

"How long do you have?"

"Until the 31st, he always acts on Halloween."

"Less than five weeks away?"

"Which is why the potential in your spell has offered us a new lease on hope."

Easy to find blame for Ken's next act. The understanding that, while Ilina may not look less kindly upon the Cabots, others within the Divas would, particularly if their plan failed. The carrot of the reward. Or chivalry, despite Ken's awareness that the lady across the table surely possessed a level of competence to dwarf his own. But none of those provided the reason he did not flee. Instead anger kept him in his seat. Disgust at the heinous murder of sixteen girls. Outrage at one of his own kind willingly committed acts he never considered, even during his deepest despair at the unfairness of his own life.

"Okay, I'll do it."

Four words, quietly spoken. The words brought about no celebratory smiles to either of the women's faces nor sorrowful expression to his father's. None let his appearance fool them, they allowed him to make this adult decision for himself.

Which did not completely hide their reactions. His ever present scan easily detected the combined pride, satisfaction, and happiness the three directed towards him.

I expect to post another of the six sections every 4 or so days. The story is complete, just need to my usual level of dull lustre before posting and since it is around 50K words, I find it easier to polish and post smaller chunks.

We live in a world where emotions can lift people from their sorrows as easily as drown them within. They cause you to strive for something better or hold you back, wielding control both unmeasurable and unmistakable. But what if, for some, emotions held a tangible power, if they could use the emotions of the world for their own benefit? What is the chance that someone would abuse that gift?

Like Lydia, Ilina offered Ken no time to change his mind. After a shared hug, the first in nearly three decades, with his father, she guided him from the shop. However, she proved more entertaining to follow than the Cabot leader. Almost he could distract himself from his decision in watching her short skirt flick back and forth, something she knew, as he did nothing to dampen his feelings. In fact, she seemed to put something extra into her stride as reward for volunteering.

After passing through more hubs, Ilina stopped before a door and looked at him. Briefly she smiled, when his eyes darted upwards to meet hers, before her face returned to beautiful neutrality and she said, "We only have five weeks and Gary never lets us rush his work."

"Gary?"

"He's our changer."

"Gary?"

"Only Gary in his most recent incarnation. From what I’ve heard, this is the first time, while practicing his art upon himself, he did not remain a sister. Without his saying it, we suspect this is the last life he will give the Samodivas."

A transformation, or a body switch as most called it, offered the most common way to extend a magic user's life beyond those techniques used by all magic users. Though, maybe better to say the most accessible, rather than common way. Even then, that was akin to saying that a Lear jet is accessible to a mundane. Both because it required a tremendous amount of magical energy and an incredibly skilled practitioner to perform. Everyone wanted a skilled changer as a member of their clique and a changer’s fees, in magical energy, often equaled that used for the transformation. Which meant they possessed everything needed to achieve their own transformations. A good gig, but it seemed this Gary no longer wanted to use his abilities on himself. And from reading the tone of her voice, Ilina thought him crazy to give up a good thing.

Based upon her early to mid-twenties appearance, Ken guessed her true age as no more than fifteen years greater than his own. Combine that with her assignment, chosen from amongst all the options available to the Divas, and he accepted the confidence Ilina portrayed in herself, it seemed unlike the cockiness others showed when trying to prove their worth. She impressed him, impressed all of them at the tea shop, which explained one reason he did not take the opportunity to back out when she gave him the chance. Yet at the same time, her presence provided another mirror in which to measure himself and in this instance it felt good to find himself wiser.

Understandable when you looked at it from her viewpoint. While he could not say Ilina only experienced kindness during her life, few could say that, he did not doubt Ilina liked herself right now. A life where youth and beauty held a power way beyond vanity for her and her sisters. To give it up would seem almost anathema to her.

Yet Ken knew how life could grow pale. His own unchanging past, present, and future formed the foundation upon which he made this risky choice, just as with his predecessors who made riskier and riskier choices until they need not worry about it anymore. Though each waited longer than he before first stepping on the path to their own doom. To him, it made sense that everything could grow tiresome, even the good life. How could losses of friends and loved ones not grow heavier the more lives one lived? Why would the scene from Highlander with Queen's song, Who Wants to Live Forever, not be true?

"Quit talking about me and come in."

Turning to the voice, Ken suddenly felt less sure of his wisdom. Hulked in the doorway stood a huge man, both tall and wide, with the face of a journeyman boxer, one whose scarred face showed he made promoters happy by his ability to take a punch and put on a good show. Easily could he appear a dark and foreboding character, if not for the smile on his face.

With the eye-roll perfected by every teenage girl, fortunate enough not to fear her parents, Ilina accepted the invitation, forcing Gary to step aside. "Kenneth, this is Gary. Gary, Kenneth Cabot."

After he watched her walk by, something not quite a leer on his face, Gary turned to Ken and said, "Welcome, Kenneth."

"Hello there. Please call me Ken."

"Very well, Ken, let's see if you're a valid candidate for this transformation."

"But I thought..."

"That, because you are shorter than our target, everything thing else is a go? Actually that's just the first trial before you get to the ogre. Time for his test."

In moments he found himself sitting beside Ilina on a leather love seat. Meanwhile, Gary, in a matching, though heavily worn, armchair, stared into space. Knowing the man cast a spell and not wanting to distract, Ken waited. Once more slipping into the ongoing argument about the wisdom of his action.

"Well you are a blood-type match, but the metatarsals and phalanges present a bit of a problem."

Ilina voiced the question that sprang into Ken's mind when he realized the changer spoke. "What?"

"Bones, bones, bones. The key to my magic, the foundation of a transformation. Still they're funny things, they can be lengthened, thickened, even thinned, but none of us can figure out how to make them shorter. And Ken's metatarsals and phalanges, which are foot bones by the way, are longer than the targets. While she wears a size 39 shoe, the best we can manage for you is a size 41."

"That's not much of a difference?"

"True, in fact I expected worse. In the last few decades it seems like most teenage boys are part clown."

Ken said, "I'm older than I look."

"Ahh, you're that Cabot. That's good, I wondered why they let you volunteer."

"Yep, I'm old enough to make my own decisions. And while I'm not familiar with sizes 39 or 41, they seem close enough to go ahead. Let's do it before I lose my nerve."

Ilina asked, "Gary, is everything else good?"

"Nothing I can't handle."

"Okay I will leave you two boys to it." Ilina said, before surprising Ken by offering him a hug and a kiss on the lips. "Thank you, Kenneth, you truly are one of the good guys."

Dazzled, Ken could barely muster a farewell, Gary jarring him from his reverie when he said, "Distracting, isn't our Ms. Ilina? I tell you, if I weren't so old and weren't so ugly I might be tempted to see if I could distract her myself."

"Because of your last transition?"

"Ahh, did she tell you about how they all think I'm crazy?"

"Not in so many words. Besides, like me, I suspect you're old enough to make decisions about your life all on your own. No I was wondering, ummm...you know, did you like girls before? Or was it because of the change?"

"Ahh, yes that is something that would interest you, isn't it? But it isn't as easy to answer as you probably expect. The reason for that is that I am old, well beyond being old enough to make my own decisions. In my prior lives I had relationships with both men and women, but the latter not until after I transformed into a target who liked women. But it is different now, as a man, the physical attraction is greater - the smell, the visual, while before the attraction was driven by less tangible thing. So yes and no. I suspect the same will happen to you. A transformation links you with a target and though you will not have experienced her experiences, you will remember them. Past pleasures will combat prior taboos in your mind, particularly those driven by outside, societal forces. Not that it means you must act exactly as she would act. It’s just that our target likes men, given the chance, you likely will as well. But that choice is up to you and, don’t worry, if you try it out you’re not going to turn into some sex-mad nymphomaniac."

"I don't know if that eases my mind or not, but nothing about my decision is easy. How does it work, the change I mean?"

"The old stand by, even mundane books about magic, not like ours, but the imaginary type, mention the law of similarity. That concept provides a starting explanation for my ability to link one person to another, to make a finger like a finger or an eye like an eye. Even those organs that are different between a woman and a man have analogues, though each party requires the matching analogue. So if either of you had donated a kidney, had your appendix removed, or lost a digit we could not continue. That not being the case, as proven during my earlier check, we require a trigger. Long ago, changers found the best trigger is the memory of feelings. For weeks I have studied our target, delving into the depths of her mind, searching to find physical memories. During the transformation, I will make your body re-live these experience again and again until it learns to react the same way, as if her body is your own. And after these hundreds of analogues are linked within your consciousness, no doctor could distinguish your body from hers."

"Do I have any part to play?"

"You must accept those memories as yours. Though don't worry, your mind is full of empty space for us to use."

“Will I keep this Heather’s memories when I change again?”

“Yes, though like all memories, they will fade. However, you must take care with overloading yourself with new recollections. I know we’ve promised you another form, but it won’t be possible for at least a year from the completion of this transformation. Does that change your mind?”

Ken thought about it for a moment. His chance to escape, but while the price to pay grew higher, the value of the reward remained worth it. Shaking his head, he asked one last question. "Will it hurt?

"Some of the truest physical memories involve hurt, but there are ways to mitigate the pain."

Mitigate - to lessen the severity, an interesting word for Gary to use. Fuzzy in its actual implementation, being true across a huge range. Yet a lifeline to which Ken would soon grasp. For while floating in a pool of ice water, which held the title of worst thing ever for only a short time, he discovered something even more horrible

It started with a stubbed toe. A metal bed frame, the bane of all, he felt the pain blossom repeatedly, the blood vessels bursting into bruise, the nail cracking and breaking away. He lost count of the number of times Gary made him relive that act, but when he finished, there still existed nine more toes to go. Coffee tables, doors, walls, Ken found himself reminded of all the things one could accidental kick. Lessons in dancing en pointe, led to memories of walking in pointy toed heels, cramming the toes together for awkward boys to step on during junior high and high school dances. And that only accounted for her toes. But it could be worse, didn't Gary say the cold water and the pills he took mitigated the pain?

He ran from first base hundreds, thousands of times. Feeling the his feet pound onto the ground, his ankles, knees and hips rotate, calves and thighs strain, arms pump, jaw clench, all to end with the sliding shorts under his uniform not quite protecting thighs from the pebbles of the hard and poorly raked ground around second base.

Even before experiencing the real thing, he endured and silently cursed as many periods as any teenage girl. But one stood out, since it occurred more than a month after the ill-planned and drunken night when he...she lost her virginity to a clumsy, drunken, and rubber-less boyfriend. It added a dimension of panic and worry that Ken could live without, though it distracted from the memory of thrusts, caresses, and the smell of sweat. A lesson learned, but after learning of her parent's impending divorce, many Friday and Saturdays resulted in that alcohol fueled buzz where the skin of his head felt separated from his skull. Invariably those nights led him to a bedroom with one of a short string of boyfriends, which proved Gary's theory. It did not feel repugnant, yet neither did it feel storybook spectacular. Each time different, sometimes better than others.

But pleasures seemed more difficult to process than the physical pain. Pain proved little different from what he lived through as one of the smallest in many classes of clown footed idiots. Experienced once, he easily lived through it again for Heather. So in time he learned to throw a baseball exactly like Heather Theis. He could perform her steps, both jazz and ballet, from all of her last five years of dance performances and competitions. Heather's friends and families now appeared less like strangers in his mind, he almost felt he could pretend to be her.

Which did not mean he could be her. Too much still made them different. In his entire life, Ken only let himself grow close to two people, the old magical security blanket, and one of those tossed him aside so the other no longer knew he lived. Since that heartbreaking moment, he made friends but kept his distance, became the proverbial loner. But Heather, she loved people, needed them around her at all times. She could never figure out what to do with herself when alone, which explained why her activities always involved teams or groups, why she loved parties and made so many friends. Even when they brought her pain, she would never abandon them. Something that confused Ken, despite feelings of jealously at the pleasure they provided her in the past.

It left her not quite Heather, but also not quite Ken.

"I don't like Russians."

Ilina's statement came from nowhere and caused Ken's focus to shift from a surprisingly tasty dessert of strawberries and peppercorns to the blond's face.

"Though I no longer hate them," Ilina continued. "Time has allowed that blackest of emotion to grey into firm dislike."

Twenty four days earlier Ken exited the pool of freezing water in which, over a period of six days, he did not quite get changed into the person the Diva's deemed necessary. A judgment that led him to a type of beauty salon. There a simple spell turned the stubble on his head into a match for Heather's shoulder length hair. They also pierced his ears twice and his navel once, gave him a manicure and pedicure, and removed all unnecessary hair - from the eyebrows down.

A physical match, Ilina arrived with a suitcase full of workout gear and enrolled him in Heather Theis boot camp, run by Dannika, a petite brunette with a sergeant-major complex. She drilled him on Heather's style, movements, mannerisms, and relationships. Often with intricate role play sessions where the brunette and her helpers cast glamour's of people and places. With every bit of praise for Ken's newly delicate ears hard earned, he barely contained his joy when Ilina rescued him the previous evening. From the boot camp they went to her two bedroom apartment in Karlovy Vary, a city in the Northwest of the Czech Republic. Today she served as his guide in the real world.

It proved more interesting than scary.

Just above freezing, both dressed in the fall uniform for Czech girls; blue jeans, boots, sweater, and leather jacket. True, the boots had heels, the jeans were tight, and the bomber style jacket hid none of that tightness, but Ken found himself surprised how much attention he, not just Ilina, received. The amount of desire he harvested made him feel powerful. Yet it also seemed to lead to Ilina's announcement. Karlovy Vary, a pretty city of old world charm, boasted a spa industry that drew many tourists, particularly from Russia. One group, consisting of five young men, attached themselves to the pair of young looking women during their walk to the Embassy Hotel for lunch. Mostly forgotten Russian language classes meant he understood little, but Ilina knew everything they said.

Ken said, "I've been in too many schools with too many buffoons to think only Russians act like that?"

"What? Oh you mean those boys who just left? You're right, they're all the same."

"I wasn't. You need confidence and friends to act that obnoxious."

"You should have tried, Heather." Ilina said. "Sometimes it even works. Who knows, in a disco, I may have let the one in the red scarf pick me up."

Some lessons during the boot camp proved easy to digest. The easiest of these revolved around the name Heather. Since Dannika insisted everyone call him by her name, he caught on much faster than Homer Simpson becoming Mr. Thompson. More difficult to understand, the new triggers in his mind. Smells, tastes, or songs could lead to memories never lived. Red scarfs must be included in the mix, for Ken instantly visualized who Ilina referenced, pulling his image from an empty drawer in his mind labeled handsome.

"But no, it isn't the buffoons, as you so appropriately named them, who reminded me of my dislike of Russians. It's the two couples who just came in, sitting to our left. The man on the left looks like someone I knew. Him I hated."

Years of movie watching stopped Ken from a whiplash head spin. Neither did he reach into his purse for a compact, both of which he now carried. But the approach of the overly attentive waiter, even as Ilina waved him away, provided the perfect opportunity to look. Two men in their early forties, probably wealthy businessmen based on the quality of their suits, accompanied by two glamorous brunettes.

"It must be tough for you to live in Karlovy Vary?"

"Part of my penance."

"I don't understand."

"We need more privacy and more wine for me to explain."

Ilina proved impervious to all wheedling and cajoling. She paid for the meal and when they left the hotel she did not turn towards her apartment. Instead they visited a number of clothing stores and a wine shop, in which they bought a bottle of LeoÅ¡ Horá¡k chardonnay. All told it took three hours before they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, jackets and boots off, with glasses of wine in hand.

Ilina said, "Physically I matured early, but magically I blossomed late."

"Blossomed? We call it quickening."

"Too gender neutral for the Samodivas. Not that I understood what happened when it happened. The magic died out in my family a number of generations ago, which removed us from the list of those with the right to know. Then it reappeared in me at the age of sixteen. And so...no...first I should ask, what do you know of the Prague Spring?"

Caught up in his appreciation of the chardonnay, it took Ken a moment to comprehend the question. "Was that in 1968, when the Soviets invaded Czechoslovakia?"

"It's more what led up to their action."

"Sorry, I don't know much. I knew it was '68 because Jaromir Jagr wears the number in memory of the event. Oh yeah, there was also a movie, umm...Unbearable Lightness of Being, but I can't remember much about it."

"That's because you probably watched it for the lesbian scene." Ilina laughed when he took a large gulp of wine in answer, before she continued. "Not that the movie would teach you much about what happened, the author, Milan Kundera, thinks the movie poorly portrayed what he wrote. But even his book does not portray it to my satisfaction, though I doubt I can do a better explaining.

"In today's world, with democracy's victory it is easy to consider the Prague Spring as a rejection of communism, but it wasn't, more a repudiation of Stalinism. My mother and father were part of the movement. Yet they were socialists to their bones, they just believed people deserved more freedom. After all, to them, socialism was about all the people, not just the people in charge. So they could not conceive of the idea that the rest of the Warsaw Pact would interfere, not even the Russians, for they were their brothers and sisters as a Slavic people and in ideology. They, along with their cohorts, were so very wrong. Ideology warps around those who love power. Thus my parents made themselves a target. And that made me a target."

With all melody siphoned from Ilina's voice, Ken felt a sense of foreboding. He did not want her to finish her story, but something in her mannerisms would not let him bring it to an end. Probably the almost matter-of-fact way she spoke, matter-of-fact if you ignored how far into the past her eyes looked.

"Not a target of the armies of our allies and self-proclaimed saviors, whose invasion seemed no more dangerous than a training mission. True, some of ours were injured or killed or martyred, but if you give boys guns and the tacit approval to use them then death will follow. Instead we quickly remembered fears of our own Stá¡tná­ Bezpečnost and their elder brothers in the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, state security perverted into a proving ground for wannabe tyrants. They first paved the way for the armies and followed behind with coercion, subversion, and threat to return the Czechoslovakian Communist Party to its laughable glory.

“But as the days passed it seemed we may escape their attention. My parents convinced each other they were too small to matter. In truth they were. Small enough not to prioritize, but in the Soviet managed world nobody was too small to terrorize.”

A pause led to a shared drink of wine, before Ilina continued. "The man in the restaurant reminded me of Valeri Ubysh, Captain in the KGB. Who, nearly seven weeks after the invasion knocked on our door along with two local thugs from the StB. I never learned if it was mischance or intent for them to arrive on a evening when my parents worked late, leaving me alone. Whispered tales of horror and missing friends left me cowed as they barged in, took a seat in our living room, and said they would wait for my parents return. With the confidence bestowed upon him by the cheap, dark suit that served as their uniform, Ubysh asked me about my parents and their friends. When it became obvious he knew more than I, overwhelming silence filled the room. Finally, to escape, I offered them a cup of tea, which led to the end of silence as Ubysh spun his cup in its saucer, all the time watching me, judging me.

"I will never forget the sound his cup made nor how much my hope flared when he kept looking at his watch. The relief when he said they could wait no longer. But that relief disappeared at his next words, spoken to the two thugs, 'Time to leave, but as a message to the parents, the daughter is yours.' As much as their ilk now protest innocence, saying they only followed orders, the men who belonged to those organizations were not good men. Cruelty lurked too close to their surface, yet even they were surprised by the command or offer or maybe dare. So while their eyes leered at me throughout their visit, they hesitated. Hesitation Ubysh quelled with a single sneer. A strong, powerful man making other men, who assume they are strong and powerful, feel weak. They needed to respond, to prove themselves."

If truly Heather, he may know how to respond, but she’d retreated into the furthest depths of his mind during Ilina’s telling. The best available option, really the only option, required him to speak the truth. "I don't know what to say."

"There is nothing to say, Heather. Besides I have had over four decades to put that day in the past, besides...no, again I need to close another path before continuing. What did you think about your first time out as a pretty girl?"

"No wonder your order is so powerful."

"Yes the never-ending desire of men serves us well. But it comes so easy that it limits many of us."

"Like someone born into wealth, who enjoys their quality of life and has no desire to work hard enough to make it even better. I can understand their reasoning, it feels good, even if desire is a minor emotion. Better than dislike from bullies, which I know well and have found feels of similar intensity."

Ilina said, "Yes desire and dislike are two sides of the same coin. Could you sense a difference beyond intensity? I cannot"

"No, magically they feel the same. The only difference is an mundane understanding of their impact. Therefore, the awkwardness of desire is something I can manage, for it gives me what I want. But it is not worth reaching the same goal via dislike."

"Because what you gain can do nothing to diminish what you lose?"

Ken said, "Exactly. I can't cast a spell to distract, to impair, to hurt, because it may give me away. My best hope for power required me to run away from those who offered it. I did not feel the same fear today, I could soak it in and it felt good."

"It also makes me feel good, even when I did not understand why it made me feel that way. Unfortunately the first of these times occurred on that terrible November evening. But not knowing anything about magic, I believed these wondrous feelings came from the physical degradation. And you need to remember I was not awash in desire or dislike, instead it was their elder siblings, lust and anger. Probably my mundane, as you call it, terror triggered the blossoming as a defensive mechanism. But since I knew not how to use the power or even that I could, the result caused as much long term harm as short term good. After all, what type of freak would be empowered by such an experience? It was hard to like myself after that day.

"Worse, I did not hide it from my tormentors. I cursed their feeble manhood, which triggered their hate, that most potent of emotions, and made me feel even better. I laughed at them. This amused Ubysh, who stopped any further actions against me. His words, as they left, made it seem he felt proud of me, something I knew would not be true of my parents. Therefore, I did not tell them what happened. The only ones who knew about it were the four of us from the apartment that evening, but only Ubysh and I cared. He, because he saw something in me, and I, because of how it changed me. Over the next weeks he never seemed far away, it allowed him to prey upon my self-loathing and my desires to re-experience that rush. Soon I became his mistress. When he left Czechoslovakia I returned with him to Moscow as his recruit, enrolled in a KGB run school that taught pretty girls to be westerners, in my case an American. A good student, I soon lost my accent and after graduating, became a KGB temptress. That is why I deserve penance, I lured three decent, though weak, men into my sponsor's clutches. If a distant cousin, a Samodiva, had not discovered me, I would have continued to grow harder. Until I could not escape."

"And Ubysh." Ken asked.

"His superiors removed his particularly stain from my soul when he made a mistake they deemed unforgivable and tossed him down the hole into which he had sent so many others. Fortunately when I escaped, I could focus upon healing rather than revenge. But for that I needed to stop hating myself, something my cousin knew I could not do without help. So she introduced me to Brennus the Prausi, he took me in and made me whole."

Brennus the Prausi, a name wrapped in story and myth. A name known by magic users, feared by magic users, for he led the Boiis, those immortal warriors from the past. Feared, for no magic could touch them, because no magic could match what shaped them. Ken's mind flooded with questions about this mythic figure, not least why one would seek a slayer for a healer, but he would not burden Ilina further with her memories. So he did not ask.

For some unknown reason, he and Dalton found themselves driving through the mean streets of London in a cool car, though whether an American muscle car or a European sports car he could not tell. Something to do with a defensive driving course, but why did police department to which they belonged send them to England and how come they found themselves patrolling the streets? Strange, particularly since they drove on the right side of the road, as if still in the States. A wonder they did not cause an accident. Almost as if...wait, Dalton just turned into an alley full of gang bangers, who surrounded the car, each carrying a bat, tire iron, or chain. Outnumbered, the cousins reached for their .44 Magnums. Still it would have gone horribly wrong if they didn't suddenly find themselves in bus, actually something more of an airport shuttle, driving along a country road. The gang-banger threat in the past, Ken read the course material until they pulled into the farm where they would billet.

"Heather, time to wake up."

"Huh?"

"We had a nice day off yesterday, but today we need to get back to work. So re-pack your bag and put on some exercise clothes." Ilina said, before leaving the guest bedroom.

Probably more time with Dannika, Ken thought with a groan. Unlike his own life, Heather's involved a lot of activity, much of which he virtually experienced during his transformation. But virtual experience did not satisfy the drill sergeant, she made him throw balls until his arm ached and learn every one of Heather's dance competition performances from the last five years. Expecting another exhausting workout, he wore shorts and a sports bra, a pale blue Adidas warm up suit over top. After a breakfast of tea and poppy seed filled kolaches, they stepped into the paths between the worlds and did not stop until after tiredness caused Ken to begin switching the duffel bag of his Heather gear from shoulder to shoulder.

"Choose one off the rack on the left wall." When he did not move, Ilina asked, "You're not one of those anti-fur people, are you?"

Looking at the numerous winter coats hung about the room, he answered, "No, but why do I need to wear a fur to visit Dannika's?"

"You passed her program. Today you start with a new instructor. We're off to Pythia's Retreat where Brennus will instruct you in self-defense."

Many magic users knew of Pythia's Retreat, but few could expect welcome in the Boii's home and even fewer knew the mountain into which to find the entrance into their world. Excitement at joining the first group died when Ken realized Ilina’s plan. Although gender rather than legend caused the sudden case of nerves. Beyond a few moments after his transformation with Gary, who didn't really count, his only post-girlification encounters with men occurred during the prior day's walk, which happened in Ilina's protective sphere. Now she casually planned to place him in the care of a man, probably surrounded by a bunch of other men. He didn't feel ready for such an encounter, which the blond probably knew. No doubt, beyond self defense, she saw this as the next step in becoming comfortable in his new skin.

"I'm not sure I'm ready, Ilina."

"We can call it off if you want, Heather? However, our plan will have you on your own, amongst men as well as women, so it's a fear you will need to overcome if we hope to catch the killer. And you won't find a safer place to get your feet wet than at Pythia's Retreat or a more trustworthy guide than Brennus."

"I'll try, but I won't promise it will work."

The tentative agreement offered all Ilina needed, choosing a full length, sable coat with matching cap and mittens for her charge, she chose a white mink for herself before leading the way through a door into a frigid blast of wind. High in the sky, they stood overlooking a chasm of swirling snow. Familiar with the entrance, she spun in place, a guiding hand on Ken's arm pulling him about. Even then, the frigid air sought the gaps of skin between collar and cap, sleeve and mitten, and the cold seeped through the thin, rubber soles of his trainers. Before them stretched a tunnel, barely wide enough to walk side by side. Bright lights encased with in ice, which formed the walls to either side, made for a strange glow, but showed a metal door at the end of the tunnel. The lights also highlighted disks and cylinders, frozen just beneath the surface layer.

Eyes wide at the network of wires running between the disks, Ken stuttered as he asked, "A-a-are those mines?"

"So I've been told."

"But why? Who would be dumb enough to attack them? And how could they get here to attack?"

"The Boiis climbed the mountain to take the Retreat from its prior occupant, the one who cursed them. And in a time of helicopters it would be easier now, though I doubt anyone could catch them unprepared. There is also the door through which we entered." Ilina admitted. "I don't think they truly fear treachery from us, but they think in longer terms than most. Friendships can end, enmity can grow, which makes them unabashed at reminding even allies what type of foes they would be."

"The stories about them aren't enough?"

"One would think so. But some in the magic community are incredibly obtuse, buoyed by their own power. From what I heard, their ilk were once buried in the ice to serve as warning before explosives."

"Even after we got explosives." Said a male voice, made tinny through a speaker. "But after we became friendly with the lovely Samodivas, some felt the practice would tarnish their views of us."

"That's Brennus." Ilina said, as they hurried along the tunnel. The door, worthy of nuclear shelter, opening into a slightly warmer section of the cave, one stretching only twenty feet before a second hatch barred the way. Two more hatches greeted them before they stepped through into a pocket world.

In a life of blah, magic provided one outlet Ken utilized whenever given the chance. An ability to travel the world greater than even those with money, which over the years provided him the opportunity to visit all types of tourist destinations where a fourteen year old would not stand out as strange. What he saw allowed, combined with the sudden memory of where else he once heard the name Pythia, allowed him to instantly recognize Delphi. But not like he saw it on his visit, instead it stood here in its full glory.

Yet the vision did not hold his attention for long.

From a nearby bunker, its cinder block appearance unlike the columned and white stone buildings of the past, walked a man. Dressed in a grey t-shirt, navy shorts, and a pair of runners, Ken's found himself thinking of a high school gym teacher. When he came closer, Ken realized the man could only exist as a gym teacher in a movie, the one all the girls fantasized about. Just before he stopped, even that idea disappeared, for Brennus would never play such a minor role. The handsome drawer in Ken's mind, which first contained an image a Russian boy with a red scarf, flew open fast enough to bounce off its runners, seemingly eager for another file. A few inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist to match, he wore his reddish-blond hair neatly trimmed, and smiled at them with both his mouth and eyes. The type of man who always made Ken feel small, but who now seemed both less and more frightening through his modified vision.

Smiling at Ken, he reached for the duffel bag and said, "Hello there, I'm Brennus, but call me Bren. Everybody but Ilina does."

"Ke...Heather Theis," Ken answered, allowing the man to slip the bag from his shoulder. "Ilina said you could teach me some self defense?"

"Every pretty girl needs training, Heather. Even more-so for pretty bait."

"She volunteered, Brennus." Ilina said, hearing censure in his voice.

He looked like he wanted to argue, but said, "I suppose. And I can't deny it’s a worthy cause. You sure you want me to run the training, Ilina? Ash is the best."

"I think Heather would find Ashter rather overwhelming right now. But since it is your area of expertise, you decide. Now it's time for me take off, I have a lot of work to do in order to ensure everything is ready on Halloween."

Brennus said, "Here Heather, give me your coat and hat, we have a storage locker for them. I’ll also tell Brice let Ilina out, while you keep her company."

With both arms full, he headed back to the bunker. Once out hearing range, Ilina said, "Don't worry, Heather. You're in good hands with Brennus, he’s fully up to date on our plans."

"I supposes, it's just that I wish you told me where I was going before I got dressed."

"Wearing a pair of those shorts I brought you at Dannika's? Don't worry, they're not too bad." Ilina said, her smile growing larger.

"They have no inseam."

"Think of the view as Brennus' payment for the lessons. But don’t worry, it will be hands off appreciation, you’ll need to instigate any hands on type."

"That won't be happening, Ilina!"

"It would help you get in touch with your feminine wiles."

Pursing his lips primly, as Ilina stepped into the last hatchway of the exit, Ken said, "I don’t think so."

"And it would provide armour against what happened to me. Besides, he is amazing."

Before Ken could reply the door closed, an inevitability since her last statement left him speechless. He also worried about Brennus overhearing the conversation, like before. Therefore, when the man stepped from the bunker and waved towards an electric golf cart, the brunette spent the entire walk to it trying to determine the answer. True a smile did decorate his face, but one no different than during their introduction. Probably best to assume Ilina's remarks went unheard or to accept the man would pretend he did not hear.

The duffel bag, along with a cooler, taking the place of golf clubs and Ken in the passenger seat, they drove towards the hill in the distance. The final gravel path took them to the stadium, complete with Herodus Atticus’ seats and arched entrance. There, in the middle of the track, stood a pole holding a stuffed, training dummy.

“First, what do you know about fighting?”

“If I run away fast enough, I don’t get hurt.”

“A lesson I need to learn, maybe you should be teaching me,” Brennus said. “How about magic, does your family teach either defensive or offensive arts?”

“I’ve never had access to enough power to pursue such knowledge, besides Walter, one of our family elders, does not think it offers much value.”

“Wisdom runs in your family. Of all the magic I’ve witnessed, little is as useless as so-called battle magic. True, it can be deadly as part of an ambush, but there is too much chaos in a fight to control a spell. Things happen so fast that a good idea in one moment is bad in the next. Plus, most casters do not own the discipline needed to ignore the insanity around them. And if they do, the same craziness makes a target react in unusual ways. Often fear will protect a mind from other, normally greater, fears.”

Ken said, “What does that leave for me?”

“Well you are in excellent shape. Over the next four days, we will attempt to mold that fitness into a, well not a weapon, that’s impossible in the time we have, but hopefully into someone who can surprise the bastard.”

“Is that my best hope, to surprise him?”

“Surprise is a wonderful tool, particularly against those who are confident in their abilities. And best to judge this murderer worthy of his confidence, which means he is probably has the ability to physically deal with his victims. We should not plan on you winning a fight with him, but even the most competent can be surprised. With the blows I will teach you, it may be possible to disable him or give you a chance to escape. Since you’ve already perfected running, that should be your main goal. To distract and run away”

“So you’re going to teach me to kick him in the balls.”

“Well it would do the job, but...actually, why don’t you go kick the dummy in its non-existent balls.”

Surprised, Ken looked from Brennus to the dummy and back again.

“Go ahead. It’s hung at a height to simulate a 6” tall man, which is as good as any estimate of our murderer's height.”

Unsure of the lesson, but knowing he would learn one, Ken climbed out of his seat and walked to the dummy. There he wound up and kicked the dummy, as hard as he could, right between the legs, making it jump about on its chain. He turned, a questioning expression on his face, towards where Brennus still sat in the cart.

“That would definitely prove disabling, but what do you need to pull off such a kick?”

With the question, Ken replayed the kick in his mind and saw where Brennus led. “For him to be a real dummy.”

“Exactly. It’s slow, easy to evade, and it does not take much talent to grab your leg. Plus you need to consider what you may be wearing; heels, tight jeans, long skirts, any thing affecting your balance or flexibility makes it an even more difficult possibility. Now don’t think I am arguing against an attack to the junk, given an opportunity hit him right there with whatever is available, be it your foot, knee, fist, elbow or forehead. Beyond that, by the end of our training, I hope to teach you how to strike faster, with more strength, and know more targets where an attack can be almost as effective. But before working on that, let’s do some stretching and then practice your wisest skill, running.”

Again Ken thought of a gym teacher. How many times did one tell the class about some fun activity they would do, only to send them out for run first. The stretching he did not mind, it came natural ever since Heather’s memories synced with Dannika's lessons. Yet it definitely put him in the right frame of mind and unthinkingly, just before starting the run, he removed his warm up suit.

“Va-va-voom.”

And, once more, there went the gym teacher comparison.

We live in a world where emotions can lift people from their sorrows as easily as drown them within. They cause you to strive for something better or hold you back, wielding control both unmeasurable and unmistakable. But what if, for some, emotions held a tangible power, if they could use the emotions of the world for their own benefit? What is the chance that someone would abuse that gift?

A body. A mind. Two vessels, both large enough to hold multiple selves. Intellectually something Ken understood even before his transformation, but over the last four weeks that knowledge changed from theoretical to practical. He now understood you could not throw memories, knowledge, and thoughts into a mind like tossing mementos in a box. Each belonged in a specific place so it could be properly accessed when needed to make decisions or perform actions. However, when two became one, a part of each may belong in the same place, which caused them to stack, only the top being accessible for immediate use. By default, the dominant personality took pride of place; however, such an arbitrary method often resulted in feelings of wrongness, where instinct lost its immediacy.

Despite understanding the need to become the best decoy possible, Ken struggled to cede any control to his Heatherness. Sure, accepting her muscle memory felt like the obvious choice, but sensory perceptions seemed too integral in defining the disappearing Kenneth Cabot to give up. Yet some experiences left him with no choice, when his first cup of post-transformation coffee left him with a burnt tongue and a horrible taste in his mouth he took her appetite. And forsook many long held comforts.

The first morning, after awakening in his host's spare room, he struggled not with a pleasure lost, but one uncomfortably gained. Growing physical attraction to Brennus, which he found different than mental attraction.

At the latter, Ken considered himself an old hand. Ilina representing the latest in a long string of beautiful women who triggered pubescent fantasies. Even now, he grew distracted when he thought about her.

However, she did not feel the same for him. Just like his prior infatuations, most of whom never knew he existed. This could not be said for Brennus. With a thing for damsels in distress, even those newly minted, a day with the man left Ken vibrating with enough magical energy to overflowe his foci, the jewelry in his ears and about his neck now replacing credit cards.

Yet reciprocation did not encompass the entire difference? Just as Ilina dwelt in the upper stratospheres of female attractiveness, he realized Brennus occupied a similar spot on the male scale. Women would find him attractive. So while unready to blame the female hormones now coursing through his body, Ken realized they would support the attraction as normal. Combine this with the addictive rush of admiration, plus Ilina's parting shot, and his reaction during the prior day’s training made sense.

After their run, Brennus focused on palm strikes, worried a punch hard enough to hurt an opponent would break Ken’s hand. Initial attempts showed both Heather and Ken’s fighting inexperience, so Brennus physically guided his student through numerous attempts.

More attempts than someone with dancer’s coordination should need, but the brains of the two combined to make a hash out of things. Brennus, unused to training with women, particularly ones who he both wanted to protect and bed, worried about appearing the brute and forsook the firmness he would use when training with his brethren. In turn, dressed like a octagon girl at an MMA event, Ken felt every unintended caress, which triggered his fight or flight instincts.

Always Ken’s go to move, flight won, but not in the traditional sense. Like with taste, he abdicated control of the sensory receptors in his skin to Heather. Desire for flight disappeared, but happy distraction from the man’s touch took over, further delaying a breakthrough in Ken’s form.

This breakthrough signaled a change.

From that point until lunch, supplied from the cooler, and then until Brennus called a stop for the day, the only thing to push training from the front of their minds were a few cart rides to the bunker and its sterile bathrooms. Each time he grew slightly comfortable with the strike, Brennus introduced a new body part into the equation; feet spread, back heel lifting, knees slightly bent, hips turning, torso rotating, both shoulders and arms relaxed.

Exhausted by the day, Ken gratefully climbed into a golf cart. A longer drive took them to a modern three story apartment building almost invisible behind a stand of trees to the West. There Brennus parked his golf cart amongst an assortment of vehicles, ranging from scooters to four, what her host described as, Merkava Mark IV tanks. Taking the duffel bag in one hand and the arm of a drooping Ken in the other, he led them up two flights of stairs and to the end of the hall, where they entered a luxurious apartment.

“Living room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, my bedroom.” Brennus said, pointing to different locations, before turning into a short hallway on the left. Opening its single door, he walked in and tossed the duffel on a king sized bed, complete with the pillows and comforter straight from a hotel. “Closet right there and your bathroom is through that door.”

“Okay.”

“Now I just have time to share a quick meal with you before I try to get some sleep. I’m assigned to the midnight watch, which means we won’t start tomorrow until at least nine.”

In the kitchen, while Brennus made sandwiches from ingredients most artisanal producers only dreamed of emulating, Ken asked, “Are you worried about attack?”

“Not really, but as shown by our entranceway display, we are not adverse to paranoia. Besides, it’s good practice for when we’re out on missions. Let’s see, anything I need to tell you? Oh yeah, just throw your clothes in the hamper in the bathroom, we have a laundry service. If you have any questions while I’m gone, use the phones in your bedroom and dial zero, which will reach the watch, me, and I will answer or patch you through to the outside if you wish to talk to someone.”

With this advice, Brennus finished his sandwich and left for his room. Alone, for the first time since before his father showed up at his lab, Ken enjoyed the silence as he finished his meal.

However, his abused muscles, ones slightly different than those used for dancing, grew stiff and he hobbled to the guest bedroom and its en suite bathroom. There he found an upright shower and a jacuzzi tub. Using the first to wash away the day’s sweat, he settled in the latter for a long soak. A heat induced lassitude chased away all thoughts about the insanity of his life, allowing him to drift in place, barely awake. Only the cooling water energized him enough to get out, dry his hair, and perform Heather’s night time routine. Around 9:30 PM on the alarm clock, 8:30 on his watch set in Karlovy Vary, he snuggled into bed and fell asleep.

An excellent sleep; deep, relaxing, and recuperative. However, such a sleep can only last so long and when complete there is no need to continue. By six o’clock Ken knew he would get no more sleep. Wide awake, thoughts rushed into his head. The excitement felt from Brennus’s touch the noisiest of all.

Better than the recent morning fare, thoughts of serving as bait for a serial killer

The truth, Ken one-upped The Tragically Hip song, being over forty-four years old and never having kissed a girl. Not for want of hoping, but lack of confidence when it seemed okay to kiss girls who appeared his age and lack of prospects ever since kept him unfulfilled. And while Brennus could not end that streak, he definitely was not a girl, would it be so bad to learn if the truth could match a few of Heather's memories?

Over the next hours he alternated answers for that question with yes, no, and maybe. In the end he decided he thought too much and settled on the last option. No need for him to decide right now. Nor should he expect Brennus to make the choice for him, as Ilina said, she felt perfectly safe with him.

And in leaving the capris and tank top in the duffel, instead choosing gear similar to the day before, this time in red, Ken did not close off any options.

His smile maybe a bit smilier than the day before, Brennus cooked a breakfast of sausage, potatoes, and eggs, while Ken prepared sandwiches and cut up vegetables for lunch.

“Anybody invade last night during your watch?” Ken asked.

“A herd of mammoth, which I fended off with well placed palm strikes. Maybe a couple more sandwiches and another bag of carrots.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a backpack cooler in the front closet, ice packs in the freezer, and drinks in the fridge. And don’t forget the thermos of coffee, I will need it.”

By the time Ken finished packing lunch, two full plates of breakfast sat on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Amused by how much more he ate since becoming female, probably because of his insane amount of exercise, he dug in while Brennus hoovered down his plate and two cups of coffee. Immortality minimizing the lessons of manners compared to those that named breakfast as the most important meal of the day.

With Brennus shouldering the backpack, they left the apartment, not locking the door, then the building. As he stretched, preparing for another run, Ken followed along and said, “It’s quiet.”

“Only six of us are in residence at any time. And we keep different hours, usually synced to the part of the world we call home when not here. Other than that, there are the constructs, mostly created by the prior owner, who keep things running in tip top shape.”

“Constructs kind of creep me out?”

“Most of us as well, but usually they only appear when nobody is around, keeping everything pristine. Let’s go.”

“Can’t we take the golf cart?”

“It’s not far,” Brennus said, starting off towards the South at an easy pace. “Besides it seems cruel to kill them off because they make us uncomfortable. They’ve existed here longer than us and as shown by our own continued existence, when Pythia cast a spell, she made it to last.”

“The Oracle of Delphi?” Ken asked, struggling to comprehend the magnitude of their curse, which dwarfed even his own.

“Who created this world? Or who cursed us? Both, as you’ve probably guessed. Being an Oracle offered a perfect disguise, in a time of myth and imagination, for a powerful magic user. It allowed her to engender awe, respect, and worship, all the while providing opportunity for transformation while speaking with the same voice. However, we did not know this, when our territories grew too small for our people all we saw was the Greek dragon dying. Torn apart by the selfish greatness of the two Macedonians, who ensured all who followed wanted to lead from above, not amongst a group of peers. The peninsula tempted me and Delphi tempted me more. Yet though stung by the dragon’s death throes, she taught us the limitations of physical might. It took nearly fifteen centuries to build the courage to come against her once more, to attempt to slay the monster.”

“It is a horrible punishment?”

“Well we were the prototypical barbarians at the gate, trying to hit them while down. Not sure if you can really blame her, nor do I think she knew the true impact of her curse upon those of us who confronted her directly. She probably would have felt satisfied with the lightning, earthquakes, and snowstorms that turned our army into easy prey. Beyond that act, when you study her role in the ancient world, particularly if you understand her power, she proved amazingly wise and benevolent. Not even fighting when Emperor Theodosius ended her waned hold upon the populace, retiring here as a recluse.

“But it was not her, we were the monsters who needed to truly die. Monsters reborn after every death, almost like a character in a video game appearing at our last save point. Forced to constantly roam, unable to maintain a home for fear our secret would become known. Mercenaries or bandits, we grew tired of the unending violence, but what else could we do to survive? Maybe if she died there would be nothing to hold us to this world. It became our preoccupation. A wonder we survived the truth, but at least now we have a place to call our own. A world in which to hide when overwhelmed by the problems found in the real world.”

At this, Brennus quickened his pace, making conversation difficult. Caught in the second such confession in the last few days, almost as if they tried to distract him from his own worries with unexplained lessons, Ken slowly realized they did not run towards the stadium. Delving into his memory, trying to find an image of the map that once guided his steps through ruins which hinted at the glory of this world, allowed him to guess they ran towards the gymnasium.

Another reason to stop talking, the gymnasium sat atop a steep hill.

On the gymnasium’s lower terrace, within the palaestra, Ken tried not to embarrass past fighters who, for centuries, used this court in the real world for practice. Technique that at the end of the prior day felt comfortable now seemed less so. Possibly due to a change in target dummy. No longer a simulated human, now he struck at pressure sensitive targets strategically attached to a pole anchored to the floor. Targets demanding perfection impossible even for the best fighter ever born, which Ken was not, after only a single day of training.

After Ken settled into the form learned in that single day, a new voice said, “Nice form, but no power.”

Ken turned to see a red haired man standing beside Brennus. Physically of a slightly bigger size and build to Brennus, his facial features also showed the two were not far away from each other on their family trees, yet on him those features appeared colder, harder.

“Heather, can I introduce you to my oldest friend, Ashter. Ash, Heather.”

The overwhelming Ashter, as Ilina described him, though less today than if met yesterday. “Hello Ashter.”

“Heather,” the new arrival said in greeting. “After Bren relieved me last night, we discussed your training. He said you were fit and a good student, but that he did not have enough time to make the lessons worthwhile. He’s right.”

“But what about surprise?”

“It could use some help.” Brennus said.

With a nod of agreement, Ashter said, “Show me a palm strike to the right middle target. Just like Bren taught you.”

Nervous as when he started the prior day, Ken took his time. Visualizing what he needed to do, he did it. The number 58.6 appearing in the display.

“Well done, now hit it as hard as you can.”

That did not go as well, instead of hitting the target in the middle he hit it near the edge. Though the reading did increase to 62.3.

Ashter asked, “Have you ever golfed?”

“Umm, quite a few times. Why?”

“When learning to play golf, people quickly realize the ball goes further the harder they hit it. Just as quickly they learn how far off target the ball goes when they do so. The same, as you just showed, occurs with strikes. Though your second strike was harder, as a glancing blow it would likely prove less effective than the first. And that’s assuming either blow was hard enough, which they were not. Nor is there time for practice to make any difference.”

“Great motivational speech, Ash.” Brennus said. “Heather, he does have an idea on how to help.”

“Sorry, I just wanted to ensure everybody understood the parameters.”

“We’re not filming an episode of Mythbusters.”

“Which explains the regrettable absence of the wonderful Kari Byron. Now will you stop interrupting and let me explain?” Ashter asked, “So my yappy friend said he gave you the magic sucks when fighting speech. Which is true. It can accomplish what I once believed impossible, but how much time and concentration does it take? How careful does a caster need to be in order to ensure everything is perfect? Who can control all the factors in creating a shield of air, a wall of fire, or any such storybook spell while someone is trying to do them harm?”

Ken answered, “It’s beyond my skills.”

“Beyond the skills of all the casters I’ve ever known. In comparison, a palm strike is completely within your control. Which possibly can use a little help from magic.”

“But I thought magic was useless?”

“Better to say completely useless when cast against your opponent, less useless when you cast it upon yourself. It is something I learned while we traveled with a circus, during the 1890s. It included this strongman, what was his name Bren?”

“Wilbur Green, though he billed himself as Baron von Teuton.”

“Yeah, Wilbur. He had muscles on top of muscles, still he needed a shot of magic to perform the tricks of the other strongmen of the day. However, bending bars or performing the bent press were not his only use for magic, once I saw him use it to throw the most amazing punch. Fast and hard, he punched right through the wall behind his target. In an old style English inn made out of brick. If you can mimic him, that is your best bet.”

Soon after he learned of his magical birthright, but before the curse, Ken and his cousins often found themselves on a world consisting of an almost perfect water hole. It only missed a tree with a hanging branch from which they could hang a rope or tire swing. But that proved little hindrance, as the older children passed along a spell that when you ran and jumped, launched you as far as physically possible.

“Okay, I can see how it may work, what do I need to do?”

“Well, throw a strike exactly like Bren taught you, while also doing the magic thingee.”

“Magic thingee?”

Brennus said, “I don’t know how magic works, just how it’s powered. We’ll keep you going while you figure things out.”

“Yeah, between us we have over forty-six hundred years of practice lusting after pretty girls.”

Unable to come up with a response, Ken turned back to the dummy, trying to remember those days at the water hole. Could he translate those memories into something workable? Over the next while he practiced until finally he made it work. As for the two dirty old men, well they fulfilled their part of the bargain, even if they spent much of the time muttering away like Statler and Waldorf.

“I bet your arm is ready to fall off, Heather.” Brennus said.

“More so now you mention it.” Ken said, taking a drink to wash down his sandwich.

“Then you’ll enjoy the afternoon off. Ash and I have to work with the others this afternoon.”

Ashter said, “Brice makes us run weekly defence drills. He forgets we’re not right off the farm, but drills are better than his contract review meetings. Sometimes I wish you chose a different uncle to come along with us, Bren. Maybe Dannil?”

“You would have loved the last two millennia of him calling you Dungboy, particularly since you couldn’t kill him for long.”

“Can you at least stop Brice from going to conferences?”

“What should I do while you drill?” Ken asked, interrupting a conversation as comfortable to the pair as old shoes.

“You should go into town and do the tourist thing. It’s so much more fascinating alive than dead, both Greece and Roman captured in their marble glory.’’

Finding the idea a more appealing thought than further exercise, Ken asked, “Can I get a ride back to the apartment? I would like to clean up before I go anywhere.”

“There’s a better option, Heather. Once your done your lunch, I’ll show you.”

Sandwich, drink, and vegetables finished, Ken stood, wished Ashter goodbye, and followed Brennus into a corridor. The scent of moisture leached away any surprise when their destination led to the baths, three female constructs, wearing simple white tunics, waiting for them.

Brennus said, “You mentioned constructs creep you out? Well there are times I feel the same way, but never by the attendants of the baths, specially those Pythia gifted with talents of the best masseuses. I recommend their deft touch, but you are also free to head back to the apartment?”

The thought of how nice a massage would feel made the decision easy. “I’m good here.”

“Excellent. By the way, last night ended our triad’s watch set, so how about a real supper tonight?”

“Okay.”

“I look forward to it.”

By the time he left the second pool, the first warm and perfect for swimming, the second almost scalding, Ken’s fears of someone walking in on him disappeared. And by the time the constructs finished cleansing his skin with olive oil and strigil, his nervousness shrank significantly. Shrank completely after quick dips in the frigid and warm pools led to a wonderful massage, complete with scented nardinum oil. Only then did he think about clothes and his suitcase far away at Brennus’s apartment.

Again the constructs provided him all he needed, although in a style that updated Roman wear for the modern woman. Over lingerie, fit for a winged walk down a runway, he wore a sleeveless, white, silk tunic. Held in place by a cameo pin at one shoulder, leaving the other bare, it showed no thought to visiting his knees and nipped in at his waist due to a filigreed girdle of gold wire. A theme copied with the net into which they wove his hair, an armband for the upper arm of his bared shoulder, and a matching bracelet for his other wrist. Even the sandals on his feet, leather dyed a remarkable golden colour, were held in place by braided thongs wrapped about his calves.

The only thing lacking, a mirror. Something solved in the last room before arches led to the outside, where he found a large polished sheet of bronze. In it, Ken at first saw nothing of himself, but recently acquired memories and thoughts, like supplicants who traveled from the darkest parts of his mind, arrived to shout, ‘It is us! It is me!’ A petition that truth, his longtime destination, could not deny.

For every sense knew the she in the mirror as himself. Better, easier at least, to accept me as she and Ken as Heather.

She did.

Upon leaving the baths she smiled in delight at the waiting litter, a true Roman lectica. Unabashed, she lounged upon its mattress covered platform and gestured the four male constructs, complete with oiled muscles and loincloths, to their poles. In this decadent manner she traveled through a living reminder of two great empires.

Glorious only attempted to describe what she experienced.

Floating along on strong shoulders, she passed between the stalls of the Roman market, constructs both shouting their wares and succumbing to the offered temptation. They traveled through the main gates along the Sacred Way. At each monument and treasury she would dismount from the litter and wander about, ignored by all except the waiting porters. Heather sat upon the Sibyl rock, observed the eternal flame, drank from the sacred spring, and watched actors, musicians, and acrobats while eating fruit and drinking wine cut with water at the theatre. For one afternoon, she found herself captured in the timeless grip that held this place across the centuries.

Yet a grip can also strangle. Held too tight, it is impossible to live, to grow. Ancient Delphi released its hold with the arrival of dusk, the signal for construct citizenry to start their nightly exodus to wherever they spent the night. For the first time, Heather found their absence sapped life from a place. Once more she climbed onto the litter, expecting they would carry her back to the Boii’s apartment.

But instead of winding back along the Sacred Way, the porters carried her East to and along the Stoa of Attalos, where Brennus waited to help her from the lectica and ask, “How went your afternoon?”

“Spectacular. Ancient history has always fascinated me and I’ve toured the Delphi ruins many times over the last three decades. Over the years the site and its tours improved, but this is beyond the dreams of the most visionary curator when seeking funding for a new interpretive centre. Does it grow old, living so close to it?”

“Actually I can count the times I’ve been inside the walls on one hand, with fingers to spare. I’ve always satisfied myself with the lands and buildings on the outside.”

“What? Why?”

“I guess shame. It only took one visit, my last, to realize how right you are. It is spectacular. Yet on my first two visits I sought to pillage and destroy. Doubtlessly selfish, but I prefer to minimize my memories of my barbarism.”

Unable to argue, Heather watched the final glory of the day’s sun. As it sank below the western hills, its final rays danced in delight between the pillars of the pathway to form a golden spotlight upon a table set for two. To one of those seats Brennus, dressed in style and class to dispel any final remembrances of the high school teacher, guided her to a seat and poured them both wine. A rather romantic setting for supper, one made even more intimate when the porters trotted back along the stoa. Yet she felt no surprise, she realized she half expected it. Nor dismay, as her recently gained memories made it seem natural.

“Quinta do Vallado,” Brennus said, reading the bottle’s label. “My Uncle Bricius recommended it. I hope you like reds?”

“I’m not sure. The old me did not like any wine, but...” Heather said, reaching for her glass to take a sip. “...the new me likes this quite fine. How went your drills?”

The evening proved as fascinating as the afternoon. Like the buildings in Delphi, Brennus proved himself a relic of history. More so in ways, never chained to a single spot, a soldier who thrived in the battles and warfare but who never ignored the art and society of a time, he answered all of Heather’s questions with a story. Nothing gave him pause until after dessert, a decadent chocolate concoction delivered by a construct appearing from the dark.

“Does this always work?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the whole dress a girl in silk and jewels, have her carried about the city like a patrician’s daughter, feed her a fabulous meal, and place yourself in the running for the most interesting man in the world. All without a bottle of Dos Equis in sight.”

“Oh that.” Brennus said, unabashed at being called out. “It works spectacularly well.”

“I bet. And tonight, do you expect it to work again?”

“It better. Think how disappointed you will be if it doesn’t.”

So utterly corny, but Heather remembered something Ilina said. Confidence was sexy.

Of course she did not need to remember Ilina's last statement. Those words provided background vocals during the entire dinner.

In their sixty plus combined years, both Heather and Ken often experienced 4:00 AM, but only five times after a night’s sleep. Like those mornings, it felt awful early to wake, which at the time led to second, third and more thoughts against going fishing. Even more-so now, when serving as the bait.

Yet, how do you escape a promise triggered by chivalry?

Nothing for Heather to do except rise and stagger across the hall into the shower of her unused room. Maybe that would wake her. It definitely helped, but when she stepped back into her room, towels wrapped around her torso and head, a fully dressed and rather perky Ilina questioned how much.

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“It’s still last night.” Heather said, around a yawn. “”But I fell asleep by 10, sleep came easier than expected.”

“Nothing like great sex to put you to sleep.”

“Ilina! I...I nev...I...”

“Now Heather, how often did I visit you at Dannika’s? Combined with the two mornings at my place and not once did you make your bed before showering. Nor, when you did, did you ever make it with the precision of the Boii’s housekeeping constructs. And I know that grin on Brennus’s face. Though honestly I would be shocked if your training did not go full contact. Want to tell big sister Ilina about it?

“No.” Heather said, only slightly embarrassed at Ilina's accurate guess about the prior two evenings, never mind yesterday morning or the gymnasium’s pools after training.

“We don’t have time anyways. Can Gary come in?”

“There is nothing he hasn’t seen before. Why though?”

Ilina said, “To provide a quick refresher on your doppelganger’s activities over the last few weeks.”

This experience with the hulking changer proved quick, but intense. With two gentle fingers upon each temple, Gary made Heather live the experiences and conversations of her original. Amongst these she found relief at the break up with short term Dylan, once so terrifying, but less so after a few days at Pythia’s Retreat. She also obtained an inkling of Ilina's plan.

“Tess, she’s one of yours. But we, I mean they met last year.” Heather said, startled once more by the amount of effort invested by the Samodivas to capture the murderer.

“It took some time for us to determine who we consider is the true target. Fortunately we are a large organization, since we required thirty eight sisters to return to school. Though it is not a terrible hardship on any of them, each will thrive on a university campus. Amongst those thirty eight targets, Heather ranked quite high, which is why we assigned Tess, one of our best, as her shadow. These skills show why she lives in the same building as Heather and how she finagled invites for the two of you to the best Halloween Eve party in town.”

“Why are we performing the switch tonight? Not tomorrow?”

“It would be an unneeded distraction tomorrow. We plan to keep our switch secret and Tess’s place seems the perfect location. So in two hours, around 9 their time, Heather will stop by and pick Tess up before they head out to party. That’s when you will take over.”

“What will you do with Heather while I’m playing her?”

“Keep her knocked out, feed her your memories, then release her back into the wild. Unaware of the danger she skirted.” Ilina answered. “But enough questions for now, you need to get ready. You’ll love today’s costume.”

“I just relived putting together the costume, I know I won’t.”

“But Heather, it’s magical.”

Brennus appeared to agree, for when she exited his spare room thirty-five minutes later, he took one look and said, “Five hundred points for Gryffinborn.”

“You mean Gryffindor,” Ilina said. “And you don’t give points to naughty students.”

“Have you seen how Mrs. Claus is dressing these days? Ever since she started Pilates the naughty and nice spectrum has undergone a serious shift.”

Hard to deny where her costume belonged on that scale, Heather thought, particularly when knowing the reasons behind its choice. The figure hugging, grey dress emblazoned with a Hogwarts crest comfortably established its place amongst the always evolving sexy Halloween costume. The short pleated skirt, along with stiletto heeled Mary Janes and white knee socks showed off legs wonderfully toned by her recent physical regiment. And if the plunging neckline did not match Lyndsay Lohan’s memorable SNL appearance, the gold and scarlet mini-tie pointed out the yeoman’s work done by nature and her push up bra. The worst or maybe best thing, after Brennus’s reaction, she liked the costume a lot more.

“Speaking of which, we should hurry. It’s a round-about path and we need to be in place within the hour, so you may wish to switch to your running shoes, Heather.”

“Good idea. You coming along, Brennus?”

“Yes, along with Ash and Brice. We’ll act as Ilina's reserve.”

Ten minutes later, at the cinder block bunker, Heather met the third member of their triad. Rather than the expected elder statesman, she found Bricius less than a decade older than his nephew and looking enough like him to confirm the relationship. His attitude of bemused charm made him just as entertaining as his colleagues, something she learned during their journey as he and Ash competed to tell their favourite stories about Brennus. Something she found even more humorous when she realized these ancients acted like any older brother around a younger brother’s first girlfriend.

Almost she laughed, but a small part of her being, one mostly on sabbatical scared it away with an internal whimper. Also at this time, Ilina chased the two men away, telling them she needed to talk to Heather.

“So are you all juiced up?” She asked and almost immediately laughed at the look on Heather’s face. “Get your mind out of the gutter girl. I mean magically.”

Hand going to an earring, Heather answered, “Oh, yes. And the overflow has boosted my account with the family higher than I ever imagined possible.”

“Another benefit.” Ilina said, not at all cryptically. “Very well, try to stay topped up. Otherwise, lean heavily on Tess during the next couple of days. She’s in on everything and as I said, one of our best.”

“Do you think he knows? About all of you?”

“We’re unsure. It is probable he learned something the last time around, but our profilers believe it will not stop him. Many serial killers own an arrogance, a belief they are invincible. It is not unusual for them to taunt the police, who in this case is us.”

“And if he doesn’t do anything tonight or tomorrow?”

“There are still watches on those girls who we consider lesser targets. We would also ask you to maintain your masquerade for the next week or so, beyond that time we doubt he would try anything. It would no longer match his MO, which probably provides a significant part of his thrill. Besides it is possible he is dead, in prison, incapacitated, or has decided to stop. That does happen.”

Heather said, “I would like to catch him, but I would be just as happy if he has just stopped.”

“I think we’d also see it as a success.” Ilina admitted.

Reaching the last hub, they crossed through into a nice lounge, complete with entertainment units, table and a kitchenette.

Ilina said, “Grab a seat. We set this up as a crossover and meeting point, we can get into Tess’s apartment through the third door from the left.”

Heather ended up seated between Ilina and Brennus on the couch, Bricius in an armchair, while Ashter wandered towards the kitchenette to look in the fridge. Shaking his head in disgust, he wandered back and flopped into another chair and said, “Light beer and coolers. Let me guess, we’re going to talk about the Sex in the City movie from the summer while we wait?”

“Let’s play the quiet game, Ash.” Brennus said.

The other four appeared so good at the game that Heather found it easy to play along. Instead she focused on the iPhone in Ilina's hands, watching the minutes pass. At 9:10, Ilina finally lost patience and sent a text, Is she there?

Less than a minute later, Tess responded, Not yet.

Before Ilina worried further, which would make her worry even more, Heather said, “You know, we’re not the most punctual person. I mean, Heather isn’t. She’s always late for things.”

This calmed Ilina down, but everybody felt relief when she received the next text, She’s here. We’re having the drink.

“Tess is going to put some knockout drops in Heather’s drink.” Ilina said, eyes still on the screen of her phone. “You guys will need to carry her from there to here.”

Brennus said, “Take Brice and Ash.”

“I’m strong like ox.” Ash said. “I’m waiting.”

Even Heather knew what he expected and said, “And just about as smart?”

“Exactly!”

A few minutes later Ilina and the two men passed through Tess’s door and for a moment Heather found herself struck by horror at the thought she served not as the bait to capture a murderer, but that they used her as a dupe to kidnap this Heather for some nefarious purpose. Each owned a dark past. Yet she could not believe that possibility, would not believe it. They all seemed so sincere, almost normal. Nice. She liked each of them.

“I can’t believe this is happening. I mean I knew it would, but everything seemed so slow now it seems so fast.” Heather said, when the two were alone. “And Gary said it will be months before I can change again. Where will I go? I don’t want to be a burden on the Divas and I definitely don’t want my family to see me right now.”

A veteran of more battles than he ever wished to remember, Brennus could write a thesis on the fears and reactions to fear he witnessed. Not unusual for someone to focus upon the unimportant, though this time he could offer a solution.

“I have a number of places scattered about. You are free to stay at any of them.”

Showing the distance of Ken’s retreat, Heather’s immediately found herself hoping that offer included Brennus’s presence. However, before she could clarify, a strange parade entered the lounge. All of them he recognized, including his unconscious doppelganger carried by Ash. But her memories did not prepare her for Tess showcasing her buxom, red haired glory in the barely there leotard and thigh boots of the superheroine Starfire.

“Now that’s bad, Ilina!” Brennus said. “Wonderfully bad.”

“I do try.” Tess said, pleased at scoring the last goal in her hat trick of stunned compliments from the three Boiis.

Ilina said, “Brennus, if you and Heather will stand, Ash will have somewhere to place...umm...Heather. That could get confusing if we kept the two of you together.”

“No time, our taxi is picking us up at 9:30. Get her cape Heather, your hat and wand are at my place.”

“Okay, Tess.” Heather said, gently undoing the short cloak from her mirror image, before fastening it about her own neck

That accomplished, the redhead ushered her through the door into an eerily familiar room, pointed to a coffee table covered with a witch’s hat, wand, and purse, then rushed to answer the phone.

“Hello. We’ll be right down.”

Just like that, with no time to think or worry, they left the apartment, walking past a familiar apartment door, towards the elevator. Waiting for its arrival, Heather asked some questions.

“No coats?”

“It’s a beautiful California night.” Tess answered, mischief in her eyes. “Oh yeah, you’ll need fake ID tonight. Here.”

“Wanda? Really?”

“In keeping with your costume. Anyways, we’re off to the VIP party at the Melon Ball. It will be full of the rich, stupid, and horny. And since you already fell for a mickey in your drink tonight, let me remind you to only drink from glasses directly from a server and to forget that glass once you hit the dance floor. And girl, we’re going to dance, because one good thing about the rich. They always hire the best DJs.”

Heather’s law and order worries made a quick appearance when they showed their invites and ID at the door. However, doorman at those types of clubs did not make a living by keeping sexy girls out when they pass the sniff test.

Definitely not a world in which Ken could exist, but Heather fit right in. Years of dance classes meant the dance floor offered a home where she as often danced with Tess or on her own, as much as with the rich, stupid, and horny who tried to catch the two with unsubtle combinations of braggadocio and praise. Fortunately, with servers walking about with trays of complimentary champagne, they could not add purchased drinks to their repertoire. And the two ensured the free bubbly did not get them in trouble, taking only a sip or two from a glass before returning to the dance floor.

She could not believe the amount of fun she experienced while surrounded by people and noise. Nor how disappointed she felt when the DJ stopped playing and the lights came on. Feeling buzzed, both by how those sips of champagne added up and by the distillation of emotions that whirled about them all evening, the two left the dance floor one final time.

“Why didn’t I bring different shoes?” Heather asked.

“Solidarity. You knew my costume wouldn’t allow me to change so you girled up and stood perched beside me in my time of...of...being hot.”

“You better believe it, Sister. Although I could use a foot rub.”

“Think Ilina will let your Boii toy, Brennus, visit? If so, ask her to send Ash my way. I like them all muscly.”

Too wrapped up in solidarity to dissemble, Heather said, “Wouldn’t that be nice. But I don’t think that is part of her plan.”

“Well then I will teach you an ancient Diva secret when we get back to the apartment.” Tess said.

As she reached for her purse amongst the clutter of the table shared with some other unattached girls, most who remedied that situation and left earlier, Heather said, “Hey, a rose with a note. Must be from one of your admirers”

“Hold it, something feels off about it. Let me.”

When all merriment drained from Tess’s eyes, Heather snatched the note. She read.

Dearest Not Heather,

Yours til the End of Time, Eric

With misfortune once more painting the world brown, it seemed only natural for Ken to return to the forefront. Yet the only thing he could add was a desire to return home to the Williams family house, up in his bedroom playing Demon Souls.

We live in a world where emotions can lift people from their sorrows as easily as drown them within. They cause you to strive for something better or hold you back, wielding control both unmeasurable and unmistakable. But what if, for some, emotions held a tangible power, if they could use the emotions of the world for their own benefit? What is the chance that someone would abuse that gift?

“We can’t let Heather take the chance.” Brennus said, restating his view in case no one heard him the first ten times.

Halloween morning found them in the lounge beyond Tess’s apartment, now converted into a war room. Analysts occupied the kitchen, while others handled communication with Diva and Boii agents in the field. Agents who appeared in the moment as police and left no memories amongst those with whom they spoke.

Still Ken felt all alone.

The prior night, after receiving the rose and message, Tess proved unwilling to trust a cab. Instead the two made their way to a late night pizzeria, which did a brisk after bar close business. While Ken ordered two slices of whatever, she started making calls. One of which led to a car ride home, two untouched slices of pizza left behind.

Back at Tess’s apartment, they answered Ilina's barrage of questions. Did you notice who left the rose? Did anybody seem suspicious? Do you go to school with an Eric? Remember any Erics? But they didn’t and couldn’t remember anything of help. By this point the prior night’s short sleep, combined with the stress and fear inundating his mind since the end of the party, left Ken wiped out. Ilina finally gave up and ordered him to use Tess’s spare room.

After a fitful sleep that barely refreshed, he now sat, wearing sweatshirt and sweats, logoed with his temporary university’s markings, arms wrapped around legs in an armchair while Brennus presented his case and Ilina offered counter arguments. Although the responses from the normally confident woman lacked conviction.

Ken asked, “Is there a Debra or Sarah among your thirty eight candidates, Ilina?”

“Yes, one of each. Unfortunately, they are among those who seemed the most unlikely choices and are no longer under our watch. I’ve dispatched teams to track them down, but...”

“...this Eric probably chose those names as a distraction, neither will prove his real target if not me. He will go after one of the other choices or someone you don’t even know about. Then again, maybe that’s what he wants us to think. Arrrg, I’m suddenly feeling sympathy for Vizzini from Princess Bride. There’s no way to protect them all, even if we know where they are, is there?”

“No, we don’t have the resources with the needed skills.”

“Besides he wants Heather? Me?”

“That is our belief,” said one of the analysts, a brunette in glasses who looked like Hollywood’s template for the pretty but smart girl.

Ilina asked, “Are you sure it is not misdirection, Leeza?”

“Misdirection is a distinct possibility, but as Heather said, until we know more, determining this Eric’s exact plan is a no-win exercise.”

“Has the name Eric led anywhere helpful?” Brice asked.

“It is middling popular name in the US, but that still leaves hundreds of thousands men who use it as there first or second name. Besides, we all know how well magic users hide their tracks. Right now our data miners are excluding those too young or too whatever, but that takes time.”

“And how do we know if it’s an alias or his real name?”

“Exactly, which is why I can’t wait to get my hands on the Melon Ball’s surveillance videos. We’ve already obtained it, now we just need it delivered.”

Utilizing the pathways available, a thumb drive arrived posthaste. Soon Leeza’s team watched each each camera’s video, the files opened on different computers, the best shot of their prior night’s table also displaying on the flat screen TV of the sitting room. After fast forwarding to their last visit to the table before the rose appeared, Ken and his party watched the video in double time.

When the two of them appeared on the screen Ken could hardly believe his eyes. Since the transformation, his daily allotment in front of mirrors seemed much greater than required by his old self, so he knew he looked like Heather, that he inhabited the body of the girl in the sexy wizard costume. Yet seeing her smile, the glow of happiness and health, a gloriously alive presence who belonged within that energetic crowd, he struggled to believe the memories did not number amongst those Gary implanted.

It made him regret life choices made long before he ever met Ilina Borisova. Did he really need to hide from the world? Why shrink away from all contact out of fear that some would be negative? How could he forgot the non-magical rewards of joy?

And joy is what he remembered feeling for most of the prior night. Which may explain why he felt so angry that this Eric asshole tarnished the experience.

“Slow it down,” Brice said, his command pulling Ken’s attention back to the video.

No need for him to point out the man who grabbed his attention. Probably because the man’s demeanor somehow differentiated him from the wealthy dilettantes and their friends. True, he wore a costume, but he walked with a purpose that set him apart, even more than the servers. Not that it left him ignored, men stepped aside from respect and women followed with their eyes.

All along Ken unconsciously thought of him as a loser, not this confident, powerful man. It made the killer’s actions seem even worse, to reap when unnecessary.

Near their table he stopped and looked around. Not in a furtive manner, just curious until he spotted what he sought. The camera from which they would watch his approach. A smile, neither cruel nor overly pleased, appeared beneath his mask as he flicked his wrist and the rose appeared. A parlor trick to those who saw it in the moment, but something else to those in the lounge the next day. True magic, semi-powerful magic to precisely teleport something so delicate into his hand.

“Fucking Zorro,” Ash said, venom in his voice.

As perfect a costume for a villain on Halloween Eve as for a wealthy Spaniard hiding his identity from corrupt officials in colonial California. The mask worked surprisingly well to hide his face and the gloves ensured no finger prints.

Turning from the camera he placed the rose and its note upon the table and, with the same saunter, he moved out of the camera’s view.

Ilina said, “Find the rest of the footage of Zorro.”

While the analysts compiled the footage, Brice asked, “Why would he show himself? It makes no sense.”

Ken needed no explanation, though Leeza offered one to those who listened. Five or so years earlier, he found himself on an A&E true crime kick and remembered how often serial killers taunted the police. They wanted to show their brilliance and prove they controlled the situation. For a moment, this mundane action made him feel better. Until he realized the killer did control the situation.

It took about fifteen minutes to gather all the film that featured Zorro, from his arrival in a cab, until his departure in the same fashion. Of course he used two cab companies with separate dispatches, further splitting their dwindling resources ordered to follow up with both places. But even more they needed to search for a platinum blonde, whose Emma Frost costume pushed Tess’s in second place during the costume contest and who left the nightclub with Zorro.

Those searches underway, they watched Zorro’s entire appearance, cut together from multiple cameras, over and over in the hope he would give something more away. They could guess at his height and his weight, 6’1” and 200 lbs, but the hat left them unsure if he wore a wig and the mask hid most of his face.

“I think that’s a real sword.”

“What does that matter, Ash?” Ilina asked.

“Ever walked through a crowded room with a sword at your waist?”

“No.”

“It’s a real nuisance, if you don’t know what you’re doing. It bangs into people, tables, chairs, what have you. But he’s having no problem, which makes me think he once lived with a sword on his belt. What era do you guys think the sword is from?”

“The hilt doesn’t look like it belongs on a sword that Don Diego de la Vega or his alter ego would use.” Brice said. “What do you think, Bren, you’re the collector?”

Jolted from his brooding, Brennus asked the operator to zoom in, studied the image, and said, “Definitely not a fencing rapier. Nor does it look like a saber, so guessing something used by a foot soldier. And since we’re in the States, I would guess the U.S. model 1850. Not the 1860, which used a different shape for its grip and pommel. I hope it has a CS marking on it?”

Leeza asked, ““Which means?”

“Confederate States. With the size of the US army in the 1850s, odds are this dickhead wore the sword during the American Civil War. And since we fought for the Union during that war, I hope he fought for the Confederates. I don’t like killing someone I may have fought beside, particularly if it was for a good cause.”

“Kill him?” Tess asked. “I think he deserves more than that.”

“He does. But dead is done, while revenge places you on this dickhead’s path.”

Brice said, “Having walked it for centuries in the past, I can tell it’s a terrible place that saps your soul. Better to bring it to a clean end.”

“Well first we need to catch him,” Ilina said. “And if your guess about the sword is correct, then he is older, smarter, and probably more powerful than we suspected. Leeza, will...”

“...that make my job even harder? Actually, you know, maybe not. With more data points it may be possible to spot a trend. And maybe he was not as smart or able when young.”

“You may want to talk to my family, we already spread across the United States by the time of the Civil War.” Ken said.

“If necessary.”

Politer than a blatant refusal, but the same result. Damn secrecy, magic users would not even give it up for the common good, in this case to save his life. It made Ken feel tired beyond a lack of sleep, more-so he felt his years. For the first time he felt old. Nor did the rest of the morning and early afternoon bring any succor.

Yet with speed that would stun most police forces, Ilina's agents tracked down the two cab drivers, both who remembered Zorro, though the second mostly because of Emma Frost, and told them Zorro came from and returned to the downtown Westin. There they learned he checked in the evening prior, dressed already in his costume, used the name Donald Diego, booked the room for two nights, and left the building, sight unseen, that morning.

While those back at the base checked into the obviously fake id and credit card, a Boii’s triad joined the Diva agents at the hotel to visit Eric’s room. However, they only found the blond, hungover and still in bed, who remembered little about her night’s lover other than his rocking her world.

Ken said, “He’s playing us. Burning out our resources while we chase shadows.”

“What else are we supposed to do?” Ilina asked.

“I guess I need to play along, continue as the bait.”

Nobody jumped in to argue, proving they all thought the same thing. Instead they looked towards Brennus, frustration on his face as reality warred with wishes.

“Damn, I hate it, but can’t think of anything else. However, I’m going as your date.”

“That goes without saying,” Ken said, unbothered that the second date of his life, the first not driven by Heather, involved the same man. The same strong, scary, good man. “And Tess, maybe you can go with Ash?”

Ash said, “Thanks Heather, make me out as a charity case. For your edification, I not only understand the meaning of certain big words, but am housebroken, can now use utensils, and know all the steps to the newest dances, as long as they are either the Lindy Hop or the Electric Boogaloo.”

Tess said, “Those will definitely be a real hit at a university dance, but I’d love to see you two in costumes”

“Can we go as musketeers?”

“Doesn't really match our costumes. Why do you want to dress like a musketeer, Ash?”

Brice asked, “He has this theory about how musketeers started the whole women digging a man in uniform phenomena?”

“How else do you explain how you ended up with Duchess Daphne? Besides, it will allow us to wear swords, which means, if given a chance, we can skewer this fucker's heart."

"And you speak such fluent French." Tess said, “But it is rather late to be picky, just rent a costume that fits.”

“We keep hundreds of years of uniforms and clothing stored away at Pythia’s Retreat, all maintained by the constructs as if we wear them every day.”

Brennus said, “And since it takes some time to get to the Retreat, Ash and I better head out so we’re back in time. Ilina, watch over Heather until I’m back.”

“Of course.”

Their departure coincided with a general lull in activity, the analysts busily working away on their magically enhanced computers and network. In the quiet, Ken allowed himself to think only of sleep rather than his alternative problems. Soon he could barely keep his eyes closed.

“Heather, why don’t cross back and try to get some sleep?” Ilina asked. “I’m sure you can use Tess’s spare room again?”

Tess offered her agreement in answer, “Go for it”

“Thank you for the offer, Tess. But I was wondering if I could use Heather’s, I mean my bed? I prefer a firmer mattress.” Ken asked.

This request, which Ilina almost denied, took some time to arrange. First Tess, along with a couple of her sisters checked Heather’s apartment for recently cast magic. Today, like every other time since she helped Heather rent in this building, she sought the creation of a new door, which required so much energy a skilled magic user would notice it weeks later. Even to use a door left lingering effects.

With nothing discovered, Ken and the two Diva agents walked from Tess’s to Heather’s. Trying to ignore the agents, who dragged chairs into the bedroom while he changed, Ken attempted to fall asleep in the bed Heather’s grandma bought her when she left home.

However no sooner did he lay down than he felt himself falling, accompanied by a shouted, “Heather!”

Not the first time he dreamed of falling. When his father forced pretend death upon him, he found it too common. Something that surprised none he knew who studied dream theory, as they said such dreams occurred because of a loss of control over his own life. This understanding once helped him take most of that control back into his own hands, something not given up until he involved himself in this insanity.

But never before did he dream of falling while awake nor land on an airbag that collapsed beneath his weight, the sound of air escaping from side baffles and the smell of rubber assaulting his nose. Eyes open, he the bottom of Heather’s bed above him, a trap door magicked into his mattress and secured against his Diva watcher. She could only stare in dismay.

For a moment Ken felt awe at the man’s preparedness. Then came the terror, as a figure wearing a gas mask appeared and sprayed a mist into his face, which pushed him into unconsciousness.

Upon regaining consciousness Ken found no reason to delve into memory, he immediately remembered falling into danger. Yet that did not make him ready to face it. So he kept his eyes closed, relying on other sensations to tell him how deep the depth of the current danger.

No pain! That offered a spark of hope, dashed when he realized his tormentor might want him awake for that.

But some discomfort. A potential headache from the knockout gas niggled away in the back of his brain. It left him exasperated by bright sunlight sprayed across his eyelids, sunlight without warmth. Not surprising, they always expected Eric used a pocket world for his twisted enjoyment.

At least the bed met his and Amanda’s firmness expectations. Not that it meant he felt particularly comfortable, a restriction about his torso saw to that. Careful to not allow his blankets to ripple and signal his awareness, he let a hand creep up to feel the reinforced satin of a sleeping corset through his nightgown. Of course Zorro would like a bit of kink, though at the moment Ken felt no other restraints.

That gave him just enough confidence to consider opening his eyes. But first he listened for someone’s breath, footsteps, anything. Hearing nothing and unable to bear more suspense he gave in.

Whoever decorated the room liked the colour blue. An old fashioned, sky blue quilt matched the canopy overhead, onto which a cartoon-like sun and clouds were skillfully embroidered. A dark blue wallpaper, accented by small, golden fleurs-de-lis covered the walls in harmony with curtains, thick and heavy like the you rarely see anymore, and the cushions of the antique chairs scattered about the room. Even on the large table against wall at the foot of his bed Ken noticed the markings on the ceramic toiletries, which brought to mind the blue of the Williams’ Royal Doulton china.

Everywhere else he saw a dark, stained wood. The furniture, frames of the two windows, three doors, and even the floor. Although a Persian carpet of blue, gold, and red spread out around the bed.

In general the room struck him as something out of the past. A link that usually caused Ken the desire to explore, but today he only wished for escape. So with a thought towards his cousin, ‘Dalton don’t fail me now or I’ll haunt you until the day you die’, he cast the beacon spell. And nothing happened. How could it when he could not access any magic?

Not unusual for a pocket world to control access to external magical energy. But what about...he raised right hand to an ear and left to neck. The first found stud instead of golden rings and the latter felt nothing. Devastating, terrifying, but ridiculous as well. Of course Zorro would take away his jewelry, the number one foci for both male and female magic users. Comically stupid for them to allow such a simple thing to foil their plan. Only his captor would offer him the needed energy, because Ken suspected he shared the world only with constructs.

Nothing left but exploration.

Foiled in his attempt to roll out of bed by the corset, Ken slid over and swung his legs over the side. Ignoring slippers, the lucite soles appearing forlorn without marabou feathers, he looked out a window. It offered a view of mostly grass, as far as he could see, broken only by a gravel driveway that circled a garden and stretched outwards almost as if it offered escape. The scene only lacked gardeners caring for lawn and garden, but while magic created, it did not allow growth or death.

Through the nearest door he found a bathroom, its modern decor at odds with the antiquey feel of the bedroom. While using the facilities, Ken looked over at the mirror and realized though he could see most of his torso, the end of his loose braid hung out of sight. Apparently long hair went with heels and a corset.

Thinking of which. Ken moved to the mirror, lifted the short nightgown to examine and untie the corset lacing. The reach proved no problem, his body’s flexibility allowed a good grip on the knot, but it fended off all attempts to untie. This led him to search the vanity, which contained brand new tubes, jars, and boxes of everything he remembered Heather purchasing for her own vanity, but did not contain anything to help with the knot.

Returned to the bedroom, he checked the next door and found a walk in closet full of dresses straight from Gone with the Wind. Therefore, when he opened the last door, a sitting room in which waited a construct, he felt no surprise she was a light skinned though black construct, dressed almost like Mammy in the movie.

“Miss Amelia, your breakfast is on the table.”

Her appearance made him remember constructs made good watchdogs. Single minded in fulfilling their assignments, usually stronger than a comparable person, unable to feel pain, and immune to magical tampering, prison worlds used them as guard rogue magicians. With this knowledge and with hunger pangs making their presence known, Ken settled down at the table to eat the oatmeal, fruit, and milk.

Fed and assisted from the sleeping corset, Ken returned to the bathroom to bathe and plan escape. He succeeded at the first, but failed at the second. Beck, he learned the construct’s name from how she referred to herself, firmly quelled any hint at rebellion while she dressed him to exacting standards.

Again a mix of the new and old. Only Ken’s dress matched the fashion of the era, though probably of recent construction, based on how well it fit. In colour, the silk of the dress made him think of celeste, the turquoise blue of the Bianchi Rekord bicycle he owned in the early 80s. The skirts used decorative pleats to ensure they hung smoothly over petticoats that offered width without the insanity of hoops, though their length required heels nearly as high as the trashy slippers. A ruffled neckline left his shoulders and arms mostly bare, while the bodice followed the not quite suffocating boning of another corset. His waist further accented by a wide, sapphire ribbon wrapped twice about and tied it in a pretty bow at the back

In truth, dressing went faster than curling his twice lengthened hair. Which Beck tied into a ponytail with more sapphire coloured ribbon.

Rather elaborate costuming for murder. Though if Zorro kept his victims imprisoned for a year, hopefully he held off mistreating them until the final act. Apparently a shapeless orange jumpsuit would not do and Ken could not deny his inherited form looked rather spectacular in the get up. At least when standing still, walking in the skirt, shoes, and floppy brimmed hat left him less than graceful.

Ken guessed past victims experienced similar problems, since the construct turned into a drill sergeant. Lessons that did not leave him moving as elegant or ladylike as he looked, but at least he would not fall flat on his face.

A belief he questioned when released from the rooms into a hallway that lead to a wide staircase to the first floor of the house. Fortunately the wide tread and a low riser of the stairs, combined with a hand on the banister and the other managing his skirts, allowed him to slowly descend without accident. Another construct waited for him, an older man who dressed in fine quality clothes and watched the descent with pride in his eyes.

“Ahhh, Amelia, if only your mother was alive to see you. You’re beautiful.”

The triviality of Ken’s discomfort around constructs suddenly paled in comparison to a fear of those who created them. Yet while he expected they might provide more welcome company than his captor, he knew not to confuse them with good company. Better to view them as amusement parks guides, specifically those in a haunted house, tasked with ensuring visitors did not walk through forbidden doors.

So how to respond? With no desire to return pleasantries, Ken settled upon the question at the forefront of his mind. “What is going to happen to me?”

As expected, he did not receive an answer, but like pressing any key in an old school MUD, the question initiated the next bit of dialog.

“Amelia, though your beau will understand the delay when he sees you, we should hurry.”

With no magical sword, hunk of cheese, or skin of wine in sight to help on his adventure against that beau, Ken followed the man outside to a cabriolet harnessed to a horse no more real than his companion. Helped aboard, they soon trotted along the driveway, Amelia’s make believe father chattering away about neighbors and crops. It almost made him seem real.

Content to let the man, for that is how Ken found himself thinking of his companion, carry the conversation; he asked himself some silent questions. Why the Antebellum period? Did his kidnapper actually live during the time? He guessed so, which boosted the number of Zorro’s transformations across the years and once more implied the man’s power. And what role did Amelia play in his life? Why would he still seek repeated revenge, one hundred and fifty plus years later. Incomprehensible in the moment, but answers would surely come. Would they come in time? A question that struck too close to his barely controlled fears, best to ignore it for the moment. Maybe the world through which they traveled would offer a clue.

The road traveled along a bay as they passed three other estates, the carriage traveling towards a forest in the distance. Before reaching the trees, they came upon a yard with multiple stone warehouses and wooden piers, with a sign at the entrance that read Hambley Piers. They turned at the next entrance, a three story house made from the same stone. Unlike the prior plantations, Ken found it reminded him of a country manor in England. Somehow more functional, less frivolous.

Yet frivolity existed in the yard at its front, the colours of the flowers competing with the dresses of the female constructs who strolled along its manicured paths. Into this gathering Amelia’s father ventured and curiosity made Ken follow.

To give Zorro his due, Ken recognized the skill and effort that went into creating the world in general and this scene specifically. Almost seventy five constructs moved about, seemingly at random. Each time a pair or group came together a different conversation would ensue. Sometimes they discussed similar topics as his guide’s soliloquy during the carriage ride, but two other topics took predominance. The bombardment, surrender, and potential aftermath of Fort Sumter and the relationship between Eric Hambley and Amelia Walker.

This last made him a focal point for these groupings, guests asking him about the big announcement. Not that his actual answers mattered, be it his stating the Eric had kidnapped he or that Eric had tasked me with procuring him the prettiest sheep I can find. They always just smiled and said they could not wait to hear the announcement.

It seemed the only way to escape these encounters was to ensconce himself in a group of girls, created to appear near Heather and, probably, Amelia’s age. Probably not Zorro’s favourite people in real life, because no other constructs appeared more vain or inane; an attitude that worked like a force field to keep all, except the surprisingly non-African American servants, away. Amongst them, Ken almost felt himself. Old hat for him to disappear into his own mind when in the midst of the popular.

He found himself thinking that he now knw what it would feel like to fall through a looking glass. It made him wonder if he walked into the forest, would he find a mad hatter hosting a more entertaining tea party. However, before temptation led him in that direction, the vain and inane grew quiet.

Impossible not to recognize that walk. Or the smiling lips, the sturdy jaw as the man came closer. The size, the build, the masculinity as obvious in period wear as in Zorro’s costume. Less handsome than all the Boiis Ken met, but like them he wore an aura of health and strength that left him more handsome, to his Heather enhanced criteria, than the boys at the Halloween Eve party. And definitely more real than the almost pretty construct at his side.

“My dearest Amelia, you are radiant enough to seem a new person.” Eric, for who else could it be, said, ignoring what his words implied he gestured to his companion. “Please allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Barnabus Hambley, who is visiting from the old country. Barnabus, my lovely fiancé, Miss Amelia Walker.”

“Enchanted, Amelia.” Barnabus said, with a bow and in an accent that made the most vain and the second most inane simper. Ken just stared.

“Barnabus, be a good fellow and keep the rest of these ladies company, while I speak with my intended.”

Ken ignored the offered arm, but he did follow alongside. Unworried about who may overhear, he asked, “Who are you? Really?

“Most usually ask what I am going to do to them? Or where am I?”

“I know the answers to those.”

“Not surprising. You should also know it does not matter who I pretend I am in the real world, instead let me say that first, last, and always I am Eric Hambley. Now I would ask the same of you.”

“Your prisoner and intended victim.”

“No, my intended victim is Heather Theis, you are not her. Who are you really? You’re not going to answer are you? This is twice in a row, a curious man would wonder about his opponents. While a confident man would realise it does not matter.”

“Which are you?” Ken asked, as expected.

“I am not yet sure. Probably a bit of both. After all, I am curious who will end my game, while confidant someone will. Maybe your allies? But will they be in time for your benefit. You know about the time limit?”

“So it’s a game to you? And you still intend to play it out to the end, despite knowing you are now hunted.”

“That does not matter. Only the game matters for the two of us. And for a game to be enjoyed, its rules must be followed. Why else set up the board if not for enjoyment.” Eric said with a smile.

And like the one captured at the Melon Ball, the smile held no rancor. In fact it held no depth of feeling, nor did the man himself. He offered nothing for his magic using prisoner.

Unlike what Ken towards his magic using captor. For Eric surely benefited from Ken’s fear.

Even terror can diminish when not properly stoked. In time, the boredom of captivity, surrounded only by constructs while his captor remained absent, took the edge off Ken’s fear. Did not, could not, make it disappear, but on the fifth night of captivity Ken fell asleep naturally, not because fear siphoned away the energy needed to stay conscious.

In large part, he knew this resulted from creature comfort. Real misery for a prisoner is stunted by good food, hot water, and clean clothes. In comparison to the PoWs who Stallone or Norris would rescue, he felt like a princess locked away in a world of solitary gloom. Though even the gloom existed for a short time, just before fake dark. Rather than a bamboo cage, his prison encompassed a county sized world. Instead of hunger, he tried to fight off ennui. And in lieu of rags, he wore dresses of the finest materials.

True the corset annoyed him at times. Usually when first getting dressed, but Beck never attempted to squeeze him in half. Besides, Ken’s transformed body belonged to a dancer used to discomfort, not someone who felt a pea placed under her mattress.

But what a tedious existence. Wake up, eat, dress, kill time, eat, take a nap, kill time, eat, kill time, and try to fall asleep in order to prepare for the next go around. Every day the same thing. Only his previous life as a loner saved Ken from the oppressive monotony. Frequent walks expelled some of his nervous energy and the discovery of a library helped keep his mind active.

Though, since the books consisted mostly of treatises written by early thinkers instead of stories, it led to dry reading. Some of those, particularly the ones that served as progenitors to the areas of Ken’s interests and studies, drew his attention, but he tried to focus on an area he always before ignored, philosophy and its children, psychology and psychiatry. With a case study holding him hostage, he regretted past dismissals of these schools as fake science.

This left Ken with partial, always dangerous, knowledge gained mostly from popular culture. Such as the spree of watching crime documentaries in which he remembered talking heads who referred to Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy as either psychopaths or sociopaths. He did not know the difference or if a difference existed, but he remembered the traits those talking heads attributed to them; charming, intelligent liars who felt little empathy or emotion towards their fellow humans. Nor could he forget their successful run as serial killers.

Like Eric Hambley.

Did that explain why he felt nothing from the man during their first meeting? Instead of a reaper, which disgusted Ken as a magic user, was Eric as psychopath, which dismayed Ken as a person? Which of the two did he need to fear more?

And would a difference help in any way?

Yet the thought offered Ken a research task. Even if the books held nothing to help, at least it provided a purposeful way to kill time. And for a time it worked

Every morning he walked around the plantation, then after lunch read in the library. Both more enjoyable activities than his evenings spent playing The Mansion of Happiness: An Instructive Moral and Entertaining Amusement, a old fashioned board game both in morality and amusement, with Amelia’s stand in father. So passed the first sixteen days of captivity, Ken falling asleep the last of those nights reading the passions section of David Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature.

“Miss Amelia, are you still abed? And on your big day?’

The big day could only reference one thing, as announced at the party on his first day, the wedding of Amelia Walker to Eric Hambley. A wave of confused despair crashed in to wash away the sleep.

Once outside of his morning shower, shivering the whole time no matter how hot he ran the water, Ken took even less of a role in dressing than normal. For a time he stared blankly into the mirror in front of which he sat. Not until Beck finished with his hair, swept into a voluminous bun on the back of his head and covered with a floor length veil of beaded lace, did thought return.

Admittedly, since it manifested within his head as a planning scene from an 80s television show, complete with a jean jacket wearing, big haired version of Heather sitting across from him, not the most rational thought. Personality splitting in the scene allowed Ken to play the lunkhead male. Someone who could intellectualize the concept of rape, understand it as a horrible thing, particularly after Ilina's raw sharing, but who never lived life with it as a constant fear. Neither his upbringing nor imprisonment required him to move it from a bogeyman into real possibility. Even with Heather’s memories, and she learned all those lessons he missed, he could not internalize it; her memories held a lesser impact upon him than her experiences.

Ken said, “This is the chance we’ve been waiting for. If he has any emotions, you sleeping with him will bring them out.”

Heather stared in disbelief and asked, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“He’s the only one who can provide us the energy needed to cast the beacon spell.”

“I won’t do it.”

“But...”

“I won’t do it. It’s your plan, you do it.”

Ken said, “Well I can’t do it. I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ve watched enough, I think you can figure it out.”

“But I’m a guy.”

“Yeah right.”

“How else are we going distil anything from him? I suppose we could do something to make him mad, but he may get violent. And I’m not ashamed to admit life as a chicken shit hurts less.”

Sharing all thoughts, they reached the same conclusion at the same moment. In a mind with two personalities, it is easy to create a third. They both turned to that third, the sidekick whose eyes widened upon realizing what they expected.

“Me? You can’t be serious.”

“Well you’re the one who got us into this mess.” Heather said, rather unfairly.

“I’m not even here, I’m just your imagination.”

“And I’m not?”

“Good enough for me.” Ken said.

Amelia came awake with a literal “Ooomph”, as the laces of the corset tugged tighter than normal. So for her first words, she said, “Beck, it is too tight.”

“Not today, Dearie. We want your beautiful dress to fit perfectly.”

Entire hoards of wannabe princesses would shriek yes for the dress. Similar to the veil, beautifully beaded white lace covered the sweetheart bodice and the front panel of the skirts. While the rest of the silken skirts draped in the tiers of a cathedral train.

Such a waste to get dressed so prettily for a fake wedding to her kidnapper.

Days in heels and period dresses, even with Ken in control, meant the dress’s train did not hinder Amelia on the stairs. The same could not be said for the fancy, four wheel carriage, which required make believe Dad’s assistance to enter and exit when they reached a little country church; inside of which waited Eric, dressed in a uniform of a Second Lieutenant of the Confederate Army.

Thinking positively, Amelia realized Brennus would not need to feel uncomfortable about killing him. Though at the moment Eric seemed completely in control during the wedding shamerony.

When it finished, she felt the ring, rather than Eric’s rather chaste kiss, burn like a brand. Yet Amelia found some truth lurked in the old belief about the connection between the ring finger and heart. Though instead of love, she discovered a sense of self, different than her predecessors. Braver than Ken, more knowledgeable than Heather. They may not trust themselves nor her, to this task, but she believed in herself. She knew, though she may not succeed, fate did not demand she failed.

While they stood in front of the church, waiting upon a photographer with his historically accurate camera, Amelia felt herself grow stronger. Strength she needed not to punch any of the watching yahoos who shouted to hurry so Eric could get his new bride with baby before joining his unit.

Yet she did not completely dampen her anger. One part of her plan, hardly considered before she acted upon it, involved not caring about what Eric could reap from her. Why worry about it when, from the beginning, he already held a stronger position. Better to attempt to turn it to her advantage. If she proved an honest spendthrift of her emotions, it may create an environment for him to spend some of his.

If he felt any.

Amelia suspected he may. Like a rod with a fish nibbling on a the end of the line, she sensed something in the smile on his face. Did it seem less plastic than before? Did it hold a hint of amusement? Is that all he could feel?

But before she set the hook, he asked, “So Amelia, a choice for you. Shall we do the whole thing, supper and all? Or bring this affair to an end?””

“I will not grow braver the longer we delay.”

Understanding the message, Eric guided her the crown into the carriage. Then, while avoiding stepping on her skirts, he climbed aboard to sit across from Amelia.

“Take us home Stuart.” Eric said,

With a flick the reins, the carriage left the church grounds. Unsurprised when they traveled past the Walker Plantation, Amelia still felt a moment of wistfulness that caused her to turn and look at it. “Worry not, my dear, Beck waits for you at Hambley Manor, now a free woman. My family did not keep slaves.”

Amelia asked, “They realized it is easier to exploit the poor than owning them?”

“Only a happy coincidence, I assure you. It was due to the business we did with family back in Britain. They considered themselves quite the humanitarians, who judged their wayward cousins in the New World based on the laws of the old one. And since my parents were easily influenced by the judgment of others, it also explained why they insisted I join the Provisional Army. We needed to show support for of our neighbors who supplied us with the cotton that made both us and our cousins rich. I also learned, much later, that maybe they did not truly like me.”

Quiet civility accompanied them for the rest of the ride to Hambley Manor. Neither insults or threats exchanged, not a single word spoken, barely a glance shared

However, when the carriage rolled to a stop and Eric helped her down, all of Amelia’s nerves returned. Particularly as he continued to hold her hand. Just short of possessive, yet with strength ready for exertion when needed. Forsaking the option of attempting to pull away, she considered another insult. But while the last did not register, she mostly feared triggering his anger, which may prove fatal.

On the third floor they walked through a suite of rooms into a bedroom. Its neutral colours and large size offering a more mature environment than the blue rooms she’d previously used and suddenly missed. Letting go of her hand, leaving her to stand in the middle of the room, Eric took a seat in the one chair. When he twirled his finger. Amelia felt another burst of anger, even as she followed his direction. Yet upon the heels of her reaction she sensed a spark of amusement from her captor. Not enough to offer immediate benefit, but the hoped for something.

“You are as beautiful as your namesake on her wedding day. Probably more-so, especially since that pretty dress does not use a hoop skirt, which I always thought, much like a skunk’s raised tail, existed to keep a man at a distance. Still, it must be uncomfortable, maybe you should remove it?”

“What if I don’t want to remove it?”

“I’m not sure. I guess I’ll wait, until I decide, in greater comfort than you.” Eric said, relaxing even further.

It almost seemed he expected a little rebellion and Amelia obliged. First she found his boundaries, as her attempts to sit on the bed or leave the room resulted in a warning cough and head shake. So she explored, finding her clothing, transported from the Walker Plantation, in a closet and chest of drawers. Next, another bathroom to meet her modern sensibilities. All the while she felt his eyes upon her. In an attempt to distract herself from his gaze, she looked out the window towards Hambley Piers to the sea beyond, and asked, “Where are the ships?”

“They never held my interest when this world was real, they’re beyond my imagination now it is less real. In fact, though the sea seems to stretch to the horizon, it marks one edge of my little world. Right at the end of the docks, so watch you don’t bump your cute nose if you go exploring.”

Silence returned. She tried to ignore him, while he watched her every movement. Yet when he moved Amelia’s eyes immediately tracked towards him as he opened the cupboard, beside his chair, and removed a bottle of water. Smiling his shallow smile, he drank. When he emptied the bottle, he stood and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Escape! But to where? Did he want her to run? Did he like to chase?

Probably.

No, best to stay, where Ken’s plan might work. Though she questioned her ability to follow through with it.

When Eric returned he showed no surprise to find her standing in the same spot, instead he resumed his seat. A hunter as happy to wait as to chase. His prey struggling as nature filled her thoughts with the recent sounds of the flushing of a toilet.

“Can you get Beck? I need help me out of this dress.”

“With your able fingered husband eagerly ready to help?”

Inevitably Amelia reached the next fork on her treacherous path as she offered her back. Eric needed no further prompt to stand and approach, his hands neither shaky nor clammy as they brushed the skin of her upper back to undo the first few buttons, which molded the bodice to her torso. Able to now manage on her own, she stepped away from him. But only a few steps before she turned to watch him as she reached behind to finish undoing the tiny, silk covered buttons.

A act that drew Eric’s eyes to her breasts as they pressed against the front of the dress and stripped away some of his control. Instinctively Amelia took it as her own, then sought more. Through the gap, at the back of her dress, she unsnapped a button and unzipped a zipper, which caused her petticoats to puddle on the ground. Stepping closer and from them she watched Eric’s eyes widen as she slowly shimmied her dress into a second silken puddle.

Unable to stop himself, he moved backward, to allow his gaze to explore all of her seductively clad figure. A sign, maybe not quite of weakness, but enough to offer the incentive to take one more step towards him, before she turned and brazenly bent to pick up the dress and petticoats. An intake of breath and leaked emotion, which she pulled into the gold and diamond brand on her finger, accompanied her as she swayed towards the closet. Not until they hung from hangers did Amelia turn to her captor.

Yet one more weapon remained in her newly tapped feminine arsenal. No longer the seductress, she smiled a helpless, cutesy smile as she embarrassedly pointed at the bathroom door. When he slowly looked to where she pointed, Amelia scampered through and closed the door.

If not for the nearby vanity, she may have crumpled to the floor. The act, successfully performed, left her drained. However, the energy already captured made her think she could take more, maybe enough to cast a beacon spell. With this in mind Amelia performed her business and stopped in front of the mirror to banish any small imperfection.

Taking as deep of breath as her corset allowed, Amelia returned to the bedroom.

“Let’s get you ready for bed, Dearie.”

Surprised to find Beck, rather than Eric, Amelia accepted the increasingly normal ministrations before she climbed into bed. Then she waited. And waited some more. But the door remained closed and she remained alone.

Trapped between the dueling emotions of Heather’s relief and Ken’s frustration, confusion kept her awake. Not until she decided she agreed with Heather’s feelings did sleep arrive.

We live in a world where emotions can lift people from their sorrows as easily as drown them within. They cause you to strive for something better or hold you back, wielding control both unmeasurable and unmistakable. But what if, for some, emotions held a tangible power, if they could use the emotions of the world for their own benefit? What is the chance that someone would abuse that gift?

Supper with the family. A farcical affair where three dimensional constructs displayed their one dimensional personalities. From Mr. Hambley, Amelia learned more about the cotton industry of the 1850s than she would ever need to know. Also more than Mrs. Hambley wanted to hear, as she ignored her husband and Eric’s younger siblings in favour of Barnabus, who fed her dream of one day moving to London.

This offered Amelia her lone relief from Barnabus's presence. Each day he followed her about, praising what she did and how she looked. Rather comical, but Amelia suspected the real man cut a less humorous figure. Handsome and dressed in the height of fashion, his accent and worldliness would doubtless seem exotic to a young woman pulled away from her family and home to her husband’s, just when he left to go off to war. Easy to guess the original Amelia proved susceptible to the cousin’s charm, doubtlessly proving the catalyst for Eric’s ongoing need for vengeance. If not a hollow shell of person, she would hate construct, instead she used him to drive her around in a buggy.

After all, any plan worth following required lackeys. And during her first family meal, one blossomed in Amelia’s mind.

The catalyst came from a comparison of the contents on her plate with those of her dining companions. As usual, despite Eric’s ultimate intention, Amelia’s meal would warm the heart of any dietician. Completely unlike the constructs’s meal of pork roast, potatoes, gravy, and vegetables soaked in butter. After days of foods meant for good health, with only a nod in enjoyment’s direction, the smell of hearty deliciousness almost made her drool. Yet, magicked into an existence as fake as those who ate it, she knew it offered zero nutritional value. Boring though she found them, her salad, fresh vegetables, and grilled chicken provided actual sustenance.

That reminded her how fresh food accounted for the number one problem when living in a pocket world. To grow crops it took someone who understood agronomy and optics, and who could perform dexterous magic in the creation of real soil and sunlight. A rare skill set that made it easier to source food from the real world.

However, nothing ruined the fantasy of escape into a magical world quite like grocery shopping in the real world. An inconvenience managed, like so many others, by specialists. Entire families and clans earned their wealth and power through contracts to supply magic worlds. They provided goods and food via dual sided pantries. One side accessible from the client world and the other from the supplier’s hub.

With minimum forays by Eric into the world in which he held her, while still receiving fresh food, it seemed he must use such a service. Which meant a pantry door existed, one through which Amelia might pass. Not like the door she discovered earlier that day in the sitting room of her suite, its existence confirmed with a bit of her precious magical energy. The door Eric used, the door through which she suspected he first carried her into this world. Though now, probably with a strand of her hair plucked from her unconscious head, secured against her use.

Yet a pantry door would rarely be locked. The best services offered contracts that allowed customers to secure their accounts against the world being fed, which required the ability to repossess. Hopefully Eric used such a service.

At that first supper, Amelia assigned herself a task. She would find the door. Only the question as to how the constructs would react, stopped her leaving the table immediately to search the kitchen. So she finished her tasteless meal, pretended to read for a few hours and met Beck in her rooms, where they performed the now familiar nighttime ritual before she climbed into bed.

But rather than attempt to sleep, she silently counted to thirty-six hundred and slipped from the covers. Via moonlight lit hallways she snuck down to the kitchen at the back of the house. There, with the light gone, her sight adjusted enough to create a murky gloom of shadowy objects. Fighting primal fears of monsters in the dark, she shuffled around the large room, tapping at walls. A tense circumnavigation discovered nothing, but how much did the dark conceal and cause her to miss?

No choice but to try again in the morning, with the light of day. Hopefully the constructs would permit her search or maybe they would not realize what she sought. Just as carefully, she traveled back to her room. Where, with a goal in mind, sleep came fast and held her long after she normally woke.

This positivity continued.

Nobody cared if Amelia spent her day knocking on walls, tapping the floor, or exploring closets. In fact, she convinced four members of the staff to walk into the wall, at the point she’d found Eric’s door, to ensure it did not serve as the pantry. Finished with the inside, she spent three days exploring the outbuildings and the warehouses at the pier. Again nothing, but Eric would understand the risk of such a door and hide it.

She needed to search further afield and felt rather clever when she convinced Barnabus to take her for a visit with her father. Though less so upon learning he would happily drive her wherever she wished to visit, be it the next plantation, farm, or village along the road.

In the initial days, she discovered only one item that did not belong. A link, but not a portal to the world to which she desperately wanted to return. Stuffed behind a Bible, in a rack on the back of a pew of the church where she became Mrs. Eric Hambley, Amelia found an old spiral notebook, a picture of The Police on the cover, complete with pencil stuck in its spiral. For who knows how long, she looked at the notebook, afraid to reach out, take it, and find anything written inside. Finally she replaced the Bible and tried to ignore the notebook’s existence.

An impossible expectation, as each attempted return to her search soon ended with the distracted realization that she could not pay attention to her task. Morbid curiosity barged into her mind and demanded recognition. To fight it, she fled, before normal, returning to the manor and a sleepless night.

During that night Amelia realized she would give in the next day and when she did, found herself unsure about how she should feel. When her eyes finally lifted away from words written with a flowing, neat hand, they settled upon the cross at the front of the church. Yet neither it nor he who it represented provided answers. Not that Amelia expected any from that direction, but Jan McDermitt, the writer of those words, once believed.

Maybe that is what made the three sheets of flowing script, the rest of the notebook remained blank, so heart rending. Rather than question why me, it documented the demise of belief.

Even worse, while she read, Amelia could not shake two of Ken’s memories. One night, after Dannika freed him from her molding, he allowed curiosity to override common sense. Wondering if he could notice something missed by the professional data miners, he read through sixteen police folders and found nothing beyond nightmares. From that evaluation, two pictures appeared in his mind. One, taken on a Saturday afternoon, football day in Norman, Oklahoma, captured a vivacious sophomore surrounded by friends. The second, taken by a police photographer on Halloween Day in 1982, showed no life at all.

But more than the remembered pictures, more than the read words, just sitting where Jan once sat, caught in the same ordeal she experienced, formed a kinship. Through this Jan seemed to speak, to ask Amelia not to accept a bitter lesson from the cross on the wall. To not demand something from it, but to recognize it stood for faith. And she found faith in herself as powerful as faith in some omnipotent being, one probably too distracted to pay attention to her woes.

Carefully she tore the pages from the notebook, each loop of the spiral popping free of its circle, tenuously wrapped around a thin coil of wire, like a sign of how she hoped to break free from Eric’s grip. Folding the pages once and then twice, Amelia placed them once more behind the Bible. If she failed and if someone else sat where she now sat, maybe that successor would benefit from the same lesson.

The rest of notebook she could use. Rather silly to randomly go somewhere and search, time for a plan. And a plan needed information, she would map out Eric’s world. Though not at the moment, for a time she needed to sit and remember. It gave her a moment to hope and trust in faith.

Well she did. Like George Lucas with his Star Wars galaxy, she guessed Eric would never be satisfied with his world. For in fifty plus years, with his skills and supply of magic, he filled a small county with dwellings and structures. She needed a talisman of faith to combat her own awe, felt towards her captor. Sting, Stewart, and Andy supplied this, guarding her maps and notes that tracked her progress.

Almost two months into her search, three months into her captivity, Amelia now worked her way through the second village on her map. Because of the longer trips, to and from, she found herself with less time to search before Barnabus demanded they return for supper. So the next morning, earlier than normal, she stood at the front door of Hambley Manor, basket holding lunch in one hand, the parasol she used for poking things in the other, and waited for his arrival with the horse and buggy. Fully prepared for everything the day could offer except to see Eric holding the reins.

Surprised, the least of her indignities boiled to the top, as she exclaimed, “You’re not dressed right!”

Hopping from the buggy he stopped, momentarily confused. Realizing the cause of her anger, he looked at himself, dressed in a tight black t-shirt, jeans, and a belt from which hung a sword and holstered revolver. So different from Amelia, looking pretty in a cream coloured and brown accented walking dress, complete with a matching bow with which Beck tied her ponytail in place.

“My apologies, I decided at the last minute to visit. It will not happen again.”

“Where have you been? Why are you here? You know about my search, don’t you? You can’t stop me from looking.”

“Caught in a real life gong show, calming panicked clients and organizing confused employees across two continents. I’m here because I sold the business, time for a new identity anyway, and they are no longer my clients or employees. Yes I know about your search, Barnabus is a dumb but useful watcher. And no, I don’t intend to stop you, since the possibility of your escape adds some missing spice to our affair.”

“Is there truly a door to find?” Amelia asked.

“Of course, if not, you would not have survived my absence, particularly so marvelously well. But it’s very well hidden, I doubt someone who took a month to think about looking will discover its location.”

“Very funny. So what happens when I find it? Will I be able to pass through? Are there guards on the other side who will stop me?”

Eric said, “Aren’t you the suspicious one? Yes you can pass through. And don’t worry about the guards. I use Benburgs, so they will feel outraged at my actions, if you run into any of their people.”

No surprise he used one of the oldest and best grocer services still in use, with a reputation for protecting their client’s identities in a fashion unknown even by the top Swiss banks. A secrecy accepted by the top magical cliques, because Benburgs subscribed to the regular set of cardinal sins of the magical community and never hesitated to out a client committing such a crime. The most egregious of which Eric broke with his murderous reaping. Amelia knew she could trust them, just as he would know they would help bring him down if she escaped.

‘If you’re not here to stop me, why are you here?”

“Maybe I just want to spend some time with my pretty wife?” Eric asked, to which he only received a glare in response. “Well I do, though I guess my pretty wife does not feel the same. However, maybe I could change her mind if I took her somewhere my idiot, though fake, cousin cannot.”

“The forest, you’ll take me to the forest?”

If she turned right, after exiting the gates of Hambley Manor, she soon came to a foreboding wall of trees. The one place into which Barnabus refused to go, telling her stories of desperate deserters and wild monsters. Immediately Hambley Woods jumped to the top of her search list and despite his pleas, she walked to it with the intent to explore, one day early in her search.

Unfortunately his warnings proved true. Barely did she enter the woods before a pair of men appeared, dressed like scarecrows, knives in hand, leers on their faces. Reminded of how many watchers of myth, who guarded a treasure or door, were actual constructs, she felt no doubt about the intent or ability of the two manufactured Confederate deserters. Amelia’s waning athleticism proved valuable as she ran all the way back to the manor, deciding not to attempt another incursion until she checked all other locations.

“Should I change my clothes first?”

“No, let’s go.” Amelia said, eager to explore the forbidden and not give him a chance to back out.

“Are you sure, I wouldn’t want you to feel awkward.”

“I won’t.”

“Is there be enough lunch for both of us?”

“Yes.”

“Let me check.”

Taking the basket from her, he lifted the lid, looked inside, and turned a dubious look towards her. Finding the glare still in place, he said, “Very well, let’s go.”

How fucked up did your life need to become in order to feel more comfortable going into a dark, foreboding forest, with the man who planned to kill you, rather than entering all alone? One of many questions that filled Amelia’s mind, but the only one she answered while riding beside Eric on their way to the forest.

It came down to a matter of immediacy. Whatever lurked inside Eric, he tended to follow a time line. While whatever lurked in the woods might not care.

She also found herself enjoying the presence of an actual human, even him. To sense the warmth of a live body, to hear words not mapped out by a decision tree. It stirred the social aspect provided by the Heather part of her amalgamation, something withered almost to nothing under the burden of loneliness. While the Ken part, the Richelieu to Amelia’s Louis XIII, filled her mind with questions to ask, answers to obtain, and plots to scheme.

“I believe I went overboard.” Eric said, as the buggy rocked its way along the path.

“Pardon?”

“Hambley Woods. My Grandfather turned it into a mystical place with his stories. But since he was a gloomy old bastard, a mystical place filled with evil rather than wondrous creatures.”

“Barnabus told me similar stories.”

“I’m glad you believed them. Just as Grandfather used them to keep me away as a child, when it was just wilderness, I also wanted you to stay away, now that it is something worse.”

“Because that’s where you hid the door?” Amelia asked, surprised he did her one attempt. Away from his constructs, she maybe could do whatever she wanted.

“Because I made it into the place my Grandfather described.”

“A shrink would have a field day with you.”

“If I could only find my very own Dr. Melfi, I would happily submit. However, in this, I don’t need psychological help to understand myself. The truth is I need nightmares to conquer. And what better place than here to create my own, real life video game, full of villains and monsters for me to kill. Speaking of which, if I give you a command, follow it. It won’t be because I’m interfering with your search, it’s because I’m trying to stop something else from doing so.”

Unwilling to trust him, she first studied his face. When he did not look away and she found it clear of the normal wry grin or any hint of menace she nodded agreement.

“In particular, be prepared to get down and stay out of my way. It would be a ridiculous waste of effort to accidentally shoot you instead of whatever I am targeting.”

“Is it really that dangerous?”

“Of course it’s dangerous. They’re my nightmares and as you pointed out, I’m messed up.”

Amelia asked, “Then shouldn’t I have a gun?”

While he ignored the question, she turned her attention to the approaching stand of trees. Eric’s warnings, his need to make the forest dangerous, having convinced her it held escape.

“How big is it?”

“Just under seven sections,” Eric answered.

“Umm?”

“You must be a city girl? Each section equals a square mile.”

Larger than she hoped. Too big to expect her to find escape in one search, which allowed her to banish the worry of how Eric would react if she did find the gate. Thus when they reached their destination, she ignored him while trying to decide how to proceed. When no stroke of genius bonked her upside the head, she decided to head straight for the center. That’s where heroes in a book would need to go.

Relying on Eric’s dubious protection, Amelia picked a space between two trees and entered. Almost immediately she grew uneasy.

She could draw upon multiple forays, by both her predecessors, into a wide variety of forests. From childhood romps with friends through neighborhood thickets too treks along trails carved for tourists through the great rain forests on the West coast. Yet none reminded her of Hambley Woods.

Despite the vibrant colours, it felt dead.

Mere steps underneath the trees and she wanted to leave. Yet though Amelia regularly looked over her shoulder to check on Eric, she continued deeper. The fields beyond him, disappearing from the gaps between the trees.

Soon, only the lack of trampled underbrush or broken branches implied she did not lead them in circles. By the same token, this did not imply they walked in a straight path.

“Eric, how long does your forest take to regenerate itself?”

“It depends on the damage done. Days if you ran through with no care, four or five hours to hide our passage, and much less for my lurking denizens. Is tracking one of your hidden skills?”

“Hidden skills?”

“I’m impressed with how elegantly you move, particularly with the way you are dressed. The way you part the underbrush with your parasol is particularly clever. All-in-all, amazingly ladylike...umm, that is your cue to curse at me to prove you’re not a lady. Don’t you watch movies? Myself, I’m a huge film buff.”

Unwilling to present herself as the audience for his attempt to disguise his true self, she continued onwards. Again she focused on the wrong. How, instead of rays of sunlight filtering through branches to create a speckling of bright and dark, the light permeated everything, almost like floor lighting. Or how she felt no temperature change, neither cooling from shade nor heat from unmoving air. But the silence stood out the most. Not even the sound of insects.

She realized how much she dreaded what the return of sound might reveal.

Thus Amelia found herself crouched, head turned questioningly towards her captor, before she fully processed the sound of a breaking branch. In turn, he spared her only a gesture to stay, his eyes flickering momentarily in the direction of the sound, before he allowed them to roam away from possible distraction. At the same time each hand moved through a motion as familiar as if he scratched his nose. Then, with a revolver, right out of a Spaghetti Western, in his left hand and sword in his right, Eric moved to put the bole of a tree at his back

And on his face she saw the same smile worn under the Zorro mask when he made the rose appear.

Every time his gaze momentarily settled, Amelia would turn to look in the same direction, wondering what he saw, imagining what he sensed. Then she no longer needed to imagine.

Amelia recognized the two figures immediately, the scarecrows she’d seen the first time she ventured here. However, this time they did not leer in her direction, but warily watched her companion. It sapped them of much of their power, turning them from frightening monsters into the deserters they emulated, the cloth of their uniforms more brown than grey, more torn than whole. Yet neither their appearance nor their hesitation removed all the danger they represented. Danger grew when two identical pairs, on each flank, appeared.

In the next moment, she learned what it meant to exist as a true predator. As soon as he knew what he faced, Eric acted. Raising his left hand, his finger squeezed the trigger, once and twice.

Unable to look away, Amelia saw blossoms of red appear at the chest’s of the two men on their right, those closest to their location, before one crumpled and the other fell backwards. The rest she only heard, two more shots, shouts, and the sound of running, underbrush and twigs snapping to mark the fleeing passage of the two who escaped. During those brief moments, her attention remained on the two bodies. So still. And though she tried to convince herself constructs did not live, she could not.

They reminded her of what she found while reviewing those sixteen police folders. Made her fear what may, one day, be found in the seventeenth.

She also sensed her companion’s excitement.

Apparently Eric did feel, he just kept his emotions under firm control. And those he felt strongest allowed her to label him, if not a psychopath, at least as a selfish, murderous prick. One could say evil, but that required her to accept he could not stop himself from committing such heinous acts. Amelia would not give him that out. He liked killing. Even just constructs. However, those emotions offered her hope.

Did they offer enough to cast the beacon spell?

In truth, it did not take much magical energy, but Eric, even while enjoying himself, remained miserly with his emotions. Worse, any attempt at a spell, for which a caster did not possess enough magic, would use burn everything available before failing.

Yet she wondered how long her rescuers would wait? Did anyone, even now, continue to watch for her beacon? Would someone spring into action if they spotted it?

She feared the answer to these questions might already be no.

It made her want to cast the spell immediately, to find out the answers. She would, if the reasons to wait did not weigh so heavily. No reason to chance failure, while she could still receive more from Eric before he left, maybe for another two months. Plus, if rescuers did appear, best not to invite them while her captor held weapons in hand.

These thoughts and the decision they formed provided only momentary escape from the sight of the corpses. Moments during which they lost none of their ability to horrify.

“Look away, Amelia. Look at me. Amelia!”

The second time Eric said her name, in a tone little different than he would use on his dog if it sniffed a dead animal during a walk, served to grab her attention. His shallow emotions, once more locked away, acting as a needed calming influence. A performance to make Cesar Milan proud.

“Well done, Amelia, you did exactly what I wanted. Do you want to continue?”

“I think so. Will they be back?”

“Something will spawn to replace them."

Amelia said, “I still want to continue.”

“Okay, where do you want to go? We’ve traveling parallel to the edge for the last while and it’s a long walk back to the buggy if we keep circling.”

“I thought I was headed towards the center?"

“City girl,” Eric said. “Follow the tracks of the two runners, they’re headed the right way.”

After a quick glance in the direction she planned to walk, Amelia stood and moved towards the underbrush trampled by the two deserters who fled. No need for an internal debate trying to determine if he wanted her to follow his advice or if she fell into a trap. Instead she took the path that would not lead past the pair of corpses.

Even a city girl found the trampled path easy to track. Yet Amelia’s pace slowed in comparison to before their violent encounter. Eric’s use of the term spawn brought to mind the MMOs Ken played, though even in the tensest moments, he never felt as anxious as she did now. It caused her to stop more often, watching and listening for Mobs. Where the surroundings once seemed abnormally quiet, the pounding blood in her ears now manifested invisible specters behind each tree.

Because of this, when the scream came from the distance, she ignored it, believing it too came from her imagination. However, Eric’s stealthy approach to grasp her wrist and clasp a hand over her mouth, stifling her reactive shout, felt all too real

Panic threatened, but he only whispered in her ear, “Quiet. I need to get you out of here.”

Not giving her a chance to question, he took off, in a direction almost parallel to the way they’d just came. His hand wrapped about her arm offering no chance but to follow. Before another shriek, louder and closer, added willingness to her steps.

The ladylike grace about which Eric complimented her earlier in the day disappeared. Clothing meant for civilization, manageable while walking through the forest, now proved a burden unfelt since her first days in this world. Her captor, her guide realized this the third time Amelia stumbled. Cursing her outfit, despite being entirely to blame for her wearing it, he pulled her into a small clearing and hurried across to a large tree with a forked trunk.

“Kneel down against the trunk of this tree.”

Goaded by his urgency, Amelia folded herself down onto her knees, the double breadth of the trunk hiding her from its other side. In place, she asked, “What’s going on?”

“Many of my nightmares are more dangerous than deserters. It’s a random spawn, but those who attack the others are always amongst the worst. With them, I prefer to take the role of hunter, but though you are wonderful bait, our pact makes me your protector today. Fortunately, since I don’t hold a death wish, I don’t allow them ranged weapons, but I will still need to face them. Best to do that where I have some room to move. Now quiet, I need to listen.”

Though ever logical Ken pressed for her to mention nothing stopped them from throwing any weapon, Amelia decided to follow Eric’s order. Again she watched him, trusting his senses more than her own, not even looking where he looked.

Immediately she noticed a difference. The absence of his fake smile removed the aura of unreality from the moment. Real danger lurked in the trees, her fear sparked into terror.

However, a smile alone does not indicate joy, particularly to a magic user. To these sensitives, the most extreme emotions, including terror, emanate from an individual with enough force to make expression or action meaningless. More than death, Eric fed upon terror. It made him strong.

At the same time, Amelia sensed the joy he felt at her terror. Understanding the morbid nature of his strength, she attempted to dampen her fear before she realized his joy also made her stronger.

The perfect negative feedback loop of corrupt emotion.

Momentarily their gaze locked with one another, before Eric’s head snapped around as something, multiple somethings burst from the woods around him. Their ferocity seeming so much worthier of her protector’s revolver than before, but he met them with only sword, one more substantial than it once appeared, in hand. Twirling past the chopping falchion of the first, he blocked the second’s blade, which left him open to a bash from the shield, a white hand painted on its center, of the third.

Until a shield appeared on his own arm. Spikeless, without a crest, and, like the armour in which Eric now encased himself, a dull black. Coloured no different than the bulky metal of his foes.

No matter who won this fight, he would still number amongst the League of Villains.

At no point did the beast men concern themselves with defense, trusting in the gauge of their armour along with the unceasing swing of falchion and thrust of shield to overwhelm their opponent. While he took the opposite approach, dodging or blocking, waiting for them to slow or present an opening.

The fight left Amelia forgotten, the trophy wheeled out for the winner. Until fingers, their dirty, horn like fingernails scraping across her scalp, grabbed a clump of her hair and yanked her from her crouch. In the pain and terror, she reached upwards in an attempt to free herself, but found the attackers massive wrist and large hand resisted her panicked fingers.

Someone else experienced all her pain and terror, but it energized him. Unlike Amelia, Eric remembered how many deserters he killed earlier and knew a fourth monster lurked somewhere. He just wished it still lurked, because he could let it take his toy. With a burst, he dashed through the three who faced him towards the forked tree. But he could not leave them his back for long, instead he threw his shield, like and oversized discus before he dove to the left, his revolver appearing in a now freed hand as he rolled to his feet.

The clang of the shield, against the tree, startled her assailant, causing his grip to loosen. Gravity, combined with her tug of war against his pull, dropped Amelia in a heap on the ground. Scrambling along the ground, she finally got a look of her hulking attacker as he walked around the tree. Greasy, black hair pulled into a scraggly top knot, his skin, where not covered by black metal, making it appear he’d been dipped in tar. His only ornament, a marking of a white hand, matching that on his brethren's shields, with the heel on his forehead and fingers down his face.

Scrambling away from his, her hand brushed against something. Her parasol.

When the Uruk-hai reached for her, just as Eric’s first shot sounded, Brennus's training asserted itself. The maelstrom of violence creating an environment where the spell belonged and Amelia’s body needed to react as it did. Only a clenched fist ignored the Boii's lessons, but since her fingers wrapped around the handle of the parasol, extending her reach by nearly three feet, he would not condemn. And the speed and force with which she thrust it forward, the accuracy of it's pointed, metal tip, zipping over a snarling maw into a yellow eye, would only bring praise.

In that moment she exulted.

Riding her wave of exaltation, Eric casually finished the two remaining attackers. Then, allowing his black plate to disappear, he walked over to nudge the one Amelia stabbed with her parasol. When he found it dead, he offered a giant smile, one in line with the feelings of pleasure and goodwill he directed her way.

"Another unexpected talent, my dear? I must remember you are not as delicate as you appear, though I usually don’t forget something I find so terribly exciting."

"I was just lucky. I didn't think, I just stabbed," Amelia said, worried her act of desperate self-defence invalidated the intent behind Brennus' training.

"Then you must be a natural. Are you hurt?"

"He scratched me when he pulled my hair."

"How beastly of him. But, otherwise, are you okay?"

"I think so."

When he reached out, almost a mirror to the Uruk-hai, she momentarily considered treating him in the same fashion. Except she suspected he offered her a test, one she could only pass if she ignored it. Meekly she handed him the parasol, which he switched to his left hand, presenting her with the right once more. Taking it, she accepted his help to stand, releasing his hand immediately to brush at the seat of her skirts before gingerly running her hand through her hair, checking for blood from dirty fingernails and brushing loose locks, escaped from their hairpins, back into a semblance of place.

Allowing her a moment to assure herself of continued health, Eric stabbed the ferrule of the umbrella into the ground, removing the signs of its encounter with the black orc.

But she could not forget, Amelia said, "I can't believe you have Uruk-hai for playmates."

"I told you I like movies. Ready to head back to the buggy?"

"We beat them. Let's continue onwards."

"Yes we did, but those screams we heard earlier means two more orcs spawned to take the place of the escapees from our first encounter. And with the death of these four, the cycle will soon begin again with who knows what."

"So my ability to search the forest is a mirage? You didn't mean to really help me."

Eric said, "There is a physical limit to the help I can offer. Sure we won, but don't let it go to your head. The adrenaline and the link we shared makes us feel powerful, but it is fool's power that can disappear at a moment’s notice. In particular, hand to hand combat saps your energy like no other. Best to go back, eat whatever the basket holds, and rest for a bit. If we feel better afterwards, we can attempt another foray."

"Just to be turned back again?" Amelia asked.

"Maybe. In truth, it’s a matter of luck. Not all my monsters are as quick to attack, some of them, specially the animals, only become aggressive when cornered. We just need luck with the randomizer."

"And they need to be killed before being replaced."

"Correct."

"Just the six of them?"

"In this part of the woods." Eric answered.

"So there are more? What chance do we have to fill the woods with non-aggressive mobs?"

"And plays video games too, can you be any more perfect?"

"Eric."

"That is the first time you called me by name, my beauty."

"Eric!"

"There is almost no chance we will ever experience complete freedom to explore the woods. But what else is there for you to do?"

A riposte more skillfully delivered than any against the three Uruk-hai he just fought. Its brutal truth severing the last thread of shared danger that connected them.

Amelia said, "Lead the way, I'm lost."

Before they broke free of the edge of Hambley Woods, the wisdom in his approach made itself apparent, as she found her mind drifting, the forest fading out of focus, which caused her to stumble in the underbrush. Only the arm that wrapped itself around her waist stopped a fall. An arm she swatted at in annoyance until it saved her from a another attempted spill to the ground. For the rest of the walk out of the woods and from there to the buggy, a decent walk away, she begrudgingly accepted its embrace, while welcoming its release when they reached the two wheeled contraption and its horse like horsepower.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Amelia? I will see what the cooks prepared.”

Given the unsteadiness of her legs, another good idea on his part, though with the seat of the buggy so high, she settled for the ground. Now safe from a fall, safe from all the monsters except the one who pretended to offer protection, Amelia felt the first shudder rattle her body. Just a prelude to the tremors that took control, an answer to the cold she felt, the relief at still breathing.

Eric draped the blanket from her picnic basket, the one she usually sat upon while eating lunch, over her shoulders. It helped. So did the bottle of water, at least the contents she did not spill from shaking.

"I'm sorry, I didn't expect that to happen."

"No worries, Amelia. The first encounter with brutal violence rarely leaves someone untouched. Consider yourself fortunate to be alive and uninjured, to be able to be shocked."

"How did you react?" Amelia asked, before she could attach reins to her tongue.

"I felt more powerful than ever before. If I knew then what I know now about how others react, that moment would have shown me I am broken. Would you like a sandwich, maybe some veggies? Eating will help return the energy you lost."

Not feeling hungry, she never-the-less took the vegetables from him. Maybe eating them would provide relief from his crazy.

It mostly worked. A distracted audience deterred Eric from speaking. For a time, while they ate, neither spoke. Not until they emptied the basket of everything except crockery and napkins did they briefly discuss returning to the forest. Something he recommended against and which she, feeling as exhausted as after any of her dance sessions with Dannika, no longer wanted.

Within the hour she stood underneath a hot shower and when she left it, she found herself alone. It made he remember her desire to escape, of the power taken from her awful host. So powerful a harvest that the beacon spell flowed from her desire as much as from her intellect.

But though she cast the spell again that night, no doorway, not even a temporary portal, appeared. Amelia remained alone on Eric's false world.

Why did she believe, just as Ken once believed, that if she could access enough magical energy, her life would improve? Did he not, despite access to more power than any mundane, lived in fear of school yard bullies? Just as she now, despite the energy taken from Eric during the fight with the Uruk-hai, greater and more potent than harvesting a month of Bieber concerts, life in fear of Eric.

The cynic in her understood someone always held more power.

Something with which the third, mostly silent member, of their triumvirate agreed, but she just did not let it bother her as much. The legacy of her high school softball coach, Ms. Babcock, queen of the pep talk, who convinced her team they could beat the State’s defending champion in their league tournament. And they did, Heather knocking in the winning run in the seventh inning for the big upset. While Ken worshipped at the altar of despair.com, she believed in the motivation it mocked.

Heather knew one sure fire method for losing, not trying. The single thing she would not quietly accept.

She offered a push to get the other two on board. By nightfall of the day after her first venture into the Hambley Woods, Amelia found herself believing along with Heather, but full of questions.

In one corner, she wondered what went wrong? Why did no rescue appear? Immediate, paranoid thoughts jumped to Julia's enmity. Maybe she exaggerated the success of her team’s progress. Or now interfered in its implementation. These thoughts Amelia brushed aside. For though she now realized the mischievous thought that helped lead Ken down this path held no value, Rebekka's child would be born before Eric finished his fantasy, she realized Julia did not hate him anywhere close to that much.

More likely, the lack of response came from a lack of readiness. If the spell only held potency for one hour, it would not surprise her to learn the resources to mount a rescue were not available. Which led to the attempt around the same time the next day.

That failure led to a more likely reason. The portal spell had not worked, a not unexpected result based upon Julia's report. Amelia remembered the success rate as if just spoken, less than one in eight times. Which just as easily could mean it worked something like one hundred times in eight hundred attempts, possibly in random clumps, not that a success happened every eight attempts. Nothing for her to do except to cast the spell as often as her magical energy held out. And to counter the first alternative, that no rescue team stood prepared to act at all times, she would send out the beacon at the same time every day. Give them certainty around which to plan.

One thing she could not allow herself to believe, that nobody watched. A thought that would defeat all the rah-rah Heather used to yank them from the doldrums.

Another part of her brain considered whether she should continue her search for the door to Benburgs, maybe it did exist somewhere outside Hambley Woods. After seeing some of Eric's forest guardians she would almost stake her life, had actually, that it held the door. But it made sense to ensure another door existed did not exist. Besides, as Eric coldly reminded her, what else did she have to do, other than go stir crazy waiting for his return, to take her back into the woods.

The question as to when that would happen filled the rest of her mind.

Four mornings later, an answer came when Beck did not appear with her normal dress. An olive green t-shirt, sleeveless, with a deep v-neck, and cropped to show her stomach. A matching pair of short shorts and calf high, black boots with buckles. The costume even came with a belt and attached holsters, a band around each thigh to keep them and the toy pistols they held from flapping about. Throw in a ponytail and the only thing missing from her Lara Croft outfit were the double-Ds. Not that most girl watchers would feel much concern about the minor difference.

A group including Eric, who did not want a repeat of her skirt enforced clumsiness, but definitely wanted to admire. She could feel his eyes on her as she led the way into a different part of the forest.

Yet he did not allow her to totally distract. When Amelia led them into an ambush, he moved at the same moment as a group of men, who looked like what she thought of as Zulu warriors, ran screaming towards them. Once more, as she dropped to the ground, as he met them with sword and shield, this time not donning his armour. Their ferocity and skills paled in comparison to those of the black orcs, but, stunned by the loudness of their shouts, she did not realize that fact until the violence splattered to an end and he led her in a detour away from the bodies.

This time she found it easier to convince herself, when momentarily safe from attack, that the bodies they left behind did not belong to real men. No symptoms of the shock that incapacitated her last time showed. Yet as they continued deeper into the woods the tension in her shoulders and neck grew worse, like the time Heather, wanting to make it home for Christmas, drove into a blizzard.

After two more attacks, she realized why Heather finally pulled into a gas station. Tension could hurt, drain all focus and energy from you. When it did, your body demands relief and, as she discovered, you could not deny it.

However, this time, after a break, she felt ready to enter the Hambley Woods again. This time they met dire wolves and her fears escalated to the same heights as during the previous Tolkien inspired attack. That finished her for the day, as she realized, just like training for a dance, she could not expect to perform a routine on her first, second, or tenth attempt. She needed practice, to attune her muscles to the new task.

It explained why Amelia took him to her bed when they returned to the manor, hoping to ensue he would return with little delay to allow her to practice. And while physically unsatisfactory for both, natural when only negative emotional attachments between the two, it worked. Though she silently thanked Ilina for sharing her story.

Besides, forgettable and horrible as she found the act, Amelia could not deny the charge it offered to her magical reservoir.

A reservoir she struggled to drain, between Eric's frequent visits. Besides the daily beacons for the portal team, which she decided she could afford to cast twice a day, Amelia recognized the value in the spell Dalton used during their field experiments. Daily she provided a view of their wedding portrait, he dressed in the Confederate uniform and she in her wedding dress, Mr. and Mrs. Eric Hambley engraved on plaque beneath, which hung in the main sitting room. She also cast the spell to show the sign at the entrance to Hambley Manor. Hopefully someone would see and maybe use the information to track her captor in the real world.

In case someone did not, she continued to look for the door, now with an added tool. A simple spell that acted similar to stretching a string across an entrance way. Initially set up in arcs radiating from each of the manor's doors, then spreading out as she tracked the arrival of food. Never finding the actual delivery construct, Amelia used the arrival of new supplies to extrapolate the direction traveled by the mule.

More evidence the woods led to Benburg's.

And when needed, she renewed the anti-fertility spell Dannika once taught a squeamish Ken. Bad enough to sleep with him, but she did not want an impossible to ignore reminder when she escaped.

When, not if.

For Amelia believed she would escape. She needed to believe, it kept her fighting.

"Who are you?"

The question Amelia asked herself whenever she looked in a mirror. And with the lack of entertaining distraction, even non-entertaining distractions, she found herself looking in the mirror with greater frequency. Beside, nothing more important existed in her life than that question? Well maybe one thing, but only the elusive answer to this question seemed within her control.

Easiest to start with who she was not.

Not Heather Theis. Neither Amelia Hambley nor Amelia Walker. Not even, eleven months after her transformation, Kenneth Cabot. Nameless, but not faceless, thus the mirror. Maybe it hid the answer?

The face, the body, they belonged to her. True, Heather provided the template, but passing time moulded her confused psyche to comfortably fit within. That is why, when she looked in the mirror, seeing the pretty woman, knowing who lived inside of her no longer felt wrong.

Unless you looked into her eyes. There the wrong lurked. Holding an answer she did not like to admit.

She existed as a mannequin. Whoever Eric wanted her to become, she became. No matter how intricate her hair or elaborate her costume, she dressed to play the role he expected. But never a major role, that he reserved for himself. For her, at most a bit part. Maybe no more than an audience member called on stage as part of his magic show.

For over time, Amelia learned thoughts about his betrayal played a lesser role in the creation of this nightmare than she first thought.

Instead she now understood how much Eric adored his own magnificence, so much so that he needed to share it with someone. Yet he tempered desire with enough arrogance to imagine how others, powerful others, could feel threatened by him. It required him to take his one man show, The Marriage of Eric Hambley, so far off Broadway it required a new world. One where the Royal Command Performance required the audience attendance rather than the performers.

Her.

Eric needed someone to witness his cleverness, to get terrified by the monsters he defeated, to let him show off. Until the final act, when he would became the monster, it almost made him whole.

Like a theater students, watching her friends perform, she gave her all to support his show. The one time she did not occurred on a ridiculous day, with him dressed as Batman and her as Catwoman, which led to her laughter when he tripped over his cape while fighting a ship and ocean less pirate. Miffed at this response to his moment of imperfection, despite escaping any injury through a quick roll away from a flashing cutlass, Eric did not return for two weeks. Long enough to expend all her hoarded energy.

While he never required her to wear the uncomfortable latex catsuit again, his absence taught her a lesson. Amelia needed him. She could no longer survive in a world alone, could not handle the inane chatter of the constructs. It gave her a better understanding of how someone could stay in an abusive relationship; sometimes the need overrode the knowledge that violence lurked.

Amelia remembered the pictures. She knew what waited.

But though outwardly his mannequin, she continued to hope for escape. Because she, not Eric decided what it meant to inhabit her body and psyche. Amelia, Ken, Heather, or whoever she became, could not allow herself to forget that truth.

So when the mirror now asked who looked back, she answered with a simple me, No matter how she dressed, be it as plantation princess or heroine from a game or comic, the mirror showed her.

Today looked like heroine day. A white t-shirt and black skirt, both so small they should only be worn in a virtual world, be it a pocket world or on a gaming console. Fingerless gloves, of red and black, stretched above her elbows, red hiking boots covered her feet, and the distinctive suspenders did nothing. Eric did love his buxom, brunette game ladies; she often found herself dressed as Lara Croft, Chun-Li, or his current favourite, Tifa Lockheart.

Dressed as the last of these, Amelia cursed the feeling of excitement in her belly. She would not be alone today. Sure she would likely feel terrified at some point, angry at others, finally ashamed when they ended the day with crappy sex, but at least not alone.

One final adjustment of her dolphin tail emulating hair do, Beck never let her out of the bedroom until perfect, then she headed for the kitchen to pick up the lunch basket. However, instead of getting the horse and buggy from the barn, she found her captor sitting in a chair at the bottom of the stairs, paying more attention to his revolver, which he twirled about the index finger on his right hand, than her descent. The distracted look on his face made her catch her breath in worried fright.

Too far away for him to hear, but Eric sensed her pulse of worry. That brought an approximation of the normal, bemused smile to his face, as he waved a soothing gesture in her direction.

"Why don't you take a seat, Amelia? I would like to talk in comfort."

At least he did not pat his lap, expecting her to sit there, as he'd done multiple times before. Still Eric did not go unrewarded, since she could not help but flash him when she took a seat wearing her too short skirt.

"It appears your friends are getting close."

Another response she could not hide. Excitement, replaced by more fear when she realized it may provide incentive for him to finish her now. The gun suddenly appeared to grow more substantial in his hand.

"I've placed tags on certain pieces of information. A number of those were recently triggered, though fortunately only things that hint at my history rather than my present. There are questions being asked in the solitaire community, but I won’t worry too much about that, the smart solitaries, people I deal with, are usually unwilling to speak to your type."

"My type?"

"A member of a family, coven, or clan. Whatever you call it. Speaking of which, you never mentioned to whom you belong?"

"The Samodivas," she said in a moment of not quite recklessness, wondering if he knew what that meant.

"Good to know my guess is confirmed. Scary bunch of bitches to have chasing me, but they won't get anything from my friends."

"I'm surprised you murderers are so tight, they always give up their buddies on the First 48."

"Group snobbery does not become you, my dear. Particularly since you would find most of the great murderers come from your type, so much easier to stay hidden when you’re part of a bigger thing being hidden. I'm rather unprecedented, so much so my friends have no idea what I truly am. Most would turn me over if they knew the truth. But for now, they see me as one of them, a solitaire who helps them stay out of harm’s way, particularly from the predators, like the Divas."

Remembering how that nature, widely attributed to the Samodivas, impacted Ken's decisions, Amelia did not argue. Bad enough for the Cabot's, powerful in comparison to most, how would it be when alone. Besides she needed to ask something of vital importance.

"What are you going to do?"

"That is what I found myself considering when you arrived."

"And?"

"I suppose I could throw myself upon your mercy. Would that work?"

"Maybe."

"You really are a terrible liar. We both know you cannot control everybody. I’m guessing my last victim was one of your sisters, so at a minimum I will need to pay for her death. Maybe if you’d been switched around, I would believe, because, unlike you, she proved an excellent at lying. Not that she showed your spunk. Once she encountered the monsters in my woods I couldn't drag her back.”

Amelia said, “It can be terrifying. Both the monsters and trusting you.”

“Your willingness to be afraid is one of the reasons you’re my favourite Amelia. That and how you hardly talk, it’s no surprise I’ve spent more time with you than probably all the others combined. But it doesn’t matter, obviously mercy is out. You can't ensure it for me. And it doesn't exist in me for you."

The pistol no longer twirled about his finger. Instead Amelia stared into its cold depths and, of all things, felt relief. Horrific as this end would be, she often imagined worse.

But the gun did not fire.

"If I ended it now, I could attempt to run. Change my appearance, become someone new. It would be easy, I've done it many times before, have prepared to do it again. But after all the energy I put into this fantasy, what a failure. I don’t think I could live with myself if I did not get everything out of our adventure together, better to shoot myself in the head right now."

"I won't stop you."

"Funny girl." Eric said, then paused to gather his thoughts. "I'm sure you figured this all out?"

"You're wife cheated on you with Barnabus. You found out and this is where I grow less sure. Did you kill her and now like to relive it? Or did you do nothing, come to regret it, and now try to punish her through us?"

“After the war, I often traveled for business. One such journey ended early, when someone almost caught me in the pursuit of my pleasures. So I returned to Hambley Manor, late one evening, before anyone expected me home and proved my suspicions true. Barnabus and Amelia in my bed, not in flagrante delicto as they say, just asleep. Not even curled together.

"I cannot remember what I felt. Maybe angry or betrayed, possibly even satisfaction to be proven right. I do know I turned my back on them, walked from the room with the intention to return to my horse and disappear. But out on the landing I spotted my parents, summoned by some parental sixth sense, prepared to avert the disaster of my finding out about Amelia and Barnabus. In that moment, I realized everyone in my home knew me as a cuckold and I've never handled embarrassment with much aplomb."

Remembering the incident with the Batman cape, Amelia could echo agreement. But she did not need to say anything while playing the audience to his soliloquy.

"That knowledge seared away all familial connection and...no, I should take it a few steps further back. They probably suspected something about me, not because I killed puppies or what have you, I think they just knew, maybe I reminded them of some similarly fucked up ancestor. Whatever the reason, the one lesson I remembered from my father, this from a man who could make another’s ears bleed from talking about cotton, is how all life is important. He made me a disciple in this pact with humanity. Rather a farce when you consider what happened at the plantations all around us. But I never thought about that, instead I cherished the idea, even while not agreeing with it, since he made it our shared secret. Even after thriving in that horrible war, which daily put lie to the truth of that pact, I felt something akin to shame about continuing to kill. But when I saw my parents that night, the shame disappeared.

“The exact chain of events now vary when I try to piece it together. I must have returned to bedroom, woke the two, told Amelia to run and forced Barnabus to get his sword. He showed bravery, I will give him that, confidence as well. Yet confidence undeserved, his bravery for naught, he died as easily as any of my prior victims. That ended my life as Eric Hambley, but not as a free man. Fear bought my continued freedom, as I cowed the entire household with dire threats. They allowed me to leave with money, food, clothing, and two horses.”

"So you let Amelia go and now try to avenge yourself on her through others?"

"I expected she would run all the way to her father's home. She’d lived here or nearby her entire life, how could I expect her to get turned about in the dark. Yet the silly girl got lost outside her own door, not figuring it out until she reached Hambley Woods. Even worse, why did she stay on the road, trudging back in exhaustion? Exhaustion that disappeared the moment she saw me riding towards her. Suddenly terror burst from her like someone turning on a 1000 watt bulb. She ran. That triggered the wolf in me, I need to chase her. I’m glad I did, because it felt fucking glorious.”

In that moment, as he stared past her, a look of fond remembrance on his face, Eric may as well look like alien, so impossible did she find him to comprehend. Anger at betrayal she could understand, but this eclipsed emotion. The oenophilia describing his favourite bottle of wine, the aesthete remembering a poem that spoke to him in a time of need, the connoisseur remembering his last great meal. Amelia did not know how to respond and his waiting silence told her he now expected her to join him on his stage. Tired of his games, still unconcerned about her own safety, she decided his show needed a dose of truth.

“You sick fuck, you get off on terror. Don’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Eric said. “Something about it sets my heart all aflutter.”

“And so all of this?” Amelia asked,

“If there is one thing never in short supply, that would be terror. In particular, war offers more than I can consume, though you may be surprised to know it is as a medic where I'm most fulfilled. Even the stupidest or bravest fear their own mortality when injured."

"Well they should fear it with you looking after them."

"You're ignoring irony, my dear. Or at least I think it's irony, the know-it-alls on the internet have left me paranoid to use the term. The thing is, I am a very good medic. I have lots of experience, don’t feel the emotions to get mentally borked by the ugliness, and if they die, I no longer can get off, as you so elegantly stated, on their terror. And think about the thanks they direct in my direction if they survive or the hatred from others I saved to live the life of a cripple. It really is a win win for me. I get to wallow in what I enjoy, at the same time growing more powerful while doing so. It should be enough, but I can never forget chasing Amelia."

“So you killed sixteen girls, and plan to kill me, to satisfy your greed?”

“Is it that many? You know I rarely think about any of them, because none of them inspired me with anything close to my first Amelia. I’ve often wondered why, but only now, as the noose closes in upon me, am I allowed to experience an epiphany, See, I never felt anything for them, I may as well have spent my killing prostitutes like all my unimaginative fellow serial killers. But how many times have you offered me your terror? It's like spicy food, it clears my senses, makes me feel alive. Damn, you'll be spectacular to hunt.”

We live in a world where emotions can lift people from their sorrows as easily as drown them within. They cause you to strive for something better or hold you back, wielding control both unmeasurable and unmistakable. But what if, for some, emotions held a tangible power, if they could use the emotions of the world for their own benefit? What is the chance that someone would abuse that gift?

Amelia awoke.

She felt no drowsiness or confusion, because she knew, despite her day count being at three hundred and sixty two, she no longer needed to wait.

Someone now shared her bed. Maybe the extra weight caused a subtle change in the mattress and brought her awake. No way could she blame it on body heat, only her’s warmed the space beneath the covers. In that, a construct felt no different than a corpse.

Thankfully Barnabus still remained the former. Better yet, he did nothing to show awareness of her slipping out from beside him.

Impossible to feel prepared for the moment, easier to let despair and hopelessness rule her mind. But Amelia discovered time and use wore them down to nubs of nothingness. In their place she remembered her plan. One that would make a budding tactician, straight out of school, laugh. Yet the grizzled general, experienced at losing against overwhelming force, would understand sometimes Savior Luck did not care about viability of planning. It preferred action.

Hoping to buy herself a moment, when Eric appeared, she took the paperback she finished before sleeping and wedged it into the gap between the floor and the door. It would only delay him only for seconds, maybe less time than it took her to do it, but she watched him hunt, she knew he slowed when his prey seemed aware of him. And since Amelia needed time, right now, she hoped for any delay caused by her awareness.

Opening the window, she jumped.

Not to defiantly rob him of what he wanted, Amelia wanted to live, but to begin her escape. A child's spell, one she remembered Kens using in play, with cousins, before they left him behind once he became enmeshed in childhood.

Like an unwinged angel, her pure, white nightgown glowing in the dark, she floated down from her second floor window like Ken and kin once floated from family warehouses. Practice, every night Eric left her alone, less often as Amelia's friends belatedly closed in upon him, allowed her to float almost to the gate in the fence. Landed, she took off at a hurried walk. Not yet time to jog, nor to run. That would come.

How many times had she envisioned this night? Hundreds, if not thousands. Once a plan formed, the visualization, much like a downhill skier preparing to hurdle down a mountain, of what she needed to do became a constant companion.

Practice, again and again, she'd walked the start of the path she mapped out in the days following her kidnapper’s confirmation he intended to kill her. Discovering the road, towards Hambley Woods, traveled in a long, sweeping curve she realized it would be faster to cut across country to the woods. There she desperately hoped to find escape. So with no shoes, since her closet only held her stupid shoes, not the semi-practical boots that accompanied her impractical heroine costumes, she walked the path tens of times. Until the route, each little bump or dip, ingrained itself in her mind, allowing her to walk it at night. Almost like a midnight dash from bed to toilet, where familiarity guided you instead of sight.

Though her bare feet carried her forward without any guidance, the ambient light from artificial moon and stars, in a sky that never showed clouds, allowed her to watch over her shoulder. Every shadow, in the distance, made her catch her breath. It caused her to want to run, knowing she needed to reach the forest before he arrived, but she knew she needed to stop herself from wasting energy before time.

She succeeded.

Nervous and tense, she skirted its edge, circling towards the road. All the while she watched for Eric, remembering his words after he professed his desire to hunt her.

"But, in order for me to savor our hunt, you must give me your best. Another mistake I made with my prior wives. Okay, victims, happier now? They felt no hope, since I never gave them any reason to believe they could win. Looking back, I probably robbed most of the desire to even try. I don’t believe that is true for you, but in case, let me say one thing. You are right, the portal with Benburg’s is at the center of my family’s woods.”

“Not much hope, with who knows how many guardians there are,” Amelia said in answer.

“If you do not stray too much from a straight path, you will encounter, at most, nine different groups. And before you repeat yourself, there are ways past them.”

Could she trust him?

In ways, despite wearing a mask of gentility to obscure the beast within, he always appeared truthful with her, rarely hiding his intentions or his desires on how he wanted her to act. Furthermore, why did he need to lie. In their deepest foray into the forest Eric dealt with six groups before her nerves and his exhaustion forced them to turn back. In many ways, his one consistent lie revolved around the validity of hope.

Tonight she would attempt to determine that truth. It frustrated the scientist inside of her. Though he implied multiple ways to get past the guardians, only one stood out as a possibility for her. Even worse, she would get only a single attempt to test her hypothesis. Yet an infinitesimally small chance still outweighed zero.

Circling the woods, she dashed across the road, not stopping until she reached a stand of trees thrusting out from their kin. Here, they exited the woods after their first encounter with the Uruk-hai. Here, they normally exited whenever entering nearby. Since Eric always guided them out, Amelia hoped his past exhaustion unintentionally led him into showing her the easiest path through his woods. It did seem less dense, with fewer deadfall. Maybe wishful thinking, but she planned to use this spot as her final night’s entrance.

Though not yet.

Even though she felt no effects from her walk, she breathed deeply, performing the stretches learned from Heather's past. Warming muscles for what waited, watching for, listening for the approach of her tormentor. The next phase of her plan required his presence.

A wait ended by the unhurried approach of a light along the road, before it turned towards her. The man with the lantern.

Just as she started her turn, he shouted, "Stop."

Ingrained habits caused her to look at him, to see him sitting atop a horse in a hooded, black overcoat, the lantern held so he could see her better.

"I thought you wanted me to run?"

"Oh, I most definitely do, probably I want it more than anything in nearly one hundred and fifty years. But the waiting is delicious and allows me to satisfy my curiosity. Who are you truly?"

"Why?"

"You mentioned the Divas. They and their immortal henchmen are like hounds, requiring me to become the most wily of fox to stay out of their focus. But there is another group, clever and sneaky, buying information the others demand, who I suspect will track me down first. At first I suspected an attempt to curry favors from the big girls, but the resources they are spending did not seem worth it. Until I heard a strange rumour. Are you Kenneth Cabot?"

"Not anymore."

"Isn't that the damndest thing," Eric said, as he swung right leg over the rump of his horse to dismount.

All the cue Amelia needed to initiate the next phase of her plan. Spinning, she ran into the woods. And as she did so, she opened the door of her soul to her ever lurking companion, Terror. Always watching from the edge of conscious thought, it's appearance during their prior adventures into the woods had washed away everything that could hold it back. Now it flooded along familiar pathways, filling her to the brink. It belonged. It felt natural.

Eric sensed its arrival, stood still for a moment to bask in its glow. He laughed in joy, his weapons appearing in hands as he finally allowed himself to savor his long awaited treat.

In this moment, her trialiity served her well. Each part of herself fulfilled the task that played to a strength. Amelia, their conscious presence for all these months of captivity, who'd born the brunt of their fear, experienced the periods of terror, welcomed it back as old friend, letting it wash away all other thought, except an awareness of Eric. Another of her strengths, playing the attentive audience taught her to sense where he stood, determining what he wanted from her.

Right now he wanted her afraid, so she allowed herself to feel more afraid than ever before. Nor did it completely exist as an act. She knew Eric intended to kill her this night and he held the power to do so. But she wanted to live.

However, first he wanted her to run. She'd known this for months. So like that remembered high school coach, her Heather part, the athlete of the triunity, took control of exercising, preparing physically for this night. Now her Heather part ran for all of their lives.

Dangerous to do so in the dark, particularly in woods, even this less dense section still contained underbrush, deadfall, and trees that did not form a straight path. Navigation fell to her Ken part.

This depended upon a lesson learned from watching Eric, who always knew from where attackers would appear. And how, outside of the one time, he never stumbled or collided with the trees surrounding him during a fight. That, not the idiotic cape and costume, made Amelia think of him as the bat man, as if he used something similar to the sonar that guided bats through darkened night. A spell from the same school as the one she used to the track the movements of the constructs. It just required her Ken part to cast it continuously, to process it immediately, to fire synapses in response that told her Heather part to twist left or right, duck or leap.

The fear that weighed heavily upon Amelia would surely lead to emotional exhaustion. Just as the physical strain of Heather's running would lead to physical exhaustion and the intellectual drain of Ken's constant focus would lead to mental exhaustion. Linked together, her body may give in before she gave herself a real chance to escape, but when spread across the three of them, maybe it would give her enough time.

"Left," Ken pulsed, as a man shaped object jumped out from behind some trees.

Everybody reacted perfectly to the command. her Heather part dodged, evading the grasp of a goblin. Amelia screamed in fear at the closeness of the escape. And Eric, smiling at her scream, shot the beast in the head.

Just like every other time she entered these woods, her safety from its denizens relied upon Eric’s presence. It did not exist in any of her three parts to kill nor did any of them possess the skill to do so, but neither of those issues hindered Eric. That is why the plan required her to keep him close, it recognized his desire to kill her himself and would ensure he kept her safe from everything else. But she could not give him time to play, to draw his sword and engage them in hand to hand combat as he liked, since that would tire him out. Amelia needed him strong enough to follow her to the wood’s center.

Eric's desire to impress always before kept them from reaching the center of the woods. Tonight she could not allow that to happen. So her Heather part ran as fast as her Ken part allowed, her speed giving Eric no time to do anything other than dispatch all that appeared with his gun. Instantly the monsters died as his gun, like in a movie, always remained loaded.

Another beneficial byproduct of Eric’s nearness, Amelia could efficiently capture his ecstatic appreciation of her terror. It allowed her Ken part to continuously cast the navigation spell without fear of running out of magical energy. Something even more necessary as the woods closed in the deeper they ran.

"Lovely Kenneth, you may want to stop for a moment. Ground control to major babe, I need a break." Eric shouted, after they reached a point deeper than ever before, seven, maybe eight, groups encountered.

Attuned to his presence rather than his words, she sensed him stop. Amelia did not want that, she needed him close, almost unconsciously she came to a halt. Only then, turning towards him, did she question whether she fell for a ruse, but he still held to the truth.

A relief to let her Heather catch her breath, to allow her Ken part to relax for a moment, and to see Eric’s chest heave. She could not let it last long, to let her muscles grow cold, but a short break could benefit her before the final dash.

“Have any water?” Eric asked. “I could use a drink.”

“Do you see a backpack or a bag?”

“Good point. And I suppose I should take the blame that none of your nightgowns have pockets. Function never played the key role when choosing what you should wear. Good plan by the way, none of the others even made it to the woods. If you only you brought water I would give you an A+."

Now wanting a drink herself, she said, "You seem rather unphased for someone about to puke his guts out. Is this all a lie in your twisted little game?"

"I didn't realize I was so out of shape. Instead of dressing you as Tifa, I guess we should have spent more time with you dressed as the maid and me the master chasing you around the kitchen table. God why didn't I think of that before, it's my type of exercising. Or, instead of Lara, maybe the secretary and boss around his desk, well too late for that. Though I'll need to remember for the next time. Oh, is that the confidence you question?

"Well it's like this. You're less of a city girl now, aren’t you, but you still can’t navigate these woods. If you continue in the direction you’re heading, we'll miss the center of the woods. You need to veer a bit to the East. You don't know which way that is, do you? Should I tell you? Would it make this excellent night more enjoyable? Is it better to keep you in the dark or...Fuck!"

Although Eric's monsters could not learn from their encounters with him, all came equipped with a certain level of cunning. None more-so than the Uruk-hai, whose appearance always led to the most ferocious encounters, the sneakiest ambushes, and the fights that drained them the most.

Usually her kidnapper waited upon attack, ready to respond. However, on this night, Eric could not share the burdens of the chase with anyone else. And while he did not need to worry about emotional exhaustion, the physical and mental strain took their toll. It caused him to call for a break, giving him a moment to catch his breath, to rest his body and mind. Just enough time for the black orcs, who patrolled the current section of Hambley Woods, to attack.

Unprepared, talent and practice combined to fling Eric himself barely out of the way of the attack of the first. Yet he did not completely escape, as the orc's black shield clipped his right arm. Continuing to roll away, summoning his own black armour, he did not notice his pistol fall to the ground.

However, Amelia watched it bounce twice before it fell flat. Fighting the feeling of panic that always accompanied the appearance of the Uruk-hai, she moved towards the chrome escape.

Legs covered in black metal denied her chance, striding in front of the gun as she moved forward. Instantly, her momentum turned into a backwards scramble, right into a second set of legs. Twisting away she tried to escape but a hand wrapped around her wrist. Yanking upon it, she twirled like some out of control ballroom dancer to crash into the orc's chest. Momentarily stunned from the impact, she did not notice his other arm wrap around her waist and lift her in the air. Grunting something at the other Uruk-hai he turned and trotted into the woods.

Focus returning, Amelia looked into the face that inhabited so many of her nightmares. The orc whose face showed the white-hand, who she once killed with her parasol.

"Eric!" Amelia shouted, panic wrestling with terror to grab control of her mind.

But her would be killer, circled by five attackers, could not help.

From the grave born stench of his breath to the rank smell of unwashed dirt, sweat, and rusting metal, everything about her new captor defined the word, foul. In many ways, the beast man served as the perfect physical manifestation of Eric's soul.

Not that the heinous qualities of the beast man robbed him of the physical gifts needed to carry Amelia into the forest, distancing the two of them from his brethren and Eric, her source of temporary rescue. As the sounds of fighting disappeared, the discomfort from his arm, wrapped around her middle, squeezing away breath worse than her tightest corset, left her lightheaded. Unconscious, uncaring cruelty momentarily weighed heavier than conscious, intended cruelty.

Whatever that would be.

Wherever he intended to take her.

But right now Amelia needed to breathe. Grasping at his arm, wrist, with both hands, fingers and thumbs trying to gain purchase on either vambrace or gauntlet and move his arm, even a inch. Unable to obtain anything other than the weakest grip, she stood no chance against the muscle bound freak.

Desperate, she struggled, earning a growl and a tighter grip. Stars bursting in front of her eyes, Amelia fought even harder.

Her wiggling, the slipperiness of her silk nightgown against his armour, the awkward way in which he held her combined to finally overcome his pressure based grip. Feeling her slip, the Uruk-hai tossed Amelia to the ground, where she sprawled clumsily, her head just missing a root as it bounced off the vegetation covered ground. Stunned, she did not fight as he took a length of rope from a pouch at his belt and wrapped it around her wrists, leaving just enough space in between with which to yank her to her feet.

Not letting go, he pulled her along, unworried as she stumbled behind him, marching deeper into the woods. Never had she felt more alone, as she tormented herself with thoughts of what he planned to do to her. Bad enough with Eric. Repellant though she found him, at least he wasn't...Oh God.

"Where is he taking me? Don't think about it, Amelia. Think about how you will free yourself."

It did not bother her that she spoke aloud, she did not allow herself to worry he understand her words, that he knew she looked to escape. Stating the problem turned it into a thinking exercise. And she knew Ken thrived on those. Not quite granting him control, she demanded he figure something out.

After a moment's thought, he ordered her to quit fighting, to conserve her strength for the right moment. Particularly since the orc dragged her the way she needed to go.

That realization required her to ignore what Eric told her while they rested, about how she would not hit the center of the woods, but, for the first time, Amelia felt he lied to her. Now she supported intuition with the understanding as to where the beast man traveled. The spawn point at which the monsters in this area always appeared, a location that experience taught would exist at the furthest point inwards, closer to the center of the woods.

Though what good would that do her?

Don't think, she reminded herself, the moment will come. It led her closer to her destination, so worry about nothing for now, just watch for that moment. Survive. Then escape.

Forget the ache in her head, from the fall. Ignore her bare feet, battered and bruised from running through the forest. Pay no attention to the blood dripping from wrists, tightly bound by the stiff rope. Instead she followed the black orc, not fighting his lead, waiting for her moment.

Thus it took her a moment, after they entered a broad clearing, to notice what stood in its middle. A small hut, log walls and thatched roof, a single door beside a lone window, like something from a fairy tale. Ignoring the hand holding her bindings, she momentarily forgot the reality of her present world and stepped towards the building.

Surely the hut held the entrance to Benburgs.

Reality did not forget Amelia, instead it used the muscled orc to stop in her tracks before he pulled her towards a lone pine, its branches starting well above her head, just inside the clearing. Here, with one hand clenched around her right wrist he used the other to worry the knot of her binding loose on the other hand. Then, despite how much she fought, he forced her arms around the tree before he re-tied her wrists together.

Hugging the tree, her cheek resting against its trunk in an attempt at comfort, Amelia felt more vulnerable than ever. Again she struggled against the horrific thoughts of what he could do to her. None of which included his walking away. Not far, no more than twenty steps, but enough distance to prove she did not occupy the forefront of his mind. Further verification came as she watched his yellow eyes, gleaming in the fake moonlight. Darting about, from point to point in the woods and to an empty spot just to his right, they rarely settled upon her.

Bait!

Eric wanted killers. Why spend any excess energy on lust, when he could imbue his monsters with the cunning of a hunter.

Relief washed over her body. At least she would be spared that indignity.

Now she needed to escape the next, for it appeared the Uruk-hai expected Eric to survive the prior ambush, that he expected the Man with the Lantern to follow them to this clearing. Hoping his brethren would re spawn before he arrived. Nervous they would not, lacking confidence they could win even if they did.

Of course they would lose, Eric would be sure to stack the deck in his favour. Never mind the foul beast that stood nearby, she still needed to escape the foul beast whose fantasy created her nightmare.

Magic should offer the answer. In fact many within the mundane world considered a escape artist as the greatest magician of all time, but Houdini disguised reality through hidden keys and tricks. None of which were available to Amelia nor did her own magic, which truly manipulated reality, offer a better alternative. She did not know how to free herself, as she'd never learned how, and doubted she had enough time to figure it out.

It left brute force as one option, not her forte. She considered how Brennus taught her to harness her energy for a strike, but she also remembered what he said about breaking fingers with a punch. She doubted her thin wrists would fare any better in any attempt to break free of the rope. First she needed to weaken it.

Eyes on her captor, who all but ignored her, Amelia slid her hands along the tree’s trunk, searching for a knot, a broken branch, anything with which she could attempt to cut the rope. The bark offered only semi-sharp edges, brittle more than hard, it tended to crumble under the anything more than the slighted pressure. Yet when left with only bad options, you can either embrace them or give up. So she, gingerly at first, scraped the rope against the tree, pausing only when the Uruk-hai glanced her way.

Unsure if she made any progress, Amelia wondered if she could free herself before Eric arrived. If so, she could use him to distract the orc and vice versa.

Confirmation he would appear came over the next few moments, with the arrival of the rest of the orcs. She half expected them to rise, zombie like, from the ground. If not that, then in a shimmering like a Star Trek transporter. Not just appearing in a previously empty space, but that is what happened. Until she shared the clearing with six instead of one, all of whom now watched the trees.

They all knew, including Amelia, that the Man with the Lantern would be coming for them. And he felt angry.

Although not yet thwarted, even a temporary diversion proved enough to bring Eric’s true self to the surface. The deadly cocktail of anger, hate, selfishness that formed his core released, with Amelia considered the cause, source and target of it all.

A maelstrom of emotion that she felt at his approach. A storm cloud forming on the edge of her consciousness that bore down upon her like a force of nature.

All of them sensed his approach. Each set of eyes turned to watch as a light appeared, filtering through the branches. Brighter it grew, as it came closer, until no trees blocked it from their sight. The gloom of the clearing washed away by light from a lantern more powerful than it owned any right to shine. With the only darkness it could not dispel existing within its bloom. There stood Eric, faceless and larger than life in his ebon armour, the very image of evil intent.

Setting the lantern upon the ground, his shield appeared to take its place as he walked toward the Uruk-hai. They, in turn, spread out in an arc. But when they moved to shrink their circle he attacked.

His explosion of power, magically enhanced, closed the distance with the two who formed the horn on his right, furthest away from Amelia, before anybody knew he moved. One, his falchion moving as if through mud, found no time to even shout before Eric's sword slashed into his neck, not quite severing his head. The second did not receive such a merciful end, the man's shield having slammed into his chest, breaking through the metal of armour to create shards of metal that pierced a chest now full of shattered ribs.

Silent, after the first brief clash of metal, Eric watched his four remaining opponents. He knew what they would do, so when they attacked as one, screaming their rage, he met them with raised shield and sword, along with quick feet that allowed him to dance away, always keeping them to his front.

Now the clearing rang loudly with the sounds of battle. Eric ducking one vicious swing, ramming a shoulder into one attacker, knocking him into another, before crushing his sword against the helm of a third. But before he could finish this stunned opponent off, the fourth attacked with a furious barrage of thrusts and swings, forcing the man backwards, allowing his companion to regain his wits.

Throughout it all, Amelia felt the rage boiling off the man in the black armour. But this she gave him nothing, having shut down all emotion, locking her terror away in a metal box inside her mind. Attempting to no longer care whether she lived or died.

If she thought about it, the latter seemed more likely, with not a single strand of her rope binding frayed. It left her as a spectator, wondering how Eric moved so quick, how he did not tire, how he always guessed what his opponents would do. Not that he toyed with them, they seemed to fight with an intelligence she'd never seen in them before, tempering their normal all out assault with moments of defence and teamwork. But Eric realized this as easily as her and with the skill of a chest player maneuvered the four until two bumped into each other. Again he leapt to attack. One scrambled away, to the safety of the other two, but one remained slumped on the ground.

Nobody could doubt who would win.

But that did not matter to the Uruk-hai, they existed for one purpose. To attempt to defeat Eric. They would die trying, had done so innumerable times before. Instinct, at least as much as a construct could possess demanded they keep fighting. Including the one whose ribs Eric destroyed at the beginning of the fight.

Through pain that would cripple anything truly alive, it dragged itself along the ground. Forgotten, ignored, a sense of presence, rather than sound alerted Amelia to its arrival at her side. She recognized the palm print on its face, the eyes full of demented anger. Arms outstretched, inch by inch, it pulled itself towards her. Unable to escape his approach, she pulled back her legs, ready to kick out when it came closer.

However, just beyond her range it stopped and looked at her, as if trying to communicate. A moment of weakness, the recognition he appeared as much Eric's victim as her, or something else caused her lock to gaze onto his. To follow his eyes to his right arm, watching it inch toward her.

Somewhere in the decision tree that substituted for his mind, he’d discovered a new way to defeat his enemy. Three more times he slid forward. His goal reached, he accepted death.

With legs straightened, Amelia stretched a foot to brush his gauntleted hand away from the grip of his falchion. Hooking a toe over its guard, she dragged the weapon towards her. When a glance confirmed Eric still focused upon his opponents, she spun around the tree, to crouch and grasp the falchion. The blood from her wrists making it awkward to maneuver, as she drove its point into the ground, its back braced against the trunk. Then she sawed her arms up and down, the sword’s edge slowly severing each strand of the rope until her arms sprung apart.

No hesitation. Scrambling to her battered feet, she ran for the hut, all the while she expected to hear a panicked shout from behind. It did not come and when she reached the door she knew why.

Of course there would be a lock on this solid door, a Weiser deadbolt to be exact, which may as well be the door to a bank vault. Nor did the window, covered by shutters offer an alternative. So close to escape, yet when she threw herself against the door, she felt no give.

And she heard his laughter.

Between her moment of building and the dashing of hope, Eric dispatched the last three black orcs. Now, with lantern back in hand, his armour dispelled to wherever it waited, he walked towards her.

And he laughed.

Full of scorn, empty of amusement, he laughed at her.

But where he expected it to trigger terror, he miscalculated. His prior anger, that felt as he approached the clearing, measured nothing when compared to the rage she now felt.

It opened something inside of her.

If asked to explain what she felt in that moment of pure rage, she would struggle to do so. Strong, powerful, potent, even magical. All words that approached the right territory of explanation, but all insufficient. Why would words exist to describe something experienced by so few across the span of humanity's history.

Suffice to say, Amelia no longer felt afraid.

The Man with the Lantern sensed her change. Both his laughter and his stroll towards her stopped, but not instinct. Eric's sword disappeared, replaced by his gun. He saw the climax of his pleasure about to escape, he acted to stop it from happening.

Lightning fast though his actions would appear to anyone else, Amelia found herself with all the time she needed to do whatever she wanted. If someone else, she might rip the doors off the hut, dash inside to the waiting door to Benburgs, but none of her personalities ever relied on physical strength and she did not consider that option. Others, Eric or any of the Boiis, would leap to the attack, looking to kill before being killed. But at her core rested the soul of Kenneth Cabot, who always avoided conflict, who once told Brennus about his technique of running away in order not to get hurt.

An interesting comparison. When left with little choice, the choice came easily, rather than give up it is natural to keep trying until the end. While now, blessed with infinite choices, the choice came just as easily. It seemed impossible to chose anything other than what defined her as a person. For her, like Ken before her, curiosity trumped all else.

While imprisoned, only one thought occupied her mind with near the regularity as those of escape, it involved both Ken's and Julia's experiments. What did the latter miss from prior, why did their attempts fail so often? Why couldn't they open a portal to rescue her?

Without conscious thought, she cast the spell, used so many times by Ken within his lab, and found the beacon she'd placed earlier that day. With her new power she saw it in a different way. Rather than just the sense of a beacon's presence, it seemed as if a transparent overlay settled across Amelia's magical consciousness, almost like a traffic controller's radar screen. A single blip flashing brightly, as if her constant casting of the imbued it with never dimming light. No reason Julia's team could not find and use it, unless Ken's theory missed an important factor?

Maybe.

She wished Ken knew more about their tests, that they gave him a chance to study their results, particularly their partial successes. What accounted for success and what for failure? Did a special infinity need to exist between caster and world? Maybe a world in which they regularly visited or one to which they previously created a door. But probably never one to which they never visited, like this one. Did they ever include a secured world as a parameter?

Impossible to say without further information. The only things Amelia could draw upon resided in her head, particularly Ken's problem solving skills. No, her skills. Silly to continue with that fabrication. Why pretend to be three, it only diluted the truth of herself. Time for Ken and Heather's memories to join into one, for the imagined Amelia to disappear, replaced by...

She smiled, it seemed fitting.

Alyce.

Apparently she too belonged amongst the rarest of the rare. So why not take on the name of her figurative mother, the girl who placed her on the path to this moment. One difference did exist, she knew magic existed, she could use it. Though just as with the original Alyce, she did not know what it could do.

However, scientists sought to solve mysteries, for the good of mankind or to satisfy their curiosity. That desire did not change when she accepted new names the prior two times, nor did it change this time.

Satisfied with how easy she solved the mystery of self, once she decided to accept the obvious truth, Alyce turned to the more difficult external question. Allowing her inward gaze to study the overlay in her mind she noticed the shadow of not quite beacons. She catalogued these shadows, finding one near her beacon, the rest usually grouped two together, each pair of varying distances apart, hundreds of them barely visible.

However, thirty three of them, including the one nearby, stood out as black blotches, each a barely different shade of black. What did it mean, what did the number thirty three signify? Why did the nearest appear like a spot, created with a black marker, on the first sheet of a pad of paper, while the rest looked more like the bleed through on sheets beneath?

Obviously they marked a spell, but did the darkness imply distance or something else?

In a burst of inspiration Amelia guessed precedence. The spell sought to find a beacon placed in another world, so these marks might point to something similar. Could it be every time she walked into or out a world's door it would create such a mark. Passive in nature, there would be no reason for it to shine brightly. though a door’s permanence may cause the mark to last longer, at least to her currently enhanced vision of the magical world.

Counting, within her mind, she numbered fifteen different doors she'd passed through after Gary turned Ken into Heather. From Gary's place to Dannika's to Ilina's to Pythia's Retreat to Tess's, all the hubs in between, and finally the trapdoor in Heather's bed. Fifteen of those she remembered both the entry and exit, which numbered thirty. If correct, it meant Eric carried her from the original world in which he captured her into his twisted amusement park, which added three more. The rest, all those barely seen, she guessed came from the time when she'd only been Ken, a time to which all links slowly dissolved.

Another mystery solved, but not escape enacted.

Until she asked herself what better representation of a world did she need than an actual door? In a magical sense, its existence seemed at least as tangible as the lintel stones used to create it. Counting carefully, backwards from the darkest shadow, the one nearest her bright beacon, she found the door that matched the number she wanted. The most memorable door through which any of her incarnations passed, because of its environmental impact.

Just as Gary once used physical memories to create her current form, so saw no reason she could not use the memories from her prior crossing through the door to re-create it.

With that thought, Alyce brought a new door into existence.

A door through which she stepped, just as a bullet flashed through the space now vacated.

Brutal cold, so unlike the unchanging weather of Eric's world, blasted through her body, the thin nightgown and bare feet offering no protection. Yet for a moment welcome. Only something this shocking could separate Alyce from the seemingly perfect mental world in which she manufactured her escape, but which lured her into just as deadly a trap. Too easily could she stay there, in a universe of her own, satisfying curiosity, solving problems, never leaving.

Not even her onetime Ken self could remain sane when that alone.

Cold.

Now she needed to escape from it and the voice she heard cursing on the other side of the door. She ran forward, past explosives frozen into walls of ice, bloody footprints marking her passage.

"Please let me in! Please, I need help."

The first hatch showed only a crack when she reached it, but proved wide enough for her to slip through. Each of the following three provided even less difficulty before they closed behind her. Through the last hatch, she took five steps, along the soft grass, towards the cinder block building and stopped. Unsure what to do, but knowing she no longer needed to run, Alyce sank to the soft grass.

Tremors started. The terror of the chase, the horror of her capture by the Uruk-hai, the expanse of her discovery, the exhilaration of her escape, and the terrible all combined to overwhelm. Despite memories of power, Alyce felt weak. Her body needed to process the physical and mental shock.

On battlefields across two millennia, Harald the Boii lost count of how many people he'd seen struck down by shock. He knew how to handle it, but, as watchman, duty and paranoia always took priority. Not until the hatches closed and before he assured himself of approaching reinforcements did he, carrying his TAR-21 assault rifle and a first aid kit, leave the bunker to help.

Alyce's only reaction to his presence was to clutch at the Mylar blanket he wrapped around her shoulders and to lay down when he helped her do so. Barely could she hear his questions, never-mind understand them.

"It’s really you, isn’t you? Are you hurt?" Harald asked. When she offered no answer, his hands and eyes sought injury, finding her bloodied feet and bloodied wrists, rope still wrapped around them.

Focused on the first, he did not look up at the sound of vehicles approaching. He knew they were the enforcements, that one of them would enter the bunker to secure the monitors, while others would take over for him. First aid never counted amongst his strong point, all his brothers knew that.

By the time Alyce returned from her hard shutdown and reboot, she found her wounds cleaned and wrapped, a large, black hoodie, marked with WisÅ‚a Kraká³w 1906, covering her nightgown, and herself laying on a couch inside the bunker. Six unfamiliar men filled the rest of the space inside the building, their attention as much on the monitors and preparations for an assault as upon her. Yet they noticed when she calmed and her eyes regained focus.

One of them approached, kneeled beside the couch, and said, "My name is Nic. You're safe, Heather, but from where did you come?"

"Oh no, I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to go."

"We're happy you came to us. Specially Brennus, who is on his way with the others."

"But you don't understand. I created a new between Eric's world and your entryway. He's who kidnapped me. He was chasing me. I don't know if he can get through."

"Harald, take your triad and secure the passage."

"Too late, Nic." Harald said.

All eyes turned to the monitor on the wall. At their icy entrance stood a man in a black coat.

"That's Eric." Alyce said, stunned to see him. She thought he would already be running.

"Oh, is it?" Nic said, a predatory look appearing in his eyes. "I think we should let him in, before he gets cold."

When all the Boiis, except Harald, moved to the door, Alyce swung her legs off the couch, winced when bandaged feet touched the ground, but stood despite the pain. Seeing her move to follow, Nic stopped, the others continuing outside to meet their guest, and asked, "Where are you going?"

"To finish this."

Not the answer he expected nor one Nic could not argue against. Instead he nodded his head and offered his arm to lean upon, guiding her outside.

Unlike how he opened the hatches for her, Harald cycled Eric through one at a time. It gave the unwelcoming committee time to spread out, Nic and Alyce at their center, in preparation for his arrival.

When the final door slid open, Eric walked through the opening into the Boii's world. Still dressed in his black, hooded overcoat, he no longer displayed the demonic power that defined the Man with the Lantern. Like his intended victim, he too limped, proving neither escaped the chase unmarked. But he did not appear cowed. Ignoring the Boiis and the guns they pointed in his direction, he eyes settled on nearby Delphi. For a moment he stared at it curiously before he looked towards them, a familiar smile on his face.

"Ahh, good, the tour guides are here. I'll let the pretty one in the middle show me around your historical site."

"I didn't expect to see you again, Eric. I thought you would run." Alyce said.

"Well after I exhausted my supply of swear words, I stood there in shock at the realization you’d won. I did not consider running until I got over that harsh blow to my ego. However, when I did, I thought back to all of those I've chased over the years and realized none of them enjoyed the experience, I doubt I would feel any different. So I decided to go out in a blaze of glory and followed you. When I found out where you ran, I assume these are the Boiis, if so, good move, even that disappeared. All I had left was my curiosity. So here we are."

"Drop your weapons," Nic said.

Slowly Eric's hands unbuttoned his overcoat, before opening it wide, showing no weapons.

"Remove the coat."

Just as carefully, he followed the order, tossing it to his left side. Dressed in his regular t-shirt and jeans, Eric spun about, the hated smile never leaving his face. When one of the Boiis moved toward him, Alyce raised her hand to stop the man.

"Don’t approach him, he summons weapons from somewhere. It’s a trap."

"Ahh, Amelia, my dear, how can you betray your husband so. Ruining my cowardly plan to force your stern friends to kill me; death by cop, if you will. Though it’s your right, you did win, and despite my many horrific faults, I am a good sport."

"Bully for you."

Eric laughed and said, "Your treasured sarcasm is just one of the things that made you my favourite. So what's the plan? We just going to stand around all night looking at each other like idiots? If so, I should warn you, you won’t out idiot me tonight."

"Is he always this glib?" Nic asked.

"He likes to hear himself talk. Though this version of him is better than ever-so-casual, I'm-gonna-kill-you-Eric," she said, then gestured for Nic to bend over, so she could whisper a question. "What are we gonna do with him?"

"We're waiting on Brennus and his bunch, along with the leader of the Samodiva's team. They’d been preparing to set a trap to...umm..." Nic's paused and actually blushed.

"To try and catch my murderer when he dumped my corpse."

"Yes. They should be here soon."

So they stood still for nearly ten minutes and if none of them looked like idiots, neither did anybody speak. All felt relief when the hatch cycled opened and eleven people, all in winter parkas, stepped through. Five of them she recognized, when they lowered their hoods, but outside of a quick smile from Tess, none of Ilina, Brennus, Ash, or Brice spared her more than a moment's glance. Eric held their attention.

He liked that.

"Well are we all here? Or do we need to wait for someone else? If not, let me introduce myself. I’m Eric, the bad guy, who are you?"

“Nic, why is he still free?” Brennus asked, staring at Eric like someone watching a particularly hideous bug.

“Heather said he could summon weapons from the air. I didn’t want to chance it until you showed and gave us permission to shoot him where he stands?”

Ilina said, “No we want to ask him some questions.”

“I assume you’re with the Divas? Shouldn’t it be the Cabots who decide my fate, since one of theirs defeated me. I’ll tell everything to Amelia, or should I say Kenneth, but I won’t speak to anyone but her. Not even if you sink to my level. You’d really be better off killing me right now.”

“You don’t get to bargain for your life, murderer.”

“Harsh truth, from one so beautiful, yet you don’t understand. I don’t bargain for my life, I know that’s gone, I’m bargaining for my death. My offer, for up to four hours, I’ll answer any question asked by Miss Cabot, I know her too intimately to think of her as a Kenneth. You can even prompt her, but in return, at the end of those four hours, one of you will fight me. If I win, which we know is unlikely, you give me a day’s head start, if I lose, well you will be smarter than you are now.”

Unbothered by his attempt to embarrass her, of course she slept with him, this bunch prepared her to do so if needed, Alyce found herself wanting to go along with his plan. Maybe a bit of Stockholm Syndrome, but others reason existed. First, she knew he deserved to die, no doubt existed as to his guilt, and she expect to feel no remorse when it happened. The same would not be true if they sank to his level, which may be the case if they handed him to the Divas. She liked Ilina and Tess, but suspected their organization held some true nasties who would put him to the question.

They would want to learn about his accomplices, would not believe he did not need any, but she believed. In fact Alyce suspected she knew when he told the truth better than anyone, which offered another reason. If she heard his answers, she could distinguish the truth from lies. At the same time, maybe protect his friends, the solitaries, from persecution.

But most importantly, she wanted to stop being afraid. If they took him away, locked him up, she would always wonder, worry he might escape and come after her. And newfound power Alyce could not control, did not offer much comfort.

“Ilina, let’s take the offer,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“I just want it finished.”

Ilina did not allow this argument as much power over her decision making as had Nic, but she could not deny her own desire to end it. Only the expectations of her order argued against that approach and those faded when Brice reiterated his viewpoint.

“Better to end it now. Besides, Heather’s earned the right to decide for us all.”

An anticlimactic end, but soothing to Alyce's frazzled nerves. In fact, towards the forty five mark, she left the questioning to the others, Eric warming to a larger audience with whom he could share his brilliance.

Compulsively he searched for victims, the appetizer in his meal of terror. He explained how he always ran an appearance recognition spell, targeted at smaller town newspapers, where pictures of pretty girls, active in their community, provided a staple in space utilization. How he maintained records on hundreds at a time, weeding the list down by any number of arbitrary reasons. Though he never settled on a target until he assured her extraction. Flitting between university town and university town, trying to get a temporary moving or delivery job, so he could magic a door into as many mattresses as possible.

All him, he proudly bragged. Why trust others with your darkest secrets when you did not need their help.

When he started in on his wealth, how he played the stock market, the ways he harvested during war, Alyce could no longer take it. She hobbled back into the bunker, Brennus and Tess keeping her company, not demanding anything from her, silently keeping her company, providing the warmth of humanity and friendship she'd long missed.

At one point, Ash came inside to get a drink, a sword now belted at his wait. Understanding of people, rather than telepathy prompted him to answer unasked questions. "No, Brennus, this is for me to do, it is why you made me your champion. Be happy getting the girl. Don't worry, Heather."

She said, "He's good. He has a forest full of constructs on which he practices."

"I practice with my brothers, living and thinking men born to fight, hardened in battle uncounted. Any of them could slap this mite in oblivion, but it’s my job. I won the right by being our best."

At the right time he left the bunker, replaced by Ilina, who did not want to watch. Soon after Brice appeared and said, "They're tossing him off the ledge."

"It's over, Heather." Brennus said, pulling her tighter to his side with the arm wrapped around her shoulders."

"Could you all call me Alyce?"

As they drove through the streets, Alyce looked for things she remembered. But in thirty years, much can change, not least yourself. Yet the school, the store, the park, all looking older, provided a needed anchor to the past.

Nervous, she pulled down the sun visor to check herself in the mirror.

"Don't worry, Alyce, you look great," Brennus said from the driver seat.

Not taking his word, duty demanded him to say that, she adjusted a few strands of hair, before deciding he spoke the truth. Five months of relaxation, after her ordeal, cleansed most of the horror from her eyes. During that time she became a sun worshiper, loving its warmth and the sound of happy people at a beach. She’d laid about all across the Southern Hemisphere, from Sydney, where the bikinis were small, too Ipanema, where they were smaller.

"So much so she will likely join the long line of those who see me as a cradle robber."

"You are two millennia older than I am, and that's after rounding down. Besides people on that list probably think I am a gold digger."

"Good thing you're rich. I don't have to worry about you taking advantage of me while I'm taking advantage of you."

Something she owed to her unlamented, fake husband. The pretend marriage proved real enough that, with the help of her family and the Divas, along with the embarrassment of the solitaires who knew Eric, she inherited most of the wealth he bragged about in the end. Stocks, property, even her very own world. As long as she stayed away from Hambley Manor and Hambley Woods, the world provided an escape when she needed quiet. And without access to Beck, she doubted she would keep the long hair she vainly enjoyed.

But other than that contact, particularly after she rebuffed a Diva request to change her appearance so people did not confuse her with Heather, Alyce did not have any official contact with either group.

Tess and Ilina, particularly the former, remained good friends, but they did not talk business. While the Cabots, happy with her safety, pleased with her role in earning a favour from the Divas, and worried about her new powers, something those in the know realized when they heard her new name, returned to mostly ignoring her. All except her father, who instantly understood a benefit to her change.

So he recruited Brennus to help her create a new identity. Brennus readily agreed. He liked her very much, knew she sometimes still needed to feel protected, enjoyed how they could silently share companionship, welcomed her independence that allowed them to part for days or weeks without judgment, and hoped that if she one day reversed the Cabot curse, as she planned, she could also reverse that cast by Pythia.

The two men's plan lead to Brennus joining Angus's "company". Which resulted in her wearing another wedding gown, sporting an enormous rock on her finger, and adding adding Prausi after Alyce on her id. The next phase brought them to a street and in front of a house at which she stared. Not until her door opened, Brennus there to help her from her seat in their Escalade did she blink.

"Don't be nervous, Alyce."

"I wish I could let her know who I really am. Though I doubt she could believe it. Do think she will like me?"

"From what you and Angus say, I expect your mother will love you. He says you won't be the first wife, whose husband travels so much due to the business, who she wants to mother."

"I wish I could call her that for real."