Letter I August 2010 To Briggs and Mac, If these letters have found you, it means that I have been gone for five years. It also means that the time has come to clarify my life and career, which, as you are aware, I guarded passionately. I apologize for this secrecy. For reasons explained herein, however, I hope you can understand my reasoning. I hope you find some amount of interest in the life your grandmother and I pursued. Please keep these stories safe and within our family. Your grandfather, M.H. In 1975, I began working as a private investigator. Growing up, see, I was enamored with the daring adventures of Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and the relaxed, yet pinpoint astuteness of Stout’s Nero Wolfe. I recognized early on in my career that my work would be incomparable to the heroic and oftentimes otherworldly feats found in a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel, but I was able to provide real assistance to people at times, and that was all I ever aimed to do. In the small city of Henton, where I lived, my early investigative work typically involved exposing small-scale insurance and tax fraud, discovering the whereabouts of missing persons on behalf of their families, and, on occasion, the menial task of uncovering the lies of unfaithful spouses. By the mid-1980s, I had established myself as a competent and reliable private investigator in the underground scene. Unlike many investigators I knew or heard of, however, I had little hubris in my work. I often turned my findings over to local and state police, with which they would locate a perpetrator or a missing person and proudly take the credit. This system worked well for me. The individuals and families who contracted me were aware of the facts I uncovered and would pay me accordingly, allowing me to stay relatively free from any limelight. Anonymity was not only a personal preference of mine, but my name and face remaining out of the newspapers gave me a considerable advantage in my reconnaissance. Media attention seemed, to me, antithetical to private investigating, and I never understood why so many of my colleagues were overtly focused on it, oftentimes more so than solving cases. The anonymity I desperately worked to maintain, however, was tested for the first time in April 1987. I was sitting in a diner early one morning, drinking coffee and reviewing notes from a case I was working on when a man I had never met quietly slipped into the booth seat across from me. “Mr. Leslie,” the man said gently. I looked up and removed my reading glasses. “Can I help you?” I asked. “I hope so,” he said. “If anyone can, then it is you.” I gathered my papers in a stack and sat my pencil down on top of them. “Well,” I said pointedly, “I am quite busy at the moment. Perhaps you can leave a message with me or your phone number?” “I know you are a busy man, Mr. Leslie,” he said, “but there is a situation, and I know of no one else who can help resolve it.” I remained quiet, studying the man. “I work hard to ensure that my activities remain out of street gossip,” I said. “I’m not sure who recommended me for your situation, but I am just a journalist, not a first responder.” When outside eyes and ears began to pry into my work, I often simplified my job to the role of journalist; this helped keep unwanted inquiries away. “Lee Ivers told me to find you,” he said. The hair on my arms raised at hearing the name, but I remained calm. “Lee Ivers,” I said flatly, concealing the fact that my interest had been piqued. “And how do you know Mr. Ivers?” “My father used to work with him, and they were good friends,” he said. “Unfortunately, as you know, Lee passed a while ago, but before he died, I discussed with him my situation, and he referred me to you. I was hesitant to find you, but I don’t know what else to do.” “I see,” I said. I leaned back in my booth, crossed my legs, and sipped my coffee. I studied the man a moment longer, then moved my stack of papers to one side of the table and rested my arms on the open space before me. “Empty your pockets,” I said to the man. He hesitantly took out his wallet, keys, and pocket knife and sat them on the table. “And your gun?” I asked. “No gun,” he said. I looked at the man blankly. “Very well,” I said. “I’m sorry I could not help you.” “It’s in my pants,” he quickly said. “No more lies,” I said intently. He nodded. “Now, tell me about your situation.” He looked down at the table. “It’s my sister,” he said. “Go on.” “She married a man–a bad man.” I waited, allowing my impatience to become visible. “Mario,” he said. “He beats her up every day.” “Go to the police,” I told him. He looked at me in disbelief, as if I was the one personally abusing his sister. “Look, I’m not law enforcement,” I said, “and I’m not a hitman. I’m an investigator. I use evidence and clues to answer questions. I’m not some servant of justice. You claim to know of me, and of Lee Ivers, so I presume you know this.” He looked at me desperately. “He is the police,” he said. I paused. “I don’t follow,” I said unamused. “He is a police officer over in Rock Falls,” he said. “A powerful one.” “Not always the most pacifistic bunch,” I said. I paused momentarily. “I haven’t caught your name, by the way, sir,” I said. “Jordan–Jordan Caruso,” he said. “Well, Mr. Caruso,” I said, “as I mentioned upon your arrival, I am working on a few important things at the moment, and I—”

“I wouldn’t have come to you unless I was desperate,” he interjected. “It’s not the violence. He’s making her do all kinds of stuff–stuff she doesn’t want to do.” I raised my eyebrows to him and waited, silently insisting that he get to his point. “He’s running an entire drug and weapons operation from their home. He makes her package drugs–dangerous drugs–and store weapons in her closet. And when she doesn’t do what he says, he beats her.” As the man spoke, I jotted notes on my yellow legal pad, but soon his emotions consumed him and forced him to stop. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “She’s scared. And I’m scared for her.” “Very good,” I said plainly, and I slid my notepad over to him. “Please write your phone number here,” and he did. “I’ll be in touch,” I said. “So you will help?” he asked hopefully. “Perhaps,” I said as I began to re-organize my papers around the table. “I am quite busy, as you can imagine. There is no shortage of crime and no shortage of worried family members requesting my assistance.” I continued to organize my papers and write notes while the man remained seated. Finally, I looked up at him and nodded politely, indicating that our meeting had concluded. He collected his things, stood up slowly, and left the cafe. As the door closed behind him, I hurriedly gathered my papers, stuffed them inside my briefcase, and finished the remainder of my coffee. I slowly approached the door and watched as the man walked briskly down the sidewalk. Lee Ivers dead? I thought to myself as I watched the man. I had spent the better part of the last decade hunting people, and I suddenly felt–for the first time but not the last–that forces were conspiring to hunt me . I carefully followed the man as he paced down the sidewalk. When he reached a car parked on the street, he looked around cautiously and entered its passenger side before the car quickly sped away. A week passed before I called the number that the man had left on my legal pad. A woman answered. “Good morning,” I said. “I was hoping to speak with Mr. Caruso.” “I’m not sure if anyone is home at the moment,” she said. “Do you mean Jordan or Mario Caruso?” “Busy men, I assume,” I said. “I’m looking for Jordan. We spoke a few days ago and I was hoping to speak with him again about something important. Would you mind leaving a message for him?” “Of course,” she said. “Friday, April 17,” I said. “9 a.m. I will be at the cafe.” She began to speak, but I hung up before she could get a question out. I immediately phoned my wife, Logan. She ran a florist shop in town by day, but she spent considerable time and effort assisting me with my cases, and without her, very few of them would have ever been finished. Whatever Watson was to Holmes, or Goodwin to Wolfe, she was that and more. While I possessed a keen ability to read people and situations, Logan Leslie–who used her maiden name, Logan Moore, for the sake of precious anonymity–was as stealthy as a fox and as witty as a coyote. “Moore Flowers,” she answered. “Friday morning,” I said. “9 o’clock.” “Where?” she asked. “Cafe. Black car,” I said. She remained quiet. We kept things intentionally short at all times, but she could sense there was something more. “Our guy might be back,” I said finally. “ The guy?” she asked cautiously. “The same,” I said. “Tread lightly,” and then I hung up. On the morning of April 17, I sat in the booth at the cafe, drinking coffee and scribbling notes, as I waited for the man to arrive for our meeting. At 10 o'clock, he entered the cafe and slipped into my booth once again. “Good morning, Mr. Leslie,” he said politely. “I considered our conversation from last week,” I said. He was shocked by the abruptness but looked delighted when he registered what I had said. “Normally, I wouldn’t get involved with such a case,” I said. “I do not know of you, for starters, and I don’t do business with folks I do not know. Secondly, police department scandals are particularly delicate circumstances.” He nodded. “The juice is often not worth the squeeze, as you might imagine,” I said. “Moreover, I prefer to maintain good relations with the enforcers of the law, even when they do not thoroughly enforce it upon themselves.” He nodded again. “However, you tell me that Mr. Lee Ivers referred you to me,” I said. “He did.” “I guess you are aware, then, that Mr. Ivers and I worked together several years ago.” “I do. He had many great things to say about you and your work.” “You claim that Mr. Ivers has died, yet I do not recall hearing of his passing.” Disappointment overcame the man’s face. “You didn’t know that he passed?” he said softly. “I did not,” I said, “which surprises me, as it is my job to stay abreast of such news.” “I’m so sorry you did not know, Mr. Leslie,” he said. “Unfortunate,” I said. “He was an excellent businessman.” “He was,” the man said. “He taught me a lot.” As we silently reflected on Lee’s passing, the waitress stopped at our table. She was holding a coffee pot and carefully refilled my cup. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked the man. “No, thank you,” he said. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said as I admired her outfit. “One sugar, correct?” she asked me as she laid down a single sugar packet on the table. “Right,” I said. She smiled and nodded her head before continuing down the aisle. “So, Mr. Caruso,” I said, “would you mind filling me in on what you have in mind concerning your brother-in-law’s enterprise? It seems that you have all the information you need to uncover his unlawful activity. Why do you need me?” “Well,” he said, “Lee told me about your connections to law enforcement. I was hoping that you could compile some information on what he is doing and report it properly–somewhere higher than the local police–that way it can be handled legally. “I see.” “My sister told me about a warehouse where everything is stored–drugs, money, guns–everything.” “There doesn’t seem to be much need for an investigation then,” I said dismissively, “which is, of course, my job. You know where everything is–go burn it down. Or, better yet, take your sister and leave town.” He looked down at the table again. “I’m scared,” he said. “I’m scared my sister will get hurt if anything happens. I know he can find us.” Again, I slid my yellow legal pad over to him. “Write down the address,” I said. He did, and he slid the notepad back over to me. “Mario is going out of town on Tuesday morning,” he said. “I can drive you there Tuesday night and you can see the operation.” “I’ll meet you there,” I said. “10 p.m.” “Thank you, Mr. Leslie,” he said, “thank you so much.” I was already reading over my papers and making notes as he said this, and this time he understood that our meeting had concluded. He stood up and left the cafe. As he exited, I looked over at the waitress, who was removing her apron and letting her hair down. When I arrived at the address the man gave me, I found an old warehouse, with a black car parked on the side of it. I entered cautiously and was greeted by Mr. Caruso, who was sitting in a chair next to a woman holding a large package. “Mr. Leslie,” he said pleasantly, “thank you for coming.” “Considering the circumstance you claim to find yourself in, you do not appear to be a man who is nervous,” I said. “Why should I be nervous?” he asked. “Occupying a dangerous man’s domain,” I said, “does not strike me as a calming task, especially when it risks your sister’s health.” “This?” he asked as he put his hand on the woman’s thigh. “This is not my sister, Mr. Leslie. This is my partner, Marta.” “Shocking turn of events,” I said lamely. “And I assume,” he said dramatically, “that you know who this is?” Lee Ivers stepped out from behind a metal beam. “Surprise,” he said. “Not really,” I said. “A relatively lame attempt at one, rather.” He laughed grossly. “And what now,” I asked directly. “Straight to business, huh?” Lee said, smiling. “You know, I’m surprised we got you here so easily.” “I got myself here, Lee. Don’t flatter yourself.” “Well,” he said, “in any case, a rather simple ultimatum is what we propose to you.” “I never particularly fancied ultimatums,” I said. “Well, Mick,” he said, “we can certainly make your decision for you if you prefer it that way.” “Whatever options you think you have for me,” I said, “I can assure you that I have more.” “Perhaps,” Lee said, “we just kill you then, and leave you none?” I chuckled. “If it were that easy,” I said, “I suspect it would have been done a long time ago. We both know that people have tried before. I believe you were even one of those people at one time. Peculiar, isn’t it?” Lee Ivers took a couple of slow steps toward me, and Jordan Caruso slowly stood up from his chair. “I believe I was,” he said as he approached me. “And I have waited to see you again for a long, long time.” “I’m sorry for your mistake,” I said. Lee laughed quietly to himself and reached a hand behind his back. Before it retrieved its intended item, a loud shot rang out, and Lee collapsed to the ground. Jordan Caruso reached for his weapon, but I had my pistol trained on him before he could retrieve it. “Relax,” I said calmly. “Throw the gun on the ground and put your hands in the air. Slowly.” He dropped his gun and raised his hands as he looked down at Lee Ivers’ body in shock. “How’d you do that?” he said. “Why should I not kill you,” I asked him. “It wasn’t my idea,” he said shakily. “Ah,” I said, “just following orders.” He remained silent. “I will leave you to clean this up, should you wish to,” I said. “And I assure you that I will find you again the instant I hear of any arms or drugs being distributed from your facility here. I suggest that you dissolve this operation or move it far away from here.” I released the hammer of my pistol, tucked it back into my pants, and took a few steps backward. As I turned for the door, I saw from the corner of my eye that he was reaching for his weapon on the ground but before he could retrieve it, another shot rang out and the woman screamed. As I got into my truck, Logan was already waiting inside for me. “Thank you,” I said to her as we pulled away. She looked over at me. “If anyone gets to kill you, it will be me,” she said, smiling. “Hopefully it doesn’t come that,” I said, “but I’d be honored.” In a world where anonymity is paramount, see, there is little room for enemies–particularly for ones who desperately seek the unnecessary evil of revenge. My philosophy, however–and that of your grandmother, too–is not to locate enemies and eliminate them. There is certainly no shortage of men who would consider me an enemy, and most of them live peaceful lives remaining far away from me. It is those who rear their nasty heads at us, rather than remain in the shadows, that meet fates such as these. As for the story of Lee Ivers and how I came to know him, that is for another time. M.H. Leslie


In the fourteenth year of the Age of Flight, Duke Safri brought the Air Knights from hiding and descended upon Hurricane Bay. His brother, Duke Badri, after killing his father and routing his brother’s army in the Battle of the Bay, had been ruling the region for the past decade . Safri had retreated in the mountains after the battle with the small contingent of knights that had survived, among them the famous Swallow Knight and the ruthless Falcon Knight. With their help, Safri began raising a new army, and his Order of Air found many followers amongst it. The Second Battle of the Bay played out differently than its prequel. Badri’s rule had been one full of blood and anguish, and the people of the region grew resentful. On the day of the battle, Badri found himself surrounded; Safri on one side and a peasant uprising on the other; Badri’s blood was spilled soon after, and his army routed. In the fourteenth year of the Age of Flight, Duke Safri finally took the reins of power, only to find himself with a problem he had never seen coming: a bored army with a thirst for battle. Badri’s defeat had been so thorough and swift that by the end of the day, the core of Safri’s army remained mostly intact while overall growing in number through the peasants who had found a new calling. A regular army needs food, shelter and pay while a bored army needs an occupation, desperately. In the ten years of his exile, Safri had gathered all the outcasts he could find, fueling their hopes and dreams with riches both high and low. If he didn’t come up with a solution soon, he faced the problem of going down into history as the man who had dethroned himself. But ten years is a long time and the Bay area he had left behind upon his brother’s coup no longer existed; bandits had taken up entire towns as their outposts, declaring themselves as Barons and the Gaety had been raiding the northern villages more each year. Safri would not have gone through ten years of hardship just to trade the newly gained velvets and feather beds for several more years of saddle sours and cold meals. He could not sit idly either, as he had an entire city of tents at his gates, and as the cunning man that he was, he devised a plan. He gave a small contingent of men to all of his knights, giving them the opportunity to carve up a future for themselves, either through riches or through glory, depending on his men’s dispositions. And so they did. What followed next was the goriest decade the region had ever known. While Safri lavished in his ancestral home, bringing upon Hurricane Bay a time of peace and prosperity, all around, chaos and bloodshed ensued as the knights who sought earthly riches fought the bandits and self-imposed warlords only to be faced by those knights that believed righteousness, chastity and valor should be their only need. Amidst this chaos, one of the Air Knights turned out to be more successful than the rest: Tix, the Roc Knight. Brought up within the order from an early age, he had been with Safri and the Air Knights ever since he was ten. Just before the Second Battle of the Bay, he had been knighted as the Roc because of his stubbornness and heavy set. Unlike many other knights, he did not set out in the Culling to gratify his name, but took to the trails with no specific quest in mind. He was content to wonder about the countryside and test the mettle of any who dared get on the wrong side of his oath. Day after day, month after month, year after year, Tix endured, through countless battles and perilous encounters, his will unbent, his fortitude undone, his prowess unequaled. A decade after his knighting, Tix would strike fear into the hearts of brutal men by mention of his presence alone. And so it was that one night found Tix alone in the Border Forest to the north, near the village of Danf. Rumours of the Gaety raiding parties had brought the Knight to this forest, and so far those rumours had proven true. The moon was shinning brightly in the night sky and a small breeze was swaying the leaves of the elm trees hypnotically. Tix had just finished roasting a rabbit over the fire and was enjoying a well-deserved dinner. The hardships of the road had taught him to appreciate every little gift he had, be it some sage to spruce up a meal or another life to chase the loneliness away. The rabbit had been a wonderful sight that day, not only would it chase away the hunger of the past few days, as game had become sparse due to the constant raids, but the pelt might also bring him some extra coin up in Danf. This would mean a soft bead and a roof over his head. Freedom of the road had its benefits, but freedom from hunger and cold would coerce any man in the long run. The meat was gamy and rich, and with the right seasoning it would surely lift Tix’s spirits tonight. He had just started on a back leg when a scream pierced the air. Tix dropped the meat and went for his sword. The long journey through the years had taught him there was little difference between being prepared and being lucky. He had replaced his plate mail with studded leather and chain-mail over the years, keeping plate only for protection over the chest, elbows and knees. This meant that, when sleeping in the open, he would not need to take it off and be ready at a moment’s notice. He lifted his helmet to his head and doused the fire while vigilantly watching the bushes around, his buckler at the ready. Tix stepped gingerly towards the direction of the scream. At his back, the remains of the fire sizzled, annoyed by the sudden interruption. His stomach replied in agreement. Soft grass crushed fleetingly underfoot as the sword caught the moon’s tint. Tix shifted his hand so the reflection would not give away his approach. The scream had no follow-up, but as he moved closer, he heard a swift exchange followed by a series of grunts. As he rounded a large elm, he could see see the source of the noise as a man was forcing himself upon a collapsed girl, another was keeping watch and looking rather irritated. They did not look like Gaety raiders, their clothes were richer and the way they carried themselves made them out to be ex-soldiers, traitors. Tix sheathed his sword and hung it on a stump. He pulled out his knife and moved in closer. The girl no longer seemed to be conscious, but the man on top of her did not seem to mind it one bit. ‘Hurry up, Vax!’ said the man keeping watch. No reply came. Tix let the blade of his knife touch the guard’s throat gently and sidestepped swiftly in front of him, giving the blade the chance to sing its song. The look of surprise on the guard’s face endured as his light faded. He made no sound as he fell in the Knight’s embrace, lowering him to the forest floor. The second soldier paid no mind to the interruption and carried on diligently. Tix closed in quietly and slipped his knife between the assailant’s ribs and twisted. The soldier gave out a yelp and dropped to the side. The girl was no longer breathing, terror forever engraved on her beautiful face. Tix let out a mixed sigh and closed her eyes. She was barefoot and had not been running long. They came from Danf. After retrieving his sword, he took one of the soldier’s crossbow and slowly made his way to the village’s outskirts. Not long after, the stars faded out behind a curtain of smoke, and the wind brought forth a steady stream of soot. The light of the fires both hindered and helped his advance, adding to the pressure that the foreboding silence brough forth. He knocked an arrow, and another soldier fell while relieving himself in the bushes. The smell of piss and blood permeated the air, giving the scene a pestilent look. Nothing moved in Danf. Crossbow at the ready, Tix closed in on the scene, a feeling of impending doom dogging his every step. As soon as he rounded the first corner, a grisly sight unfolded as bodies lay strewn everywhere. From shadow to shadow, Tix surprised two more soldiers who were looting one of the houses. He ran one through with his sword and slashed the other as he turned towards the commotion. The village was not large and as a result, he soon came face to face with some of the soldiers. A ruckus ensued as two of the soldiers danced around the Knight stabbing and slashing at him, while a third aimed a bolt to his chest. Tix had learnt that being aware of your surroundings was half the battle, so he feigned a retreat towards one of the collapsed houses and the two overjoyed at the idea of cornering him. As one brought his sword down hard, he caught the blow and flowed with the swing to the right and behind his assailant. The crossbowman, as a result, unknowingly released his bolt at the back of his comrade. A gasp of terror escaped his lips, stunning the second swordsman who had found the battle all but won. In search of safety, he stepped backwords near the smouldering beams of the house and screamed in pain. Tix used this distraction to run him through the chest. The crossbowman’s hands fumbled at the latch, but before he could fit another bolt, Tix sheathed his sword in the man’s throat. In the silence that followed, he could hear hurried steps coming from all around. Tix took cover behind a well just as three more swordsmen joined the scene. These seemed to be more experienced. As one surveyed the site of the massacre, crossbow drawn, the other two stepped lightly, apprehensive of the shadows the raging inferno created all around. Tix waited for the two to pass by and loosed a bolt at the one keeping watch. Turning on his heels, he deflected a blow with his buckler and hit the soldier squarely in the face with the crossbow. Stunned by this move, the soldier stumbled backwards and received the full force of Tix’s heel in his stomach, doubling over as a result. The last swordsman hurried to intercept, slashing frantically at Tix’s face. He parried as best he could with the body of the crossbow, but could not help getting cut on his forearm. His back to the well post, he caught the full force of the soldiers’ animal rictus as he pushed with all his might, driving the blade through the hardened wood and closer to the Knight’s face. Suddenly, his face went limp and he spit out blood as Tix drove his knife under the rib cage and twisted. Keeling over, Tix sidestepped, pulling the dagger back, and the body fell over the side into the well. Silence followed. To the left, the last soldier was retching blood and bile through a now toothless grin. When he saw Tix approach and pick up his sword, he stiffened and began pleading. ‘Mercy! Have mercy, man!’ he yelled. Tix shifted his grip on the sword and brought it down forcefully with both hands into the man’s guts, impaling him. He twisted until he saw the man’s light fade from his eyes. There was nobody else coming. He wiped the blood from his sword and dagger and walked towards the village center. As he turned around to take in the event’s gravity; he saw a shadow move at the corner of his eye. Instinct drove his body forward, tripping him on one of dead villagers. Fumbling, he brought his sword up and caught the shadow’s strike. The impact rattled his teeth; a second later and the parry would have been swept aside, burying the blade deep into his left shoulder. The shadow knew he had an advantage as Tix was kneeling when he had parried and pressed on, driving the edge closer still. The flames were playing all around them, enriching Tix’s scowl. ‘Roc?!’ the shadow asked, loosening its grip. Tix took advantage of this and pulled his blade upwards, using the momentum to get up and step back, his blade at the ready. ‘I can’t believe my eyes, Roc, it’s you!’ the shadow said again, dropping his guard and with a fluid motion pulled his cowl back to reveal a grizzled face. ‘Baldur?!’ Tix asked. ‘Yes, you big oaf, it’s me!’ the Raven Knight replied. Out of nowhere a peasant lunged at Baldur with a scythe from behind one of the buildings, but the scream he had let loose to toughen his resolve had given Baldur enough time to react. As the peasant closed in, he stepped under his guard and slashed upward, leaving a trail of red on the man’s body. ‘Baldur, wait!’ Tix yelled. ‘Idiot, he must have thought we’re with the raiders.’ Baldur said and spit towards the now motionless body. Tix sheathed his sword and approached carefully. ‘Why are you looking at me like that for? You would have had him cut me in half?’ ‘That was unnecessary.’ ‘Unless it’s not a peasant but a raider, in that case it’s justifiable, right Roc?!’ ‘Hmm!’ The Raven Knight had knelt down near the fresh body and began whipping away the man’s own blood on its tattered coat. ‘What are you doing here, last I heard you were still in the marshes, bringing the word of valor to the newly established warlord?’ ‘That was over a year ago.’ ‘Word travels slow in these parts. I take it you’ve heard about the Gaety raids picking up?’ His sword now thoroughly clean, he sheathed it, but not fully, just in case there were more surprises waiting around the corner. ‘Yes. But it looks like we’re too late.’ ‘For them, but not for the next village. Hey, where are you going?’ Tix had turned around and had started walking back the way he had come. ‘Back to my camp. I haven’t eaten in days and this whole conundrum might have cost me my dinner.’ ‘Wait, there’s bound to be something around here, and we don’t even have to get a fire going.’ ‘Hm, fine!’ ‘Come, this way, I saw what looked to be a cellar over here?’ Tix followed reluctantly, thinking about how the jackals must rummage through his belongings as they spoke. ‘I’ve been trailing these bastards for weeks now. I had hoped to catch them before they would reach Danf. They haven’t missed a single village to the north of these woods: Black Creek, Root, Dart. All have been burned and pillaged.’ ‘I heard the same.’ ‘Here, it’s this way!’ pointing towards a shadow on the wall of a house to the north. The door was locked, and Baldur decided to kick it in. As soon as it hit the inner wall of the cellar, a shriek pierced their ears, and a woman rushed out. The light of the moon glinted in her hands for a second as the teeth of a pitchfork caught the Raven in the gut. He raised his hand towards her, hatred and surprise etched on his face. Her deed clearly shook the terrified woman as much as it did the two Knights. Regaining his composure, Tix sent her flying with the back of his hand and turned towards Baldur. The knight had doubled over in his attempt to remove the makeshift weapon and had frozen in place, blood flowing freely from his wound. Tix had knocked the woman senseless, so he took her down into the cellar as hunger was gnawing at him still. He would still have to retrieve his belongings from the forest, but for the time being, he needed to make sure she was all right. The cellar turned out to be a disappointment: a sack of potatoes, a couple of dried apples and a jar of milk. He used some of the milk to wake the woman up, hoping to be rid of this place as soon as possible. As she slowly came back to her senses, she lifted her gaze to encounter the knight. Panic took hold of her once more; panic mixed in with a hatred Tix had ever seen before. ‘You animal, no, don’t!’ ‘Stop raving, woman!’ ‘Animals! Bastards! You’ll not touch me, filthy savage!’ looking around for something to use as a weapon. ‘Shut up! You’re safe!’ ‘From whom, from you?!’ she screamed. ‘From those that burned your village.’ ‘Are you mad?! What sort of lunatic are you? You and your animals put our village to the torch and tell me I’m safe, now’ This comment took Tix aback, and he measure the woman closely. She made no sense. As sunrise hit the Border Forest, the rising smoke had gone from black to gray, signaling the scavengers in the area to the events that had transpired the night before. Down in the cellar, blood was still dripping down from a gash in the woman’s throat. A gentle smile lay splayed on her face, as she had met the Knight’s rough hands with a quiet sense of relief. In a world that was about to go about its day unscathed, a lonely knight picked up his scattered belongings from among the trees, sighing. Sometimes, he thought, madness was a danger far greater than any lack of character.


Cheryl dropped her mobile on the sofa then plopped down after it, exhausted from another hectic day in what seemed an exceedingly long week. “T.G.I.F,” she sighed, glancing at the fluffy doughnut bed next to her crammed bookcase as if Nabisco would be curled up there signifying his total agreement with one look from under those floppy ears. Her throat caught at how much she missed the little mongrel. His presence in her life had outlasted all her relationships. In fact, if she had paid heed to the times that Nabisco didn’t warm to a few of them, she would have saved herself both time and trouble. The emptiness of her cosy but stylish apartment pressed in on her. That she hadn’t lived here very long didn’t help. Smothering under the weight, she considered going out for a walk, get some fresh air, but this seemed pointless without Nabisco to investigate the still fairly new neighbourhood of Old Town alongside her. That tub of Rocky Road ice cream which had leaped into her shopping cart the other day was calling her, despite how well she had hidden it in the bottom freezer drawer where she wouldn’t accidentally come across and be tempted. Really, she should save it for a special occasion when she invited a friend over. But she hadn’t felt ready to invite anyone into her space yet. Cheryl patted her slender abdomen, knowing temptation could easily become a slippery slope. Although she and her sister weren’t twins, they must share some of the same genes. Always easier for both of them to put on pounds rather than shed them. She needed to be like Odysseus ignoring the seductive calls of the gorgeous winged Sirens on their rocky island. Then she recalled his followers had tied him to the mast so he wasn’t really that strong-willed, especially as they all stuffed wax in their ears so they wouldn’t hear his orders to change course for the jagged rocks festooned with human bones from previous victims of the alluring harpies. What a grisly imagination she had, but then it was a Friday when everything that had been restrained and contained and ignored all week came raging into expression. Let It All Hang Out. That was what Luigi, her most recent significant other, used to tempt her to enjoy every Friday night. Their wild times thrilled her for a while but paying for their excesses on Saturday morning with the worst hangovers and watching her carefully managed budget implode as well began the slow unravelling of their liaison. Luigi didn’t appreciate her suggestion that they limit their Friday splurge to once a month, so eventually they parted ways. She missed how funny he was and the intensity of making love, but actually, not much else. Still staring at the fluffy doughnut bed, she reflected that she missed Nabisco more than Luigi. A dog accepted you exactly as you were, perfectly happy with whatever you decided to do as long as that included loads of cuddles, as many walks as possible, and the essential combination of treats, toys and their preferred brand of dog food. She learned quite early on that variety was not something Nabisco welcomed in his bowl, so that necessitated a trip to go and buy the proper stuff. The other tins of the brand she bought because it was on sale ended up being donated to the shelter where she found him. Prior to that, she assumed a dog would eat anything if hungry while fussiness was the prerogative of cats. Her mobile emitted an unfamiliar sound like a subdued doorbell. She had assigned a specific ring tone to each of her friends and a shared one for family so that she always knew who was calling. Cheryl picked up the phone, admired the sweet photo of Nabisco, then navigated to the message screen where Unknown Number was listed at the top. She right clicked. Her fingertip hovered over Delete. This was probably someone telling Mom that he had lost his mobile and could she please send $100 right away to a bogus account or some other scam. But it was Friday. She had no plans and no commitments. She could indulge her curiosity. Meet me at The Usual Place in half an hour. She blinked. Only a week ago, she ventured to have a drink at that bar for the very first time. This was only to satisfy a work colleague who kept warning her that she must get herself out there if she didn’t want to end up as a frustrated spinster. Enjoyable enough despite being on her own, but she soon walked back home and lost herself in Netflix. She shoved the message to one side and pushed the menu down to find Delete again. The mobile repeated the subdued doorbell sound. Clock is ticking, Cheryl. I need to see you. She felt the back of her neck prickle at the use of her name. This sounded like the beginning of one of those edge-of-your-seat novels that her sister enjoyed. Cheryl preferred Chic Lit, especially with a generous helping of laughs and the requisite happy ending. Another muted ding dong from the mobile. Trust me. Staring at the two words, Cheryl shook her head and began to jab the smudged screen to reply: WTF. LOL. No way Jose or whoever you are. She set the mobile down again, imagining how delicious the Rocky Road ice cream would be, melting on her tongue. It wasn’t like drinking alone or snorting Smurf or whatever the addictive white powder was called this year. Ding dong. Cheryl grabbed the mobile with a frown. After this, she would restrict the device to only receiving calls from those few people she always wanted to be available for, mostly family except for one dear friend who sometimes teetered on the brink of despair. Ginger ale has less calories than Rocky Road. A full body shiver went through her. Whoever this was, they knew her preference for ginger ale when she went out which was fair enough, but it creeped her out that they knew her favourite ice cream was Rocky Road and maybe that she had some stashed in her freezer right now. She looked around as if a hidden camera might be filming her reaction. She felt impelled to throw the mobile across the living room but didn’t want to shatter the phone as she was still recovering her financial equilibrium after Luigi. Another subdued ding dong made her wince. She dropped the mobile onto the sofa. Somebody must be pranking her, but who? It didn’t matter who. She was not going to participate. Her mind fastened on the possibility that it could well be her most recent Ex. Maybe Luigi was already drunk and had borrowed a friend’s phone to text her. Perhaps he was trying to lure her to The Usual Place in the hope they could resume where they left off. No way Luigi. Determined to switch the settings to avoid any more texts from Unknown Number, she picked up the mobile. Because it was Friday and she was upset and tired, she automatically clicked into the new message received. Public place. Plenty witnesses. What could go wrong? L O L She tried to convince herself that the stranger was indicating laughter, but each character of the Lol, all in capitals, had a space between. Only one person she knew used L O L that way, not indicating amusement but abbreviating Lots of Love. Someone who teased her out of the habit of signing off a message with any number of Xs. Nowadays, everyone did that, work colleagues, dental receptionists, anyone. She replied quickly. Stevie? The overly active mobile became stubbornly mute. She scrolled back to read through all of the messages, unable to stop herself from imagining them being spoken in Stevie’s voice. Meet me at The Usual Place in half an hour. Clock is ticking, Cheryl. I need to see you. Trust me. Then came her first reply: WTF. LOL. No way Jose or whoever you are. Ginger ale has less calories than Rocky Road. Public place. Plenty witnesses. What could go wrong? L O L Her second reply: Stevie? Cheryl stared at the mobile with tears pricking her eyes. She shook the gadget in her hand as if that would force the next text to arrive. Silence. She checked the connectivity symbol which was at 100%. Text something else, but what? Her finger caressed the L O L before she checked the number to see if it rang any bells. But who remembered anybody’s number these days? She felt lucky she could remember her own when asked. Again, she read over the messages, reminding herself that this could literally be anyone texting her. Highly unlikely that this would turn out to be Stevie. Probably a friend pranking her for some obscure reason or maybe a drunken Luigi playing games. Then, the words came to her. Could we start the half hour clock from now? She put the mobile down carefully as if that mattered and fixed her gaze on the large, framed, sepia photograph of Point Loma Light House that Stevie bought for her because she had liked the iconic image so much at Tierra del Fuego gallery. Not immediately like most people would do, but gone back later for it to surprise her. Ding dong. Okay, just this once, seeing as how it’s you. Cheryl erupted from the sofa, knowing that Nabisco would be barking and jumping and overjoyed to see her so excited if he was still with her. Thirty minutes was not long enough to do everything she would like to do if this was Stevie and not a prank, but she simply must change out of her work clothes. She hated dressing corporate outside of work hours. But what to wear? Opening her built-in closet, she realised how much of a first world problem this was. Probably in some parts of the world, a person wore only one garment until it literally fell to pieces. She stripped off the heels, the nylons, the work-appropriate black dress and the tight underwear. No time for a shower. Again, something many people on the planet didn’t have any need to worry about. She thought of the adverts she sometimes saw on YouTube for Charity: Water. She needed to click through next time and set up a monthly donation, stop procrastinating. And stop scrolling so much, too, that was getting to be a habit when she got home after work. Just a few minutes could easily turn into an hour or more. Rebuilding from the foundations, she chose a matching set of more comfortable underwear, then grabbed an old Save The Whales t-shirt and her favourite blue jeans. Obviously, the t-shirt had seen plenty of wear, but it was a classic that she had worn for many adventures. The jeans had daisies on rainbow vines spiralling up each leg that she embroidered in high school, inspired by her teenage fascination with vintage Flower Power. She felt proud that they still fit. Cheryl blotted her “I Mean Business” red lipstick then applied a rosy shade. Studying her reflection in the mirror made her feel she was preparing to enter a time machine and rocket back into her past. A real smile appeared on her lips as she realised that she must tell Stevie as he would appreciate that idea. How she had enjoyed those stories they sometimes invented together, though they never got written down for reasons that escaped her now. She put on her most comfortable shoes in case they went for a walk around Old Town. She grabbed her capacious denim jacket from a peg by the door and hurried out. Only when she saw the glow of another walker’s mobile did she pat her pockets and realise that her mobile lay abandoned on the sofa. Going back would waste precious time. The clock was ticking. Stevie—possibly—was waiting. Their meeting was arranged, so what did she need her mobile for? As she walked briskly through her neighbourhood, a rider passing on a palomino horse tipped his hat. What a beautiful horse. Could this be a sign? She and Stevie could go riding at the stables near La Jolla this weekend, bring a picnic to enjoy at what they always called the Halfway Point. Hearing the sound of galloping, Cheryl looked over her shoulder to see them coming in her direction at speed. She smiled, thinking maybe the rider had left his mobile phone somewhere like she had. But he didn’t look like he would even know what to do with one. He probably was part of the many historical reenactments that took place in Old Town, perhaps enjoyed keeping in character even when he wasn’t being paid to do so. She kept meaning to find out when they were and go along. She had definitely seen the rider in her neighbourhood before. Nobody could mistake that palomino. She wondered if the horse was stabled nearby. Did he need some kind of permission to keep a horse in his backyard or a license to ride a horse on normal streets? She must google this during her next coffee break at work if she remembered, but Monday seemed very far away. But why google when she could get the information from the horse’s mouth, so to speak? The idea amused her that the horse might talk rather than the rider. She vaguely recalled someone telling her about an old television show, black and white maybe, which had a talking horse. Mister Ed maybe? She had not spoken to the rider yet because he always seemed to be going somewhere. But on a horse, not a bicycle, easier to pause the journey unless galloping. She could admire his horse to start with like she tended to do when she encountered a dog walker since the loss of Nabisco. Cheryl considered breaking into a run but didn’t want to be sweaty or out of breath when she arrived. Soon enough, she was entering the Mercado, the gathering of shops and restaurants which was partly what attracted her to Old Town. She didn’t mind the thronging tourists as they generally weren’t noisy nuisances. Her heart pulsed in her throat as she entered The Usual Place, the hubbub of conversation mostly drowning out jazz music coming from the speakers. As if a spotlight shone on Stevie, she saw him immediately and waved. He nodded in return as she approached, the smile raising the corners of his lips only enough to qualify as a smile, but the welcome obvious in his eyes. Seeing the table was empty, she asked, “Ginger ale?” “Best drink in the house,” he agreed, as always. Cheryl quickly fetched two ginger ales, being pushier at the bar than she normally would be. “You look amazing,” Stevie told her as she sat down opposite. “Really?” she asked because such words from him were never just flattery. “Really.” He gave her an appraising gaze. “You haven’t changed a bit.” “Neither have you,” she replied with a smile because that was so true. They talked, as usual, about everything and nothing. Somehow, resuming from where they left off easily bridged the gap of seven years. The rider on the palomino horse got a mention. Stevie agreed the show had been Mister Ed but didn’t whip out his mobile phone to see if he was correct. She liked knowing that he felt such devices were distractions rather than essential assets and was pleased she had left hers at home. Their conversation deepened as they discussed the life and times and sad demise of Nabisco, the mongrel she adopted before they first met. When her glass was empty, Stevie offered, “Be my guest.” He gestured at his own which seemed barely touched. “Thanks,” she said, moving the full glass to her side of the table, glad to not have to leave him for even a minute. Because the desire kept rising to mind, she finally told him, “No pressure, but you can come see my new place if you like.” Stevie nodded but made no comment. “Anytime,” she added awkwardly, “doesn’t have to be tonight.” “That would be good,” he replied. “Cheryl,” boomed a too familiar voice from behind her, “cara mia, what brings a nice girl like you to a dump like this?” Two hands caressed her shoulders. Luigi had always been a touchy-feely kind of guy. She gave Stevie an apologetic grimace before glancing at her Ex and saying, “I’m busy, Lu, we’ll catch up another time.” His laughter grated before he invaded her space to give her a peck on the cheek. No alcohol on his breath yet, at least. Luigi walked around the little table to claim the now empty seat opposite her as if it was his by right. “Is it true, bella? Do you live in Old Town now? There’s certainly no accounting for tastes.” Occupying the space where Stevie belonged made Luigi so lack-lustre that she struggled to think of why she had committed herself to the bigger, brasher man beyond their first date. Cheryl’s eyes flicked around The Usual Place. How had Stevie disappeared so quickly? He must have needed the restroom. She sipped the second glass of ginger ale, wishing it was something stronger as she tried to think how to get rid of her Ex before Stevie returned. Registering Luigi’s question belatedly, she resolved that she was not going to tell him where in Old Town as she answered, “I do.”


I remember the first day I saw him. It wasn’t his good looks. Sure, he was ruggedly handsome, messy hair and perfect stubble, but that wasn’t it. It was his smile.

When he smiled his eyes disappeared and he was all teeth and chin and cheekbones. Then he’d laugh and blink bashfully, and grin like he was just so happy to be in your presence, grateful that you were giving him the time, even though, really, you were the lucky one. He was sitting on the edge of one of the eastside planters, him and a group of co-workers. They were having a post-lunch sit-n-chat before having to return to the drudgeries of the tenth floor. He was holding court, the rest of them laughing along. I didn’t work with any of them. I work in the mailroom on B-1. Even though I pass all their desks every day, I’d be surprised if any of them knew my face, let alone my name. Except for him. He knew my face… and my name. He’d say it every time we met with a warm patient smile. I barely said word-one to him for almost two years, single the whole time of course. He’d say hello and I’d giggle or just smile, and then one day he asked me how I was doing, and I just let it fly. I was funny and smart, and we laughed, and he told me all about himself. As I was leaving, he mentioned that everyone was going out for drinks afterward. I’m not much of a drinker, but it sounded like it might be fun. It’s kind of embarrassing, and maybe even borderline creepy, but I actually went down there, sat at the far end of the bar, and never built up the nerve to go say hi to any of them. Here’s the creepier part; I did that three times. Perfectly psycho.

The third time I went down there he actually spotted me as I was paying to leave. He’d had a few and his rosy cheeks made him even cuter. I pretended like I was just getting there. He laughed and said how funny that was because they were all just leaving. I laughed along and agreed. The waitress came with my receipt. He tilted his head as he tried to figure it out, and when he did, he just gave me a knowing nod and pretended not to see. We exchanged smiles and he gave me an adorable wave as he rejoined the group, seamlessly integrating himself into the conversation as they filed out. I couldn’t get him off my mind all weekend and on Monday I told myself that, that was it, and I was going to ask him out. When I went by his desk he wasn’t there. I dropped his mail and commented to Debbie as I handed her her correspondence. “Not here today, huh?” I gave a nod toward his desk. “Eh?” She turned a grimace up to me as she stabbed a pen into her giant red hairdo, scratching her scalp.

I nodded toward his desk again. She followed my line of sight and coughed, “Oh.” She disregarded me with a wave, pulled the pen from her hair, and returned her attention to her ledger. “Out sick.” When he returned on Wednesday, I had lost my nerve. We had lunch the week after that. I don’t know if he would call it our “first date,” but I would. I know everyone thinks of a perfect first date as candles and wine and sultry confessions, but I prefer some comfortable conversation over chips and a club.

We’ve been living together for the better part of the year now, and as far as I’m concerned things are going great. Every relationship has its rocky periods, especially in the beginning. I mean, I’m not perfect, but he’s pretty needy. And he’s not that much of a contributor. Since he moved in I do virtually everything. And the truth is, I don’t mind. First of all, I love to cook and clean, Second, I’m not especially social either. I like our solitary life together, even if I am putting in all the work. I’m not complaining, I just wish he’d put in a little more effort. “Garlic, parmesan…” I rifled through the grocery bag, the bundles of basil batting me in the face with their comforting, fresh and breezy aroma. The smell of sand seawater washing off of your wind kissed skin. The dark anise that waves at you from below the thick oil of black licorice. I kicked the door closed behind me, huffing a breath of relief as I held them up in victory, “Pine nuts.”

I unloaded the rest of the groceries and started getting to work. I was going to make his favorite. Pesto polenta, linguini and clams, and a fresh caprese salad. It’s true, the polenta was actually mostly for me, but he liked it too, and before long the enticing aromas were sure to improve his mood. The pesto came out perfect. I nailed that expert balance of parmesan that binds the oil and basil together. It used to come out too thick but taste perfect. You didn’t want to thin it down with oil and throw the flavors out of balance. So, I always resigned myself to having slightly-too-thick pesto.

One day I had too many tomatoes. And I was looking for any excuse to use a tomato in any recipe and I was staring down at this uncooperative sauce clumping up all over the place, and I thought, Just throw a tomato in there. What do you got to lose? And it was the best thing I had ever tasted. Ever since then I’ve always thrown a fresh tomato into my pesto. Dinner was done, I had cleaned as I cooked, and the kitchen looked great, and everything was all set. I took a deep breath, soothed myself with a humming moan, and ran upstairs to change.

I turned in the mirror and smiled. I looked pretty good. I narrowed my eyes on myself and turned with a smirk and let my belly push out. I scoffed and sucked it back in and stood straight, pulling at the hems of my garment. I shook out the silliness and breathed and smiled at myself. “You love each other, and you’re going to make this work.” I nodded in conclusion, pulled my shoulders back, and marched out of the room. I fumbled with the keys. I was nervous. Even after almost ten months together he still made me nervous. I found the right one and managed to unlock the door. I shook my head and forgave myself for letting everything get to me. I pocketed the keys and went downstairs. He was a mess. He’d been declining for a while now, but he was starting to get ridiculous. He looked uncomfortable and I didn’t want to give him the whole speech about how if he just put in a little more effort, it would all be so much easier. I sat on the bed and rattled the keys as I pulled them from my pocket. I bent and rested my elbows on my knees, dangling them. “Are you hungry?” He moaned. I rolled my eyes and looked at him with a patient smile. “I made your favorite.” He bowed with a grumble of gratitude. I laughed and waved a hand. “I made polenta too.” I rolled my eyes again, more mischievously this time, “I guess that’s mostly for me.” He stared at me with a furrowed brow, like he had no idea what I was talking about. It was kind of infuriating. I took a breath and pulled his gag loose. “Is polenta ok?” He coughed and sputtered and stared up at me wide eyed and finally only managed to get out the word polenta .

“You’ll try some.” I patted his ankle as he flinched away from me.

You’re going to like it , I thought. “You want to try and eat in the dining room? Are you going to behave?” I narrowed a humored appraisal on him. He nodded slowly and spoke in a shaky voice. “Yes.” I thought I could see a hint of a smile in his eyes. I smiled in return and held up the ring of keys with a rattle. “Want to get those off?” He tugged at his shackles and looked up at me nervously. He nodded slowly, his wrists trembling as he held them out to me. I put my hand on them, and he flinched away. “Relax,” I said, in my most soothing cadence. And smoothly unlocked his cuffs. I chuckled as I set them on the chair next to me and rested my chin in my palm. Even all stressed out like this he was still so endearing.

He fell back against the wall, rubbing his wrists. I stood. “Well, let’s go have a nice dinner.” I waved a self-congratulatory hand. “I think you’re really going to like it.”

He tried to stand and stumbled. “Oh,” I held out a hand to keep him from trying to stand again, “I’m sorry.” I jangled the ring of keys searching for the teeth that unlocked the foot shackles. I found it and smiled up at him. “You’re going to behave, right?” He cleared his throat, nodded, and shook his head, before opening his eyes wide and leveling them on me. “Yes.” The thing is; that’s all I wanted to hear. I just wanted him to try. Try and make this work. I smiled with relief and bent down and unlocked the cuffs. After that I saw stars. His foot had come up so fast into my chin, I was genuinely surprised. I thought he had grown far too weak to mount such a vicious attack. I whirled around and wiped the blood from my nose and smiled. He’s forgotten about the chain that held him about the waist. I get it. The shackles are just so exhausting, you kind of forget about the less uncomfortable things. He snapped against the chain, his legs and arms shooting forward before he thumped against the hard, coarse cement floor. I winced at the thought of him hitting his head.

He moaned.

I opened an eye. “Are you ok?” He moaned again. The food was getting cold, and just as I was getting ready to call it quits and go clean up and eat some left-overs alone and bring him a plate, he pushed himself up and at least made the effort to smile that warm, friendly smile we used to share. “I want to come up and eat.” I smirked and squinted an eye. “Do you really?” He coughed, shrugged and slouched in defeat, “Yeah.”

I know what you're thinking. I don’t know why I believed him either. But I did it anyway. I unchained him and helped him to the stairs, and he blindsided me and shoved me across the room, scrambling up the steps in a panic.

I ran after him, holding up a hand. “Stop. don’t go.” He stumbled and turned back. “You’re crazy.”

I smiled, “Stop,” and waved a hand toward the kitchen. “You’re going to love dinner.” He stared at me in disbelief.

For a second, I thought he was going to reconsider, and come eat. He huffed a cough of disbelief, turned, and continued scrambling up the stairs. I held up a hand and called after him. “But I made pesto.”


I lean against my wall, which has been encrusted with glittering jewels of all kinds- rubies, sapphires, emeralds, aquamarines, topazes, and on and on and on the list goes. Together, they reflect the entire room, and I can see myself through at least twenty different angles on the other side, shaded from the vibrant gems. It’s fit for a prince- probably because I am one. My father, King Rolf, opens the door to my room, and I turn to him and bow (yes, he makes his son do that.) He crosses over to my bed, four of his seven (yes, SEVEN) guards following him, the other three stationing themselves at the door. “Aurelius,” he says, “you have shown disrespect to my rule.” “What do you mean?” I ask. I’m pretty sure he’s right, though. I break his rules all the time- both the rules he makes as a parent and the rules he makes as a king. “You did not properly represent yourself at the festival last night. Your crown was lopsided. Your jeans with multiple specks of lint. Your tie wrinkled. You have brought utter scorn to the royal family name! I will not tolerate this! The king must be respected, and for his son to be a- a- a townsperson is ashaming!” I roll my eyes. “I doubt anyone noticed. I was a hundred feet away from the crowd, tops.” Father sighs. “Do this once more and it’s a week in your room, no exceptions whatsoever. Understood?” “Yes, father,” I murmur.

“Yes, your majesty. ” “Fine. Yes, your majesty.” He exits, and lie down on my bed. I wish there was a way I could be free of my father. I wish I could have a normal life. I wish I could do things I actually wanted to do, considering I’m 20. I wish I wasn’t a prince. But if I took that leap, the shame would follow me forever. *** I walk down the streets of the town, doing my best not to notice the stares. Father dosen’t know I’m even out of the castle- actually, I bet he doubts I've ever left the castle at all. But I try to escape whenever I possibly can. Partly to see what life would be like if I wasn’t always being bossed around, and partly because of- “Fern!” I call out to a girl pulling weeds in front of her small, rickety house. She turns around, and her face lights up when she sees me.

“Aurelius!” She exclaims, rushing over. Fern is a girl in the third class, her clothes always dirty, her hair a tangled mess. But I don’t care one bit. I’m sure if Father found out, he’d ban me from ever seeing her. Currently, we’re friends, and nothing more. But... I want to be with her more than I want to be with anyone else. Anyone. Else. But I know that probably won’t happen. Father would never approve- probably not even let her inside the castle. He’d go on and on and on about how it would bring scorn to the family to marry a woman who’s so poor, and instead he’ll arrange for me to marry a princess so our kingdom can get even richer than it already is. I wish he could be just a little empathetic- he was in an arranged marriage too. But now he cares too much about his reputation. “I’m glad you could come,” Fern says, resting her head against my shoulder. “I mean, you’re a prince, for God’s sake! Don’t you have more important things to do?” She tells me this every time we meet. But she dosen’t get this. No one ever does, and I can’t blame them. “Being a prince means I have nothing to do!” I vent. “No challenges, no work, no logic, just me sitting in my room, staring at the jewels!” Fern looks startled. “But- but- but-” she sighs. “You don’t want to be a prince, do you?” I flinch, and I hope she dosen’t see it. She is absolutely telling the truth. But if someone else knew, then that would make this official. “What do you mean?” “I know it’s true. You always get that sad look in your eyes when anyone mentions you being a prince. And now… I can understand why you don’t want to be one.” I decide to give in. I need to tell someone about this, and Fern is definitely the best choice. “It’s not just that,” I say. “I need to be someone other than myself in order to represent my father. He wants me to be all looks, no personality, just to show him off.” “Oh,” Fern whispers. “I guess I wouldn’t want to be a princess.” She pauses for a second. “You realize you don’t have to be a prince, right?” she asks. “You could run away.” “No,” I immediately say. “I can’t. I won’t. I have too much here that I’d have to abandon, and as soon as anyone sees me they’ll just take me back.” “Aurelius, you should run away. You seem like you’re really depressed when you’re in that castle. If you live there for your whole life…” She sighs. “I’m asking you to run away. I know it’s what’s best for you. You should have adventure. You should have the freedom to make your own decisions. You should have an independent, exciting life to look forward to.” “No! I can’t!” My words are erupting into shouts. “You don’t understand what I’ll have to give up!” “I understand perfectly.” Fern says. “I understand the situation, and I understand that you don’t really even want what you’d be giving up. Because most importantly… I understand you. ” “Aurelius!” Someone yells behind me. It’s Father. “What do you think you’re doing with a PEASANT? Home. NOW!” He turns to Fern. “And you. Stay away from my son, you ugly disgrace! If I see you with him again, there will be consequences. Big ones. ” Fern walks back in her house, and I can see tons of emotions etched across her face. But the biggest one was fear. “What did she do to you?” He asks as we walk back. “Are you okay?” “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?” I ask, ignoring my reflex to bow. No way am I doing that. “Think about what you did to her?” “Who cares? She’s just a peasant.” “You know what?” I ask. “I’m done with you. I’m going to leave. I’m going to have a fun, adventurous life.”

“You most certainly will not. As king, I order you not to step a foot outside the castle for… for… as long as my reign continues. Disobey, and I have much harder punishments.” I sigh. “Fine.” I hope Father didn’t hear the lie stitched into those words. *** As soon as I get to my castle, I pack a bag. I hastily grab clothes, a toothbrush, and a few weeks worth of food. I make sure Father dosen’t see me doing this, because if he does then, well, I do not want to think about that. I go to my room and pry some of the gems out of my wall. Not so many that I’ll be rich, but enough to make a decent living. And before I leave, I take a look around my room. I’ve known it forever, yet this is my last time ever seeing it. But I don’t feel sad. I feel happy, since I’m moving on.

I slip out of the castle, now wary. I’ve disobeyed the king! But that dosen’t matter. I take out a beige-colored hood I packed and tie it around myself as I walk through town, hoping no one will notice me. However, someone does. “Aurelius,” they say. I spin around to face Fern. “Hi,” I mumble.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Fern asks. “Yep,” I say. A stretch of silence that almost feels endless stretches out before I whisper, “so… I guess this is goodbye.” “No,” Fern says. “It’s not goodbye.” “I thought you wanted me to leave! Why are you against this?” “That’s not it,” Fern answers. “I thought it over after you left, and… I’m coming with you, and don’t you dare tell me I can’t come.” I stumble back. “Why would you want to do that?” “Because, Aurelius,” she whispers, “I love you. Don’t you get that.” Something inside me is smiling. I can feel the warm, tingling sensation. And I say, “I love you too. You have no idea how long I have.” I lean closer to her, sticking my lips out. And… we kiss. This whole running away thing is already off to a great start. “Do you mind?” Fern asks, taking a few rubies out of my bag. When I shake my head, she takes them into her house. “A farewell gift to my family. May their lives be much easier now.” And then we walk off into the darkness, not knowing what’s ahead of us, but instead knowing that we’ll still have each other through whatever happens.


The rain sounded as if it were rocks hitting the roof of the bus stop and a small waterfall rushed down over the corrugated tin roof towards the ground. She stood underneath her umbrella, white with coloured love hearts scattered on it, but it didn’t protect her feet or legs as torrents of water tumbled down, hitting the pavement with such force that some of the splashes reached the bottom of her rain coat. “Sometimes I hate the rain! Other times I just love it - usually when I’m sitting curled up on the couch watching through the window” she said to Mr Nobody. The wind was picking up the large droplets and blowing them in to the bus stop – just a roof really, with no sides. A wooden bench seat at the back of the shelter didn’t look too wet so she sat down, and sighed. She was tired and put her back against the wall, her bags on her lap so they didn’t get wet. There wasn’t much light around but quite a lot of traffic going past, cars and trucks driving through the deep ravines on the side of the road pushing the water towards her high in the air, but not quite close enough to soak her. “Where is the stupid bus?” she said out loud. “I suppose one of the river’s has burst its bank and there’s flooding everywhere. I just want to get home. I’m tired, damp and hungry” she moaned. She had been at the hospital for most of the day having more tests. She liked to go on her own even though she had been inundated with offers of lifts, someone to sit with her, dropping her off and coming back when she rang, but she said ‘no’ to all of them. It wasn’t like she feared the hospital or all the invasive machines she had to go into, sit in front of or even the blood tests, so why would she need anyone to go with her? The worst part was all the sitting around. It seemed so long in between each poking and prodding. Some of the time she took out her lap top and continued on with her writing, but today she couldn’t be bothered so just read her novel. The thing she found most interesting was the ‘people watching’ she could do. She would make up in her head what sort of lives they had, their relationship to each other and if they seemed happy or not. Of course a lot of them weren’t happy because they were at the oncology clinic but then again, she could tell the people who had just been told that they were free from the insidious disease, that they had a reprieve and weren’t going to be robbed of the rest of their life, just yet. That’s how she felt this time last year – exactly this time last year; to the day as it was New Year’s Eve. She had come back in to see her specialist that afternoon. It was snowing and a strong cold wind was blowing. She had treated herself to a taxi, she remembered because her body hadn’t bounced back to what it once was and she was quite skinny, so felt the cold a lot. Even with a thick duffel coat, a scarf and boots on, she was still freezing! While she was waiting to be called in she had a bird’s eye view of the main door and could watch the people walk through it, banging their boots on the coir mat to get the snow off before walking on the grey indoor carpet. A lot of them rubbed their hand together and wiped cold red noses as the warmth from the air-conditioning hit them. Some of the little children rushed up to the giant Christmas tree still sitting in the corner, tinsel and decorations adorning it and the silver light flashing off and on. “Don’t touch” a mother yelled at the small child but it was just too tempting for a toddler so he continued to try and pull the tinsel from the lower branches. Jane had taken her Christmas tree down and methodically put all the decorations away in the box for another twelve months. She wasn’t one to leave her tree up for twelve days after Christmas – she gave it two days and then it was down. She didn’t like clutter of any kind. She remembers as she sat in the waiting room thinking ‘Who knows if I’ll be here next Christmas?’… “Jane Miller” someone called out and she put her novel (she hadn’t read any as she’d been too busy watching!) away in her bag and walked into the specialist’s room. “Hello Jane” he said to her in the melodic tone that was both authoritative and soothing at the same time. “How was your Christmas?” “Oh just lovely” thank you Mr James (she just couldn’t bring herself to call him ‘Charles’ – just the way she was brought up) and yours?” “A bit too much food and drink but delightful!” he replied and touched him rounded tummy to show what he meant. “Oh yes” was all she could manage because she couldn’t relate to eating too much and putting on weight…. at the moment. “Well we have very good news for you Jane. Your last tumour has shrunk and we’re giving you the ‘all clear’. Of course because the tumours were very aggressive, you will need to come back to have scans each three months to start with and then we’ll stretch it out to six. You’ll also need to keep taking the medication that you’re on and I’ll give you a new script to last three months until your next visit but over all that should make you happy!” and he gave her a reassuring smile. “And” he added “A great start to the new year”. “That is fantastic news Mr James. Oh yes, that makes me really happy, and relieved”. And she let out a long audible sigh and returned his smile. Saying “And a Happy New to you” She had been worried about what he would tell her. Although she knew that she had no control over the outcome of the appointment and her belief was that whatever happened did so for a reason, she didn’t embrace the thought of her life being cut short when she was still young. Her mother had died from brain cancer when Jane was young and this had always been at the forefront of her mind ever since being diagnosed. She almost skipped out of Mr James’s office and in doing so, going around the corner towards the main door she ran into another person going in the opposite direction. “I am so sorry” she said to a dark haired man rubbing his arm where Jane had knocked him. “That’s ok” came the reply from the rather handsome man “you look like you’ve just had some good news – I hope so anyway”. Jane didn’t normally tell strangers her business but blurted out “I did get some good news actually – my brain tumours have shrunk” Then she blushed as she said “Sorry, as if you want to know that!” “I think that is fantastic news for you. I on the other hand have had some bad test results so am on my way to find out my fate!” “Oh I’m sorry to hear that. I do hope that the prognosis is good – in fact I feel like it will be” and she gave him a wide smile. “Thank you but as I always say ‘everything happens for a reason’”. Just as she was about to tell this man about her belief in that saying too, he said to her “I must run as I don’t like being late….and Happy New Year by the way”. “The same to you”. She said back but he had already gone. She was brought back to the ‘here and now’ by the sound the bus pulling up beside her, and she narrowly missed getting soaked by the huge wave it created. She stood up and clutched her bag under her arm as she stretched her legs as far as possible to step on to the bus without getting her shoes wet. The driver was a round happy Irishman and in a very strong accent told her that it was “Good weather for ducks eh love?” “Oh yes it’s terrible she replied looking down the row of seats to see how full the bus was. It was quite empty so she decided to walk towards the back. She passed a couple of old ladies and could hear them talking about how the weather had changed dramatically in the last decade and it was such a problem to know when to hang out the washing! As she neared the back, on one of the seats, the window one, sat a man wearing a baseball cap and reading a book. Looking straight at him she knew it was definitely who she thought it was and had no hesitation in sitting down next to him and saying in her usual friendly tone “Hello, remember me?” The man put his book on his lap and looked at the girl sitting next to him. At first he didn’t recognise Jane but then it hit him and a huge grin broke out on his face. “Hello. Yes I remember you…it was the hospital and you nearly took me out with your joy!” and they both laughed. “It was a year to the day” she told him “New Year’s Eve” “Was it really? You’ve got a good memory. How did you remember that?’ he asked her. “Well I remember when I got the ‘all clear’… “Oh yes of course you would. It was the day I received bad news”. Jane didn’t know whether to ask him or not – she didn’t want to appear nosey but he seemed quite friendly and open, so she tested the waters with “You look well now” and waited for a response. “Thankyou” he responded but said no more so Jane left it at that. “Maybe I should get up walk a bit further on down the bus” she began to ask herself. She had half stood up when he looked at Jane saying “Why don’t you stay here –and we can chat. Are you going to the bus terminal?” She sat down again on the well-worn seat next to him and placed her bag on the floor in front of her feet. “Yes I am actually. I live not far from the Circular Quay terminal”. “Wow that’s a coincidence, so do I” he said as the book he had been reading was popped into his leather satchel. I usually drive my car to and from work but we had drinks after work today so that’s why I’m on the bus. Are you coming from work too?” he asked Jane. “No, not coming from work today. I had the day off from work” and as she was about to elaborate he started talking at the same time. “Have you been doing anything nice?’ he enquired. Outside the bus the rain was teaming down, hitting the windows hard and running down in rivulets. The inside of the windows were steamed up and Peter rubbed it so that he could see where they were. “No, not nice, boring really” she answered “ I’ve been at the hospital, the one we met at….I don’t mean met as in ‘that kind of met’, just when we saw each other that time” “I know what you mean” and he started to laugh as he said to her “we met, not we ‘MET’ and he raised his eyebrows and tucked his chin into his neck at the same time as saying it slowly….and they both knew! “What were you doing at the hospital? Or is that none of my business?” “No it’s fine to ask me. I was going to ask you if you were ok now, in remission or not, so that isn’t any of my concern! So you tell me first. And by the way I’m Jane”. “Ok then. I’m Peter”. And he held out his hand, which she took and moved up and down ever so slightly. Then he continued “To answer your question….Jane. I have been in remission for two months now. I will go back every three months for a scan, so that is due in three weeks, and I feel positive that it will be all clear, so now, what about you?” “Well I spent the day at the hospital because my tumour has grown back, so I will now wait to see what all the scans, MRI and everything else shows”. “Oh I am sorry. I shouldn’t have asked - none of my business.” “No it’s ok - Peter. I’m fine with it, I really am. Everything happens for a reason”! “Hey that’s what…” he started to say when Jane interrupted with “Here’s our stop now – umbrella’s up”. They stepped off the bus together and the bus driver called out “happy new year” to them. They both had umbrellas up - trying to shelter from the falling rain. It was quite blowy and the rain blew in under their brolley’s,  wetting them both, but they looked at each other and smiled. “I live just down there” said Peter pointing left. “I’m going away tomorrow with work for a few weeks but would it be ok if I gave you a call when I get back”. “Oh I’d like that very much” Jane replied feeling quite pleased with him asking. She liked him and felt comfortable in his company. Whether it was because they had illness in their lives in common or not she wasn’t sure. “Take my business card” he said to her as he handed over a blue and white card, “and when you get home and have time could you text me your number please?” “You’d better get going or you’ll get soaked” he told her, and she walked quickly off down the street, turning to wave as she neared the end of the street, and when she twos ted her head around he was still there, standing in the rain watching her. It was a fortnight since Jane and Peter had met on the bus and as she picked up her phone to text him her hand was shaking and she felt sad inside, but knew it was the right thing to do. She thought back to last week when her specialist had rung her up to come in and see him immediately. It hadn’t sounded good. And it wasn’t. Her brain tumour had grown back, very quickly and it was inoperable. They gave her six months at the most. She had been expecting it in a way – just a feeling she had. She told herself it wasn’t ideal but with her strength and determination, she had decided that she would keep it to herself for as long as possible. She didn’t want to burden anyone else. And when her family finally knew, then they would care for her in the end. It was Jane’s choice and she felt content with it. Her text to Peter read: “Hi Peter. Hope you’re fighting fit! I decided that I need to be by myself for a while and sort a few things out…just letting you know that you don’t need to text me when you’re back. Just bad timing – that’s all. I wish you well for your future Peter. Jane X” She was just about to press ‘send’ when she added a post script: “I really like you Peter but remember ‘Everything happens for a reason’.”


The wagon rumbled across the plain, the horses kicking up dirt. The wind tickled my bare feet, my boots sopping from the last river we crossed. I looked past the horizon, trying to think of my old home, a cozy cabin surrounded with long, swaying grasses and a small stream to the side. Horses passed by the house daily, every new rancher wanting to get a taste of my mother’s famous homemade dried bean chili. I sighed, hardly being able to picture my mother without sore thoughts.

She was the reason we were on the road right now, even though it wasn’t her fault. About a year ago, or maybe it was less than that, a man with a scraggly beard and flushed, bright red face came to our house. But instead of pleading for a little bit of chili, as most people did, he asked for help. The man had a tongue with white polka dots and a high fever, but he claimed he was freezing, all signs of the deadly scarlet fever. Mother took him in anyway, her being so caring and, well, motherly. She cared for him for a while, and he eventually got better, but had accidentally spread it to my mother. She hid it carefully, and none of us knew until it was too late. She had caught it badly, and despite my father’s best efforts, she died less than a week after we found out.

The man felt very guilty and offered us this wagon as a favor when Father said he was leaving the area. I hadn’t wanted to leave at first, but Father couldn’t stand being in the house without Mother around, and I couldn’t stand him being so anxious all the time. So we left, taking nothing but food, some old quilts Mother had made, and the recipe for dried bean chili.

My thoughts were rudely interrupted as my heart jumped into my throat and the wagon suddenly stopped. I heard the horses rear, screaming, and the shouts of my father as he cracked his whip, trying to settle the horses. I leaped out of the wagon, despite the fear of snakes hiding in the rocks.

I ran around the wagon, worried about what I might see.

My face whitened. It was worse than I could’ve imagined. The horses were right on the edge of a very, very steep hill, one the wagon surely couldn’t manage. Beneath the hill was a town. Not one of the nice boom towns, bustling with life, but a silent ghost town. Besides the horses pawing anxiously, it was completely silent. I saw my father’s face was pale, but he quickly collected himself.

“I suppose we can stop here for the night, Colt, can you make a fire?” “But Father, there isn’t any wood for miles, except in the ghost town.” I protested. I didn’t want to go into the ghost town. It looked, sounded, and probably smelled haunted. “Then you’ll have to go into the ghost town.” he said grimly. I frowned. I didn’t want to go to the surely haunted town, but I also didn’t want to upset Father. I had to choose which I was more afraid of.

I decided to go into the ghost town.

I grumbled, slowly making my way down the hill. Snakes lived in holes by hillsides, and that was exactly where I was. I didn’t like snakes much, not since Billy Gordon snuck one into my desk at school and I screamed like a girl.

The ghost town loomed in front of me more silently than ever. The wind brushed my bare leg, and I regretted not having slipped on my boots before I came down here. Everything had a creepy feel to it and-- wait, I heard something. I walked down the main street of the town warily, keeping an ear out for a strange sound. The silence was literally deafening, and I could only just hear someone screaming.

My feet subconsciously began moving towards the sound. I got chilled, even though it was hot here. The screaming became clearer, and even though it sounded hardly louder than a whisper, I could just about make out some of the words. “I will NOT! And you can’t make me, no more than you can herd black cats!” a girl’s voice shrieked. I crept closer, even though I surely didn’t want to have anything to do with this. “I will make a deal.” this voice was scratchy but deep, and a shiver ran down my spine just from hearing it -- I doubted it mattered what they voice was saying, it could be about the blessing of rainbows, and it would still sound evil. “I’m not interested.” “You might be.” “NEVER!” “It could save your family.” I could practically hear the girl’s will deflate. I think I knew which building the argument was coming from.“What is it?” “If you can conjure a black cat and a portal by noon tomorrow, and get the cat to enter the portal within five minutes after the conjuring, I will follow the cat into the portal. If not…” the voice trailed off. I peeked between the slats of a big building, it might’ve been a town hall or a saloon in its prime, and saw two figures. One was a pretty girl with long braided blonde hair, she couldn’t have been older than me, and I was only 13. The others was a tall, menacing man, cloaked in darkness. He radiated evil, and I gasped at how much clearer the air became once he flashed out of view. I was so startled, I didn’t notice the girl had disappeared as well.

I backed away from the building, determined to forget the entire thing and just gather some wood. I turned away from the building. The girl was right in front of me. I screamed. “Jeez. What were you doing?” she asked me, squinting her eyes as she scrutinized me. I backed up. “I-- I hadn’t done anything.” “But you heard us.” I nodded, then quickly shook my head. I got the feeling this girl wasn’t to be messed with. She seemed upset. “How much did you hear?” “Not much. I could barely hear you over the silence.” I frowned. That sounded weird.

She nodded, appearing mollified. Then she scowled. “How much is not much?” “I heard about the deal.” I admitted, sensing it was hopeless to lie. “I want to help.” Her scowl deepened. “How could you help?” “I don’t know. What did he mean conjure a portal?” “Magic. Don’t you know?” she said, then slapped her hand over her mouth. “Do NOT repeat that. Promise?” “Only if you tell me what’s going on.” I replied. I was curious. And the girl was quite pretty. She glowered at me. “Fine. But you’ll regret it.” she told me. I nodded, suddenly wondering what I had got myself into. I didn’t want to mess with magic. The closest thing to magic I’d ever heard of was the devil’s, and that was never good. Oh, and when Mother preached about miracles. Maybe magic wasn’t all bad. She continued talking. “That, my friend, was Jumping Jones, the meanest wizard in all of the West. He doesn't care nothing about anyone unless they have magic, like me. Then all he wants is your servitude. He even makes you immortal so your slavery came be eternal.” I winced. That was harsh. “So you’re immortal?” She scowled again. “No, idiot. Me and my entire family about to be though if I can’t make a stinkin’ rotting portal to an angel’s lair.” “Can I help?” I asked again, though I doubted it. “Can you do magic?” “No.” “What do you think the answer is?” “Yes?” “You’re a rotten idiot.” “Thanks.” I said. The girl responded to strength, and I hadn’t shown any. Well, now I was going to. The girl nodded approvingly. “If you can keep that up, I might have something for you. In the meantime, here.” The girl made a stack of sticks appear, exactly what I needed. “How did you know?” “You’re not the first idiot to come here, you know.” “Oh. Thanks though.” I took the wood and began the walk back to the wagon. Father was probably wondering where I was. When I reached the top of the cliff, Father was absolutely livid. He jumped up from his hunched seat on the log, and began scolding me. Actually, scold isn’t a strong enough word. Maybe furious raging. “Colt! Where were you? I was sure you had fallen and broken your neck!!” he suddenly broke down and gave me a crushing hug. “I’m just glad you’re back.” “Sorry, Father. I-- It took longer than I expected to find some usable firewood.” I told him once he had let go. He nodded. “Don’t do it again. Let’s warm up some jerky soup.” Father and I ate in silence. I felt bad for being late, but I wasn’t feeling bad I had met the girl. She was something, and I wasn’t sure what to think of her. Something was off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was just me.

*

*  *

*  * In the morning, I offered to go to the town again to find some more firewood. Father just nodded. “Be back be noon.” he replied. “I’m going to do some tidying up.” I assured him I would be back soon, then I went back down the hill. This time I had my boots on, even though they were still damp, and the climb was much easier. I made a beeline for the building I first saw the girl. She was waiting outside, and sighed when I showed up. She nagged me about being late. I complained that we hadn’t set a meeting time. “Besides, I don’t even know your name. Technically we’re still strangers.” I added. She sighed again.

“We are strangers.”She replied. But she told me her name. “I’m Liza. And yours is…” “Colt.” “Like a baby horse?”

“I guess.” “That’s weird.” “Shut up about my name. Can I help or not?” I was getting impatient. I even got up to leave and actually look for firewood when she stopped me.

“Fine. While I conjure, you need to find my family and free them. Do you have a pocket knife?”

I held my knife up. She nodded in approval. “Oh, and if you fail, we’ll both be killed.” I gulped. “That’s pleasant.” “I know. Now, help me get ready.”

I looked at her in confusion. “What?” “I need to look nice for my date with the devil. Unzip my dress.” She turned around. “What? No!” I exclaimed. I wasn’t sure which I was more surprised by: The fact she wanted me to help her get undressed or that she just said she has a date with the devil. “Oh, I forgot. Most of you are pretty modest. Nevermind, I’ll just change straight into the dress.” Liza said, snapping her fingers. Her dress suddenly changed from a modest calico dress normal for the wild west to an long, dark blue frock with a black hood and shawl. She twirled for me. “How do I look?” “Wouldn’t red be more appropriate for the devil?” I asked, wondering what she meant by that. Father would be furious I wasn’t angry with her for even saying that. She rolled her eyes. “I’m not actually going out with the devil today. Have you seen his schedule?” Seeing my shocked face, she quickly amended her words. “I’m joking. But dueling like this is a big deal and I should look nice. Now, do I or not?” “You look lovely.” I told her. She glared at me. “What?” “Nevermind. My family in in the second building on the left. It has a rusty sign.” “They all have rusty signs.”

“You’ll find it. It’s the only building with people in it.” “Okay.” I turned to walk away to find the building with Liza’s family, but she stopped me. “Thank you.” she told me. She seemed sincere, but I couldn’t exactly tell. “I really mean it. Thank you for helping me. Most people wouldn’t have.” “It’s okay. You’re welcome. I just have to be back by noon with some wood or Father won’t be happy.” Liza gave me a small smile. “Easy.” She went inside the building, and I left to try and find the building with Liza’s family. I looked at all the houses on the left with rusty signs and didn’t find anyone. I looked in all the houses on the right with rusty signs and didn’t find anyone. I wandered up and down the ghost town street, until I heard some whimpering. At first I just thought it was the wind or something, but then I heard it again. Then it was full-blown crying. Liza was not going to be happy if it was her family. I thought was coming from the one house that didn’t have a rusty sign. I was not happy. Inside the house was a woman, man, and two little girls tied together sitting on the floor. The rest of the room was bare. I rushed to their side and began sawing through the thick rope holding them together. “Who are you?” the woman managed to gasp out. It sounded like the rope was cutting off their air. I began sawing faster. “Your daughter I assume, Liza, sent me here to free you.” I told them. “She’s fighting some shadowy monster dressed like she’s going to a party.” The woman groaned. “The foolish girl, she’s never going to be able to beat him. Saw faster.” she instructed, nudging me with her foot. “I need to go help my daughter.” I finally had sawed through the rope, and the woman leaped up. “John, you watch the girls. I’m going to save Liza. Boy, you come with me.” I just nodded mutely, even though I didn’t particularly like being ordered around. I followed the woman as she whipped across the town into the building Liza was fighting in. I could hear Liza’s strained shouts as she did, well, I’m not sure what she was doing. Her mother burst through the door shouting. “Let my daughter go!” The black figure sneered. “She made a deal. She has to conjure a portal and a black cat.” “LIII-ZAAA!!!!” her mother screamed angrily. “You are in a lot of trouble, young lady!” Liza groaned. “Mother, I’m kinda in the middle of someth-INNNGGG!!!” her complaint turned into a scream as the shadowy figure shot her with something.

I screamed also, and ran to her side. The mother rose into the air and began chanting. I was terrified by everything going on around me. The floating woman, Liza bleeding, the shadowy figure.

I pressed my hand against Liza side, and her already short breaths turned into desperate gasps for air. The woman yelled when she noticed what was happening to her daughter, and blasted the figure into a sparkling portal she had created behind him. The woman collapsed to the ground, and the portal disappeared. Once she had gained her breath a few minutes later, she rushed to Liza’s side just like I had. I scooted over with tears in my eyes. I knew she didn’t have long left. Only a miracle could save her.

Luckily, we had a miracle. Magic.

Her mother pressed her hand to Liza’s bloody side and started chanting again. I covered my eyes, terrified at what was about to happen. Liza’s mother nudged me. When I opened my eyes, I saw Liza, all healed up, fuming. “Mooootherrrrrr! I had it under control!” she huffed, glaring at her mother. Then she turned to me. “Why did you let her come? It was dangerous!” “I couldn’t have stopped her just like I couldn’t stop a runaway train. Besides, its her fault you’re still alive.” Liza frowned again. “Dang it.” Then she wrapped her arms around me. “Thank you for untying her. You’re right, I wouldn’t have survived without her and you. But don’t tell her that.” I grinned and hugged Liza back. Then I realized that she was getting blood all over me. “Liza!You got blood all over me! What am I going to tell my father?” I asked, pulling away. “And I need firewood.” Liza’s mother smiled. “You helped me. I can certainly help you with that.” she began chanting again and my clothes looked like they were brand new. A stack of firewood appeared at my side.

“Thanks.” “It was the least I can do. Liza?” her mother prompted. Liza rolled her eyes. “Thank you.” She flicked her wrist and two journals appeared. “One for you and one for me. So we can keep in touch.” Liza explained. I looked at her strangely. This was too nice a gift. “In case I have to fight another being from the underworld.” I smiled. “Thank you for everything. Now, I really have to get back.” I stood up, and hurried back to the hill. I could see Liza and her family hugging and waving at me. I quickly waved back, then quickly scaled the rocky hill.

Father smiled at me. “You’re early.” “I am?” I looked at the sun. He was right. It was definitely not noon yet. “Oh well. I found some more wood. I’m starving.” Father passed me a piece of jerky. I devoured it. I guess watching people fight a monster was exhausting. We built a fire and ate, then packed up the wagon.

As we rode further into the wild west, kicking up red dirt, I wrote in the journal Liza gave me. Dear Liza,

       Thank you for helping me believe in magic. I owe you. She immediately wrote back. Dear Colt,       Thank you for having such a dumb name. Now you don’t owe me. Oh, and for saving my life. That too.