Who Needs Romance When You Have True Love Surrounding You? Tree Town was not awoken by the lovely chirping of birds; instead a cacophony of ringtones and an additional, terrifying sound roused the town resident's from their peaceful slumber.

“What the heck! Auntie Jane, am I seeing police...HERE,” shouted a dumbstruck Emma! Frozen in place, Emma glanced at her twin sister Charlotte. Did Charlotte feel as disturbed as she did over seeing a police car in person? Although they lived on Lush Island, an extremely isolated beach within walking distance of microscopic Tree Town, the teenage twins were not naïve. Written and visual media often featured both fictional and nonfiction depictions of police and crime.

Indeed, Charlotte was also disturbed by the police; their car flew past the group with enough speed the car's wind knocked her down. Struggling to stand up, Charlotte sat on the sidewalk infuriated. “Yes Emma, a police car passed us. Be glad you were walking on the other side or you would have hit the ground! I know police are allowed to break the speed limit, however, I am certain running over people is against the rules! Honestly, WHAT'S THE BIG DEAL!” Exhausted, shouting at the empty street, imagining she was disciplining the police, comforted her until she temporarily lost her voice.

Emma sat beside her sister, both observing their Auntie's reaction. Remembering she was the adult, Jane could not express her concerns. Simply seeing a police car should not bother her, she grew up in Bright City, where crime happened in nearby towns. Police cars were not a new phenomenon. Jane briefly left the teenagers sitting on the sidewalk. Curiosity regarding where the car might have gone overtook her common sense about watching over her godchildren.

RING, RING, RING; Following the skid marks for a few minutes changed her feelings of mildly startled/curious into concerned. She did not need to follow the entirety of the route because there was only one place the police could stop. RING, RING, RING “Enough! Stupid telemarketers,” Jane muttered, finally hearing and answering her phone. Intent on hanging up moments later, Andrea's name was listed. The 'missed calls' list showed she called several times before giving up.

“Andrea, what's wrong? I saw you called me several times, I'm sorry I did not answer sooner! I couldn't hear my phone. Be careful, I know this sounds odd, but the police sped past us, nearly running over Charlotte! Both girls are overall safe, don't worry.” Upon hearing Andrea's reply, Jane dropped her purse, many of the contents falling out. Typically an individual who is generally logical and calm, the panic in Andrea's voice actually frightened Jane more than Andrea's words.

“Lord help me PLEASE! We don't need them ACTUALLY HERE! Long story short; Carl tried to abandon me, while I'm trying to keep him here! I must have hit 911 instead of you or one of the girls. We both shouted when they answered, telling them my call was an accident, don't worry about coming! Apparently, the authorities believe otherwise. If you are interested, I will explain further after the chaos has died down...”

Her face pressed into the window, Andrea could not believe her eyes. Seeing their cars pull in and the sounds of the sirens blaring was frightening. Answering the door would cause further anxiety. As they knocked on the door, Andrea exclaimed, “Jane, they're here! Oh dear... They will probably want an explanation and briefly confirm no physical violence has occurred. I'm uncertain if you should bring the girls home or wait until later? Call you later.” Andrea answered the door, allowing the officers into the house. Carl was for all intents and purposes unaware and patiently waiting, watching his (soon to be former wife) behave like a lunatic in front of the police.

The click of the phone ending the call symbolized the end of over a decade in love. Both were shocked by the police arrival; upon briefly investigating the couple and home, no signs of violence could be found. Thankfully, they did not charge the couple fees for wasting their time/resources. Relieved when the officers departed, the couple continued an argument which was doing nothing except wasting time. Carl was not going to stay, Andrea would not be easily swayed into accepting his unexpected departure.

As an android, Andrea learned over decades the challenges of expressing emotions when combining visual and verbal elements. Although not regarded by her parents as a machine, essentially the wiring, gears, computer programs etc. which much of her body contained made her a machine. She could change her appearance at will and contained enhancements which made her almost perfect. However, hiding the scientific proof of the possibility of such a creation was required. Revealing her true nature might cause unsavory members of the scientific community to abduct and experiment on her. Even her closest friends and relatives were unaware of the truth.

Andrea had no organic heart, yet she was not without the ability to feel. On this day she had no trouble 'blending in' with human society. As many humans often do during a crisis, she wore her 'heart' on her sleeve. For the first time in her life, she felt sensations of hopelessness and burning which might literally short-circuit her brain. Unlike the grief she felt upon her parent's deaths or the sense of terror when one of her daughter's was hospitalized, almost left for dead, her current condition might have been life-ending. As tears dripped down her face she nearly flooded the living room. The ocean's depths were but small puddles in comparison. Intellectually, she knew about ending a relationship. How humans managed to survive the trauma, often multiple times, of such ordeals when she, (frankly, a superior artificial being), was finally brought to her knees was one of most confusing thoughts racing through her mind.

On the ground directly in front of Carl, Andrea actually kissed his feet. Shoving her aside, growing weary of her 'nonsensical' gibberish he yelled, “GET OFF ME! I don't know how many times I must repeat myself before you finally understand! Our relationship is over! If you're so smart it should be quite obvious why I must go.” His only visible emotion was of annoyance. 'Why won't she let me leave? What's the big deal,' were his primary thoughts. Continuing his blasé words, he did not even look into Andrea's eyes as he spoke.

“I didn't want to do what I am doing,” Carl signed, “I love you so much, but I just can't take life here any longer.” His attempts at expressing sorrow were so pathetic he clearly was not trying. All he was trying to do was leave. “Why? I never saw any problems in our marriage? You never told me anything was wrong? Why not address the matter before running out the door, ABANDONING ME and more importantly, YOUR CHILDREN! All I want is the best for us and our family! I'm open and honest with you, why can't you be open and honest with me? I'm willing to change if you stay!” How she managed speaking clearly while sobbing was shocking. Fetching a pen and paper from the shelf, Andrea shortly realized she moved too quickly for a human. Even machines are imperfect; stress and lack of sleep caused a lack of concentration and will power. Writing with perfectly neat handwriting, tears spotted the paper. Wet spots aside, Andrea handed Carl a short, poorly written 'contract' with her name signed.

She nudged Carl's shoulder, interrupting his thoughts; he read the paper with as much interest as a person reading the dictionary.  “I Andrea (Houghman) Smith, will change my behaviors in_____ amount of time. If problems persist, the relationship can be ended.” The blank was negotiated between them for two weeks. Pulling teeth would have been easier. His suggestion of meeting to have an honest, heartfelt conversation in one year was too long of a wait. He scrawled his name illegibly on the water damaged paper only for him, at last, be permitted to leave the property and his life for at least two weeks. Hopefully longer he thought.

Watching him drive away, Andrea realized he took almost none of his belongings with him. Only his lab coat, a few items of clothing and part of his computer were taken. Why take only the monitor and CPU, yet not the keyboard or mouse (which worked quite well)? Why take his other electronics, yet leave their chargers behind? Andrea had more questions instead of answers. As intellectually gifted as she was designed, none of her academic knowledge or previous experiences could explain the bizarre morning/afternoon.

“What an idiot,” Jane commented, noticing the same detail. Jane generally believed life was a 'glass filled half full instead of half empty,' yet her optimistic point of view vanished as she heard the whole story. “Well he won't be back for two weeks and all I can say is how sorry I am for you and your children.” Not filled with joy, Jane was pleased he would be elsewhere for two weeks. She never liked him. However, if she wanted Andrea's friendship, she needed to act sympathetic. Anticipating an extremely long and detailed story from Andrea, Jane sat beside Andrea bracing herself.

Provided with no other instructions, Jane arrived to Lush Island alone. Considering Charlotte's near death experience with the police car, Jane dropped them off at the local doctor's office. Upon being dismissed, they were instructed to wait there. Charlotte likely sprained or broke her ankle. The teens could walk home from Tree Town to Lush Island in 15-30 minutes without getting lost under normal circumstances. However, if they got lost that day, all they would need was the skid marks buried deep in the ground for a path home.

'Free at last, FREE AT LAST! Good riddance to the freak,' Carl sang, joy escaping his lips as he rolled up the windows and locked the doors of his empty car. Jane was right regarding Carl's lack of intelligence. He could not even plan a proper escape from his living Hell. He planned ahead enough to change his address, listing his residence at a friend's house. Weeks after the documents were processed he received no mail at the Lush Island home. Perhaps the complex process of changing his address made him forget the rest of his important 'home departure plans.' His best friend was a saint. Martin missed a day of work, although his income was minimal, because he was under the impression he would help Carl move his belongings on the day he left. He thought 'best friends generally help each other right?' Certainly Andrea knew because his items would be packed, albeit rather disorganized. Arguing wasted time which could have been saved if Carl just left a note while she and the rest of the house was asleep.

Siding with your best friend is required, yet Martin felt Andrea had a point. He was almost as shocked as Andrea was regarding Carl's actions. Covering up his anger until he could roll up his windows, once on the road, Martin cursed both of them out for wasting his time and money. Perhaps he should sue them for lost wages. Witnessing this disaster changed his mind; being single is better. Couples have too much drama.

Best friends should not keep secrets from each other, yet his true reason for leaving was beyond comprehension. Instead of sympathy, he would be given a tinfoil dunce cap, probably joining other 'crazy people' in an asylum for warped minds if he told the truth. 'How could he be so blind for over a decade? He should have realized sooner and avoided marrying her,' he thought. Apparently the program of study for a PhD of Genetic Engineering did not include 'Recognize Androids' classes. He was taught scientific theories and hypothetical designs for androids, yet they were nothing like Andrea. Reflecting upon his past confused him. She felt 'real'; casually holding her hand or the 'intimate moments' were as soothing as any human interactions. Her slightly bizarre emotional expressions, he assumed, were the result of a minor birth defect. Andrea was the most beautiful and intelligent woman he ever met. They shared many common interests and he eventually proposed. Never would he believe androids existed, nor consider the possibility Andrea was an artificial creation. Everyone assumed they were a perfect couple and would last forever. Learning the truth instantly made him panic; he wanted a human not a machine. He was living her lie and could not handle the stress any longer. He crumbled into grains of sand at the thought of staying. Being strong enough to protect his wife and daughters by keeping her secret never crossed his mind. Nor would he find the courage to tell Andrea the truth. She had no idea he knew. Andrea could not literally change herself. Although there were challenges being an android, if magically given the option, she would decline becoming a human. Through no fault of her own, she lost her true love. Nothing good lasts forever Andrea learned from this heartbreak. As sympathetic Jane was, thankfully, their other best friend, Mia, was unafraid of speaking the truth. Via a video call from New York City, an outraged Mia screamed, “GOOD RIDDANCE! The man is such a coward for hurting you and your family! I know you want words of sympathy, however, hearing the truth often prevents any further damage. You've seen what lying can do! His habits of constant lying over even minute issues, until an explosion of problems results sets an extremely disgusting example for your daughters! He was bringing you all down with him. Impressionable teens need strong role models; he was weak! You need a man, not a boy!" Realizing Andrea needed more support and less insults, Mia changed the subject, stating, “I have an understudy... I could probably convince the director to let me leave for a few days... I would invite you, Jane and the girls up to NYC, however, Romeo and Juliet is not the Broadway show you should see at this time.” “No, you shouldn't loose your job because of my problems, I hope you and the cast all 'break-a-leg' Juliet. I can't wait for you to come home, I'm sure the girls want to hear all about the life of a Broadway actress.”

Ending the video call with Mia was one of the hardest tasks Andrea completed. Mia could always be relied upon if you wanted an honest opinion. She and Jane both agreed with each other regarding Andrea's (soon to be former) husband yet Andrea was incapable of grasping the concept. Everything reminded her of him regardless of the situation. Was everything negative her fault? Finally, how would she explain the recent development to her daughters? Emma and Charlotte were teenagers and had friends who's parents were divorced; intellectually the concept would be understandable. Could they accept such changes in their lives?

So many questions regarding the ending of the relationship filled Andrea's thoughts. One point she could not question was the strength of her daughters. All the commotion distracted Andrea and Jane. The world was turning upside down when the normally careful adults forgot about Emma and Charlotte. Was Carl's influence effecting them? The twins did not need two horrible parents! The doctor's office assessed Charlotte's ankle and other injuries free of charge because the police cause the injuries. He would bill them; an extremely bold move. Hopefully, he would not get arrested for his complaints. Eventually the doctor's office closed and the girls asked to leave. Receiving no answers from their mother or Jane, they took over an hour to reach home. Emma supported Charlotte as she limped. They were determined to return home versus spending all night on the streets.

Entering the house, the twins crept behind the sofa, the creaking of the floorboards unnoticed by Jane and their mother while they eavesdropped. They missed the beginning, however, the main points were quite clear... their father abandoned the family without warning, broke her mother's heart, Jane was afraid of leaving Andrea alone and her mother's inevitably long explanation of the day's events distracted them. Behind the sofa they would hear more of reality; her mother's absurd actions would be censored when speaking with them. They would also be discouraged from speaking ill of their father, regardless of his actions.

Having heard enough of the conversation, the girls decided they ought to surrender and let their mother know they knew the majority of the disgusting truth. Normally, the girls would have been infuriated with their mother and Jane, however, given the situation, they put aside their anger. Their mother needed love and compassion instead of conflict. No longer did they admire their father. Emma, as per usual, was the first to speak. “Surprised we survived being abandoned at the doctor's office? Charlotte and I supported each other and reached home alive. As your family, we will always love and support you mother. You will make the journey away from him, finishing alive and thriving. We, unlike father, will express our honesty and reveal we've been sitting here for about an hour and heard the majority of the story.” Charlotte added, “There is no point in censoring any information regarding his inexcusable behavior. Be glad I don't know which of the numerous curse words to describe father. I'll save time and simply say he is the largest combination of each degrading term Satan is a kind soul compared with father!” They stopped venting, and hugged their mother and Jane so much their organs nearly burst from their bodies. With daughters and best friends who loved her, she would endure the long processes of recovering from her first heartbreak. How she would resolve her dilemmas she did not know...Not Just Yet.


I parked my car in the gravel lot and walked toward the rusty “Scenic Overlook” sign. It was the same as I remembered. Though the stone wall of cemented stones looked like erosion had taken a toll on it. I rested my arms on it and leaned my head over the edge. Waves crashed far below, losing their never-ending battle against the massive boulders off the shore. I used to look at the view every morning on my run, but that was years ago. Back before Mrs. Leary. Back when I ran for myself. Back when I wasn’t running from anything.

I moved here just over thirty years ago when I was twenty-two. It was 2022. I was fresh out of college and just starting my first job as an analyst. It paid the bills but I really wanted to be a cop. Burgundy, OH was a nice enough town. Cheap rent and good people. It sat right up against Lake Erie which made it a popular tourist stop during the summer. I used to run every day. Rain or shine I’d lace up my Nikes and be out the door by 6:30 am. My route was nothing too interesting. Up and down my surrounding neighborhood streets until I hit six miles. When you really give yourself over to a routine, you notice everyone else’s. The same grey Ford passed me on mile two. They usually gave me a wave or flashed their lights if it was dark. On mile three I’d pass the window of Rob Morrison’s deli. It was closed, but sometimes I got a glimpse of him in the back, prepping for the day. I liked that routine. Not just because of the running, but because of the people I saw. They were part of my day, and I was part of theirs.

My favorite part of the morning was when my running app told me my run was over. It happened at the same spot every time; right outside Mrs. Leary’s house. She was an old sweet lady who I presumed to be in her mid-seventies. When I first moved there, she’d wave as I passed. After a few weeks, she started asking “You want some water, hun?”. Not long after that, she’d have two hot cups of coffee, a bottle of water, and a modest breakfast ready and waiting for me to finish my exercise. We hadn’t known each other aside from me being the kid who jogged outside her house at 7:30 each morning, but we became close. I never met my grandparents. I guess I assumed they died before I was born but never got confirmation on that. If I had to guess, this is what having a grandma felt like. I don’t remember the specifics of what we talked about, but we’d shoot the shit for a good hour before I’d walk the half mile back to my apartment.

As the years went on, she got older and missed a few mornings. Couldn’t blame her, though it did disappoint me and usually never happened more than two days in a row. As selfish as it sounds, I sometimes wish I would have never met her. She was a wonderful lady, but damn did she leave me a mess to clean up. Not that getting murdered was her fault.

It was a cool morning, on the cusp of autumn 2025. I had already waved to the grey Ford and saw Mr. Morrison loading his front window up with fresh cold cuts. On cue, the voice in my headphones told me I’d finish my jog. I looked up at Mrs. Leary’s porch which was empty for the third day in a row. Three days was the longest we hadn’t had our morning coffee together. Can’t exactly tell you what flipped in my head but I decided to check on her. I opened the screen and knocked on the old wood door. After a couple of cycles of waiting and knocking I walked around back, peering through windows on my way. I couldn’t see much as most of them had the blinds drawn. One didn’t but required me to climb on the air conditioner to see through. Once on top, I cupped my hands around the sides of my head to see clearly and saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was the kitchen I had been in multiple times, as clean as ever. The tiled floor was perfectly white and there were two clean coffee mugs on the drying rack. I hopped down and made my way to the backyard, which at one point was surely a beautiful garden. Over the years, it had taken over the yard and looked like its own self-sustaining ecosystem. I walked up the back stairs to the door and resumed my knock-wait cycle. Eventually, I got restless and worried so I tried the handle. It was unlocked.

“Mrs. Leary?” I shouted. There was no reply but the silence was deafening. I continued through the living room which looked normal enough and up the stairs to the second floor. The lacquer on each step had worn off over the years of ups and downs. I could feel my heart beating after each step I climbed and I was positive it had nothing to do with the jog. The wallpaper was an off-white floral design. Out of date, yes, but definitely in line with Mrs. Learny’s personality and taste in fashion. Once on the second floor, the bathroom was directly ahead. I peeked inside but nothing notable stood out. In fact, the immaculate condition of the house was jarring in and of itself. After walking through the other bedrooms, I got to what had to be Mrs. Leary’s room. The door was closed but unlocked. I turned the nob and the door jumped open as if it were a challenge to get closed. I opened the door further, slowly revealing a tidy and organized bedroom, complete with a vanity and record player. As it swung further open, the foot of what had to be Mrs. Leary’s bed came into view, paired with her feet poking upward from under the sheets. Looking back, I find it quite interesting how in that moment of seeing her feet, I was absolutely positive about what had happened. Poor Mrs. Leary had slipped away in her sleep. No family or friends, aside from me, noticed her absence. To be honest, my first thought was confusion about who to call. Whatever emotions I initially felt sprinted away when the door was fully open. I saw it for what had to be less than a second, yet I see it in my head every time I close my eyes. Mrs. Leary had clearly been shot once in the head while she was asleep. She looked so peaceful as if she was just sleeping, but the black hole on the center of her forehead told the true grizzly tale. My memories of what happened after are a blur. I remember calling the police but I have no recollection of how I got to the police station. Honestly, the next thing I remember clearly is punching in the code to my apartment.

I showered for the first time that day, nearly eight hours after my morning jog. Afterward, I called my boss to explain why I hadn’t logged on for work that day, and why I likely wouldn’t for a few more. There seemed to be a film of grey over everything that week. The colors were dull and eating food made me nauseous. I didn’t run. I didn’t wave to the grey Ford or Mr. Morrison. I tried to distract myself and pass the time with movies I enjoyed but the sight of her laying there was burned into my eyes. It was everywhere I looked. You probably won’t be surprised to hear I was pissed off for the entire next week or so. Not just because my friend was murdered but because I didn’t hear shit from the detectives.

A few days passed and I decided to lace up the Nikes. Thought it might shut my mind down for a bit. Took my usual route. Saw the Ford, but didn’t wave. Don’t even remember passing the deli. Paused a while at the “Scenic Overlook” but continued on after a small break. I turned on Mrs. Leary’s street and made my way down to her house. I realized I hadn’t done this run for myself, it was an excuse to stop by Mrs. Leary’s house, maybe talk to a cop or detective and see what was happening. It didn’t take long for a chill to run down my back. The road was a solid three-quarter of a mile, but from the far end, I could tell something was wrong. There were no police cars. No crime scene tape. After a minute or so, my phone told me the run was over, and there I was, outside the house I’d been seeing in my nightmares for the past week. It looked as normal as it ever had. I walked up the steps and looked through the front window expecting to see official-looking people working tirelessly inside. Nothing. I walked around the house as I had days before to the back and walked up the back steps. I tried the knob again, trying to ignore the aggressive deja vu. This time it was locked and I was livid. How could there be nobody here? My friend, a harmless old lady, was murdered in her sleep and nobody in this quiet little town seemed to give a shit. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. I wasn’t sure if this was an emergency per se but at that point, I didn’t much care. “911 where is your emergency?” said a man’s voice. “I want to know what’s being done about Mrs. Leary’s case.” There was a long silence before the voice returned. This time it was cold and emotionless. “Hang up the phone, kid. Leave it alone.” “Wha…” The line cut before I could finish my sentence. Even this many years later, I can feel the anger and confusion I felt that day. If I think about it too long, my cheeks turn red and my adrenaline starts pumping. I walked home confused trying to think who to call or what to do. I probably would have called a neighboring police force or the FBI, but that’s when I got the envelope. Now it’s not that big of a coincidence. It didn’t just show up that day. I had neglected to check my mail for the entire previous week and the envelope had been delivered at some point over those days. It was a legal size manila envelope, sealed with a string on one end. Inside, a handwritten note. Hello, my dear, I’m sure you have plenty of questions. I’m hoping to answer them as well as I possibly can but I can’t make any promises. I’m writing this in 2022. Today we had our first cup of coffee together, and I know it won’t be our last. If you’re reading this, I’ve made the mistake of getting too close to you, which I was not supposed to do. As you’ll learn, I can be quite stubborn so I’m also sure I’ll have no regrets about it at all. Surely, you will be the one to find my body. That wasn’t supposed to happen either but that’s my fault. I’m sorry you had to see that. I also want to say that you’re likely not going to believe what you read next, and I don’t expect you to. In time, all will make sense. I don’t know how this whole thing started but what I do know is a long time ago, a version of me in a different timeline did something bad to you. As a result, some kind of domino effect led to a global collapse and destroyed all of humanity. I don’t know what I supposedly did or what it caused. All I know is it can’t happen again. To prevent it from coming to fruition, you and I have been set up in an infinite time loop together. The loop is intended to ensure that at no point I can screw up the intended path of the future. For it to be avoided, I must die in every loop and it must happen before I get a chance to do whatever it is I did to you. Once I’m gone, I can’t interfere with you or the future of humanity. If I’ve sent this, you’re clearly a wonderful boy, and I’m sure I’ll grow very fond of your company over the years to come. Remember me and cherish the memories. In time, my error will fix itself and all will be resolved.

Keep running, Mrs. Leary And that brings us to today, September 17th, 2025, again. I’m fifty-five years old and have been a cop for the last twenty. I’ll be honest, I thought the note was bullshit too. Sure enough, three years ago in 2052 (yes, I know it’s confusing) the loop reset and it was 2022 again. The reset didn’t affect me at all. I still looked like an out-of-shape middle-aged man with a hairline that seemed to disappear more each day. Soon after the reset, I met my wife, had a couple of kids, and tried to live my life as it was intended. I kept my distance from the younger Mrs. Leary, only reaching out to inform her of the loop. It took some convincing but she came around once I showed her the note she wrote for me. She also promised not to interact with my younger self this time. I made the same promise and quit jogging in order to put on a few pounds. I hoped that was enough to kill any resemblance between the two of us. The one thing I couldn’t leave alone was figuring out who did it. From a distance, I kept my eye on this loop’s Mrs. Leary. Nobody seemed to dislike her or want her dead for any reason at all. I kept my ears open every day for nearly thirty years but never found a motive or anyone else aware of the loop. It wasn’t until I accepted that there was nobody in the world who wanted to hurt Mrs. Leary that I finally figured it out. I took one last good look at the view of the crashing waves at the “Scenic Overlook” and got back into my grey Ford. I drove over to the road that I had run down hundreds of times in my younger years and parked outside the familiar quaint house. I knocked on the wooden door and was greeted by a sweet old lady. “Thought I told you to keep running,” she said as she looked at my gut. I laughed as she gestured for me to come in. I was worried she didn’t know why I was there but she must have seen it on my face. “Don’t worry. I figured it out too,” she said. “How about a cup of coffee for old-time sake?” “Sounds good,” I said with a smile. After the cups were empty, the two went upstairs and walked down the floral hallway to her bedroom. She tucked herself in and looked up at me with a tear in her eye, one that I mirrored. She nodded her head and closed her eyes. She already looked like she was peacefully sleeping. I couldn’t help but feel sorry. Not for me or her, but for the younger version of me running around the neighborhood at this very moment. Not yet aware of what he’ll have to do later in life. Not yet aware of what he’d already done an infinite amount of times in the past. Not aware of what he had just done. For now, I could let him run. One day he’d have to find out and I’d likely have to be the one to explain it all to him. But not now. For now, I’d let him run.


You see, to a pirate, a true pirate, only two things are important in life. First, he needs a sea-faring ship with a capable crew. A pirate without a ship cannot sail the eleven seas and is thus stuck on land. Those poor souls are known as bandits, a retired or aspiring form of a pirate. And second, which is even more important than the first - and can be used as a substitute for the first - is ale. And when I say ale, I actually mean every alcohol ever made; be it beer, rum, mead, gin, wine, bourbon, vodka, schnapps, various liquors and spirits, the blood of angels, sweat of demons… it doesn't matter what you call it, as long as it does its purpose. Which is, to get one shitfaced. And the captain of the sorry piece of assorted lumber we are forced to call ‘our ship’ is just that. He is a true pirate. And he has just acquired a map to his dreams. *** “It’s been thirty years, to this very day,” our captain said, standing less-than-gloriously on a wobbly barrel, as he addressed the whole crew, “since a captain came to me and said; ‘Hey lad! Come join me, crew, adventure, and glory await for you!’ His name was Captain Morgan and I was the man that led a mutiny against him. This is his ship we sail on.” The men - including some women who snuck on board wearing fake beards - gasped at this revelation, myself included. You see, Captain Morgan is considered somewhat a myth, a legendary name amongst the piratical pantheon of deities; he is the god of the amber gold, the elixir of life, a liquid so pristine it is said that it is collected from the eyes of crying mermaids. This is, of course, rum I am speaking of. And by killing Morgan, man has acquired rum for himself, bringing the godly drink to us mortals. “Whoah, are you truly the one who brought rum to us, men?” some young lad from the crew asked. Our captain looked at him as if he saw the lad for the first time. “Of course not, ya halfwit! I’m trying to inspire you bunch of morons, so we can go on the most dangerous quest of our lives!” “Oh,” the lad said, somewhat disheartened. The crew began to murmur and I shifted on my feet. The most dangerous quest? Whatever could it be? “Whatever could it be?” I asked a man next to me. He was actually a she, wearing a fake beard.

“Aye, scurry dogs, treasure and whores, yarr,” the woman replied with a painfully exaggerated accent and as deep a voice as she could manage.

I wanted to ask what her disguise was all about but was overwhelmed at the captain’s next words. He said; “We’re going to Alesland. And we’re gonna get drunk!” The crew went wild, some firing their flintlocks in the air, others foaming at the mouth from euphoria. I could barely contain my own enthusiasm, but my experience told me to be cautious. Alesland wasn’t just someplace you went for the weekend. It was a fabled land, consider nothing more than a story for most. The only proof of its existence was in a piece of broken pottery that some drunkard once brought back to the mainland, claiming it was from the Ale Island - known today as Alesland. “Yarr, harr and all that,” the captain said and jumped from his barrel. “Ready the sails, tie down the cannons, and prepare yer empty tankards ‘cuz there be ale where we’re headed!”

The crew cheered and began working the ship. The fake-beard woman next to me began climbing the mast and I walked to the captain. “Captain,” I said, “are we really doing this? Also, did you realize there is a woman on board, wearing a fake beard?” “Ah,” he said, looking at me as if a bug fell in his drink, and completely ignored my questions. “It’s you. I thought of leaving you behind.” I paused. “Sir?” The captain shrugged. “Then again, I often think of leaving common sense behind. Ain’t no place for it where we’re going.” “Sir, Alesland is a myth! And even if we do reach it, the journey there is… well, let’s just say crews with better ships and more competence have failed to get there. What chance do we have?” He bore those thirsty little eyes of his deep into my skull as if wanting to see through my head. “We,” he said, leaning closer, “have a map.” My heart began to beat faster. “A map, sir?” “Aye. It be showing us the way.” “May… may I see it?” His left eyebrow rose in question. “Just a glance?” There has not been a pirate in existence that did not find himself in fascination with maps. Not ever.

“Please, sir, it would put my soul to ease,” I crossed my fingers. The captain glanced around, noting the men were busy. “Fine,” he said. “Just a quick peak.” He unbuckled his belt… “Sir!” “Shh!” “I meant the map, not-” The captain pulled down his pants and I instinctively covered my eyes, but he smacked my hands away.

“You fool! Look!” There, on the side of the captain’s white-clean underwear, was a small scribble. “You’ve washed your underwear, sir? That’s commemorable-” “No, idiot!” He pulled his pants back on. “It’s a map. Drawn on my undies. Well, re-drawn on a fresh pair, as the old ones…” I shook my head in confusion. “That scribble is our map? On your… But how... why…” “I was talking to Yarr Face at a pub and got him drunk enough to tell me the route to Alesland,” the captain said, grinning. “He said he’d been there once and I believed him. I quickly drew the map on my undies before I could forget it.” “But sir,” I said, astounded. “Pubs have napkins.” The captain paused, giving me a blank stare.

“No, they don’t.” “Okay.” Things became awkward so I pretended someone was calling me and ran away. Soon enough, we were leaving port, and perhaps our lives and sanity, and heading out at sea, following a hand-scribbled ‘map’ on the side of the captain’s underwear, told to him by the most renowned drunk in the whole wide world. You can say that I had my concerns. *** The first week sailed past uneventful. So did the second. And the third. In the fourth week, the captain realized he was reading the map backward - he used a mirror to better see the sides of his underwear, and thus the map got, well, mirrored. So he decided to take the underwear off and we corrected the course. What I don’t understand is why he had to spread it over the dining table every time he read it… So, in the fifth week, we were back where we started. We had spent more than a month going in a wide circle, like a bunch of idiots that we were. We resupplied the ship - mostly stocking on booze and bearded women - and set out again, this time in the proper direction. How do I know it was proper? Because all hell broke loose. And it did so in a series of events, like staircases leading deeper and deeper down to your grandma’s cellar, the only place in the house that you weren’t allowed to go after dark… but you kind of wanted to, just because they told you not to. And when you saw all those bodies, the trauma never got away… No? Just me then? Okay… Anyway, our journey truly did feel like those stairs. With each landmark we reached on the map, we barely got out of it alive. First, we were attacked by walrus pirates - henchmen of Yarr Face. The pirate lord didn’t like the idea of our captain getting him drunk and revealing to him the location of Alesland, so he had us hunted down, demanding the captain’s undies.

And I don’t know if you’ve ever seen walrus pirates, but those things are huge! Most weigh over a ton, their skins are as thick as most men’s intellect, with huge pointy tusks that gut you like a paper man. Oh, and they sail on huge iceberg ships that ram into your punny wooden boat like it was a virgin, raped by a warmonger. Not the most pleasant of experiences. Luckily though, we had cannons. And cannons are a blast at dealing with difficult situations. It turns out they can also punch holes straight through the walruses - and they don’t much like that. After surviving the walrus attack, we were met with another not-so-friendly sea dweller - the metal narwhal. Those bad boys are even scarier than the walruses. They’re bigger, fatter, stronger, and have this huge spike at the front of their heads, like a unicorn from a little girl’s nightmare. And those horns not only pierce you and then some, but they also puncture the ship’s haul, causing leaks everywhere. Why are they metal? Who built them? Why are they there? Who knows. I blame the government. Our third step in the descent to grandma’s cellar was a true hell hole - and I’m not exaggerating. It was a natural narrow passage between two seas, called The Devil’s Butcheeks. You could only imagine how that looked like and you’d be correct. The thing with that passage was that you had less than an hour to clear it. If not, the gigantic tidal wave that sweeps through the narrow canal would smash your punny ship into the rock walls. Since the world is a flat plate that spins sporadically on a monkey’s middle finger, the tidal waves are unpredictable, but they flow from one side to the other in turns. We barely managed to get out of that one. But the good thing is we lost our walrus and narwhal pursuers. Emerging out from The Devil’s Butcheeks we sailed across the calmest seas I’ve ever encountered. I reckoned this was our last step before the horror of the bottom. Grandma’s cellar only had four of five steps, if I recall correctly… *** I was jolted from sleep by a hand shaking me awake. “Go!” a crewmate yelled at me. “A storm is coming and the cold is mind-numbing! Darkness has descended!” Another ran to my other side and began screaming in my ear. “We’re all going to die, there’s no escaping! We’re all anticipating smashing our brains tonight!” I stumbled out of the hammock, bemused, and made my way out on the deck. It was difficult to keep balance as everything was swaying violently.

On deck, cannons were fired into the cold, dark winds. Rain and small hail pelted the floorboards, the ocean’s waves pounding against all sides of our ship. Gripping to the wet wood of the door frame, I could feel the cold piercing my fingers to the bone. Men fired their guns and stood on the ready, swords raised, gazing around at the darkness. Above everyone, the captain held to the mast, the flag flapping above his head and laughing, rapturing with pure joy as he held his mouth open to the skies above. “Dear Morgan, he’s lost it,” I mumbled. But then, I smelled it. Bitter. A wave washed over the deck, sweeping some men to the floor. It was dark yellow, golden almost. And it foamed violently. I walked into the receding water, dunk my hand in, and took a sip. It was ale! “Rum, beer, quests and mead,” the captain screamed from atop the mast. “These are the things that a pirate needs!” He looked down at all of us. “Raise the flag and let’s set sail, under this night of the storm of ale!” I understood. We had reached the fabled ocean that is said to surround the mythical shores of Alesland. An amber-gold sea of ale, foaming white at the crests of bubbly waves. It sizzled as it splashed against the hull of the ship, so bitter to the taste and as cold as mercy on a hot day. It formed a sticky film as it washed over the deck, sweeping men and unfettered items overboard.

It was raining beer. Just as my heart recognized the stories were true, a monster materialized from the darkness. I was wondering what the men were firing at. A wave of black scales swept across the ship, just barely missing the tip of the mast as the ship sank in a receding wave. I gazed up and at that moment, a lightning strike illuminated the sky for a brief moment. “Oh, my…” It was beyond mortal description. A leviathan so large that it could just as well be the entire ocean. Massive pillars rising from the ocean as tentacles, golden ale dripping in waterfalls and running like rivers over its scales, foaming all the way. A forest of limbs and tentacles that rose from the waves, twisting, swaying, searching for the next victim. And in the middle of this mass, a huge dark spot, like an island of a body. Burning red eyes adorned its sides, varying in size, with three big ones in a row, dotted by smaller ones. It was the Terrorsquid itself! The guardian of Alesland! Another tentacle swept lower and smashed the ship’s mast. Captain came tumbling down, but I managed to catch him, his fall slowed down by the torn sail.

I looked at him and he looked at me, the monster looming above us, roaring in a distant voice, so primordial as the world itself. “Do ye want to know the meaning of life, lad?” the captain asked me. The winds roared in my ears, the waves crashing and a shadow of the leviathan’s tentacle coming down. “Yes,” I said, “before we die, at least I want to know that!” “It’s this, this right here, lad!” he said, waving his arm around, smiling. Raindrops of beer pelleted his face. “Quest! The journey into the unknown!” I wanted to reply, but I can’t remember what I was about to say. The tentacle came down and it destroyed the ship, sending us all into the golden waves of ale. *** Sunrise. Like a hammer banging on the anvil of my head, the sun came knocking on my eyelids, a wake-up call on the morning of a hangover. I was alive. Everything smelled of beer and sweat. I could hear waves washing over pebbles nearby, as gentle as a mother’s cue. I opened my eyes and was blinded by the golden sun, rising just in front of my face. I noticed I was lying on a shore made up of pebbles. No, not pebbles. Broken pottery. It resembled the piece that was once brought back to the mainland as evidence for Alesland. Alesland! I jumped up, blinking, ignoring the pounding in my head. As my vision cleared, I found myself standing on a small island, all made up of this strange broken pottery. Bodies and pieces of wood lay scattered around, washed onshore. The sea of ale foamed as it kissed the shore and it sent bitter smells to my nostrils, reminding me of my hangover; apparently, I drank a lot of it, but had not drowned. The monster was nowhere to be seen, nor was our ship. Or any of the crew, alive. I walked on the shore, turning over bodies. Some of the women still had their fake beards on… “Captain? Anyone?”

Silence. Then, a chuckle. I turned, running in the direction of the voice. My whole body hurt, my head was exploding periodically, but I made it to the center of the island - it was surprisingly small. And there, I found the captain. “Captain, you’re alive!” I huffed as I crashed on the pottery beside him, listening to the pieces crunch beneath my feet. He stood there, next to a pedestal, a gentle breeze playing with his curly hair. “This island we stand on,” he said, without turning to me, “is the island of Ten Thousand Toasts, where the gods allegedly had their drinking game and lost to the titans, thus losing their bet and having to create men. You and I, lad, we are the result of a lost bet. And this right here, are the broken shards of the Tankards of Creation - inside each one, a thing was made, then broken and released to the world. Legend has it that all but one tankard were broken.” I blinked, struggling to process this unusual clarity of the captain’s words through my headache. Looking around, I couldn't help but feel a bit… lackluster. “This is it? This is Alesland? It’s just a tiny island.” “No, lad,” he said, looking at me. His eyes were glowing with the delight of a child receiving exactly what he wanted for Christmas. “This,” he said, raising his hand. “This is Alesland. The last unbroken creation of the gods. With everything else corrupt and wrong with the world, this is the only pure thing we have.” He held a clay tankard. Inside, there slushed a golden liquid, the purest of things I ever saw. It smelled of bitter. “What?” I gawked. “ That’s what we risked our lives for? A tankard of ale? You could’ve just drank the sea-” And then I saw it. And I understood. The captain drank the ale dry, and the tankard then refilled itself when emptied. Tears of divine joy fled my eyes as I bowed to the holy artifact and the man, no, the legend , who drank from it.


Inside the lid a plain white piece of card was stuck to the green felt lining and it had four handwritten words on it. “Property of Teper Naillian” It had started with a house move. The house move had been a success. Well, as much of a success as a house move ever is. The solicitors did their part quickly and without fuss. The funds were transferred, and the contract exchanged, and we had the keys when we were supposed to. The packing up had gone better than expected. The volume of collected detritus had been less than for previous moves. We had spent time decluttering; selling items at car boot sales and on eBay, taking other things to charity shops, and throwing out pieces of junk we, not anyone else in their right minds, was going to use again. And everything seemed to have made it to the other end in one piece. Even that hideous pink rhinoceros china ornament Jane’s aunt had brought back from some African safari years before. It really needed to have an accident and shuffle off this mortal coil, and the fireplace it sat on. But Jane was strangely attracted to it, and it was the only ornament in the house which the kids had never knocked over. I could only hope. The only strange part of the whole move was the funny looks I got from the Estate Agents every time my name came up. As if they knew it somehow. I doubted it though and thought I must be imagining it all. In fact, I doubted there was anyone else in the country with the same name as me. The surname was uncommon enough in the UK, being of Irish origin from County Clare, but with the unusual misspelt first name (apparently a mistake, one of the dangers of letting a drunken Irishman register the birth I suppose) I was unique. Or I was the last time I checked back in the noughties when websites to check your name’s uniqueness against the 2001 census were all the rage. And I doubted anyone else had named their kid Teper instead of Peter since. We had been disciplined about unpacking too. Three days and all the carboard boxes had been emptied, broken down and thrown up into the loft. I remembered a previous move where some boxes had never been opened before we moved again some eighteen months later. This time we weren’t looking at moving again. Certainly not until retirement in twenty years or so. Or if there was a lottery win. The house had been a bargain, nearly £200k less than others like it. the detailed surveys had no sign of any structural issues or covenants. It wasn’t under a flight path (or proposed one), and there weren’t any new road or rail routes planned. It was bigger than we had been looking for and we felt lucky to find it. It was a month, possibly a bit longer when Grace found the box. Out eldest had been building herself a cardboard city in the loft using all the broken-down packing boxes. She had found the wooden keepsake box against the gable wall of the loft. A small different coloured area of wood between the laminated chip board that covered the joists and insulation. Being inquisitive she had prised away at the different wood until it tilted, and she was able to pull it out of its hole.

It was a small intricately carved mahogany box; about eight inches long, six inches wide, and four inches deep. There were two brass hinges at the back, and the front had a little brass lock with a key hole. It was locked and had no key with it. I went up to the loft myself and had a look under the boards and amongst the insulation around where it had been found, but there was no sign of any key. And so, the box sat unopened in an alcove in the kitchen. I would look at it each time I passed, and the kids would ask if I was going to open it. But I resisted. For all of about ten days before I got too curious about what might be in it. I got a fine chisel from the tool box and tapped it into place between the lid and box where the lock was. The box was sturdy, and it took longer than I thought it would, but I finally prised the box open without doing too much damage to it. Inside the lid a plain white piece of card was stuck to the green felt lining and it had four handwritten words on it. “Property of Teper Naillian” I’m not sure how long I held my breath for, but I remember eventually exhaling and gasping in some air. How could this box possibly have my name in it? I shouted for Grace to come in. Berated her about where she had really gotten the box from. Had her mum put her up to this? I’m ashamed to say I made my daughter cry. And Jane’s ire towards me was well deserved. Although the ire did change to something more akin to confusion, and then a feeling of being spooked out, and then accusatory towards me, asking what I was playing at putting the box there like that, just as I had accused our daughter of doing. I was just freaked out. I started to take items out of the box. There was a yo-yo with flaking yellow paint on either side. Two old pennies, bigger than two-pound coins. A Matchbox car – a De Tomaso Pantera. A number of Derby County Topps football cards – Colin Boulton, David Nish, Colin Todd, Ray McFarland, Kevin Hector, Gerry Daly, Peter Daniel, Charlie George, David Langan, Don Masson, John Middleton, Steve Powell, and Bruce Rioch. A multi-coloured bouncy ball. A Rainbow badge with Zippy on it. A green and red kazoo. Two little pencils. A red sew on 10m Swimming patch. And half a dozen photos. A small boy was in them all. Small square photos, in colour but grainy in quality, with a white border around them. I recognised the garden of the house we were in. the shape was the same even if the windows had changed and the colours were different. Another had the boy sat on the knee of an adult. By the clothes and hands, I would say a man, but the boy was the focus of the photo and the man’s head was cut off. The boy himself has blonde hair, green eyes and a smile. In every photo a large beaming smile. I supposed he could have passed for being me at a similar age. There were definite similarities, but my hair was a bit darker, and you’d have been lucky to get a smile out of me, even as a child. After staring at the items for hours, I put them all back in the box and put the box back in the alcove and tired to forget about it. Something easier said than done. It played on my mind. I would find myself sat at the kitchen table, looking at the photos from the box. Feeling there was something in them familiar to me, but I was unable to put my finger on just what it was. Jane had obviously had enough of me moping around more than I usually did, and the amount of time I returned to the box and looked at the photos. She came back from work one evening with an announcement. “I’ve had a look at the Land Registry details for this house. You probably won’t believe this, but there was a couple who owned this house back in the seventies. Their surname was Naillian. A Mr A. and Mrs E Naillian. Are they, or could they be any relation of yours?” I couldn’t speak. They were the initials of my parents. Not that most people would know that, and I wouldn’t have expected Jane to. She’d only ever known them as Fred and Peggy. I doubt more than half a dozen people knew they were really Alfred and Elizabeth. I’m not even going to try to understand where the hell they got the name Peggy from for Elizabeth, but it was the case. Surely, they couldn’t have lived in this house. The dates were before I’d been born, but not long before. But they had never mentioned living in Derby at any point. Not even when we had told them about moving here. Not even when I had given them the address. If they had lived here, surely they would have said something.

Anything. I got up and went to the box, and got the photo of the boy sat on the man’s knee. I looked at it for what must have been the hundredth time. More closely now. Studying it. had the clue been there all along? The signet ring on the man’s finger. Hadn’t I seen that same ring as a child? On my dad’s finger? I told Jane what I was thinking and what I was putting together. She wanted to drive to my parents right then. Drop everything and go. I wanted to think it through. We compromised and I rang my parents and spoke to my mum. Told her we were thinking of visiting at the weekend, and she was delighted. The week dragged. Three days felt like three months. A never-ending period of time. Until finally Saturday morning came, we got the kids settled into the car, and I took the box in a carrier bag into the passenger seat with me. Jane didn’t trust me to drive by this point. I can’t say I blamed her. We arrived at my parent’s house in Manchester. The house I had grown up in. it had taken two hours, not bad for a Saturday morning. The door opened and both my mum and dad came out. Jane hadn’t even turned the engine off before the kids were out of the car and getting hugs from their grandparents. Jane squeezed my hand as I took a big deep breath, and she said, “No matter what, it will be alright.” We got out of the car, hugged our own greetings and went inside to a waiting pot of tea in the kitchen / diner. The kids got juices and headed off to the lounge and the lure of the television. And the conversation started. I asked my parents about living in Derby, and there was a solid and quick no. jane said about finding a Mr A and Mrs E Naillian as previous owners of the house we lived in. I said it was their initials, and if it wasn’t them, did they know if it was some other relatives of ours? The denials weren’t as fast, or as solid. My mum glanced nervously at my dad, who was keeping a fixed stare at some point over my left shoulder. But producing the box changed things. My dad glanced at it and quickly looked away, but paled significantly. My mum refused to look at the box. I took out the photo of the boy on the man’s knee, and pointing out the ring the man was wearing I asked my dad if it was his? He closed his eyes to avoid the photo, but my mum let out a sob. And after the sob came the story. Teper Naillian was born on the 9th May 1970. He was named Teper by mistake, his father – Alfred, more commonly called Fred – was drunk when he registered the birth and had transposed the P and the T of the name Peter, and even when questioned by the registrar about whether the name was correct had apparently thundered “Of course it’s correct, what kind of idiot do you take me for?” He was a happy child and although his parents tried, a younger sibling didn’t come. His dad had got in the car to go to work, and didn’t realise Teper was playing with his own cars, toy ones, in the gravel under the front bumper. There was no speed in the car, but the weight over Teper’s chest was enough. Heartbroken, his parents couldn’t bear living at the house anymore. The car was sold, and they moved to Manchester and erased Derby from their lives. I was born in Manchester on the 24th July 1979. I was told that my name was a mistake. But it wasn’t. I was Teper Naillian. The second. I was an only child, or so I had believed all of my life. And to an extent I was, but I wasn’t the first child. I wasn’t even the first called Teper. I was going to be that younger sibling, after nine years my mum was pregnant again. But neither of us got that sibling, he had died five months before I was born. Neither of us knew about the other. Until today. They had used the same name for me, knowing they were never likely to get it wrong. Never likely to call me by the wrong name. Never likely to let slip what they had left in the past. My parents had done such a good job of erasing it they never brought it up when they knew I had moved to Derby. Or when they knew I had moved to the same house. Their house. Where the original Teper had lived. Perhaps that was why the Estate Agents had given me funny looks. A man moving to the house where his namesake had been killed in a tragic accident. What my parents never knew was what that original Teper had done with his keepsake box. They had never known about its hidey hole in the loft and so had never sought it out when they left their old life behind. And no one else in the intervening forty-two years had found it either. I suppose it was serendipity that Grace did, and I found out the truth.


People have long been afraid to walk or fish in the park because of the exhumation of bodies. Even the park rangers try to get out of here before dark. But crossing the park is the quickest way to get from school to the most residential street so many students take this route to save time. Frank walked through the wood. He was now halfway through. Suddenly, a white mist filled the trees. But Frank felt it instinctively. He did not dislike the smell. Snap. Behind Frank came the crack of a branch. He whirled around. In front of him, there appeared a scantily clad, voluptuous middle-aged woman, who smiled at Frank's seductive smile and blew a kiss. This must be her. Frank took a gulp of water, his heart beating. "Handsome, what are you doing here alone?" "Back to... home..." "Oh, it's still early. Come and chat with auntie." She blinked, and Frank felt a strange attraction in the woman's body that made him move toward her uncontrollably. The woman grabbed Frank's head and pressed his face into her arms, her chest so large that Frank could hardly breathe. "Does Auntie's body smell good?" "Incense..." The woman took Frank's face in her hands. "Well, let Auntie teach you something happy..." She kissed Frank on the lips. A shot rang out, and a vermilion bullet flew by and grazed the woman's cheek. She hastily covered her face and let go of Frank. A taxi approached with its lights flashing, and Jane fired the shot through the passenger window. "Yeah,, yeah, so what did you put on my bullet?" "Cinnabar!" Will parked the car and pulled on a robe from his handbag. "Hold her back while I prepare to cast spells!" Jane nodded, got out of the car and pointed a pistol at the woman. "Don't move! You're under arrest for sexual assault of minor!" The woman looked up with anger, and Jane noticed that fur had grown on her cheeks and tails were beginning to appear behind her. The nine-tailed vixen bellowed, and her tail burst into flames, shooting at Jane. A gust of wind blew the flames away. "Shoot her leg." Will said, dropping his charm and rushing forward with a pickle jar in his arms. Jane nodded and shot the Vixen in the leg. The vixen lost its balance and leaned to the right. "The paper-amulet! Will let out a loud shout, and the charm attached to the pickle jar began to glow, creating a suction force that compressed the Vixen's body and sucked it into the pickle jar. "Hey, are you all right?" Jane went over to check Frank. "Auntie! Frank threw his arms around Jane. Slap! "Do you think I should arrest him for assaulting a police?" Jane looked at Frank, who had been knocked unconscious, with disdain. "Come on, it's understandable, but now that we've caught the culprit --" Will's eyes suddenly hardened as he reached into the jar and pulled out a vixen tail. It's just a tail. "I think it ran away when I blew the flames away." "It's back to square one, but she's going to get craftier." "That's all," said Will, pulling off his robes. "We'll get the boy to the hospital and go find Scott." Let's push back the clock. "So you've probably heard that many young boys go into unexplained comas?" Jane finds Will at the Chinese restaurant where he often eats lunch, because this is clearly not a human incident. "Yeah, no kidnapping, no selling them drugs, no sign of a struggle, weird, right?" said Will, who was enjoying a plate of fried rice after a morning in taxi. "So I began to suspect that the culprit might not be human," Jane said solemnly. "And this is your area of expertise. Any clues?" " Many possibilities," Will said, wiping his mouth. "Do these teenagers fall into a coma because of their vitality -- as you call it, their vitality? Life energy? Chakra? was taken away." 'What was the culprit's intention? "Depending on the type ," Will went on, "the ghosts may have been in that profession before they died, or simply because they liked it, or because they wanted to be reincarnated as soon as possible, and these thoughts directly influenced what they did after they died. If they were alive, vixens and witches, they would have used their spirit to cultivate and strengthen themselves. " "By sex?" Jane asked. "Yes, that's why it's usually the vixens who do it, they're the experts! A long, long time ago, China was in Shang Dynasty, and the king was called King Zhou, and his concubine Daji was..." "History class over." Jane interrupted him quickly. Whenever Will started talking about history, he would go endless, which had ruined several of their dates. "I've had some foresight about this case --" Will finished his lunch. "I've had Norm to search, and all the ghosts here are quiet --" "Come on, who needs a living person when I'm a super handsome guy?" Norm's translucent body was now floating behind Will's neck. "What about the other possibilities?" Jane asked, " vixen, witch..." "I can't help it with witches," Will shrugged. "They use magic to reverse track..." Jane's mobile phone suddenly rang. " Amy? Hello?" "Oh, Jane! Amy's trademark shrill voice came out. "Will told me you wanted to find out if any zoo had lost vixenes from China, and I did a little research --" Jane looked at Will, who stuck out his tongue and made a face. "About 2 years ago, a vixen was stolen from local zoo by staff. After the culprit was caught, the evidence was overwhelming, but he had no memory of the crime! He then sought treatment in a mental hospital. Hope this helps with your investigation. Bye!" 'One of the vixens' spells, they can create hallucinations and hypnosis and things like that --' explained Will, but he stopped because he saw Jane staring at him. "Would you please tell me before you make your own decisions next time? We are already suspected of occupying police force!" "It's to save time..." Jane rolled her eyes. "If the leader knew we were all going to die..." "It's about saving lives, and if Amy's Intel is right, I'm afraid we've got a target on it, so --" Will pulled a compass out of his bag. A golden, square compass. "Patrols begin tonight!" After a busy night. "Come on, we're wasting our time!" Jane complained that the coffee, which had dipped the doughnuts into the thermos in the dawn glow, "has been going round these streets near the park for so long tonight, with nothing to show for it!" Will yawned. "I'm so sleepy! Norm, I'm afraid I'll fall asleep while you're driving."" “Is your compass broken? They didn't give us any directions!" "This can only point to the devil within two kilometres," said Will, his sleepy eyes straining. "Looks like we'll have to expand our search tonight -- but give me a break..." Suddenly, the compass needle gave a violent shake. "Hey, get up! Jane gave Will a sharp shove. "Eh?, "Will raised his compass and saw that its needle pointed... A high school. "What's next?" "Pretending to be a teacher." Jane is very familiar with this. "Or we can go to the police now and get a warrant. Just to be clear, I don't know when that will be!" "Can't you help?" "Will asked. "Don't you even think about it! That's illegal!" Jane said firmly. Is it legal to break into a school and search it without a warrant? Will shrugged and pulled a suit shirt out of the trunk. In a few minutes. "All it takes is a change of clothes. Where is the vixen?" "It's supposed to be in the classroom," yawned Will, trying to buy a cup of coffee from the coffee machine next to the staff lounge. "Just so you know, it's class time." "I don't think an animal can get a school status so easily..." Jane looked at his phone thoughtfully. "Well, it's hard to say. In some Chinese folklore, vixens/even open schools to teach culture," said Will, brightening over a cup of coffee. "Long, long ago, a scholar named Hu came to town..." "I'm going to the bathroom..." Jane made her excuses and left. Will's stories did not appeal to her at all. From her point of view, catching the culprit was/the/most/important thing to her now. But now they don't even have a clue. In the women's room, Jane sighed. "Excuse me... anyone here? Can I borrow some tissues?" "Oh, yes." Jane didn't realize that there were students using the toilet at this time. She pulled a packet of tissues out of her pocket and passed it through a crack under the partition. "Thank you." The girl next door bent down to pick up the tissue, but Jane held her breath. For from the corner under the partition she saw some reddish-brown hair on the ground. This can't be hair. Jane immediately stood up and tried desperately to unlock the compartment, but the toilet door was very old and the lock was stuck. There was a splash next door, then the sound of a door lock. She's running away! The next two minutes were an eternity for Jane. After a hundred and twenty seconds of shaking and two fingers cut on the corner of the lock, Jane was free, but the girl was gone. "So you saw the vixen?" "Didn't see. But I heard her voice, I can find it by voice." While they were talking, the bell had rung and the students were going out. "There's probably hundreds of people here," Will said, picking up the compass. "We'll take our chances..." All of a sudden, the compass needle jerked and pointed straight in one direction. 'Lucky! Will and Jane followed the compass to a quiet corner. "I... I'm out of money..." "Then ask your parents for it! Oh, , I forgot you were an orphan, ha!" Two seniors were bullying a thin boy. The thin boy pressed his lips and his eyes filled with tears. "Brats are getting more and more ill-bred these days --" Jane's father died in the line of duty when she was a child, so she has always had zero tolerance for this kind of bullying. 'Wait, look! Will reached out his hand and stopped her. A reddish-brown vixen jumps out of nowhere and bites one of the bullies in the calf with a vicious bite. 'What is it? The boy pain one leg jumping around. 'Ah! "Run! The two bullies run away, and the vixen runs over to the thin boy who is being bullied. Next thing you know, the vixen's body begins to be enveloped in white smoke. The vixen figure stands up and gradually transforms into a young girl. "Are you all right, Scott? "That's the sound! 'whispered Jane. "......" Will thought thoughtfully. "Jialing, didn't I tell you not to change in public?" Scott stood up and patted the dirt. "What does it matter? Anyway, no one to see, "Jialing helpless smile " you don't let yourself hurt, can you?" "I'll try..." Scott smiled wryly. "But really, if anyone sees you..." "Ahem," Will said, failing to stop Jane, who had gone up and flashed her badge at Scott and Jialing. "I'm with the police," Jane said. "We're thinking this girl might be involved in the recent teenage coma. Could you please cooperate?" Scott stepped in front of Carin. "No! You can't take her! ' 'She's not human! She's a vixen! She's probably --" "We promise you." Will came out suddenly. 'What? Jane asked, looking surprised. "I don't think this girl is a bad person," Will said. "If she were a culprit, I'm afraid this Scott would be in the hospital already, wouldn't he?" That makes sense. "But can we talk after school?" "We still think you might have something -- no, don't be so nervous," Will said, reading Scott's defensive look. "We wouldn't have taken her if she wasn't a culprit." "Why should I believe you?" Scott remained alert. "Because, in a way, I'm from her country." Will gave a mischievous smile. "For Chinese people, fellow villagers should help each other!" "Trust them," she said. "After all, I'm in on it -- they're right." "Jialing!" "Let's come over to your house after school and talk," Will winked at Jane to stop her from reaching for her gun. "We're not doing anything until we know." "So, you say your parents died when you were young." At Scott's, he served coffee to Will and Jane, and Chinese tea to Jialing. "Yes, " Scott said miserably. "So, what's about Jialing?" Jane asked. "I was abandoned in the snow," Jialing replied. "Scott saved me..." "Abandon? By whom?" Jane asked. "My mother..." Jialing's voice trailed off. "I think I see what's going on," Will begins by concluding that "the vixen at the zoo -- that's Jialing's mother -- had the zoo staff break her out of prison, and at the time, she was pregnant, and a few months later, she gave birth to Jialing and ran away on a snowy day -- yes, that's another reason why I'm sure Jialing wasn't the vixen that got away." 'said Will.' It's not the right age! Vixenes have a much shorter life span than humans! If Jialing is the vixen that got away a year and a half ago, it's pretty hard to pass for a high school girl based on age ratios, right?" Jane nodded. "So, another question," Will asked, "do you know where I can find your mother?" "Well... It must be deep in the park, "said Jialing," because it's a big park with lots of trees..." "It's too big to use my compass outside," Will thought. "That explains why it's no use patrolling outside the park. I can't search for her until she shows up." "I heard today that some boys in our class bet to walk home from the park at night." Scott said suddenly. "Well, here's our chance! She must be caught to-night!" 'said Jane. "I have one last question, though," Will said suddenly. "Jialing, how do you feel about Scott?" "He... He is my benefactor, and I owe him... What do you mean?" Jialing suddenly angry "you are worried that I will hurt him?" "Well... Probably, "said Will," because I'm a Chinese Wizard, and we have a saying in our circle that in-human relationship never goes anywhere." "Me and Scott will." Jialing said through gritted teeth. "Well, I'll take your word for it, but..." Will pulled out a piece of runt paper and handed it to Scott. "This is for you. If Jialing ever gets out of control, you can use this --" Scott grabbed it, crumpled it up and threw it in the dumpster. 'I don't need this! He growled. "Well, good luck," Will shrugged, signaling to Jane that they were leaving. "Come on, sweetheart, we've got a vixen hunt tonight." That night, the street outside the park. "Wheezing... " The nine-tailed Vixen barely escaped Will's paper-amulet by sacrificing a tail, and now she is weak and in desperate need of strength. "Young men... Where is it..." She dragged her heavy body and hobbled along the street. Suddenly, she found a boy. Scott is taking out the garbage . She rode the shadows, creeping up on her. With no energy left to seduce Scott, she grabbed him with her hands and wrapped her other eight tails around his body. Scott struggled. She took Scott's face and began to kiss it. 'Stop! Jialing jumped out and grabbed her mother's face. The vixen was sore, and her face was on fire. "Jialing? Are you --" 'Alive! Jialing gritted her teeth and said, "Scott is my benefactor. I don't want you to hit him! And I won't forgive you for abandoning me! ' "I have no choice," panted the Vixen. In her hand, Jialing clutched the paper amulet Will had given Scott. It was eating away at the skin of her face like a strong acid. 'I couldn't have survived with you in that weather! "You --" Jialing threw the ball of paper directly at her mother, hitting her right in the eye. "Ah!!" The vixen rolled all over the floor in pain. "The paper-amulet! Will and Jane arrived just in time to paper-amulet the vixen into the jar. This time, it worked. "What a bad mother," Will said, smiling. "To abandon your daughter and go after your future son-in-law?" Son-in-law? Jialing and Scott's faces went red. "I can already see your awareness," Will said, looking at Jialing's hand, which was badly burned. "I bless you both!" "I... " Jialing was speechless . 'I do! "Scott shouted. Jialing has been crying, shed moved tears. "When you come of age in a few years, I'll marry you myself -- well, I'm so sleepy, I'm going home to bed. I haven't slept in two days." "Well, I'll drive!" Will yawned and said goodbye to Scott and Jialing. Although he hated having his car touched, he made an exception for Jane. "All right... It occurs to me that by the time Scott is old enough to marry, Jialing will be at least as old as her mother -- maybe a little older?" "Oh, don't worry about other people's family affairs, that old vixen you are going to do?" “keep her in my house for years. but I'll let her out for the wedding when her daughter gets married." "Are you really not surprised at all that a human marrying an animal?" 'What's so strange? "Long, long ago, there was Chinese man named Xu Xian, whose wife was a snake..." "Oh God..." Jane rolled her eyes. She knew that Will would not fall asleep again until she had finished telling the story. "A magical monk named Fahai thought the Snake was a danger to mankind, so he decided to separate the two of them..." As Will told the story, the moon rose and a comet with nine tails flashed across the night sky.


“So!” Kiernan’s shoulder rocked hard into Imryn as he threw himself down on the bench. “What are the odds that Cyneric actually shoots at the target this year?” Imryn’s retaliatory shove sent his much slighter brother tumbling down to catch himself on his forearm. Not one to take that lying down, Kiernan kicked Imryn’s shin. Imryn pinched his little brother’s ticklish side and barely dodged a fist to his own ribs.

A cough from Esme made them both look up at their sister seated a row above them, and her disapproving glower put an end to their wrestling. Such childish play was unbefitting for two grown princes who were third and fourth in line for the throne.

At least, as long as they were in public. Everything was fair game in the privacy of their house, and Kiernan’s mischievous grin told Imryn that this wasn’t over.

Offering his hand to pull his brother back up, Imryn answered as though there had been no interruption, “I don’t think they would let our brother compete again if he threw the game this year. Even with Aurelia and Lady Isolde vouching for him, they barely let him shoot today.” Kiernan snorted, soothing his elaborately embroidered tunic back into place. “These are games in honor of Lady Isolde,” he said. “Do you really think the Mistress of the Hunt would allow her favorite Hunter to be banned?” “Isolde is not the only immortal present,” Esme murmured. Her dark eyes were fixed on the darker form of Lord Cassander lounging next to his bright brother, Lord Declan.

This was the immortal’s first appearance in public since King Eamon’s youth. Most of the people had no memory of him and knew him only from hushed stories around the hearth that warned children not to wander far or the Lord of the Night may snatch them away. The immortal's imprisonment for his crimes against their people would not last forever, the elders warned. Lord Declan favored his brother and would not see him punished long.

They had been correct.

Lord Cassander watched the proceedings curiously as the archers stepped up to their starting lines. An amused, bemused little smile tugged at his lips. He leaned in, as Imryn watched, to whisper something in his brother’s ear, drawing out a laugh that rang like windchimes across the stadium.

It was the perfect picture of a benevolent god indulging his silly little devotees in their efforts to please him as they ran around beneath him.

Imryn might even have believed it, if it wasn’t for the shade of grief and fear that darkened his grandfather’s eyes every time Lord Cassander was mentioned. King Eamon had lived his childhood under the unchecked reign of the Dark Emperor. As much as he strove to put on a welcoming show, Imryn sat close enough to the throne to see his trembling hands.

“Cyneric will shoot straight for sure, this time,” Kiernan predicted. He, too, had followed Esme’s gaze to Lord Cassander.

Turning his head sharply away from the lordly pair, Imryn grinned at his own little brother. “Oh, he always shoots straight,” he said. “It just depends on what he’s aiming for!” Kiernan threw his head back with a golden, tinkling laugh of his own. Esme shook her head in disgust at the both of them and sat up straight as the starting bell rang.

In the first few rounds, targets were set close, and the rings of the bullseye were wide. Cyneric had passed these levels before he even reached Imryn’s shoulder; there was no chance he would miss them now.

Neither, for that matter, would their cousins Aurelia and Evander. The three of them stood next to each other in the center of the line, commanding all attention as scions of the royal house. Imryn watched the spectators while he waited for the more difficult rounds. The two day Festival of the Hunt was one of their people’s most treasured holidays, and the capital always swelled almost beyond capacity for the celebration. Every venue was filled to maximum capacity.

Yet there were empty spaces on the benches. Kiernan sat close enough that the shoulders brushed not because he was shoved against Imryn by other people, but because he wanted to (because he felt safer when he was closer to his big brother).

The crowd should be boisterous and rowdy. Last year, Imryn had been called halfway through the contest to try to help contain their enthusiasm as they jostled against one another to point out particularly impressive shots, hooted their approval or hissed jeering boos, and surged to their feet to stomp and pound their fists against their chests.

A polite smattering of applause graced the first whistle of arrows through the air. People whispered their delight or discontent into each other’s ears rather than allowing it to burst forth.

The reason why was no mystery: even the most chary of the audience couldn’t help but dart discreet glances towards Lord Cassander.

Often, their eyes would then drift over to their own king, sat just a row below the immortal. King Eamon’s expression was as serene and jovial, as keen for sport and entertainment, as it was every year. Their people instinctively relaxed at his easy affability.

Imryn saw the crow’s-feet at the edges of his grandfather’s eyes deepen, and his foot tap in stress. Eamon may not want to alarm their people, but his apprehension couldn’t be hidden from his closest family.

It was so obvious, in fact, that Crown Prince Bellamy, Imryn's father, had insisted upon claiming a spot just a few seats away from both his father and the immortals in the box reserved for royalty. Free-spirited and impatient with court protocol, Bellamy usually preferred to join the crowd and leave his father and siblings to deal with visiting dignitaries alone.

The fact that he had stationed himself so close to King Eamon had not gone unnoticed by their people. Many did a double take on catching sight of his resplendent crimson robes among the other, more demurely dressed lords, and they murmured to their neighbors.

Bellamy’s sharp eyes followed the same path as Imryn’s across the crowd. Their gazes met briefly, and Imryn saw his own grim understanding of the situation reflected in his father.

The bell for the fifth round startled Imryn into glancing back towards the field, surprised at the quick progression of the contest. The first rounds always dragged on to accommodate the children and beginners who wished to participate. The rows of archers had looked full earlier, but clearly fewer people had volunteered than Imryn thought.

The real contest started at this point, and the rules of play slightly changed so that each marksman was now allowed only thirty seconds to take their shot. Fast paced and high stakes, the last few rounds were the most anticipated event of the entire festival. The marksmen had waited all year for this chance to prove their prowess, and the crowd always delighted in their feats.

Imryn frowned as he noticed a small trickle of people vacating the benches to meet the archers that had failed out of the earlier rounds.

Two rows down from where he sat, the parents of one of the few child participants were coaxing their little girl towards the exit even as they praised her performance.

“But I don’t want to go!” the child whined as her mother took her hand. “You let me stay and watch last year!” Her father answered in a tone too low for Imryn to hear, relieving her of the small bow and glancing surreptitiously around as he did. His eyes flashed from his little girl to Prince Bellamy, Lord Cassander, and then even up to Imryn.

A small, apologetic grimace twisted his face when he caught Imryn’s eyes on him, but he only dipped a shallow bow in Imryn’s direction and set his free hand on his daughter’s back to urge her out faster.

Kiernan’s fingers caught the sleeve of Imryn’s robe, hidden from view by the fall of the voluminous fabric. His little brother’s expression was perfectly placid when Imryn glanced at him, but the gesture betrayed his shock.

So quickly had the fear that pervaded their grandfather’s childhood returned with the pardon of Lord Cassander.

Esme leaned forward to grip Kiernan’s shoulder and, more covertly, to grab the wrist of the hand that was tangled in Imryn’s sleeve. “Cyneric will shoot soon; pay attention,” she said as a cover for the skinship.

Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, Kiernan nodded. His grip on Imryn went slack as Esme sat back again.

The sun glinted off of Cyneric’s hair as he lifted his bow confidently. Imryn had braided it this morning, twining a diamond-studded silver chain into his brother’s long blond hair.

The Hunter had complained good-naturedly about the extravagance, but he had preened as well, so Imryn assumed Cyneric didn’t truly mind. Watching Lord Cassander shift in the box, he wished he hadn’t added the trinket.

Cassander, Imryn had been told, had an appetite for luxury.

Cyneric’s shot hit dead center, and he stepped back with a satisfied smirk. Lord Cassander’s attention shifted to the gold circlet on Evander’s head as the other prince took his place. Imryn liked that no better.

Two more rounds passed quickly, eliminating most of the remaining competitors. The last archer of the seventh round left the field shaking his head with a chagrined expression as his arrow missed its mark by only a few centimeters.

As the contest attendants ran out to adjust the targets again, an impatient tsk cut through the buzz of the audience’s chatter.

“Does this little game get no more difficult?” Lord Cassander asked, his voice carrying due to the acoustic design of the box in which he sat.

The attendants stopped in their tracks.

King Eamon’s hands tightened on the arm of his throne, and Lord Declan frowned as he turned towards the other immortal.

“Brother, it takes no little skill to strike a target so far away with any level of accuracy,” Lord Declan protested.

The crowd, which had gone silent at Lord Cassander’s interruption, began to rustle with shifting robes and soft murmurs.

Lord Cassander waved an impatient hand as he said, “Yes, yes, but have you not grown bored watching repetitions of the same trick? Surely there are better ways to entertain.” The archers remaining on the field looked toward the Mistress of the Hunt for instruction, but Isolde only stared up at Lord Cassander with a clenched jaw.

“What’s he doing ?” Kiernan hissed under his breath.

“Nothing good,” Esme replied, too loud in the sea of whispers. Those sitting closest to her leaned away as though worried that they would be blamed for the disrespect.

“This contest is meant to display skill, not entertain,” Lord Declan said.

“Ah, but a true master would be able to adapt their skill to the situation, and this contest only shows competency in one technique,” Lord Cassander argued.

A few more of those seated on the ends of the benches slinked out of the arena.

“This is a time honored competition, brother,” Lord Declan rebuked, although he cocked his head to the side as though intrigued. “But perhaps there is some truth to your words. What say you, King Eamon?” Gripping his chair with white knuckles, Eamon kept his tone admirably level as he asked, “What do you suggest, Lord Cassander?” A slow smirk curled the immortal’s lips. “What about… moving targets? In my experience, it is significantly more difficult to strike beings that actively attempt to flee.” Eamon’s face went white, Kiernan gasped quietly, and Imryn’s heart missed a beat. Such blatant reference to Lord Cassander’s past deeds surely could not pass without rebuke.

Except Lord Declan didn’t seem to catch the insinuation. “The beast hunt is tomorrow, and we have no prey to shoot at,” he objected casually.

“Surely there is something that could be used.” Cassander’s gaze flickered down to the attendants, still frozen in the act of moving the targets. Several of them had paused mid-motion with the heavy stand tucked up in their arms so that the bullseye sat in the middle of their chests.

“Father—” Bellamy gasped, aware that both his children and his niblings had volunteered to help stage the contest. Whatever his relationship with his brothers, Prince Bellamy would protect their children, to say nothing of his own or his subjects.

“Thrushes!” King Eamon exclaimed with only the smallest note of panic in his tone. “Some were netted for the feast tonight. If we are quick, we may yet find a few alive with the cooks.” A flick of his hand sent his personal attendant running even before Lord Cassander’s delighted, “Perfect!” On the field, Lady Isolde called the volunteers back out of the range. Most of them disappeared immediately into the forest that edged the field. Many of the people huddling together on the benches eyed their escape enviously. If the crowd had been subdued and uncertain earlier, they were downright fearful at this twist.

Beast hunts for public entertainment were simply not done. Many of their people hunted, but there was something different about a stadium full of people cheering on the slaughter of an animal. Something unsettling. Although Imryn knew it was not uncommon in other kingdoms, it had never been their people’s way.

Time stretched as the dumbstruck audience waited for the return of the runner.

A vain hope (or was it a dread?) wandered across Imryn’s mind that perhaps all the thrushes would already have been killed. Preparing them took time, and dinner was only a few hours away. The cooks should already have butchered those they were planning to serve.

Yet the runner returned, panting and red-faced, with a cage full of flapping birds. A knot loosened in Imryn’s chest, even as a lady a few benches down from Imryn gasped in dismay. Her husband grabbed her hand and hissed a distressed plea for silence.

“Give them here.” Lady Isolde took the cage even as she spoke, and shooed the runner away.

Raising her voice to be heard through the crowd, the Mistress of the Hunt explained, “We will take this by turns. On the mark of the bell, I will release a bird, and you will have only one chance to shoot at it. Whoever kills their bird wins, even if there are multiple victors.” The five archers left on the field nodded solemnly and then broke ranks. Patting Evander on the back, they encouraged him out first.

Evander’s mouth was drawn into a thin, displeased line, but he took his place and raised his bow with steady hands.

Lady Isolde reached into the cage and snatched out one of the birds. Assuming that the bird would fly first for the safety of the trees, she had positioned herself across the field from the forest. When the bell rang, she threw the thrush up into the air.

The crowd held their breath as the small black dot flapped desperately to get its bearings, darted across the sky, and dove towards the trees.

Evander’s arrow flashed towards it just as it started to dip into the forest and went wide. Very wide.

The crowd collectively deflated, slumping back from where they had been quite literally on the edge of their seats. A few nervous laughs, born more from relief than from meanness, trembled in the air.

Watching his cousin shrug as though abashed, Imryn knew that Evander had not intended to strike the bird. The contest didn’t mean enough to him to outweigh his distaste for the concept of killing for sport.

The Huntress who stepped up to take the next shot had no such qualms, and came so close to striking her bird that it squawked in outrage and chittered angrily as it streaked away.

The next Hunter missed more spectacularly than Evander, though less purposefully.

Each time the whistle blew, the crowd shifted forward with bated breath, and each time the arrow missed, they momentarily relaxed. Even this routine had begun to wane by the time Aurelia stepped up. Three already had missed their mark. Surely no one would be able to meet this challenge.

That was until the princess aimed her bow, released her arrow, and clipped the bird’s wing.

The collective gasp was deafening.

With a terrible screech, the bird dropped from the sky. Its tiny body writhed in the middle of the field until Lady Isolde stalked forward to take it in her hands and snap its neck.

Imryn could’ve sworn the crack was audible from where he sat. Kiernan’s face went pale. The lady who had gasped when the birds were brought in burst into silent tears.

“Not quite a clean kill, but perhaps a winning shot,” the Lady of the Hunt announced.

Dipping her chin in acknowledgement, Aurelia swept across the field to the equipment room. No one stopped her from leaving before the contest was technically over.

Cyneric’s turn had come at last, but his attention had strayed. Running his fingers down the silver wood of the bow he had carved with his own hands, the prince stared at Lord Cassander.

The immortal met that fiery gaze with amusement and curiosity. His eyes flashed every few moments to the sparkle of the diamonds in Cyneric’s braid with an avaricious gleam, but the young prince had definitely caught the Lord’s notice for his own audacity. A cold stone sank in Imryn’s stomach as he realized that his little brother now had a target drawn on his own back.

Stepping up to the mark and nocking his arrow, Cyneric glared into Lord Cassander’s eyes. Only when the bell rang and the bird shot into the air did his gaze finally snap onto his prey.

Cyneric’s arrow flew, straight and true, directly into the heart of his target.