Wearing the shape of a small black cat, Verrier lazily groomed the toes of his right rear foot and watched the new arrivals with guarded curiosity. They stank of the<i>outside</i>to his peculiar senses, beings more alien than the Qlippoth for all their human shape. There were only four of them, though, still frail and still human. If need be, he could destroy them easily enough.<br/><br/>His nostrils flared. There was<i>another</i>alien presence in his domain. One that stank of iron and chaos. A stench he knew, but that he did not recognize.  So he rose with a stretch of his spine, yawning widely before setting out in search of his prey. It wasn’t hard to find, not with the reek of chaos in the air. Before his prey could react he lept, smashing it to the earth with one furry paw.  “And what brings you here, I wonder?”<br/><br/>The creature wore the shape of a mouse, wrapped with chains of fine steel. It struggled desperately, fighting to escape the implacable strength that held it. “I mean you no harm!” It cried. “I bear you no ill will!”<br/><br/>Verrier plucked at a chain. “Bound like this?  I would expect no less.”  His fangs gaped over the skull of the false mouse. “Who are you, trickster?”<br/><br/>“I am called the Puck,” the creature declared, shape rippling as it took on the form of a chain-girded serpent. Then it cried out in pain as Verrier slammed it’s fanged skull into the dirt. “And I come at the behest of Auberon, seeking the<i>Black Pearl</i>and it’s crew!”<br/><br/>“I know not this Auberon,” Verrier murmured, pressing the Puck’s skull harder into the dirt. “Tell me his message and, if I approve, then you may live.”<br/><br/><hr class="bbc-hr bbc-hr--3"/><br/>Colin watched Kieran coldly as he introduced Hareth. It wasn’t that the pirate had brought a date to the party - the invitation had made it clear that a “plus one” was acceptable, after all. No, it was Hareth himself. The man seemed likable enough, but their first introduction had been finding him in bed with Kieran. In<i>his</i>bed.<br/><br/>At least Hareth had the good graces to look uncomfortable. Kieran just stared at him, challenging him to say something.  He glared back, then opened his mouth to say something.<br/><br/>“Ah didn’t know y’all had an English cousin, Jackie.”  It was the younger Sam, a gamine creature whose presence he didn’t fully understand. But the sputter of outrage her statement provoked brought a smile to his lips.<br/><br/>“Kieran isn’t English,” he said, not bothering to hide the chuckle. “He’s Irish.”<br/><br/>“Oh.”  The young Sam considered that. “So he’d be Kieran McSparrow, then?”  She looked annoyed by the snickers the question provoked. “Ah mean, he sore ain’t no Apache, an’ every Irishman I’ve heard tell of got a name startin wit’ Mick.”<br/><br/>The doorbell rang. Samantha glanced at her husband, looking slightly puzzled. They’d only invited friends from work to the party, and everyone was here. Who could this be.  “Ah’ll get th’ door, this time,” she said. “Rate this is goin’, it’ll be another Erik.”<br/><br/><hr class="bbc-hr bbc-hr--3"/><br/>“This gentleman,” John said slowly, “doesn’t seem to qualify.”<br/><br/>Matthias the Traitor had been built up by Fayetteville as a literal demon. A genuine<i>actual</i>demon, wearing black armor and drinking blood and commanding a host of lesser demons. Something out of the stories of King Arthur. Not a big, horrified-looking man in homespun, with a visibly pregnant wife.<br/><br/>Okay. Maybe the glowing golden eyes didn’t look normal. But they sure didn’t scream ‘demon’.  Nor did the pack of armed teenagers backing him up as Faye advanced.<br/><br/>“What do you think, love?” he asked, squeezing Jenny’s hand. “He sure doesn’t feel like a candidate for the Locker. Hell, he feels like someone in the same boat I am.”  He paused, tensing as Faye gripped her blade with a scarred fist. “Figuratively, I mean.  And it looks to be getting lively.”<br/><br/>Faye had torn her blade from its scabbard and hurled herself at this Matthias. He didn’t move, but the teenagers did. One in particular, a brunette wearing a<a class="link link--external" href="https://cdn2.bigcommerce.com/n-d57o0b/i9yiyyy/products/2567/images/7910/renaissance_peasant_dress_90989__06962.1489703394.500.750.jpg?c=2" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">peasant dress</a>, lunged forward faster than he could follow and caught her wrist. Despite the difference in height - the girl was four or five inches shorter - she held Faye’s arm immobile.  “You don’t need to do this,” she said calmly.<br/><br/>“Yes!  I do!” Fay raged. “Do you know who he is?  What he’s done?”<br/><br/>“Yes,” the girl replied. “I do. I also know he helped kill Baath-Me’el, and that the goddess has granted him the hope of forgiveness.”<br/><br/>“Well I<i>haven’t</i>!” Faye snarled, struggling against the girl. She tried to kick her, only to have her booted foot slammed down by the girl’s slipper. “He’s a monster!”<br/><br/>John glanced at Jenny, and then at the two Space Knights. “I can’t help but feel we missed something important here.”<br/><br/><hr class="bbc-hr bbc-hr--3"/><br/>William knocked at the door, one he’d selected from the tow of townhouses by virtue of the fact that it had lights on. No need to start off on the wrong foot by waking someone up to ask for a favor, after all.  Rubbing his hands together, he hoped the response would come quickly. There was something odd in the air, and he’d have sworn the tall, tripod-like structures on the skyline weren’t there when they left the hotel.  “There really should be an easier way to do this,” he told Mercedes with a sheepish grin.<br/><br/>The door opened, revealing a square-jawed blonde in a sleeveless gold dress that revealed several old scars. She was, well, the word he’d use would be<i>handsome</i>, and something about her skin, muscular build reminded him of his sister.  “Guten Abend,” she said, her words flavored with an odd accent. Spanish, maybe?  “Kann ich dir helfen?”<br/><br/>“Ja, danke,” he replied, painfully aware of how limited his German was. The last time he’d used it had been to shout insults at the Wehrmacht in France.  “Mein Auto...”<br/><br/>“Yer a Yankee!” She interrupted with a laugh. “An’ yer German ain’t much better’n mine. What’s wrong wit’ yer car?”<br/><br/>“It, uhm, broke down,” he replied, startled. “The radiator sprung a leak, I think.”<br/><br/>The woman shook her head sympathetically. “Don’t that beat all. Well, come on in - y’all’ll catch yer death o’ cold, y’will. Y’kin join th’ party while Ah see if’n Ah kin flash a mechanic fer yeh.”  She opened the door.  “Sam Cav... Sam Schmidt. What’s yer name?”<br/><br/>“William Stone,” he replied. “And this is Mercedes Malone. Thank you so much for this, Mrs. Schmidt.”<br/><br/>“Nah, don’t you fret, it ain’t no bother.”  She added their coats to the full hooks by the door. “Might have ta get y’all a cab, though. Most shops’re closed, this time o’ night.”  Gesturing for them to follow, she headed for the sitting room. “Erik, hun?  Got us a couple extra guests here.”