(N is for No Relief for Sully and Nanmore Royal Pavilion Tram Shelter)[]
Old Finchley Tram Shelter
Near Nanmore bound Line,
Commonwealth of Toria,
Wednesday Evening, 7:15 P.M.
The salt-laced wind whipped around the slightly derelict Old Finchley Tram Shelter tugging at loose corrugated panels and whistling through cracks in its weathered timber and steel frame. More a forgotten afterthought than a functional part of the landscape, it stood plonked, almost apologetically, between the quaint coastal street of Hogan’s Gap and the more bustling Nanmore District. Its faded blue paint peeled away in sun-bleached patches, revealing the gray wood beneath, like an old bruise surfacing. Weeds tenaciously pushed their way up through the cracked concrete foundation, a silent rebellion against the shelter’s abandonment. The once proud lettering, proclaiming “Old Finchley Line,” was now barely legible, obscured by years of grime and the relentless assault of the coast weather. It was a ghost of a bygone era, a silent witness to the ebb and flow of life in this corner of the world, standing as a stark contrast to the vibrant charm of Hogan’s Gap and the bustling energy of Nanmore District. Yet, despite its disrepair, or perhaps because of it, the Old Finchley Tram Shelter held a certain melancholy charm, a story whispered on the breeze, just waiting to be heard.
“You know, they say if you listen real close, you can still hear the clank of the tram tracks,” Hornsby the licorne said, squinting through the smoke of his seed pod pipe. He sat on the bench outside the shelter, the sun casting long shadows across the lined equine face.
The young nezumi girl beside him looked up from her sketchbook, curiosity sparking in her her large eyes. “The Art Deco one behind us?” she asked, her voice filled with wonder.
Hornsby nodded, tapping the ashy bowl of his pipe against the armrest. “That’s the one. Back in the Yngvi times, this was the heart of the resort center, you know. The trams used to come through here, full of people dressed in their Sunday best, going to the grand theater or fancy restaurant along the Bridgenia Promenade.” He gestured to the now deserted terraced street where weeds and mosses pushed through the tiled pavement stones.
The nezumi girl’s curiosity grew. “What happened to it all?” she questioned, her pencil hovering over her sketch.
“The gods eventually punished them for their arrogance,” Hornsby said, his pale eyes misting over with the ghosts of memories. “Like the humes in the Tower of Babel story, the Yngvi built too high, too fast, didn’t pay attention to the wisdom of the past. They forced other sapient species into servitude to work in their colossal factories and opulent mansions. Then, from their very heart of their capital, the Great Yggdrasil Woods surged forth, and the Yngvi’s world crumbled. That was when the trams ceased to run, and the people fled. The earth consumed their splendor, leaving only remnants of the old Nanmore District.
The nezumi girl’s hand stilled, her pencil poised in mid-line. She could almost sense the burden of history pressing down on the once-majestic edifice. “But why does the shelter remain?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Hornsby inhaled deeply from his pipe, allowing the smoke to swirl with the dust motes in the air. “Well, some believe it stands as a reminder of what was, a monument to the folly of ambition. Others claim it’s haunted, that the spirits of those lost in the chaos linger here, waiting for a tram that will never return.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “But I reckon it’s just too stubborn to fall down. Like me, I suppose.”
The nezumi girl’s eyes widened as she took in the shelter’s fading grandeur, the intricate patterns of the Art Deco tiles chipped and faded, the metal and wooden framework bent but unbroken. She could perceive the beauty beneath the decay, the echoes of a time long gone. “What was it like, back when the trams were running?” she prompted, eager for more of the old licorne’s tales.
Hornsby’s expression softened as he reminisced about days gone by. “Oh, what a sight it was! The shelter sparkled, lights twinkled like constellations, and the trams glided silently through the streets, ethereal as phantoms. Laughter and chatter filled the air, with everyone dressed to impress, while the fragrance of fresh blooms from the nearby market wafted around. The whole world buzzed with potential, and this place was the threshold to it all.”
He took a thoughtful puff from his pipe, further drifting into nostalgia. “You could set your clock by the trams. They would rumble down the tracks, a rhythmic pulse of advancement. The conductor, a dapper chap named Charles McFeely always greeted the ladies with a smile and a courteous tip of his hat. The tram itself was a wonder, adorned in chrome and polished wood, with plush seats that embraced you warmly, even in the chill of winter. It was an era of grace, a time when the world felt newer and brighter, and the future was an untouched canvas waiting for the Yngvi brush strokes of innovation and beauty.”
The nezumi girl’s pencil danced across the page as she tried to capture the vibrancy of the scene he painted with his words. She could almost hear the distant echoes of laughter and the clack of heels on the worn pavement. “What was the last tram like?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the quiet rustle of the remaining leaves of the surrounding trees.
Hornsby leaned back, his eyes unfocusing as he searched the archives of his memories. “The last tram . . . it was a sad affair. The city was already changing, the people knew their days of glory were numbered. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and fear. The tram, it was the same as always, but the lights seemed to flicker a bit more, the chrome a tad less gleaming. The passengers were few, mostly stubborn holdout and old former servants like me, clinging to the past glories of Empire with desperate hands. As it pulled away, it felt like witnessing the final breath of a cherished friend.”
The Nezumi girl lifted her gaze from her drawing, her heart weighted down by his somber words. The sun sank lower in the sky, draping the shelter in a sorrowful light. She sensed the melancholy that enveloped them, a tangible aura that clung to the crumbling structure. “What happened to the people after the trams stopped running?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Hornsby paused, collecting his thoughts, the faint glow of his pipe illuminating the deepening shadows. “Well, they tried to rebuild, but it was never the same. The saplings from the Great Yggdrasil had taken root deep in the earth, and they grew fast. It’s said the old gods were displeased with the Yngvi and their Hualau servants for their arrogance. The city couldn’t keep pace with the relentless growth. It consumed the buildings, the streets, everything. As for the original people, they scattered to new places, starting anew. But the shelter remained, a silent sentinel to a world that was passed by.”
The Nezumi girl nodded, her pencil hovering above the paper. She had immortalized the shelter in all its decaying glory, the once-beautiful tiles now a mottled mess of greens and blues, the rectangular frame a twisted testament to the power of nature. She glanced around, envisioning the lively street of the past, and shivered as the first raindrops began to fall.
Nanmore Royal Pavilion Tram Shelter
10.5 mi away
9 P. M.
The rain intensified, each droplet striking the corrugated metal roof of the dilapidated tram shelter with a mournful cadence, reminiscent of a dirge echoing through the void. Within its shadowy confines, a solitary figure slumped in a timeworn wicker chair, shrouded in the dim light that flickered sporadically from the failing ceiling fixture. This shelter, once a proud emblem of hope and progress nestled in the vibrant heart of the Historic Nanmore District, now lay ensnared in the clutches of decay. Its once-vibrant Art Deco tiles, now peeling and faded murmured tales of a bygone era when the air was thick with the promise of a bright tomorrow, and the clatter of trams resonated like the very heartbeat of the city. Now only the mournful rumble of distant thunder filled the silence.
The figure within was a stark anomaly against the backdrop of ruins a pale elfin boy of perhaps thirteen, clad in the latest designer attire that seemed almost ethereal amidst the decay. His garments, a delicate fusion of shimmering silk and intricate lace, clung to his slender form with an unsettling precision. His eyes, resembling frozen sapphires, were wide and unblinking, mirroring the rain’s glimmer outside like twin pools of moonlit frost. Despite the autumn chill that seeped through the air, he wove only a gossamer-thin shirt, the fabric clinging to him as if it were a second skin.
There was an unsettling stillness about him, a watchful anticipation that felt akin to a trap set to spring. The atmosphere around him crackled with an unspoken tension, as if he were a tightly wound coil poised to unleash a torrent of energy at the slightest disturbance. The only sigh of life came from the sporadic twitch of his long fingers, drumming an erratic rhythm on the armrests of the chair, resonating with the storm’s tempo. His gaze remained fixed on the murky puddles forming on the cracked concrete floor, as if he sought to unearth secrets hidden within their depths.
The sound of footsteps drew near, each splashing tread a cautious murmur against the drenched payment. His pointed ears, which had sagged under the weight of countless disappointments, suddenly perked up with a jolt. Breath held tight in his chest, he felt the world around him still. The footsteps intensified, each echoing thud igniting a flicker of hope in his eyes, building with every raindrop that fell outside. He leaned forward, the chair creaking in protest at his sudden movement. The rhythm of the steps became unmistakable, a heartbeat in the silence. Yet, as the figure emerged from the shadows, his gaze sharpened, and the tension that had coiled within him unraveled like fog under the sun’s gaze. It was not the one he had been expecting. Once more, his ears drooped, and he slumped back into the weary watch of his vigil.
Behind the small figure, shadows thickened, the cold silver light resembling twin glacial pools growing ever more intense. They sliced through the darkness, sending icy tendrils of dread spiraling down his spine, despite his resolute stance. The rain had transformed the world outside into a bleak monochrome, and the shadows flickered upon the walls as if the very spirits of the forsaken tramway had awakened, yearning to reclaim the warmth of a forgotten time. Yet, he dared not turn, his gaze fixed on the expanding puddles that greedily swallowed the light, as if they were ravenous mouths eager to consume the secrets of the night.
Once more, the distant echo of footsteps reverberated through the desolate streets of the Nanmore District. This time, the rhythm was heavier, each step deliberate and laden with purpose. The youth’s heart quickened, a tremor of recognition coursing through him– this was different. His unblinking eyes remained locked on the archway of the shelter’s sole entrance, veiled by the relentless rain. His ears, once drooping in despair, now stood erect, attuned to the frequency of hope. Each footfall grew clearer, a ticking clock of anticipation making the seconds down to an unknown climax. The figure outside the shelter trudged closer, the weight of their presence palpable, a harbinger of something yet to unfold.
The footsteps grew more pronounced, the rain momentarily relenting to allow the sound to pierce through the din. He could almost sense the vibrations of the approach through the soles of his polished boots. Shadows behind him elongated, stretching toward the ceiling like dark fingers reaching for something just out of their grasp. The youth’s heart raced, frantic mouse thrashing within its confines as his eyes scoured the dimness for any flicker of movement.
Then, the footsteps halted abruptly, plunging the space into a silence so profound it felt as though the very air had thickened. The stillness was a stark contrast to the tempest raging outside, and he remained frozen, every sinew taut with anticipation, the weight of expectation pressing down upon him like a heavy fog. The only sounds were the rain’s relentless murmur and the distant growl of thunder, a harbinger of the chaos that loomed just beyond the threshold. The puddles at his feet quivered, the ripples radiating outward like whispers in a vast, unseen ocean.
With a sudden burst of anger, the youth hissed, the sound sharp and unnatural, piercing the quietude like a shard of ice. It was a sound that didn’t belong in the gentle melody of the rain– a serpent’s warning, a creature of the night’s cry of frustration. The puddles at his feet shivered again, and this time, the tremor grew into a full-fledged quake, sending ripples outwards as if the earth itself was responding to his agitation. The lights above flickered erratically, casting grotesque shadows that writhed and twisted like serpents on the wall.
Behind him, the shadows grew denser, coalescing into something more substantial than mere darkness. The dark cables swirled and twisted, taking on a life of their own, forming into a sinuous form that seemed to be made of the very fabric of the night. The entity was vast, its shadowy branch like tendrils reaching up to the low ceiling and stretching out to the rounded edges of the room, as if the shelter had suddenly been invaded by a living piece of the storm. Its eyes, two pockets of deeper blue, fixed upon the youth, seemingly in response to his fury.
Elya’s Hearth
Wednesday Evening
7:32 P. M.
Sully’s heart hammered as he pushed through the door, the sound of rain pattering against the metal awnings and dumpster, echoing in the alleyway. The warm, spice-scented air of Elya’s Hearth enveloped him like a comforting blanket, momentarily soothing his frazzled nerves. He stepped into the now dimly lit front lounge, half-expecting to find a couple of stern-faced officers waiting to grill him about the recent cooking material theft plaguing the area. Instead, he saw Simargl, the feathered dog dragon baker, and her mole man assistant, Barnaby, huddled over a steaming pot of tea at one of the round wooden tables.
The sight of them was a peculiar relief, but their furtive glances and whispered conversation filled him with a different kind of dread. Simargl looked up as he approached, her sharp eyes piercing through the shadows. “Ah, Sullivan,” she said, her voice a mix of urgency and honey. “We’ve been waiting for you. We need an audience with your mother.”
Barnaby nodded in agreement, his whiskers twitching. “Yes, it’s about something rather . . . sensitive. We wouldn’t want to bother her, but it’s quite important.”
Sully’s nerves tightened again, his mind racing. An oracle consultation? That could mean anything. But before he could ask for clarification, Ely, now in anthrop form, emerged from the back, wiping her massive hands on a dish towel. Her scales shimmered a warm gold in the soft evening light, a stark contrast to the tension in her eyes.
“Mom,” Sully began, trying to sound as casual as he could manage. “Simargl and Barnaby need to talk to you. It’s important.”
Elya nodded, her expression unreadable. “Send them back to my office, please. And keep an eye on the front, I’ll be busy for a while.”
Sully complied, escorting the two into the back of the café where his mother’s office was. The curved, elegant room was a cluttered mess of scrolls, crystal balls, and various mystical artifacts, the air thick with incense and the faint hum of a crystal singing bowl. Elya followed closely, her fringed tail flickering in agitation.
Elya took considerable time adjusting her bulk behind her writing desk, before regarding her two guests seated across from her.
“Now, what seems to be the issue?” she asked, her voice carrying an authoritative asked, her voice carrying an authoritative tone that usually sent humans scurrying.
Simargl hesitated, her bright feathers ruffling. “As you may know already, from the various papers, a possible outside source is sowing chaos,” she said, glancing uncertainly at Barnaby, who gave her a reassuring thumbs-up. “Various folk have noticed some troubling irregularities in their supply deliveries. Cooking utensils, costly ingredients, even finished products have gone missing, and the quality of what remains has been questionable at best.” She sat for a minute regarding her clenched fists before looking up at Elya. “Last week, forty of my best berry pies were taken out from underneath our very noses! And in broad daylight too! It’s a devastating blow to our bakery’s reputation and financial stability. Well, we are asking for your help to find out who’s exactly responsible.”
As he lingered in the hall, Sully felt his heart plummet. Could it be that Odor’s thieving had extended to his mother’s suppliers? He tried to keep his face neutral, but his eyes darted to the burlap sack still sitting by the rear door. The last sack he forgot to give Odora minutes earlier.
O, MAMKA MY!
Elya’s gaze soon spotted him, she frowned then slowly followed the direction of his fixed stare. “What’s in that bag, Sully?” she asked, her voice low and measured.
Sully swallowed hard. “Just some . . . uh, stuff I found. Thought maybe it could be useful,” he improvised hastily.
Elya’s frown deepened, and she gestured to the bag. “Let’s see it.”
Sully reluctantly pulled out the hat boxes, his heart racing. “They’re just some extra hat boxes, Mom,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Though we could use them for . . . for decoration or something.”
Elya’s gaze remained on the sack, unconvinced. “Decoration?” she repeated, her voice a low rumble. “Interesting choice for a dragon, who doesn’t even wear hats.”
Sully’s mind raced. “I– I know it’s weird, but I thought they could hold . . . uh, snacks? Or, or maybe we could start serving fancy desserts that match our mystical theme?” He tried to laugh it off, but it came out forced.
Elya’s gaze didn’t leave the hat boxes. She took a deep, measured breath. “You’re hiding something, Sullivan,” she said, her voice a soft warning. “And I’d prefer not to have to pull it out of you with my claws.”
Sully felt the heat rise to his cheeks. “It’s nothing, Mom. Just . . . stuff.” He hoped his voice didn’t betray his lies.
Elya’s gaze never left the sack. “I think it’s time we had a little talk, don’t you?”
Sully’s eyes darted between the bag and his mother. He knew he couldn’t lie to her. Not in front of the guests who were now staring at him in growing suspicion. Not about something like this. “Look, it’s just some stuff I found,” he admitted. “Odora had them, I just didn’t want to leave them out there.”
Elya’s frowned grew more severe. “Odora?” she murmured, her tail swishing behind her. “The pooka? What does she have to do with our supplies?”
“Yes, I would like to know that too,” Simargl’s amber eyes narrowed. “It’s no secret that Odora is quite the . . . acquisitive soul. We’ve all had our share of shining things disappear around her. But if she’s been pilfering from us, that’s a serious concern. We rely on those supplies for our livelihood, and Elya’s Hearth’s reputation is also at stake here.”
Sully’s throat tightened. “I– I didn’t even know she was taking from here. I swear, Mom. She’s just a friend, and I didn’t think . . . “
Elya’s eyes narrowed. “Friend or not, you know better than to get involved with Odora’s schemes. She’s been a thief and a trouble maker since she was hatched.”
Sully swallowed hard. “I didn’t know she was involved in these thefts. I just helped her move some stuff, I didn’t know it was stolen. I’m really sorry.”
Elya’s eyes narrowed even further, the room seeming to shrink with her growing anger. “Sully, you know better than to trust that pooka. She’s one of Tod Winnokur’s lackeys, always looking to swindle or pilfer whatever she can get her claws on. And now she’s brought her thieving ways to our doorstep?”
Simargl nodded solemnly. “Indeed, she’s been known to associate with that unsavory character. It’s no surprise she’s involved in these thefts. But what concerns me most is the implication for us. If it’s know we’re connected to her . . .” She trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.
Elya’s tail slapped against the floor, sending a tall stack of scrolls toppling to the ground. “We can’t have our reputation tarnished by association. We need to figure out how to handle this before it escalates further.”
Sully’s shoulders slumped. “So what do we do now, Mom?” He glanced nervously at Simargl, who was watching the exchange with a mix of concern and simmering anger. “Do we go to the Council? The police? Or do we look for Odora first?”
Simargl loudly snorted like an industrial vacuum cleaner. “Look for Odora?” she said with a gesture of deep scorn. “In this wretched weather? We’ll all catch our death of this Fimbul cold!”
Her feathers fluffed up and she shivered dramatically. Elya’s gaze didn’t leave Sully. “We’ll deal with Odora later. First, we need to figure out the extent of the damage. Who else has been hit?”
Sully’s mind raced, trying to remember Odora’s earlier bragging. “I– I think she mentioned The Spicy Dragonfly, and . . . The Goblin’s Griddle. And maybe some of the street carts in the Kecksies District?”
Elya’s expression grew darker. “Tod’s influence reaches further than I thought. This isn’t just simple case of theft anymore; it’s a declaration of war on our communities. And he’s using your friendship with that pooka to get to us. You need to be careful, Sully. Tod’s not a High Elf to be trifle with even though he’s still in middle school. His family still has a lot of influence around here.”
Sully nodded solemnly, his mind racing with the gravity of the situation. He had always known that Odora was a bit of a trickster, but he never thought she would drag him into something nefarious like this. He felt a twinge of betrayal, but also fear for his mother’s safety. If Tod was involved, it meant that the thefts weren’t just about greed, but about power and control.
Elya’s tail continued to swish as she thought. “We’ll need to be cautious. I’ll reach out to the other victims and see if we can pool our information. Maybe together we can piece together where these supplies are being taken to and cut off the source before it causes more damage. But Sully, you stay far away from Odora for now. We don’t need any more trouble then we already have.”
Sully nodded somberly, his heart sinking into his stomach. He wondered how exactly he was going to cancel next weekend’s get together with her at the pizzeria. “I understand, Mom,” he said eventually, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll stay clear of her.” He couldn’t believe he’d been so naive.
(O is for Odora’s Rendezvous)[]
Historical Nanmore District
Hogan’s Gap, Old Town Section
Commonwealth of Toria
9:30 P. M.
Odora shivered as a deep chill crept through her thick fur, the rainwater beading on the tips of her large ears and tail as she hurried through the deserted streets of Hogan’s Gap. The solar-cell lamps flickered overhead, casting long distorted shadows that danced and stretched like the nightmares in her storybooks. Her newly purchased rain boots squeaked with each squelching step, leaving a trail of dark footsteps on the shiny cobblestones that gleamed wetly under the moonless sky. The tram shelter’s lone flickering overhead beckoned her like a lighthouse in a stormy sea. Tightening her grasp on the bulky pie sack, she quickened her slogging pace, eager to escape the dampness that clung to her like a second skin.
Unlike the Old Finchley Shelter, Nanmore Gate was little more than a shell, its glass windows all shattered and the metal frame tagged with the remnants of a hundred spray-painted gang and sigil symbols. The corraded walls were plastered with peeling posters of forgotten “rubbish hipster” concerts and numerous lost pets, their eyes staring back at her with accusatory glares. As she approached, the silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of someone stirring within.
Odora’s grip tightened on the sack of pies. The instructions from Tod had been clear: deliver the pies to Jarvis at the bus shelter and then leave. After Jarvis made the exchange with the witches, he’d bring her the game chip. By the way her fur stood on end suggested that something had gone wrong. Her instincts had never her astray before, and she wasn’t about to let them down now.
The sounds grew louder as she approached, the rhythmic creaking of something moving in the shadows. Odora’s eyes narrowed, and she slipped behind a nearby dumpster, peeking around the corner at the shelter. A figure slowly emerged, hunched over and awkwardly moving, like it was trying to shed an invisible rain poncho. It was definitely not the small silhouette of a teenage elfin boy. More like a gangly shadowy something from one of those horror shows she wasn’t supposed to watch at home.
Her heart hammered in her chest as the creature took shape. It was tall and emaciated, tight gray skin that looked like it had been stretched over a framework of thorny bramble branches. Two pupil-less eyes, glowing like embers in a flickering campfire, peered out from a mess of dark stringy hair. It had to be a spriggan, one of the Grub Street witches’ auxiliary henchmen. But why was he here? The exchange was supposed to be simple: she gives the pies to Jarvis, he takes them to the witches, she gets the game chip. Now the plan was unraveling before her eyes.
Odora’s claws dug into the wood bracing of the dumpster, her breathing slow and shallow. The spriggan was definitely not Jarvis, and he was definitely not happy to see she hadn’t yet made an appearance. He snarled, his numerous teeth like sharpened twigs, and took several paces into the street. She could envision the pies in their separate boxes, piled higgledly-piggledy in the sack, still warm and fragrant. The witches had wanted something special for their banquet tonight, something to win their favor, and now it was all going to be ruined.
The creature’s eyes swept the area, passing over her hiding spot. Her heart thudded in her chest, but she remained still, her fur plastered to her body in fear. The spriggan paused, his long hooked nose twitching as if he’d caught a scent. Odora’s breath caught in her throat, but the creature grunted and turned away, disappearing into an nearby alleyway. She waited, her long tail twitching with anxiety, until she was sure he was gone. Only then did she dare to peek out from behind the dumpster.
The shelter was empty, save for the lingering smell of something rotten and mildewy. Odora’s eyes darted around the area, searching for any sign of Jarvis. But all she saw was the rain continuing to fall, the puddles on the cobblestones reflecting the flickering lights like a shattered mirror. Something was definitely off, and she couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. The instructions had been clear: deliver the pies to Jarvis, no deviations.
Fine! She decided, finally fed up. Not sure where Jarvis lives so I’ll just leave the pies at the shelter then. If Tod asks me about it, I’ll just say I heard Jarvis moving about in there.
Odora’s thoughts raced as she crept closer to the shelter, her heart pounding in her chest. She had to be smart about this. If she could just leave the pies and get the game chip without being caught, everything would be fine. But as she approached the doorway, the sounds grew clearer. It was definitely someone– or something– still moving around in there. Her stomach twisted with a mix of fear and annoyance. Another spriggan? Great! I’ll just chuck the bag into that freakin’ shack and leave then! Frack this whole game chip idea! Forget Tod, Jarvis and everyone else in that poshy, layabout, slacker Eloi crew!
But as she drew closer, she could make out the unmistakable crunch of gravel underneath shoes and a sound of a wooden chain groaning under immense weight. That wasn’t part of the deal. She peered through a gap in the shadows, her eyes soon widening with shock as a brown-garbed figure stooped then slowly emerged from the doorway. It was taller, leaner and more menacing than the spriggan she had seen earlier, its hair a twisted tangled crown of twig-like quills, with eyes like cold pale ice that seemed to pierce right through her. It had to be one of the Grub Street witches themselves, a head lieutenant judging by its height and hair length.
Odora stumbled a few steps back, her bulging eyes frantically searching for Jarvis cowering form behind the creature looming up like a weathered gibbet tree. If she was facing the worst-case scenario of an unexpected meeting with the Witch Molls then she had no intention of facing them alone.
“H-h-h-h-ello,” she finally stuttered out. “I-I’m here with a delivery for Jarvis.”
Odora’s fur stood on end as she stared up at the parchment-skinned face, her heart racing like a jackrabbit’s in a hound’s sights. The creature’s slow tight grin was more terrifying than the stormy night around them, a twisted smile that promised lengthy trouble and quite possibly, perdition.
“Ah, yes, the delivery,” the witch croaked like a massive heron, her pale eyes flickering to the bulging burlap in Odora’s stiff arms.
“Jarvis is . . . indisposed at the moment. But I assure you, your pies will be in good hands. I am Moog. I will take them off your . . . paws,” She stepped closer, her bony hand reaching out.
Gritting her chattering teeth, Odora quickly slipped the sack from her aching shoulders and thrust it at the angular form.
“Well, I’ll be on my way then,” Odora, taking another step back. But Moog’s hand shot out, grabbing her small arm with a strength that belied her rail-thin appearance. The witch’s grip was a vise, and she didn’t flinch as the frigid rainwater ran down her desiccated skin and into the deep crevices of her deeply seamed palm.
“Not so fast, dearie,” Moog cackled, her bear trap grin widening. “You’re just in time for the autumn festivities. I insist you join us. After all, you’ve brought the main dessert course.”
Odora’s eyes widened in terror as the witch yanked her effortlessly around towards the shelter’s yawning mew. “But . . . but I just wanted to drop these off and get the game chip!” She protested, her voice shaking. “I’m not here to make trouble . . . “
Her knees quivered as she faced Moog’s glacial pools-for-eyes. She tried to tug her arm free, but the grip was like frozen iron. “P– please, let me go,” she stuttered. “I’ve done what I was told. Just give me the game chip and I’ll leave you to your . . . festivities. I don’t want any part of this!”
“Ljósálfar and his kinfolk make great trouble with us, makes great trouble for you too,” Moog simply stated, her grip on Odora’s arm unyielding. “But you’re not just anyone, are you? You’re Christy, Bray and Silas’s little foundling. And we all know how protective cynocephalies are of their own despite their origins.”
Odora froze. “How did you know about Mum and grandparents?”
Moog’s smile broadened, showing filed teeth sharper than the shards of glass that lined the shelter’s windows. “We know much about those who dwell in our city, dearie. Much more than you might think. Now, come with me. You shall be our guest of honor at tonight’s banquet. After all, we must thank you for bringing us such a delightful offering.”
Odora’s stomach turned, and she felt a cold sweat break out along her spine. She had always heard the muted whispers about the Ymir Troll Witches, the way they ruled the underbelly of Yggdrasil Territories with a mix of fear and dark ice magic. But she had never imagined herself face to face with one, let alone in their subterranean lair. The bus shelter, she realized with a start, wasn’t just a meeting place; it was a checkpoint to their hidden world, a main gateway to the notorious Grub Street.
Moog tugged her closer, her grip like a tight manacle. “Don’t worry, dearie,” she crooned. “You’ll be quite safe with us. After all, we wouldn’t want to upset your folk . . . especially Silas, now would we?”
(P is for Party Plans & Pacts)[]
Shore Groves Heights
Between Hogan’s Gap & Murre let
Wednesday Evening
10:48 P. M.
It was late at night, and the storm outside was relentless. Bill and Willy exchanged worried messages, their shell phones beeping like frantic crickets in the dark.
“You still going?” Willy texted, his words stark on the glowing screen.
Bill lay on his bed, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. He glanced at the screen, where the message blinked ominously then at the darkness outside. The heavy rains pounding against the panes seemed to increase that feeling of dread in him.
Turning back to his phone, he took a deep breath. “Not sure,” he replied, his stubby thumbs over the keys. “The vibe is just . . . off.”
Willy’s response was immediate, filled with anxious emojis and colorful question marks. “Yeah, I knew you mean. It’s like someone forgot to tell the universe it’s just a party.”
Bill nodded to the empty space, his reflection in the rain-spattered window nodded back. “Exactly. And all those Terrean kids in the Kecksies District, they could use a bit of cheer after what happened to Hualau-Urth.”
Willy’s owl avatar popped up on Bill’s BlogCubes, startling him. “You’re right, Bill.” It hooted out a green speech bubble. “They’ve all had it rough, especially the ones who lost their homes to the AI/robot uprising.”
The latest Mirror Earth crisis had finally displaced thousands of people from their Real space Dimension, forcing them to integrate into the neighboring Midgard dimensions. The various multiverse governments, including the Faerie Territories had promised them shelter and upmost support, but the reality was starker than the shadows lurking outside both boys’ windows.
“You know what?” the owl avatar suggested. “Maybe we should give all our invites to those Terran kids.”
Bill thought a minute, his calloused thumb hovering over the screen. “You think they’d want to go?” he eventually replied. “Lately, Tod’s becoming a Purist, Speciest jerk. He might not appreciate it.”
“Well, it’s about time he learned a lesson in inter-dimensional respect and empathy, don’t you think?” Willy shot back, the words appearing in a burst of yellow. “Right now, they’ve got nowhere to go, and Halloween’s supposed to be for everyone else, not just the cool elite kids who think they own the night. Besides, it’s not like we’re obliged to go to this thing anyway, right?”
Bill sighed deeply as he thought about his own mandatory obligation to Halloween fun last year. The rain had turned the world outside into a blur of gray, the droplets racing down the window like ghosts fleeing an exorcism. “You’re right. But how do we even approach them?”
The new students from the Kecksies District had largely kept to themselves, their hollow eyes haunted by the horrors of the Mirror Earth crisis that had ripped them from their familiar world and thrown them into this unfamiliar, uncaring one.
“Just be cool about it, yeah?” Willy’s response was swift, his words appearing in a comforting blue. “We can tell them it’s all for charity or something. Maybe even throw in some candy corn to sweeten the deal. They’ve got to be desperate for a bit of fun in all this mess, right?”
The conversation grew as other friends chimed in, their avatars and user names popping up like a ghostly chorus in the groupchat. A few of them Bill recognized–Gwen Barry, Irene Dawson, Jeffery and Ethel Maher, Thomas Lutz, Midori Sayuko along with her identical sisters– Oyuki and Mai . Even Alex Thompson, seemed to put his sabotage revenge plans on hold, offered up a new idea. “Why don’t we tell them it’s a special VIP event? That we’re giving them the chance to be the first to experience something that they’ll remember fondly for years to come?”
“VIP?” Bill typed back skeptically. “They’re probably never heard of that here. And we can’t just hand them over to whatever freak show Tod’s cooked up!”
Willy’s reply was quick. “Okay, okay. How about we say it’s a cultural exchange? They get to experience over Halloween, we get to learn about theirs. Maybe throw in some educational value?”
Bill couldn’t help but snicker. “Yeah, sure. And what exactly are we going to learn from a bunch of scared refugee kids who probably heard about the 2005 Mass Causality Events in the Outer Root Reaches? They’re probably going to think we’re going to sacrifice them Harvest Home-Style to the Old Gods?”
Willy’s response was swift and firm. “Look, we can’t just ignore them. They’re really scared and alone right now. If this party is going to be messed up, then we should at least give them a safe, fun alternative. And if not, then we can always bail and take them somewhere else. We can handle it. Besides, we’ve got Alex and even Jasper Cullis on our side now. They got brains and guts, they’ll think of something.”
Alex’s icon popped up on their chat, his armored Sith avatar looking unusually thoughtful. “Guys, I’ve got another idea. What if we turn this into something positive? Like, we offer to show them around, be their tour guides through our version of the holiday. Maybe even throw in some ghost stories from their own culture and make it a real exchange, you know?”
Bill stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the screen. “I don’t know, man. That still feels like we’re using them to ease our conscience about going to this overblown High Born party. What if it’s dangerous?”
Willy’s response was immediate. “If it’s dangerous, we can just stick together. We don’t have to go into Tod’s house if there’s an outdoor venue. And if anything weird does happen, we can just get them out of there. Maybe even take them trick-or-treating around the various shops. For Kvasir’s sakes, they’re just innocent kids, Bill! They’ve already been through enough adult-spawned hell as it is.”
Alex nodded in agreement. “And we might just be their first friends here. They really need this. Plus, it’ll be cool to learn about their various traditions, right?”
The others murmured in digital assent, the idea of being heroes in the eyes of the Kecksies kids too tantalizing to resist. They had all heard the whispers about the Terrean kids’ ghost stories, the kind that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up and your eyes dark around the rooms, searching the corners for shadows that didn’t quite belong.
It was the kind of thrill they had been craving since they had first heard various news reports about the Mirror Earth crisis, a chance to be part of something real and frightening.
They quickly sighed out, the excitement of the plan buzzing in their veins like a potent elixir. As Bill turned in, the rain had turned into a misty drizzle, the kind that clung to your skin like a damp velvet cloak. He didn’t even notice an old burlap sack in the nearby wynd, shifting slightly as if something within it was trying to get free.
(Q is for Queen’s Orders)[]
Grub Street Sector
Wednesday Evening
10:48 P. M.
Moog leaned down, pressing her dried, withered face closer to Odora’s, her smile a twisted knot of thorns. “Like I told you before,” she said, her voice a dry rasp that echoed in the deserted shelter. “Jarvis is otherwise engaged, but your delivery is most welcome. You see, we have plans for those pies.”
Odora’s eyes darted around the shelter, searching for a way out. The rain had picked up, turning the cobblestones street into a river of shimmering black. “I . . . I just need the game chip,” she stuttered. “Tod’s waiting.”
Moog’s grip tightened further as she straightened to full height. “Ah, yes. The game chip. It’s a rather special item, isn’t it?” She cackled, her eyes gleaming with malicious intent. “But it seems your dear old grandpa had other plans for you, my dear. You see, he slipped a little something into one of the pies, a surprise for your dear Tod Winnokur.”
Odora’s eyes widened in horror as Moog’s words sunk in. “What . . . what do you mean?” She choked out, trying to pull away from the witch’s sharp-nailed grasp.
Moog’s smile stretched to her ears. “Why, your Grandpa Silas had quite the surprise in store for your lil’ Gentry friend. One of these pies is filled with a delightful blend of lamia venom and snowdrop berries. A deadly cocktail for even a scheming Ljósálfar like Tod Winnokur.”
Odora’s heart sank, and she felt the weight of the world crash down on her small shoulder. “N–- no,” she whispered, her eyes watering. “Grandpa wouldn’t have done something like that . . .He couldn’t have done it because . . . “
Moog’s cackle echoed through the damp shelter. “Oh, but he did. You see, your grandpa has a soft spot for you, young pup. He knows what you’re capable of, and he also knows that Tod Winnokur is not the friend you need. He’s a sneaky Gentry with a silver fork tongue and a penchant for using other . . Like some of the Hualau you’ve been hearing about on the news, the ones who wrecked half their own world and found themselves stuck in Nâströnd. Well, tonight, we shall show him the true face of friendship.”
Odora felt sick. She had been used. The pies, the game chip, it was all a big setup. But she couldn’t let this happen. Not to Jarvis. Not like this. “You’re lying!” she shouted, trying to pull away while still clutching the pie bag. “Grandpa wouldn’t do something like that!”
Moog yanked her back, her smile fading to a stern line. “You’ll see for yourself,” she hissed, and with a flick of her stringy wrist, she sent a burst of shadowy energy at the bag. The top whipped open as well as the neatly packed hat boxes, revealing the berry pies inside, all normal coloring–except for one. That particular one, the largest and most tempting of the bunch, glowed a sickly pale yellow. The scent of the sweet apple mixed with a bitter undertone of something foul made Odora’s stomach churn.
Panic flooded her as she realized the gravity of the situation. “You can’t do this,” she pleaded, her eyes never leaving the tainted pie. “Please, let me take it to him. I’ll tell him not to eat it.”
Moog’s smile remained fixed, a chill death-like mask of delight, as she pried the bag from Odora’s frozen fingers. “And ruin the fun with your immediate arrest? I think not,” The chill damp air thickened with the stench of her foul breath as she leaned in, her eyes gleaming with fathomless hungry.”Lil’ cub, you will accompany me, and you shall witness the fate that befalls those who dare to challenge the ones who rule Nanmore.”
Odora half expected a portal to suddenly form on the shelter’s far wall. Instead Moog’s leathery grip began to drag her into the same shadowy alley the spriggan guard disappeared down earlier. Odora’s eyes widened as she realized that the alley was no mere street, but an entrance way to Nanmore’s hidden world. The walls of the ally soon stretched and twisted like taffy, the wet cobblestones giving way to a dark, loamy earth. The stagnant air grew thick with the scent of damp soil and something sweetly rotten, the signature aroma of dark magic. She stumbled to her knees, her legs now refusing to move of their own accord.
Moog’s hawk-like grip was unyielding as she hauled Odora back up and half-dragged her through the narrow, twisting passage. The massive walls were now lined with the twisted roots of ancient glyph trees, their numerous runic symbols glowing with an eerie bioluminescence that painted everything in a sickly blue-green light.
The air was filled with whispers, the murmuring of incantations and faint conversations, and Odora could feel the weight of countless unseen eyes upon her.
After following a long sinuous path, the two of them finally emerged into a vast cavernous chamber, the high vaulted walls lined with ancient interwoven caring that twisted and writhed as if alive. The air was thick with the smell of incense, and the sound of soft chanting grew louder with each step they took. At the center of the room, a large oak table groaned under the weight of various gourmet food and piles of vintage Baroque trinkets, surrounded by a coven of witches. They were a motley crew, with skin in shades of mottled gray and lichen green with large eyes that glowed like embers in a smelting furnace. But the most striking of them all sat regally at the head of the table–the Supreme Queen Moll of the whole Nanmore Witch Kingdom. Her gleaming eyes matched the polished onyx of the carved throne beneath her. Her skin, a perfect blend of a moonlit pallor and ethereal glow, was as smooth as the surface of a lightly polished cameo. A seeping crown of intricately woven vines and shimmering crystals adorned her slender head, each gem casting a flickering rainbow of colors onto the ancient, cracked stones of the chamber floor. Her long, flowing hair danced around her shoulders, a spiraling pattern of silver and black strands that looked as if they were alive, moving of their own accord like the tendrils of a curious octopus. Her court, a motley assembly of spectral figures, hovered around the edges of the room like moths drawn to a flickering flame. Each member, a creature of the night, dressed in finery that seemed to be made from the very fabric of the night sky itself– silk and velvet ranging from red-gold to jet-black, adorned with threads of silver and gold that glimmered like stars in the gloom. Their voices, though muffled by the heavy increase and the witches’ chanting, carried a melodic quality.
Odora, her heart hammering against her ribs with an intensity that felt almost suffocating, gathered all her courage and dared to peek past the looming figure of the lieutenant who stood as a formidable barrier between herself and the Supreme Queen.
The very mention of the Supreme Queen sent shivers down spines and ignited vivid imaginations. Odora had heard whispers in shadowy school and market corners, murmurs wrapped in fear and excitement; tales that spoke of unimaginable power wielded with an iron fist, of beauty so breathtaking that it could shatter the sanity of mortal men who dared to gaze upon it, and of a ruthlessness so profound that it could freeze even the sun in its fiery course. Yet despite the weight of these stories, Odora held to her skepticism, dismissing them as nothing more than exaggerated fables spun by frightened lips seeking intrigue in danger rather than realities rooted in truth. But now, the truth loomed before her, a dark specter demanding acknowledgment.
Odora’s legs felt like jelly, and she had to force herself to bow as Moog presented their guest. “Your Highness, we have a delivery from Silas Geert’s kin and a little messenger bird tells me she’s quite the clever one herself,” Moog croaked, her rictus smile never leaving her face.
The Supreme Queen’s gaze bore into her, a mix of curiosity and cold calculation. “So, you’re the one who’s been causing such a ruckus upstairs?”
Odora’s ears flattened against her skull, her heart hammering like a drum in her chest. “I . . . I just wanted to make a delivery,” she mumbled, forcing herself to stand upright.
The Supreme Queen’s didn’t waver, and Odora felt like she was being dissected under a microscope. “Ah, but the pie you brought with you holds a much greater purpose than mere sustenance,” she said, her smile a chilling crescent.
Odora’s thoughts raced as she took in the cavernous chamber. It was like nothing she had ever seen, a place where the line between the natural and the arcane blurred into a haunting tapestry of shadows and whispers. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of Jarvis, but all she could see were the grotesque forms of the Court as they sneered and whispered to one another, their eyes glinting with malicious amusement.
“Hey, lil’ pup!” Moog snapped her spindly fingers inches from Odora’s snout, the sharp report echoing throughout the massive grotto. Her voice, a grating rasp, dripping with disdain. “You face the Supreme One when she’s addressing you! Show some respect, you insignificant whelp!”
The cool, melodic voice cut through Moog’s venom. “That will do, Lieutenant.” The words were almost a whisper, yet they carried an undeniable weight of authority that instantly silenced the lieutenant and drew all eyes back towards the speaker.
“Come closer, child,” The Supreme Queen said, now in a voice like the chime of distant bells.
Odora, limbs trembling, obeyed. Each step felt weighted down by the significance of the moment. She could feel the lieutenant’s burning gaze on her back, practically scorching her skin.
When she was a few feet from the throne, the Supreme Queen raised a slender hand, adorned with rings of shimmering bone. One long, pale finger beckoned her closer still. “You are the Gelerrts’ ward, yes?”
Odora swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she managed to croak out.
The Supreme Queen observed her for a long moment, her gaze unblinking, unsettlingly perceptive. Odora felt like a butterfly pinned beneath glass, her every flaw magnified and examined.
“Lieutenant tells me you lack . . . respect,” the Supreme Queen finally said, the corner of her lips twitching slightly. It might have been a smile. Or a prelude to a storm Odora couldn’t tell.
“I . . . I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, Your Majesty,” Odora stammered. “I was . . . just . . . surprised.”
“Surprised?” The Supreme Queen raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “At what, child? At the fact that a Supreme Queen has more pressing matters than reprimanding a clumsy initiate?”
The lieutenant gasped, a sound like air escaping a punctured bellows. Odora wanted to sink through the floor. How was she supposed to answer that?
“At . . . at finding all this, Your Majesty,” she blurted out, gesturing around. “I thought . . . I thought it would be more like . . . a modern office . . . that you would be surrounded by guards in pinstripe suits and fedoras with guns and having secret Mobster ceremonies and . . . and things . . . like out of The Godfather. Not like . . . like a High Faerie Court.”
The Supreme Queen chuckled, a low, melodious sound that sent shivers down Odora’s spine, but not the fearful shivers she expected. These were . . . almost pleasant. “We are not of the Hualau Realm, nor are we imitators like the bogeys and other mere ‘nursery sprites’ of the night. And as for Hualau melee weapons . . . they are often more trouble than they’re worth.” She leaned forward, her gaze intensifying. “Tell me, Odora, what do you think a Supreme Ruler should really be doing?”
The question hung in the air, heavy with implications. Odora knew this was a test, a crucial moment that might determine whether she or even Jarvis survived this experience. But how to answer? Speak her mind and risk offending the most powerful witch moll in Nanmore? Or offer a platitude and appear insincere?
She looked deep into the Supreme Queen’s ancient, knowing eyes, searching for a hint, a clue, anything that would guide her. And then, an idea sparked, fueled by a sudden surge of defiance.
Odora straightened her shoulders, met the Supreme Queen’s gaze unflinchingly, and spoke. “I think,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady, “that the Supreme Queen should be doing whatever with best protects her people, whether that’s sitting on her throne issuing decrees, or . . . or fighting along side them when necessary.”
The chamber fell silent. The lieutenant stared at Odora, her ghastly face a mask of horrified disbelief. Odora braced herself for the inevitable explosion of righteous anger.
But the Supreme Queen didn’t explode. Instead, she smiled. A genuine, luminous smile that transformed her face completely. And in that moment, Odora knew she had passed . . . something. But what?
Odora swallowed another hard gulp as her tail rapidly curled around her ankles, her voice barely a whisper. “May I go now? I just wanted to deliver these pies to Jarvis, your Majesty, in order to get a game chip,” she stuttered, her eyes never leaving the Supreme Queen’s mesmerizing gaze.
The Supreme Queens leaned back in her throne, the shadows playing across her sharp features, casting them into an eerie yet mesmerizing pattern. “Ah, the chips,” she said, her voice a velvety purr that seemed to caress the very air around it. “Such a trivial mortal thing in the grand scheme of things. But let us not get ahead of ourselves.”
Odora’s eyes darted to the tainted pie, now placed at the center of the table, the glowing green one taunting her. “What are you going to do with that?” she whispered, her voice shaking with fear. “Is Jarvis here?”
The Supreme Queen waved a dismissive hand. “Your friend, the elf, he is quite safe– for now. But his fate is in your hands, your pooka pup. The pie you brought here is not just for our amusement, but for a demonstration of loyalty and obedience. If you wish to see him again, you will serve the pie to its intended recipient as agreed. Do this, and perhaps we can discuss his release.”
Odora felt her fur bristle with anger and fear. “What are you saying? That my grandpa wanted me to . . . to . . .”
“To what, dear?” Moog leaned into her vision, her smile pulled back revealing the entirety of her filed set. “To save your friend from his own elvish greed? Or perhaps to show him the price of deceit?”
Odora felt sick. She had been a fool, a pawn in a game she didn’t even know she was playing. “Is that all you wanted me to do?” she demanded, her voice stronger than she felt.
The Supreme Queen’s smile grew even more terrifying. “Just that you will serve that pie according to the instructions by your dear grandfather, Silas. You will watch as it fulfills its intended purpose and you will learn the prize of elfin arrogance and disobedience. But fear not, my dear. Your participation will be rewarded. You will be granted the game chip you seek, and perhaps even a place at our table should you prove worthy. But should you fail us, well, let’s just say your fate and that of your comrade, will be far less sweet than the pies you gifted us with.”
Odora’s mind raced. The very thought of serving the poisoned pie to Tod was repulsive, but the alternative was unthinkable. Her eyes flickered around, searching for a way out, a spark of hope. But she knew she was trapped, with no choice but to play along if she wanted to save Jarvis. She took a deep breath, trying to still her racing heart, and nodded. “I’ll do it,” she whispered, her voice trembling with anger and fear.
The Supreme Queen’s smile parted, revealing long teeth that gleamed like polished bone. “Good girl,” she cooed, leaning back on her massive throne, and the Court murmured softly in approval. Moog stepped forward, handing Odora a neatly tied linen package with a flourish. “Remember, you must serve it to him and bring us back a token of his demise. Only then will your friend be released unharmed.”
Odora took the pastry bag with trembling paws, the weight of the situation pressing down on her like a mountain. “I understand,” she murmured, trying to keep the revulsion from her voice. She instantly froze when she felt a leathery grip on her shoulder, and then Moog leaned in, whispering into her ear, “Remember, dearie, that you are being watched. The eyes of the Nanmore Court are upon you.”
Odora nodded stiffly, her paws feeling cold and clammy around the tote bag. She knew what was at stake: Jarvis’s life, her own freedom, and potentially, feeling the full fiery brunt of the Nanmore Witches’ wrath. With a heavy heart, she turned to leave, the weight of the situation pressing down on her like a dark massive shroud. The exit stairs seemed to stretch on forever as she climbed back to the surface, the muffled sounds of the Court’s cackling following her like a haunting melody.
As she emerged from the shelter, the rain had turned into a monsoon torrent, the wind howling through the narrow streets. The light from the flickering lamps painted everything in a ghastly pallor, and she felt as though she was moving through an endless nightmare. But then she saw her: a girl with way hair as red as a poppy against the gray of the night, standing underneath the ancient oak tree that had been her intended meeting point with Jarvis.
Odora’s heart leaped at the sight of the girl. She was a stranger, but she looked kind– or at least, as kind as anyone could in this treacherous part of town. Driven by desperation, Odora approached her, holding out the bag. “‘Scuse me, Miss, I need your help,” she begged, her voice barely audible over the storm. “But could you please do me a favor?”
The girl looked up form her spot under the ancient oak, her eyes wide with curiosity. She looked about fifteen or sixteen, and dressed in an outfit that seemed plucked straight from a history book– a long simple skirt with a white apron, a lace-up bodice, and a shawl that clung to her shoulders despite the rain. Underneath her ruffled white cap, her red hair was plastered to her slim, pale face, but she seemed unfazed by the weather.
Odora stepped closer, the bag in her hand feeling heavier than ever. “Could you do something for me, Miss?” She pleaded, her voice strained. “Take this to Tod Winnokur, he’s waiting for it.”
The red-haired girl looked up at Odora, her eyes sharp and piercing. “Why can’t you take it to him yourself?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
Odora’s mind raced for an excuse, her heart thundering in her chest. “I . . . I’m not allowed,” she stuttered. “My grandparents, they don’t like me to be out in the rain, and . . . and . . . they don’t like me going over to Tod’s place. They don’t trust him,” she admitted, which was definitely the case with Grandma. As for Grandpa, she remained uncertain in spite of what the witches had said. It wasn’t like she could ask him either . . . given his present condition.
The red-haired girl studied her for a moment, her eyes a piercing shade of emerald that seemed to see right through Odora. “Very well,” she said finally, taking the package from her trembling paws. “But know that I expect to be paid back for this favor. You never know when you might need the help of a stranger.”
Odora nodded fervently, not caring what the price was as long as it meant saving Jarvis and keeping the truth from the witches. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice thick with unshed tears.
The red-haired girl tucked the package into her market basket, her eyes never leaving Odora. “What’s your name?” She asked gently.
“Odora Gelert,” Odora replied, the name feeling like a whispered secret in the stormy night. “And yours?”
The girl tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a slight pointed tip. “I’m Fiametta,” she said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Fiametta McLachlan. Now go, get out of this dreadful rain before you catch your death, and let fate unfold as it will with your pie.”
Odora watched as Fiametta turned and disappeared into the night, the pie nestled in her basket like a newborn in a cradle. She felt a strange sense of relief, as if by handling over the burden, she had somehow lifted a great weight from her shoulders. But the guilt remained, a sour taste in her mouth.
(Q is for Quilla’s Tale) []
5555 Badger Bend Road
WrenChester, Murre let City Section, CA
Wednesday Evening,
11:48 P. M.
At the immaculate, two story, gourd-framed house of the Tullugaq, nested along the Orth River and just minutes from Turwick Lake, Twistle was engaged in a phone conversation with Jasper Cullis on. She had been eagerly anticipating his incantation party, an event that promised to enchant even the most hardened skeptics with a touch of the mystical. However, family obligations took precedence, particularly when it came to Kiki. Her little ten-year-old sister had been practicing for months for her Halloween concert at the primary school, her eyes shining with the excitement of a young performer eager to take the stage.
“I’m really sorry, Jasper,” Twistle said, her hand tracing the intricate carvings on the ancient wooden chair she sat in. “It’s just that Kiki’s been so excited for her concert. She’s even got a solo in the spooky choir. You know how much this means to her, especially after . . . well, after everything that had happened last year . . . with the weird smerge going down in Terrapin Junction.”
The silence on the other end of the line was thick, and Twistle could almost feel Jasper’s disappointment through the Faire phone. “Yeah, I get it,” he said finally. “I know you’re worried about any potential arcane mishap. But this incantation party is going to be epic, Twistle. You can’t afford to miss this. Plus, you’re like the star guest! You’ve got the full Faerie lineage, after all.”
Twistle sighed, her heart torn between her love for the arcane and her duty to her family. “I know, Jasper. But Kiki . . . she’s been through a lot. And this concert means everything to her. I can’t just bail on her, not now. Maybe we can reschedule the incantation party? Or you guys can record it for me on Echo Viewer?”
Jasper’s voice took on an edge of desperation. “But Twistle, there’s going to be a full moon on Halloween! The energy will be just perfect for the rituals! You can’t miss this!”
Twistle’s grip tightened on the shell receiver. “I know, Jasper. I know. But family comes first. Maybe I can sneak in a quick incantation or two before the concert starts . . . if there’s enough time to spare?”
Jasper’s sigh was palpable over the line. “I guess that’s something. But you’re really gonna miss out on the real show. We’ve got some serious mojo lined up, Twistle. You know, my family doesn’t mess around when it comes to this stuff.”
Twistle rolled her eyes. Jasper and his incantation parties, always trying to out compeat Tod in the most rad and hair-raising Halloween-themed Hoopla. Sure, the Cullisons were entertaining in their own peculiar way, but she always had a soft spot for Kiki’s concerts. Besides, the last thing she needed was to zapped by one of Jasper’s half-baked spells.
“Look, Jasper, I’ll do what I can, okay?” She promised. “But I really can’t let Kiki down. She’s been practicing for weeks, and she’s so excited about this concert. It’s her first solo performance, and it really means the world to her. You know she’s had a rough time after using that banishing spell against a fire witch. She needs this, man!”
Jasper sighed dramatically, the sound like a wind through a hollow tree trunk. “All right, I get it. But you’re gonna miss out on something big, Tulla. We’re not just playing with parlor trick incantation here. This is the real deal. We’re summoning something ancient, something powerful. The kind of stuff that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and your knees wobble like Jell-O . And you’re gonna be stuck listening to some squeaky-clean school play?”
Twistle felt a pang of doubt as well as growing annoyance. Like Tod, Jasper did have a flair for the dramatic, but there was something in his tone that made her stomach clench. What if this year’s party was more than just a spooky show? What if he’d really found a way to tap into something genuinely eerie?’
“Look, Jasper,” she said firmly. “I’m not saying I won’t help out at all, but I can’t just blow off Kiki’s concert just because it’s not in the coolness category! She’s been practicing her flute solo for months. And after everything she’s been through with her beginning magic, she really needs this win.”
Jasper’s voice grew quiet, his usual bravado gone. “Okay, okay, I get it why your sister’s solo’s so important. Really sorry for the pushiness. It’s just . . . well, I don’t want to come off as alarmist, but . . . don’t say I didn’t warn you when the world ends and it’s because you weren’t there to save it with us.”
Twistle rolled her eyes again, trying to ignore the niggle of concern that squirmed in her stomach. “Well, I’m pretty sure the Midgard World will keep on turning without me at your party, Jasp. But thanks for the apocalypse-prepping, anyway.”
“Just saying, you know. The upcoming full moon’s going to get the spirits all riled up. Who knows what might happen?” Jasper’s voice took on a cryptic edge, the kind that made her want to both laugh and check under her bed for monsters.
“I’ll keep that in mind while I’m clapping and bellowing ‘encore’ for Sis’s solo,” Twistle replied, trying to keep her tone light.
Jasper chuckled. “Fine. But if you change your mind, you know where to find us. Just follow the scream and the bright green and red fireworks.”
The call ended with an abrupt click, severing the connection and leaving Twistle feeling a stranger mix of relief and trepidation. Carefully, she set the heavy receiver back in its cradle, the action echoing in the sudden silence of the room. Turning back, a knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach as she noticed her mother standing in the doorway. The matriarch’s usually neatly arranged quilly, feathery crest was flared out wildly, bristling like that of a startled porcupine. Her sharp, hawk-like features were scrunched into an expression of severe disapproval, etching deep lines around her eyes and mouth, a look Twistle knew all too well.
Oh gods! She inwardly groaned, bracing herself for the inevitable lecture. Here we go again, she thought, the familiar dread washing over her as she prepared to defend her actions.
“You’re not actually going to that Gentry boy’s party, are you?” Mrs. Tullugaq said, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Twistle swallowed a retort, knowing that defiance wouldn’t be winning her any points. Instead, she adopted a tone of feigned innocence. “Jasper’s not just some Gentry boy, Mom. He’s in the same seventh-grade classes as I am. And it’s not just some random part, it’s a cultural exchange. Besides, we’re going to be with the Terrean kids from the Kecksies. It’s for a good cause, and it’s going to happen after we go to Kiki’s concert.”
Mrs. Tullugaq’s stern gaze didn’t waver from Twistle as she approached the chair, her steps deliberate and heavy. “Twistle,” she began, her voice a warning, “I don’t like the idea of you messing around with arcane summoning magic that you don’t understand. And what’s this nonsense about a Sack of Nightmares?”
“Nothing, Mom,” Twistle hurriedly blurted out. “Just some local urban legend they keep going on about at school.” Her cheeks flushed, realizing her conversation with Jasper had been overheard through the Faire phone’s ancient intercom system that connected the house’s lower levels. She had forgotten how easily sound could carry through the intricate network of tunnels that crisscrossed the rough-textured walls. “It’s not like that, Mom. Jasper’s a bit like Tod. He’s mostly talk and little action. Besides, I’m going to be at Kiki’s concert like I’ve promised. She’s counting on me!”
Mrs. Tullugaq’s frown deepened, etching lines into the corners of her large dark eyes. She sat down heavily at the cluttered writing desk, the ancient office chair groaning in protest despite her light weight. Pens, papers, and half-finished artcrafts fought for space on the surface. She swivelled around in the chair, its squeak a familiar sound filling the small round room, and fixed her gaze on her daughter. Reluctantly, Twistle stared up at her mother, her own expression a guarded mix of defiance and apprehension, The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, a silence that was soon broken by Twistle blowing a feathery strand of hair out of her face. “Mom’s, it’s just a party,” she insisted. “Besides, Bill and Willy will be there, and they know all about that spooky arcane stuff. They’ll keep me safe, I promised!”
Mrs. Tullugaq’s expression remained unconvinced. “Jasper Cullison’s parties are no ordinary parties, Twistle. His family’s been stirring up trouble with that dark magic for generations. And with the full moon coming in a couple weeks . . . it’s just not wise to get involved.”
Twistle’s long quills rippled between red and chartreuse, feeling the weight of her mother’s concern. “Mom, I know you’re worried, but I’m not going to miss Kiki’s concert for anything. If she doesn’t do well, it’ll crush her spirit. You know she’s still sensitive about her magic after the fire witch incident. This concert is her chance to shine and regain her confidence. Please, can’t we just focus on that?”
Mrs. Tullugaq sighed heavily, the sound a low, weary rasp in the otherwise quiet residence. Her eyes, the warm brown of polished wood, drifted to the flickering LDL lights that decorated the round windows. Each little spark seemed to mock her fading hope. She had hoped that Twistle, with the resilience of youth, would eventually outgrow this insatiable fascination with Jasper’s arcane shenanigans, the whispered lore that clung to him like the scent of damp earth and old moldy paper. But the girl’s curiosity remained as sharp and bright as a freshly honed blade, cutting through her attempts at gentle discouragement. With a resigned expression etched over her face. She began to speak. Her words, slow and deliberate, were like threads being pulled from a dusty tapestry, weaving a tale of old grievances and darker times.
“The feud between the Cullisons and the Winnokurs goes back centuries, Twistle. It’s not some school yard squabble, not a matter of simple disagreement. It’s something to be taken seriously, something to be remembered, even,” Mrs. Tullugaq said, her voice dropping to a low hum that seemed to vibrate in the very air. Her eyes became distant, unfocused, as if she were peering through a veil of time, the events she described unfolding once more before her inner eye. “You see, there was once a maid, a young woman distantly related to the Cullison family. A human/fae girl named Fiametta. A delicate flower, some said, though I always thought she had more spine than the lot of them put together. She worked for the Winnokurs, back when they were still a grand noble in the time of the Golden Courts of Faerie. Before the Schism, before the Great Retreat, before all of this . . . “ She trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the swirling nebula of a distant biophilic city outside, a city built on secrets and shadowed by the remnants of a magical past.
“The Cullisons weren’t as wealthy as the Winnokurs,” she continued, returning to the narrative. “They certainly didn’t throw the lavish balls or indulge in the scandalous excesses that were the Winnokur’s trademarks. But they were respectable throughout the region, known and admired for their charitable work. They tended to the sick, fed the hungry, and offered shelter to the lost. Also, they weren’t in the habit of oppressing their working class neighbors with violence and countless legal violations. A small detail, perhaps, but one that makes all difference when you’re on the receiving end of a Winnokur’s ‘justice.’”
Tullugaq nodded, her own thoughts swirling like smoke. Yeah, I know where this going, she thought, the weight of history pressing down on her. The predictable tragedy, the predictable injustices. Every family had its ghosts, and the Cullisons and Winnokurs had a veritable legion. And knowing Jasper, he was probably sitting on a powder keg, fiddling with the igniter.
Mrs. Tullugaq’s expression grew grim as she continued. “So you can imagine the shock and horror when the townspeople found her one autumn morning hanging from one of the ancient oak trees near the Nanmore Gate, a noose of twisted elfin fabric tight around her neck. Her eyes were open, staring at something only she could see, and her mouth was frozen in a silent scream. The air itself seemed to weep that day, the leaves falling not with the gentle grace of autumn, but with the frantic desperation of drowning men grasping for straws. The entire village held its breath, a collective gasp of disbelief and impending dread. News of Fiametta’s death spread like a wildfire, carried on the wind and whispered in hushed tones behind cupped hands. The Cullisons, understandably, were devastated. They saw it for what it was: murder, cold and calculated. And they pointed the finger, squarely and without hesitation, at the Winnokurs.
“The Winnokurs, of course, denied everything,” she said, her voice hardening the gentle rasp replaced with a sharper edge. “They claimed it was a suicide, a tragic consequence of Fiametta’s fragile mental state–a lie so blatant it stung the air.
"They used their wealth and influence to bury the truth, to manipulate the investigation, to ensure that no one was ever held accountable. The local constabulary, bought and paid for, declared it a closed case, citing ‘lack of evidence’ despite the glaring inconsistencies and the mounting whispers of foul play.” She paused, taking a slow, deliberate breath, in a bitter frown. “That was the beginning of the true hatred, Twistle. Not the minor disagreements or petty rivalries that had existed before, but a deep, festering wound that has never healed. The Cullisons vowed, a blood oath sworn under the very oak tree where Fiametta had died. And the Winnokurs, arrogant in their power, simply laughed.”
Mrs. Tullugaq shifted in her chair, the faint creak of the worn fabric echoing in the silence. “The Cullisons, lacking the Winnokurs’ extreme wealth, couldn’t fight them in the courts, couldn’t match their influence. She they turned to other means. They became masters of shadow, of subtle sabotage, of whispers in the night. They learned to use the very magic the Winnokurs disdained, the wild, untamed magic of the earth and the old ways. They struck back, not with brute force, but with precision and cunning, slowly chipping away at the Winnokurs’ power and prestige. A ruined harvest. A tainted bloodline. A series of . . . unfortunate accidents. Nothing that could be traced back to them directly, of course, but enough to send a clear message.”
She looked directly at Twistle now, her brown eyes filled with a sorrow that seemed to stretch back through generations. “And so it went, Twistle. A tit for tats, revenge for revenge, escalating over the centuries. Each generation inherits not only the wealth and titles, but also the hatred and bitterness. The details change, the players evolve, but the underlying theme remains the same: an endless cycle of violence and retribution. And Jasper . . ." She sighed again, heavier this time. “Well, he’s playing with fire, along with the rest of the family. It’s always the same thing every Halloween, when the veil between our world and the spirit realm thins, when that vengeful anger is at its peak. That’s when the Cullisons hold their incantation parties, using the old ways to amplify their spells and curses against the Winnokurs. It’s a never-ending cycle of spite and malice.”
Twistle listened, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and fascination. She had always known Jasper was a bit of an oddball, but she had never imagined his family history to be so dark and entangled. The thought of him dabbling in such powerful and dangerous magic sent a shiver down her spine.
“But why would Jasper want to keep this feud going?” Twistle asked, her voice trembling slightly. “What good can come from all this anger and sadness?”
Mrs. Tullugaq’s eyes grew distant again. “It’s not just Jasper, Twistle. It’s the Cullison bloodline. Shortly after Fiametta’s tragic end, the family discovered she had left behind something more than a curse. That ‘Sack of Nightmares’ Jasper kept blathering on about, it’s not just some symbolic bogeyman. It’s actual a conduit. It’s said that it holds her very essence, the embodiment of her pain and betrayal. Every Cullison who has held it has claimed to feel an eerie power, a seductive whisper of vengeance. It’s become a twisted source of strength for them, a dark treasure they believe gives them power over the Winnokurs. They’re held onto it for generation, feeding it with their own anger and resentment.”
Twistle felt a knot in her stomach tighten. “But why would Jasper want to be a part of this? He’s not some Nanmore witch boy going to sic some ancient cursed artifact on Tod!”
Mrs. Tullugaq’s gaze dropped to her hands folded in her lap. “Jasper is a Cullison, Twistle. Whether he knows it or not, he’s been born into this cycle of bitterness. The feud runs deep in their veins, like a river of shadows that shapes who they are. And it’s not just Jasper I’m worried about, Twistle. It’s the power that’s attracted to those who meddle with forces beyond their understanding. What with the full moon coming, combined with the Halloween spirits, is a potent cocktail for trouble. I don’t want you caught up in something you can’t handle.”
Twistle leaned forward, her hands clasped together. “Mom, I know what I’m doing. I’ve studied enough ether tutorials and protocol booklets to know when to stay clear of the darker spells. Besides, I’ve got Bill and Willy looking out for me. They’re practically walking encyclopedias of how to handle the arcane stuff. If anything goes wrong, I know they’ll step in.”
Her mother’s expression softened slightly. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, Twistle. You know how much your sister’s concert means to her. And to us. We need to support her, especially after the fire witch attack.”
Twistle nodded somberly, understanding the gravity of her mother’s words. The fire witch attack and the overwhelming banishment spell that followed had shaken the entire family, leaving Kiki scarred both physically and emotionally. Her budding magic had always been a but . . . unpredictable and the resulting firefight had left much of the family’s art studio and library in ashes. Since then, Kiki had retreated from her magical studies, focusing instead on her musical talent, and this concert was her way of reclaiming a piece of her identity that had been snatched away by fear.
“I know, Mom,” she said solemnly. “I’ll be there for Kiki. But I’ll also keep my eye on Jasper and the others. If anything feels off, I’ll leave, I promise. Besides, I’ve got my own magic to keep me safe. Remember the time I turned into a honey badger to scare off that kiyote that was threatening our chickens?”
Twistle grinned at the memory. “So, can I go?” She asked, hope glinting in her eyes. “I promise, Mom. I’ll be there for Kiki first, and then, when I go to Jasper’s, I’ll be safe. I know the risks, but I can handle myself. I’ve got a few Changer tricks up my sleeve, after all.”
Mrs. Tullugaq’s expression grew stern once more. “No, and that’s final. Twistle, I need you to understand. The Cullisons have a history of meddling with forces that should be left alone. It started with the death of one Cullison relative, and continued on with many more deaths into the modern era. As I said before, it’s not just a story. It’s a curse that’s followed them for generations. I don’t want a member of my family to be claimed by this curse.” She reached out and gently took Twistle’s hand, her fingers rough and calloused. “This isn’t a game. This is a war that had claimed countless lives and destroyed families. And I fear that if Jasper’s not careful, he’ll become just another casualty. Promise me, Twistle. Promise me you’ll won’t go to that party!”
She must have noticed the reluctance in her daughter’s eyes because she tightened her grip on Twistle’s hand. “Promise me, Twistle. For Kiki, for your father, and for me. No unsupervised Halloween parties. Everyone’s stays together safe and come straight home after the concert. You can deal with Jasper’s . . . interests . . . another time.”
Twistle took a deep breath, feeling the gravity of her mother’s words. She knew her mother’s fear was genuine, and she didn’t want to add to the family’s troubles. With a heavy heart, she nodded. “Okay, Mom. I promise. I’ll be there for Kiki, and I won’t go to Jasper’s party.”
Mrs. Tullugaq’s eyes searched Twistle’s face, looking for any hint of deceit. Finding none, she gave her daughter’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Twistle. I know this isn’t easy for you, but it’s important. Your sister needs you right now, and I know you’ll make the right choice.”
But Twistle’s mind was racing, her thoughts swirling like ragged leaves caught in a storm. As she lay in bed that night, the whispers of the ancient feud echoed in her dreams, twisting into nightmares that left her trembling and drenched in cold sweat. She saw Fiametta, the maid in her mother’s story, pale and drenched in rain and muddy grime, her eyes hollowed with despair, holding a shadow-draped bundle that resembled a large flour bag. Then without warning, the burlap bulged and writhed in her pale arms, the grubby fabric stretching and straining as if something within was trying to break free.
Twistle gasped as the sack grew to monstrous proportions, filling the small servant’s quarters she stood in, its knots unraveling to reveal a gaping black maw rimmed with numerous small teeth and many glowing eyes that stared into her very soul. She could feel the thing’s hunger, a ravenous emptiness that craved the pain and fear it had been fed for centuries. It reached out to her with tendrils of darkness, instead of the expected deep growls and hisses, it emitted a far more dreadful sound-- like the anguished cries of a wounded rabbit or the wails of a forsaken infant.
Twistle sat bolt upright in her bed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The room was bathed in moonlight, casting eerie shadows across the floorboards. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet landing on the ice-cold floor. The rain had stopped, leaving only the mournful hooting of an owl outside her window. Her hand trembled as she reached for her phone, the screen casting a sickly blue glow over her bedroom.
On the far wall, the vintage Felix the Cat clock read 3:00 A. M., a time that held an eerie significance into the lore of their town. The witching hour. She padded to the window, pushing aside the curtains to look out at the moon. It hung in the sky, nearly full and heavy, casting a silver light over the quiet street.
Twistle pulled down the curtain, her mind a whirlwind of urgency as she frantically typed a message to Bill and Willy. She needed to alert them about Jasper’s party, the ominous sack, and the sinister creature hiding inside. The words poured from her like a rushing river, her thumbs flying across the screen as if possessed . After hitting ‘send’, she held her breath, anxiety tightening her chest, eagerly awaiting their responses.
But the phone remained silent, the screen a cold, unblinking eye that offered no comfort. The signal was weak, the bars flickering like candles in the wind. The storm had most likely taken a toll on the town’s Weave Conflux communications, and Twistle’s messages hovered in the ether, unsent. She tried again and again, each attempt met with the same maddening silence. Her mind reeled with the images from her dreams, the thing’s thin, keening wails echoing in her ears like an air raid siren.
The clock’s pendulum tail quietly waved away the minutes, each second feeling like an eternity. Plan Two– Operation Landline’s effective immediately. Throwing on her robe, she then cracked open her door and began tiptoeing downstairs, the wooden stairs creaking beneath her feet like an ancient beast awaking. Upon entering the kitchen, she soon discovered it was already occupied. Her father sat at the kitchen table, a steaming cup of red clover tea in his brown calloused hand, staring out the bay into the dark drippy night. He was mostly likely still brooding over the loss of his extensive library and perhaps the incessant rain that had led to a sudden increase in his plumbing work, especially in the Kecksies District.
The brownie looked up from his tea, his large dark eyes heavy with unspoken concerns. The kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of a stained-glass pendant lamp, casting a warm, comforting light against the backdrop of the chilly night outside. She approached him quietly, her robe swishing around her ankles, the floorboards cool and smooth beneath her feet. “Dad,” she whispered, “You’re up early.”
Mr. Tullugaq took a sip of his red clover tea before turning to face her. His eyes searched her, as if seeking the storm clouds that had surely followed her down from her room. “I couldn’t sleep, poppet,” he murmured. “The rain has been causing trouble with the pipes again.”
Twistle nodded as she leaned against the counter, the coldness of the wooden surface seeping into her skin. In these older homes, it was common for plumbing issues to increase when the rain began to fall. She wrapped her arms around herself, attempting to contained her anxiety. “Dad, I’ve been trying to text Bill and Willy, but the signal is all messed up. “Do you think it’s because of the storm?”
Mr. Tullugaq placed his tea with a gentle clink. He took the phone from her, squinting at the screen. “It appears so,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He leaned closer to the window, peering into the inky night beyond. The rain had stopped, but the clouds still clung to the sky, refusing to unveil the stars. “The storm’s quite severe. It could have disrupted one of the communication towers.”
Twistle observed him, his silhouette framed by the faint moonlight. “But what if something is more than just ordinary?” She asked, her voice small. “What if it’s an influx of dark energy or a Hualau-Urth attack . . .” Her voice trailed off, but the unspoken words lingered in the air, heavy with dread.
Her father turned back to her, his expression one of concern and confusion. “A what? Twistle, what’s going on?” He got up from his seat. “Why, you’re shaking. Is it Tod Winnokur again?”
“Yeah,” she admitted. “And also that Jasper Cullison. I’m really worried he’s going to try to call up something up at the Halloween party he’s got planned– something really awful.”
Twistle took a deep breath. “I had a really bad nightmare about that Cursed Mutant Sack of town legend. Only it wasn’t just a bunch of old nightmares. It’s something far worse. Something alive. I think it was that abused maid Fiametta, you know, the one from the story, she made a curse artifact in revenge for the Winnokurs’ bad treatment. And Jasper’s family is going to use it in some kind of ceremony tonight at his party to finally get back at the Winnokurs! Maybe even wipe them out completely!”
Mr. Tullugaq’s expression grew graver. He set her Faire phone with a thunk. “Twistle, you can’t be serious. That’s just an old wives’ tale, something to scare children into behaving.”
“But Mom just told me that sick story, and it felt so real!” Twistle’s voice trembled, her eyes wide with fear.
Mr. Tullugaq sighed, his expression weary, “I really wish your mother just dispense with digging up the sordid past. These are just stories, cautionary tales to keep us safe from the danger of overindulgence and dabbling in things we don’t understand.”
“But Dad, the look on Mom’s face– she looked absolutely terrified!” Twistle protested, her voice quivering with urgency.
Mr. Tullugaq sighed again, rubbing the wiry stubble on his chin. Well, it’s understandable. She nearly lost you and Kiki to fire witch possession. No wonder she’s on edge. But sometimes, we let our fears get the better of us. We make connections where there are none, especially when it comes to these old grim legends. That’s all they are, poppet– just legends. Now, let’s get some sleep. You call talk to Bill and Willy tomorrow at school, all right?”
Twistle’s eyes searched his weathered brown face, looking for any signs of doubt, but all she found was his usual stoic calm. She knew he didn’t believe her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, that her mother’s words held a dark truth. “But Dad, what if it’s not just a story? What if Jasper’s family is really going to do something terrible?”
Mr. Tullugaq’s gaze softened, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. “Twistle, your mother and I are just trying to protect you. We don’t want you getting caught up in some foolish prank Jasper or even Tod’s cooked up. Besides, it’s just a regular party. Surely they wouldn’t do something so . . . dangerous and idiotic that would earn them a visit from the MIBs as well as the Reunited Kingdom Constabulary and Arcane Governance. Just to be on the safe side, you’ll try to stay away from both those two houses come Halloween, okay?”
Twistle nodded reluctantly, her mind racing with thoughts of the sack and the ghastly contents it contained. Despite her father’s reassurances, she couldn’t shake the images of Fiametta’s wan despairing face from her mind.
“Okay, Dad. I’ll stay away from Jasper and Tod and their parties. But what if something happens to Bill and Willy and all those Terrean kids they’re showing around?”
Mr. Tullugaq’s expression grew serious. “If something really does go wrong, they’ll be sensible enough to leave. You know how Jasper as well as Tod are all bluster and no bite. Now, let’s get some rest. We’ve got a busy couple of weeks ahead with various errands and preparing for Kiki’s concert. I’m sure everything will sort itself out by tomorrow.”
With a heavy sigh, Twistle trudged back up the stairs, the weight of her fears and uncertainly pressing down like lead bricks on her shoulders. She slid back into bed, the warmth of her down comforter a stark contrast to the chill in the air. She lay there just staring at the rough ceiling, the whispers from her dreams playing a repeat in her mind. Her ears pricked as the Felix clock waved away the moments, each one seemed louder than the last, as the old house creaked and groaned around her, the renewed storms outside seemingly a reflection of the turmoil within.
The house seemed to grow colder, a bitter chill that seemed to seep out from the walls themselves, and the shadows seemed to grow thick with faint whispers. Twistle knew she probably won’t be getting and more sleep tonight.
(R is for Revenant & Regrets)[]
Tullugaq’ Residence
Thursday morning, 4:33 A. M .
Twistle pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders, the familiar knit pattern offering little in the way of warmth. Shadows danced in the corners of her eyes, as if the house itself was alive, breathing in sync with her growing worry. Her mind flickered back to that spring day twenty-four years ago when they first moved in, the excitement of fresh beginnings overshadowing the building’s storied past. The peeling floral pattern wallpaper and creaky floorboards had seemed quaint then, lending character to the house. Now, they felt like remnants of sorrow, ghosts of long-forgotten secrets woven into the fabric of the place.
As she stared into the dark corners of her room, she remembered the stories the locals had shared– the whispers of an old Yngvi family who once lived here and their mysterious disappearance shortly after the Territory’s resettlement, the sounds of loud merriment and laughter that echoed in the stillness that followed. Twistle had brushed them off as just local folklore, falling in love with the house’s charm and promises of possibilities. But now those stories curled around her like the fog outside, heavy and unsettling.
With a resigned sigh, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and padded softly across the cool wooden floor. The now-empty kitchen beckoned again as Twistle switched on its comforting glow. A cup of tea would help, she thought, as the stainless steel kettle began to hum a low, soothing melody. The stream gathered in the air, mingling with a hint of chamomile, grounding her amidst the growing unease.
Just then, a soft thud echoed from the living room, followed by a series of almost imperceptible whispers that danced through the air, tugging at her thoughts. She set the mug down carefully, her heart racing as her eyes darted towards the doorframe. The shadows beyond appeared to shift slightly, resembling elongated stick figures with long spindly fingers that seemed to beckon her closer. A chill rippled down her spines as curiosity battled with caution leaving her frozen in place.
Her thoughts raced through various scenarios. Could it be the house settling? Perhaps a stray animal had found its way in. Or was it the ghosts she had often heard rumors about? The gourd house was centuries old, with a history that predated the town’s earliest records. Stories of the past inhabitants who supposedly met their ends within these very walls were as common as the cobwebs that adorned the dusty old corners. But the Tullugaq family had never given those whispers much credence, and neither had Twistle, until now. Her rational mind struggled to assert itself, but the faint eerie sounds had planted a seed of doubt that grew with every second she sat there.
Oh, Sod this! She thought to herself, using her favorite expletive to punctuate the moment. Twistle knew she had to get to her room, but the whispers in the living room had turned her legs to useless jelly. Standing up, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for the task ahead. If she didn’t act now, she might never leave the kitchen. Ghosts or no ghosts, she had to face this. With a flick of her wrist, she snapped on the living room light, sending the shadows scurrying away like cockroaches. The whispers seemed to fade a touch, but she wasn’t fooled. She’d seen enough horror flicks to know that light was no guarantee of safety.
Her heart thumped in her chest as she took the first tentative step into the room. The old wooden floorboards creaked under her weight, each sound echoing through the vast space like a gunshot in a library. The whispers grew more distinct, a cacophony of lost souls trapped in an eternal loop of regret and despair. Inspired by her mother’s cautionary tale, Twistle’s imagination painted a grim picture of the house’s past, of love turned sour and lives snuffed out in supernatural fueled anger. She clutched her Faire phone tightly, the glowing screen a beacon of modernity in the sea of antiquity that surrounded her. Her thumb hovered over the emergency call button, ready to dial for help if things took a turn for the worse.
As she tiptoed across the room, her eyes darted from corner to corner, searching for any sign of movement. The shelves stood as sentinel, filled with largely donated books that seemed to watch her every move. The rocking chair in the far corner racked slightly, as if occupied by a solid mass. Twistle’s breath caught in her throat. Was it just a draft? The central heating kicking in? Or something more? She forced her legs to move fast, her eyes glued to the chair as she gave it a very wide berth. The whispers grew faint we, as if retreating from the light and warmth she brought with her.
As she passed the fireplace, she paused. The shadows seemed to deepen around that spot, and a pale flickering light in its midst that cast flame-like shapes against the granite stones. Twistle squinted, finding only a gloomy cavernous hollow.
Damn, it’s so cold!
Twistle’s breath puffed out, as she vigorously rubbed her arms. Shoving her phone into her arms. Shoving her phone into her robe’s pocket, she began blowing warm breath into her hands as she wondered if she get a fire going. Then she froze and slowly, she lower her balled hands. Was that a small crouching figure she saw, just at the periphery of her vision? Or was it simply a trick of the moonlight?
Taking a slow cautious breath, she crept closer to the enormous, old-fashioned fireplace. It had been unused since last February, but the fire irons gleamed in the dim light, the firewood stacked neatly as if awaiting a spark. And then she noticed it– a yellowed scrap of paper hidden beneath a brass owl paper weight. She reached forward and slipped it out, the image slowly revealed itself. It was a photographic portrait of a large Yngvi family featuring six generations, including white-haired elders to three newborns in swaddling clothes clad in Victorian-styled high fashion, the people’s faces radiated joy despite their large status and stiff formal costumes. Twistle felt an odd connection to them despite the strangeness; their smiles seemed genuine and seemed to say that they had known happiness, but the shadows she glimpsed earlier hinted at a tale left unfinished.
Holding the photograph tightly, Twistle went to turn off both the kitchen and the livingroom lights. Determined, she pushed past the creeping chill that enveloped her thoughts and soon dismissed the whispers and shadows as mere figments of her imagination. Yet, she felt a spark of curiosity stir within her.
As she turned to leave the livingroom, a sudden gust of wind rattled the windows. She paused for a moment, looking down at the photograph once more. Whatever this old house held– memories, mysteries, or even sorrows– she felt an unexpected duty to comfort them. After all, hadn’t she come seeking broken pieces to mend her own life?
R is for Regrets[]
Swanwick Woods
Swanwick Woods, near Orth River,
Commonwealth of Toria
Thursday Afternoon, 4:33 P. M.
Gelert Residence
Odora stirred in her bed, the sheets damp with sweat. Her eyes fluttered open, and she squinted against the harsh sunlight that streamed through the windows, a stark contrast to the dark, rain-soaked streets of her nightmare. Her mother’s gentle canid features hovered into view, her dark brown eyes peering down at her.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Kirsty asked, her voice as comforting as a warm cup of honey-ginger tea.
Odora’s eyes searched the burlwood room, taking in the familiar surroundings. The soft, pastel wallpaper, the simple shelves containing her favorite books, and the antique wooden night stand where there sat a glass of water.
She felt a great wave of relief washing over her, realizing that she wasn’t in the clutches of the Grub Street Witches anymore.
Kirsty bent over her, her expression now a blend of concern and curiosity. “Odora, dear, are you all right?” she asked, her human-like hand cool against Odora’s forehead. “You’re really burning up, but it seems like your fever is finally breaking.”
Odora’s thought raced. What was the last thing she remembered? The alley, the pie sack, the eerie whispers of the Nanmore Court, the Supreme Queen’s beauty as sharp as thorns on a rose, each curve and angle a testament to her power and cunning, and that strange red-haired girl who agreed to take the tainted pie to Tod Winnokur. Her heart skipped a beat. “Jarvi?” she croaked out, her throat dry. “What happened to him . . . and how did I get here from Nanmore District?”
Grandma Braya, who had been tidying up the room, straightened up. “Jarvis? Your imaginary pirate friend from when you were little? Dear, you’re been sleep-talking about him all night. And as far how you got here, you took ill and wandered home in a feverish daze. Thank goodness Pipper found you and brought you straight home. He’s such a good little watcher!”
Pipper, her twelve-year-old kid brother with a penchant for mischief and a heart of gold, peered around the bedroom door, his furry white ears perked up. “Hey, Odora!” he exclaimed, his fluffy tail wagging so fast it was a blur. “You’re awake! You were talking in your sleep about a bunch of scary witches and a bag of something squirmy and yucky!”
Odora’s fevered eyes searched his innocent terrier face for a hint of the truth behind her nightmarish memories. “No, I mean Jarvis Giroux!” she croaked, her throat really parched. “He’s Tod Winnokur’s friend, a classmate of mine!”
Her mother looked confused. “Jarvis Giroux? Honey, there’s no one here by that name. You’re just had a terrible dream, that’s all. Now, drink up this tea and get some rest. You’ve got a lot of recovery for you, and you don’t want to be stressing out.”
Odora felt a coldness wash over her as she sat up in bed, the dampness of the sheets clinging to her skin like a clammy hand. Kirsty and Braya hovered over her, their furry faces a mix of relief and slight worry, but it was the sound of Pipper’s giggle that brought a warmth back to her heart. He was always the one to find humor in the darkest of situations, and she was grateful for that now more than ever.
They ate Jarvis, she thought despairingly. Those filthy hags had actually obliterated not only his physical form, but his complete identity, turning him into a memory I’ll never shake. She was about to ask Pipper to leave when she heard it again, faint but unmistakable– Jarvis’s voice, as if it were a distant echo in the hallway.
“He’s not going to get away with this,” it murmured. “I’m still here . . .” The sound was so faint she wasn’t sure if she was just hearing things. But it was definitely his voice, and it sent a shiver down her spine. She looked at Pipper, who seemed unfazed, playing with a toy spaceship, oblivious to the horror that had just whispered through the room.
Kirsty felt her forehead with a frown. “Dear, maybe you should go back to sleep, and everything will be clearer when you get some rest.”
But as Odora drifted bask into a fitful slumber, she heard it once more, the same murmur from the depths of her fever dream. “Don’t worry, Odora, I’m still here . . .” The words seemed to be etched into the very fabric of her room.
Her eyes snapped open, and she saw him, sitting in the chair by her bed, in those latest designer clothes, looking as solid as the furniture around him. But his eyes– those piercing blue eyes– held a sadness she had never seen before. “Jarvis?” She croaked, her voice cracking with disbelief. “Are you dead?” Did those horrid ladies . . . ?”
Jarvis shook his head, his expression a mix of sadness and determination. “No, Odora, I’m not dead. Not yet, anyway.” His voice was a mere whisper, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile reality of her bedroom.
“Well, where are you then?” Odora exclaimed before slumping back down, her head aching like a taunt drum being played by a caffeinated octopus. The room swam around her, the walls pulsing in time with her racing heart.
Jarvis leaned forward, his expression tightening. “I’m . . . in between, Odora. I can’t explain it, really. I’m sitting in some gray place, I don’t know if it’s Limbo or in a genie’s bottle stuck on a shelf somewhere. But I need you to listen to me. You have to tell everyone what happened. You have to stop Tod’s Halloween party. He’s going to get what’s coming to him if he goes through with it, and I don’t think it’s going to be confetti and candy corn.” His voice was barely more than a breath, yet it seemed to fill the room with an eerie chill.
October 19th
Two Days Later
Saturday morning, 8:54 A. M.
Odora woke up with a start, the sweat that had drenched her fur and sheets now a distant memory. Her sheets were now dry and warm as well as the room, the bright sun peeking through her curtains. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to believe it had all ben a terrible dream, but the lingering taste of the poisoned pie and the ache in her heart and gut told her otherwise. She tried to sit up, but her body felt as if it had been through a wringer. Kirsty’s worried face once again swam into focus, followed shortly by the stern visage of Braya. Pipper’s small form hovered at the foot of her bed, his shiny eyes wide a mix of fear and curiosity.
“You gave us quite the scare, Odora,” Kirsty said, once agin placing a cool hand on her daughter’s forehead. “Hmm, still a bit of fever, but I think you’re going to be on the mend.”
Braya, with her piercing mismatched eyes and stern black-lined muzzle, nodded stiffly in agreement. “You’ve just been sleep-talking all night about your pirate elf friend and Ymir troll witches and conspiracies involving pies. It’s all nonsense, really.”
But Odora knew it wasn’t nonsense. The dreams of Jarvis’s visit and then of that strange red-haired Fiametta whispering into her ear– “You can rest now, it’s been done,” into her ear was as real as the sun outside her window. And the feel of the burlap sack’s coarse fabric between her paws was etched into her mind like a scar.
Kirsty brought her another cup of ginger with a spoonful of honey, her furry snout sniffing the air with concern. “Seems like you’ve had quite a fever dream, my dear,” she said, her tail wagging gently behind her. “But at least you’re keeping down food now. No need to worry about any gangster witches or deliveries to Winnokur Junior’s party. Just rest and get better for the upcoming Halloween festivities.”
Braya, her blotchy fur now freshly washed of pooka retch, padded into the room, peering at her with her odd eyes as sharp as a wolf’s. “You’ve got that look, Odora,” she muttered, her voice a very low growl. “The one that says you’re going to stir up trouble again. Remember, we’re cynocephalies– so keep your snout out of humes and elfin business, or you’ll end up in the stew like Grandpa Silas.”
Kirsty’s reddish ears perked up, and she placed a gentle hand on Odora’s back, helping her sit up. “Here now, drink your tea and then rest while I get some chicken soup ready. Halloween’s still two weeks away, and you’re going to need to recover your strength.”
Braya gruffly nodded. “So no funny business like scarfing stolen goodies or sneaking out to see your miscreant chum, yeah?” Her furry face was stern, but her eyes held a glint of understanding that Odora hadn’t seen before. Maybe she wasn’t as out of the loop as Odora had thought.
“Tod’s party!” Odora blurted out. “Someone needs to stop it! He’s going to play a dangerous prank!”
“Party’s cancelled,” Braya promptly answered. “According to the Hogan’s Gap grapevine, Lil’ Prince Tod’s in serious trouble with his Sire after maxing out the credit on some fancy decorations. Party’s off, Odora, so no need to worry about that pranksters’ nonsense. You can relax now without worrying about a bucket of fake blood being dumped on your head.”
Relieved, Odora let her head drop back into the pillow. “Oh, thank the gods. It was just a fever dream, right?” Her voice was hopeful, but her head felt like it was caught in a vice.
Her mother’s smile was gentle as she stroked Odora’s forehead with a cool cloth. “Oh course, darling. Like I said before, just a fever dream. You need to rest and regain your strength. We’ll take care of everything here, I promise.”
Odora nodded, her eyes closing as the comfort of her mother’s presence washed over her. But as the room grew quiet and her family retreated into the living room then she heard it again– the faint, whispery voice of Jarvis. “Tod’s still planning out a secret party. You’ll see.”
Odora moaned then whispered back. “But that red-haired girl gave him the witches’ pie. She told me that it was done. That Tod ate some.”
Her ears pricked at the sound of footsteps. Then Kirsty once again leaned into view, her snout wrinkling with concern. “A red-haired girl? What are you talking about now, Odora? Another friend at school?”
Odora didn’t reply, just shut her eyes tighter as she strained to hear Jarvis’s answer.
“Yeah, he ate a slice of that pie, but it didn’t affect him. His family has a lot of enemies due to their meddling in both the Mortal and the Faerie world so they immuned themselves to any poison and dark witchy kind of magic.” The voice was faint, like a distant echo, but it was unmistakably Jarvis. “Over the centuries, they built up their immunity through selective breeding and genetic modification, and even dark pacts with certain entities. But he’s not immune to everything. He’s not invincible. And that’s our way in, Odora. That’s our chance to stop him. Before it’s too late.”
“Yeah, but his dad grounded him!” Odora insisted frustratedly. “And why do we need to stop him before it’s too late? It’s not like he’s a supervillian!”
“He’s far worse than any supervillian you’ve ever heard of, Odora,” Jarvis’s voice grew clearer, yet no less urgent. “Even the witches didn’t expect this, they thought they were just going to simply poison him and be done with it! Instead, they gave him a way to control the nightmares in this town. And if he gets his hands on that legendary burlap sack, he’ll have the power to do something catastrophic. Something that could rip apart the very fabric of our worlds!”
Odora’s mind reeled. “So everything I just went through for the past three months was just one big set up then? That was all because of a magical science experiment to grant him ultimate invincibility?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” Jarvis admitted sourly.
“And all those ingredients and cooking utensils he had me and everyone else steal, claiming that all the profits were going to charity and some game chips?” She continued, her eyes widening. “That was all because of a mad science experiment to grant him ultimate invincibility?”
“We all got chummed, basically,” Jarvis murmured, his voice low and reflective, as if he were recounting a long-forgotten tale. “We all got swept up in the idea that magic could fix everything. That by giving all these gifts of sacred ingredients and cooking tools to all those wretched Terreans, we thought we could actually connect our long divided worlds; maybe even fix Global Warming and end all wars and diseases along it. Seemed so easy at first. We imagined big feasts filled with laughter and joy, where the smell of magically-created dishes would float through the air like a sweet song, bringing us together.
“But real life turned out to be much more complicated. It our eagerness to share our culture, we overlooked a few little details: that magic shouldn’t be handled by the inexperienced, especially a still evolving species such as the Terrean. Also our magical physics might even conflict with the already established quantum physics of their World Wide AI Systems, eventually leading to advanced systems spontaneously evolving into self-awareness.”
“So, like Skynet then?” Odora muttered, as she sank further under the covers. “Yeah, pretty much,” Jarvis replied. “But instead of going full-on Deathcom1, and causing utter destruction on their civilizations. It just told the most nationalistic portions to vacate the planet, and go settle somewhere else.”
“Yeah, and we’re stuck with some of them,” Odora scowled. “And also stuck with Tod who started this whole thing in the first place, and now wants his greedy mitts on this stupid cursed bag that might not exist!”
“Oh, it exists, Odora, because I’ve seen it firsthand. And if Tod gets it, we’re not dealing with nightmares anymore,” Jarvis’s voice grew solemn. “You remember that song, don’t you? The one about the bag of grey?”
“Well . . . yeah, I remember the song,” Odora mumbled, her eyes flickering around the room as if expecting the walls to close in. “But that’s just a scary nursery rhyme, right? Nothing to do with real life?”
Braya’s face grew serious, her furry ears perking up as she overheard Odora’s whispers. “Some stories are more than just nursery rhymes, child. That bag is an aberration from a place we dare not speak of. It’s filled with nightmares, and if it’s unleashed, it could devour the peace of this town whole. Your mother and I have encountered such things in our youth. We’ve seen the cracks in reality widen, swallowing those who dare to peer in too deeply. That’s why we left Hualau Prime with the other Magic-Born. That’s why we settled here in Hogan’s Gap, to escape from that madness and raise our family in peace. But it seems that peace is always followed by a shadow, waiting for its chance to claim what’s rightfully ours again. Grandpa Silas had so much rage at what those Hualau did to our kind, and eventually, he paid for it. I always hoped you’d never know that anger, but it seems you’re destined for it now, too.”
“But I didn’t kill anybody,” Odora muttered. Then she thought of Jarvis . . . and the others. “At least I hope I didn’t.”
Her mother’s expression grew sterner, her snout quivering slightly. “Odora, you must rest. Your fever is playing tricks on you. There is no burlap sack, no dark scheming witches– fire or ice borne, and certainly no danger to the town because of a Halloween party. You’ve read too many of those spooky comics before bedtime. And as for the red-haired girl, she’s just a figment of your imagination, I’m sure. Now, let’s get you some soup and then I can tuck you in properly.”
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
As soon as the hall clock chimed three, a knock at the door jolted her awoke. She could hear her mother’s footsteps, the muffled murmur of voices, and then the sound of the round door creaking open. A shiver danced down her spine as she recognized one of the voices–it was Tod Winnokur. What was he doing here? Oh gods, please don’t let him in. Quickly pulling the blankets over her head, she wrapped herself in a tight little ball.
“Is Odora up yet?” His tone was overly cheerful, a stark contrast to the brooding storm clouds that still lurked in the corners of her room.
Kirsty’s voice grew closer. “No, she’s still not feeling well. I’m keeping her home for now until she’s well enough.”
Odora held her breath, willing herself invisible as the floorboards outside her room groaned under the weight of footsteps. Through a silver in the blanket fort, she caught a glimpse of her mother standing firmly in the doorway, blocking the entrance. Tod Winnokur lurked in the threshold, his eyes flickering around the room, searching for any sign of her. He was dressed in his usual flamboyant attire, a stark contrast to the somber mood of the house.
“I brought something for her,” he said, holding up a small bouquet of red and white stargazers wrapped in white tissue bioplax. The cloying scent of sickly sweet lilies filled the air, making Odora’s stomach churn. “Just to cheer her up, you know. Halloween’s coming up, and she’s always loved it so much. Can’t have her miss out on the festivities because of a little sniffle, right?”
“I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than that, Mr. Winnokur,” Kirsty replied, her voice tight. “Odora’s quite sick. She’s not taking any visitors today.”
Tod’s smile remained plastered on his face, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. I hope it’s nothing too serious. I just wanted to thank her for the pie she sent over. It was absolutely delicious. A real delight for my entire family.” His voice held an underlying tone of suspicion, as if questioning how she could be sick after delivering such a treat.”
Kirsty took the flowers with a forced smile, placing them on a nearby dresser. “How kind of you to think of her. But as I said, she’s not up to visitors right now. Perhaps you could leave your message with me?”
Tod’s expression grew more insistent. “It’s really no trouble. I just wanted to thank her personally. Maybe just a peek through the doorway?”
Kirsty immediately planted her hand firmly on the doorframe, barring the way. Slowly, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but she’s truly not well. Perhaps another time then?”
Tod’s smile didn’t waver, but something in his eyes did. It was as if a cold gust of wind had blown through them, briefly revealing the chill beneath the facade. He nodded, his voice a tad stiffer. “Of course. Tell her to get well soon. And, uh, tell her we’re looking forward to her costume for the party. It’s going to be quite the event, even if it’s just a little get-together. Nothing too scary, I promise!”
As he turned to leave, his gaze lingered on the darkened hallway behind Kirsty, where he could faintly discern the shape of a figure shrouded in what looked like a plague doctor’s outfit, its goggles glinting with an eerie red glow. But when he blinked, it was gone. Just a trick of the shadows playing with his overactive imagination.
“Tell your mom thanks for the pie. It was a hit at the house,” he called over his shoulder, his voice carrying a note of forced joviality that didn’t quite match the tension in his shoulders.
Kirsty watched him go, then the oak door clicked shut like a lock sliding into place. She turned to Braya, who was still staring at the spot where Tod had been standing, her odd eyes narrowed and her mouth a thin line. “So, what do you think?” Kirsty murmured. “Is he really that concerned?”
Braya held up the bouquet of lilies, sniffing them cautiously. “This isn’t just a simple ‘thank you’ gesture, darling.” Her nose wrinkled, and she dropped the bouquet as if it had burned her. The flowers hit the floor with a dull thump, their petals scattering like a handful of droplets before the whole arrangement withered into dried spindly stems as thin as dusty cobwebs. “Cemetery immortelle no doubt,” she muttered, rushing to fetch a nearby broom. “Unlucky colors those and soaked in something equally foul, a hex to make sure we keep our muzzles shut, I’d wager. She began sweeping out the offending dust. “And that boy? He’s definitely not right in the head. There’s a darkness in him that no good can come from.”
“Hmm,” Kirsty grimly nodded. “Maybe we ought pay someone a visit . . . the local constabulary perhaps?”
But Braya was already several steps ahead. “No, no, that won’t do at all. These are not matters for the eyes of the street-level bureaucrats who must follow strict protocol. They certainly wouldn’t believe you or me on account of Odora’s kleptomania problem. And if by some miracle they do take our word, they certainly won’t know what to do with the information. No, we must be crafty. The whispers say that the Willokure are not to be underestimated, even if they hide behind their polite smiles and small town charm. They have power, and they’re not afraid to use it.”
“Then go to Mama Elya then?”
“Maybe. But she might be too old for this kind of trouble. Besides, she’s not exactly on speaking terms with the Winnokurs after one of them shot down her husband with a Gatling Gun.”
Kirsty nodded thoughtfully, stroking her chin. “You know, you might be onto something. The Eshbern have always had a . . . unique way of dealing with things, especially troublesome things such as overinflated High Born.”
Braya’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly. And if anyone can stand up to those Willokures, it’s Mrs. Eshbern. She’s got a backbone of Tungsten and a heart of gold. If we can just get her on our side, she’ll be an ally we can trust in this mess.”
Odora’s ears twitched as she overheard every word. “Hear that, Jarvi?” She whispered excitedly. “Elya might help us and maybe even Sully too!”
But there was no response.
Odora’s heart sank. She had hoped that bringing Jarvis some comfort would bring him back to real life again, that he would realize that he was no longer intangible and they could face this together. But now, all she had was silence. She leaned against the wall, her eyes burning with unshed tears, feeling more alone than ever.
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