Noble Monsters

Noble Monsters

Book 1: Shadows Rise

An Original Novel serial by Nathan Klein

Prologue

Cain

2 August 1961 – Paris, France

After days of searching, he has finally found the perfect café. Everywhere else has been far too nice to him for his plan. He lays out a few notes on the table as proof he has money. The look on the waiter’s face as he grudgingly takes the old man’s order tells him everything he needs.

The other patrons are looking at him with deep disapproval. Their clothes are all the height of fashion, in sharp contrast to his tatty, aged clothes. He smirks inside his mind. Soon.

He patron doesn't bother looking at the waiter as he takes the ice-cold mug of coffee from the tray. He offers no thanks, merely puts the mug to his lips and drains the chilled, bitter contents in one gulp. He chews a little on the grinds at the bottom. He’d expected the waiter to bring him a cup like this, a subtle “get out” message to the dirty, aged patron sullying the respectable cafe by his very presence.

The old man ignores the waiter’s frustrated look. He doesn’t care. He has a plan for this place. A downright sinister plan, involving all the other patrons, who were giving him looks far dirtier than his ragged coat. Damned rich twats… the Nazis should have slaughtered you instead, he thinks to himself as he sets the mug down, or maybe the Soviets should have had their way. They’d have shown you…

“Cain, what are you doing?”

He grits his teeth a little as the Voice speaks in his ear. At least he thinks it’s in his ear; in his head would be a more apt description. But that’s how her voice has always sounded, like a beautiful young woman’s whisper. He knows she does it to catch his attention, but after a little over ten thousand years, he’s learned to ignore her.

“Cain, please don't do this to these poor people...”

Poor people? Yeah, they’re really suffering, he thinks, before cursing himself for taking her bait.

“That’s not what I mean. Your problem is with me, not them.”

Actions have consequences. And you can’t risk your little pet being seen, can you? He can’t stop me in here. He allows himself a sarcastic grunt, just fighting off an eye roll. Poor people… these upper-class do-nothings? I’ve seen true suffering. I’ve seen the poor; helped the poor, healed the poor and sick. I fought the empires. I slogged through the trenches. I saw the ovens. Not them. I’ll make them that though. I’ll leave them with the proper scars.

“Monsieur? Êtes-vous bien?” comes another soft voice, not too different from The Voice herself.

He turns and looks at the young woman, who he hadn't seen come in. That was surprising, he usually noticed them instantly. After so many years, it’s become a second nature to him. He knows he can never love, but even he has needs, and is usually on the look-out for his next romp.

Her features are striking. She’s young, but a vision nonetheless. Her cheekbones are high on her oval face. Her hair is short, brown, and parted on the right, sweeping across her forehead and nearly covering the left of her dark brown eyes.

He narrows his eyes. She looks familiar, but he can’t think of where. She’s dressed fashionably, in a well fitted crème sleeveless, turtle-neck top, khaki trousers, and peep-toe heels.

She is frowning at him, but out of concern, not disdain. Her expression is one of pity. The pity steels him. He doesn't need her pity.

“Je vais bien, merci,” he growls, waving her off.

With a sullen nod she walks away, sitting at a table in the back. He watches the waiter cheerfully approach her, marking her uncertainty over what to order, as though she didn’t remember walking into the café in the first place.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Deneuve!” The waiter says excitedly, bowing low to her.

Deneuve… why do I know that name?

The young woman gives the waiter a radiant smile, sending him off as she looks over the menu.

Subtle…

“Subtle?” responds the Voice.

You made her come in here, didn’t you? he presses, his brow furrowing in frustration.

“I have no idea what you're talking about. Humans have free will; she was perfectly free to decide she wanted a coffee, or to just keep walking.”

Lying never suited you. Take her out of here. Or have her order something to go. You're not going to dissuade me, but at the very least, take her out of here.

“You're not even going to ask please?”

He bites his tongue at the request.

Fine… please get her out of here, she doesn't need to see this.

“Thank you,” says the Voice.

The young woman suddenly rises, heading out of the cafe at a brisk walk, muttering about a forgotten appointment. Before she goes, she pauses by his table and bends low, putting her arms around his shoulders gently; almost lovingly.

“Vous êtes un homme bon, monsieur,” she says and finally makes her way out, much to the exasperation of the waiter who'd just returned to ask her order again.

You didn't need to go that far…

“I certainly did not go that far. That was all her own accord: the hug, at least. Perhaps she can just tell a good soul when she sees it?”

He snorts audibly now. “A good soul?” he asks aloud, forgetting to keep it in his head. “I? A good soul? I—the murderer of my own brother? The progenitor of thousands of years of religious bloodshed? Don't make me laugh.”

The café’s patrons are all looking at him with apprehension; one or two people get up to leave.

“Oh dear, seems some of your 'lesson’ has decided to leave. You really should watch what you say. People will think you’re mad.”

Shut up… he thinks now, fingering the pistol's butt in his pocket.

“What do you really hope to accomplish with this? Killing yourself in front of a crowd?”

Idle amusement. An interesting way to release myself for your next grand plan.

“I have another grand plan?”

You always have a grand plan. It’s your most constant feature. This body’s worn out. It’s time for a new one, right? What abomination is going to need slaying this time? Another vampire?

“You’re right… Of course. Hávarðr will find you after you when it’s time.”

He always does.

He scowls at the thought of her squat, mute minion: Hávarðr. Always sneaking about with his gangly arms, his long creepy fingers, his pitch-black skin, glossy black eyes, and those silly pointed ears. That squat, round face. He was a little monster. Disgusting…

His whole kind is disgusting. Murderous, treacherous monsters. He’s seen what their kind could do. They were the first to ever kill him. They were the ones who started this stupid cycle of death and rebirth. He’ll never forgive them. Not a single one.

“And there’s no monster, this time. Not yet, anyway. You remember the Milesians…?”

The man freezes. His hand begins to tremble as he slowly closes it around the handle of the pistol. Yes, he remembers the Milesians. How could he ever forget? Not that he has a choice. He remembers everything. Always. That’s his curse.

He’s looking for them, again?

“They will need you again, Cain.”

He fumbles a little with the pistol. Then he steels himself, taking out a pen and jotting down: Le service était de merde.

One condition.

“You’d give conditions to this?”

Stop calling me Cain. I haven’t gone by that name since I left. That’s not my name anymore.

“It’s the name your mother gave you—”

Leave her out of this.

“Very well. You’ll do it?”

Without further thought, he draws out the pistol, and rises from the seat. He puts the barrel to his temple, positioned perfectly so that the bullet will destroy as much brain as possible, no chance of recovery. It’s a technique he knows by heart. A woman begins to scream as he squeezes the trigger.

Darkness. Nothingness comes over him. Drifting around. He doesn’t feel anything. There’s no touch. There’s no sound. He has no sense of time.

Then sensation begins. The sound comes first. A gentle, rhythmic thumping from very close by. Then the warmth. He’s safe and warm, calmed by the gentle thumping. He stretches.

“Someone’s getting restless again.”

It’s a woman’s voice. For a moment, he thinks it’s the Voice, but not this time. The voice is distant, and garbled as though underwater.

“Someone’s getting eager to see his family,” another voice says, this one a man’s.

“Or her’s,” the woman giggles.

“Or her’s, or her’s,” the man chuckles.

He tunes the voices out. He’s done this so many times he has little difficulty with it. He’s got another month or so of this left.

At least they sound nice this time, is the last thing he thinks before he falls asleep.

Gyða

30 March 1984 – Abilene, Texas

Shadows were Gyða’s friends. They embraced her and shielded her, making her little more than a ghost as she surveyed the scene from her hidden perch, high in the rafters.

All her senses were on high alert. The crowd radiated the sickly scent of sweat, on top of the burning fragrance of cigarettes mixed with the tingling aroma of alcohol. She could hear the conversations, even over the blaring music from the speakers putting pressure on her sensitive ears and sinuses. Her eyes picked out every face, cataloguing each in her memory in the hope that her target would be amongst them.

She had to rely on her normal senses now. Usually, she could use her magic and feel the whole room. She would take a deep breath, relax, close her eyes, and know at once where every object was within fifty paces. But with the speakers, and the swirling of the crowd, she had no hope of using her magic properly.

Their magic was not so much sight, as touch. The Nóttfólk, as the Tuatha had named them, called it their Song. For that is how it sounded to each other. A sweet, beautiful song that kept the colony sedate and harmonious. It also was a signal to each other where they all were. Mothers always knew where their children were.

Being cut off from Song was considered a fate worse than death. It was a hollow, lonely, emptiness. Most who were separated went mad or killed themselves. To prevent them from doing the latter too easily, Nóttfólk had their thumbs cut off when banished. Gyða had been suffering from the isolation during her time away, but she could put it aside. She would be returning home soon, she knew it. She could suffer through in the meantime.

She returned her attention to the people below. The humans all wore fabric coverings, just as the Ljósálfar and the Tuatha did. Her kind never bothered. Their fine coat of fur kept them warm. The most they ever wore was leather or wooden armour for combat. Even then, they primarily relied upon their speed and stealth over outright brawls.

The men were mostly wearing large hats, garments of criss-crossing patterns she had come to know as ‘plaid,’ and pants these people called ‘jeans.’ The women were dressed more freely; wearing shirts of varying shades and styles. Some wore skirts of varying lengths. Others wore jeans as the men; some of which they had cut short to show all their legs.

Gyða briefly found herself envious. She could tell the outfits were all kinds of colours, but she could not see them. The Nóttfólk could see in pitch-black thanks to their magic and large eyes, yet they could not see any shade or hue but black, white, and grey.

What it must be like to see colour? What was green? She liked the sound of green. It was supposedly the colour of grass and trees. Or blue? She was dying to know what blue looked like.

Gyða gave her head a shake. She could not get distracted now. She had been sent on glorious purpose, selected personally by the Master for this mission.

She had spent almost two years hunting the Oppressors; tracking down the ones who had forced her people back into subjugation and exile. She was the one. She had found the link in the records that led her to this place. The Master had taught her to read, and so she followed the threads the others could not.

The importance of her mission was not lost on Gyða. Only when the filthy royal family of the Oppressors were all dead could her people be truly free from their prison beneath the ground. It was the curse cast upon their people so long ago, along with the Tuatha.

Creatures of darkness you are, and creatures of darkness shall you remain! Banish ye henceforth, do I, beyond this mighty door! I curse you now and always, never again shall this door open, until the blood of my kin is dead and gone!

Gyða barely kept herself from snarling. Not that anyone below would have heard her. She had read the words in the notes. The words that cast her people away. Creatures of darkness, indeed.

Gyða remembered the days of her youth. She had been born in the Dark Lands behind the gate, the only home she’d ever known. She spent countless hours sitting before the massive gate that sealed them below, wondering what the world looked like beyond it. She would never forget the way her parents spoke so lovingly of the ‘New Home.’ The beautiful grassy, forested island; the paradise they had found after the escape from their first exile.

But that was before, when her parents were still young, and the Oppressors had come and forced her people underground with the Tuatha. That was before the Master had shown them how to put their pasts behind them and focus on their one true enemy: The Oppressors.

Finally, the Master had come to her personally, whispering to her in the night, choosing her to go forth and find the path to freedom for her people. He showed her many things. He taught her to read human writings. He taught her to understand their words. He told her all about the betrayals.

Most importantly, he showed her the way past the door. It was small, so small only one Nóttfólk could fit through it at a time. He could only risk showing one the way out. If they sent out too many, the guards outside might find and seal the tiny tunnel.

Gyða was lucky enough to see the land her parents had spoken of during her hunt. It was where she emerged, and began tracking the Oppressors’ flight. Her parents had always spoken of the rolling hills, but that’s not what Gyða had been most stunned by.

What dazzled her most was the sky. Even if she couldn’t see blue, the sight of a true sky, not the craggy cavern ceiling, was spectacular. But that was nothing compared to the night sky. The stars, finally seeing the moon, she’d been tempted to sit where she was, to waste away just staring at them till her last breath.

But she couldn’t. She had a job to do. Gyða’s hunt had taken her almost halfway around the world but now she was sure she had found them. This had to be them. The trail had gone cold from here, which could only mean one of two things. Either the Oppressors had gotten crafty enough to give her the slip, or she had finally caught up with them.

Gyða winced as the fiddler in the band hit a sour note. Below her, in the dancing crowd, no one else seemed to notice or care. She found herself charmed a little by the music. It was vaguely similar to the traditional music of the Tuatha. It seemed to encourage mutual dance amongst the crowd, twirling about in rhythm with the melody, while others not joining in the dancing could be seen singing along with the band’s vocalist.

Gyða had no problems with humans in general. The crimes of the Oppressors did not belong to the rest of the humans. It was the Dagrfólk who first enslaved them, not the humans. She doubted that any humans had the slightest inkling her kind still existed, locked away below the ground; tucked away and hidden until the Royal bloodline of the Oppressors no longer tainted the earth.

Gyða felt her arms go rigid. She could sense it now. That sensation was unmistakable. The hum of an Oppressor. They had worked hard to cover up their trail, to suppress the tell-tale signs of their existence, but there was no denying that sensation. The hum of magic. It tickled her brain and ears, almost like the buzzing of a fly.

She now felt her heart beat faster. She leaned lower, narrowing her eyes, shifting her focus from face to face as she scanned the crowd. She twisted her ears this way and that. It was coming from one of the corners of the room, hidden away much as she was.

Slowly, Gyða crawled along the rafters of the ceiling towards the corner. She moved carefully, not for fear of falling, but for fear of being seen. The lights were moving around down below, and she couldn’t risk discovery. Not with him around.

In the cryptic notes she had dug up while following the Oppressors’ movements, they referred to him as the Garda. To Gyða and her people, however, he was known as something else. To Gyða, he was called Svikari: the Nóttfólk who had helped the Oppressors in banishing their people, and so been banished from their kind himself.

Her people had taken his thumbs in punishment before banishing him. Never would he be able to hold a blade or draw a bow again. According to legend, he had pleaded for death before his banishment. She hoped he still suffered to this day for his betrayal.

Gyða froze as she located the source of the scent. There were two young people in a corner by themselves. They were leaning against the wall, speaking low, smiling softly, their breathing strained in their mutual excitement. She could smell the stink of their adrenaline.

The boy was tall with broad shoulders; the musculature of his chest apparent even through the loose shirt. He had removed his hat, revealing dark, wavy hair and a firm, prominent jawline.

The girl was at least half a head shorter than the boy, and was wearing a lacy white top with a knee-length skirt made of the same material as the boy’s jeans. Her hair was blonde and artificially curled, with a lurid pink bow over her left ear.

Gyða narrowed her eyes in frustration. Which one was the Oppressor? Maybe it was both? She’d have to get closer somehow. She leaned lower and tilted her right ear towards them to listen in.

“So, Siobhan? Purdy name,” the boy said. “Never heard it before.”

“It’s Irish,” the girl said. “Family thing. Goes a ways back—heh, waaaaay back,” she continued giving an awkward laugh and an eye roll.

Gyða’s grin grew of its own volition.

“Tha’s kewl,” the boy said, his voice was thick with the drawling accent of the area. “Not sure rightly what my family’s heritage is. Never seen you around before, though. New in town?”

“Kind of,” the girl said. “We used to live just outside Houston but we moved up here a couple years ago. Family doesn’t really let me get out much.”

Gyða winced. Something was coming. The humming in her brain had quadrupled. It was a hum, but a hum unlike any she had ever heard. She clamped her hands down over her ears but it was no use. She squinted, still watching.

A man emerged from the crowd. He strode towards the boy and girl with determination on his face. Gyða cringed. He was the source of the new hum.

He wasn’t a royal. Gyða did not know what the man was, but he terrified her. To anyone else, he would not be threatening at all. The man looked to be late twenties, with black hair, and was wearing a simple, cheap grey suit that fitted him poorly with a plain black tie.

Who was this man? He definitely was not Svikari. The notes had never mentioned such a man. He was so young, even for short-lived humans. Was he something new? Some new weapon the Oppressors had created?

Gyða girded herself to focus. This new variable was a threat, yet he had also done Gyða’s work for her. In attempting to protect his wayward charge, the fool had done nothing more than identify Gyða’s target for her beyond any shadow of a doubt. The Oppressors were here, or at the very least nearby.

That was not all it told her. The fact this one had a bodyguard meant something even more important. To have a bodyguard, it could only mean that this girl was not just an Oppressor. This girl was a Royal.

Gyða had to be close now; she just had to be. Even better, if she would be able to get the drop on them after finding out where they were hiding, she could also slay the girl and her bodyguard. One less Royal would bring her and her people one step closer to freedom.

Gyða made her way nimbly through the rafters towards the entrance. Her nostrils were flared, breathing deeply. She smirked as she noted that the boy had given chase, trying to get into an argument with the bodyguard. What happened next was so quick that even Gyða had almost missed it.

The boy put a hand on the guard’s shoulder. He was taller than the guard, and visibly much bulkier. But no sooner had the boy’s hand touched the guard than the guard grabbed the boy’s wrist and tugged forward, while at the same time he drove his elbow back into the ribs under the boy’s arm.

The boy staggered back and collapsed on the floor, clutching his side, gasping. The Royal girl had a glint in her eye, a grin on her lips, and a spring in her step as she resumed following the guard from the room. There was so much commotion going on that barely anyone noticed what had happened.

Gyða studied the guard shrewdly. He would have to be accounted for. The guard could have used his magic on the boy, but he didn’t. Despite his small stature, he was skilled enough to topple another much stronger than him. He was fast, clever, and his hum spoke of a great and terrible magic.

Gyða climbed up through the skylight that she had used to enter and hurried to the front of the building. She smirked as she saw the pair leaving. He was leading her down the street, most likely to a vehicle.

Gyða cursed. If they were heading to a vehicle, she wouldn’t be able to move fast enough to keep up, even in a city such as this. Gyða could keep pace with a deer through a forest, but she had not seen anything that could keep up with the humans’ horseless carriages.

She jumped the narrow gap between the roof of the club and the building next-door as she followed silently. They made it down the block and rounded the corner into an alley. This made Gyða pause. Was the vehicle in that alley? Was he going to tell her off in there? Was it perhaps a secret entrance to their hideaway?

Gyða felt her heart beating faster. She was so close now, she couldn’t let them finally slip through her fingers. Not when she was so close. She crept to the edge of the roof adjacent to the alleyway.

She had nearly reached the edge when something made her pause. It was a strange sensation, just a twinge, just enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Gyða looked around, her keen eyes surveying the surrounding rooftops.

No, she thought to herself. I can’t let them slip away! She took a deep breath and ever so slowly peered over the edge. As she neared it, she felt it. A presence, something so familiar it had completely escaped her notice until now. Her vision went black as something soft enveloped her face.

Gyða flailed in surprise. There was a hard grip on her shoulder and something large and powerful landed on top of her. Her world spun as her head hit the hard roof of the building. She recovered herself fast enough to reach for her knife but found her hands pinned down above her head. Something heavy was pressed down on her throat.

She began to panic. She couldn’t breathe. She writhed and bucked, but she could not get enough purchase to throw her attacker off.

Then Gyða realized her arms weren’t working right. They wouldn’t push as hard as they could normally. Her eyes were getting heavy. She was straining to breathe. She had to throw her attacker off. She had to! She had to…

Hávarðr

30 March 1984 – Abilene, Texas

Hávarðr slowly stepped off the prostrate form beneath him. Her head and shoulders were covered by his cloak he’d thrown over her in his attack. He’d managed to catch both her hands and pin them down, one foot landing on her chest, the other pressing down against her throat, suffocating her.

He had released her just in time. She was still alive, but unconscious. He could see her breathing, even hear the beat of her heart.

In fact, the sensation of her life was the best he had felt in years. The feeling of her Song in his head was like a drug. That sense of belonging washed over him and hugged him like a blanket. It was downright magical.

Hávarðr knew better, now. The last time he slew one of his kind, the royal surgeons had claimed the body. He’d watched with morbid curiosity as they cut open his dead fellow, prodding around inside. He understood their speech, enough to understand their verdict. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t even an elf, though it’s what they called him.

The way the surgeons had explained it to him, his people’s song was no magic. Instead, they generated a call, a constant song. They told him it was similar to the one dolphins or bats emitted. They heard the echoes of this call, and it let them ‘feel’ the world around them, even in total darkness, or with their eyes closed. They could all hear each other’s calls. Being away from others’ calls caused madness. Hence, banishment was their people’s harshest punishment.

So, they labelled him a monster, a beast of many names. The Royals called his kind Fomorians. The Ljósálfar, who had first enslaved his kind, called his people the Dökkálfar. The Tuatha had called them Nóttfólk.

Hávarðr supposed he had to take their words for it. His people had never come up with a name for themselves. With bitterness, he marked how even though the Ljósálfar had enslaved his people, they had also given them culture, names, and a purpose.

His people. He had been away for so long. Usually that was a death sentence yet Hávarðr had kept his sanity. He kept his mind when most would have gone mad. The secret was the Milesians themselves. They all gave off a sort of hum, for want of a better term. It wasn’t the same as the Song, but it was close enough that he could survive.

He shook his round head, returning his attention to the huntress. She’d never seen the attack coming, just as he’d planned. She wouldn’t sense him. They never could. They were too used to the Song. They had not been away from each other for long enough; the aching did not torment them like it did for him. On top of that, the blaring music would dull her senses further while she was inside the club.

Hávarðr, meanwhile, had sensed the young huntress’ presence at once. As soon as she’d entered the town he had heard her singing. It always started as a tingle in the back of his mind. He was never sure at first if it was real, or longing, but it always proved to be another the Worm had sent.

This ambush had been entirely Siobhan’s plan. Tuan had been against it, but Siobhan had been won him over. Tuan could never say no to the princess. And based on the scent of their hormones and the quickening of their hearts in each other’s presence, Hávarðr was sure that had nothing to do with Siobhan’s rank.

Hávarðr reached down and lifted his cloak off her head. He could see her nostrils twitching as she breathed. Her mouth was hanging open, showing her many sharp teeth. Her eyes were mostly closed in her unconsciousness.

Hávarðr inhaled sharply. She was beautiful. His eyes moved over the wide, heavy jawline. Her nose was flattened, showing her large nostrils; much larger than a human’s, as were her long, pointed ears. Their kind had extraordinary senses of smell, sight, and hearing. It had been crucial to survival in the forests of their ancestors, and then in the caverns of Svartalfheim.

Her eyes were also larger than a human’s, adapted for a life in the dark. Her skin was a pitch black, and marked with scars here and there. Clearly, she had earned her place as a huntress.

Her arms were long like his, almost twice the length of her legs. Her hands were spindly. Unlike humans, their metacarpals weren’t joined, and so it looked as though they had an extra knuckle in each finger. At the end of each finger was a tiny claw, with a large one on the end of her powerful thumb.

She was young for their kind, but not inexperienced. She had clearly been eager to prove herself, and that had been her undoing. Pain filled his mind as he looked upon her young face. It wasn’t pain for what he’d done. He’d done far worse to his own kind before.

No, the pain was in realizing how very long it had been since he had seen another of his own kind. Perhaps two decades. Not that such a length of time was much to the likes of him, but having spent so much time around humans, one started to think of time on their terms. Fomorians were exceptionally long lived, another back-handed gift of the Ljósálfar.

Hávarðr sat back on his haunches as he took in her face. She was much younger than him; he doubted she was even half his age. Despite that, and despite having been gone from them for so long, he was sure he had known at least one of her relatives; a grandparent most likely.

She looked familiar, somehow. He narrowed his eyes, studying. Then it came to him. She had his mate’s nose. The huntress might be one of her nieces, or a cousin.

Hávarðr supposed that wasn’t really all that surprising, in the end. Their kind had nearly been driven to extinction when the Ljósálfar had routed them from their homes. As a result, almost all Dökkálfar were interrelated to some extent.

Hávarðr closed his eyes in pain at the memory of his mate, and their children. They had been gone for so long. He would never see them again. Their deaths had pushed him to help the Royals, and so caused his banishment.

He allowed himself a smile. He could hear her song in his mind, still. He could hear the angry twitters of their children as they squabbled. He rubbed the top of his head, clenching his face in pain. They were so young. They were gone.

He forced himself to think about them as little as possible, but as he looked down on the young huntress’ face, slowly wrapping his long arms around himself in a comforting way, he saw them. He saw Jorunn, his beautiful Jorunn, lying with her arms over Ivar and Egil’s little bodies, shielding them with her body. Their blood pooled over the floor, a Tuatha spear pinning Jorunn to the floor, and Egil’s little face, locked forever in a look of fear towards the door, as though looking for papa to come to the rescue before the Tuatha sword plunged into his little chest.

Havardr screamed into the night. It was high pitched, too high pitched for any human to hear. He reached up over his left shoulder and grabbed the handle of his sword. The sword had a long sleeve with a slot that his false thumb locked into the handle, allowing him to grip it properly. Rage fuelled him as he drew it and stood to his full height, about to thrust the razor-sharp steel blade into the huntress’ throat.

He stopped. He didn’t know what stopped him at first. He deflated, his rage abated, and slumped onto his haunches again. It wasn’t this huntress’ fault. She didn’t do it. She hadn’t even been born yet. He did have to kill her, but not out of rage. Not out of hatred. He couldn’t give into that. That was how the Worm took you.

His sword clattered to the ground. Hávarðr reached into a pouch on his belt. He clumsily drew out a small vial, fumbling for it with his false-thumbed hands. He had been fitted with steel prosthetic thumbs, which helped him grip things, but he had little fine control. He sighed deeply, looking down at the form at his feet. He wondered what her name was.

Hávarðr turned his head, listening. Tuan was coming. He didn’t need to hear Tuan to know, however. Like the Milesians, Tuan gave off a hum. But Tuan’s was a stronger hum than the whole royal family’s put together.

Hávarðr sniffed irritably. His name was Tuan, but he was calling himself Derek, now. Hávarðr heard the clanking as Tuan started climbing up the fire-escape on the side of the building. Hávarðr looked down at the tiny vial in his hand again as Tuan came into view.

“Done then?” Tuan asked.

Hávarðr merely snorted in response. It was the only response he could give, really. Hávarðr couldn’t speak. Not in a way that Tuan or any other human could understand, anyway. His lips were too wide to form human words, his tongue too loose.

He hated when Tuan asked him questions like that. He knew Tuan did it on purpose. Tuan’s hatred for Hávarðr’s people went back millennia. And no matter how Hávarðr helped the Royal family, it would never be enough for Tuan. Tuan’s hatred for Hávarðr, in particular, was born out of the thousands of years they knew each other, and all the times Hávarðr had killed him.

Tuan stood next to him, looking down on the huntress. His expression was indifferent, as was his tone. “Credit where it’s due… the plan worked. But never again.”

Hávarðr didn’t move. Tuan could complain all he wanted, but the servants of the Worm were anxious to kill Siobhan and the rest of her family. It was the only way they could free themselves from the ancient curse of the Royal family. And once that was done, the Worm’s servants would be set loose upon the earth, raining down destruction and bloodshed out of vengeance, and to sate the blood lust of the Worm.

Hávarðr wasn’t sure what the point was anymore. It’s not as though it stopped the Worm from causing terror and death on global scales, still. He’d been behind two conflicts the humans called World Wars within the last century alone.

“You’re going to take care of this then?” Tuan asked.

Hávarðr nodded.

“Good,” Tuan said. “Do it quick. I have to take Siobhan back home. And break the news to the King.”

Hávarðr sniffed again. Tuan turned, straightening his tie before turning back to the fire escape. He paused with his foot on the top step.

“She’ll have left a trail,” Tuan said coldly. “That should be dealt with.”

Tuan started down the steps. Hávarðr looked at the vial in his hand. He didn’t want to do it. Her presence on his mind was sweet as honey. Ending her life, silencing that soft singing he could feel behind his eyes, would be like being banished all over again. It always was.

Hávarðr picked up his sword again, re-fitting his hand into the handle. It would be quick, and almost painless. One quick thrust between her ribs, into her heart, and it would be over. Hávarðr turned his eyes back down to her unconscious face. How could he do it? After all this time?

He studied his other hand. His eyes moved over the dulled metal prosthetic thumb. His mark of banishment. He furrowed his brow. Did he have to kill her? No.

Tuan would be angry if he found out. So would the King. But how would they know? Her mission would be over. She’ll have failed. She’ll bear the mark of banishment. They’ll never take her back if she returns, what point would there be to her carrying on her mission?

Hávarðr stepped on her left wrist. He’d better do it fast. The pain of the first cut would wake her. He knelt down, keeping her wrist pinned. He rested the razor-sharp blade against her thumb, right on the knuckle. He gave his right arm a jerk and there was a clink as the blade hit the roof.

The young Dökkálfar screamed. She sat up, screaming down at her hand in shock. His ears rang with her piercing shriek. But he did not just hear her screams in his ears. He also felt her them in his head, just behind his eyes.

Hávarðr head-butted her, knocking her back down to the roof.

“What have you done?!” Her voice screamed in his mind.

Hávarðr paid her no mind. Before she could react, his blade came down on her other thumb.

She screamed again. It felt as though Hávarðr’s eyes were going to be forced out of their sockets. Hávarðr sheathed his blade, stepping back. She was curled up, clutching her wounded hands. They would never let her return now. She would be alone, just like him. Guilt began to wash over him. He might as well have killed her, after all.

“What have you done?” She demanded. “What have you done to me?!”

“Set you free,” was all Hávarðr could think to say back. “The Worm will leave you now. But you can never return. You can never tell them what you know. You’re useless.”

He tried to think of something more to say, but found he could not. What was there to say? She came to this stupidly, serving a monster that cared about nothing more than death and destruction. Hávarðr had seen the rivers of blood that flowed from the altars, soaking into the ground where the Great Worm waited to drink it.

Hávarðr sighed again and opened the vial he’d removed from his pocket with his teeth. It was an ancient concoction, going back centuries amongst his people. The proper, fast way to send his people on to the other side and be with their kin.

Hávarðr lightly drizzled the solution in the vial over roof next to the writhing young Dökkálfar. It gave off an acrid, harsh scent that burned his sensitive nostrils. He crinkled his nose in agitation before kneeling beside it and striking a match. He dropped it onto a spot where the solution had fallen and at once flames roared upwards.

Hávarðr stood and backed up a few paces, watching the flames roar. The young Dökkálfar rolled away, staring at the flames as well. Hávarðr however kept his eyes on her. This huntress, whatever her name had been, was too young to have seen the truth of what her master was. What lies had he told her? What lies was he telling their people?

“Your new lease on life,” Hávarðr thought to her. “Use it to burn the cuts. You’ll bleed out otherwise.”

Without another thought, Hávarðr leapt off the roof. Tuan would see the flames, thinking Hávarðr had burned the body. He landed on the ground catlike, catching himself on all fours, before standing. Above him, he felt her scream again. He winced, waiting for the inevitable silence. She must have thrown herself into the flames, rather than face the loneliness.

Hávarðr started walking away. After a few steps, he stopped. The screaming had stopped, yet he still felt her there. He heard her song. She was weak, but she was alive. Unbidden, Hávarðr smiled. She had the strength after all. She would survive. Hávarðr shrugged his shoulders, twitched his head back and forth, cracking his aged neck, and headed deeper into the alley, letting the shadows, his oldest friends, envelope him.

Siobhan

30 March 1984 – Abilene, Texas

I’ve always known Tuney’s different. He’s older than me, but only just. Five years, I think? We’ve known each other since we were kids.

His name isn’t Tuney. That’s just his nickname. His real name’s Derek Barres. I don’t know how he came up with the nickname. Well, he asked me to call him Tune, I came up with Tuney to tease him. Needless to say, it stuck.

Yeah, I was a brat.

Still am.

Tuney’s some sort of genius, that’s all I’ve really ever known about his personal life. He doesn’t really talk much to anyone. I remember the first day I saw him. I was only ten. It was so weird walking into court, seeing father talking to a boy. When your dad’s a king, you get used to only the most important people in the world talking to him. Not just some scrawny kid.

But Tuney’s smart. Scary smart; even back then. He was fifteen and already knew how the whole world worked. He apparently just walked into court and just started listing off our people’s history. He said he’d been sent to us. He said he ran away from home. He said we’d need him.

Father was impressed. Father wanted me to have the best teacher, and who better than a kid with godlike intellect? So, Tuney started out as my teacher, crazily enough. Despite being only a few years older than me. Now that I’ve completed my studies, he’s become my bodyguard. Long story short, by the time I was fifteen, I wanted Tuney. Badly.

I grew up fiddling my bean to Tuney. I’d think about running my hands through his silky hair. It always looked so smooth. Nothing got me better than the thought of looking deep in his eyes, face to face, our bodies together, and running my hands through his hair. Is that weird?

The only thing I thought was weird about Tuney was how he got on with Harvard, my other guardian. Oh, yeah, I should probably tell you about Harvard.

His real name’s Hávarðr, but it was too hard for me to say when he was little so I just called him Harvard. He’s my oldest guardian. He’s the only person who knows me better than Tuney does, if only because he’s known me longer. And when I was really little, I’d tell him all my secrets.

I was introduced to Harvard when I was three, and Mother called him my guardian angel. She said his people are called Dökkálfar, or ‘dark elves’. I don’t know how much he looks like an angel or an elf. More like a wingless bat if you ask me, or a really long-armed, furry, pointy-eared dwarf.

God, I feel so bad saying that. He’s sweet, but it’s hard since he can’t speak. He would play with me when I was little. We’d play hide and seek. He’d always pick obvious hiding spots, so I could find him easier. His personal favourites were just standing in a corner with a lampshade on his head, or posing in the family trophy room with all the stuffed animals, pretending to be a display.

I wish I could talk with him. He’s clever, and he understands English just fine. But he can’t properly hold a pencil or a brush to write. I’ve always wanted to know what he’s thinking, though. What’s going on behind those black eyes?

Okay, I’m way off track. The thing that weirded me out when I met Tuney was how obvious it was that he and Harvard knew each other. Tuney just walked into the court, unannounced, and Harvard didn’t slaughter him on the spot.

Seriously, that’s a thing. We had to move court when I was six and some homeless people blundered in because someone forgot to lock the door. I didn’t see it or the after effects, but it’s still a topic of gossip to this day.

And it’s not just that they know each other. They know each other, and they hate each other. I’ve always done my best to keep them from killing each other. I think Harvard’s jealous that as I got older, I related to Tuney more and more instead. Relating to Harvard got a lot harder when I got older. As I’ve said, we couldn’t talk, and I didn’t really want to play anymore.

Instead, I’ve focused on trying to keep Tuney from being too serious. I always feel a little sense of triumph anytime I make him smile, or laugh. He never really treated me like a student, even though he was my teacher. For all intents and purposes, we’re friends.

I’ve told him all my secrets, too. I think that’s what made Tuney so interesting to me. He’d always listen to me. No one in court ever cared what I had to say. My other teachers made it clear I was to listen and learn. Tuney let me think, and talk. But to everyone else, all I was supposed to do was sit quietly, marry a prince, and make another prince.

Okay, I should probably qualify that. Yes, I’m a princess. Soon to be a queen. My family are called the Milesians. I had to study our whole family heritage, going all the way back to when our ancestors arrived in Ireland.

Don’t get us wrong, we don’t think we should rule the world, or anything. We’re not even that tied to Ireland. We’re not about to come back out of the woodwork and reclaim the country or something. But we keep our traditions, even in secret.

For some reason, though, this made someone want us dead. Tuney’s always been fuzzy on the details, but from my reading, it’s some crazy monster or something called Crom Cruach. I don’t really blame him for being hazy, I guess. He probably doesn’t think I’d believe him. And to be honest, I don’t really.

I know that Harvard’s kind exist. But he’s a real, physical thing. I can touch him. He breathes air, he eats and drinks. But seriously, a god?

I don’t know why Harvard’s people want to hurt me. What did we ever do to them? Right now it doesn’t matter, as Tuney takes my hand and leads me back to the car. He’s angry, really angry, but somehow that always makes him a bit hotter. It’s like he’s made of fire inside.

He is really hot. He doesn’t look like everyone else. He’s my height, and thin. He has a narrow face, and shaggy black hair. He’s always looked younger than he really is. Except for his eyes. He has very old eyes. They’re dark brown, so dark they’re almost black.

All the other girls in court say he’s creepy. I don’t think so, though. He’s my teacher, my guard, and the closest thing I think I’ve ever had to a true friend. He listens to me. He lets me speak my mind, even when he disagrees.  I can’t help but respect him, too. He’s never let his size stop him from doing anything, even roughing up that blockhead back in the party.

Not that I didn’t want to jump his bones. He was pretty, but nothing there between the ears. What moron doesn’t have at least some idea of their family heritage? He said his last name’s Schwartz.

German.

They’re fucking German.

And now here I am, being practically dragged behind Tuney to the car. Now I’m thinking about it, I’m kinda pissed. I’m eighteen. I’m still a virgin. I’ve never smoked a cigarette. I’ve never tasted alcohol. But I get married in two weeks to my first cousin, Keven.

No choice in the matter. None at all. The heads of the clans all voted. My father’s the king, and even he has to bow to the rules. Keven’s the closest to me in both age and blood. How fucked up is this? Keven doesn’t like it either, but it’s not as though he has any more choice than I do.

And it’s not like we can run away. All that’d happen is one of Harvard’s kind would find us and kill us. More likely than not, Harvard would find us and drag us both back. But I guess this is how fucked up my life is. I have to marry my cousin because it keeps the bloodlines pure and a bunch of senile old men voted on it, and my idea of fun is volunteering myself as bait to lure out an elf/dwarf/bat thing that wants me dead for something I didn’t do. Go me!

“Tuney?”

He stops. He always stops when I call him that. It’s like hitting an off switch. He’s on fire, fuming, call him “Tuney” and he just pops like a balloon. It’s been useful quite a few times.

“We risked too much tonight,” he grumbles.

“Tuney, relax,” I tell him. “You and Harvard would have never let anything happen to me, I trust you.”

Tuney sniffs. I squeeze his hand gently. He finally looks at me with those fathomless eyes. His eyes drift up above my head. I look back. There’s smoke coming from the building he’d climbed. Harvard must have destroyed the body. In spite of myself, I feel bad. That must have been so hard for Harvard to do.

I look back at Tuney. He looks back at me. My eyes run over the angular lines of his thin face. I’m not going to lie, I’m starting to feel a bit mischievous. This is the last bit of freedom (or something close to it) I’ll ever have again. I’m not going to waste tonight.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For always being here for me, for always putting up with me. For trusting me. You could have said no to this plan, but you trusted me and that it would work…”

Tuney snorts. “What do you want now? Wasn’t agreeing to this stupid plan enough?”

I roll my eyes at him. It was silly of me to try and butter him up. He’s suspicious of everyone and everything. He always knows when I’m up to something.

“Harvard’s going to want to be alone for a while,” I tell him. “We don’t have to go straight home… father won’t even be awake.”

“No.”

“Why not!?”

Tuney’s ‘no’ hurt. It hurt a lot. Maybe I’m being forward. Maybe I’m being pushy, but I know he’s always liked me. I’ve seen the way he always looks away when I look at him, pretending he wasn’t looking. The way he stops talking whenever I do my ballet stretches.

He starts pulling me towards the car again. I don’t fight him. I want to go into the car too. But I want him to climb in the back with me. In this moment, all I want is Tuney. I want to see him without clothes. I want him to fill me.

“You’re a princess,” Tuney finally answers. “You’re going to be married. You’re going to make lots of little princes and princesses.”

“Fuck that!”

Tuney stops. “Siobhan, don’t do this now… not now.”

“I know you like me,” I snap at him. “Why don’t you want me, too?”

“It’s not about that. I’m too old for you and there’s things about me you can never know. You’ll never understand.”

“Bullshit!”

He gives me an exasperated look. “Why now? Why now while we’re standing in the middle of the goddamn street?”

“Because I’ve always liked you and you’re amazing and brilliant and too good for me and this is the last chance I’m ever going to get before I’m married and you’ll have to go away and I probably won’t ever see you again!”

People are staring at us. Tuney’s ignoring them. So am I. He takes my hand again. It feels different this time. We just walk to the car now. It’s parked down an alley. Tuney opens the door for me. I climb inside. I sit, trying not to sulk, when Tuney climbs in beside me.

He shuts the door. I’m staring at him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring at the front of the car, but not really looking at anything. His eyes are darting back and forth. He’s thinking, hard.

“I’m not who you think I am, Siobhan,” Tuney says.

“You’re exactly who I think you are.”

I gently touch his cheek. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he just puts his hand on my cheek. His palm’s so warm. His eyes finally look in mine.

“You’re my Tuney,” I tell him. “You always have been.”

Tuney reaches down, undoing his belt. I pull up my skirt. I feel hot, my inner thighs are clammy. He slides his hand into his trousers.

“Siobhan, there’s no going back from this…”

“I don’t wanna go back.”

Tuney pulls his hand back out. His cock comes with it. I bite my lip, watching. I’ve seen pictures of boy parts before, but never for real. It looks a little funny, but I’m so wound up right now I really don’t care.

I lift my hips and slide down my panties. His eyes move over my bare hips, and my little bush. I feel like I’m tingling all over. It’s really happening.

His hand slides up and down my thigh. His arm curls around my waist. I lean against him. His hand rubs up over my stomach, up and down in a soft caress, higher and higher each time. I nod slowly as he softly kisses my forehead.

I gently rest a hand on his, and guide it higher on my own, up under my shirt. I rest it on my left breast, outside my bra. Tuney chuckles gently, and slides his hand over, slipping it inside the right cup instead.

My thighs rub together of their own volition as his fingertips slide around and around my perked nipples. His other hand starts moving up and down my inner thighs, warm and strong.

“Where’d you learn this…?” I ask softly.

“France,” Tuney chuckles.

“When were you in France?”

“Long before you were born…”

I hear the words, they strike me as odd, yet I don’t care. I can’t care right now. Finally, after all these years…

“Come here,” he says gently. He puts his hands on my waist, helping me straddle him.

“Is it gonna hurt?”

I curse myself for the childish question, but the other girls in court had bragged about their first times, as though it was a badge of honour.

Tuney smiles gently. “No… I’m very good at this…”

“That so?”

“Years of practice…”

He puts one hand on the small of my back, and the other on my bare ass. I close my eyes as he kisses my neck and shoulder. I cradle his head in my arms, finally, at long last running my fingers through his silky black hair. It feels just like I always hoped it would. I feel his tip touch me.

“Ready…?” he asks softly.

I nod.

“Promise the world’s not going to blow up if we do this?” he chuckles.

“You’re the one who knows everything.”

“Not everything… a little mystery is a good thing.”

That’s when one mystery ended, and another began. I knew as he entered me, I was finally having a wish come true. But deep down, in the back of my mind, I knew we’d just made a terrible mistake.

“It’s Tune,” he whispers in my ear as I settle against him, adjusting to the sensation. His arms are wrapped around me, a gentle embrace.

“What…?” I ask, a little dazed as one of his arms releases me, resting his hand on my thigh. I’m so distracted I can’t even think of which side it is. His left or mine?

He starts rocking his hips. I feel him inside me, moving up and down. His hand moves down, his fingertips tickling the top of my bush, nearing my core.

“Tune. That’s my name.”

“Tune…?”

“Yeah, T-U-A-N, Tuan. It’s my name. My real name.”

Tuan’s fingers start rubbing, dipping into my lips just above his cock. He finds my bean and begins rubbing it as his hips rock up and down.

“You’re Irish?”

“In a way,” he grunts, rock hard inside me.

“Hi, Tuan,” I moan.

“Hello, Siobhan… Nice to meet you, finally…”

“You too, Tuan… you too…”

Chapter 1

Tuan

23 January 1985 – Bragg, Texas

It’s here. She’s here. Princess Raegan has finally been born. Tuan nearly wrecked his car twice while speeding over.

He hums happily as he strolls up to the front of the clinic. On the outside, it looks like a normal run-down shack. Inside is a whole other story. Inside is a bustling health clinic.

Oil. Oil makes the world go around, these days. It’s how the Milesians have managed to keep themselves so hidden in this ever-shrinking world. Divine guidance, one could call it. Tuan prefers to think of it as money buys silence as well as it talks.

Tuan punches in the access code, opening the door. He steps inside, shutting the door and double-checking it locked.

“Good afternoon, Sheriff!” the receptionist greets him cheerfully.

“Howdy, Becca,” he replies, taking off his hat. “Big news, eh?”

“The Princess is asleep at the moment,” Becca cautions him. “The doctor and nurses are still tending to Princess Raegan.”

“Something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” Becca grins. “Just the usual stuff while Princess Siobhan sleeps.”

“Keven here?”

“The Prince is speaking with the King. They’re in the room adjacent to Princess Siobhan’s while she sleeps.”

Tuan sniffs and nods.

“Hávarðr here already?”

Becca’s face falls. “I think so…”

The fact that Hávarðr creeps out Becca cheers him slightly.

“When will she be ready to be seen?”

“Which she?” Becca teases, her eyes twinkling.

Tuan sniffs again in annoyance. It had long been rumoured around the court that Tuan and Siobhan were ‘too close’. The fact that the rumours were briefly true didn’t help.

 “Either,” Tuan says shortly.

“You might as well head back out on patrol, I’m afraid,” Becca says sadly. “It’s going to be a few hours.”

“My deputies are out there,” Tuan pats his radio. “They’ll let me know. I’ll just have a seat over here and catch some zees. Been a long day already.”

The fact is that Tuan and Siobhan haven’t seen each other since her wedding night. Siobhan’s prediction was true. The moment she was married and was to take on some responsibilities in court, Tuan had been shunted into another role. He was now the town sheriff.

Not that the job doesn’t have its perks. He is basically the second most powerful person in town, after Siobhan’s father, King Brenden, who’s mayor. He basically has the entire run of the town. Nothing happens without his knowing about it. Especially if it concerns the royal family.

He wonders what Siobhan has been up to, besides gestating the new royal heir. Has she been a part of the court? Have they listened to her counsel? She’s the smartest student Tuan’s ever taught, even if she’s a little brat.

“Ah, Sheriff Berres, a pleasure to see you.”

Tuan turns, looking down at kindly Doctor Escobar, hobbling towards him with her cane. He’s known Doctor Escobar all his life. She birthed him. She helped him get over this body’s weakness when he was born. She helped his parents nurse him to health. Tuan had then sought her out to be the new royal physician.

He thinks about his latest parents in that moment. Their names are Aaron and Katherine. He hasn’t seen them since he ran away to the court. He wonders where they are now. He also wonders why he cares.

“Aft’noon, Doc,” Tuan smiles. “Everything alright?”

“Oh yes, a perfectly ordinary birth,” Doctor Escobar replies. “No complications whatsoever. She didn’t even cry. Just like you didn’t. Astonishing, that, but she’s a little picture of health.”

“Wonderful,” Tuan smiles. “And Siobhan?”

“Sleeping,” Doctor Escobar says, unhelpfully.

“Yeah, heard that,” Tuan mutters. “Well, guess I’ll just have a sit-down then.”

“It’s just as well. I’m surprised the little one is sleeping so well. You may not have cried, but you were the fussiest, orneriest baby I have ever met.”

You would be too if you were ten-thousand years old stuck in an infant’s body.

“But you’re always so sweet.”

Shut up.

He bids Doctor Escobar good day and takes a seat in one of the cushy lobby chairs. Oil money, it has its perks.

“It comes at a cost. I never thought you would take to a lavish lifestyle, not after the café.”

Tuan ignores her. He slouches back in his chair, setting his hat down over his eyes to block out the fluorescents. He calms himself, taking slow measured breaths. He lets his mind wander, rather than try and force himself to not think.

He thinks about Siobhan, mostly. He thinks about that night last March. The night he was enough of an idiot to let Siobhan act as live bait for another Dökkálfar. The night he was fool enough to finally give in.

He hadn’t done it for her. It made it easier to tell himself that though. Siobhan is beautiful. She’s perfect. She’s someone else’s.

Tuan sighs. He can’t think like that. He can’t love. There’s no point. Everyone he’s ever loved is gone now. His parents are long dead. His brothers long gone. Hell, he killed one of them himself.

Not that he had a choice. The Worm had infected Abel too deeply. Killing him was a mercy. Now Tuan is a villain in three major religions.

He lets his mind drift again. Inevitably, it drifts to Siobhan. He sees the fire in her eyes that night. That crazy night, a fortnight before her wedding.

The wedding. The last time he’d seen her. She had styled her hair the same way. Her shining, golden, curled hair. Her face so sad behind her forced smile. Looking good for the clan leaders.

A hand shakes his shoulder. Tuan tips up his hat. Doctor Escobar is back.

“The Princesses are ready to see you now.”

“Cheers, Doc,” Tuan smiles, sitting up and stretching. “Time is it?”

“A little after nine,” Doctor Escobar chuckles. “It’s already dark. You are such a heavy sleeper.”

“Gone without it enough in my life. No point making it hard to have when you got it.”

“I will show you to their room,” Doctor Escobar says.

Tuan rises, stretching and following her. They head down a long hallway and into the maternity ward. There are only two or three rooms. Doctor Escobar knocks lightly on one.

“Hello? Is the party ready to receive a visitor?”

“We are.”

She sounds exhausted, but Tuan can hear the smile in her voice. Doctor Escobar opens the door all the way and Tuan steps inside.

He wasn’t ready.

Siobhan is laying in her hospital bed, holding little Raegan. A nurse is taking Siobhan’s blood pressure and temperature.

“Hello, Derek,” Siobhan smiles. Even after giving birth, she looks radiant as ever.

“Hello, My Lady,” Tuan replies, bowing.

Siobhan rolls her eyes, looking at her nurse.

“May I have a moment?” she asks gently.

“Of course, My Lady,” the nurse replies, gathering up her things and hurrying from the room.

Tuan can’t help but snort. The Milesians, clinging to these crazy old beliefs after all this time. What the hell does any of this mean? Brenden’s as much a king as Hávarðr’s a human.

“So, you came,” Siobhan says, drawing Tuan’s attention.

“Yeah, course,” Tuan says. “Been here since noon.”

Siobhan laughs. “Seriously? She wasn’t even an hour old.”

“Perks of being a sheriff,” Tuan chuckles, pulling over a chair. “I can speed as fast as I want if I turn on the siren.”

“Well, here she is,” Siobhan says, repositioning the little bundle in her arms just a little. “Look who’s here, little Raegan, it’s your Mommy’s best friend, Tuan. You can call him Tuney if you want.”

“Oh Jesus,” Tuan groans, burying his face in his hands. “Don’t say that… this is weird enough.”

Siobhan laughs again. She’s glowing. Tuan always thought that was just an expression. With Siobhan, it’s real.

He finally turns his attention to the child. She’s so tiny. Little Raegan. Warmth fills him all over.

She’s asleep, her eyes closed from her big journey into a scary new world. Even after thousands of years, birth is still amazing to him. New life.

“Hi, little Raegan,” Tuan smiles.

The sleeping babe doesn’t twitch. She has a full head of hair already. He can just see the dark fringe sticking out under the blanket wrapped up over her head. One of her little hands is peeking out from under the blanket. She’s so chubby he can’t tell where her arm ends and her hand begins. Her head looks almost perfectly round, with her chubby little cheeks, and squished little nose.

“You think she looks like her daddy?” Siobhan asks.

Tuan shrugs. “Looks like a little bundle of mushy joy, to me.”

“You ass!” Siobhan laughs. “You’re lucky I’m holding my first-born child or I’d hit you.”

“Oh, you’d hit me if it was your second-born?”

“I’d probably hit you with my second-born,” she teases.

Tuan sniggers. “That’s my girl.”

“I’m a woman now, you know? I think you might have had something to do with that.”

“You think? Y’mean your memory’s that fuzzy?”

The pair falls quiet for a while. They just sit, watching little Raegan.

“So, where’s the proud papa?”

Siobhan rolls her eyes. “He was here, of course. For hours. He went with Father to talk to the Moot.”

“Let the crazies cry about the Light of Saratoga all over again.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Siobhan mutters. “Last time the Moot came together it was to marry me off to Keven and make him King after Father. Almost a year ago.”

Tuan grimaces. “Old shits…”

“Language!” Siobhan chuckles. “You’re speaking before a newly-born Lady!”

“Didn’t stop me teaching you every curse under the sun.”

Silence falls again.

“I miss you…” Siobhan whispers.

Tuan tightens his lips. “You too…”

“You could have fought the ruling.”

“I was bringing enough shame. The Moot has already forgotten who I really am. They think I’m just some punk, still.”

“You need to remind them.”

Yeah, because that’s so easy, he thinks. I could swallow dynamite and blow myself into smithereens and come back two years later as a talking toddler and they still wouldn’t believe. They just play this game because it gets them royal oil money…

“Humans are such fickle beasts.”

Tuan laughs.

“Hm?”

“Oh, nothing,” Tuan says.

Stop doing that when I’m around people…

“But it’s fun…”

“Well… anyway… it’s good to see you again,” Tuan says. “I should probably go before Keven gets back.”

“He has a mistress, you know?”

Tuan stops. He’s halfway to the door. He doesn’t say anything.

“He tries to keep it a secret, but I can tell. We’ve only slept together once. That first night. For appearances, you know? I guess it worked.”

“I’m sorry… Siobhan… I really am…”

“He’s my first cousin. People think that’s ‘okay’. It’s not okay. Not today. Not now we know better.”

“I know it’s not…”

Tuan gives her one glance over his shoulder. She’s not looking at him. Her eyes are only for little Raegan.

Tuan’s never had a child. Not that he’s aware. She’s slept with enough women he’s probably left a bastard around somewhere. He doesn’t have to worry about that from the men he’s had, at least.

What must that feeling be like? To look at a life you created.

“See you around…”

“See you around…”

Tuan steps out, closing the door. He rests his head against it. How was he so stupid? Why did he have to give in? He could have just let her be another ‘might have been.’ Now she was a had and lost.

He allows himself a little smile. At least she got something before Keven. She got her night of freedom. That will have to be enough, he supposes. No, Siobhan doesn’t need him anymore. She has Raegan. Raegan will take care of her.

Tuan strolls back down the hall. He barely waves at the receptionist as he exits the building. He’s halfway to his patrol car when something strikes him hard in the back.

Tuan knows in an instant who it is. What he can’t imagine is why.

Tuan hits the ground, scraping his cheek on the cement. He rolls over, drawing his pistol and sticking it right in Hávarðr’s snarling face. He clutches his cheek, feeling the blood on his palm.

“The flying fuck?!” he growls.

Hávarðr snarls more, bestial and enraged. His pointed teeth are bared, making him look less human than ever. His flat nose is quivering, his fur bristles, making him look even larger than he really is.

“Hávarðr, if you don’t get off me, right now, I’m putting this bullet through your brain.”

The squat elf backs up, but reluctantly at best. Tuan sits up, grunting as he pushes himself to his feet. No sooner is he on his feet than Hávarðr’s jet-black fist connects with his scraped cheek. There’s a clink as the steel thumb collides with his jaw. The pain causes Tuan to stumble back, falling back onto his ass.

“Little shit!” Tuan grunts.

The blow loosened one of his teeth. He tastes blood. He points his pistol at Hávarðr but the elf instantly puts himself between Tuan and the clinic. Little fucker, using the hospital as a shield…

“What?” Tuan asks. “What the fuck do you want now? This body not good enough again? Going to end me so I start over again?”

Hávarðr snarls and points at the clinic.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tuan grunts, standing.

“Okay, then what? They got you on patrol now; keeping me away from her?”

Hávarðr growls and points at Tuan’s crotch, then back at the clinic.

“Jesus Christ,” Tuan gasps, before spitting some blood on the ground, along with the loosened tooth.

“I always found it so ironic when you use that curse…”

“You finally figured that out? Okay, we made love once. She was about to be married to her own cousin! That might not be so weird for you and your kind but it is for us! She wanted to know something normal first! She was excited and horny and—”

Hávarðr now tugs on his ears in frustration before pacing around. Tuan grimaces at the eerie sound of Hávarðr’s steel thumbs clinking on the ground. He often walks on all fours when he’s angry. It makes him look even more like an animal.

Hávarðr turns again, pointing at Tuan’s crotch again. He then points at the hospital, then rubs his skeletal hands over his belly, before pointing at Tuan’s nethers.

Horror. All at once, the reality of what Hávarðr was trying to tell him sinks in. It can’t be. No.

“How the hell do you know?"

Hávarðr snarls again.

“Oh Cain, you know better than that…”

Tuan keeps staring at Hávarðr. The snarling elf turns and springs up, grabbing the edge and swinging himself up onto the roof. He gives Tuan one last dirty look over his shoulder before vanishing from sight.

Tuan stares, not seeing. It can’t be. They only had sex once. It must be Keven’s. If something was amiss, someone would have been suspicious. If they thought the baby wasn’t Keven’s, they would have had Siobhan terminate the pregnancy.

“It was only a couple weeks before the wedding night. And they did consummate it. No one knows.”

How the fuck does Havardr know?!

“He can sense it. The same way he can sense you. He perceives you as a ‘hum’ as his people put it. Little Raegan puts off a hum just like yours.”

“You did this! This was you all along!”

“Of course, it was, Cain. I practically bred Siobhan for you. Prince Brenden was going to marry. I nudged the lords into picking Aurnia as his future queen. The result was Siobhan. A lovely girl with golden curls with an attitude to match.”

“Why? Why the hell…?”

“Crom is coming, Cain. He sent that Dökkálfar last year. She only spent two years hunting you all down. That was much faster than it took the last one. The Milesians will need to remember magic again if they’re to survive. It’s going to be awakened again; in little Raegan.”

Lucifer... Lucifer, what have you done…? Oh god… what have I done…?

Gyða

23 January 1985 – Wilderness outside Abilene, Texas

Gyða grunted as she fumbled with the door. It was always so hard to open without thumbs, especially when already carrying a deer carcass. Gyða smiled with satisfaction as it finally opened. She hobbled inside and dropped the deer beside the fire.

She walked over to the old mattress where she slept. She’d made it more comfortable with leaves and animal skins. She’d set up her own rustic tannery, and was surviving surprisingly well in this old, abandoned tornado shelter. At least the sign on the door read “Tornado Shelter”. She wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. She wasn’t living in the old house above. It was too exposed and might draw attention.

She had made a smoker out of an old tub. She would put wood coals in it and smoke meat from deer and other animals she’d killed. She’d made herself a bed. She’d made a tanning rack from an old bed frame. She could survive.

It wasn’t easy, and not just for the loss of her thumbs to Svikari. She was really starting to feel the separation now. Her head felt empty. At times, she lost her sense of balance. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was the total, aching, loneliness.

In an odd way, she wasn’t mad at Svikari. He’d outdone her; plain and simple. She deserved this fate for her own stupidity. She let her hunger blind her to the danger.

She had taken to hunting and tanning hides to pass the time. It provided her warmth and shelter, the bones gave her tools, and the meat gave her food. Not only that, but it gave her something to focus on other than the vacant loneliness of a life without Song.

She took the knife from her table and set to work as best she could on the deer. She had to skin it fast. It wasn’t cold enough to let the skin linger before treating.

Finishing, Gyða carried the bloody hide over to the water basin. She lay it out, setting stones on it to keep it submerged. It would take a few days, but she wasn’t in a hurry. She had several others in varying stages of the process.

She checked another basin of water. She stuck in a fingertip, pressing it to another hide from two days ago. She rubbed the fingertip along the hide and smiled with satisfaction as the hair fell away.

She pulled the hide from the water and hobbled back outside with it. It was dark out, so few were likely to see her work. Even if they did, human made as tasty a dish as deer. Though it was not as good as a young, freshly sacrificed Tuatha. Alas, neither had hides thick enough for good tanning.

Gyða walked over to the young sapling. It was springy, and just the right height. She began attaching the hide to the hooks she’d manage to rummage from the house and awkwardly screwed into the sapling. She started twisting the hide as tightly as she could, wringing out as much water as possible.

She then took the other end of the hide, and pulled it out, moving over to the old tree next to the sapling. She began pulling on the hide, dragging it along the tree, making sure to drag it across the areas she’d scraped off the bark. She let off, letting the little sapling drag the hide back.

Over and over again she did this. She would switch sides every now and then, making sure to scrape both sides as well as she could. Finally, with the sun starting to rise in the distance, it was ready. Gyða was exhausted. But she had more work to do. After this, she would get a few days to rest while the other hide soaked.

Gyða walked over to the old bed frame she’d taken from the house. She stretched the hide over it as tight as she could, before beginning to pin it in place with bits of the old bedspring she’d bent into hooks. Satisfied it was stretched as tight as she could, Gyða headed back for the carcass.

She knelt beside the head, which she’d already removed while skinning. She set it on the hard-concrete floor and took an old hammer. Holding the hammer as best she could with both hands, she brought it down hard on the skull.

It hit right on target. The skull split, revealing the soft brain inside. Gyða picked up her cup, setting it beside the skull. She took the skull and delicately plucked out the brain with her clawed fingertip, dropping it into the cup. She took the kettle and set it on her little firepit. There are just coals in there now. She doesn’t wait long. She just needs it warm. Satisfied, she takes the kettle and pours some of the water into the cup.

She picked up the hammer again by the head and began mashing the brain and water. Over and over she pounded the hammer until the brain and water were totally mixed into a paste. She hobbled over to the stretched hide and began vigorously rubbing the paste into the hide. Her arms burned from the effort, but it must be done fast.

Finished with both sides, Gyða removed the hide from the makeshift rack and carried it back to its water basin. She lowered it in again, once more placing rocks up on it to keep it submerged.

She could rest now. A few hours sleep and she would be ready to break the hide and then smoke it to preserve it. It was a good night’s work.

Gyða lowered herself wearily onto the bed. She pulled up the skin of a cow she’d slaughtered and covered herself with it. It had taken the most work to tan, but it was worth it. It was so warm and soft as she nuzzled up under it.

Gyða?

Gyða sprang up from her bed, looking around. Where had that voice come from?

Gyða, it’s me, it’s master. I’ve found you at last!

“Master!” Gyða gasps, looking around. “Where are you? I’m sorry, I failed you, Master… Svikari got the better of me… I’m not worthy… I’m not the huntress you thought I was…”

Gyða curled up again in the bed, covering her head with her thumbless hands in despair. Tears welled in her eyes. She’d never see them again. She’d never hear her parents’ or sister’s songs.

Oh, my sweet Gyða… your mission is not done. Svikari took your thumbs, but your people will overlook this when you return triumphantly with the royal family’s heads and the gate opens. I know this.

“How can I hunt them with no thumbs…?”

It has not stopped you from your hunting of deer.

“But Svikari… and that man… the man with the hum!”

I’m sending you a gift, sweet Gyða. He’ll help you. He’ll be exactly what you need.

“Our kind hunts alone!”

It is that attitude that allowed the Ljósálfar to overwhelm your people so easily. I will free your people of that curse. You will know the man when he comes. He will hum just like the humming man with the Oppressors. He is my… answer to that man. Trust me, sweet Gyða.

“I trust you, Master… thank you… thank you, Master… I serve you, always.”

Good Gyða, very good. Now sleep. I will wake you when the hide is ready to be broken.

Hávarðr

23 January 1988 – Bragg, Texas

Hávarðr glanced side to side as he walked down the long hallway. It was little Raegan’s third birthday. It was time to finally meet.

Hávarðr hadn’t seen Siobhan or Raegan in three years. The first three years, the royal child was kept with the royal mother. The child grew always having a parent present to love and nurture them. At three, they begin their lessons. That was when Hávarðr was called upon to protect them.

He’d known so many. He’d looked after Siobhan. Before her, he’d looked after King Brenden. He’d looked after King Eamonn. He’d looked after Queen Frida. Almost all the way back to his ‘betrayal,’ when the Tuatha murdered his family because he was a dissenter against the Worm.

King Brenden and Queen Aurnia were sitting on their thrones, ready to receive him. The room was as opulent as ever. The walls are sandstone. The wall behind the thrones was painted into a reproduction of a page from the Book of Kells, known as “Christ Enthroned.” The thrones themselves are made of solid pine, engraved with depictions of the Milesians’ rule and flight from Ireland. Hávarðr had been with them every step of the way. Except when he was required to hunt down Tuan in his newest bodies, of course.

King Brenden was tall with light hair like Siobhan. He had a thick, bushy beard, and was wearing his ornate crown. Despite their familiarity, Hávarðr had to admit the effect was silly in this day and age. King Brenden was strapping in build, though he’d definitely developed a bit of a paunch, but his perfectly tailored suits hid it well.

Queen Aurnia was almost as tall as King Brenden but much willowier. She was light of hair as well and wore an elegant dress. Hávarðr was a little humbled. He knew they dressed up for this occasion.

“Welcome back, Hávarðr,” King Brenden grinned jovially from his throne.

Hávarðr bowed as best he could. It was difficult to do so with his posture and mismatched limbs. The court was ringed with the members of the Moot. They were all looking down their noses at Hávarðr. He didn’t care. He could kill all of them in his sleep if he wanted.

“Hávarðr,” Queen Aurnia said, smiling at him radiantly. Siobhan was her spitting image.

King Brenden rose and spread his arm wide as he strolled down the steps to Hávarðr. He placed a hand on Hávarðr’s head, rubbing vigorously, as though Hávarðr were a loyal hunting dog.

“How are you, old boy?” King Brenden asked, kneeling.

“Don’t treat him like that, Brenden,” the queen chided.

Hávarðr smiled a little, appreciative of Queen Aurnia’s treatment of him. She, like Siobhan, had never treated him like the rest. Aurnia had told Siobhan he was her guardian angel. In that moment, Hávarðr knew he would give his life for her as readily as any of the rest of the royal family.

“Oh psh-off,” King Brenden chortled. “Harv and I go way back, don’t we?”

Hávarðr nodded.

“Are you ready to meet your newest charge?” Queen Aurnia smiled, walking down to join the king.

Hávarðr nodded again.

“Wonderful,” King Brenden grinned. “Little Raegan has been most anxious to meet her angel!”

Hávarðr looked back and forth between them. They gestured to the doorway off of the hall, leading to the royal chambers. Prince Keven was standing there, waiting. He was dressed much more comfortably. He’s dark haired, like his father Eric, who stood nearby. Hávarðr ignored the smugness on Lord Eric’s face.

Prince Keven came from Clan Mac Carthaigh. They were not the most ambitious clan in the moot, but close. Prince Keven was easily the most down to earth member of his clan. Hávarðr supposed that’s why he’d been picked to be Siobhan’s husband.

Prince Keven smiled kindly at Hávarðr, however, and knelt to look the old elf in the eyes. He’d only just started growing out his beard. A royal expectation.

“Come along, Hávarðr,” Prince Keven said. “Siobhan’s excited to meet you.”

Hávarðr moved forward, past Prince Keven. He knew the way by heart. Not to mention the fact he could already hear little Raegan’s hum from here.

Prince Keven followed along as Hávarðr made his way to the royal chambers. He paused outside the door and slowly raised a hand.

“Go ahead,” Keven said gently, resting a hand on Hávarðr’s shoulder.

Hávarðr nodded and knocked gently.

“Come in, Harvard.”

“Who Hav’rd?”

Hávarðr turned the handle. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Mama, Mama who Hav’rd?”

Hávarðr steps into the room. Siobhan was sitting on the floor, leaning against the foot of her bed. He tried not to wince at the sensation of little Raegan’s hum. It wasn’t like Song. It was close, but not the same.

“Rae Rae,” Siobhan smiled. “Come here, sweetie.”

The child walked into view. She was wearing a pretty little dress with a bow on the front, tights and shiny little mary-janes. She had a sparkly hair band holding her long dark hair out of her eyes. Hávarðr did his best to smile without opening his mouth. People tended to be alarmed by his pointed teeth.

Raegan stopped and stared at him. She had her father’s eyes, not Keven or Siobhan’s.

“Raegan,” Siobhan said gently putting an arm around Raegan’s little shoulders. “This is Harvard. He’s going to be your guardian angel.”

“Hi,” Raegan said shyly, waving.

“Hello,” Hávarðr said without thinking, returning the wave.

Raegan giggled. The sound melted Hávarðr’s heart a little.

“He funny,” Raegan giggled more.

Hávarðr blinked. Siobhan rolled her eyes but kept smiling.

“Now, now, sweetie. Harvard is very different from us, but he’ll love you with all his heart, and always make sure you’re safe. You’ll never have to worry about monsters with him about.”

“Can we play?” Raegan asked.

“Of course, sweetie,” Keven replied.

Raegan walked up to Hávarðr, studying him closely. He was used to this. Her smart little eyes scanned his face. Her little hand lifted up and poked his cheek.

“Fuzzy,” Raegan giggled louder.

“That’s right,” Keven chuckled.

“Like Buggabear.”

Raegan reached down and picked up Hávarðr’s hand. He let her splay out his long fingers. She pressed her little hand against his, furrowing her little brow in confusion.

“She’s so smart,” Keven smiled, resting a hand on Siobhan’s shoulder.

Hávarðr fought back a grimace at the sound of pride in Keven’s voice. He doesn’t know he’s not the father. He couldn’t know. It wasn’t little Raegan’s fault.

“Where dis finger?” Raegan asked, inspecting Hávarðr’s faux-thumbs.

“It was lost a long time ago, little one,” Hávarðr said, sadly.

“Where?”

“He lost them long ago, honey,” Siobhan said, reaching over to stroke little Raegan’s long straight hair.

“How about you take Harvard into your room and show him your toys,” Keven suggested.

“Kay,” Raegan said, taking hold of one of Hávarðr’s long fingers and pulling him towards the nursery.

Hávarðr smiled as he followed. The room was bright, and painted in many colours, judging by the shades. It smelled of heather.

Raegan picked up a stuffed bear almost the same size as her and carried it over.

Hávarðr chuckled. “This must be BuggaBear.”

“Uh-huh,” Raegan said.

Hávarðr stared. Raegan rubbed BuggaBear’s paw against his hand.

“See, soft!”

Hávarðr could only nod. He had to have imagined it. Raegan giggled and started hurrying back and forth across the room, bringing toy after toy to show him. Hávarðr sat, slowly becoming buried under the cascade of stuffed animals, dolls, and jangling toys.

He glanced at the door. Siobhan and Keven were standing side by side, but not touching as they watched. Siobhan and Keven exchanged a look and stepped back, pulling the door shut.

Hávarðr picked up one of the toys. It was an old Raggedy Ann doll. It had once been Siobhan’s.

“Da’s from Mama,” Raegan said.

“I remember,” Hávarðr said.

“And dis one Lubalelle,” Raegan said picking up a stuffed bat.

“Lullabelle?”

“Da’s what I say!”

Hávarðr stood up. The toys fell off him, clattering about.

“Awwww no mo snuggles.”

“…Raegan…?”

The tiny child looked up at him. He felt a pang as he saw Tuan’s eyes. At least the eyes of his newest body.

“Can you…” Hávarðr paused in thought. “Where’s your bed?”

“There,” Raegan pointed.

Hávarðr flopped back down again. Raegan giggled and immediately resumed piling her toys on top of him.

She could hear him. Raegan could hear him. Not only that, she could understand him. He didn’t know how, or why, but it was the only explanation. He let her play, trying not to say anything. It had to be a dream. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since that last Dökkálfar he let go. And that hadn’t been much of a conversation.

You are getting old, he thinks to himself, careful to keep it a thought.

An hour later the door opened again.

“How are you—”

Siobhan stopped in the doorway, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. Hávarðr was currently lying flat on his back, his long arms splayed out as Raegan tried to see just how many of her toys she could rest on his arms, while Lulabelle rested on his nose. She’d almost gotten most of them. As she worked, she was humming a little high-pitched squeal. It had Hávarðr transfixed. It sounded much like Song. She could hear his Song and was trying to repeat it.

Keven stepped in and he fully succumbed to laughter.

“I do wrong?” Raegan asked, anxiously.

“No, no, no, sweetie,” Keven smiled, walking over and kneeling down with her. “You’re playing just fine, Hávarðr just looks silly.”

Hávarðr narrowed his eyes.

“I like him,” Raegan giggled. “He sounds pwetty.”

Keven and Siobhan exchanged a confused look.

“That’s… good dear,” Siobhan said.

“It’s almost nap time.”

“Awwwwwww, Raegan pouted. “Nooooooo.”

“Yes, you know it is you little goose,” Siobhan chuckled, picking up Raegan. “We’ll get you in your comfy clothes and Hávarðr can stay with you.”

“Okay,” Raegan agreed at once.

Hávarðr kept sitting back as Siobhan and Keven helped Raegan into her pyjamas. They lay Raegan down in the bed, tucking her in. Keven and Siobhan each kissed her little forehead.

“Can Hav’rd read to me?”

Siobhan and Keven exchanged another glance.

“No, sweetie,” Siobhan said. “Harvard can’t do that.”

“I’ll read to you,” Keven said, sitting in the chair next to Raegan’s bed. “Harvard can listen, too.”

Hávarðr moved into a corner, sitting as though one of the toys himself. Keven started to read. Siobhan patted Hávarðr’s head gently before padding quietly from the room. The whole time, little Raegan looked at Hávarðr. That book finished, Keven kissed Raegan’s forehead again and left, giving Hávarðr a kind smile as he did.

Hávarðr gave him a dutiful nod and kept watching the door as it shut. He tilted his head, twitching an oversized ear in its direction.

“Are you sure about Harvard and Raegan?” he heard Keven ask.

“Harvard would sooner cut off his own arms than let something happen to Raegan.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Keven continued. “What if something happens by accident? He’s strong and wild, and he’s got those teeth and claws.”

“Harvard’s been taking care of my family for centuries,” Siobhan spat.

“Okay, okay,” Keven muttered. “Just remembering what happened back in Seventy-two.”

Hávarðr heard no more as the door to the main bedroom shut. He looked back around and jumped with surprise to see little Raegan sitting on her knees at the edge of the railing on her bed, holding out a book to him. He read the title: The Mixed-Up Chameleon.

“You want me to read to you?”

Raegan nodded. Hávarðr rose and walked over to her. He hefted himself into the chair where Keven had just been sitting and took the book. Raegan snuggled down into the bed again and Hávarðr pulled up the covers for her. She closed her eyes finally as he opened the book and began to read.

Siobhan

31 August 1992 – Bragg, Texas

So, here we are. Raegan’s seven now. She’s starting her first year at school. I’m not going to lie, I’m more than a little nervous. We’re in the car right now. We’re almost there.

She’s had a private tutor for the last few years. I had one at her age until Tuan came when I was ten. Now he’s all but banished from the royal court.

I stopped in to see him, once. At his office. He basically just keeps the peace in Bragg now. He seemed okay. He seemed busy at least. He might have just been acting that way so I wouldn’t stay too long. I probably shouldn’t have done it.

Keven and I are getting along okay, strangely enough. We have made some agreements. We both love Raegan, so we try to look past a lot of our differences for her. We’re obviously not intimate with each other, but we do our best to always be happy around her.

Which brings me to why I’m so nervous about her going to school. She’s so close with Harvard. Almost frighteningly close. It’s almost as though she can understand him.

For her birthday this year, we got her a doll house. She wanted Harvard to help her put it together. She was insistent on it. So, we let him. Keven and I stood there and watched as Harvard put it together. Raegan sat there right next to him. Harvard would hold out a hand, and she’d give him the proper tool. Neither said a word.

He plays with her just like he and I used to. He hides in all the same spots for hide-and-seek. She’s so happy, and I’m so afraid of what being away from him will do to them both. Harvard will always be watching her from the shadows, but still, I worry.

I’ve also done a lot of growing in the last seven and a half years. I like to think I’m not quite the brat I once was. I never expected it, but Keven seems to value my advice. He listens to me. Without him, I’d just have to sit on the throne and look pretty after Father and Mother step down.

Just like my mother did. Yeah, fuck that.

I’ve managed to annoy a lot of the Court. In our culture, the Queen really is little more than a glorified baby-maker. I aim to change that. As does Keven. We also want to do away with the whole marrying cousins thing. It’s almost the twenty-first century. We’re better than this.

So, maybe we actually do make a good team. I’m just lucky the only time we did it took. Having to do it multiple times to produce an heir would be a nightmare. An even bigger nightmare.

Okay, I’m thinking about Raegan going to school again. Trying not to worry. My time in school was shaky at best. I was the princess, so I was guaranteed to be queen. This meant I was equal parts buddy-buddied and derided by all the other girls. Boys were plenty nice to me, but none ever showed any actual interest.

Tuan explained that it was because I was Princess. There wasn’t a point in dating me because ultimately, I was always going to marry whomever the Moot deemed worthy. But they were all nice to me, in case the Moot did pick them. Tuan never hesitated to tell me how stupid that was.

Granted, Tuan talks to himself when he thinks no one’s looking, so maybe he’s not the most rational person to deal with? He did tell me all about his past that night. He told me his real name’s Tuan Mac Cairill, and he’s been alive for thousands of years, just dying and reincarnating in new bodies.

No, I don’t believe him. How could I? Not about that.

But he was right about how stupid the system is. You know what they say about broken clocks, right? We must move on. We must change. This world is changing all around us. Every house has telephones and televisions. People can talk to each other over computers now. We can’t hide forever.

Oh god, what if she doesn’t make any friends? What if they pick on her because she’s short for her age? What if she falls on the playground? We’ve taken her to the neighbourhood playground of course, but she won’t have us there. I need a drink.

Chapter 2

Tuan

31 August 1992 – Bragg, Texas

The sound of quiet grunts and snuffling can just be heard over the sound of churning hooves. The sounder of feral hogs moves up the row of corn, one by one knocking down the stalks, nimbly extracting the cobs from their husks, and devouring them.

It’s almost midnight. The herd has learned to move through fields at night. The moon is only a slivered crescent. The hogs are barely visible in the darkness. They’ve learned there’s safety in the darkness around the farms. The farmers are around during the day. That’s the danger time.

There are a nearly two dozen individuals. They’re mostly young, being herded about by a handful of sows. Only five of them are adults, and several of them already pregnant with their next litters.

The lead sow knocks down another stalk. She is almost to its cobs the night silence is rent by the sound of a heavy smack. It’s the terrible, combined sounds of an impact, crunching bone, and rending flesh. Her head jerks and she drops to the ground. Her legs spasm and kick, flopping her onto her side.

The other hogs scatter but don’t go far. Leaderless, they mill about before turning to the second in the ranks. No sooner does this sow get her bearings when another wet smack fills the air and that sow drops as well.

The sounder is in complete disarray. They run about in circles, squealing in shock and terror. Again, and again, there’s the sound of impacts, each punctuated with a falling hog. Not even the young are spared; falling and tumbling with puffs of mist and the thudding, terrible whacks.

All movement in the field ends. The fallen hogs no longer twitching. All are dead. The only sound is that of rustling cornstalks in the light breeze, and cars on the nearby highway.

The stillness is finally broken by a strange figure emerging from the hedgerow around the field, only thirty yards from the carnage. It looks like a walking bush as it approaches. An arm emerges, pulling back a hood, revealing a human face.

Tuan unslings his rifle as he kneels beside the lead sow. Her snout is longer than a normal domestic pig. She has a fine, light coat of fur. He guesses she’s at least two generations removed from captivity.

He prods the sow’s hindquarters with the rifle’s barrel, checking for signs of life. He doesn’t need to. The heavy bullet hit right on target, smashing her brain. Instant death. Tuan knew from experience she hadn’t even felt her body hit the ground.

He tilts his head, listening. The only sound he can hear is the wind whistling through the trees bordering his field, and the sound of a car driving up the dirt road, coming from the direction of his house. With the moon only a few nights away from new, the Milky Way is clearly visible.

Tuan stands, slinging his rifle up over his shoulder. It’s one of his prized possessions; an old Ruger semi-automatic carbine in .44 Magnum he’s customized himself. He’s tooled a new barrel, thick and hollow, full of baffles that capture and redirect the sound of expanding gases. It isn’t remotely legal, but he’s a sheriff, and no one knows people still live in Bragg, anyway.

The near silence of its operation came at the cost of greatly reduced range. Especially when he used his special hand-loaded subsonic rounds. This meant Tuan could hear the soft metal clink of the action and the resounding smack of the 300-grain bullets. With a scope, he could shoot accurately with it out to one hundred yards, but he’d taken the scope off for shooting at night, making his shots from thirty yards in the dark.

He reaches over his shoulder, patting the barrel thankfully. He got the idea from the old DeLisle carbine he’d used with the French Resistance. He’d taken it off a British commando who’d been killed fighting in the Bocage. The DeLisle was just as quiet, but not as powerful, and as a bolt-action, it didn’t fire as quickly.

Tuan heads back, beginning his meandering way to his truck. He parked a mile off, not wanting to make the hogs suspicious. They had been wreaking havoc on the local fields for a few weeks since they moved into the area. Tuan decided it was time to put a stop to it.

He sets the rifle gingerly in the rack in the rear window of the truck, then climbs in. The old truck growls to life, and he drives back the way he came. He drives it through a gap in the hedgerow, out along the field, next to the slaughtered sounder.

It’s slow work loading the bodies into the bed of his truck. The grown sows are heavy; he doesn’t think one of them is under a hundred pounds. What’s more, there’s five of them. Luckily, most of the sounder is young. He takes care of the sows first, getting the hard part out of the way, able to easily toss most of the little ones in with one hand.

The bed loaded with dead hogs, he drives back to his house. He’s owned these hundred acres of farmland since becoming sheriff. The royal family paid for it, but everything is in his name. It’s humble; just an old ranch home and a barn big enough for his workshop, harvester, and freezer.

It’s everything he’s ever really needed. He’s always been brilliant with plants in general, but crops especially. Corn, wheat, you name it. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do since he was old enough to think clearly.

Now, he’s mostly just bored, on top of a heavy dose of loneliness. He’s been alone since that night back in eighty-five. That terrible night where he learned just how stupid he’d let himself become.

He tugs off his gloves in frustration and throws them onto the dash. He was so fucking stupid. How the hell could he have been that fucking stupid?

He had a daughter. A real child. One that he knew about. They named her Raegan. She’s seven now. He’s only seen her once: the night she was born. Before he even knew she was really his.

Tuan slams the door of his truck. Why is he so angry? Raegan’s living a better life than he could ever give her. What does he know about raising a child? In over ten-thousand years he’s never had one.

He’d never seen the point. He’d outlive them all anyway. He’d keep living, and they’d be gone. Off to whatever the hell happens after you die. Lucifer has never told him, and he’s never asked. Maybe everyone else reincarnates, too? Does it matter? It’s not like he can wander around asking people if they were a lover or family from another life.

He’s never spoken with Lucifer since then, either. She’s been obliging of his shunning. She’s never even attempted to talk to him since. For the last seven years, he’s been alone.

Sure, he’s had his deputies at the office. But there’s been no Siobhan. No court. No Lucifer whispering in his ear. He hasn’t even slept around for the shits and grins.

Tuan takes off his sweltering ghillie suit and throws himself into the laborious dressing out the hogs. The large ones he’s going to butcher and donate to a nearby food bank. The little ones he’ll grind up with the hearts, lungs, and livers of the adults to feed to the department’s dogs.

He tries to focus on the gutting. He sticks the tip of his tongue into the space where the tooth used to be that Hávarðr knocked out. It’s become a habit of his to do this whenever he’s feeling anxious. Fortunately, his cheek had fully healed.

“Guess who.”

Huh?

“Wow—”

“SHIT!” Tuan shouts in surprise before hissing in pain.

He was in the middle of cutting open the last pig. He’d just repositioned his hand when the voice spoke up. Startled, he fell back a bit and his right hand slipped with the knife, slicing his left hand. It cut right into the skin between his thumb and hand. He could hear the clink and scrape of the blade hitting the bone. He staggers back from the carcass, clutching his hand. Blood is beginning to drip from it.

“Oh, god!”

Tuan hurries towards his barn, ignoring whoever had surprised him. He can hear her walking along behind him but he’s too angry to listen. He ignores the pain as well, kicking open the little door and walking to the faucet of the sink he’s installed. He turns on the water and tugs off the surgical gloves, sticking his hand under the water.

He grunts in pain, hissing through his teeth. The pain is excruciating, but he exhales in some relief. His hand wasn’t in the body-cavity at the time, so he doesn’t think any of the hog’s blood got into his cut. He’s never been sick, but he doesn’t want to take chances with the kinds of diseases wild pigs can carry. He’s not especially anxious to have his first illness be Trichinosis.

“Tuan!” the woman says, “Oh god, oh god!”

Tuan sighs. “It’ll be fine. I’m fine.”

“You almost sliced off your fucking thumb!” the woman declares. “I’m taking you to the hospital. At least tell me you have a first-aid kit?”

He simply leans down on the sink, letting the water run over his hand. The pain’s going away. The wound’s healing.

“Over on those shelves, should have some—"

He goes rigid. The light in his mind clicks on. He knows that voice. He stands and spins around. She’s here. She’s standing right here in his barn.

Siobhan. He must be dreaming. Her face is stricken, but she’s still beautiful.

She’s straightened her hair, parted on the left and pinned up over her right temple. She’s layered it, and cut it down to shoulder length. Her almost perfectly oval face is as symmetrical as ever. Her skin looks smooth as silk, with just a hint of a tan. Her eyebrows are thin and perfectly plucked. Her nose is so straight it would make a ruler look crooked. Her eyes are such a pale blue they almost look grey.

He wonders how he could have missed her in that outfit. Her pants are white, and skin tight with a high-waist. Her shirt is red and white plaid, with a high collar and tied waist that shows a hint of her well-toned abs.

“Sio-Siobhan…? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was in town,” Siobhan said, opening the first-aid kit and taking out some disinfectant and bandages.

Tuan raises an eyebrow.

“Well—I was!—now just give me your hand.”

“Siobhan, really there’s no need.”

“Tuan, I saw the cut. There’s a trail of blood all the way here.”

Tuan sighs and holds out his hand.

“This will hurt,” she says as she unscrews the lid of the disinfectant.

Tuan scoffs. “Do your worst.”

It does hurt like hell as Siobhan pours it over the cut. He hides the pain, watching as the solution bubbles.

“Oh, that doesn’t look as bad as I thought,” Siobhan says as the solution fades.

Not anymore, and not much longer.

He keeps watching as she presses the gauze onto the cut, then wraps the medical tape around it. He’s staring at her face. She looks different, yet the same. He likes this new look. She looks like a woman. Seven years of leadership and raising Raegan has done wonders.

“Tuan?”

“Sorry,” Tuan mutters, giving his head a jerk.

Siobhan’s face is worried. He can’t look at her anymore.

“So, what made you finally decide to… well, you weren’t just ‘in town’. It’s midnight.”

Siobhan leans against his truck. His eyes unavoidably slide over her cleavage, the hint of her flat stomach, and the supple curves of her hips.

“It was her first day of school today…” Siobhan says.

Tuan’s throat tightens. The last thing he wants to talk about.

“I stopped into your station. They said you had the week off.”

“Yeah, had to take care of the pigs,” Tuan mutters, pulling on another pair of surgical gloves. They just barely fit over his bandaged hand.

“I see that,” Siobhan replies looking in the back of his truck. “Did you really have to kill the piglets?”

Tuan shrugs. “Kindest thing for them. Quick bullet in the dark versus starvation or being eaten alive by coyotes.”

Speaking from experience, there… he shivers.

“You did make a majestic boar.”

 “That’s… logical. In a dark, morbid, kind of horrible way.”

Weren’t you gone?

“What, miss this reunion? Besides, you know better than that. I’m always watching.”

“None of life’s that pretty in my experience. Particularly in nature.”

“You mean fuzzy bunnies and baby deer don’t become bestest buddies in the wild?” Siobhan teases.

Tuan chuckles as he heads out the door. She follows him back outside. He picks his knife back up off the ground, checking its edge, then getting back to work.

“Should you be doing that with your hand?” Siobhan asks, apprehensively.

“I’ve had worse,” Tuan replies as he sticks the knife into the throat just above the collar-bone, severing the windpipe. He sets down the knife and slides his hands into the body-cavity, taking hold of the severed windpipe and pulling, bringing out all the innards at once.

He must admit this would be an odd sight to anyone. Siobhan dressed in the nicest of modern fashion, and Tuan, dressed in a drab tee-shirt, bloody blue jeans, and his arms now elbow deep into the abdomen of a pig as he checks for any leftover bits.

“You’re saving those?” Siobhan asks as he stuffs the heart, lungs, and liver into his cooler.

“For the dogs,” Tuan grunts, standing and dragging the mercifully lighter carcass back towards his truck. “Grind ‘em up with the little ones. Nice and filling. A treat for being good boys and girls.”

“So, what are you doing with the big ones?”

“Freeze ‘em and give them to that new food bank down in Beaumont,” Tuan replies.

“Wow,” Siobhan nods. “Oddly charitable of you.”

“You’d be surprised,” Tuan quips, opening the door to his walk-in freezer and dragging the pig inside.

He picks up a gambrel and sticks the hooks into the pig’s ankles. He grunts, using the last ounces of his strength to lift the pig up onto a hook, its nose hanging just off the ground. He’s shivering already from the cold as he steps back out into the warm barn.

“How did you kill so many?” Siobhan asks, staring at the five hanging pigs.

“Just sat in the right spot at the right time with the right gun,” Tuan grunts, bending back, groaning in relief as his spine crackles. “That and I’ve always had a knack for pigs.”

Tuan chuckles darkly in his mind as he shuts the freezer door. Siobhan doesn’t get his joke, but he doesn’t care. His past lives aren’t for her to know. Only one knows them.

The Voice. Lucifer. That little voice in the back of his head. The one who’s always been with him for every reincarnation; known his every name and form.

“So…” Tuan asks, trying to think of something casual. “How was her first day?”

He doesn’t really want to talk about Raegan, but he thinks it would seem suspicious if he doesn’t ask.

“Good, I think,” Siobhan replies. “I did my best to avoid a massive panic attack on the way. Got home and had two or three martinis. I can’t remember how many exactly.”

Tuan chuckles. “Well, that’s one way of dealing with it.”

“Keep an eye on her.”

Tuan looks around. By the look on Siobhan’s face, this is the real reason she’s here.

“I can’t be there all the time, Harvard can’t be there all the time… please… try and… when you’re on patrol… stick around the school…?”

“Siobhan,” Tuan asks, worry filling his mind. “What’s going on?”

“Times are changing, Tuan,” Siobhan says. “We can’t stay in Bragg much longer. People are going to find out. There’s this new thing called the Internet. It’s going to make the world a lot smaller. We need to blend in more…”

“Heh, yeah?” Tuan asks, leaning back against his truck. “How do you plan on that?”

“Keven and I want to use the internet to hide, instead of letting it find us. We’re going to spread out… not live so centralized anymore.”

Siobhan sighs crossing her arms. “What it means is… Keven and I are moving to Dallas, soon. If we stay here, people will find us and start asking questions. The government will start asking questions. People will find out where the Moot signal comes from…”

“Heh, I guess, uh… yeah, I guess that’s forward thinking. That’s good… that’s real good. I approve. Hiding in plain sight… Honestly, I like it. So, things with Keven? Working out, huh?”

“In their ways,” Siobhan mutters. “We have agreements. Tonight was my night to go out with my girlfriends and stir things up. Keven had last night. I may or may not have made sure in arranging the schedule I got tonight off so I could drink off my anxieties…”

“Kids go to school, Siobhan. Every day around the world. Raegan’s going to be fine, just like you were.”

“Raegan’s not like me.”

Her tone takes him aback. Tuan narrows his eyes, studying her face. She looks as stricken as she had when she was worrying about Tuan’s hand.

“Raegan’s… she’s wonderful, and beautiful, and smart, and funny, and I love her more than my life, and that’s why I’m here. Harvard can’t be with her all the time and I need you to look after her.”

Siobhan’s hands are trembling.

“Siobhan…”

Tuan stands, walking closer.

“She’s different, Tuan. She talks with Harvard. I know she does. You know what her teacher told me when I picked her up? She asked where she learned French so well! French! She knows French! Keven and I have never taught her French! We all know Spanish, but not French!”

Tuan’s stomach is churning. Lucifer’s words are washing over his mind. The Milesians will need to remember magic again if they’re to survive. It’s going to be awakened again; in little Raegan.

Tuan gives his head a shake. “Wait, she talks to Hávarðr?”

“Yes!” Siobhan exclaims. “I brought her home and the whole way, she told me all about her day. Then we went into the house and she sat down with Harvard and started telling him all about her day! I wasn’t really listening until something struck me. As she was talking, she’d pause like she was waiting for him to say something, and then she’d start talking like he had!”

Siobhan falls silent, catching her breath. Tuan keeps staring. She was right. Lucifer was right. Milesian magic has been awoken.

He remembers when the Milesians first arrived in Ireland. He was living as a salmon at the time. The schools spoke of another group of people who’d arrived. People who opposed the Fomorians, and the Tuatha. He decided then it was time to return to the world of men. He swam into a fisherman’s net. The fisherman presented him to the local lord, a Milesian named Cairill. Tuan was then reborn to the lord’s wife, Bláthnaid. That was how he got his name, Tuan. Tuan Mac Cairill. He’s kept it ever since. He’s preferred being known as a hero to his old role as the world’s legendary first murderer.

“Tuan? Are you listening?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“What does this mean? Is she just… pretending? Or… what’s going on? Should I be afraid?”

Tuan leans on his truck again. Should he tell her? He can’t tell her Raegan’s really his. But he can tell her enough.

“You taught Raegan Spanish? How well did she learn it?”

“At once, but we started teaching her as soon as she could talk.”

“Siobhan… you’re smart. Smart enough—more than smart enough—to understand some things when faced with evidence of them.”

Siobhan’s eyes narrow.

“What if…” Tuan sighs. “What if I told you that hundreds and hundreds of years ago, your ancestors were magic?”

“Magic?” Siobhan asks, her eyes narrow but her eyebrows raised.

“For want of a better word. They understood all languages. They could move things with their mind… cast curses. Talk to each other without actually speaking.”

“Tuan…”

Her voice is full of disbelief. He expected as much.

“There are things in this world you don’t understand,” Tuan mutters. “Things people don’t see because they don’t look for them anymore. I… I have magic, too. I haven’t used it in a long time, but I do.”

Siobhan’s shaking her head. Her frustration is palpable. He doesn’t blame her, she came here for help, and here’s old Tuan talking crazy again. There’s nothing for it.

Tuan slips off the surgical gloves. He starts unwrapping the medical tape.

“What are you doing?” Siobhan splutters, hurrying over.

The gauze falls to the ground. Siobhan grabs his hand and gasps. She lets go, taking a step back. Tuan sighs, holding up his hand, revealing the completely healed wound. There wasn’t even a scar.

“This is part of my magic. What I told you is true. I’m Tuan Mac Cairill. The real Tuan Mac Cairill. And Raegan is magic… and I agree, you all need to hide better…”

Gyða

1 September 1992 – Just outside Lufkin, Texas

Gyða sniffed in frustration as she curled up in her bed. If she was honest with herself, she had been frustrated for quite some time. It had now been over seven years since she lost her thumbs. Nearly eight years, give or take.

Not that she was entirely complaining. She had a roof over her head. A real roof. And much, much more.

The Master’s Captain had taken over this house shortly after finding Gyða. He now looked nothing like he did when he first came to Gyða. He had a new body, for one. His first body was short and unassuming. His new body was tall and rugged, and it came with this massive new house.

The new house was in the country, and Gyða could watch the stars every night. She had a bed to sleep in; a proper human bed; not a nest of an old mattress and animal skins. She had all the food to eat that she could ever want.

Not only that, but the Captain’s hum seemed satisfactory as a replacement for the Song. As loud as it was, Gyða had become accustomed to it. It was comforting to her now, so comforting she felt lonely when the Captain was away.

Despite that, she was getting impatient. It only took her two years from leaving the cave to find the Oppressors. It was now seven years. She was done letting the luxuries distract her. She supposed it would be easier if the Captain could understand her. Gyða had taught herself how to write, which helped with their communication, but it was slow and tedious.

There was one luxury Gyða found she could no longer live without. Her ‘television’ as the Captain called it. She had it on at all times. It gave off a hum, too, even when nothing was on. It kept her company when he was away.

Most things she couldn’t see on the screen, but its glow was warm and comforting. When it showed something ‘black and white’, however, Gyða could see it. The Captain had found many ‘films’ for Gyða to watch on it when he was away.

Her favourite was called ‘Casablanca’. She watched it almost exclusively. The humans were as hideous as any other human, with their strange oval heads, odd mops of hair, and awkward, limited bodies. It was their character that appealed the most to Gyða. The people in it were trying to escape Oppressors of their own.

She loved watching Rick come to see the evil of the Nazis and decide to rise against them. She sometimes wondered if she could someday get Svikari to see the truth of the Oppressors and what they did to his people, what they had to put up with locked away underground, just as the Ljósálfar had done before them.

They had a supply of goats the bred and fed with mushrooms that grew down in the depths. They would harvest insects. In difficult times, the Tuatha, who bred much more regularly than Dökkálfar and so vastly outnumbered them now, would sacrifice a percentage of their population every few years. The blood was spilled for the Master, down below, and the meat they shared.

Her ears pricked up. She could hear the Captain’s hum. He was coming home. Gyða lifted her head, looking out her window. The Captain’s car was pulling up the driveway.

He’d been gone for a fortnight. He was something he called a ‘pilot’, a human who guided something they called an ‘airplane.’ It sounded like a giant bird of metal that fed on air, turning it into fire and expelling the flames to push the plane to great heights and speeds.

Gyða’s ears drooped. There was someone sitting in the passenger seat. The Captain wasn’t alone. Gyða’s hackles rose. She hated it when the Captain fed. His hum became deafening, sometimes making her nose bleed.

The car pulled into the garage. Gyða rose from her bed and slowly moved towards her door. The Captain would be drunk. He always was when he fed. He said it got him over his reluctance.

Gyða stopped at the door. She could hear the Captain fumbling with his keys at the door. He and the woman with him were giggling. Curiosity started to overcome her. How did the Captain feed? She had never actually witnessed it before.

Gyða slowly pushed her door open. It swung so silently even Gyða could barely hear it. She crept out into the hallway on all fours, her long fingers curled back, walking on the thickened backs of her hands. She moved to the railing of the second floor, peering down into the spacious sitting room.

The Captain and his meal were just entering. The woman’s dress glittered in the bright light of the sitting room, making Gyða squint her sensitive eyes. Her hair was done up in a tight bun, with two ornamental sticks stuck in to hold it in place. She had glittering baubles of human jewellery around her neck and wrists, which clinked and clattered. Gyða could smell the alcohol on them both.

“Wow, it does pay to be a pilot, doesn’t it?” the woman said, lounging back on the Captain’s long sofa before his fireplace and oversized television.

The Captain chuckled, pouring them both more alcohol. Gyða sniffed softly as the Captain dropped some powder into one of the glasses when the woman wasn’t looking. Gyða wondered if that was for him, or the woman.

“Ahhh, it does it does,” the Captain said. “As long as you manage your money right. Which I have.”

Gyða felt more curiosity. She climbed up on the railing, balancing for a better view. The Captain looked much like the leading men in the old movies. She supposed this meant he was attractive by human standards. He certainly seemed to be able to get women to eat whenever he wanted.

He didn’t have to feed on other humans. He could eat most anything alive. He simply chose to. It felt right to him, he said.

“To you, Val,” the Captain smiled, raising his glass and taking a sip.

The Captain walked back over to the woman with the drinks. He sat with her on the couch, handing her the powdered glass. To the Captain’s consternation, rather than drink, the woman set it aside. His irritable look passed at once as the woman returned her attention to him.

Gyða took this to mean the powder in the glass was some kind of drug. Her people had a similar method for catching fish in the old days. They would dry out and grind up a special yellow flower, then when they had enough of it they would throw it into ponds. The fish would become sluggish and lethargic, slow enough to catch by hand.

“So, Laurence, what does a pilot do living out here all alone?” the woman asked.

Laurence was the name of this new body the Captain was using. Gyða just referred to him as the Captain. She didn’t care much for him. He was just a tool in Gyða’s mission. A means to an end. For all the luxury, all she wanted was to free her people and go home.

“Well, hope to not be so alone before long,” the Captain replied. “Wanted somewhere I could be free.”

“Free?” the woman laughs softly. “You’re a pilot.”

“Bah, there’s no freedom in what I do, anymore. I feel like a glorified bus-driver these days.”

“Oh, stop!” the woman laughs again.

The Captain made motoring noises, holding his hands in front of him as though holding a steering wheel. “Right, here’s… I dunno, Montague Street! Next stop… Bumfucknowhereville!”

The woman laughed louder, her drunken state apparent. Gyða thought the jokes were rather stupid. She didn’t understand humans’ obsession with alcohol. It made them idiots.

The woman tilted her head back, lounging back on the comfortable sofa. Gyða looked down on her and the woman opened her eyes to catch her breath. As she did, she saw Gyða.

“Oh my god!” the woman cried sitting bolt upright.

“What?” the Captain asked.

“That gargoyle,” the woman said, panting heavily and pointing up at Gyða. “I thought I saw it move.”

Gyða growled. She’d read about gargoyles. How dare that woman compare her to one.

“Oh fuck…”

“Oh my god! It’s real!” the woman cried backing up. “What the hell is that?!”

“It’s okay, it’s not real,” the Captain said, reassuring.

“It moved, it fucking moved! And growled!” the woman said shrilly.

Gyða snarled again, crouching low. The woman turned and ran for the door. The Captain raised a hand towards her and clenched his fist. Gyða’s ears were pounding. The Captain was using his Ljós.

The woman stopped dead in her tracks. Gyða could see a sort of disturbance going from the Captain’s hand to the woman. It looked almost like a shadow, barely perceptible, but there.

The Captain twisted his fist and with a horrid cracking noise, the woman’s torso spun, severing her spine halfway up her waist. Her front half had been spun around to face backwards. She remained upright for a second, blinking once before collapsing to the floor.

The humming subsided. Gyða couldn’t hear right. She nearly fell off the railing, catching herself just in time. The Captain was crossing the room to the woman.

She was still alive. She was trying to sit up. Her top half was still working. She was looking down at her backwards legs with horror. She was too terrified to scream. Her mouth locked open in a silent cry of terror.

The Captain knelt, straddled her backwards hips, put a hand on her shoulder, and forced her down. The woman was fumbling at the Captain with her arms, trying to push him off. She was beginning to squeak just barely audibly.

Gyða couldn’t look away. Spellbound, and horrified, she watched. The air all around the Captain began to darken, as he and the woman were enveloped in the same shadow that had stretched between the Captain’s hand and the woman just before her back broke. The Captain’s body collapsed onto the woman, pinning her down under its lifeless weight.

The shadow began to vanish. It was seeping into the woman, funnelling into her mouth and nose. The woman coughed and gasped. She started to sob. Her arms stopped moving, flopping to the floor.

Gyða’s head was pounding. Despite the Captain’s body seeming to be dead, she could still sense his hum. The woman gasped and began to twitch and shudder. As Gyða watched, the woman’s body began to glow from the inside. Her feet drummed the floor as she seemed to have a seizure.

It was then that Gyða noticed the woman was becoming thinner. It was as though she was being deflated. Her arms and legs became skeletal; her skin was just lying on her bones, no muscle left at all. The woman stopped moving. She was dead.

The shadow began to rise out of her. Gyða was struck by a terrible realization. The shadow was the Captain. His real form.

The Captain’s body gasped and sat bolt upright. He gave off a soft moan, and simply remained straddling the desiccated corpse. He tilted his head back, stretching his arms and sighing with contentment. Gyða let go, dropping to the floor, landing on all fours. She had her bearings again, now that the Captain’s hum had receded to normal.

Gyða looked down at the woman. Her face was slack, the skin lying on it loosely. In fact, her skull had rolled to the side, but the skin of her face remained in place. Nothing was left of her inside, just her skeleton. There wasn’t even blood on the floor. But Gyða could smell blood, shit, vomit, and bile, the scents of death.

“Gyða…” the Captain said, slowly turning to look at her. He sounded breathless. “I told you to never come out of your room when I’m feeding, Gyða…”

Gyða backed away.

“Come here, Gyða.”

Gyða shook her head. The hum grew. The Captain’s hand rose towards her. The shadow sprang out, grabbing onto her arm. She was powerless to stop it yanking her across the room towards him. She was in his hands before he knew it.

“You were a bad girl, Gyða… a very bad girl…”

Gyða whimpered, trying to get away. The Captain’s face was terrifying. His eyes were glowing, just as the woman’s body had glowed. He was going to break her arm.

The Captain’s expression softened and he let her go. Gyða fell back, but now she was free, she was too afraid to try and run.

“Poor Gyða… it has been too long, hasn’t it?” the Captain said. “We’ve waited too long, and you’re restless. I’m sorry, Gyða. When you’ve been alive for as long as I have, time becomes something different. Days can become mere seconds…”

The Captain sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I tell you what… you take care of this—” he gestured to the body “—and tomorrow, we’ll start our hunt. I’ll take some time off work, and we’ll keep hunting. Would that make you happy?”

Gyða could do nothing but nod. The Captain strode back over to his little bar, pouring himself another drink. Gyða picked up the body but dropped it again at once. The bones were no longer solid. They seemed to bend and flop under the skin.

Gyða picked up the remains again. She carried them outside, doing best to hold onto them. She dropped the remains into the firepit and drew out a vial. She’d made the same substance that Svikari had used. He was supposed to use it to burn her body, but instead, he let her cauterize her hands.

Svikari. Where was he now? Why was he serving the Oppressors? Didn’t he remember their people? She would return the favour, one way or another. She would either get him to see his error, or she would do what he couldn’t.

Gyða struck some steel and flint. The sparks landed in the solution and at once they roared into flames. Gyða sat on her haunches, watching. The skin burnt up at once, leaving the odd flopping bones behind. Finally, nothing was left but ashes.

“Just like the royal family, soon,” Gyða said.

Good girl, Gyða, that’s exactly what I want to hear, the Master replied in her ear.

Hávarðr

4 September 1992 – Bragg, Texas

Hávarðr’s ears perked up. His heightened senses woke him at once. Raegan was climbing out of bed. He lifted his head just as she put her little hand on his arm. He had been sleeping in the rocking chair beside her bed.

She was much taller, almost his height now. Yet, he still couldn’t help but see her as the same little girl. He could see remember the feeling of Lulabelle resting on his nose from the day of their first meeting like it was yesterday.

“Harvard? You ‘wake?”

“Yes, child. What’s wrong?”

Raegan chewed her little lip. “I got in trouble today at school.”

Hávarðr grimaced. He had wondered. She didn’t want to tell him about school today after she got home, unlike the rest of the week. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t press her. He just did his best to be there if she needed him.

Hávarðr sat up and gently took Raegan in his overlong arms and set her in his lap. Tall as she was, she was whippet thin and weighed very little. She snuggled up against him, hugging her little chest.

“Oh, Raegan…”

“A big kid at school said you’re not real.”

Hávarðr blinked. “I’m not real?”

Raegan shook her head. “But I can touch you,” she poked his cheek. “You feel real.”

Hávarðr sighed smiling gently. “Of course I’m real, child. Why would they say I’m not real?”

“He said your people was just made-up. And so was all the magic stuff. People just go along with it cuz they get some of our family’s money if they pretend…”

Hávarðr tilted his ears back in confusion. “Well, that’s silly of him.”

“That’s what I said!” Raegan exclaimed. “Then I pushed him into a mud-puddle…”

Hávarðr snorted with amusement. “You pushed him into a mud-puddle?”

Raegan nodded.

Hávarðr shook his head. “That was not right, child.”

Raegan sniffled, hugging him tighter. “I know, I said I was sorry! I didn’t even mean to! I was angry, then he fell back into the puddle. It had to be me… I was all ‘lone and it was only his friends and they wouldn’t of pushed him, would they?”

Hávarðr stroked little Raegan’s hair, rocking her a little.

“Can I take you for show and tell?” Raegan asked. “Show everyone the truth!”

Hávarðr gave her a sad smile, his ears drooping. He thought, scratching the top of his head.

“I’m sorry, child. It is probably better if people keep thinking I’m not real.”

“But you are!”

“I know, I know,” Hávarðr soothed.

“Then how come?”

Hávarðr rubbed his head, thinking. “Your people, humans, don’t really like what they don’t understand. It scares them. I would scare a lot of them.”

“But you’re so nice!”

Hávarðr purred, his version of a laugh.

“You are!” Raegan pouted.

“Thank you, child,” Hávarðr smiled. “But many would not agree with you…”

“Why not?”

Hávarðr sighed looking out the window at the night sky. He heard the sound of feet and turned his head quickly to look at the door. He recognized the sound of Siobhan sneaking. She cracked the door open, peeking inside just enough to see them sitting together in the chair. She said nothing, just kept watching.

“Let me tell you about my people,” Hávarðr said. “Once upon a time, we lived in the trees in the north, far, far away from here. We lived inside our nests in the day and only came out at night. Because of that, we can hear very well, and we can see in almost total black.”

“Whoa…” Raegan waved a hand in the air. “You can see this?”

“Yes, I can,” Hávarðr purred again, managing to catch Raegan’s hand just before she smacked his forehead with it.

“Just checking,” Raegan giggled.

Hávarðr rolled his eyes. “Yes, you love your little tests.”

Raegan grinned. “Always wondered how you did that.”

Hávarðr smiled gently. “That is how. Part of it, at least. Anyway, we were free and happy. We were great hunters… and then the Ljósálfar came.”

“The Loysawfar?”

“The Ljós-ál-far. The Light Elves. Ljós means light, alfar means elf. A magic people. They enslaved us.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means we were made to do their bidding. We had to do whatever they said.”

“But you do that now for us…”

Hávarðr’s lips twitched. “It’s different. I choose to work for your family, and in return they feed, clothe, and house me. I have nowhere else I could go, and I’m happy to care for you, as I cared for your mother, as I cared for her father… As for the Ljósálfar, they called us the Dökkálfar—that means dark elf—and made us live in caves underground, working in their mines.”

“How come?”

“They thought we were inferior. They could make great cities… they had powerful magic… while we just lived in huts made of branches and leaves. They thought we were smart enough to use, but not smart enough to fight back.”

“But you was smart enough.”

Hávarðr purred. “Yes, we were much cleverer than they thought us. We escaped. We fled, and eventually found a little island we thought was the edge of the world. There were lots of trees, but we didn’t have to live in them, anymore. We built villages of our own on the ground.”

Raegan beamed.

“I was born in those old mines. I was just old enough to remember them, and when we got away. It was always dark… then we had our new home, and the sun, and the moon, and stars. But after a while… well, humans like you started to come.”

He had almost started talking about Tuan. He didn’t know how much Raegan knew about him but decided the less she knew, the better.

“We… weren’t particularly welcoming. These people came and acted like the wonderful island was theirs. They thought we were animals, even less than what the Ljósálfar thought us. They fought us for it. We fought back, using what we’d learned from the Ljósálfar. We weren’t going to let anyone enslave or try to kill us again.” He looked back down at Raegan. “Do you understand?”

Raegan shook her head.

Hávarðr smiled. “That’s okay. You can ask me again when you’re older.”

“Don’t wanna wait till I’m older!”

Hávarðr purred again. “I know, child. I know. You have a lot of growing left to do… and if you learn and see everything now, what will you have to look forward to?”

Raegan pondered that. Hávarðr let her, just rocking the chair more.

“So, you beat them all?”

“Almost,” Hávarðr explained. “Eventually, a people called the Tuatha came. They were Ljósálfar.”

“Oh no!” Raegan gasped.

Hávarðr grimaced. “Yes… the older of us remembered, and did not trust them. But the younger ones, who’d never known anything but the island, trusted them. The Tuatha had been driven out by the other Ljósálfar. They thought the Tuatha were kindred spirits.”

“What?”

“They thought they were friends,” Hávarðr explained. “They worshipped a god they called Danu, and so they had been cast out by the other Ljósálfar for heresy—that means they believed in a god the others disapproved of. A big war happened. Our great king, Balor, struck down the Tuathan king, Nuada.”

“Kings? Like Grampa Brenden?”

“Yes, exactly like that,” Hávarðr replied. “But then, in our triumph… King Balor himself was killed by Lugh… his own grandson…”

Raegan gasped. “No!”

Hávarðr gave her a sad smile. “Yes… the Tuatha won… many of us who did not support them moved out as far away as we could. Then, your people, the Milesians, came. Your people were humans, but they had magic just like the Ljósálfar and the Tuatha. What’s more, you could hear us. The older of us wanted to try and work with the Milesians, but the Tuatha and their friends amongst us didn’t trust them.”

“Why not?”

Hávarðr shrugged. “To this day, I don’t rightly know. But the Tuatha, in particular, did not like the Milesians. They made many of my people swear to be loyal to them instead of the Milesians. Those who didn’t were…”

Hávarðr trailed off. His arms began to shake. He forced his mind to think of any image but that.

Raegan wrapped her little arms around Hávarðr’s neck. He hugged her back, whimpering and sniffling. His love… his little ones… they were gone. They were dead. It had been nearly four thousand years by human counting. He was getting old, even for his kind. But that pain would never go away, not in eternity.

“Don’t be sad, Harvard…”

“It is hard for me, child,” Harvard replied. “I did not side with them, and they took my mate and my own children away from me… That was when I went to serve your family instead.”

“Where did they take them? Did you find them again?”

Hávarðr gritted his teeth. “No… they… I could never see them again. I was alone. All I had left was your family to serve, and to make sure no one else lost those they loved like I had.”

The pair fell silent for a while. Siobhan started to back away from the door when Raegan’s distracted mind found a different subject to talk about.

“We could do magic?” Raegan asked. “How come we can’t do magic now?”

Hávarðr smiled, glad for the subject change. “Well… your people forgot it.”

“How can you forget magic!?” Raegan exclaimed. “That’d be like forgetting how to walk!”

Hávarðr purred louder. At that moment, Siobhan knocked gently on the door. Raegan squeaked and quickly dropped out of Hávarðr’s arms and hopped into her bed. Siobhan had an ever-suffering smile on her face.

“Raegan, sweetie… you know it’s past your bedtime.”

“Sorry, Mama, couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s okay, sweetie,” Siobhan said, walking over and sitting on the edge of Raegan’s bed. “What were you and Harvard talking about?”

“’Bout his people,” Raegan said. “They used to live in trees!”

“Is that right?” Siobhan asked, tucking Raegan back into bed.

“Mmmhmmm,” Raegan nodded.

“Everything okay?”

Keven had arrived.

“Yes,” Siobhan replied. “Just trouble sleeping.”

“Awwww,” Keven nodded, walking over to sit on the other side of Raegan’s bed. “Bad dreams?”

Raegan shook her head.

“Still feeling bad about school, today?”

Raegan nodded.

“Awww, it’s okay, honey. You apologized, right?”

Raegan sniffled and nodded again. “Everyone hates me…”

“Oh, honey, no,” Keven said, picking up Raegan and hugging her tight. “Of course they don’t. You stood up for yourself to a bigger kid.”

“Promise?”

“Promise, sweetie,” Siobhan said. “He was a bully, and you were brave to stand up to her.”

“Why’d he say Harvard isn’t real?”

Hávarðr shook his head a little. Hadn’t he just explained all that?

“Harvard is very special, sweetie. He’s one of the only members of his kind left. So, we keep him secret to keep him safe, just as he keeps us safe,” Keven explained.

“Only us, the heads of the clans, and those who work directly for the royal family know about Harvard,” Siobhan added. “Bad things could happen to Harvard if people outside our town found out about him. We’re protecting him, just like he protects us.”

“Ohhhhh,” Raegan nodded.

Okay, that was an easier way to put it, Hávarðr thought. But not nearly as interesting.

“Are you ready to try and sleep again, sweetie?” Siobhan asked.

“Mmmhmmm,” Raegan nodded and looked over at Hávarðr. “Can you sing me to sleep?”

“Honey, Harvard can’t—”

Siobhan gave Keven a hard look and he stopped talking.

“Of course he can, darling,” Siobhan said. “He can sing for you anytime.”

“What does his singing sound like?” Keven asked.

Raegan started a high-pitched hum. It was a decent reproduction of Song, Hávarðr thought.

“Wow, that sounds pretty,” Keven smiled.

“Harvard does it purdier.”

Keven chuckled and kissed Raegan’s forehead. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Get some sleep, honey,” Siobhan said. “Tomorrow for a treat we’ll go to the park and have ice cream.”

“Can we go see Gramma and Grampa?”

“Of course, honey,” Keven agreed. “They’ll want to hear all about your first week of school.”

Raegan grinned. Keven kissed her forehead again and headed back out of the room. Siobhan smiled after him, before turning her attention to Hávarðr.

“So, what does Hávarðr sound like when he talks?”

Raegan thought. “Can’t do it right.”

“I imagine it would be difficult for a human,” Hávarðr purred.

“Is he saying something now?” Siobhan asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s he saying?”

“He said it’d be difacult for a human.”

“What would be? Talking like he talks?”

Raegan shrugged.

Siobhan kept studying Hávarðr. Hávarðr thought.

“Raegan… please, tell your mother… I’m proud of her. She’s a wonderful mother, and I’m proud to be her friend, and to have guarded her and now guard you.”

“That’s so many words!”

Hávarðr purred. “Then just tell her I’m proud of her. Very proud.”

“Okay. He says he’s proud of you. Very proud.”

Siobhan stood, clapping her hands over her mouth.

“Raegan…” Siobhan said. “Ask him… ask him what my favourite game was when I was little.”

“Hide and seek.”

“Hide and seek.”

“…What… what was his favourite way to hide?”

“I would pretend to be a lamp.”

Raegan giggled. “Really? Hehe. He’d pretend to be a lamp!”

Siobhan sank back onto the bed. “It’s true… you can talk… and Raerae… you can hear him…”

Hávarðr nodded.

“Duh,” Raegan said.

“Can you write?”

Hávarðr looked down at his thumbless hands and long-spindly fingers.

“I can write! I can teach him!” Raegan grinned.

Siobhan wiped one of her eyes. “That would be wonderful, sweetie. Wonderful.”

Hávarðr swallowed. Writing? He was five thousand years old. His hands were improperly shaped to hold a pencil. He didn’t even have proper thumbs anymore. How were they going to teach him to write?

Siobhan

5 September 1992 – Bragg, Texas

Yeah, I didn’t sleep much last night. Harvard can talk. After all these years, I have a way to know him better. And it explains how he and Raegan are so close, and I’m so happy for that.

For the record, there are a lot of things Tuan has told me that I have come around on. At least about having magic abilities. Raegan can hear Harvard, Tuan can heal like a comic character. He told me he used to be able to move things, but he hasn’t done it in so long he forgot how.

Admittedly, I still have a hard time believing the whole reincarnation thing. I guess it’s just easier to believe what you can see with your own eyes. I saw how badly he cut his hand. His thumb was flopping around like it was just about to fall off. He wasn’t faking that. That blood was real. His hand healed in a matter of minutes.

If he’s not making the reincarnation bit up, though, I can’t even imagine. So many of his old stories would be true, and they would change everything. Apparently, he was the first of Charlemagne’s paladin knights. He was named Roland, or something.

That night, the night he killed those pigs and hurt his hand, was the longest we’d talked for ages. It felt so good having him back, even for a few hours. It was weird, though. I got home at probably around four in the morning. Keven seemed irritable with me all the next evening.

Do you think that means he’s actually falling for me? Or am I just being stupid? I don’t really want him to be. That’s still too weird for me.

Though, I suppose it would be better for Raegan if we gave a semblance of being a real family. Keven and I have our own separate rooms. We always have.

That’s the biggest part of what’s so unfair to me. Keven can screw around almost as much as he wants. So what if he makes a few bastards here and there? The family will pay them to shut up and go away (and they have, once). But if I get pregnant when it’s obvious that Keven and I aren’t intimate, I get all the shame. I’d have to give away the baby or abort it.

He has realized this double-standard, at least. He goes out less and less, and when he does, it’s usually just with his ‘boys’ going out to a game or something. He’s home every night. I haven’t heard nearly as many of the women whispering behind my back anymore. Pretty sure Keven’s had most of the prettier ones at least once. That being said, I’m fairly sure Tuan has had all the women in town, too.

Changing subjects slightly, things aren’t all that great. Keven and I are running into a bit of resistance with our idea to disperse. It’s why I wasn’t too surprised when I got the phone call from the principal about Raegan’s behaviour at school yesterday.

They’re all just suck-ups. They play lip-service to our family because we have money. I suppose I can’t blame them for not believing in things like magic or Harvard. I only believed in Harvard because I’ve seen him. If I’d never seen him before, I would have guessed it all to be fairy tales, too.

It’s funny, I grew up on fairy tales. Both the stories of my own people and just normal ones. I’d have fantasies like Tuan turning out to be a rogue. He’d kidnap me for ransom, but in the process, we’d fall in love and run away together to live on the ransom money. Or maybe he’d be the low-born squire who’d triumph in slaying the dragon where his master knight had failed and win my heart.

Yeah, I was kind of lame.

I’ve never told him about those things. Harvard knows. I’m only just now feeling the slight sense of panic wondering what things he might tell Raegan. No, Harvard wouldn’t do that. Especially not with Raegan. She’s so young. But he might, someday. I’ll have to tell him that all those things I told him are secret. I’m sure he understands that concept.

Oh god, poor Harvard. All those years of me talking to him, and him never being able to speak back. That must have been torture. How have I been that big an ass? I knew he was smart, but I totally took advantage of him.

That’s me, Siobhan the selfish little bitch, aren’t I?

Now I’m sitting here on a bench while Raegan scampers about a playground. She’s already got ice-cream stains all over her new overalls. Dad and Keven are talking. Keven keeps giving me sympathetic looks. Dad seems to think I don’t need to be included in important discussions.

“You were always opinionated,” Mother says, smiling serenely around the playground.

I roll my eyes. “Someone had to have opinions.”

“You’re upset that more people aren’t keen on your plan to abandon Bragg for the bright lights of the city?”

“Not upset, just disappointed,” I reply. “Keven and I have spent years working on this.”

“We’ve lived in this area for three hundred years, darling,” Mother chortles. “They’ve been safe and comfortable. They were born here, they raise their children here. You expect people to just give it up like that? You have to convince them the threat is real.”

“That’s the real trick,” Keven mutters, having just walked over. “Look at everything happening with the Branch Davidians… people are going to start wondering what’s going on here, too.”

“People are starting to question our way of life anyway,” I add. “The Moot is overwhelmingly going to vote to do away with the bloodline marriage thing.”

“Yes, yes,” Dad says, sounding irritable. “And then what will we have left when all our traditions are gone? All there will be is our money.”

“Dad, that’s the only thing keeping them around anyway,” I exclaim. “Look at what happened at the school yesterday with Raegan. Harvard’s drifted into legend. They think he’s a story.”

“And it’s in Harvard’s best interest that he stays that way,” Keven sighs. “I’ve been thinking about that since last night. If all that’s keeping the people together is money…”

Keven looks at me.

“Then what’s going to stop someone from turning him into the authorities as some monster?”

Father sits on the bench next to Mother, taking her hand.

Mother gives him a gentle smile. “Times of change are always hard, Brenden. Do you think our ancestors had it easy when they told our people they had to cross the sea for a new home?”

“It seems we are between a rock and a hard place,” Father said, rubbing his balding head.

“If we don’t make that decision, it’s going to be made for us, Dad, and I doubt we’ll like the outcome any better than if we make it ourselves…”