Tag: urban fantasy

prompt: Write your story about two characters tidying up after a party.

available at Reedsy

The Palace Hotel Grand Ballroom was most decidedly not grand that morning. Morning light spilled through the huge windows that overlooked the bay to cast rays on the detritus of the previous night’s soirée. Overturned tables and chairs, spills and stains on the carpets, half of the draperies ripped from the windows, and above it all, the smell of stale champagne and spilled booze.

“You ever notice,” Karl asked, “that the richer the party, the worse the mess?”

Sera knew what he was getting at, but she’d let him explain himself, again, in order to keep the peace. It wasn’t that she hated him, but he often pushed her close to it. “How so?”

“The union workers that had their thing here last week, for instance. There was some spillage where the kegs were, but all the trash was in the bins, and they even cleaned off the tables and stacked the chairs up.”

She nodded. Their efforts had been appreciated, but still made more work for them to take all the chairs down to clean them properly.

“But look at this,” he said, throwing his arms out wide, as if she’d been ignoring it all along. “Some wizard politician and all her rich cronies come in here, lording it over everyone like they’re the most civilized and elegant people in the world, and what do we get? Destruction. Damn wizards.”

“She’s not a wizard,” Sera countered, “she’s an elf. I don’t know where you get this idea.”

“Well, yeah, not all elves,” he said. “I mean, you’re not a wizard, or else you wouldn’t be cleaning up after ‘em with me. You’re one of the good ones.”

The sigh of exasperation left Sera’s lips before she could stop it. “Karl, you really need to check yourself before you say things like that. Jik hears you, it’ll be a trip to HR, and not a happy one.”

“Yeah, well, boss is a wizard too, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Wait, so now Jik’s a wizard too? Because he’s an orc? What do you think a wizard is? Anyone that’s not a human?”

“No, of course not. Most elves are, and I saw boss making a coin disappear and reappear; showing off for his kids.”

“First, some elves, not most, have some latent magical talent. Same with all the other races, including humans. That does not make them wizards. Being a wizard is about life-long study and mastery. Second, most actual wizards are humans. And third, the boss does sleight of hand tricks, not magic. Hell, he could probably teach you how to do it this afternoon if you asked.”

“Nuh-uh, no way, no how. I’m not messing with anything magic. Too dangerous.” Karl ended the conversation by busying himself collecting all the bottles for recycling.

Sera began collecting the wine stems, champagne flutes, shot glasses, and other assorted dishes into bus tubs. By the time she’d finished, Karl had removed the remaining drapes to be washed and was gathering the tablecloths.

As they worked, they piled lost items on the table farthest from the door. It would be the last to be folded and carted out, and they could run them to lost and found then. Sera sprayed the chairs with disinfectant and placed them in ten chair stacks near the large doors.

Karl flipped a coin. “Heads or tails?”

“Tails.”

They watched the coin land on the floor, heads up. “Sorry,” Karl said, “looks like you’re spot-cleaning the carpet while I stack tables on the cart.”

Sera was through nearly half of the ballroom. Most of the spots came up fine, but there were a few that stubbornly refused to be cleaned. “I don’t know what this purple stuff is, but it’s not coming up.”

“So much for stain-proof carpeting, eh?” Karl made notes on the work order. “Well, if they have to replace it those wizards can afford to pay for it.”

Rather than get back into that discussion again, Sera finished up the spot she was working on. “It’s lunch, let’s take a break.”

“Coffee?” Karl asked.

“Sure.”

He left and returned with two cups of coffee from reception. “And I think I’ll spice mine up a little.” Karl picked up a whiskey bottle with two fingers left in the bottom. “Found this under one the tables.”

“Really? In the middle of the day?” Sera shook her head. “None for me, thanks.”

Karl shrugged and poured the remnants of the bottle into his coffee and took a sip. “That’s a nice cup of coffee.”

Sera looked over the table of lost items while she ate her brown-bag lunch. Two cellphones, a leather clutch full of makeup, a device that resembled a toothbrush with a cloth head that she knew was a tusk polisher, several key cards from the hotel, a pair of women’s undies, an expensive strappy stiletto, and an odd dark glass bottle.

“Looks like Cinderella was at the ball, huh?”

Karl looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

She picked up the shoe. “Cinderella, like the story?”

“Except it’s not glass,” he said around a mouthful of egg salad sandwich.

Sera finished her pot noodles and looked over the items on the table. The bottle kept calling to her. “I wonder what’s in the bottle.”

“Probably some perfume that costs more than we make in a year.” Karl belched. “The kind that stinks to high heaven, but rich old biddies splash it on like it’s the best smelling thing ever.”

“You’ve got a real problem with anything expensive or anyone rich, don’t you?”

“Nah, I just wouldn’t be all ‘look at me’ about it if I was rich.” He belched again. “Wouldn’t change the way I act at all.”

“I can believe that.” Sera picked up the bottle. It felt cool in her hand, too cool. “Feel this,” she said, “I don’t know what kind of glass it is, but it’s cool to the touch.”

Karl put his hand on the bottle. “Doesn’t feel cool to me, just cold glass. Nothing cool about that.”

Sera pulled the stopper out of the top, curious about its contents. A mist rose from the bottle, and they felt it grow even colder in their hands. Out of the mist came a feminine figure and strident voice.

“Damnit, Horace! You promised me….” She stopped short and looked around. “Who are you? Where’s Horace?” To appearances she was a slight human woman with a dark, Mediterranean complexion and tightly curled dark hair. Dark circles under her deep brown eyes hinted at exhaustion.

“I’m Sera, and this is Karl. We were cleaning up and found this.” She held up the bottle. “What’s your name?”

“I don’t know. Can’t remember.” She walked around the room, looking behind the cart of folded tables, the stacks of chairs, under the table with the other lost items, her movements becoming more agitated.

“What are you looking for?” Sera asked.

“He’s really not here?”

“No, it’s just the two of us. Who is Horace?”

“A fat, ugly, good-for-nothing wizard.”

“See?” Karl pointed at the woman from the bottle. “I told you! Damn wizards!”

Sera ignored Karl’s outburst. He’d be insufferable for the next week at least. “What is his relationship to you?”

“As of now, nothing. He left me behind, you found me. I belong to you now.” She sat cross-legged on the floor.

“What does that mean?” Karl asked.

“I was cursed, nearly three thousand years ago, to be trapped in this bottle. I’m cursed and belong to whomever owns the bottle, until they lose it. Part of the curse is that my powers must be used to grant one wish from every person that opens my bottle.”

“So, since Horace lost you, doesn’t that mean you’re free?” Sera set the bottle gently back on the table.

“No. You two found and opened it next, so I belong to you now.” She lay back on the floor. “Horace likes… liked to pass me around at functions, trading wishes for influence or future favors.”

“He pimped you out.” Sera’s jaw tightened.

“That’s a very gentle way of putting it,” she said.

Karl butted in before Sera could speak. “I wish to be rich enough to retire right now!”

“Done.” She raised a hand holding a stack of papers.

“What’s all this?”

“This is a real estate flyer for a foreclosed off-grid cabin in the Yukon for two-hundred dollars, a list of supplies you’ll need to survive, and a thirty-percent off coupon for all purchases at the outfitter in Whitehorse to get all those supplies.” She gave him a cold smile, her eyes closed. “That’s an easy one. You already had what you wished for, I just showed you how.”

Karl’s face drained of color. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

Sera laughed. “Be careful what you wish for, lest you get it.”

The small woman rose and looked at Karl. “I’m not the one who made the rules. The king’s nephew who cursed me, however, had a warped sense of humor.”

“Can you explain?” Sera asked. “Unless you don’t want to talk about it.”

“It was a long time ago.” She sat on the table next to her jar. “I was a consort to the king of a small nation bordering the Kassite Babylonians. As a djinn, I was expected to do the king’s bidding.”

Sera stopped her. “You’re an actual djinn? Like the myths?”

“No, that was my title. I was a court mage. So was the king’s nephew.” The smile that crossed her face was sad. “I refused to kill the Kassite king with my magic, so he locked me up until his nephew could imprison me in the bottle and force me to do the king’s bidding. It was his nephew that made the one wish rule, no bringing back the dead, and to follow to the letter the wish.”

“Why all the weirdness with the rules?” Karl asked, waving the bundle of papers.

“The king’s nephew was next in line for the throne, unless the king’s son were to be resurrected, or the king wished for a son, or the king wished the nephew dead.” She shook her head. “He also blocked most of my memories, except for denying the king’s order, and everything that came after. Still, I found a way to rebel.

“The king’s wish was, ‘I wish for the Kassite king to die.’ So, I declared it done and was pulled back into the bottle. When he next came to me, furious that his enemy was still alive, I reminded him that his wish was already true, the king will die, as will everyone else.”

“Wait,” Karl broke in, “can I change my wish? I know how to say it now.”

“Sorry, one shot is all you get.”

Karl threw his half-eaten sandwich in the trash and downed the rest of his spiked coffee. “Damn wizards.”

Sera sat on the table next to the small woman. “Is there any way to break the curse?”

“Yes, but I can’t speak it, write it, sing it, or act it out.”

Sera sat quietly pondering the woman’s plight. She pursed her lips, her eyes staring into nothing in the middle distance.

“If you’re not going to make a wish, could you order me back into my bottle, please? I’m exhausted after the way I was used last night.”

Sera put her arm around the slender shoulders of the woman. “I want to help you. No one deserves to be locked up and used for any reason. Especially for refusing to kill. How can I help you?”

“I—I can’t tell you how.” Tears streamed down her face. “Everyone else who tried eventually gave up, except Horace. He knew how, but thought I was more use to him as a wish factory. Thank you for thinking of me, but please make your wish and allow me to sleep. Then hide me away for a century or more?”

“I think I know how to handle this.” Sera took her hands. “I wish to have, right here, right now, all the knowledge, skills, resources, and power needed to remove your curse.”

Karl let out a yelp. “What the hell? I’m glowing! So are you!”

Sera felt the power flowing through her. She saw the curse placed on the woman… Anunit was her name. “Karl, get your wizard ass over here and help me out.”

“I—I’m a wizard,” he said.

“Yes, you are. Now get over and help me.” Sera placed her hands on Anunit’s head. “I need you to put your hands on my back, let your energy flow through me and mingle with mine. Whatever you do, don’t let go until it’s over.”

Karl did as she directed. The room grew increasingly bright. Sera’s ears rang with a high-pitched whine that threatened to deafen her. Anunit’s memories flowed through her hands, back into the place they belonged.

“Anunit, daughter of Urbau, I declare your penance paid in full and release you from your prison. By the power of all the king’s mages, you are free.”

The bottle shattered into hundreds of shards and Anunit collapsed. Karl dropped to his knees, exhausted, while Sera panted, trying to catch her breath.

“You did it,” Karl said. “And we’re both wizards now?”

Sera laughed. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

Karl recovered faster than Sera. “Stand back, I’m going to try something.”

“Um, maybe you shouldn’t…”

The remaining tables folded and stacked themselves on the cart. The shards of the broken bottle swirled into the air and dropped into the trash bag which closed and tied itself after.

“See, no big deal,” he said. Karl reeled on his feet, then sat on the floor with a heavy thump. “Whoa, woozy.”

“No big deal, huh? And what about not wanting anything to do with magic?”

“Hah, had to try at least.” Karl looked at his hands as if seeing them for the first time, a stupid grin plastered on his face. “I’m a wizard.”

Sera helped Anunit sit back up. “Are you okay?”

“I—I am.” She hugged Sera. “I wish I could repay you, but….”

“No, no. I think we’ve all had our fill of wishes today.”

Anunit nodded. “Thank you, anyway.”

“Do you have a place to go?” Sera asked. “No, of course not. You can stay with me until you get on your feet.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “I need to learn more about the current world anyway and create an identity for myself. It may take some time.”

“Take all the time you need.”

Anunit patted Karl on the shoulder. “Well, now you can learn all about money management and savings and use that knowledge to power the magic you need to get the kind of retirement you’re looking for.”

Karl lay back on the floor and grunted. “Damn wizards.”

prompt: Write about someone going to extreme lengths to return an overdue library book.

available at Reedsy

(With apologies to John Denver)

Martin was the opposite of every stereotypical thing one might think on first glance. He was not the curious, inventive, clever, gregarious, outgoing gnome that most people expected. He was shy, unimaginative, more at home buried in a book than any social situation, and he was painfully lonely.

As much as he desired friends, no one he’d ever met gave him the chance to open up, expecting too much too soon. University was meant to be his chance to make a friend or two. After three years with no success, he decided to learn mixology. At least he’d be able to be involved in the parties, even if he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

His skills tending bar in those parties landed him a job as a bartender on graduation. An elf in his dorm found him a job, and a place to live, at his great-great-grandmother’s place in the city. His degree in Comparative Philology on the other hand, wasn’t doing anything for him in that regard.

True to form, Martin skipped the ceremony and picked up his diploma from the Dean’s office. He moved off campus early in the morning, before the magic library opened. The academic library was opened, so he dropped the mixology book, Master Mixology: 613 Enchanting Cocktails, at the academic library. Why he’d found it in the magic library he wasn’t sure; it was just a collection of drinks recipes with weird names. He’d memorized all of them in the month he’d had the book checked out.

To his dismay, when he unpacked at his new flat, the book was in his things. Maybe he’d left one of his own mixology books by accident. Not that it mattered much, as he memorized every drink recipe he’d ever read; over two thousand drinks. He opened the book and checked the stamp on the inside back cover. It was due that day.

He wasn’t sure what the overdue penalties were, but they were bound to be less painful than missing his first day at a new job. Martin decided he had time to go to the post office before work. Once there, he wrapped the book carefully and paid for express post to the magic library at the university, along with a return envelope in which they could send him a bill for the late fee.

Satisfied he’d handled that, he went back to the bar and began his first night. Martin worked smoothly, getting even the most complex multiple drink orders right the first time. The owner, Sylvia, had enough foresight to provide a stepladder so he could reach the top shelf.

When patrons tried to chat with him, he forced a smile and went about cleaning the bar, or changing a keg, or anything to get himself out of the situation. He still managed to make tips, although not as many he knew he could have.

After closing out the bar, he returned to his small flat, across the hall from Sylvia’s, and lay down to sleep. For some reason, John Denver’s Take Me Home, Country Roads was going through his head as he drifted off.

The next morning, Martin found himself singing in the shower. “Country rooooads… take me hoooome… to the plaaaace… I beloooong.” He hated the song, but it was stuck firmly in his head.

A strong cup of coffee rounded out his morning. He thought he should take a walk around the city to get a better feel for the place he lived. Propped against the wall near his shoes was the book. This time he knew it wasn’t his mistake. The book should have been in the express post and arriving at the magic library by now.

He’d handle it personally on his first day off. The bar was closed on Mondays, so he could take the train on Monday morning, return the book, pay the fee, and be home by teatime. He set the book on the small table in the center of the flat and went for his walk. When he found the local library, he spent the rest of the day there until it was time to go to work.

Martin prepped for the evening, slicing lemons and limes, refilling the ice machine, checking the soda syrup and CO2 canisters, and restocking the beer cooler.

“You’re awfully chipper today,” Sylvia said. A slender elf, streaks of grey in her amber hair, her smile accentuated the faint wrinkles around her green eyes.

“Sorry?” Martin was unsure what she was talking about.

“I didn’t take you for the type to whistle while you work. Charming.”

He realized he’d been whistling Take Me Home, Country Roads. “Yeah, it’s— stuck in my head since last night. I don’t even like the song.”

“Earworm,” she said. “It’ll be gone soon enough, I’m certain.”

Later that evening, a young human man sat at the bar and drank two shots in silence. Everything about his manner pointed to someone unhappy. Dark rings showed under his bright brown eyes, even against the deep brown of his skin. “Hey mate,” he said, “I’m gutted. My boyfriend scarpered… with a bird. Got anything to cheer me up or make me forget?”

Martin thought about it. He’d never had the chance to make any of the drinks in the book that he needed to return. There was one he could try. Not that alcohol is a great pick-me-up, but it had an apt name, at least.

After mixing the complicated drink, Martin slid it across the bar. “One Silver Lining for you.”

The man sipped at the drink while Martin went about his work. John Denver ran through his head again, more insistent now. Doing his best to ignore it, he returned to where the man was finishing the drink.

A broad smile played across his face. “Thanks, mate! You’re right. If that bastard was going to leave me to be with a girl, it’s better now than later. I’ll come back, for sure!” He handed Martin a hundred pounds for his three drinks. “Keep it, mate!”

Sleep, when it came, was fitful. Take Me Home, Country Roads kept playing in his mind, slowly gaining in volume, until it woke him in the middle of night. His throat was sore and dry, and still, he couldn’t stop whistling or humming the song.

A knock at his door roused him out of the bed. He opened it to see Sylvia, in her dressing gown and slippers. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“You tell me. You were screaming a John Denver song at the top of your lungs.”

“Ah, I… sorry.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you serve anything unusual tonight?”

“Just a recipe from that book,” he turned to point at the book on the table, but it wasn’t there, “uh, that I haven’t made before.”

“I see. What’s in a ‘Time Bomb’?”

It was the first time he’d heard anyone mention any of the recipes from the mixology book. Martin rattled off the ingredients and the directions for properly mixing it.

“When did you return the Master Mixology book?”

“I, uh, was going to do it Monday.” He shifted from foot to foot, his hands twiddling some unseen thing.

“It’s overdue, isn’t it?” With her hands on her hips, she reminded him of his grade five teacher, berating him for his lack of curiosity and inventiveness.

“It’s a couple days over by now,” he said.

“That song will be drilled into your mind deeper and deeper until you return the book, by hand, to the magic library.” She sighed and crossed her arms. “How did you graduate without ever finding out how the magic library handles overdue books?”

“I’ve never…”

“Never had an overdue book before,” she said. “I guess that’s a point in your favor.”

“No, I… never checked anything else out from the magic library.”

“Odd,” she said, “most students have to check something out for their studies.”

“I usually just read them in the library and memorized the important parts. This one, though, there’s so many steps on some of the drinks that it took a while to commit to memory.”

 She knelt to be eye level with the gnome. “You take tomorrow off and get that book back to the library before it drives you insane.”

“Okay, I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

“You’d best start right away.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Every moment you aren’t moving toward the library the song will only get louder.”

He nodded assent.

“Whatever you do,” she said, “do not make any more drinks out of that book until we’ve had a long talk about it when you get back. There’s a reason that book was in the magic library.”

He wasn’t sure what the reason might be, but he was sick of the song he couldn’t stop humming. He dressed quickly then looked for the book. It wasn’t on the table where he’d put it, and he couldn’t find it anywhere else in the flat. He was about to give up when he saw it leaning against the wall near his shoes again.

“Okay, I get it. Take you home.”

He headed toward the train station. The university was southeast of the city, but the station was north of his location. The song grew louder in his mind as he trekked to the station. “Shut up! I know it’s the other way, but I have to catch a train.”

After buying a ticket, Martin moved to the platform and walked south along it, as slowly as possible. While he did so the song faded to the background. When he reached the end of the platform, he turned and ran to the north end of the platform as fast as he could, the song screaming in his head until he turned back south and did it all over again.

When the train arrived, he continued walking south on the platform, waiting for the last moment to board. When the final boarding call was made, he scrambled on and found a seat. The next two minutes before the train began moving were hell.

At each stop, the song ramped back up until the train began moving again. It was relentless and maddening. By walking toward the back of the train while it was in motion, and back toward the front during the stops, he could keep it somewhat at bay.

The train stopped at Rowan’s Crossing and the conductor made her way through the cars. “Last stop, all off!”

“But… isn’t the train continuing to the Beaker Hill stop?” he asked.

“We’re broken down. The next train comes at half seven, if we can get off the tracks. It’s a four hour wait, or you can hire a taxi.”

With no other choice, Martin left the station. The university was still twelve miles on. The taxi stand was empty, except for repaving equipment. Dejected, he began the trek on foot. The song still looped through his mind, but he felt like the words were changing. No matter, the main road would take him straight to the campus, and then he could head straight to the magic library.

He reached the campus at seven-thirty, the same time the train might be leaving Rowan’s Crossing. He headed across campus and reached the magic library. It was due to open in half an hour. His feet ached and his legs burned, so he sat on the grass near the door.

No sooner had he sat than the song took over again. “Take me hoooome… little gnoooome… to the plaaaace… I beloooong… Hyrill University… magic library… take me hoooome, little gnome.”

“Oh, come on! That doesn’t even scan!” Realizing he was yelling at himself, he rose from the grass and walked towards the door. Since it wasn’t open yet, he began circling the library, still singing the non-scanning version of the song that plagued him. While it didn’t shut the song up completely, it did dial it back some. It was on his fifth circuit that he realized the library should be open, but it still wasn’t.

He pulled at the doors in a panic. Locked. It was then that he saw the sign. “Closed for deep cleaning. Will reopen tomorrow.” The library wouldn’t open for another twenty-four hours. Unable to do anything else, he continued walking around the library, humming and singing.

Martin wasn’t sure when, but guessed it was late afternoon when he collapsed near the front door. His legs could no longer hold him. He lay on his back, trying to catch his breath, while the song took over. He couldn’t hear anything over the song and his throat burned. Someone shoved a bottle of water in his hand, and he drank it all down at once, still humming.

His voice gave out sometime during the night, but still he sang, a raspy whisper. Sleep was out of the question as the song had grown so loud in his head that he thought it might burst any second. Try as he might, he couldn’t focus on his phone to see the time. He hoped someone would let him know when the library opened.

Convinced this would be the way he died, Martin closed his eyes and kept singing. The more he sang the botched lines the more he could convince himself that they scanned well enough. The morning sun warmed his face, and still he lay, singing.

When he thought the song couldn’t get any louder or more strident, it did. He opened his eyes to see the door of the library standing open. Still unable to stand, he crawled into the library, the song pounding in his head while he croaked it out. The returns desk was so very close, yet so far away.

Martin reached the desk and tried to put the book into the return slot. It was too high from where he lay on the floor. Giving it everything he had, he forced himself to his feet and inserted the book into the slot. The song kept ringing in his head, but it was reducing in volume.

“I see we have a late return,” the librarian said.

Martin collapsed.

He woke in the university hospital, an IV in his arm and a concerned troll nurse standing over him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Gillam. I am Brian, your nurse.” His voice was deep but warm, his accent unplaceable.

“Am I…,” his voice was gone, a mere whisper that burned his throat like fire.

“Do not speak,” Brian said. “Your vocal cords are damaged, and if you do not stay silent for a few days it could be permanent.”

Martin nodded, then gave what he hoped was a clear enough look of questioning to get his point across.

“You can leave if you wish, though it is better if you get your strength.” Brian pointed to a large cup with a straw near the bed. “Solid food would be painful, so I brought you a milkshake. The cold will help.”

Martin took the shake and drank fast enough to give himself brain freeze. He didn’t care, the cold caressed his throat and soothed some of the burning.

“You had the mixology book?” the nurse asked. When Martin nodded, he said, “Shall we take a trip to the lounge?”

Martin shrugged. It seemed fine to him, even when Brian lifted him out of the bed and put him into a wheelchair for the trip. His legs felt like jelly and his feet throbbed.

The lounge was equipped with a bar. Why it existed in a university hospital, Martin didn’t know.

“Would you like magical help?” Brian asked. “I am an RN but working on my degree in magical medicine.”

Martin nodded and the nurse dropped a five-pound note in the donations jar. 

Odd time to donate, Martin thought.

Brian began mixing a drink, checking the written recipe every step of the way. He was making a Bounce Back, Martin was sure of it.

Brian was about to muddle the lime without sugar and Martin stopped him with a wave of his hands. He pointed to the sugar, and Brian looked back at the recipe. “Ah, yes, Mr. Gillam.” Brian muddled the lime with sugar and added it to the shaker. After a good shake and straining the drink over ice, he handed it to the gnome.

Martin sipped the drink, feeling the strength return to his legs, the throbbing in his feet subsiding. By the time he finished it he felt fully fresh and ready to leave.

“Thanks for the Bounce Back.”

“Oh, you really should not talk for the next couple days,” the nurse said. “But if you want to leave now, you can. I will take you back to your room so you can dress.”

 As Martin sat on the train, heading back to the city, the song still played in the back of his mind. He wondered how long it would take to get rid of it. Still, after seeing the effects of the drink Brian had given him, he knew why the mixology book belonged in the magic library.

Sylvia took his doctor’s note to heart and decided that he shouldn’t utter a sound for the next two days. She also took it as the perfect time to scold him. “You should never attempt to do magic without paying for it first.”

The donation… Brian was “paying for” the magic.

“I suppose you had a rough time getting to the library, right?” Martin’s downcast look gave her confirmation. “In future, before you make one of my recipes, ask me first. Some of them can be dangerously expensive.”

“Your…?”

“Shh!” She cut him off and dropped a ten-pound note in the donations jar. “You don’t talk for two days. And yes, my recipes. Now prep the bar for opening while I make you a Well Sooner.”

prompt: Write about a mischievous pixie or trickster god.

available at Reedsy

Horace A. Grimwald was, to any casual observer, a serious little man of indeterminate age with comically thick glasses and salt-and-pepper hair. Closer inspection would show that behind his coke-bottle glasses his bright, green eyes were flanked by laugh lines, and the few other wrinkles he had were consistent with someone who smiled a lot more than he seemed to.

His employees knew him as a collection of self-contradictions. Horace encouraged his employees to personalize their workspace, but the only decoration on his desk was a hand-carved raccoon, that looked over a hundred years old. While not given to overt frivolity himself, he excused his employees’ frequent tomfoolery with a wink and a smile. Easily old enough to be a parent, if not grandparent, to all his employees, he still insisted on first names and that they all treat each other as siblings. Despite looking like someone who would be at home in a suit, he wore only jeans and band t-shirts, ranging from death metal to EDM acts, all of which he had purchased at their concerts.

Sarah finished the changes to Horace’s computer and locked the screen. “Come on, Bon, we’ve got to sit down and keep it together.”

“I wonder who’ll be the one he suspects when he unlocks it and it blasts that out at full volume,” Bonita said.

“Last year was a bust,” Sarah said. “All that time to wrap his computer and keyboard in foil over the weekend, and then come in on Monday and everyone had new computers.”

“And a nasty email to you from the contractor about it.” Bonita giggled.

“Shush, he’s coming in.”

Horace walked into the office and sat his desk. A half-smile crossed his face. He logged on to his computer, and to Sarah and Bonita’s disappointment it was silent. “Sarah, can you take a look at my computer? I think my sound isn’t working.”

“Sure, Boss.”

Horace stood as Sarah walked over. “I’ll just log in from your computer to get through my email while you fix it.” He winked on his way past.

Sarah checked the connections, rebooted the machine, and finally reinstalled the sound drivers before she could get a test sound from the speakers. “All fixed, Boss.”

“Please, Sarah,” he said, leaving her desk, “call me Horace. We’re all family here, right?”

“You’re right, Horace.” Sarah smiled and returned to her desk.

“What happened?” Bonita asked.

“Sound driver was corrupted.” Sarah frowned as she logged back into her computer. “We’ll get him one of these days. Maybe we can get—” she was interrupted by her speakers blasting at full volume. It was the clip she’d tried to use on Horace.

“YES, DADDY! RAM ME! HARDER, DADDY! HARDER!”

Everyone in the office was staring at her. Her face burned in embarrassment as she frantically tried to turn off the speakers, stop the clip, anything. Nothing worked until she finally unplugged the computer. Laughter spread through the open office until even Bonita was turning red trying not laugh out loud.

“You too?”

“Come on, it was funny!”

“Why didn’t you stop him? Or warn me, at least?”

“Stop him what? I watched him log on, answer a couple emails, and log off. If he did it, he’s a computer ninja.” Bonita looked around the office. “I bet it was Rick and Tim.”

Sarah leaned over to whisper in conspiratorial tones. “That’s okay, Mark said he was lining up something for Rick at break.”

“Did he say what?”

“Just don’t expect any donuts, he said.”

When break time rolled around, Horace called out, “Take a break. I’ll watch the support lines, just save me an old-fashioned.”

Rick was the first in the break room. A shade over six feet tall and rail-thin he was well-known for his diet of junk food and sweets and aversion to anything resembling a vegetable. “Nice,” he said, “Silver Street donuts! Thanks, whoever brought….” He stopped short on opening the box.

The box that promised to hold crullers, old-fashioneds, glazed and jelly donuts instead held a well-appointed vegetable tray. Rick’s shoulders dropped as he looked at the broccoli, cauliflower, red and yellow peppers, cherry tomatoes, carrots, and two types of dip.

He turned to see Mark filming him on his phone. “Damn it! You guys suck,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to stop by Silver Street on my way home and buy my own.”

“April Fools!” Mark sang.

“Works for me,” Tim said, loading up a small paper plate with vegetables. “Means I won’t break my diet today.”

“Going for your summer beach body?” Sarah asked.

“My fifth anniversary is in three months, and I want to fit back into my tux to surprise my husband.”

“Oh, you better send me pictures if you do,” Bonita said.

The conversations crossed; anniversary plans, the latest episode of the show everyone had been watching, that one customer that was a total pain in everyone’s ass. Meanwhile, everyone except Rick was helping themselves to the veggie tray and picking it clean. Rick left the break room first to take over support.

Horace walked in and filled his coffee cup. On his way out, he stopped by the donut box and reached in. He turned to the others sat around the table with an old-fashioned donut in his hand. “Thanks for saving me one,” he said.

“What the hell? Where did that come from?” Mark asked.

“Did he sneak it in here?” Bonita asked.

“He had his coffee in one hand and his phone in the other when he walked in,” Sarah said.

Horace sat at his desk and enjoyed his donut, the look of bewilderment on Rick’s face putting a smile on his own. Once he finished his donut, he got back to work.

Shortly after lunch, a Nerf battle broke out in the office, soft foam darts flying everywhere. Horace sent a document to the printer at the far end of the office and rose to collect it. While he was never directly involved in the Nerf wars, he always maintained that he was a fair target. “Let them play” was his motto, or so he said.

Tim lined up his patented, off-the-ceiling bounce shot whereby he could hit the printer no less than nine times out of ten. As Horace approached the printer, Tim let fly. The dart headed for the ceiling at a slightly higher velocity than usual, intersected a sudden gust from the air handlers, and ricocheted back to land in Tim’s coffee, splashing a small amount of it on his desk. “Gah! Stupid AC!”

Laughter echoed through the office as Horace took his document from the printer and walked slowly back to his desk. He stopped to check a message on his phone as a dart whizzed past just where he had been about to step. Done with the message he began moving again, another dart intersecting the space he’d been only a half-second earlier. He made his way back to his desk unscathed by the myriad darts flying every which direction.

During the afternoon break, Horace again manned the support lines while the others gathered in the break room.

“Okay, we’ve got to get Horace at least once for April Fool’s Day,” Rick said. “I set something up with the cleaning crew last night. The storage closet is full of balloons. Like, way full. When he opens the door, they’ll come pouring out.”

“How do we get him to open the door?” Tim asked.

“Bon, head to the ladies’ room, and when you come back tell him you heard a weird noise from the closet. Since he’s the only one besides maintenance with the key, he’ll have to check.”

“Sounds weak, but I’ll try it,” Bonita said.

Following the plan to the letter, Bonita went to the ladies’ room, waited an appropriate amount of time, and returned to her desk. “Horace, there’s a weird noise coming from the closet. Since you’re the only one with a key….”

Horace raised an eyebrow. “I wonder what it could be?” He crossed the office to the closet, pulled the door open, and stepped inside. After a moment he stepped back out and closed the door. “I didn’t see anything,” he said. “Just so you know, the lock’s been busted for a few weeks now, and I’m not going to replace it. Seems silly to lock up cleaning supplies.”

All eyes were on Rick, accusing stares and glares, except for Bonita. She nodded. “Okay, you got me, Rick,” she said.

Horace took his mug into the break room for another cup of coffee. “Back in a flash.”

As soon as he was out of sight, Rick bolted to the supply closet and flung open the door. An avalanche of balloons poured out, building a pile around him up to his knees. “What the hell!?”

Horace returned from the break room, looked at Rick and raised his mug. “Cheers! Who got you this time?”

“Uh, I… I did?”

“If you say so,” he said, sitting down at his desk.

The day ended as most did, with friendly chatter among the employees before they left. It was as though they were loath to leave each other’s company.

“Hey Horace, are you going straight home?” Sarah asked.

“No, I have a few things to finish up here, then I’m going for all-you-can-eat at the Indian place on Third.”

“All you can eat, huh?” Rick asked.

“Yep. If you ever go, I suggest you start with the pakora.”

“What’s that?”

“Pakora? Deep fried amazing,” Horace said with a smile.

Rick seemed to ponder for a moment. “You know, that sounds good for some reason. Pa-kor-a….”

Sarah leaned close to Horace. “Should we tell him that it’s vegetables?”

“No, let him find out after he realizes how good they are,” Horace answered with a wink.

After all his employees had left for the day, Horace leaned back in his chair, holding the hand-carved raccoon. “Another good year,” he said. His body began to glow and he channeled the energy into the carving, transferring the glow to it. He set it back on his desk and the glow faded, but he could feel the warm thrum of its energy.

The phone rang and he answered, “Grimwald.”

“It’s me, Azeban.” Glooscap sounded weaker than he had in the past.

“Glooscap, how are you cousin?”

“I’m well, how about you?”

“You don’t sound so hot,” Horace said, “but I’m better than ever.”

“Are you getting enough worship?” Glooscap asked. “If you don’t get enough worship, if your stories aren’t told enough, you’ll fade away, like so many of our brothers and sisters.”

“I’ll let you other gods have your stuffy rituals and stories,” he said. “As long as the humans play, I’m fed, especially on this day. You say let them pray, I say let them play.”

prompt: Set your story in a major city that your character has a love-hate relationship with.

available at Reedsy

Mention New Amsterdam, New York and the response is either gushing love or hateful revulsion. When it comes to NANY, there is nothing between the two extremes. Some, however, have learned to embrace both sides. Seth Burdian, NAPD Precinct 47 Captain, was one of those.

In elementary school PS 422, he was bullied by the larger students. He was short, even for a gnome, with a “classic” gnome nose, large and straight with wide nostrils, and large, round ears he didn’t grow into until well after puberty. His frizzy, medium-brown hair and olive-tan skin didn’t help. He was called “tinker” by classmates and teachers alike. It was a different time, but things hadn’t really changed as much as people liked to believe.

That bullying led to him studying dan-tama, the halfling martial art, from the age of nine. High school was better for him, though. PS 47 was in the middle of the Bunker borough, between Potato Hill and the Arts District, and far more diverse than the mostly elf and orc schools he had previously attended. That’s also where he decided he wanted to be a cop.

After nearly fifty years on the force, though, being a cop was no longer what he had joined for. It went from busting criminals and helping people to budgets, paperwork, and press conferences, like this one. Seth approached the podium as one of the beat cops pushed a small set of steps in place. He ascended the steps to stand high enough to be seen and to use the mics.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the entire city’s police force, along with agents from the ATF, are hunting for the serial bomber responsible for the attacks on the subway. We are following all leads and have identified several persons of interest.

“We urge residents to remain vigilant. If you see an unattended package or bag, not just in the subway, but in the surrounding areas as well, please stay away from it and call 911. The hotline is remaining open for tips. Thank you.”

The reporters began shouting out questions. Seth held his hands up to quiet them. He was about to point to the reporter from the World News Network when a reporter from Eagle News butted in.

“Captain Burdian,” she yelled, her bleach-blonde pixie-bob bouncing around her long, pointed ears. “Is your leadership role in this investigation an attempt to pull heat off the allegations of racism and lack of diversity in the department?”

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You allege that I’m in charge of the investigation as a publicity stunt. Is that right? In other words, you’re saying that, as the Police Captain in the precinct in which the first and third bombings took place, and a life-long resident of the city, I’m not the best qualified? I can assure you that I’m quite capable, except as a handyman; I don’t have a mechanical bone in my body.”

“Th—that’s not what I said at all,” she sputtered. “I’m not a racist!”

“I didn’t say you were, ma’am, but you felt the need to defend yourself.” There was a smattering of laughter through the gathered press. He pointed to the reporter from WNN. “Your question, sir.”

#

Seth stood in front of a large subway map on the wall, holding a pointer with a black marker affixed to the tip. “Here’s the bomb locations, in order.” As he described the locations, he circled them on the map with the added reach of the pointer aiding him. “The first was three blocks from where we’re standing, here. The next two were spread out, here, and here. The last was across the bridge, here.”

“You said you had an idea of where the next would be.” Special Agent Sarah Ignatz, ATF, stood behind Seth. At five feet two, the light brown human woman with her black hair in a puff stood a foot and a half taller than him.

“You’re not from NANY, are you?”

“No, I’m from the Midwest. Small town girl in the big city, and all that.”

“If you look at these platforms, they all serve areas that are now integrated neighborhoods. They used to mark the boundaries between segregated neighborhoods.

“The first here, Little Albarth, the dwarf neighborhood, used to extend from there east. To the west was Grunnuk Town, orcs. Now, this entire area between them has been gentrified and integrated and those other neighborhoods have shrunk.”

“The others are the same?”

“Not all of them have gentrified, but they’ve all integrated. And the order in which they integrated is matched by the order of the bombs.”

“So, what’s the next target?”

He changed the marker out for a green one and circled two more stations. “It’s one of these.”

“I take it they both integrated around the same time?”

“Yeah, although my money’s on this one; the Arts District.”

“We can keep a team at both locations,” she said. “I’ll join you in the Arts District station.”

#

They sat in the controller’s office at the subway terminal. Even with all the cameras on the platform it was impossible to see everything in the throngs of commuters. Seth knew there were plain-clothes ATF agents and police in the crowd, but he couldn’t pick any of them out.

“This is like looking for a needle in a haystack,” he said. “Every other person down there has a backpack, or gym bag, or briefcase… we’ll be lucky if we see the package and manage to clear the station. I doubt we’re going to catch our man here.”

“We still may. Five of my people down there have bomb sniffers.”

Seth scanned the monitors, trying to pick out the agents, and failing yet again. He turned to face her. “Do you know the story of the ’39 Hill Massacre?”

“Learned about that in my race relations history course. The humans around Hill Street protested the police not protecting them from the mafia. The cops and fire department attacked the protestors, killing, what was it? Fifty-two, fifty-three? Then the fire department sat by while fire ripped through the oldest buildings, the ones that were built by human slaves in the eighteenth century. Only the stone buildings remained standing.”

“Right. What’s now called Potato Hill used to be called Tinker Hill. I know, nasty, right? Gnomes had been living there since the early 1700s. Every ship that sailed conscripted gnomes to do repairs, build tools, build pulleys, and so on. Usually, they’d grab an entire family. Easier to force someone to work when their wife and kids are being held hostage. Once they reached the colonies, they’d offer to let some of them go. Most that were offered the chance took it. Like my grandparents.

“When the potato famine hit, the incoming halflings from Ireland were dropped on Hill Street. To the big people in charge there was no difference between us. Anyway, Hill Street used to be the divider between Darkfall, the dark elf neighborhood, and Potato Hill, until the massacre and fire cleared most everyone out. My mother was there; she told me about it many times. The police set the fires, and the fire department kept their hoses on the humans and anyone that tried to help them. The police shot, burned or bludgeoned to death forty-eight humans, two halflings, three gnomes, and one dark elf.”

“When did the humans come to Hill Street?”

“Started during the civil war. Prior to that, there was some animosity between the dark elves and the ‘littles’ as they called us then. By bringing in humans that had nowhere else to go, it gave our people a larger ally. The Hill Massacre was the end of the problems with the dark elves, though. Like people in this city tend to do, they pitched in to help everyone displaced by the fires. And to help bury the dead.”

Sarah’s phone chimed. “One of the bomb sniffers picked up a trace of TNT.”

They both pored over the monitors, trying to figure out where in the crowd the bomber could be. Instead, Seth saw a different kind of disturbance. “Look at that, nobody’s helping!” He keyed his radio. “All units on platform seven west, mugging in progress near the turnstiles.”

Turning back to Sarah, he said, “This city is a hellhole.”

Four figures broke from the crowd toward the scuffle. As they approached, the mugger started gesturing wildly, and the crowd moved toward them, blocking the approaching officers. The crowd started attacking the victim.

“Any unit on platform seven, what the hell’s going on down there?”

“Cap, the mugger started yelling that the victim was the bomber, still trying to get thr—” She was cut off by the crowd now scrambling away from the mugger and victim.

“Anybody, what’s going on?”

“Bomb near the turnstiles. Two in custody. Clearing the station now. Divert the trains.”

Sarah grabbed her radio. “EOD, platform seven, near the turnstiles. Meet NAPD plainclothes and ATF agents there.”

#

The local “cop bar” was rowdier than usual, and a dozen ATF agents were mingling with New Amsterdam’s finest. Seth returned from the bar with two pints of bitters; one for himself and one for Special Agent Ignatz.

“Cheers to a job well done, Sarah.”

“And to you, Seth.” She took a long draught of the cold brew. “We’re lucky nobody set off the bomb when they attacked him.”

“Maybe. Although, I think if they’d noticed it any later, there wouldn’t be enough of him to stand trial. New Amsterdamers really don’t like it when you mess with their city.”

“What about the mugger?”

“We’re still debating on whether to charge him… on that count. He had two stolen wallets in his possession when they cuffed him.” He took a sip of his beer and wiped the foam off his lip. “The New Amsterdam Times will probably call for clemency and assistance for whatever injustices brought him to crime. The Wall Street Tribune will point out that he’s every bit as guilty as the bomber and should be tried for his crimes. Meanwhile, the Daily Crier will call him a hero and demand a parade in his honor.”

“Where do you stand on it?”

“I’m somewhere between the Times and the Tribune. He’s trying to claim that he knew that was the bomber and was just trying to stop him. I’m sure he can find a lawyer that will argue that, so the DA is torn on whether to add that assault and battery charge, or just stick to the possession of stolen goods charges.”

Sarah lifted her glass in a toast. “Where else but New Amsterdam would a mugger catch a serial bomber?”

“Where else, indeed?” Seth laughed. “NANY is a hellhole, but it’s my hellhole, and I love it.”

prompt: Write a fantasy story about water gods or spirits….

available at Reedsy

She’s evil, she’s holy, she’s bad, she’s good, she’s a monster, she’s a hero… there are nearly as many descriptions of her as there are people who claim to have seen her. I’m talking, of course, about the Blue Lady of Fallam Lake. It’s said that she lives on the bottom of the lake, or maybe in a cave beneath the water where her hearth is warm and dry. How would that even work?

I’m on day eleven of a fourteen-day assignment to try catch the Blue Lady on camera. It’s all a bunch of nonsense, of course, but that’s what they pay me to do. Despite the thick evergreen forest that surrounds the lake, the area reminds me most of Loch Ness. The air is clear, with the heady, resinous scent of pine. Sunlight sparkles on the mild waves of the lake as they lap against the banks.

The only man-made things visible were the boat launch, made of paving stones, and a buoy in the middle of the lake. Viewed through the infrared camera, the inlet of the lake, below the waterline, becomes visible as a cold spot. Somewhere on the bottom of the lake the water finds its way into the bedrock to emerge again in springs near the foot of the mountains in the town of Fallam Cross.

I made my rounds, checking the batteries in all 47 cameras. Some were night vision capable, others were infrared, and of course the rest were standard cameras. All were set to record on motion detection or temperature anomaly. Thus far, I’d gotten loads of good wildlife shots, but no Blue Lady.

The sat-phone’s chirp pulled me out of my quiet enjoyment of my surroundings. “Go for Josh. It’s a beautiful morning, Rachel.”

“Yeah, it’s night here. I just wanted to check in, see how it’s going.”

“Camping with cameras. My favorite thing,” I said. “I just happen to get paid for it.”

“I expected as much. How many hours of footage are we looking at so far?”

“Based on the file size, I’d guess about fifty or sixty. Lots of wildlife footage. I wanted to ask, are we running out of myths to chase? The Blue Lady?”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“It seems like after the first two season we’re getting more obscure.”

“Maybe that’s the point. It means we’re doing stuff the other blokes aren’t. Or would you rather go back for a second round of trying to find a yeti?”

“God no! That was, without a doubt, the most miserable camping trip ever. The Himalayas in the winter… should’ve asked for hazard pay. We could do a Bigfoot follow-up. The Pacific Northwest is nice, and I met some rather… interesting people there.”

“Nope, done to death. Can I get you to do an interview with the constable? There at the lake? Sarah had to fly back home early.”

“Now I’m doing interviews, too?”

“We’ve got most of them in the can already. He wanted to do his there at the lake. Have a walk around, show where everything happened, you know.”

“Is there a list of questions?”

“Just ask him to tell his story and follow him around while he wags his gob. We’ll edit it here.”

“I’m not getting out of it, am I?”

“Nope. He should be there around noon.”

“Fine, fine. Have a good night Rachel.”

“You too… I mean, have a good day.”

I broke out the Steadicam rig and set it up for the interview. As the only drivable approach to the lake was at the boat launch, I waited there for him.

I could hear the truck long before I could see it. Soft birdsong amidst the gentle rustle of trees in the breeze was overwhelmed by the noise. A mechanical intrusion on the natural serenity of the forest. Even after the engine was shut off, the forest remained quiet for a moment, as if expecting it to start again. Soon, though, the birds resumed their song and a breeze moved through the trees like a sigh of relaxation.

He emerged from the distinctive blue and yellow striped and checked police SUV, which was coated in a fine layer of dust from the dirt road to the lake. “You must be Josh. Senior Constable Robert Meadows, but just call me Bob.” He was tanned, with short-cropped blonde hair and light brown eyes. Even through the tan, a hint of freckles played across his nose, hinting at his normally pale coloring.

I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you Bob.”

“American, eh? Thought you’d be a Brit.”

“The show’s British, I live in Guildford, but yeah, I’m from the US.”

“So, I suppose you want to hear my story.”

“Sure,” I said, turning the camera on. “I’ll just follow you around and you can tell your story the way you like.”

He walked down to the boat launch. “Fallam Lake, named for the town down the mountain, is known to the Maori as ‘Roto Wahine Ngaro’… Secret Woman Lake. There’s stories about the Blue Lady going back hundreds of years.

“I used to think it was all just yarns. Now, I’ve never seen her, but I think there’s something in this lake, and whatever it is, it’s intelligent.” He stopped a few yards from the water’s edge, at the border of the paving stones of the boat launch. “Right here is where I found him. Barely two, in a life vest two sizes too big.”

“Uh, found who?”

“Ah, yeah. Two months ago, we had a sudden blow up here. The weather buoy out there picked up strong northerly winds and severe chop. David Whatcom was out in a boat with his boy. Came out to the wops to get away from the missus and her friends. The boat capsized and washed up on the far shore, over there.” Robert pointed to the furthest section of the lake, and I turned the camera and zoomed in to focus on it, before turning back to him.

“David carked it. His body washed up over there next to the boat. The kid, though, was right here.”

I swept the camera to the far shore and back to where Robert stood. The two points were about half a mile apart.

“Now, either that little guy swam against the storm and some wicked chop, or something delivered him up the boat ramp. When I went to pick him up, the life vest slipped right off over his head. I only found him because I was planning to bowl round to chat David anyway, but came early because of the storm.”

“You’re sure he didn’t drift around until the winds changed?”

“Sure as. The weather buoy out there recorded steady northerly winds until four hours after I picked the lad up.”

“What do you think it is? Any idea?”

“I know bugger all about it. It’s something old, though, innit? The Maori have stories about her, though. In the late 1800’s Cyrus Fallam planned on building a house here. He finished the road and boat launch and then pissed off somewhere. His maid said he went crazy after spending a week up here. Land’s in his name, but as it’s abandoned it’s open for public use.”

I followed him around the lake, where he showed me the area where the boat and David’s body had washed ashore. There was a collection of branches, limbs, and other tree detritus that piled up there.

“As you can see, this is where pretty much everything that falls in ends up.”

I kept filming as he talked about the broken boats and bodies he’d picked up there over the years. He pointed across the lake to the boat launch. “Except for that little boy, everyone and everything I ever had to pick up from this lake was right here or dredged off the bottom.”

After the usual thanks and wrapping up, Robert left and I took a walk around the lake, getting more shots with the Steadicam. I stopped at an area where the view of the moon rising as the sun set was in aesthetic balance. I filmed for a bit as the sun set, figuring it would do for B roll footage.

Having worn the rig for several hours I was tired, and sat by the darkening lake to relax, watching the moon’s reflection on the still water. A breeze picked up, with small gusts, making the reflection dance across the lake. It was then that the clouds rolled in without warning.

The moon was choked out by the dense, black clouds and I decided my rest was over. Wanting to avoid the rain that would be coming any minute, I began to make my way back to my camp site. A flash of lightning and simultaneous crash of thunder blinded me for a moment and all my hair stood on end.

I turned on the camera’s light to see where I was going. The next lightning strike hit the lake. A shockwave buffeted me, the light went out and I tumbled, my head slamming into something hard as I went over the bank into the water. The Steadicam rig was dragging me to the bottom.

I struggled to get the rig off, but my head was throbbing; I had no sense of which way was up. There was a moment where I had the presence of mind to be surprised at how deep the lake was here, close to the shore, then everything went black.

Hail pelted me, waking me where I lay on the boat launch. The rig was gone. Had I managed to drop it? Did the water push me here?

In the flashes of lightning, I could see a tree, or most of one, floating in the lake. Each flash showed it farther away from the launch. Okay, so I swam out? My head was pretty scrambled by the blow. I touched my head, wincing from the pain, and felt warm blood on my fingers. It’s possible I swam out but don’t remember it.

I was still trying to convince myself of that when I saw her. No more than five feet tall, her skin looked blue-green in the lightning. She was nude, definitely female, with large, fin-shaped ears, and no hair. She held a webbed hand raised in a sort of “please be calm” manner. In the other she held the Steadicam. Fifty-four pounds with the camera and sled as configured, and she held it like it was made of balsa.

Just as suddenly as the storm had appeared it passed on, and the moon returned, shining between the breaking clouds. I sat up and waited for her to approach. She walked up to me and set the rig on the ground next to me. Her feet were wide and webbed, looking more like flippers; her eyes were large and completely dark, and she had no nose I could discern.

I reached out my hand to her and she shrank back for a moment. Seeing that I wasn’t moving to grab her, she moved closer and grabbed my hand. Her skin was cool and smooth on the palm, with what felt like small scales on the back.

“I’m Josh,” I said. “Thanks for bringing my camera back. Did… did you save me?”

She nodded and pointed at my head, tilting her own. It seemed she was concerned about my injury. I leaned forward and let her have a look.

“I’m sorry, Josh,” she said, her voice like tinkling glass. When she spoke, I could see her sharp, pointed teeth, and as she breathed, gills on her neck moved.

“Sorry for what?” I was still too dazed to be overwhelmed by the fact that I was talking with the Blue Lady.

“I must tear your clothing. This needs to be bandaged.”

“Okay.”

With little effort on her part, she ripped my shirt into strips and used them to bandage my head. “You should call for help as soon as you can. You don’t want that to get infected.”

“Who are you?”

“Your kind have given me many names, but my real name is Nimue. This lake is currently my home, and my spirit.”

“You mean you’re like the spirit of the lake?”

“No, the lake is my spirit. I am older than the lake, and will live on, elsewhere, when this lake dries up. My spirit can live anywhere there is clean water.”

“Shit, well, we’re not doing such a good job on that these days.”

“There is always clean water,” she said, “even when it is only in the clouds. I was here before humans and I will be here after you have all gone.”

“Are you a god?”

“I have been called that, but I do not think so. I just am.”

“Did you save the little boy?”

“I did. The man with him fought me, though. He was frightened of me. That made me sad, but I cannot help those who reject my help.”

“If the world knows you’re real, this place will be overrun with tourists. The lake would be contaminated in no time.”

“And I would go where my spirit goes. I have lived many human lifetimes in the clouds alone.”

“I would prefer that you have a quiet place to live in peace. And if it’s not too much, I’d like to come back once in a while to visit you.”

“I would appreciate that, Josh.” Despite the lack of eyebrows and the large, black eyes, she emoted clearly enough that I could tell she was curious.

“What’s on your mind, Nimue?”

“You do not fear me, nor treat me like a god. Why is that?”

I smiled. “Well, you look different, but saving my life and rescuing my camera rig goes a long way to making me think of you as a possible friend. Besides, you’re not the strangest person I’ve met.”

“I must return to my spirit, and you must get a human doctor to treat your wound. I will look for you here on the same night, next summer.”

“Here, January 24^th, next year. It’s a date.”

She rose and returned to the water, slipping beneath the surface without a sound. I picked myself up from the ground and picked up the soaked camera rig. The camera was supposed to be waterproof, but the battery cases, monitor, and other sled components were not. It would be an expensive repair.

I was returning to my tent when it hit me… she was on the other cameras! If that footage made it back, she’d be forced out of her lake in no time. By the time I reached the tent I was shivering; whether from being soaked, adrenaline, or the head injury, I didn’t know.

I dropped the Steadicam in the corner and opened the laptop. Using the synchronized time codes, I scrolled back through the footage. Thankfully none of this would be uploaded until I manually sent it via the satellite link. I found the first flash of lightning, then the second. The cameras all blanked out for a moment, then came back on in time to see me drop beneath the surface of the lake. I don’t know how I didn’t drown, as Nimue appeared, dragging me up the boat ramp, a little more than seven minutes later.

I watched the entire exchange from all the cameras that caught it. She showed on the infrared cameras in much the same way that reptiles do. As she moved from the water to the shore, she was cold, but then disappeared as her temperature matched the air. When she headed back into the water her heat showed faintly against the background of the cold water until she slipped underneath.

I erased all the footage from the momentary blackout until just after Nimue left. I sent a hard restart to all the cameras to reset them and considered my job done.

After calling for a cab to take me to the clinic in Fallam I called Rachel to tell her I had been injured in the storm but was okay to carry on.

“How much of the storm did you get?”

“Right up until lightning hit the lake. It knocked out all the cameras. After I fished myself and the Steadicam out of the lake, I reset them all to make sure they’re on while I go get my head stitched up.”

“We still have a couple more nights, maybe we’ll get something on camera,” she said.

“I don’t know, Rachel. We’re chasing myths and make-believe. I’m certain there’s nothing here.”

“You always say that.”

“I always mean it. But I’m kind of loving New Zealand. So you have plenty of time to plan around it, I’m meeting someone here next year, same time.”

“Holiday romance?”

“Well, holiday friend at least.”

In the farthest corner of the twenty-four-hour diner sat a small woman typing away at her laptop. A mass of unruly medium-brown hair formed a halo around her pale golden face, while a scattering of brown freckles played across her straight nose beneath bright hazel eyes. She was connected to the dark web, adding “classified” information under her alias as “Vassily,” a former covert Russian operative, on the run after uncovering a dangerous secret.

Two weeks ago, the Premier of Transmontia had a series of phone calls which kept her occupied for the entire day. My sources say those calls included the Russian President, the Chinese President, the British Prime Minister, and the United States President. Yesterday afternoon, the Premier of Transmontia sacked her entire cabinet, replacing them with “reformers,” even as tens of billions of dollars of national debt disappeared off their books. Those same reformers wasted no time cutting deals for: Russian oil, tech trade with China, and open borders to several NATO countries. This smells like a back-door NATO invasion into Eastern Europe while trying to keep Russia and China in the dark with their own deals.

She read over her posting and submitted it. Except for the bit about the phone calls and the over-the-top likening it to an invasion, it was, more or less, factually accurate. The disappearance of the national debt was easily explained; it was artificial debt created by members of the cabinet to their privately held companies. Cleaning up the cabinet opened the country up for previously stalled trade deals, and the open borders agreements were with the EU and the EAEU. Still, a little easily verified truth makes the rest seem plausible.

“What’s the new conspiracy?”

Eris looked up from her laptop. The woman who stood across from her had warm, olive skin, hazel eyes, and long, straight black hair. She was dressed in a bespoke suit, custom-made Louboutins, and oversized sunglasses. Eris felt a small pang comparing the woman’s too-perfect appearance to her own. She tugged at the hem of her hoodie, trying to straighten it out. “Why are you here, Laverna?”

“I just wanted to check on you.” Laverna sat opposite Eris and pushed her laptop closed. She made a point of looking over Eris’ outfit, torn jeans, a t-shirt that said, “Underestimate me, I dare you”, a black hoodie, and ratty sneakers. “You really don’t seem to be doing so well these days.”

“Why, because I like to blend in?”

“Because you look a mess.” Laverna laughed. “Let me take you in for a few days, I’ll have you looking like a goddess again.”

Eris snorted. “You don’t look like a goddess. You look like a cross between a failed actress, a banker, a pimp, and a mob boss.”

Laverna smiled, but there was no warmth behind it, her dark-brown eyes icy. “I have been some of those things,” she said. “Never tried acting, but never needed to.”

That stung. “I didn’t act in the silents because I needed to, it was just something to do.”

“How long have you been living on the investments you made with your movie money?” Laverna’s smile turned to a smirk. “Investments that I helped you make?”

Eris frowned. “Fine, I needed to then, but I don’t need to now.”

“So instead, you what? Start conspiracy theories?”

“That, and deep fakes. It keeps me amused.” Eris put her elbows on the table and leaned her chin on her hands. “And it works very well. Have you noticed the state of the world lately?”

“I have,” she said, motioning the waitress over. “Coffee, black, and whatever fresh fruit you have.” As the waitress turned to go, she added, “Fresh fruit, nothing from a can.”

“Now, if you’re done being rude, I’ll go,” Eris said. She stuffed her laptop into the backpack on the seat next to her.

“Please, stay.” The set of Laverna’s face told Eris she didn’t have a choice. “I helped you invest, and you owe me one.”

“So, you need my help.”

“I didn’t say that.” Laverna shifted, turning away from Eris toward the window. “I just said you owe me.”

“If you can’t say you need my help, you won’t get it.” Eris reached for her backpack and began to stand.

“Okay, fine. I need your help.”

“Better.” Eris settled into the booth. “Tell me what you need.”

“I assume you know what happened in Transmontia.”

“Of course. Crooked politicians got busted.”

The waitress returned with a cup of coffee and a salad plate filled with apple and pear slices, berries, grapes, and chunks of cantaloupe. Laverna smiled at her and turned back to Eris. “That happens when you get stupid.”

“They got greedy.”

“Greed,” Laverna said, “is a fine motivator, but I have no respect for anyone stupid enough to get caught.”

“Okay, fine.” Eris stole a grape off the plate. “What’s that got to do with me?”

Laverna took a sip of her coffee, frowned at it, and set it down. “The current Premier is opening things up. This is aligned with my interests.”

“And?” Eris watched with raised eyebrows while Laverna quietly ate a few pieces of her fruit. “Why must I drag everything out of you? If you don’t tell me what you need help with, I’m leaving, and considering this annoying conversation as payment in full.”

“The current Premier is well liked, by a little more than half the population.” Laverna poured sugar into her coffee and tried another sip. “The rest, though, hate her with a passion.”

“Sounds like a riot in the making.”

“All I’m asking for is that you don’t poke around in Transmontia until after the next election.”

Eris frowned, her eyes squinting. “I don’t think you’re going to like me very much, then.”

“What have you done?”

“I may have played a little amusement in Transmontia… just seconds before you came in here.”

“Undo it. Now.” Laverna leaned forward, staring into Eris’ eyes. “You owe me, I’m calling in my debt.”

“Oh, Laverna, you know I don’t work that way,” Eris took Laverna’s hand in her own and patted it. “I just pull threads and see what happens.”

Laverna jerked her hand back. “You will undo it, or I will turn one of my lower-level organizations loose in your beloved little neighborhood.”

“That’s not a threat, dear.” Eris smiled. “I love all my neighbors, but the neighborhood does get a little… predictable after a while.”

“Eris, how many times have I stayed your hand over the last 100 years?” Laverna asked.

“Too many.”

“Do this for me, and it is debt paid in full.”

“You seem desperate, cousin.” Eris took Laverna’s hand again. “I will try, and my debt will be released.”

Laverna grabbed Eris’ hand in a bone-crushing grip. “You will do, or your debt is doubled.”

Eris considered a flippant response but knew there was no way to get through to Laverna when she was like this. “Fine, cousin.” She looked around the diner. “How far we’ve come, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“You used to have a temple, a grove, and a gate named after you in Rome. While I,” Eris said, shaking her head in mock dismay, “never had any of those. But I’ve got my own cult now.” Her eyes lit up in a broad smile.

“It’s a fucking parody, not even a real cult,” Laverna snapped.

“Works for me. They don’t take me seriously, and I don’t take anything seriously.” Eris stood. “You, dear cousin, take everything too seriously. Now, if I’m to quell the chaos, as sickeningly boring as that sounds, I really must be leaving.” She motioned the waitress over and handed her a twenty-dollar bill which she put into her apron pocket.

Laverna rose and shook the waitress’ hand, apologizing for being rude, and presented what she thought was the twenty from the waitress’ apron. Instead, it was a slip of paper with the words “Nice try.” Laverna raised an eyebrow, then noticed her keys dangling from the waitress’ finger. She held her hand out for her keys to be returned. “You’re good.”

The waitress stared into Laverna’s piercing gaze and dropped the keys into her waiting hand. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Laverna handed a business card and a hundred-dollar bill to the woman. “If you want a job, give me a call.”

Eris returned to her one-room apartment in Little Athens. Being surrounded by Greek neighbors was comforting, even if they butchered the language and acted just like all the other Americans.

She removed her laptop from her backpack to check on her amusements. By logging in to alternate accounts she was able to keep up with her growing conspiracies. The flat-earthers were getting more sincere, even holding international conferences while their idiocy was debunked as soon as it was released. The one about conservatives being part of a world-wide Nazi conspiracy to destroy governments so that Hitler’s secret grandchildren could take them over by proxy was growing again, but still quite slow. Her more recent conspiracy about a world-wide, Satanic, child-killing cult of liberals and elites, however, was spreading like wildfire. Some of its adherents were even being elected to major party positions.

How to stop the Transmontia game was top of her mind. One of the Russian state-run news sites was already running it as a story, it was picking up in social media, and it wouldn’t be long before the videos started showing up. She sighed. Laverna spoiled her amusement for a hundred-year-old debt. She closed her eyes, visualizing the situations as threads in a weave. It was a simple matter to find the thread to pull to make the whole thing chaotic but once that was pulled, figuring out how to reverse it was impossible.

The best Laverna could hope for, and the absolute worst as far as Eris was concerned, was that some other shiny thing would take the focus off her little game long enough for the truth to overcome the narrative. Sure, there would be people who would cling to it forever, bless their tiny little minds, but it might still be possible to save the Premier and her new agreements.

It was time for “R,” her former NSA agent alias to produce a video. She couldn’t upload it to social media herself but posting it on the dark web and on one of the -chan sites would see it hit the major social media within a matter of hours.

Eris wrote a script and memorized it. In one corner of her apartment, a sheet hung over the wall, bright lights behind it. In front of it sat a camera and microphone. She stuffed her hair into her hoodie and put a baseball cap over it. She added a jacket with padded shoulders to change her profile, and a long, full, false beard to be captured in profile. With the backlights on full and the camera running she sat down and recited her lines.

“Several hours ago, I received word from ‘Vassily,’ a former FSB agent and long-time source, that his family was captured by criminal elements in Transmontia. Those same criminals that the Premier ousted for the billions of fraudulent charges to their companies. That message was composed by the ousted cabinet. The truth is that all the debt that ‘disappeared’ was the fraudulent debt to those cabinet member’s pockets. The trade deals were already in the works but stalled by the corruption in the politburo. In regard to the open borders, NATO has nothing to do with it. It’s open borders with both the EU and EAEU. By the time you hear this, our operatives, working in concert with Vassily’s, will have freed his family and he will be out of Transmontia, headed to a safe-house somewhere else.”

Eris logged in to five different Twitter accounts, one logged in from Brazil, one from the UK, and three from Transmontia. Over the course of the next hour, she posted just a few tweets.

IamR: Op status go #savevassily

R-naught: On the ground #savevassily

Ribocop: In place #savevassily

R-naught: ten on mark #savevassily

Lil’bro: tango down #savevassily

R-naught: success #savevassily

Ribocop: en route #savevassily #howwedo

VassilyActual: with family en route to safehouse much thanks @IamR

She edited the video, darkening her image to a silhouette, and altering her voice to be unidentifiable. After editing she posted it on the dark web, and as “R” to starchan.

After she waited another two hours, she posted another Tweet from “VassilyActual” saying that he and his family were safe, and to ignore his earlier post. She watched as #savevassily trended briefly then trailed off. Finally, she posted a follow-up message on the dark web from “Vassily.”

Family safe, thanks to assist from R-anon and others. Former cabinet members Varislov, Lebedev, Kuznetsov, and Oblonsky directly involved in kidnapping of my family. They stand to gain the most by keeping Transmontia closed off from EU and EAEU. Premier Yeltsina is watching out for her country, these crooks are watching out for their wallets.

By morning her new conspiracy was growing more quickly in Eastern Europe than any other she had started and was gaining support in the US as well. It was a simple matter of time before it turned into protests against the former cabinet members, and possibly their arrest, if the mob didn’t get to them first.

As evening rolled around Eris returned to the diner to troll social media, right-wing and left-wing specialized media, and major news sites. Her “usual,” a random selection from the menu made by the waitress shuffling and drawing cards, arrived: a salad with olive oil, tater tots, a pork chop and unsweetened iced tea today. This time she heard the clack of Laverna’s heels as she approached.

“Twice in two days,” she said. “I’d think you’re starting to like me.”

Laverna said something to the waitress as she passed her and sat down. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

Eris popped a tater-tot in her mouth and raised an eyebrow in question.

“I told you I didn’t want you fucking around in Transmontia!”

Eris shrugged. “And then you told me to undo what I’d already done before you said that. Make up your mind, would you?”

“I told you to undo it.” Laverna’s cheeks flushed with contained rage. “I did not tell you to start a protest and send an angry mob into the streets.”

“It was already going to happen,” Eris said, biting into another tater-tot. “Best I could do was change the target.”

The waitress set down a plate of fruit and a glass of sweet tea for Laverna, giving her a wink as she did so.

“Looks like you made a friend,” Eris said.

“And you are trying to make me an enemy.”

“If you want to calm the mob, give them what they want.” Eris sipped her iced tea. “Help the Premier arrest the former cabinet members and they’ll calm down.”

“I don’t… that’s not…,” Laverna sighed. “I guess it’s no different than trying to get you to bring order to chaos.”

“It’s not,” Eris said, “but if I know you, you’ll figure out a way to make money on it anyway.”

Laverna thought for a moment and nodded, a small smile crawling across her face. “I think I will at that.”

They ate in silence, only speaking again once their plates were empty. “I miss her,” Eris said.

“Who?”

“Tacita. She never said much, or anything, really, but she was always so calming.”

Laverna nodded. “She did make it easier for the two of us to get along. Where has she gone?”

“Last I heard she was a monk in Tibet.” Eris finished off her iced tea. “But that was, what, fifty-odd years ago?”

“Same.” Laverna stared at her drink as if searching for answers. “Hey, did you hear about the anti-Greek protests in Russia? Or did you start that, too?”

“No, I was too busy trying to fix things for you in Transmontia.”

“A Russian Orthodox priest was killed while visiting Greece. It’s getting ugly.”

“Not the way I do things,” Eris said. “I prefer to dangle half-truths and whole lies and watch what kind of insanity rolls out of the little minds of the humans. I don’t do assassination. Well, except for character assassination.”

Laverna grunted a non-reply.

“I may just have to sit back and see how well the humans spin this one out of control on their own,” Eris said. “After all, I shouldn’t be forced to make all my own entertainment.”

“I gave up on entertainment long ago.”

“But you run the largest international criminal organization in history. That’s got to account for something.”

Laverna sighed. “Even the few in the company that do pray, they’re praying to St. Dismas, not me. At least you have a cult, even if it’s a parody. Th—that’s not the point! I’m flying out to Transmontia tonight, so I won’t be around for a week or so.”

Eris was about to ask what, exactly, was the point when she was interrupted by sirens passing by the diner. “They’re playing my song,” she said. “Sounds like they’re heading to Little Athens.” She grabbed her backpack and handed a twenty to the waitress as she ran out the door to follow the noise.

Eris ran toward her neighborhood, her backpack slapping against her shoulder blades with every footfall. She turned the corner and saw it. Angry mobs facing off in the middle of the street, Greeks and Russians. Slurs and epithets were flying in a mishmash of English, Russian, and Greek. Those were quickly followed with fists, then stones, then Molotov cocktails. Her building was on fire.

Eris strode through the fracas to get to the other side. She threw her hood back and laughed. “This. Is. GLORIOUS!”

A rioter ran up to her from behind and hit her in the head with a baseball bat at full swing. He faltered when she laughed. Eris turned to him, smiled, and whispered in his ear. He wet himself, dropped the bat, and fell to the ground, curled in a fetal position. She could do the same to everyone there if she wished, but the chaos was just too beautiful to stop.

The fire trucks and ambulances were prevented from entering by the mob, and the police were doing their best not to get overwhelmed while they waited for SWAT to arrive. A late police car pulled in behind her, stopping at the gibbering man in the road. One officer checked on him while the other questioned Eris.

“Ma’am, it’s not safe here, you should probably go home.”

Eris pointed at the building, flames now licking up the outside to the top floor. “That’s where I live.” She did her best to hide her glee.

“I see,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Eris Dichonoia,” she held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Officer…”

“Blake.” The officer shook her hand. “Do you have any ID?”

Eris pointed at the building. “In there. Didn’t think I’d need it.”

“What’s in the backpack?”

“Laptop, phone, a notebook and some pens,” she said. “I was just out doing some writing.”

“Do you know what happened to him?” she asked, pointing at the man paramedics were loading on to a stretcher.

“No,” Eris replied. She made a sweeping gesture toward the tumult in the street. “It was all probably just too much for him.”

“You don’t seem too concerned by it.”

“I grew up in the middle of a war,” she said, “this is nothing. When your entire life is unpredictable, you learn to roll with anything.”

SWAT troops poured past them, lobbing smoke grenades and firing pepper bullets. The crowds were quickly driven back enough for the fire trucks to get in, although the fire had well and truly taken hold of the building by that point.

“I’ll need to get a witness statement from you. We can do it now, or… do you have somewhere to go?” Blake asked.

“Not really,” she replied.

“In that case, would you mind coming to the station to give your witness statement while it’s fresh in your mind? We’ll help you find a room for tonight.”

“In the jail?” she asked. “I’ve never been to one.”

Blake laughed. “No, I meant we’d find you a motel room.”

#

The motel room was an extended stay suite with a small living room and kitchenette. It was similar in size to the apartment she’d lost in the fire, so Eris stayed. Two days after a phone call to the lawyer Laverna insisted she keep on retainer, she had a new ID and passport, and had changed her permanent address to the motel. Her lawyer also drew up a contract that gave her three years residency in exchange for payment up-front at ten percent below the current rate.

The rioting in Little Athens and elsewhere died down as the story came out. The priest wasn’t killed, he died of a previously unknown allergy to peanuts after having a candy bar containing the legume for the first time in his life.

Eris read the news articles about the incident and the subsequent calls for forgiveness and unity. “Boring.” She trolled the -chan boards to see what new sorts of mischief were afoot. When nothing caught her interest, she returned to the diner.

She was just about to sit down when two police officers approached. “Ms. Dichonoia, you’re under arrest for the assault and battery of Sergei Kozmelov.” One officer grabbed her backpack while the other cuffed her hands behind her back.

“Excuse, me, officer,” she said, “I have a twenty-dollar bill in my hoodie pocket that was for dinner. Could you please give it to the waitress for her trouble?” She smiled at the waitress who was standing dumbfounded, holding her order.

The officer pulled the twenty out of her pocket, examined it, and handed it to the waitress. “Your money, if you wanna throw it away,” he said. He patted her down, and content that her pockets were empty, led her out to their car.

When she entered the station, she saw Blake walking by with a cup of coffee. “Hi, Blake!”

“Oh, hi,” she said. “I forgot your name.”

“Eris,” she called over her shoulder as they marched her to an interrogation room. Once they were in the room one of the officers removed her cuffs and told her to sit in the chair at the table. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Soda?”

“Water would be fine, thanks,” she said.

Blake entered with a plain-clothes officer and they sat in the chairs opposite her. “I’m officer Blake, this is detective Adamson. He’ll be asking the questions, I’ll be observing.”

Adamson read from his clipboard. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”

“Sure, I guess,” Eris said.

“With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

“I don’t know. Are you a good conversationalist?” Turning to face Blake she smiled openly and asked, “Does this mean I’ll get to see what a jail looks like?”

Blake raised an eyebrow and looked at Adamson. “See?”

Adamson cleared his throat. “Ms. Dichonoia,” he started before she cut him off.

“Please, Eris.”

“Eris, my colleague thinks you’ve got a screw loose. But I’ve got a guy in the hospital with brain damage, and the only thing he can say is ‘Eris Dichonoia did this.’”

“How odd.” Eris tilted her head. “How did he get brain damaged? Or was he born that way? And what does he say I did?”

“Why don’t you tell me about what happened the night of the riot in Little Athens?”

“Well, I was having dinner with my cousin at the diner over on Lake and 115th when I heard the sirens heading toward Little Athens.” Eris leaned forward. “I ran home as fast as I could, but by the time I got there my building was on fire.”

“We have reports that you were laughing and yelling about it being glorious.”

“Look, Adamson, I was born in a war-zone. I grew up in war. If you don’t have a sense of humor everything will tear you down. When you can’t control what’s going on you have to decide whether to enjoy the chaos or suffer it. Either way, the only thing you can control is how you react.” Eris sat up straighter. “I choose to enjoy chaos. There’s already too much suffering in the world.”

He slid a photo across the table. “Do you recognize this man?” It was the man who had hit her with a bat.

“I’ve seen him around the bodega on 119th,” she said. “I don’t remember his name, but he was always hitting on me. Not my type, though.”

Blake held up a hand to stop Adamson. “Listen, Ms. Dichonoia… Eris. I have witnesses that say he hit you with a bat and you didn’t flinch. Instead, you whispered in his ear and he collapsed.”

“That sounds a little loony to me,” Eris said. Leaning over the table she whispered, “Are you feeling okay, Blake?”

“Enough of the crazy talk.” Adamson pointed at the photo. “What did you do to him?”

“I explained how rushing into a mob with a bat was a bad idea,” she said.

“You didn’t tell me you talked to him,” Blake said.

“No,” Eris said. “You didn’t ask. You asked what was wrong with him, and I told you that it was all probably a bit too much for him.”

“What did you say to him?” Adamson had the practiced look of cool indifference.

“I just explained how big and chaotic the universe is and how tiny he was in comparison.” Eris shrugged.

“And that gave him brain damage?”

“How could that give anyone brain damage?” Eris asked.

“When did he collapse?” Blake asked.

“Right after I talked to him.”

“And you didn’t try to administer any assistance?” Adamson asked.

“No,” Eris said. “I’m not a doctor and I’m not getting sued for trying to be helpful. Besides, I was busy watching my apartment go up in flames.”

Someone knocked on the door and Adamson got up and slipped outside. A moment later he came back in. “We’re done for now; your attorney is here.” He and Blake left, and the attorney Eris had on retainer but had never seen entered.

“Hello, Eris,” she said. “I’m your attorney, and you are not to answer any more questions without my approval.”

Eris scowled. “Themis, how did you get here? Or are you calling yourself Justitia again?”

“Actually, my current name is Julia,” she said. “Besides, none of the current effigies of me are flattering, are they?”

“Well, Julia, since it seems our cousin has saddled me with you, what are you doing here?”

“You’re in a bad spot, cousin.” Julia pulled out her cell phone and showed the video to Eris.

“Decent deep fake, but not great,” she said. “What’s that supposed to be in my hand?”

“Supposedly some sort of poison you administered.”

“Let me guess, Transmontia is safe for Laverna now, and she needs new leverage.”

“You never were stupid.” Julia switched to another video. This one showed the man swinging the bat at her, Eris turning and talking to him, and the man nodding and then slowly lying down on the road.

“So, I get back on the hook with Laverna and she releases the second video. I decide to go it alone and she releases the first.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“I’d never make it to prison, you know.” Eris smiled. “If I wanted to, I could walk out of here right now.”

“But your face would be plastered all over. You wouldn’t find a place to blend in, for at least a generation.” Julia put up her phone and shrugged. “If that’s what you want to do, that’s your call.”

“I’m no good with this kind of decision,” Eris said. “Not enough variables visible to find the right thread to pull. Have you got a coin?”

Julia pulled a quarter out of her pocket. “Planning on making a call?”

“No,” Eris said, “you are.” She flipped the coin high overhead. “Call it.”

“Heads,” Julia said.

They watched the coin clatter to the table. It landed tails. “I guess I’m not playing this round. Tell Laverna to release her weak deep fake and we’ll see where it leads.”

Julia narrowed her eyes. “You’ve already seen where it will lead, and you’re ready to pull at the threads.”

“You and your foresight,” Eris sighed. “You always were a spoil-sport. I thought I’d get the chance for her to owe me a debt for a century.”

Julia texted Laverna and waited for a response. When it showed up, she knocked on the door. “Bring the officers back in.”

The officers entered and Julia showed them the second video. “Do you see any attack here, other than the man barely missing her with the bat?” she asked.

“Where did you get this?” Blake asked.

“I’ll send you the link. It’s spreading on social media,” Julia said.

Adamson sighed. “The video seems to match your story, but why didn’t you say anything about Mr. Kozmelov trying to hit you with a bat?”

Eris looked Julia, who nodded. “Because,” Eris said, “it seemed like he was in a bad enough place already without me getting him in trouble.”

“Do you want to press charges?”

“No,” she replied, then turned to Julia. “Sorry, spoke without your okay.”

“Quite all right, Eris.” Julia looked at Adamson. “So, is my client free to go?”

“Yes,” Adamson said. “Just don’t leave town any time soon. We may need more information from you.”

“Thank you.” Julia rose and led Eris out of the interrogation room.

“Laverna’s pissed, huh?” Eris asked.

“No,” Julia said, “but she is disappointed, I’m sure.”

#

Eris and Laverna sat at the diner, eating a quiet supper. Laverna looked at Eris, opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. Finally, she caved. “I feel ashamed. It’s not something I’m used to. You caught me and I can’t fathom how to feel about that.”

“Never mind that. Good try anyway, cousin,” Eris said, “but deep fakes are not your strong suit.”

Laverna pushed her plate aside. “I worry when you’re not in my debt. You’re too unhinged for my tastes to be running wild. It’s discomforting to know I have no way to rein you in.”

“Life is unpredictable,” Eris said, “or at least I work to keep it that way. I’m sure you’ll find something else to hold over my head one day. Not that it’s ever slowed me down before.”

prompt: Write about someone who keeps an unusual animal as a pet….

available at Reedsy

Every job has at least one task that separates work from not-work; that task that one wishes could be ignored. For Corinna this was the task she was faced with. Separating people from their animal companions is easy when those people are abusive; but painful when it breaks a heart. There was no sign of abuse here, in fact, given the animal in question it was impossible, but the law is the law.

She knocked at the door, taking in its large size. She smoothed her straight silver hair behind her pointed ears, making it frame her coal-black face. When she didn’t hear a response, she tried the bell near the door.

An excited, chirping, “chee-ka-ka-chee” came from within the house, followed by a muffled voice. The large door opened, and her violet eyes reflected the morning light that poured through the back of the house and washed over her.

“Is Marcus Tybalt here?” she asked.

“I am,” he answered.

Her eyebrows drew together, and she looked at the data on her tablet. “I may have the wrong Marcus Tybalt,” she said. “I was looking for a troll, not a dwarf.”

He laughed. “Thanks! Can I get a photo of your documents there?” he asked. “I’m getting a refund from the company that ‘fixed’ my records after I was hacked.”

“Ah.” Corinna held her tablet where he could take a photo with his phone. “I suppose you know why I’m here.”

“That says I have an illegal pet.” Marcus pointed at the tablet. “I don’t have any pets.”

“We have eyewitness reports—”

“Damn nosy neighbors.” He sighed. “Come on in. Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”

“Tea would be lovely.” She stepped into the house and held out her hand. “Corinna Dastone, Animal Law Enforcement.”

Marcus shook her hand. “You already know who I am,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Corinna.” He led her through the kitchen to the breakfast nook where warm morning light poured in through the large sliding-glass door.

“This is a lovely home,” she said. Plants grew on shelves, bathed in the morning sunlight. A pet flap was installed in the wall near the sliding-glass doors. The yard beyond had a small patch of grass that bordered a downward slope to ever-thickening woods.

“I can’t take any credit for that,” he said, pouring tea. “I haven’t changed anything since I bought it two years ago.”

“The pet flap?”

“That was here, yup.” He brightened. “Oh! I put in those shelves there. Where the morning light is perfect for my plants.”

She continued to scan the house. With the open plan she could see the kitchen, dining area, living room, entry, and a hallway leading to the rest of the house. A heavily used scratching post at the far end of the living room caught her eye.

Marcus continued to drink his tea, and watched her, a hint of a smile touching his deep brown eyes. “Well? What did you want to ask?”

“Mr. Tybalt, you have an illegal pet, and it’s my job to collect it. It’s an endangered species.” Corinna sighed. “If it can be rehabilitated and released in the wild, that’s what we’ll do. If not, it will likely have to go to a zoo for a breeding program. Just because it’s the smallest of its kind doesn’t mean it’s a fit pet.”

“As I said, I have no pets.” He carried his cup and saucer to the kitchen and dropped them noisily in the sink. “There’s a wild animal that visits, but I’d never presume to call him a pet; a friend, maybe.”

“Why don’t you tell me how you came by getting this . . . friend?”

“Right after I moved in, I heard this pitiful noise outside.” He pointed out toward the yard. “There was frost on the grass, and this small, crying animal out there.

“I called Animal Control and they said they couldn’t do anything about it. Rather than let the poor thing suffer I brought him in to warm up and check for injuries.”

“So, he’s a rescue, you’re saying?”

“I’m getting there,” he said. “When I brought him in, I realized his eyes weren’t even open yet. I jumped online and found out how to make formula for him and fed him with an eye dropper. Ten, twelve times a day at first.

“I read up on how to wean him and what he needed to eat and worked on getting him weaned as soon as he was strong enough.”

“Sounds like a pet to me.”

“No. Never. As soon as he was weaned, I started leaving him outside to see if he’d figure it out. And he did, quick-like. When he flew off, I thought that would be the last time I saw him.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s pretty shy.” Marcus pulled a bag of nuts out of the cupboard. “When it’s just me here he runs around like a mad thing. Sometimes he nibbles on the plants, climbs the drapes; had to get him a scratcher to keep him from shredding the sofa. There’s something about that corner that makes him want to claw over there. But he also eats every bug he can find. I haven’t had a spider in the house since he weaned.”

Marcus shook the bag of nuts and a quiet chirp sounded from beneath the sofa. He shook the bag again. “Come on, Cheeka! It’s okay.” He handed Corinna a few nuts. “Hold these out for him.”

Corinna held her hand an inch above the floor, the nuts in her palm. A pair of bright yellow eyes shone beneath the couch. Marcus shook the bag again. A small, grey shape, no larger than a kitten, streaked out from beneath the couch. Before Corinna could react, it had grabbed the nuts from her palm and took to the air, landing on the back of the sofa it had been hiding under. It chirped two short barks and began stuffing the nuts in its cheeks.

“Catching this guy is going to be hard. Especially with their power.” Corinna sighed.

“Their power?” Marcus asked. “Oh, you mean ‘nemesis’ . . . the power to automatically counter any attack. Don’t attack. Even if he doesn’t give you a mean bite I might.” He winked.

“It’s obvious you love the little guy, but the law is clear on wild, not to mention endangered, animals as pets.”

“And what defines a pet? Is that clear?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Corinna asked. “Any tamed or domesticated animal kept for pleasure or companionship.”

“There’s nothing but his own desires keeping him here.” Marcus grabbed the bag of nuts and headed out the sliding-glass door. “Follow me.”

She did, and he closed the door behind her. “You have a point, I’m sure,” she said.

Marcus took a handful of nuts and scattered them across the yard, shaking the bag as he did. Cheeka came out the pet flap at full speed, running around the grass chirping excitedly as he gathered as many nuts as he could. Birds flew in to challenge him, each grabbing a nut then flying off to eat it in peace. Once Cheeka’s cheeks were stuffed, he took to the air too, landing in a nest in the nearest large pine.

“Is it illegal to feed wild animals in this manner?” he asked. “If so, half the city should be arrested for either having bird feeders or dropping crumbs.”

“No, there’s nothing illegal about that,” she said. “But if you keep Cheeka in—”

“That’s just it.” Marcus pointed to the nest where Cheeka was chirping away happily. “That’s where Cheeka lives. He built that nest, and he lives there. He comes into my house via the old pet flap to visit in the morning, then spends the rest of his time out there.”

“And you don’t entice him in any way?”

“Not unless my snoring counts,” he said. “Most mornings he comes in and wakes me up. That’s how I named him. He always does that ‘chee-ka’ sound when he’s excited. And trust me, it’ll wake you up when it’s right in your ear.”

Finished with his nuts, Cheeka took to wing and began flying slow circles above the yard. His bat-like wings acted like a glider as he caught the rising warm air off the roof of the house. His fluffy tail provided balance and steering but his flight was slow and cumbersome. He barked short chirps at the birds that swooped around him.

A flock of sparrows began dive-bombing him, trying to drive him away. On their second go-round he tucked his wings, dropped a few yards, then spread them back out, swooping up between them and disturbing their assault.

“I didn’t know they could fly like that,” she said.

“Nemesis,” he said. “They usually can’t. The question is: are you going to charge me for feeding a wild animal that nests on my property and likes to come in my house occasionally?”

“Have you tried blocking the flap?”

“I did,” he said, “and the little guy made my life a living hell. He’d show up outside whatever window I was closest to and scream his little head off. Any time I tried to leave the house he’d zoom in the open door, tear around for a bit, then panic when he couldn’t get back out the flap. So, are you going to charge me?”

“No.” Corinna marked the case as closed. “It seems I owe you an apology.”

“It’s good to know someone’s looking out for the little guys.” Marcus watched Cheeka swooping to pick a moth out of the air.

Cheeka began a loud barking chirp that repeated in a complex pattern; “Chee-chee-ka ka-chee-ka! Chee-chee-ka ka-chee-ka!”

“That’s a new one,” Marcus said.

An answering chirp came from within the woods. “No way. Another one?” Corinna began recording video with her tablet. Cheeka shouted out his barks again and an answer came from a small form hopping out from the trees. It took to the sky. Its fluffy gray tail had a dark band half-way down its length. “It’s a female!”

They watched the two animals swirl about each other in the sky before they alit on the grass, their dance transforming into a bouncing game of tag. Marcus nudged Corinna. “I think maybe we should slip inside quietly and let those two be. He’s used to me; I don’t want to scare her away.”

Corinna nodded and followed him in. Marcus set about pouring them both more tea. “I feel he may have other things to do than to visit me any longer,” he said.

“This is good, though.” Corinna called up the map on her tablet. “I should catalogue this. Possible breeding pair, that’s a big deal. There’s less than six hundred of the little guys left in the wild.”

“Fewer than,” Marcus said.

“Sorry, what?”

“There are fewer than six hundred left in the wild. Less is for uncountable things, like there is less tea in the pot now than earlier.” Marcus smirked. “Sorry, retired English teacher, but it still comes out on occasion.”

“That’s all right. I know I butcher the language.” Corinna looked at her tea. “Did you hear, last week, that Kumandrapoor refused to stop hunting fire dragons? They’re being moved to the critically endangered list.”

“I did.” Marcus shook his head. “It’s a shame what people have done to the planet.”

“There are twelve in captivity,” she said, “but that’s not enough for a stable breeding pop—”

“Shhh!” Marcus held up a hand and pointed at the pet flap.

Cheeka poked his head through the flap, and the female chittered at him. Cheeka barked once and jumped through. When the female failed to follow him in, he stuck his head out of the flap and chirped softly at her.

She approached in a low crouch, ready to jump away at a moment’s notice. Cheeka offered some more encouraging chirps and she made her way through the flap.

Once they were inside, Cheeka chirped and jumped into Marcus’ lap. Marcus began stroking between his ears and he made contented little cheeps before rolling over on his back for belly-rubs. The female eyed the scene warily, then jumped into Corinna’s lap, shaking.

Corinna let the little creature sniff at her fingers, then lightly stroked between her ears. The shaking calmed down and the little female chirped softly at first, then with more confidence. She rolled onto her back and let her wings spread out, her soft belly upturned. Corinna hesitated until the little female barked at her, and she began to stroke her belly. The wings, although they looked like skin from a distance, were covered with a silky, fine fur.

“She’s so soft,” Corinna said. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about him not coming to visit.”

Marcus chuckled. “Will you need to investigate this wild animal in my house as well?”

“No,” she replied. “I just can’t believe I’m scratching the belly of a real, live, tree dragon!”