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Hello, this is my YA novel, Max and the Spracketts. I worked on two novels for my MA, which i completed this year. Morrigan's Curse/Feathered Heart is one and this is the other. Both are complete--although I am making minor structural edits to both in light of some stuff I've been reading on here-- hahahha CHAPTER ONE Max Somewhere inside all of us is the power to change the world. (Roald Dahl, Matilda) The snow fell in thick curtains around him, the houses twinkling with warm Christmas lights and the skinny streetlamps glowing with misty orbs. He had no idea it was so late—he’d not missed a train in five years, and he wasn’t missing this one. Wiping sleet from his eyes while he ran, Max slipped on the pavement and stumbled toward a lamplighter. “OY! Watch it, lad!” the lamplighter yelled, as Max crashed into him. The man wobbled on his ladder, hands grasped tight as the ladder tilted away from the lamp post until he stood like he was walking on stilts. “Whoa, woa!” he called, voice deep with panic, like he was talking to an unbridled horse. “Gotcha!” said Max, clutching the grainy ladder. He was going to get a splinter from this. He set the ladder back against the lamppost. “Sorry, I didn’t…” Max stammered, the cold air like blades in his throat. “Sorry I didn’t,” the lamplighter mimicked him. “Alright, no need for that, I saved you, didn’t I!” “Why you cheeky little—” The lamplighter lunged at him, stale breath reeking of ale. Max ran, snow seeping beneath his collar, skin numb to the coldness, fear pushing him on. He had to get back to the train! His whole life was on that train! No way could he spend a month on the streets in Vienna. He’d freeze for one thing! How could he be so stupid? Getting carried away playing his violin. He couldn’t help smiling, though. He loved it when a crowd drew around him, listening to him weave his father’s old song out of the new strings he’d just bought. Then he’d left the violin under the bench next to the carousel. Stupid mistake. It was that hooded girl, ratting him out to the Scouts when he was doing an innocent bit of thieving from that fat rich guy. Rookie move, letting her distract him, and he was no rookie. How had he forgotten his violin? He could always leave the violin, if he did, he’d definitely catch the train before it left the station. Darn violin was all he had of his dad he couldn’t leave the thing. Even if no one stole it, the wood wouldn’t last a week in this snow. That girl! He saw her—actually saw her—point him out to the Scouts! She wasn’t one of the rich. Her clothes were too dull and drab. Plus, she had no nanny with her, and couldn’t be older than thirteen, maybe fourteen. So who was she? She had to be street kid. Someone needed to sit her down and explain the street code to her. Rule number one: no ratting each other out. Max dragged his hands over his face, his mind clouded with images of her. She’d distracted him, and he couldn’t understand why, which distracted him even more. He didn’t like it. All he could think of was her hooded figure. That and his poor cold violin! Oh and his train. He had to focus, focus on the train! Get the violin, catch the train! Get the violin, catch the train! Pausing to catch his breath. The thick snow blanketed everything—where was he? He dragged his fingers through his hair, stinging with the cold. He should have worn full gloves, not the fingerless ones. The air from his breath hardly warmed them. The wind picked up, parting the snow momentarily and offering a glimpse the Vienna Ferris Wheel, hanging in the sky like a giant spider's web. A grin cracked his cheeks. He knew exactly where he was—not far from the town square. His eyes stung from the cold. Popping the latch on his leather satchel, he took out his brass goggles. His heart tugged at the empty space where his violin should be. He opened the pouch to reveal an array of colored lenses, neatly stacked in individual silk sleeves. Flicking through them, he found what he was looking for: copper. Always, copper for twilight. Inserting the lenses into the goggles, he pulled them down and felt familiar relief. He could wear his copper lenses at night, and see as well as in daytime. This was one of the reasons he wore the goggles. The other reason? They were a gift, and those hadn’t come by him very often in his short life. The main main reason, though, was Max had gold rings around the pupils of his eyes, and if he didn’t wear the goggles, people got too excited around him. Many people wore goggles, but no one had gold rings around their pupils. No one he’d met, anyway. They helped him fit in. People stared at his inky black pupils ringed with gold—after all, why wouldn’t they? One time he got a mirror and stared at them for so long he could have sworn he saw flames. He preferred the goggles. He checked his watch – 7:45 – the train left at 8:00. He took off at a sprint. Not far now. The question nagged at him again – why would anyone bother to snitch on him to the Scouts? It didn’t make any sense. He was a nobody, a thirteen-year-old orphan who lived on a train. He wasn’t like one of those rich kids the Scouts could ransom out for cash. Who was that girl, anyway? He had a pretty good grasp on the street kids. He’d visited Vienna every two weeks for over five years, but her…he’d never seen her before. He’d always liked his stops in Vienna. This one he’d got new strings for his violin, long overdue, but they weren’t cheap. This stop had gone very wrong. His dad had said they’d lived here once, before his mother had died. Max couldn’t remember it, but he felt it. Felt the near-touchable familiarity of the streets and the smells. It was by far the best train route, because they traveled through the Carpathians. Max loved to thieve off the passengers, hit Budapest and go straight to the new Opera house where he and his dad would sit in the rafters and listen to the music. And that was his plan today. If he missed the train, where would he go? He entered a broad street lined with grand houses, each one with a flight of steps leading to ornate front doors with large windows. Inside, maids lit candles, and Christmas trees were strung with so much popcorn Max could swear the smell of butter filled the air. It looked cozy. Max hated cozy. He suspected it had something to do with the peaceful look on children's faces as they snuggled into their parent's arms. This was what he suspected. It was a feeling, not something he could see, touch, smell, or taste—thus, not something he could really believe existed. Feelings were ghostly, unreliable. Max didn't like unreliable. Unreliable didn't work in his world. He skirted the corner and saw the town square. Music flowed down the street towards him. All the streets leading off the square glowed, snow fell, lamplighters protected their flames, grim faces undeterred. And the square was lit up like a snow globe. The warm aroma of toasted chestnuts filled the air. Children laughed at clowns cavorting on the circular wall around the main fountain. Couples linked arms as they stood in line for the chestnuts baking in orange fires. Old couples wrapped against the cold sat on benches watching the merry scene and listening to street musicians play beautiful music for copper and silver Gulden. And there it was, sitting beneath a bench—his violin! With its smooth, brown wood, polished so often it felt soft like an old shirt could feel soft after a thousand washes until it felt like a fine garment. His violin was not a fine garment, but it was treasured. From near the carousel came a shout: “There he is!” Max looked up. It was one of the Scouts the girl had ratted him out to. There was a gang of them patrolling the square. Helpers of the law my arse, thought Max. What were the chances of running into them here. Perfect. Just perfect! He leapt over a chained fence, slid across the dirt, under the bench and snatched up his violin. “Gotcha!” Opening his satchel, he slipped the violin inside. No time to wrap it properly—right now he had to shrug off those Scouts and get on the train. “Get him!” yelled the tall one. Max rolled his eyes. That Scout never gave up. He was like a puppy with an old rag. The station was two blocks away going east. He had to try! At the end of the street, the bright domed ceiling of Wien Hauptbahnhof, Vienna’s Central Station, lit up the night. He was almost home. He ran down the wide two-way road. Outside, the station buzzed with those arriving, those leaving and those ready to make a quick korona carrying trunks. He knew the inside was no different. Without a second thought he leapt into the traffic standing between him and home. Carriages beeped and swerved, horses reared but Max dodged them all. Reaching the curb where the carriages lined up for passengers, he was tempted to snatch a suitcase as it was being loaded, but slipped on ice and narrowly avoided a clap round the head from a grim-looking cab driver. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Scouts trapped on the other side of the road—he wanted to tease them, but had no time to waste. He ran to the entrance. The large clock hung above the doorway read 7:56pm, and the train was leaving at eight sharp. Stars peeked through the station’s domed skylight windows. Max craned his neck to see the Platform Board. He needed to know where he was departing from—there it was, Platform 16! He slipped into the crowd and let it carry him through mental tunnels towards the Platform area, slipping out when they reached Platform 16. Bursts of steam enveloped his ankles. Passengers emerged like specters, forcing him to sidestep out of their way. There were too many people blocking his path, he’d never make it to the train in time. His breath caught. There it was: his train, pulling out of the station. His only hope was to jump down onto the tracks of Platform 16 and run after his train. Taking a quick, courageous breath, he did just that, narrowly missing the tracks. "There he is!" Max felt his legs stiffen. Above him, on Platform 16, stood the Scouts. The scrawny one jumped onto the tracks, the other two stayed put. Max ran after his train, lungs burning, slipping and sliding on the icy tracks. The scrawny scout lunged for him but Max dodged to the side, sending him crashing to the ground. The hard ice was like a punch to the face but Max just winced and kept running. The tracks ahead glistened with ice. The train was just within his reach! He had to get alongside and find one of the ladders that ran up to the roof. The train hissed. Chugged. Slowly building momentum. Max was seconds ahead of the Scout. Steam gathered in clouds all around him. The sleek black side of the train beside him. The steam parted and he saw the ladder. Max broke into a sprint. The ladder inches from his grasp. The cold rungs bit his palms and fingers as he clutched them—Yes! He had it! A hand grabbed the back of his neck and yanked down hard. Max clung to the ladder, fingers white and firm, arm now wrapped through the rung. "I’ve got you!" It was the scrawny Scout, face burned from where he hit the tracks. The train let out a long whistle. The pistons fired harder, the wheels picking up speed. Max closed his eyes and clung on for all he was worth. The Scout’s sweaty hand slipped from his neck, only to grasp his ankle. Max kicked out and felt the hand, mercifully, release. “Yes!” he cried. "No!” "Hahah! Better luck next time!" Max laughed giving him a mock salute. “I’ll get you in Lemburg!” The Scout screamed. Clouds of steam quickly consumed his angry puce face. Max paled at the threat. Blimps allowed Scouts to travel quickly through the skies. It would be easy to find him if they decided to. But would they? He clung to their ladder. The train rushed beneath the sweeping arched tunnel of Vienna’s Central Station. A sigh escaped his lips when he felt the crisp night air. He’d probably be fine. Probably. The train lurched forward. Max scampered onto the roof and gripped the rails running along the sides. It was the throttle, releasing steam into the belly of the train. The train vibrated through his feet and up his legs, but Max stood firm as if he stood on solid ground. Relishing the wind in his face as the train thrust forward, he stole a glance over his shoulder and there she was: his Vienna, twinkling in the night. Max decided to sit down before he fell. Just for a moment—the same moment that swept over him every time he left Vienna. With his back to the city, he faced the approaching snow-capped peaks of the Carpathian Mountains. Tenderly, he withdrew his violin, the wood so tarnished it scratched against his chin as he tucked it in place. The chords strident and piercing as they twisted out of the warm wood. Max swayed to the familiar childhood rhythm his dad had played every day. His song. Their song. His mother’s song. Almost certain he could see the notes marching off into the sky. Max played until his fingers felt stiff with cold and he could play no more. "Until next time," he whispered, wrapping the violin in the cloth and packing it carefully in the satchel. Max dipped a hand into some unseen pocket and pulled out a greasy pack of chewing gum. Popping a stick into his mouth, he let out a sigh. Snowflakes fell heavy and fast, and he wiped them from his eyes. Relief flooded him. He’d made it. He’d made it back to his train. He’d made it home. For a moment, running through the streets, he’d lost everything. But he’d made it. And he’d found his violin. The train picked up speed. Time to move inside. Max got to his feet and ran. One destination in mind. Bounding over carriages and leaping across the divides, the rush of wind blinding, the clatter of steel wheels on steel tracks deafening. The front of the train was in view. Which meant he had to duck beneath the thick stream of smoke from the boiler room chimney. Ahead, he saw the hatch and skidded to halt next to it, blinded by smoke. But for what he needed to do, he didn’t need to see—he just had to be quick. The temperature plummeted, the farther they traveled from the city. Wrapping his fingers around the hatch’s frozen wheel, he fought to spin it open. Fat chunks of ice cracked and shattered. A hiss of steam belted him in the face. The hatch popped open. Before anything else could go wrong, Max swung through the hole. Closing the hatch behind him. Inside, he landed hard, but on both feet. He always hated how the drop was twice his height. He really had to fix a retractable ladder somewhere the guards wouldn’t find it, but that he could access with ease. The engine room was dark, but his goggles helped him snake his way around the back of one of the furnaces. The familiar din embraced him like an old comforter, with its endless clattering of steel wheels and the soft pulse of firing pistons. At the back of the furnace was a narrow walkway, barely wide enough for one person. With his back flat against the wall, Max inched his way along, careful not to touch the furnace’s scorching metal. He counted his paces. “One. Two. Three…” At three, Max stopped and felt the wall behind him until his hand found what it sought—a small handle set into the wall. He pulled forcefully and it moved only a fraction, but that’s all he needed to release the mechanism. The wall behind him hissed with steam as it separated into two sliding doors that slowly opened on a hidden room. “Home.” Max walked inside and pulled a level on his right. The wall hissed with more steam as it closed, sealing off the clamor of the engine room. “Ah, quiet. No need to wear you now old friends." He pulled off the goggles and placed them back inside his satchel, before hanging it on a hook. Max hadn’t always lived on a train, but it felt like he had. He knew every nook, hook, and baggage rack. There wasn't a place to hide, spy hole or quick exit he wasn't privy to. He had even found one or two 'special' places wide enough for his arm to enter carriages and swipe a quick bite to eat from unwitting passengers. He stepped through the dark towards an old lamp hanging from a pipe. He struck a match, igniting the oil. The flaming wick cast the room in a muddy light. The kind of light that summons dusty memories. He prodded them into the recesses of his mind and let his hand brush over his beloved books: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, a Roget’s Thesaurus, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and a leather-bound copy of Greek Myths. A small yet mighty shelf. "Time to investigate the new passengers. But first, what to wear?" he smirked, pushing the Scout’s threat out of his mind. Maybe they would be at Lemburg, but maybe not. It would take them time to organize. He pulled hard on a rope above his head. A small trap door opened, releasing a shower of clothing—bloomers, starched shirts, beards, cravats, wigs, and boots. A mass collection of disguises. "Not today, thank you.” He muttered, tossing a corset aside. "Ah, you will do nicely!” He held up a scarlet velvet suit and struggled into it, yanking at the lace collar. Too tight. How did these bourgeois put up with it? Trussed up in tight suits and decorated in baubles made them easy pickings. He grinned. Always the best to steal from. Max slipped through the engine room and was out the door quicker than a wink.

Prologue: Berlin – Paris – Florence Nyima was having a bad day. Her research said that a door should be standing directly in front of her. Instead, there was a solid brick wall, an enormous guard named Rick, and a mean-looking pit bull. "Rick! Good to see you! I thought you were off on the weekends." Nyima said, trying her best to sound calm. "How are Katie and the twins?" "Um, they're good. Who – who are you again?" The guard replied as his hand slowly drifted toward his radio. "Janice King – from corporate – I'm sure Dave told you I'd be poking around." She lied, hoping her research had gotten that right at least. "Janice? Oh, sure. From corporate..." The guard lied back unconvincingly. "Can I help you carry that?" He said pointing to the painting Nyima was holding. "No, I'm good. I’m just going to switch this out with the art in the lobby. We've got an investor that flew in from Sydney this week and this artist is her favorite." Nyima said telling the truth. At least, it was the truth in the sense that she had bought a candy bar once from the company that owned this Renoir, and she had in fact come from Sydney the day before. It probably wasn't in her best interest to add that she would be walking out the front door with it because it happened to be the number one item on the International Council of Museum’s Red List. "Ok, then, have a good night, ma'am!" The guard said as he turned and continued his rounds. Nyima smiled to herself as she exited the lobby out into the fresh night air. "The old gal still has it," she said under her breath, "easy peazy." Above her a hawk floated silently on an updraft; his keen eyes focused on his prey. Gotcha. +++++++++++++++++ Hunter ran for his life across the Sorbonne University in Paris. He didn't know what was chasing him which made it even more terrifying. The ancient campus closed in around him as he struggled to find a path to safety. Behind him he could hear savage, animalistic panting – and it was getting closer every second. “See fear,” they seemed to be saying. The path ahead of him opened onto a space ringed by columns and low stone walls. Sprinting into the cloister, he glanced to his left and jumped at the sight of a robed skeleton carrying a scythe. Shaking with adrenalin he tumbled to the ground and saw with relief that it was only a gruesome statue. He didn't have time to celebrate though because he'd lost precious seconds. Frantically he looked around for an escape route. Across the cloister he could just make out a slightly opened door with a thin ribbon of light streaming out. He said a silent prayer as he made a break for it. Bursting through the door Hunter found himself in a grand auditorium with wood paneling and painted ceilings 100 feet above. Hundreds of people were seated in tuxedos and gowns, and by the looks of the costumes on the performers, he guessed it was some kind of opera. All he cared about, though, was that there were a lot of people — which had to mean he was safe from whatever was pursuing him, right? This is the Amphithéâtre Richelieu, it’s an extremely dangerous place for you, exit to the northwest he said to himself as though he'd been there before. With no time to ponder his insight, he instinctively rushed to the back of the space and then cut across to a door marked privee. As he passed through the door, he caught the attention of a nearby woman. She smiled at him but then her face changed to a look of recognition. As he closed and locked the door behind him it shook with such force that Hunter was momentarily frozen in place. Voices on the other side said, “See Fear.” After what seemed like hours, he willed himself to keep moving. Shaking and exhausted he pressed forward through the maze of stone buildings until he saw that all his routes were blocked. He searched for a path and then looked up. Looming above this part of the campus he could see the Sorbonne Astronomical Tower. Its entrance seemed to be open, but Hunter knew this would be a dead end. Still, he had no choice, so he took a deep breath and went to it. He slowly climbed the stairs of the ancient edifice. Every third or fourth step he tripped forward and by the time he reached the top he'd bloodied his right knee pretty badly. Behind him was only silence but somehow, he knew that this was bad, and that he had only seconds to live. Before him was the telescope room filled with instruments. He slammed the door and pushed a desk in front of it. Looking up he saw that the astronomy roof was open. Taking one last look behind him, Hunter began to climb while behind him a chorus rang out, “SEE FEAR!” +++++++++++++++++ Dr. Anna Maria Luisa sat behind a giant desk reading budget reports. As the director of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Italy, she was responsible for countless priceless artworks and thousands of staff. Her wood paneled office had a smaller room adjoining it where her secretary sat along with a pair of comfortable chairs for visitors. Sitting in one of the chairs was a man dressed in cargo pants, a polo shirt buttoned to the top, and a baseball cap. To the secretary he looked like a tourist that had wandered in from one of the many tour groups passing through the halls of the museum that day. "Director, you have a visitor," the secretary said over an intercom. "I'm a little busy now. Are they on my calendar?" asked the director. "No, they don't have an appointment, but he says he's an old friend..." "Um, OK, what's his name?" the director chuckled. "He didn't say," then whispering into the phone, "all he would say is that you knew each other in Egypt" the secretary said. "Send him right in. And go ahead and take your break." After the secretary departed and the man had taken a seat across from the director the two just sat in silence for a moment. "What brings you here?" the director asked the man politely. "I know where it is." the man answered warily. "Why didn't you bring it to me?" "I couldn't get close enough. They have...protections in place." "Well then. It looks like I'll have to arrange things myself." She said, then, casually covering her mouth, she whispered, "Eadwaa." The man undid the top button of his shirt and started to perspire, "But I can get it – I just need more time." "You've had enough time," the Director whispered. "Go back to Cairo and wait for my signal." At that, the man undid another button and started to look like he was going to be sick. He quickly got up and rushed out the door looking for a restroom. After the man left, the director walked quickly through the galleries. She greeted each staff member she passed by name and a warm smile. Looking out the windows at the Arno River below, she thought to herself, "They're all so easily fooled – and so easily corrupted." Eventually she paused at a nondescript door with an unusual number of locks on it. She inserted a key, punched a code, then swiped a card resulting in a satisfying click as the lock disengaged. Stepping through the door she entered the Vasari Corridor, created hundreds of years before for the Medici Family to travel across the Arno River without being seen. Along its walls were works of art that few ever saw, but as she walked down the corridor, she ignored the paintings on the walls and the view out the small inset windows at the streets of Florence below. She didn't need to look around because she had passed this way thousands of times over the last six centuries. At the end of the Vasari Corridor was the former residence of the Medici family called the Palazzo Pitti. Instead of entering the building, though, she exited a nearby door into a courtyard. Across the courtyard was the Buontalenti Grotto—a small artificial cave commissioned by the Medici in the 1500s. Thousands of tourists entered the Grotto each year, but nobody knew its secret. Looking over her shoulder, she ducked into the darkened back of the cave. Taking one more gaze behind her, she deftly pushed two separate hidden places on the cave wall and entered a small passageway. Closing the door behind her, she smiled to herself in the knowledge that her plan was about to unfold.

*Opening Scene: Introduces the protagonist, establishes primary conflict, setting, tone, and briefly introduces an important secondary character. Chapter 1: Day 0, Saturday Night Declan I’m pretty sure I just died. Or I am dead. Either way, no one noticed. I’m not even sure I noticed. Here’s what I got: I remember leaving the gym just after 8:30 pm. Our school was going nuts in the stands because the star forward, Derek, twisted his ankle minutes before the close of the first half. And if he was down, I was up. No one wanted to see that, especially me. While our school’s version of LeBron rolled on the floor, clutching his ankle and whimpering like a toddler, our coach plodded to his side. Like the other benchers, I half rose in pseudo-concern. None of us court-side liked Derek, least of all me. He is the worst kind of high school star: arrogant, cruel, and popular. He'll probably grow up to be a lawyer. Those types usually did. Coach Johansson looked at Derek, me, back at Derek, and swore under his breath. “McAllister! Tape!” This was better than the “McAllister! You’re up!” I expected. We were both in denial. I also remember smacking the metal bar of the gym’s double doors as hard as possible in pursuit of the all-important tape. I recall the rasping screech it made as it disengaged and opened, the cool air in the stairwell, and how quiet it seemed after the raucous noise of the gym. All of these things are pretty clear. My memory of them is sound, yet somehow, I’m on my side, at the bottom of the stairs, with blood and agony before me. I should be dead. Tentatively, I tried to move, but everything protested, especially my head. It felt like that one shitty grape at the bottom of the bag that's all gross and squishy. Only it's my head and not a grape. How bad could it be? I mean, I’m thinking clearly. Right? Unable to move my head normally, I checked out the damage with my hands, forcing my fingers through syrupy hair to the surface of my shrieking scalp. Riding the curve, my fingertips gingerly followed the slickness to its source. I wondered what they would find. Scrubs--- or Gray’s Anatomy? Then, just above my neck, just when I thought I would escape permanent damage, a sharp, jagged edge of bone distorted the smooth surface. My hand recoiled. Definitely Gray’s. Kids and babies always die on Gray’s. On Scrubs, they recover and break out into song and dance. Then the pounding in my head deepened, matching the pounding in the stands. Who would hear me over that? No one. BOOM. BOOM. By the third BOOM, my lungs started their own panicking beat. shallowquick.shallowquick.shallow… Asthma. And my last sip of air was gone. Some people freeze when freaking out, others flail about. I think they call it the fight or flight instinct. I’m a flier; It’s just easier.....until my body craps out on me mid-flight. Then my brain has to do the flying. So, while my body gulped for oxygen, my mind searched for a lifeline. It found something else instead. Blood. Mine. Looking more like a spilled Slurpee than my life force, blood splatter dripped down the burgundy paint covering the hall and splattered across the face of our mighty mascot, Leopold the Lion. Like someone had slit his throat and left him hanging there to mock us. My bad. Spatter, not splatter. Thank you, Dexter. Very helpful right now. Bizarrely fascinated, I watched one thick drop as it oozed down Leopold’s muzzle, around the bend of the railing, and drip dropped onto a metal step. It contributed to a slight but distinct trail of bloody pulp and bony shards littering the lower treads. My chest lurched, and the gasping got worse. And the tunnel vision started. My mom, always the optimist, believes basketball will improve my stress-induced asthma, and maybe it would ---if I ever actually played. Still, I question this theory. As if playing a game could ever really mimic the stress of life. I didn’t have the heart to tell her why the coach let me join. Two words: height and history. Like most adults, he foolishly believes height equals ability. He’s hoping I’ll wake up one day and know how to control my limbs. In my father’s case, this was true. In mine, not so much. Coach is more hopeful than I am, or more deluded. Giving an 18-year-old kid severe asthma and a six-foot, four-inch frame seems like a sick joke to me. For now, I use an inhaler. And since they have yet to sew pockets into athletic apparel, it unfortunately lies in my PE locker. Yeah, stupid place, I know. Only I would survive a 20-foot fall down a staircase to end up dying of an asthma attack while three hundred people sit a hundred feet too far away from me. Since I couldn’t move, I let the blackout happen and just prayed my body would jump-start itself. Darkness pulled its blanket over me. Under it, I saw death. My first one. *** I always thought I would feel myself die rather than watch it on a big screen. It was as surreal as it sounds. But between 8:32 and 8:38 pm, while my body lay rebooting at the bottom of the stairs, I viewed a short film by Fate. The camera opened up at the top of the stairs, where, lying in wait, was a tiny unassuming puddle. Only my giant foot could’ve found such a minuscule pool. My shoe slid across, my feet jetted out, and then the real show began. I saw my skull connect with the sharp corner of the third stair and then dribble, with more accuracy than me on the court, down each and every step until it smacked on the floor. In real time, I missed the pain of the fall. In black and white slo-mo, I winced with each silent hit. Dying isn’t exactly what I thought it would be. Not that I sit around pondering my demise. I am not that morbid. Still, one has certain expectations: loved ones, a tunnel, bright lights. I blame Netflix. Well, no dead relatives appeared, no tunnel, no bright lights, and no Chicken either (my Corgi, who liked to chase garbage trucks). Not even my dead father showed up. What the hell? Another expectation failing to materialize---heightened senses. In the last moments of life, they say images flash before your eyes. But does this happen to everyone? Do blind people suddenly get to see stuff at the end? I saw jack. I think I smelled Snickerdoodle cookies, though. Weird. Besides the smell of cookies and the visual vacuum, what happened to me during those brief moments can best be described as being underwater in warm, possibly pink, water. Yeah, I’m a guy, and I like pink. It’s comforting. And I love water. I practically live in it during the summer. On days when it’s too hot to sleep or eat, when the sun has burned every cloud out of the sky, I would lay at the bottom of the neighborhood pool and look up. Through my warm blue filter, life’s peaceful. This is how dying felt. The world floated by me in a warm pink pool, and I watched. Separate. Just for a second or two. No pain, no gasping. Nothing. Then a voice. In my head. Actually, it was my voice, but it was high on confidence and very polite. You’d be surprised at how much these two things can alter the human voice. However, the instant I recognized it as mine, I also knew it wasn’t. It was so quick, so sure---two things I am definitely not. And I guess it had to be both because of what it proposed. “Declan. I need you to be calm and listen carefully. We don’t have much time. I’m an angel, and you just died. You should be in Heaven, but I’ve delayed things to offer you a deal. Are you ready?” I nodded even though I wasn’t ready. How could I be? Dead?! Then I felt something begin to tug at me, trying to free itself from my core. Like my body was a shoe and the foot was trying to pull itself out. Dead. But the voice continued, eerily calm and self-assured. “Demons walk the Earth preying on humans, and they are getting stronger and more ruthless. Angels have the power to destroy them, but we need to be corporeal—we need flesh to fight here. Since you are young, strong, receptive, and dead, you are uniquely qualified to help.” There it was again. He said dead. And every time he said it, I felt the disconcerting tugging again. His words carried on over my thoughts; he didn’t have time to stop and explain. “If you agree to help in this cosmic battle, your soul will be sent back to your body with an accompanying warrior angel. For 30 days, you’ll share existence. Two spirits, one body. You’ll have control of the body during the day to be with your family and friends, and he’ll come forward at night to readjust to being human and to prepare your form for its future.” He paused in his monologue before delivering his final sales pitch. “You’re very lucky, Declan. Unlike most humans, this deal actually gives you the opportunity to have closure. Do you how many souls would die to have closure?” Did he just make a pun? What is happening? This has to be a dream. Assuming success, he barreled on. “Marcus, the angel joining you, will review the finer points with you once you return together. Our pocket in time is about to close; I need an answer. Do you want 30 more days? Do we have a deal?” Was this guy for real? I took my voice back and blasted him. “Deal or no deal?! Is this some kind of twisted game show?” “This is not a show or a game, Declan. I need an answer.” He was right, I could feel it. A force was pulling me from my core. And part of me wanted to go with it. Like I said, I’m a flier. But then those loved ones came for me, only they weren’t the dead kind. I saw my mom’s face, and my little sister’s chubby smile. I knew my answer. “Deal!” “One final thing. You can’t tell anyone. It is a rule that must not be broken.” Then the voice was gone. So I can’t tell anyone I'm dying, and there’s no briefcase of cash. Awesome. *** Then the movie ended, and I found myself at the bottom of the killer stairs, breathing regularly, my soul securely laced back up in my body, and---alone? Gingerly, I sat up and did a mental recon of my condition. I could move my neck, and my head had lost its squishy grape effect. My body screamed, but so far, my head only had my voice in it. I wondered how long that would last. Assuming this was real. Like a rubbernecker at my very own train wreck, I retraced my fall and began to grease my body back into motion. Well, if I did die, I wasn’t dead anymore. I reached for the railing to help me stand and noticed a nasty-looking hairball on the corner of the last step. Of course, I picked it up. I had to know. You’d think watching endless crime shows would prepare me for gore when I experienced it in real life. I even pride myself on being able to eat while watching the morgue scenes. Yet, when I picked up the dripping hairball by one brown strand, my stomach lurched. “I’m holding my effing scalp.” I turned it and my mouth dropped open. “Oh, look. There’s a little bit of brain. Nice.” Normal me would’ve clicked into heaving asthma mode, but post-mortem me breathed deeply and cleanly. Confused, I inhaled again. But my throat was wide, and my chest clear. My ribs, my diaphragm, everything moved freely. I was healed! Was my head? While one hand held the gooey brain nut, the other tentatively sought the jagged wound at the back of my head. I don’t know what I expected. I watch a lot of TV. Maybe I was sent back to life with an open, oozing head wound, destined to walk the face of the Earth like a zombie. The deal I made didn’t involve many details. I had no idea my fingertips would find a bald spot. First, think hair, and then a smooth spot the size of a ping-pong ball. It felt shiny and new. Fan-freaking-tastic. I paused in this madness and wrote a single’s ad for myself: Recently deceased 18-year-old SM seeks equally athletically challenged SF. Must love the outdoors, music, and hats. I had great hair. It was my one vanity. “Hey, Romeo, get up. You’ve got to clean this mess up before anyone shows up.” Without my permission, my head jerked toward the double doors I entered minutes ago. This was not the same voice. The other voice was mine. I expected this warrior angel to use it, too. But he didn’t. And it felt very weird (and very wrong) to have some other guy’s voice in my head. This new voice was deeper and gruff. It felt so alien that I glanced left and right, seeking a body for the words. “Hello?” “Keep looking, Sunshine. Only this time, don’t use your ears. Use your head.” Literally or metaphorically? He spoke again, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Check the reflection. Maybe you’ll see me instead of you.” Naively, I leaned forward and peered at the windows lining the hall. In the dark, they acted more like mirrors and the face they framed was pale, but mine. And I looked pretty good. All things considered. Maybe I didn’t die. Perhaps I have a minor concussion. Can concussions cause you to hear voices? “Concussions don’t usually involve brain matter and pieces of skull.” Auditory hallucinations brought on by head trauma? “Try again, Doc.” Demon possession? “Not a good Catholic boy like you. Isn’t that what you blame the plague of virginity on?” Finally, I found my head voice. “You don’t sound very angelic.” Should angels mock? “Would it help if I sang?” “I just didn’t expect sarcasm from He-Who-Sees-the Face-of-God.” “Were you expecting Nicholas Cage?” The voice changed and became Cage’s husky tone. “The blood, what does it taste like to you? Describe it to me.” He snorted and then channeled Travolta’s Michael. “I’m not that kind of angel.” Are there streaming services in Heaven? Do they only show lame angel movies from the ‘90s? As I pondered that question and the 7000 others free-ranging in my brain, I had the odd sensation of my head moving without my permission. It oriented on the Leopold murder scene and the bloody puddle at the bottom of the stairs. The dude could move me. Like, drive my car without permission. It was very unsettling. I thought about my chances of taking him in a fight. “Relax, kid. Your asthma is gone, isn’t it? Everything will be okay. Just clean up the mess before someone comes looking for you and finds this.” My hand gestured to the stairs as a match to his thoughts. I yanked it back in and held it tightly with my other hand. “Stop it!” “Then get moving.” “I’m trying. But you’re not exactly helping.” He wasn’t. But I wasn’t either. We were both trying to move the body at the same time and it had the odd effect of canceling out all productive movement. If anyone had the unfortunate luck to stumble on me, they would’ve thought I was having a seizure. Tears stung my eyes and a scream threatened to break free from my clenched teeth. Finally, alpha-angel sensed my building panic and let go. Seconds after he released his grip, I got us vertical. I felt better now that my limbs were mine again. “No one is going to come looking for me. My mom’s at home, totally pregnant, my stepdad is on a business trip, and my friends are at home” Self-pity can be addicting. I paused to glance at my watch and then continued my internal vomit session. “Coach’ll miss me only because he needs tape for Derek’s ankle. No tape, no chance of winning. Heck, I don’t think I’d miss me either.” This last bit was more of a mind whisper, and I didn’t expect him to hear it. “Being unimportant has its advantages.” “Cool. Thanks.” My words stopped, but my mind kept spewing. If I was so unimportant, why was my body needed? God can take anyone He wants, right? But He chose me. And He chose this jackass. Mentally mouthing off is how teenagers stay freaking sane. Take it away from us, and the precarious balance needed for cohabitation with adults is destroyed. Unfortunately, this system breaks down when you share a body with a second conscious being. Two invisible iron hammers slammed into my chest, bringing with them panic and the inevitable gasping. Then, just as quickly, they lifted. I caught the whimper before it escaped my lips. What did I get myself into? Seriously, how do you call social services for this one? “Respect, Kid.” The voice growled. I swallowed my fear and tried to think what might have caused such a response. Oh. I called him a jacka--- *Note to Self: He can hear everything in my head.

Opening Scene- Establishes setting, protagonist, antagonist, and primary and secondary conflicts. CHAPTER 1 “Only one in forty are venomous.” The murmured reminder did nothing to banish the trickle of bright adrenaline down my nerves as the breakers began their telltale frothing beneath the water’s surface. I should have felt badly for skipping my voice session, but I was too sated on the sand’s warmth and a full belly to much care. Strands of hair coaxed on the sea’s winds floated across my copper cheeks, and I did not bother to restrain their path over slitted eyes which watched the ebb of the surf- waiting. The coiling of my stomach had little to do with breaking the unspoken rules governing my days, but what I now contemplated as I watched the equine creature emerge from the roiling waves. I began to hum and then to sing, my ability to voice two notes simultaneously drawing the animal near in swells of melding chords. She beckons with misting fingers Tantrums of thrown limbs Join the waves, the wind, the storm Listen to her hymns Embrace her darkness, kiss her depths Taste salt upon your lip Your neglect of dawn’s blood skies Cost more than just your ship Closer it came across the sand, ears perked at the old sailor’s ballad as I wove the chorus in the air around us. Half a dozen coves carved Cretoria’s coastline in aggressive gouges, but Oren and I had claimed this one. Tidal pools of varying sizes reflected the slouching sun like pieces of shattered mirror embedded in the dark rocks on the west end, while nothing but golden sand comprised the remainder of the small crescent. Neither the locals nor the summer sunbirds from the nearby capital city of Mytikas enjoyed traversing the narrow ledge of a trail down the slate cliffs over the cove, leaving this place to us most days. Dusk had coalesced in fading golden shafts suspended in the leaden hour of the evening- the hour in which wild sea horses sometimes swam onto shore here to fling their manes of kelp as they pounded across the sand. I had never approached one until now, the longing to run my fingers over its flaring pink gills overpowering the conviction that such a thing is never meant to be tamed or even touched by civilized hands. My hands were not soft by any means, not like the lavender oil-scented ones of those in Mytikas. But they were human hands, and humans tended to ruin things they loved. I would only touch its muzzle, just for a moment. My notes fell softer as it approached. The hard plates of its nectarine-hued body rose and fell in ridges capped with skeletal knobs, ending in a curled tail. As it danced closer, my eyes drifted to its saddle fin, which rose high on its back tipped in lethal spines. Those needle-sharp points, and the smaller ones embedded in its ridges, contained a venom the barest amount of which would paralyze your limbs with creeping stealth as you were impaled further and dragged into the sea by the carnivorous animal. It was said that during those moments, the venom caused a euphoria, and you didn’t mind your imminent death approaching on the white-tipped depths. Her gills fluttered as she stretched her neck towards me, my nostrils catching the briny scent of kelp which hung in layers of twisting jade ribbon and bulbous air pockets along her neck. The orange of her shell absorbed the sunlight slanting across the cove like my own skin did. I was always famished for sunlight, for cool seawater, for the sound of the tide shushing my staccato heartbeat. She and I were kindred. The tips of my fingers brushed her fluted nose. A familiar voice sliced through the carefully cultivated haze around me. “Oppi? What-” The horse reared back, tossing her head as she shimmied backwards and turned away from me. “Curse you, Oren!” I yelled as the creature sprinted for the surf, thundering into the undertow. I whipped towards him, eyes squinting to see the outline of his rangy limbs. The wheat gold of his hair caught the sunlight and, for the briefest of moments, gave him a haloed aura which had me snorting. Deific at first glance, perhaps, but I knew the crooked angle of his lower front tooth and the origin of the scar beneath his sharp jawline- an incident involving sea urchin spines and decidedly mortal indignity. His eyebrows weren’t even symmetrical, the right one slightly more arched than the left, undoubtedly from raising it at me so often. “What’s the matter with you?” my friend called, long legs ambling over the sand towards me. “Were you about to touch that thing?” I crossed my arms as he approached. “Maybe.” The white of his eyes showed as he sighed. “Did you skip voice lessons?” What was he, my mother? Kalliope, her lilting voice wavered in my mind. I won’t have it said you’re shirking your duties to the Opera… Anxiety curled in my gut, but I clobbered it down with an imaginary piece of driftwood. The Phoerian Opera could go rot today. I was not yet in its gold-fisted grip- or so I told myself. Rolling my eyes in answer, I picked up the lobster tail I’d been roasting and tossed it to him. “Found four today.” I didn’t mention I’d spent two hours diving for them, but they were his second-favorite food, so I didn’t mind. He caught it with a soft swear and then dropped the scalding crustacean in the sand. Flicking his nimble fingers as if to rid them of the heat, he commented casually, “Suppose it’s a good thing you’re here already.” He paused, and I almost threw sand in his sun-bronzed face before he finally spit out what I’d been waiting to hear. “My contact at the Nautilus Citadel replied to our inquiry.” Everything in me suddenly focused to a razor-sharp edge, my urge to ream him for the ruined lobster abandoned. We’d been waiting over a month for a response from Oren’s friend who served as an Ensign in the Royal Navy. This was it. The only answer to the only question that mattered. “Yes?” My hands twitched as I contemplated the urge to strangle him. “What did he say? The one-dimpled smile which crept across my friend’s face raised the hairs on my arms. “We leave in the morning for the Solstice Trade.” My breath hitched. It was true. The vanished peoples of Gomethra’s mainland were real. The Solstice Trade was real. And we were going to crash it. No rule for what we were about to do existed, but if it had- I’d break it faster than a sea horse could drag me beneath the indifferent waves, euphoric to the bitter end. **** The edge of my awareness drug on unfamiliar ground, a hem fraying further with each barefoot step we’d taken inland to arrive at the wastelands of Gomethra. Though the boat in which we’d traveled was only a mile away through the forest, I forced the image of its hull bumping against the rocks through my mind like a talisman. “Do bones burn to ash as well, or are they still beneath us?” Oren mused. Patience had never been my strong suit, but I could think of a thousand things I’d rather be than patient, so I wasn’t going to fill the Amphritis Sea with tears over it. My cheeks stung as I dragged ash-encrusted nails down them. The imbecile beside me had clearly forgotten the need for silence as we crouched on the edge of the vast, grass-covered Ash Plains, anticipation taught as a lyre’s strings in our veins. “Shut it,” I hissed, sending his larger form toppling over from where he crouched next to me. The azure of his eyes widened as he froze at the lofty grass rustling around us. I prayed to Chrosos no one in the envoy had seen the ripple in the silver vegetation. The company of a hundred soldiers waited in stoic silence a stone’s throw from us as they faced the undulating waves stretching out for miles in front of them like a sea of mirrored anemones. My shoulders dropped in relief as they stood unmoving against the cloudless skies. “Thought you were bringing more food,” Oren growled, his mutinous wheat hair slipping over one eye. I heaved a token sigh, inhaling and exhaling the smell of burning leaves still lingering in the soil after all this time. His nattering didn’t matter anyways while the breeze and the grass spoke so freely around us, drowning our words in their whispered song akin to velvet brushing over my ears. “No matter how long we wait, seeing dragons will be worth it,” I reminded him, pulling a leather thong tight around my mass of lightning pale hair. There had always been rumors the dragons still existed. The official word claimed they had gone extinct from disease and starvation after The Scything, the war waged eight centuries ago between Nyskos and the northern kingdom of Volnyrocq. The mainland had not always been the wasteland of cursed grass which stretched before us. Oren had heard through his connections in Mytikas that some Rocqes still lived beyond the Ash Plains and that an exchange of goods happened each year near the summer solstice. Yet none of the things we’d speculated about came close to the reality before us. Half a dozen cargo ships were tethered on the wide river mouth which flowed alongside the plains, and the massive caravan of goods sitting behind the line of guards could have fed the capital city of Mytikas for a month. Nyskos had amassed hundreds of barrels of salted and smoked fish, live lobsters and crabs in enormous glass tanks pulled on wagons, towers of crated wine and sweet liqueurs, bottles of olive oil, sacks of grain and kafe beans...The smell alone carried over on the wind caused my mouth to water. I’d skipped breakfast for this (more like Oren ate mine on the way) to meet him at the docks and arrive here by the sun’s highest point. A distant rumble began to shake the ground beneath my knees, and I looked up to see the hazy outline of black forms marching through the grass. Those who believed in the tales of the Rocqes’ existence said they had lost their ability to breathe fire or fly, just as we, the race of Nereiden, had lost our sirenic traits over time. Whatever form they wore caused a rhythmic trembling of the grass around us, and we watched as the first row of two dozen black plates of armor came into focus. Their pace would bring them to us in moments, but that wasn’t what caused Oren to swear. “Holy mother of tentacles,” he breathed. Behind the Rocqe soldiers were massive carts pulled by beasts I had only read about in one of the texts from my mother’s collection. Unlike most cart animals, the heads of the bone lynxes with their twitching feline noses stayed angled high in the air, looking out over the soldiers of the retinue in front of them. Black spikes of bone longer than my arms rose in pairs from the ringed white fur on their backs, chains connecting them to the carts pulled taut from the manacles encircling them. They moved as if the weight of the house-sized carts didn’t affect them in the least as they stalked forward with fluid grace. My head tilted. “Is it wrong I have an urge to see how soft their ears are?” “T’would be a noble death,” Oren replied. “I'll sing your song in the Nautilus Citadel.” Oren’s voice was terrible, so I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. More intriguing than the bone lynxes were the men encased from the waist up in armor of glistening jet black with horned helmets. As they drew closer, I could see the iridescent scales which made up the armor shifting over each other. There were what appeared to be wings for epaulets, flaring out beyond their shoulders and ending in a single talon at the tip. In contrast, the golden armor of the Nereiden almost blinded a person when looking at it in full sunlight. I was pleased to see that our representatives didn’t move a muscle in reaction to the approaching envoy. One of the bone lynxes snapped its head in our direction, looking straight at us through the grass. My lungs seized. Ducking back down, I pulled Oren with me. “Do you think it sees us?” Oren’s eyes were not teasing now. “I have no doubt it does.” Shivers chased over my scalp. Or perhaps the shiver had more to do with the way he lowered his voice to a baritone murmur that had developed of late. It was strange to realize Oren’s lanky form had filled out into broader shoulders and his face had developed new angles to it. He’d always had beautiful features, and I’d teased him mercilessly for being prettier than any of the girls on Cretoria. But now he was beginning to strike me as something different. When the retinues finally came face to face, it was rather anticlimactic. Two soldiers simply exchanged scrolls, and then we watched for almost an hour while they loaded and unloaded goods from the bone lynxes onto the ships and vice versa. My stomach grumbled as time wore on, but I refused to look away. “They managed to cross the Ash Plains unscathed,” I commented, sifting gray dirt through my fingers as I sat on the packed earth. Drawings on old parchment surfaced in my mind, images of the warped creatures which hunted in the grasses of the plains and made crossing a suicidal endeavor. Oren raised a brow at me. “I would imagine it had something to do with the giant cats they brought,” he drawled. “Even if the shadow wolves are as big as they say, nothing would attack those things.” He had a point. As we watched yet more containers and barrels being hefted onto the flat carts of the bone lynxes, Oren voiced a question of his own. “Do you think the Prince of Volnyrocq truly started the war? That he burned an entire city to the ground?” I’d thought about the answer to his question a thousand times. “Wouldn’t blame him if he did.” Oren gave me a look like I’d grown another head. “Just because one person died doesn’t mean you can-” “She didn’t just die, Oren. Her fins were cut from her body and her heart ripped out.” We’d had this argument countless times, but I was more than happy to rise to the occasion again. “If I found the person I was supposed to marry like that, I might go on a fire-breathing rampage too.” Oren frowned. “He should have known better than to bring a nereid to the Winged Court. The Rocqes were barbarians, even without the danger of a Kymaera being produced from their union.” I shrugged. “Forbid something, and someone will inevitably be stupid enough to try it, daemon spawn or not.” He paused, then looked at me sideways. “You still believe those stories? I doubt any of us could shift into dragons or mer, even eight-hundred years ago. And the Kymaera were probably just deformed children, not monsters. I pity them.” I turned my body towards him, jaw dropped. “What are you talking about? You’ve seen the Draekenmor Reef the same as I. The bones are piled from the sea floor to the surface. Thousands of dragons. They were pulled from the sky in The Scything.” He shrugged. “But what if it’s just casts and molds? Carvings? What if it doesn’t reach to the sea floor, Oppi?” “I can't even hear you over your own horsecrap,” I hissed, struggling to keep my voice low. He didn’t deserve to use his pet name for me. “What besides dragon fire could have created the Ash Plains you’re sitting on?” Those scrolls are not stories, Oren. They're histories. How can you deny that? He sighed, leaning back onto one elbow. “Mytikas has different texts now, ones that are more accurate based on actual research. Your mother’s scrolls are probably just a collection of tales that were never meant to be taken seriously.” My fingers curled into the ash beneath us. He was suddenly revealing this misbelief now, of all times? Those stories of dragons and mer were an unshakable part of us- so I’d thought. I was going to push him off a cliff when we got back to Cretoria. “What nonsense have those in Mytikas been spout-” A screech rent the sky in the distance, raising the dusty hairs on my body to stand. It was a shrill cry, ear-piercing in pitch and ending on a hopeless, echoing note like the last song of a dying glasswhale. We lifted our heads up out of the grass. All of the soldiers had stopped to listen too, and the bone lynxes had shifted to crouched positions as low as possible in their harnesses. Their great yellow eyes watched the sky to the north, and I turned to look at well. Another desolate shriek sounded, and I saw the vague outline of something high in the air- something too big to be any sort of bird. “Is that…?” I couldn’t say the words, my heart pounding so loud the bone lynxes could probably hear it with their tufted ears. “It can’t be,” Oren whispered. “It’s impossible.” The creature was too far away to make out anything more than the outline of wings and a sleek body, but I knew. It was a dragon. Apparently, the soldiers thought so too. Shouting began, and swords were pulled from sheaths as the Nereiden guards faced their dark counterparts. It was clear this wasn’t part of the plan. The Rocqe soldiers also drew their weapons from their backs, wielding two wickedly curved onyx blades in response. “We need to get out of here,” Oren rumbled, taking my hand. “Now.” I couldn’t agree more, though I was dying to stay and see what happened. But if fighting occurred, there would be no predicting where the soldiers would go, and they could run right into us. I wasn’t stupid enough to think we would be spared by even our own soldiers in such a precarious situation. Looking up to the sky once more, I saw the shape of the dragon- or whatever it was- growing closer. I had never in my life wanted to stay put more than I did in that moment, whether I was burned to a crisp or chopped into pieces. “Kalliope, now!” Oren dragged me towards the forest with more force than I expected. Tearing my gaze away from the black spec in the sky, I followed him, awkwardly running while bent over as low as I could. When we were almost to the tree line at the edge of the Ash Plains, another primeval screech struck our ears as the clang of swords rang out, and we both abandoned our stealth for speed as we sprinted for the shelter of the trees. As we reached the first few steps under the forest’s canopy, I turned back. All I saw before Oren jerked me forward again were flashes of gold and obsidian striking each other. “Wait, Oren, I want to see if-” “No, you don’t,” he snapped, and I blinked at him. He never spoke to me in that tone, but the hard set of his jaw silenced any argument I had planned to use. Still- I looked back one last time before jolting into movement… The elegantly curved blade of a black-suited soldier plunged into the space between his opponent’s armor where the shoulder met the golden breastplate. I watched as it was forced deeper, piercing sideways into the man’s chest. My own ribs seemed to constrict inwards as I pictured the perforation of his lungs, his heart, blood filling the cavities in between. The Nereiden’s cry was so small compared to the creature’s above and yet echoed through my nerve endings. It was final. It was desperate and fearful and knowing, his last sound. The gold-clad body fell to Ash Plains and did not rise. My blood had frozen, but it pounded in my ears nonetheless as Oren pulled me away. We sped over the forest paths back to where our small fishing boat waited. As we shoved off for the sail back to Cretoria, I thought I heard another wailing cry, and I caught my breath at the loneliness of it. Or, as Oren insisted on the way home, it was probably just the wind.