《Paper Ghost》


 The Passing at Dawn

    Fourteen years a captive of the city with the bleeding sky. Fifteen years in December. Tenebrous characters walking the streets like spectres barely there. The night is swiftly approaching. Dusk came from the east as the sun fell to the west; every color shifting and fading but for the tint of crimson. Crimson, never blue.


    She wasn¡¯t supposed to be out at night. Auntie was always so strict about it.


    ¡°Don¡¯t let me catch you sneaking outside, Penelope. Especially at night! If you make it back, you¡¯ll be grounded for a year!¡± That¡¯s what she¡¯d say, waggling her finger in faux sternness. Auntie was nice like that. She always found time to be a little silly. It was nice. But Penelope took her warnings all too seriously. Never go out at night. Never go out alone. Her city is a cruel, unpredictable place. Tragedy hiding behind every corner, It lurking in the shadows waiting to strike.


    That¡¯s what made tonight so odd.


    Tonight, she and Auntie were outside the apartment, walking the city streets like rats scurrying from shadow to shadow. They weren¡¯t alone at least. They were walking in a group, some twenty people strong. Stepping in quick time, footsteps creating crackled rhythm on the pavement.


    ¡°Auntie¡­¡± Penelope whimpers, clutching tightly at her Auntie¡¯s sleeve. She¡¯s stumbling over her own feet, out of rhythm, trying and failing to keep up. As she trips once more, her grip causes a little rip at the seams of Auntie¡¯s shirt. Another hole to match all the others.


    Auntie shushes her, voice quiet but sharp. Auntie was never sharp with her. Why was Auntie being sharp with her? Why were they outside? It¡¯s nighttime; it¡¯s dangerous! From the moment her Auntie had dragged her out of the smaller-than-a-baby¡¯s-shoebox-sized apartment, Penelope''s heart had been thumping something wild. Her heart had only thumped harder and faster when the group of walkers passed them on the curb. Sometimes, when Penelope was feeling rebellious, she¡¯d watch the night overtake the sky from the apartment window. The walkers, usually a group of at least ten or more, walked the same path every night, although the people in the group weren¡¯t the same every night. There was always someone new walking and someone old missing. Why they walked, she didn¡¯t know and refused to ask.


    Her heart had skipped a few beats when Auntie, a spring in her step, had marched into the group of walkers as if she belonged. Like they were old friends. Like nothing was out of the ordinary. And although Penelope trembled, Auntie pulled her along the path the walkers took. Random left and right turns, aimlessly changing directions from thin always to wide city street. In the past, Penelope had wondered where the walkers were headed. She had wondered if they know themselves. It seems, like it or not, her questions would soon give her answers.


    Penelope¡¯s eyes water, stinging harshly at the corners. She didn¡¯t want answers. She wanted to go home.


    Seeing her nieces tears, Auntie scoops her into her arms, pace never faltering. She tucks Penelope¡¯s head under her chin but says nothing. No one in the group is talking, and that¡¯s the only thing that makes sense.


    They had left the apartment half an hour ago, right as the sun had set. Penelope had known they were doing something new tonight, she just hadn¡¯t known what or why. Auntie had been talking about tonight for a year. Every time they went to the market for food, Auntie bought less which was weird when they could already afford so little. Every time she brought home her paycheck, after work at the factory, she stashed away a few more coins than she usually did. Auntie had been saving for tonight. Penelope still didn¡¯t know why.


    It¡¯s humid and, as usual, there¡¯s no wind. The stars are blurry and tinted crimson.


    Auntie carried her the rest of the way. Excitement made Auntie¡¯s lips twitch but nervousness still had her checking over her shoulder every couple of minutes. The same could be said for all the adults in the group. Even some of their children were double-checking each shadow they passed. Waiting for the worst to happen. So many things could go wrong tonight. So many things might just go right.


    Finally, the group arrives.


    In the city center is a courtyard. The gates encircling the courtyard are lit with lanterns, glowing a dull yellow, orange, and red. The courtyard is large. Barren of flora, black with the dry dead remnants of what long ago was a blossoming city park. But despite that, the courtyard is packed with people. They¡¯re standing in a long line leading to the courtyard¡¯s center, where an old townhouse stands. No one is talking. Not even a whisper. Total silence still reigned over them like the harshest of kings. Nothing but breathing and the occasional cough.


    Penelope squirms and Auntie puts her down. Holding hands, they stand in line and wait. When the people in front of them step forward, they do the same. More people get in line behind them. It feels like they stay in line for an eternity. Fear is no match for boredom, so Penelope relaxes. She tugs at a hole in her pants pocket, having nothing better to do.


    Auntie gives her a look. She knows what Auntie would say if they weren¡¯t sworn to silence. ¡®Don¡¯t make more holes than you already have! You¡¯ll look like a raccoon.¡¯ That¡¯s what she¡¯s saying with that wrinkled nose. Penelope stops tugging. She keeps her head down, unwilling to look around for fear of meeting a stranger¡¯s eye.


    It¡¯s odd. Their clothes always had holes. Thread was expensive. New clothes were even worse. Why was she and Auntie Anja dressed so fancy tonight? These clothes were definitely their best, they had the smallest holes and almost no stains. Auntie had rubbed a spoiled beat against her lips, making them all glossy and red. She did the same to Penelope¡¯s cheeks. It¡¯s made her face stiff and sticky. They¡¯d have smelled like rotten beats but Auntie had splashed them both with the water from a can of fruit. Now they smelled like rotten beats with a hint of peaches.


    ¡°Tickets please.¡± A flat, monotone voice rumbles from above. Penelope peaks up through her fringe.


    They¡¯re at the front of the line, on the doorstep of the old townhouse. A man is standing in the entryway, glassy eyes focused on Auntie. The light from within, in shades of white and yellow, casts a shadow over his face. His skin is pasty looking, matted and billowy like rising dough. His arms unfold from behind his back. He draws his hand outward, outstretched and waiting palm up.


    ¡°Your tickets, madam.¡± He repeats, neither hasty nor heated. Only a dull expectancy.


    ¡°Sorry, sir. One second, sir, if you please¡­¡± Auntie frets. Both she and the man are whispering, the only voices willing to bravely echoing into the night. Penelope turns to look at Auntie. She¡¯s fumbling with her wallet, which has three tiny locks. Nerves make her fingers clumsy, and they bungle the combination on the second lock thrice until she eventually gets the numbers right. Auntie sighs in relief and the man is as silent and calm as ever. She pulls a pinky sized key out of her pants pocket and cracks the final lock open. The people waiting behind them grumble wordless under their breath, making Auntie blush.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± She laughs through her embarrassment, ¡°You can never be too careful, after all...¡± Two cream-coloured tickets, words too small for Penelope to make out, are handed over. The man takes one in each hand, raising them to the light. He squints, gaze searching the paper. It takes a second but soon his head bobs sharply up and down.


    ¡°Anja Bosch. Have a magical evening.¡± He hands one ticket to Auntie Anja. His head swivels to Penelope, looking at her for the first time. Penelope flinches under his watchful gaze. Bending straight at the hip, the man leans down.


    ¡°Penelope Bannerman. Have a magical evening.¡± Her ticket is pushed gently into her hands and the man rises, straight as an arrow.


    ¡°Next please.¡±


    Penelope doesn¡¯t move, too busy staring at the ticket, but Auntie Anja pulls her up by the arms and carries her through the entryway. The ticket has her name on the top left corner, scrawled in her Aunties handwriting. On the top right side is a cursive O.A. colored gold and red with a line of sparkly violet circling the symbol. Underneath both her name and the symbol is a calendar of the month. July.


    Penelope holds the ticket against her chest and watches the man grow smaller over Auntie¡¯s shoulder. She¡¯s not supposed to talk outside at night, it isn''t safe to be loud. But she isn¡¯t outside anymore so, against her better instincts, Penelope croaks a squeaky, ¡°Thank you, mister...!¡± that should have been too weak for the man to catch. Penelope immediately turns her gaze away but, although she can¡¯t be sure, she thinks she might have heard a ¡°You¡¯re quite welcome, Miss Bannerman...¡± rumble thoughtfully behind her.


    Penelope is jostled slightly when the rhythm of Auntie Anja¡¯s footsteps shifts. They¡¯re going down a flight of long carpeted stairs. Were they heading to the basement? The townhouse appeared different in size and structure from the outside. It shouldn¡¯t have been able to fit a staircase so large. How far down did it go? They walk quietly or a while, hearing nothing but Auntie¡¯s footsteps and the distant thump of the people walking both behind and in front of them.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been saving for this for a while, Penny.¡± Auntie Anja draws her attention with an excitable whisper, ¡°I just hope this place is as nice as they say it is. Oh, I hope you like it! We can stay as long as you want, the Theatre is open all night!¡±


    ¡°... The Theatre?¡±


    ¡°... Have a magical evening.¡± A voice, higher than the man¡¯s, says in the distance. The bottom of the staircase is approaching where there is a booth blocked by a glass window that stands to the right of a large wooden door. Much like they did with the man, Auntie gives the woman in the booth their tickets. She doesn¡¯t spare the paper even a passing glance. Not breaking eye contact, the woman punches a tiny hole in each ticket and hands them back. Then she reaches under the booth.


    ¡°Have a magical evening.¡±


    The door swings open. It startles Penelope when noises, loud and boisterous, burst from within, burying her thoughts in an avalanche of laughter and song. It¡¯s brighter than it was in the staircase. By the time her eyes have adjusted, Auntie¡¯s already carried her inside.


    Her eyes adjust. This was The Theatre, nestled snugly under the earth. This was only its foyer, but how magnificent it was.


    A colossal palace, carved in the shape of a teardrop, reflective golds of lantern-light dazzling off of the silver metal walls. Red carpeting, soft like silk and spotlessly clean. The high ceiling has drapery dangling heavy from the balconies like kittens languishing loosely, half on half off the couch. The drapes have no holes, rips or loose threads. It¡¯s a large room but there are so many people that it feels almost cramped. Yet somehow it¡¯s comfortable in its crampedness. Although people bumped shoulders and stepped on each other¡¯s toes, they never pushed or shoved. Only bumbled and brushed past, ¡®sorry¡¯ and ¡®excuse me¡¯ flowing easily off their tongues. How odd it was. Hearing such politeness. Such open-hearted grace.


    So many voices freely flowing out of happily smiling mouths.


    The people here were smiling, dressed in nearly holeless garments, talking incessantly to each other without a care in the world. Red lips and cheeks, colored eyelids and long lashes. Unshackled voices flutter across the room. Lively and excitable like Auntie was, or pretended to be when she thought Penelope was watching.


    ¡°... What do you think?¡±


    Auntie takes her by the hand. Looking up at her, Penelope notes the happy tears bubbling at the corner of her eyes.


    Penelope swallows thickly, then speaks, ¡°Where are we, Auntie? Why¡­ why is everybody so¡­ so¡­¡±


    ¡°So happy?¡± Auntie laughs, ¡°Welcome to The Theatre, Penny.¡±


    Auntie takes her by the hand and they walked across the room. On the far side is a set of metal doors with no handles. Penelope watches as the doors slide open, metal panels disappearing laterally into the wall. The room inside is small and people are packed like sardines inside. The people inside step out and more people step in. The doors slide shut.


    ¡°Those are elevators. You stand in that little room and they take you up or down to the other rooms.¡±


    Penelope marvels, ¡°Other rooms?¡±


    Beside the elevator is a big sign embedded in the metal wall. It¡¯s an odd drawing. A tiny house with these giant tunnels underneath, separated into sections that piled like tiers of cake. Each tier has tiny numbers written all over that rarely repeated. Beside the drawing is a long list.


    ¡°Ten whole floors, my darling!¡± Auntie coos, ¡°Look! There¡¯s a playground on floor seven, a puppet show on floor four. We are in the central hall right now, in a few hours they¡¯ll have a concert with music and lights! All the activities are listed right here. We can go do whatever you want, Penny!¡±


    Penelope stares blank-faced. She stares so long that Auntie¡¯s smile falls from her face.


    ¡°Penny¡­?¡± Auntie hesitates, ¡°Don¡¯t you like it--?¡± Auntie startles when a giggling squeal erupts from her niece, who¡¯s face blossoms into the widest smile Auntie had ever seen on her little red cheeks.


    ¡°I love it!¡± Penelope gushes and giggles, jumping up and down in excitement, ¡°I love it! I love it! I love it! I love it!¡±


    Auntie laughs in relief, ¡°Do you, darling? Do you really?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!¡± Penelope beams up at her Auntie.


    Auntie snatches her off the ground, squishing her in a tight, teary hug.


    ¡°... Happy Birthday¡­¡±


    Penelope freezes. ¡°... It¡¯s my birthday?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re so much like your father. So forgetful,¡± Auntie laughs wetly, ¡°Happy ninth birthday, Penny.¡± She turns, Penelope still in her arms, back to the map ¡°So, what floor do you want to visit first?¡±


    Penelope¡¯s smile beams bright and, for the first time in a while, completely carefree.


    Ten whole floors to explore! Or at least, that¡¯s what they wanted people to think. Little did they know, there weren¡¯t ten floors. Little did they know, there were eleven. The final hidden floor, masking the Theatre¡¯s greatest secret deep underground.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ~*~


    Down in the Theatre¡¯s deepest recesses was a dowdy little room. Half opened books dangle off shelves and rolled out scrolls spread their way across the length of the area several times over. The abundance of loose papers creates a distinct musk. It had a library¡¯s smell. The dry, woody aroma of adhesive and ink. There are three desks; one too tall, one too short, and one just right. A creaky wooden chair. A dinky mattress and a few tiny blankets are pushed into the corner. There is barely any space to stand let alone walk. Somehow, there¡¯s enough space for one little lady.


    The little lady is short. Not even five feet tall.


    She¡¯s hunched over a blackened cauldron, comically large goggles almost covering the cranky frown etched harshly on her lips. Beside the cauldron is the widest of the three desks which had an assortment of vials, balances, flasks, and beakers rested upon it. Beside the desk were several boxes of scrap metal, boxes of sand, and three big toolboxes. With all her tools, she continues her work. Going through the motions like a familiar dance. Pour the vials, measure the scrap metal. Mix the cauldron, stoke its fire.


    She works, and works, and works. Until, startling her out of her rhythm, there¡¯s a knock on her door. She stops.


    ¡°Finally,¡± The little lady mutters to herself, slipping her goggles over her forehead and stretching her aching limbs, ¡°It certainly took them long enough.¡±


    Carefully stepping over the scrolls and papers littering the ground, she squeezes between her desks as she makes her way to the door. She steps out of the room for a moment, undaunted and unsurprised that the person on the other side was long gone. She only cares for the package. A basket of new vials lying in the dust at her feet. Behind her, the cauldron continued to bubble. Inside was a vortex of white liquid, little ribbons of colour stark against the prevailing silver. The substance melds and swirls in on itself so quick you could scarcely tell the yellow from the orange.


    ~*~


    Earlier, when the sky was a crimson tinted blue, there was a boy so thin you could see the bones of his spine protruding from his thin, grainy robe. He had a list in his pocket which he followed quite diligently. Every item collected and placed in the basket he had under his arm.


    He was sweating as he ran with light and nervous feet between the narrow alleyways and behind market stalls. He leans against the side of a dirty alley wall, resting his hand against his chest as he gulped in a breath of air.


    ¡°Why did I agree to this again?¡± He thinks bitterly to himself.


    He closed his eyes and his back slid down the wall till he was sitting on the muddy dirt ground. It was silent. Until he heard it. A scraping sound from outside the alleyway that made him drop his basket in nervous fright. He froze and listened with bated breath.


    For a moment, silence remained.


    Nothing until, again, he heard a scrape. Like the sound of dragging feet or dull fingernails scratching over wet wood. That small noise sends fear tingling up his spine. He sniffs the air. Iron attacks his nose. Iron like blood and choking like death. He jumped to his feet and in doing so knocked over his basket, breaking one of the little glass vials which leaked a sticky red content over the ground.


    He curses, picking the basket off the ground and sprinting down the alley, away from the approaching sound. It grows louder; more dragging footsteps and more scratching nails.


    Distantly, a loud and clear bell rang.


    The chase continues. Into the streets where people were filing out of their homes to the chime of the bell signifying the time for the people to freely traverse the city. The boy bolts into the marketplace, busy with people out to buy their bread from the bakery and their meat from the butcher.


    The early silence was barely a distant memory. In only a few seconds the streets were filled with the yelling of salesmen and the bickering of customers.


    ¡°This bread looks stale!¡± One man sneered.


    ¡°The price was lower yesterday!¡± The woman screeched.


    ¡°You call this fresh fruit!? It¡¯s mushier than the canned stuff!¡± A person cried.


    The young boy ducks between the people and slides under the stalls, never checking back to see his pursuers, confident he could lose them in the crowd. The scraping sound was thin. There couldn¡¯t be many of them.


    He wasn¡¯t scared. The scraping sound grew fainter. What did he have to be scared of? It was just a sound. It could have been anything else. It might have been anything else. Just a sound.


    Through all the yelling and the racket of the busy marketplace, the scraping of his followers was muted out. The stuffy aroma of sugars and spices replaced the balmy scent of metal, which was constant stench while in their presence. It was both comforting and nerve-wracking. Were they in the crowd or still in the alley? Several feet behind or just a few steps away?


    The boy never turned back. If they came into the crowd, there would be even more chaos, more than there is now. They weren¡¯t pursuing him anymore. Still, he continued running far across the city. If only to be sure. He wasn¡¯t running away. He still had other orders to pick up and deliver, anyway.


    A few hours passed. He had traversed across the city in the same time as the sun had taken to drift across the sky.


    After his last delivery, to some rich assholes ordering blow and cheap liquor, he heard the scraping sound again. Was it after him? He wasn¡¯t sure. Was it even them? Or was that sound coming from some other innocent force? He wasn¡¯t going to take the chance. He ran. Breath heavy and feet blistering. Running until he found himself squeezing his way under a gate he had never seen before. How odd. The boy was a native of this city. He had thought he knows its streets like the back of his hand. He didn¡¯t know this place.


    This time, he did not allow himself to relax as he waited for the sound.


    It didn¡¯t come.


    ¡°Good...¡± He gave an exhausted laugh but as he reached for the basket he once again cursed his luck. He hadn¡¯t noticed until this very moment that what was left of the now crushed vial was empty but for a few teensy drips. He checked his list again. It highlighted the item as ¡®Very Important¡¯. He banged the back of his head against the wall and put a hand to the side of his face.


    ¡°Fuck! She¡¯ll never pay us now...¡± He mumbled. He throws his arms up and pulls at his hair, ¡°This is what we get for agreeing to work for that bitch!¡±


    He stood up and snatched at the basket before looking up at the sky. Already the daylight was dwindling. No time to go back to collect another sample. Fucking perfect.


    He turned back in the direction he came, planning to head to the meeting spot anyway. Maybe with a bit of begging he could still get half his promised pay.


    He took a few steps and then he noticed it.


    The wall he had been leaning against was dripping with some mystery liquid. There was a splatter of it against the stone, dry at its edges but still wet at its centre. The boy stumbled back to the wall and looked at one of the stray lines of liquid running down the cracks. He inspected it. It was crimson and sticky. He picked up the broken vial and inspected the liquid. It was red and gooey.


    The boy grinned.


    ~*~


    ¡®Magic¡¯, as the rest of the world liked to call it, is a funny thing. It¡¯s often like an untrained puppy. Hyperactive with a nose for finding trouble. It can also make a huge mess on your nice clean carpet.


    The woman returns to her room with the basket of vials. She swipes a pile of papers that she no longer needs off the shortest desks and set the basket in its place. Placing the goggles over her eyes, she rummages through her more important papers.


    ¡°No¡­ no¡­ no.¡± She grumbles under her breath as she picks up, looks at, and then puts down each paper. She moves on to a different pile and clicks her teeth, ¡°Where is it...?¡±


    Eventually, she finds the pile she sought for. She picks up a large stack of papers and drops them onto the desk beside the cauldron. Reading from the text, she simultaneously picks up two of the vials; a reflective metallic liquid sloshed against the inside of the glass. She weighs them against some scraps of metal. With another vial, filled with water and an assortment of white particles, she pours it into the cauldron. The contents of the cauldron stops swirling and begins sizzling.


    She works with the same speed and intensity that she had been excluding for the past few weeks.


    Has it been weeks yet? Or months? Only days?


    It doesn¡¯t matter. Not when there was more work to be done. Not when she was almost finished.


    Finally, she picks the last vial out of the basket. It¡¯s filled with a thick crimson liquid. She moved to her cabinet and plucks out another vial with a red liquid. She pulls a surgical mask over her mouth so she wouldn¡¯t breathe in any fumes. The little lady takes a deep breath, preparing herself, and pours the vials into the cauldron. She stirs until the substance is homogeneous.


    The bubbling stops. The vortex goes still. She bites her lip and waits with bated breath. For a good few moments, there was nothing, until the swirling slowly continued. She looks down at the contents of the cauldron with a puzzled expression and then turns away, reaching for another vial.


    ¡°Perhaps I need to add a little more-¡±


    An explosion of colour knocks the little lady against the far wall. A startled squeal from the sudden impact escapes her throat.


    The substance seemed to fly out of the cauldron, erupting like lava from a volcano. It swirls violently along the jagged rocks of the ceiling. She presses herself close into the corner between her mattress and the wall. Tightly curled into a ball, arms wrapped over her neck and head tucked between her knees, the little lady could do nothing but wait for it to end.


    The vortex rages on. It pulsates like thick slop.


    Spits of chemical rain down. A whirlwind of pigments and metal send parchment flying.


    The sounds it makes, how it made her ears ring. Deafening howls. Thundering clinks, crashes, and clatters of furniture tipping over, scattering books and scrolls across the floor. Every vial, beaker, and flask that she had is sent crashing to the ground, cracking apart and sending glass sky-high. It knocks the boxes of sand and metal to the ground, covering her in dust and scratches.


    Abruptly, it stops. The substance drops to the ground, splattering and rising in a giant wave that crashes back down over the floor and furniture. It floods half the room. Luckily it¡¯s the half she¡¯s not kneeling in. Nothing more than dotted splashback landed on her, burning through her clothing like acid.


    She breathes harshly, almost gasping, as she slides her way up the wall and to a stand. The glass and metal shards glitter like freshly fallen snow. The papers are soaked through with the substance. It isn¡¯t a rainbow color anymore. It¡¯s only red with blue.


    She stares ahead, unblinking. Unwilling to take her eyes off the empty cauldron, tipped over and leaking. If the room was a mess before, now it¡¯s mayhem.


    Another bitter, horrible, soul-crushing failure. She didn¡¯t even have it in her to be angry. She walks with the broken aimlessness of a puppet without enough strings to her chair, picking it off the ground and falling like a ragdoll into the seat. Elbows on her knees and hands on her head she leans forward in defeat. She stays like this for some time.


    Her phone rings. Wiping her face, she leans over and plucked the rotary phone off the wall and fiddle with the cord as she answers it.


    ¡°Yes?...¡± She speaks with a calmness one wouldn¡¯t expect considering the circumstances, ¡°Ah, already time?... I know I promised to be there¡­ I¡¯ll be up in a moment...¡±


    The person on the other end asks a question, and the lady grips the phone a little tighter, ¡°We shall discuss it later. I am on my way.¡±


    She hangs up.


    A gentleman¡¯s chest, knocked over on its side, blocks the door. The little lady doesn¡¯t bother trying to pick it up. She only yanks a few of its cupboards open and fishes out a comb to slicked her hair back and off her forehead. She removed her work clothes, tossing them onto her chair. They were already dirty, so what did it matter where they laid?


    How long had it been since she changed clothes? Or showered?


    A tailcoat with patches, a neckerchief with loose threads, and elbow-long gloves with holes that let her fingertips stick out. Mossy green, with some mismatching patches, to contrast the redness of her hair. Good enough. It¡¯s better than what most of the customers could afford.


    Nevertheless, the customers won¡¯t be seeing her, anyway. Not as she truly was.


    The little lady reaches into the chest one final time. From it, she fetches a swarthy cloak wrapped in a bundle. It¡¯s a dingy thing. Ill-fitted and oddly textured. Unwrapping it, there¡¯s something hidden within the bundle.


    She sighs, relieved, ¡°Oh good. I was worried you¡¯d been broken during the... whatever that was.¡±


    For now, she sets it aside. When she fastens the cloak around her neck, another anomaly occurs. The fabric doesn¡¯t fall around her torso. Instead, the cloak builds up around her upper back and shoulder blades, creating a hunchbacked figure with the hood stretching far past where her face ended. She looked nothing like herself. And that was just as she wished to be.


    And the final touch to pull the whole outfit together. A mask. Made and crafted of solid glass. It had the face of an old haggard woman clearly feeling the years she had lived.


    She flips the mask around. There¡¯s a small hole in the mask¡¯s back. From the opening, the little lady inspects the thin almost invisible tubes running through the mask¡¯s face like veins. The tubs are empty.


    She clicks her teeth in annoyance. ¡°Perfect. Are they all empty?¡± Rummaging through the chest she finds, to her frustration, that all her other masks were as clear and colorless as the one she held in her hands.


    ¡°Fine, then.¡± The belt of her pants has a large pouch attached to her hip. She rummages for it under her cloak and from the pouch, she retrieves her knife. ¡°Fuck, I don¡¯t have time for this! I¡¯m late enough as it is.¡±


    Her knife is double-edged. Its hilt is black plastic with a knuckle guard fitted perfectly for either of her hands. She kept its blade sharp. Sharp and sterile. The little lady pulls the glove of her right arm down and pulls the sleeve of her tailcoat up, exposing only a sliver of her skin right below her elbow. She¡¯s scarily pale. Borderline sickly.


    With the tip of her knife, the little lady slices a tiny line across her forearm. It was only as long as her fingernail but still deep enough to bleed. It doesn¡¯t hurt. Or maybe it does, and she¡¯s just gotten used to it. Carefully, she presses the wound against the mask¡¯s opening and allows her blood to drizzle down its tubes. The mask takes its fill at a leisurely pace.


    ¡°How magical¡­¡± She huffs to herself.


    Impatiently, the little woman pinches the skin around the cut to force her blood out faster. This, admittedly, did sting. But it did the trick, and as the mask filled up, its face changes. No longer is its surface translucent. Her blood travels to the tubes closest to the mask¡¯s surface and its old haggish face turns a light beige. Rosy cheeks and fleshy wrinkles. The colour fills out and its ceramic skin crinkles and becomes roughly lumpy.


    ¡°That should be enough¡± With that she closes the cap on the tube and places the mask on the ground. It takes a minute for her to find a bandage for her cut. Her room is soaked. And worse, it¡¯s starting to smell. Not quite the metallic scent of blood, although the odor had the same heady tang to it, as if one could become drunk on the stench. Within its inherent booziness is a cloying smokiness. Like beeswax, ink, and seaweed. It was an odd smell. The oddest part being how addictive it was.


    The little lady wanted to inhale that scent deeply. She had to wonder, was the vapor toxic? Hopefully not, but it wouldn¡¯t do to take the chance.


    Finished sterilizing and bandaging the cut, the little lady held her mask over her hooded face. It molds itself around her head. Glass stretching and fitting over the bones under her skin until it¡¯s indistinguishable from the rest of her. The mask opened its eyes and gone was the little lady, and in her place was the hunched old hag.


    The old hag then plucks her cane off the coat rack; it was a choppy wooden stick that stood barely a half meter off the ground. Before she leaves, she carefully picks up a few of her notebooks off the ground. She sets them carefully on her chair. They were too important to let them get stained. She then shuffles her way out the door of the little room, leaving the chaos behind, too ashamed and disappointed to stay and clean. That could be done later when the sting of failure was less sharp. The room was airtight. If the substance was noxious, it wouldn¡¯t leak to the workers and customers.


    The door clicked shut and locks.


    Only after she had left did the true effect of her concoction presented itself.


    Dully, it glows. Then brighter and brighter, warmer and warmer. Crimson sap blushes brightly in swirls that touch but never mix with the vivid fluorescent blue. It bubbles like boiling gravy and although the fire had been extinguished, the substance became hot as lava. Why didn¡¯t it burn then? The papers and parchment soaking in its fluid remained cool to the touch.


    It bubbles. Gobs popping open, fluids go flying like broken boils. Bubble, pop, bubble, pop. Bubbling and bubbling until orbs of the stuff stay airborne. Tiny orbs meld into small orbs, and further into medium orbs, then large orbs. Until one giant ball of thickly dripping ooze is gathered, hanging upwards not quite brushing the ceiling.


    The papers that the mixture had spilled onto rise, dry as a bone, from the ground. They circle the orb. Spinning like a merry-go-round with no stop button. The papers draw in closer to the orb. They clump together. The orb expands. The papers blanket it like a sheet. Even now though, the reds and blues beam through the spaces between the pieces of paper.


    A mini star. A spark cast off from the sun.


    There¡¯s no smell and no one around to smell it. Until, maybe, there is. The papers tear and fold themselves apart. It gouges two holes into the curtain, side by side. A slit slices its way across the parchment right under the holes. The slit curls at both its edges. One side slightly up and one side slightly down. A smile or a frown.


    The holes open and close in careful rhythm. Colors swirl together within. Bright blue dots in their middle. The dots shift right and left. The dots look around.


    It blinks.

 The Everyday Life of Laymon

    Lenore Laymon was never what people expected her to be. Although, in fairness, most expected her to be no older than fifteen. She was a dainty thing. All sharp bones and gently, nearly nonexistent curves. Eternally young in shape but old in mind, Lenore stood a little under five feet tall to her constant chagrin.


    Hardly the expected build for an adult thirty-one-year-old woman. It made first impressions difficult. Luckily for her, as she made her way up the spiral of stairs leading from her little room, she rarely had to talk to strangers anymore. Hadn¡¯t for a long time. The visages that she masked her face with suited her stature far better. Elderly silhouettes or childlike features made up most of her collection. Tonight she was the old hag that staff knew as ¡®Judith Millhouse¡¯, the Theatre¡¯s General Operations Supervisor.


    Her masks were lovely gifts. She didn¡¯t have the time to craft them herself anymore.


    ¡°I should visit them soon.¡± She muses in her mind, curling her gloved hand around the protruding and warty chin of her new face. ¡°Knowing them, they¡¯re likely itching to give me another lecture about how I never leave my room.¡±


    She reaches the top of the staircase. A thick door with thirteen locks. It¡¯s a pain to unlock and when she finally cracks it open she¡¯s blinded by the lighting change. The few candles that lined the cavernous walls had not prepared her.


    ¡°Please be empty! Please be empty!¡±


    Thank goodness, the utilidor is empty. No workers in sight. No unsolicited socializing. Just the way she likes it.


    The utilidor, utility corridor, is a vast tunnel system that only Theatre personnel have access to. It wraps around the Theatre like a snake strangling a rabbit. The tunnels are tall, wide, and drafty. Pipelines cover every inch of wall, bent in all directions and diving in and out of sight. The pipes were in several colors; predominantly in white, blue, and, more than anything else, red.


    She shuts the door behind her. It perfectly blends into the wall and when it locks, it''s like there was never a door there at all. Her footsteps tip-tap incessantly as she speed-walks up the utilidor. Her cane keeps the beat with a heavy thud every one-and-a-half steps.


    Moments tick by.


    ¡°Make way, people!¡± Around another corner, a voice whisper-shouts, ¡°I can¡¯t believe this shit¡­ Make way, injured performer!¡±


    Lenore pauses, eyebrow raised. ¡°Injured performer¡­¡±


    She fixes her hood further over her head, hunches her shoulders, and turns the corner.


    ¡°What has happened here?¡±Her voice booms in a tone not her own. Upon hearing it, the group of workers snap to attention, bodies suddenly tense. They¡¯re all standing except for a large man sat in the middle of the circle. He¡¯s dressed is a white puffy blouse and tight purple pants. The pant leg of his left ankle is pulled up. He¡¯s gripping the joint and rocking back and forth.


    ¡°Must I repeat myself?¡± Lenore says, marching through the crowd. She stops in front of a lanky woman who, unlike Lenore, was authentically an elder. Like the rest of the workers, she¡¯s wearing a Theatre uniform with a gold and violet Theatre pin. However, the clipboard she held distinguishes her as one of the floor managers.


    Lenore leans on her cane and huffs, ¡°Missus Netta Vernon.¡±


    Missus Vernon clears her throat. ¡°I apologize for disturbing you, Missus Millhouse--¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t ask for an apology. I asked for you to tell me what has happened here and I have yet to receive an answer.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Missus Millhouse,¡± Missus Vernon gestures to the injured man, whom Lenore recognizes as the gymnast Joe Brogan, ¡°I¡¯m afraid Mister Brogan took a fall off his balancing beam. Unfortunately, we¡¯ve blocked the hallways carrying in his equipment from the stage. If you give me a moment, I¡¯ll clear the way for you.¡±


    ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary.¡± Lenore sidesteps the manager and speaks to Joe. Although he maintains a stiff lip and a forced smile, it was clear that his ankle was causing him a great deal of pain. Lenore stops in front of him and makes a show of shakily bending down to his eye level.


    ¡°Your ankle was injured, Mister Brogan?¡±


    His voice is strained, ¡°Yes, Ma¡¯am. But I think it¡¯s just a sprain. Give me an hour and I¡¯ll be back on the beams--¡±


    ¡°I think not, sir. You will be given a few days off to rest that ankle. Maybe a week.¡±


    Joe¡¯s eyes go wide with what was unmistakably fear. He scrambles to his feet, wincing when weight is put on his left leg. That doesn¡¯t stop him from trying to stand.


    Joe sputters, ¡°No, no please, Ma¡¯am, please don¡¯t put me on leave! I¡¯m fine, my ankle¡¯s fine!¡±


    The expression of disinterest stays on her masked face, even as Joe¡¯s begs get more desperate. She says, ¡°You¡¯ll be paid for the hours missed, of course.¡±


    ¡°Please, I need the shifts, I¡ªWhat?¡± The gymnast stumbles, falling onto his back with a wince.


    ¡°And we¡¯ll have to add a pay raise for short-term disability.¡± She glances over her shoulder at Missus Vernon, ¡°Forward the incident to upper management and they¡¯ll handle payout and billing.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Missus Millhouse.¡±


    Lenore shakily stands, greatly exaggerating the difficulty of the motion. Joe¡¯s only then relaxes into his position on the ground.


    Lenore asks, ¡°You work on floor ten, Mister Brogan?¡±


    ¡°... Yes, Ma¡¯am. Stage four.¡±


    ¡°All right,¡± Lenore studies the workers, still standing tense, ¡°Continue as you were. I will be going to floor ten to investigate. Inform security to be on high alert.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ma¡¯am!¡± All the workers answer in unison, turning back to their tasks with quick efficiency. Lenore marches to the heavy metal door adjacent to the crowd. Before she can disappear behind the hatch, Joe calls out to her from within the circle of workers tending to his ankle.


    ¡°Thank you for the pay raise, Ma¡¯am!¡± There¡¯s relief in his voice, and just the barest hints of a genuine laugh, ¡°Thank you kindly!¡±


    The little lady scowls, although Joe wouldn¡¯t be able to see from his angle, and replies, ¡°It¡¯s Theatre policy, Mister Brogan¡­¡±


    ~*~


    This was an unexpected divergence, but a necessary one all the same. Hopefully, if she made haste, she¡¯ll make it upstairs in time.


    Floor ten is a long gallery ballroom, simpering warmly under gentle lantern-light. The floor, walls, and ceiling are metal but carved with intricate designs and painted brown to imitate sturdy oak. Unlike most ballrooms, floor ten is compacted with its border of towering black platform stages. The stages are raised circles, five feet off the floor, under ceiling-high arches. Twelve acts are performing simultaneously tonight, and each performance has a populous crowd gathered. The only stage barren is Joe Brogans, although the guests barely notice his absence.


    Lenore meanders near the walls as she maneuvers her way through the crowds that the audiences had split into. She spies two men and a woman, dressed casually. To anyone else, the three of them were indistinct from any other guest. But Lenore was well aware of the way they scanned the room, ignoring the performances. When Lenore makes eye contact with one of them, a silent sense of understanding passes between them. They had alerted the security as she had instructed. She watches the guests, distracted in their delight. Most were children with their parents, which was normal for this floor.


    Everything seems to be business as usual. Until she sees it. Or more accurately, him.


    He¡¯s a scrawny fellow, more boy than man. Everyone wore their best when they came to the Theatre, but the best for most was still pretty ragged. This fellow is dressed to kill. A dapper grey suit, pristine pinstripe pattern, and a Panama hat. Not a scuff or a hole. A rich kid, that much was certain. Lenore watches him stroll up to a stage, thinking he¡¯s slick as he tries and fails to hide the can of beans he¡¯s holding behind his back.


    She again makes eye contact with the security. They exchange nods. The security quickly, but not so quick to cause an alarm, close in on him. But, alas, they would be too late.


    This fellow is watching the dancer Liliana and the singer Lucio perform on their stage. They¡¯re a nice couple although their act could use some work. Liliana could be a little stiff and Lucio¡¯s voice went flat sometimes. But every night, they¡¯re act improved. Their crowd was much smaller than the other stages but it was still a decent number of people, mostly little kids dancing with Liliana or singing with Lucio.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    They did not deserve what was about to happen.


    The scrawny fellow draws the can out from behind his back like it''s a pistol. From the back of the crowd, he¡¯s invisible to the audience and the performers. He rears back, aiming directly at Liliana¡¯s head.


    His feet go flying out from under him.


    The scrawny fellow squeaks, arms flailing. Before his head makes contact with the hard metal floor, a cane catches him by the neck and ruthless hand slaps over his mouth.


    ¡°Purposefully causing injury to Theatre personnel,¡± The little lady whispers into the fellow¡¯s ear, her much smaller body pressed close to his back, ¡°Is punishable by removal from Theatre property without refund.¡±


    Lenore slowly removes the handle of her cane from his neck. Her other hand remains were it is. Security finally draws in, grabbing the fellow by his elbows.


    The little lady continues in a low voice, ¡°Security will guide you out where your ticket will be confiscated and your name will be put on our suspension list. Damage fees will also be billed. Any attempt to argue or fight will result in a permanent ban. Come quietly and ticket privileges may be reinstated after suspension. Is that clear?¡±


    She takes her hand off his mouth and steps away. The fellow is slack-jawed with shock and fearfully silent. Shakily, he nods.


    ¡°Good. Have a magical evening.¡±


    Two of the security guards guide him across the ballroom, more dragging than walking. They slip behind one of the curtains and into one of the many hidden entryways into the utilidor. In less than a minute, the fellow is removed and the other guests are none the wiser.


    Except for one.


    A little girl, with red rosy cheeks who can¡¯t be any older than ten, gawks at the little lady. She''s holding the hand of an older woman who, like everyone else, is blissfully unaware of what had gone on just seconds ago. She was one of the little kids singing alone with Lucio. She had a cheery little voice, a little rough from lack of use. Now she is mute with dread. Aware of what had happened to the fellow with the can and aware that the person who did it now knows that she saw it happen. She visibly shrinks.


    Lenore pulls her hood further over her forehead and shuffles out of the ballroom. Before she leaves, she gestures for the last remaining security guard. When they draw close, Lenore murmurs, ¡°The little girl with the red cheeks. Give her and her guardian a full refund and a complimentary food basket.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Missus Millhouse.¡±


    Lenore decides to leave through the guest entrance instead of going back to the utilidor. Outside the ballroom is a staircase leading to the last stop of the guest elevator. Atop the ballroom door is a large gold neon sign with floor ten¡¯s name. The Harlequin. As she closes the ballroom door behind her, the guest elevator dings.


    The little lady crouchesdown beside the back of the staircase. She holds as still as stone.


    The guests pour out, rushing down the staircase, talking and laughing with each other as they went. As far as they know, they¡¯re the only people in the hall as they filter into the Harlequin. Only when their individual voices are drowned out by all the others, does Lenore move. She inches back and sidesteps into a hidden cavity within the stairs. Unseen by the audience members is a second birdcage elevator. Its smaller than the guest elevator with no furnishing. Just harsh metal and wires.


    Lenore sighs, ¡°Finally, some privacy.¡± She allows a wry smile to grace the thin lips of her mask as she reaches into her sleeve. She pulls out a big silver key, sticking it into the elevators keyhole, the doors slide open. She looks up only to come nose to nose with a man, glassy-eyed and pasty-skinned, standing in the entrance.


    ¡°Ah!¡± She yelps and lurches backwards, colliding with the narrow back wall of the hidden cavity. Then she growls, pulling back the hood of her cloak.


    ¡°Bloody hell, Mr. Tanner!¡± She says, stepping onto the rickety platform ¡°Must you stand so quietly like that?¡±


    ¡°Apologies, Miss.¡± He says in earnest as the elevator doors close behind her, ¡°Lady Averill sent me to make sure you ¡®make good time¡¯.¡±


    Mister Jason Tanner is the doorman and head cleaner at the Theatre. It would be a lesser status, one that would have kept him from being authorized to ride this elevator, if it weren¡¯t for one thing. Mr. Tanner knows. About the hidden eleventh floor. About the experiments. About Judith Millhouse, who was really Lenore. He was one of only two other people in the Theatre who knows. That grants some privileges, such as riding the Multi Elevator which, unlike the guest elevator, moved up, down, and sideways. It speeds around the Theatre floor, the utilidor, the guest elevator, completely out of sight. Darting, diving, and dashing like a rocky roller coaster. It¡¯s liable to make you a little motion sick if you stay on it too long. Mr. Tanner rides it all the time, often just to keep Lenore and Lady Averill company when he isn¡¯t answering the door or cleaning after hours.


    Mr. Tanner¡¯s performances are between 8:00 am and 4:00 pm every Sunday through Wednesday as he sweeps through the floors, dusting and polishing. Only the other workers can hear him sing, little half-lullabies under his breath. They never said it aloud but his voice could even rival Lady Averill¡¯s.


    Oddly enough, Lenore hasn¡¯t heard his mournful lullaby in a good few nights, though she¡¯s sure she¡¯s been seeing him around more often than usual. His singing is one of the few ways Lenore had been able to tell the day from the night without the use of a timepiece. It¡¯s worrying to have the nighttime be so silent.


    ¡°You have been hanging around here far more often, Mr. Tanner,¡± Lenore states. Her silent question hangs in the air for a time while the two stare ahead at nothing. The multi elevator takes a series of sharp swivels.


    ¡°... Patrols have increased in my neighbourhood in the past few weeks. It makes me nervous. Lady Averill has given me a place to stay in the Theatre until I can find someplace new.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± They say nothing for a little while. Mr. Tanner turns to her, his black eyes studying her for a moment. The elevator pitches a little as it clears the fifth floor. ¡°Rest assured, this will not impede my duties, Miss. The deliveries will be sorted and examined on schedule.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    He waits. She says nothing more. Only then does he raises an eyebrow, ¡°You look agitated, Miss.¡±


    ¡°I always look agitated. It¡¯s part of my character.¡± Lenore¡¯s eyes narrow for a second before she smooths out her features.


    ¡°... More so than usual. The project did not go well, I presume?¡±


    More silence. The elevator doors shake like they always did when they passed floor three. Lenore sighs, ¡°No, Mr. Tanner. It did not.¡±


    Mr. Tanner looks away as the elevator comes to a stop.


    ¡°Pity.¡± He says. He unlocks the door and gestures for Lenore to walk through.


    Lenore closes her eyes, ¡°Gents first.¡±


    Mr. Tanner steps out and Lenore adjusts her cloak as she follows him. Since they were on the top floor, there was no staircase to hide behind. Instead, they found themselves on the top floor balcony. The balcony is dim, shadowed by vast dark navy curtains fit for the stage of a theatre. For that was what this balcony was. Another of the Theatres stages with a show in the works to begin.


    The show itself stands a few steps away from the curtains. She¡¯s still as a statue. If she was just a statue, etched in marble and gold, one would surely compare her to that of an angel, an enchantress, or a saint.


    Her back curves ever so slightly with effortless strain. Leaning to her left, her legs point straight like a ballerina¡¯s. Her black dress covers her well, only her upper chest and hands remained exposed although there is an occasional hole. The tears are sewed closed with bright yellow thread, resembling strands of gold woven in tight ringlets. From the back, she looks almost chaste. As she stands she hugs her chest tight, fingers resting daintily on her collarbones. Her lion''s mane of long, thick midnight locks flows freely down her back like a river of silk.


    Outside the curtains, they hear the rumbling of the crowd.


    ¡°Good evening, Lady Averill.¡± Mr. Tanner leans his head in a half bow. Lenore, on the other hand, rolls her eyes at the woman, little more than amused by the fanfare.


    ¡°Already playing for the crowd, Odell?¡±


    The living statue moves, dropping her arms slowly to her side and turning her head to peek just a little over her shoulder. What an odd face she has. The clash of pigment mottling her skin. Dark Caramel and pale cream. The leering grin resting on her soft face betrays her nature. Truly, she is less a saint and more of a siren. For Odell is fairly different from Lenore. She is exactly what people expected her to be.


    ¡°That¡¯s what they made me for, shapeshifter.¡± Whereas Lenore¡¯s voice is clipped and impassive, Odell sounds heavy, like steam and spice.


    ¡°Now get behind the back curtains. My show is about to start.¡±


    ~*~


    Back down in the depths of the Theatre, a strangeness occurs on floor nine.


    Floor nine isthe only room out of all the others thatis not odd in the slightest. Every room has a theme, and this one is just the business of plays in its truest form. No outlandish antics, cons, or otherwise bamboozling around the idea of a what a Theatre could be. The marquee outside the foyer was titled The Play Cave. It runs one show a day, four times as the night goes on. This is the room that attracted the customers that want to feel like they are of a higher presence than the people in rooms such as the Harlequin. It let them hide their filth underneath highbrow pastimes.


    Tonight the play Jovial Soul is in the middle of its second run through. All audience members are in their seats. The red velvet doors behind the back row creak and slowly drift forward. If the Play Cave had a full house, perhaps someone may have noticed. Tonight, only the front rows and theatre boxes have people seated, and no one finds the creaking to be of any concern to them.


    In the dark and desolate back of the auditorium, light blues flicker, faint as the glimmer of a lake under an overcast moon. The more radiant it gets, the more potent the smell that follows it becomes.


    It''s pitch black but for the stage where an actress was playing the ghostly character, Ethel, who was in the middle of a comical monologue to the amusement of the audience. When the antics of the characters again pull another burst of laughter, something so rarely heard outside of the Theatre, the source of the glowing passes through the doors.


    If it is possible for light and paper to be timid, that would surely be the best description for the wanderings of the blue twinkle. Upon closer inspection the colour is fickle, getting brighter and softer in slow intervals. It slips through the cracks between each page. The occasional glint of crimson joins the prevailing sapphire in its glittering.


    The entity, Lenore¡¯s unnamed accident, travels aimlessly around the room.


    What is it thinking? Can it think at all? Is it frightened or fearless? It stays far from the stage, avoiding the blinking light bulbs lining the outer seats and the box lights suspended around the front stage curtains. Silent as a mouse, apart from the faintstir from the rustling of its papers.


    It makes it tothe side doors leading to the next set of stairs. With a little twirl, it blows them open. It floats away, continuing its aimless journey. On its way out, it passes the circle of lights around the door frame and the small flicker it made was just enough to attract the attention of a gentleman in a front-row seat.


    While he and the audience are clapping at the end of the first act, in the corner of his eye he sees a figure; large as a grown man with an oblong wavy outline. He stops mid-clap and stares at where he thought the shadow had been. In the short time after he had noticed the flicker, he notices the faint whiff of iron in the room.


    When the lights come on to signify the intermission before the second act, he rises from his seat and calls for the usher.

 Music and Notes

    The curtains fly open on the first note. The first sequence is fast, bombastic, all loud horns and aggressive piano. The audience under the balcony hushes all at once. From on high, Odell stood alone where the spotlight didn¡¯t yet shine, still in her statuesque pose. Lenore and Mr. Tanner vanish behind the back curtains, scurrying along a hidden walkway, leading to the smaller theatre boxes. From a box across the foyer, eye level with Odell¡¯s balcony, they settle in to watch. Or in Lenore¡¯s case, to conduct the performance from the shadows like a theatre phantom. Barely there, and yet, somehow, everywhere.


    The chords are complex but the tempo quickly slows it all down, as the distinct sound of jazz fills the central hall. The band of musicians is under the balcony, playing their snazzy bebop song in front of the guest elevator. Only when the melody and rhythm come to an almost-harmony does Odell step into the light.


    The sight of her sends the crowd into an immediate frenzy. It takes a full minute for them to simmer down. Odell doesn¡¯t move an inch until all but the music is quiet again.


    Leisurely, she unwraps her arms from her chest. With a sharp change of key to accompany her, Odell throws out her arms like a bird spreads out its wings and then, in a dramatic mezzo-soprano, she sings.


    ¡°~Evening, Foxy Lady~¡±


    The instruments gently rumble under her voice, not quite drowning out the excited shrieks of the crowd. She sustains the ending syllable until the crowd quiets. Sauntering her way to the railing; the lights illuminate her out of the darkness. She¡¯s tall; she¡¯s sensuous. Keeping every eye on her, as is her purpose. She continues her song,


    ¡°~So nice to see you visit me


    Out of that dusty den


    Kept in lock and key~¡±


    Odell¡¯s eyes, lingering on the heads of the people below, drift up. The little lady meets her gaze with a simple blank stare.


    The central hall is worn by time. The walls had once been made of oak, polished steel at its edges and a high barren ceiling that made sounds resonate. But time had shredded the wood and browned the metal. The ceiling had fallen in and the holes muffled the echo. In the condition it had been in back then, not even Odell¡¯s provocative productions could distract from the grime. Luckily, with Lenore¡¯s expertise in construction, mechanics, and metallurgy, the repairs were perfect. She had long ago repaired the wall insulation and replaced the oak with sheets of recycled brass and steel. Each plate is cut in irregular shapes and spaced a few millimetres apart. In between each plate is what appeared to be black cement. The hall looks even better than it had in its heyday. And repairs were far from the only improvement the little lady had made.


    Odell smiles at Lenore knowingly.


    ¡°~Oh, I¡¯ve been so lonely


    Jewelled crown and throne,


    All alone


    Dusk to dawn


    Long days, cold nights~¡±


    Lenore shakes her cloak off of her shoulders, freeing her hands. She hesitates, but she quickly steels herself. No one in the crowd can see her from where they are. She, and her secrets, are safe. So she removes her mask, revealing copper-red hair and baggy hazel-brown eyes to no one who didn¡¯t already know. Seeing her face, her real darling face, the singer¡¯s smile becomes sweeter.


    She and Lenore exchange the slightest of nods.


    ¡°~Poor me, poor me,


    Alone~¡±


    Lenore holds out her hands as if she¡¯s about to play an invisible piano. Her fingers twitch. Behind Odell, the curtains begin to flutter. There is no wind but curtains rise from the floor, regardless. The fabric flaps in time with every tremble of Lenore¡¯s hands as if the little lady was reaching across the room and ruffling them herself.


    ¡°~When it rains, when it pours


    Dancing in the flooded streets like the ocean shores~¡±


    The curtains flutter closer to Odell, reaching out as if to touch her. Odell steps on top of the banister. The crowd gasps as the curtain curl around her waist and forearms like snakes. Lenore waves her hands like a conductor, and the curtains copy each movement. The drapery outstretches from Odell¡¯s back and suddenly, from the view of the audience, the singer has a vast pair of heavy blue wings. Her voice rises as the music readies for the drop. The ground seems to quiver, as she finally breaks into the chorus of the song.


    ¡°~And the sky~¡±


    The drapes broadened.


    ¡°~Bleeds~¡±


    The walls hum, droning like a deep drum beat.


    ¡°~Red!~¡±


    With the first line of the chorus; with the bounce in the tempo from the band; with a scant sweeping gesture from Lenore, the room itself came to life.


    Odell leaps from the balcony and the curtains, her perfectly woken wing, carry her through the air and over the heads of the cheering crowd. She flies above the audience and they, in turn, reach their arms up at her, grasping but still out of reach. The other band members sing harmoniously in the background, raising the melody from a hum to a roar. They sing under her,


    ¡°[Bleeding red!]¡±


    Odell echoed them, her voice neither strained nor wobbly despite still being in nimble and bumpy flight.


    ¡°~Bleeding red!~¡±


    The drapes throw her into the air, inciting shrieks from the crowd, then they catch her and she bounces like she¡¯s on a trampoline. The musicians chant under her,


    ¡°[Blue and red!]¡±


    The curtains unfurl, grazing and caressing down her legs, waist, and chest until her dainty feet landed on the stage under the balcony. She stands on equal footing with musicians as she finishes the chorus,


    ¡°~Oh, blue and red¡­~¡±


    For a few seconds, there¡¯s a break in the lyrics, allowing the melody to take over for a while. With Odell safely back on her feet, it gives Lenore a second to relax. Her arms ache lightly. The drapery is an extension of her right arm, every twinge conveyed a subtle command. Her left arm has a different job.


    The band didn¡¯t have a drummer. But there¡¯s still a new sound ringing alongside the other musicians. It came not from a person, but from the room itself. Those black cement-like lines in between the metal on the walls. Underneath the cement is tiny glass tubes spreading like nerves throughout the Theatre. They¡¯re glowing now. Reds of several shades glow from the within walls, dim in the cracks but glinting in the brass and steel plates. It¡¯s as if they are suddenly standing inside a giant prism, alight in only the red light wavelength. Each change of light gives off a deep sound. The Theatre itself is the drums and Lenore is the drummer. Her left hand keeps the beat.


    Odell grins. Her eyes flicker from the audience, up to where Lenore and Mr. Tanner are hidden, and back down to the audience again.


    ¡°~Foxy lady,


    Come sit with me


    Oh - Wo - Oh - Wo


    Sing with me, Foxy Lady


    That old forgotten song~¡±


    As she sings, Odell waves her arms in rhythm and Lenore makes the room follow her lead. The curtains dance and the walls sing at the singer¡¯s beck and call.


    ¡°~I¡¯m so lonely


    Oh, When the sky bleeds red


    Bleeding red


    I¡¯m bleeding red


    The sky bleeds red~¡±


    The band sings after her, and the crowd joins in,


    ¡°[Blue and Red]¡±


    Odell smirks.


    ¡°~Oh, blue and red~¡±


    From on high, Mr. Tanner and Lenore are still watching. Although Lenore appears idle she was, in actuality, heavily engaged. The audience only sees Odell. Odell soaring in the curtains and controlling the lights. They hear the drumbeat and somehow know in their minds that it had to be coming from her.


    They would be wrong.


    Lenore is as much a part of this performance as Odell is and she had all the control over the enchanted elements. But the audience didn¡¯t need to know that. Lenore didn¡¯t want them to. They were meant to see Odell. Only Odell. The singer is Lenore¡¯s greatest mask.


    Every once in a while, Mr. Tanner looks away from the stage and back at Lenore. Studying where her gaze lands. How Lenore¡¯s eyes rarely stray from Lady Averill.


    ¡°~Because life is bad


    The stink of hash without the high;


    A one-night stand and an awkward goodbye


    While the sky bleeds red [Bleeding red]


    And I¡¯m going mad [We¡¯ve all gone mad]


    And if you don¡¯t come through [Come through¡­]


    I¡¯ll go dancing alone~¡±


    Odell finishes the chorus and dramatically points at the saxophone player, named Mitchell. She exclaims, ¡°Play it, Mitch!¡±


    Mitch prances out from under the balcony¡¯s shadow. Backed up by the other musicians, he plays his sole. The music is erratic, each section fragmented, jarring the audience with every note. It kept them on their toes, excited for more. They improvise for a good few minutes as Odell dances around them. She dances like this is the best moment of her life, as if nothing could ever get better than this.


    Lenore scrutinizes with thoughtful eyes. She doesn¡¯t observe with the same thinly veiled desire that the audience did. For once, there was actually a certain sort of tenderness on her face. The warmth of her expression doesn¡¯t go unnoticed by Mr. Tanner.


    ¡°She is quite the performer.¡± He grumbles.


    Lenore blinks and appears to shake herself out of something. She answers, voice snappy ¡°Indeed.¡±


    The saxophone solo comes to a close and Odell takes her place back under the spotlight.


    ¡°~I¡¯m a prisoner of war


    The world¡¯s not blue anymore~¡±


    Odell flicks her wrists and Lenore directs the curtains to scop the singer up, lifting her back onto the balcony landing.


    ¡°~Harsh days don¡¯t stop irking [Irking]


    Yet we keep on working [Working]


    Burned out [Burned out]


    Burned out [Burned out]


    But when it falls, It will storms


    Cause the sky¡¯s not blue anymore~¡±


    The drumbeat rumbles as the lights go out and the curtains fall still. Odell¡¯s eye flicker to Lenore. There is a tiny quirk on the little lady¡¯s lips. An almost-there smile.


    ¡°~Foxy lady under the red sky


    Baby don¡¯t leave me~¡±


    Odell reaches her arm out towards her, fingers outstretched and waiting to be clasped even though the distance between them is too great. Lenore narrows her eyes slightly.


    ¡°~Foxy lady


    Under the red sky


    The Bleeding sky


    Bleeding sky


    Bleeding red


    I¡¯m Bleeding...~¡±


    Lenore¡¯s hand twitches. She doesn¡¯t reach out but her fingers do flex in the singer¡¯s direction. That¡¯s enough for Odell. She smiles brightly as she belts out the last line, long and proud, the band and the audience singing with her.


    ¡°~Red!~¡±


    And with that, the instruments play their final cords. The audience cheers as the performance come to a close and the performers take their final bows. The band then starts to play another, much calmer song. It¡¯s like elevator music with its simple progression and repeats. They moved to the side, allowing the crowd to pile into the elevator. Odell is smiling and waving from the balcony like a crown princess to her adoring subjects.


    ¡°Thank you! Thank you! You have been a most wonderful audience!¡± Odell calls, ¡°I hope you¡¯ve enjoyed our little show but the fun¡¯s not over yet! Please enjoy the rest of what our little Theatre has to offer and have a lovely night!¡±The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    With that, the drapery close around the balcony with a graceful sweep and the people, once again loud and rowdy, leave through the elevator. After everyone had left, the curtains lower Odell from the balcony so she can thank her band. They laugh and joke with her as they put their instruments away. They chatter about their next rehearsal, planning for new songs and improvements for the old ones, until she dismisses them for the night. Soon the central hall is quiet and empty.


    An idle clap echoes through the hall, hidden behind the curtains of the balcony. The curtains part. Lenore¡¯s hag mask is back on her face as she gives Odell a clearly sarcastic clap. The multi elevator is unlocked, she and Mr. Tanner are waiting by its open birdcage doors.


    Odell smirks, her neck craning as she looks up at the balcony. She says, ¡°Aw, darling, you¡¯re too kind. Stop, you¡¯re making me blush¡­¡±


    Lenore clasps her hands together, ¡°If there¡¯s one thing you lack, Odell, it''s shame. Nothing could make you blush.¡±


    ¡°Not quite nothing,¡± Odell hums, wicked smirk melting away into a heartfelt smile. ¡°Well, that was fun! Now, how about a pint, shapeshifter?¡± She gestures for Lenore to send down the drapery again, which Lenore does with a roll of her eyes, ¡°We could play cards in the Goldmine and grab a glass at the Absinthe, hmm?¡±


    Once Odell¡¯s feet touch the metal of the balcony floor, the curtain conceals them behind their dark blue fabric. She steps onto the elevator, towering above Lenore. The top of the little lady¡¯s head only comes up to the singer¡¯s shoulder. Mr. Tanner stands up to her chin.


    ¡°Are you not a little young to be drinking so much?¡± asks Mr. Tanner, the elevator doors slowly closing. It¡¯s heading down to the second floor, The Absinthe House.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you?¡± Odell replies, looking down at him out of the corner of her eye.


    ¡°You are both young and I don¡¯t recall that stopping either of you before,¡± Lenore says, sliding her hood back on.


    ¡°Eh, I drink it diluted anyway. Not like there¡¯s anything else to drink in this city.¡± Odell shrugs and wraps her arms around the two of them, ¡°Besides you look younger than either of us, Lenore. You being so dainty and all.¡±


    ¡°I prefer the term vertically impaired.¡±


    ~*~


    Floor seven is the Theatre¡¯s gambling room, called the Goldmine. It¡¯s relatively smaller than the other rooms but it was still by no means tiny.


    The middle of the room has a little stage for karaoke, professional and drunken alike. There are lavish couches and chairs circling the big gambling tables. Every table has a different game. There¡¯s blackjack, poker, craps, roulette, etc. The Goldmine is lit with purple and blue spotlights, giving it a bit of a foreboding air. The room has a feeling of underworldly awe, the soft lines of red glowing dimly through the walls, making it feel like you¡¯re betting against something wicked. Something nefarious and strange. The Goldmine is filled to the brim with guests tonight and the upper part of the room and ceiling is a fog of cigar and cigarette smoke. Odell had stopped by the Goldmine to pick up a deck of cards and some poker ships before heading upstairs to meet with Lenore.


    The Absinthe House, on floor two, is the bar chamber and usually the first stop for those heading to the Goldmine.


    The Absinthe and the Goldmine are also the only rooms banned to children. Anyone who wanted to smoke in the Theatre had to pay a hefty fee, so only the richest patrons stayed in the Absinthe and the Goldmine. In the far corner of the room, there¡¯s a locked door, guarded by security and off-limits to the customers. Inside is the private library for which Lenore and Odell spent most of their time together. It¡¯s not vast or grand in appearance but it was free of smoke, private, and relatively clean. There were a dozen shelves of books and only one sitting area of which Odell and Lenore now dwelled.


    ¡°So the compound collapsed on you again,¡± Odell states as she lounges on the fainting couch, airing her flute of blackberry wine. She leans on the pillows with sultry laziness.


    Lenore is sitting near in creaking rocking chair reading through a book with a cup of ale on the desk behind her. She had discarded her cloak and mask on the chair beside her.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ that sucks doesn¡¯t it?¡±


    Lenore scoffs. She drops her book onto the desk, none too gently, and puts a hand to her temples.


    ¡°Yes, I am quite aware of that, thank you, Odell.¡±


    Odell sat up a little. Lenore had turned her back to the singer. She picks up her cup; she was on her second and Odell on her eighth, draining it in one heavy gulp. Odell pushes her legs over the side of her couch and stands. She looks resigned, more out of place than most were ever allowed to see her.


    She shuffled over to Lenore and wringing her hands as she stands over her.


    ¡°...There¡¯s always next time--¡±


    ¡°Ha!¡± The sound that comes out of Lenore¡¯s throat is too bitter and rough to be called a laugh but there is some self-deprecating humour in there. ¡°How many times have I said that in the last fourteen fucking years?¡±


    Lenore looks away, avoiding Odell¡¯s pitiful gaze. What use was pity for her? It accomplishes nothing and gives way to laziness, a terribly persistent disease. Odell sighs. She sits down on the armrest of Lenore¡¯s chair, smirking slightly when the extra weight jostles the little lady. The smirk fades quickly when Lenore raises an annoyed eyebrow at her. She wasn¡¯t surprised to see Lenore dry-eyed and brooding. Hadn¡¯t that been the reaction she¡¯d been getting the last ten fucking years?


    Odell sits quietly letting Lenore deal with whatever she needed to deal with.


    ¡°... You know...¡± Odell reaches over and picks up Lenore¡¯s book. The First Edition Advisory on Natural Talents by Sigmund B. Loyd, ¡°There are other books in this library. I mean, you¡¯ve read this one, like, a hundred times. I bet you could recite it from memory by now.¡±


    Lenore looks unimpressed. Her eyes squint up at Odell, ¡°... The absolute control of the body and the mind are not exclusive to any one individual. Natural talents are a product of the self, unique to each individual--¡±


    Odell bursts into laughter, lightly bopping Lenore on the head with her own book, ¡°Oh, fuck off!¡±


    Lenore¡¯s eyes twinkle and her smile is smug, ¡°Chapter 2, page 19. The first chapter is completely pointless. It¡¯s just the writer bragging about all the books he¡¯s read, all of which I¡¯d much rather be reading instead of his self-indulgent drivel. I could write a better book on the subject with my head stuck in a blender. Better than having it up my ass like Dr. Loyd.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you should. Write a book, I mean, not stick your head up your ass,¡± Lenore breathes heavily, in that way that Odell recognizes as her trying to stifle a laugh. Odell continues, ¡°There¡¯s probably nobody in the world who knows more about natural talents than you. I¡¯ll help you edit it, if an idiot like me can understand it, everyone will.¡±


    The mirth in Lenore¡¯s eyes goes cold. Suddenly she¡¯s all scowls again, ¡°And yet, everything I do still ends in failure.¡±


    Odell frowns. She bops Lenore on the head again, a little harder this time, ¡°Horseshit. Is our Theatre a failure? Ten giant floors, you built them all with your bare hands. Hundreds of workers and hundreds of guests every single night. Does that sound like failure to you?¡±


    The little lady is silent, glowering at her lap.


    ¡°Lenore.¡± Odell takes her by the chin and forces the little lady to look at her. ¡°If you keep talking shit about my favourite foxy lady, I¡¯ll have to deck you.¡±


    Lenore clicks her teeth, pushing the singer¡¯s hand away. But, Odell saw the tiny smile she¡¯d made blossom on the little lady¡¯s face. The singer stands, sauntering away as Lenore pours herself another half a glass of ale. She¡¯s more thirsty than she thought she was, how long had it been since she¡¯d drank anything?


    ¡°What do you think went wrong with your project, Lee?¡± Odell sprawls back in her chair, confident that Lenore¡¯s languishing was over for the moment.


    Lenore holds her finger to her chin, thinking it over, ¡°Hmm¡­ The compound was reacting well until the final two ingredients, I believe.¡±


    ¡°So maybe a substitute or different ingredient would do then?¡±


    ¡°No, no. That can¡¯t be it. Those two ingredients are imperative to the project¡¯s ultimate purpose. It just...¡± Lenore stands from her chair and paces around her desk. ¡°It just doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡±


    ¡°Well, if you¡¯re so certain the ingredients themselves are fine then maybe I can look into the boy that was sent to collect them. He was new, I think. Maybe he did something wrong.¡±


    ¡°My instructions were very precise, Odell.¡±


    ¡°And yet there are still people stupid enough to mess them up. I¡¯ll look into it.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡± Lenore stops pacing. She takes out a pack of cards and chips, dealing the cards between the two of them. ¡°So what do you say to a game of poker? I could use a few extra coins in my purse.¡±


    ¡°Bloody bitch...¡± Odell shakes her head and cradles her cards close to her chest, ¡°I¡¯ll give you something all right.¡±


    ~*~


    Lenore is running for a straight. She has the king and the queen, a knave and a ten of spades, all she needs is the ace. It was just when she had called for another card, and Odell had slipped an ace from her stockings, that they hear a knock on the library door.


    Lenore stands from her chair, taking her cards with her. Never trust Odell not to cheat at poker. She tucks herself into a nook between the library shelves while Odell calls for the person to enter. The space is barely large enough to fit a tiny drawer or an above-average sized child. It fit Lenore perfectly.


    ¡°Miss Averill?¡± The person timidly takes a few steps into the library. They¡¯re wearing a simple blouse with a pin and a vest with a matching bowtie. It was one of Odell¡¯s band members. The pianist.


    ¡°What is it, Ime?¡± Odell beams at her worker, all pretty smiles and steamy eyes.


    ¡°There''s a letter for the Theatre, Miss.¡± The worker, named Imelda, sputters under the blind of Odell¡¯s gaze. Odell uncrosses her legs and walks up to her. As she collects the letter she searches for the name of the sender. The envelope is blank but for the intended address. There isn¡¯t even a stamp.


    ¡°Do you know who it¡¯s from?¡±


    ¡°Um, not for sure Miss but...¡± Ime looks nervous. ¡°An Official delivered it¡±


    An Official. Lenore, who had been listlessly listening, perks up instantly. She peeks out from her nook, as much as she can without being spotted. She grips her cards hard enough to nearly crumple them into a ball. Slowly, she sneaks her way between the shelves towards the door.


    Odell¡¯s holding the letter, half-frozen and stupefied. An Official had been here. In their Theatre. To deliver a letter? Hastily, she collects herself. She smiles lovingly at her worker. Her lips are pulled too far towards her left cheek and her eyes didn¡¯t crinkle enough at the sides for it to look real. She calmly dismisses Ime and the worker scurries away.


    Odell is just about to open the letter when they hear another knock. Lenore, who had just walked up beside Odell, ducks once again behind a shelf although this time she was far less tolerant of the interruption.


    ¡°Yes?¡± Odell calls, not bothering to look up at the door.


    Mr. Tanner walks in, eyes zeroing in on the shelf Lenore is hiding behind, ¡°It¡¯s only me, Miss Laymon¡±


    Lenore marches out from around the corner. She doesn¡¯t acknowledge Mr. Tanner, her eyes are glued to the piece of parchment in Odell¡¯s hands. Looking at her Odell had to suppress a sigh, their pleasant moment of levity had been nice while it had lasted. Odell hands the letter to Lenore, who snatches it like it¡¯s made of solid gold. Odell faced Mr. Tanner, discontented and weary.


    ¡°What is it now?¡± Odell mumbles.


    Mr. Tanner appears mildly confused. He gazed first at Lenore, who is gripping the letter hard enough to almost tear it. His gaze turns mildly worried when she starts to pace back and forth, dropping the cards she had been holding in the process.


    ¡°My apologies, Miss, am I interrupting something...?¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­ But I don¡¯t think anything could make it any worse either way.¡± Odell¡¯s head swivels back and forth, following Lenore¡¯s increasingly agitated form.


    ¡°... I see. I have only come to inform you that there seems to have been a series of disturbances occurring on the lower floors. Some shadowy figure is shaking up the customers.¡±


    ¡°All right, I¡¯ll deal with that soon. Thanks, Mr. Tanner.¡±


    With the dismissal, Mr. Tanner gave a small bow, one last subtle look at Lenore, and a longer look at the letter she was holding before briskly exiting the library.


    ¡°What¡¯s the date?¡±


    Now Odell¡¯s concerned expression turns confused. She takes a few hesitant steps toward the now oddly calm looking Lenore. The little lady is leaning against the desk, vacant-eyed, holding the letter lightly in her left hand. The complete shift in temperament is startling.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The date, Odell! What is the bloody date!?¡± Perhaps calm is not the right word.


    ¡°July 21st...¡±


    A smile graces Lenore¡¯s face at that moment. If one had thought Odell¡¯s leering grins were unsettling, then they would be petrified by the sheer malice and ruthless intention on Lenore¡¯s face. Even Odell flinches when it turns her way.


    ¡°It seems our most esteemed rulers are in need of some entertainment for the coming of the new year.¡± Lenore fumes before calming again. She looks contemplative, running her fingers roughly through her hair. ¡°It strikes one as being too convenient to be true.¡±


    Lenore reads the letter over again. Odell cautiously, like she was approaching a wild animal, approaches her as Lenore rifles through the drawers of her desk. By the time Odell is close enough to reach for the letter, Lenore is reading the clock on the far wall while organizing her pens and paper. The clock reads 2:28 am, making it July 22nd.


    ¡°Can I..?¡± Odell points to the letter, crinkled in Lenore¡¯s fist.


    ¡°Hmm?¡± It was only then that Lenore seems to realize that perhaps Odell was not exactly on the same page. ¡°Oh! Yes, yes, of course.¡± She shoves the letter at Odell.


    Odell tries in vain to smooth out the crinkles as she studies the letter.


    ¡°In Regards to Old Quin City¡¯s most esteemed Theater,


    This is a request to Old Quin City¡¯s Theater by the superiority of our grandiose city¡¯s ruling family, the House of Romilly, for your appearance and commission for the upcoming New Year¡¯s Celebratory Dinner. This dinner is a most special and once in a lifetime event to celebrate not only another year of the House of Romilly¡¯s gracious and pristine rule over our regal city but also the fifteenth anniversary of the abolishment of the cities previous, and most heinous, governors and our new cities founding.


    As an obligation to honour the benevolent sacrifices and labour we have fulfilled for the benefit of you and this city¡¯s virtuous people, we hope you will perform your duty and accede to this requisite.


    With reverence of the highest esteem and consideration,


    The House of Romilly¡±


    For a while, Odell can¡¯t react. Lenore is yet again a tornado, moving hot-footed around the library. She picks up the book she had been reading and went through the shelves picking up books.


    Atticus¡¯s Notes on the Mind and Manipulation is swiftly plucked from the shelf, The First Edition Advisory on Natural Talents is tucked tight under her arm, and she had to reach high up to snag The Genius and Cunning of the World¡¯s Most Notorious Dictators and Glassmaking from the Renaissance to Modern Day from the top shelves. Finally, she moves on to the loose stacks of paper beside the desk.


    It¡¯s an odd change of pace. Odell, usually so full of life and bustle seemed stuck in her place and graceless while Lenore, commonly static and cynical, was near excited in her efforts even with the absence of a smile to prove it. It is only when Lenore had slams a large stack of documents down with a reverberating slam that Odell snaps out of her stupor.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ that¡¯s way too convenient,¡± Odell says as she clenched her fist around the letter, crumpling it.


    ¡°Exactly!¡± Lenore is now buried in books and loose papers. Looking at her Odell is reminded of an old Scrooge, sulking behind their huge pile of money. It was then that she decided that she definitely needs another drink.


    ¡°Odell, call one of the workers. I need every recent newspaper. The few print companies we still have are biased beyond compare but they may have some useful information snuck under all that pandering.¡± Lenore rambled on undeterred by Odell¡¯s growing annoyance, ¡°I shall take notes on any clues or motives and compare them with Atticus¡¯s notes and my book on Dictators--¡±


    ¡°Make that five more drinks.¡± Odell thinks to herself.


    ¡°¡ªThe circumstances of this invitation may just be the opening we are looking for¡ª¡± Lenore''s voice grows bitter as she goes on, flipping through the pages and making notes with the swiftness of a wild hummingbird.


    ¡°Worse even, if they have grown suspicious of the Theatre,¡± She gripped her pen in two hands and nearly snapped it in half, ¡°then this may be a trap. A ploy to make us vulnerable in their stronghold...¡± She looks up from her desk only to find that Odell has disappeared. She scans around the room frantically only to realize Odell has retaken her seat on the fainting couch, pouting.


    ¡°Odell, this is no time to dawdle! Tired as we both are we have to hold ourselves to a certain--¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t we go back to playing cards? You were winning...¡± Odell fusses as she lounged on her stomach. Her eggshell blue eyes glistened with mock tears as she lets the candlelight hit her face at the perfect angle so that they sparkle like stars. The little lady doesn¡¯t fall for it.


    Lenore scowls at her like a mother finding her child¡¯s hand in the cookie jar. ¡°Discipline leads to freedom, Odell¡±


    Odell crosses her arms, scowling back at her, like a child whose hand was slapped after being found in the cookie jar. ¡°And it ruins all the fun¡­¡±


    ~*~


    Mr. Tanner is tired.


    ¡°But that is no reason to laze around.¡± He thinks as he stands outside the Theatres doors in the humid summer morning. Odell is on her balcony, giving her usual charismatic goodbyes to their customers. As he tries to peek over the heads of the crowd at her, however, he has to note a rare bit of fatigue in her frame. Her smiles are hollow, shrivelling behind a cloud of worry. What could have been in that letter...?


    An old man trips on the way out, snapping Mr. Tanner out of his thoughts. Courteously, Mr. Tanner moves to steady him, getting a suspicious glance in return.


    ¡°... I am not going to pickpocket you, sir. I can assure you that.¡± He looks the man straight in the eye, speaking flatly as he held his arm. The old man¡¯s eyes widened for a second until he glares and rips his arm from Mr. Tanner¡¯s grasp. Fixing his crumpled top hat, the man sniffed and turns his nose up at the young cleaner.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you aren¡¯t.¡± He retorts.


    The rigid man walks away, and Mr. Tanner lets his eyes follow him until he was out of sight. As the man disappears on the horizon of Mr. Tanner¡¯s vision, the cleaner allows his eyes to drift up to the long stretching structure that blocks the skyline. It¡¯s only slightly visible over the rooftops. In reality, though, it is bigger than any other structure in the city.


    The people of this city see a red-tinted sky in the morning, in the evening, and in the night. Do you think they are happy about this? About the lives they have to lead? It¡¯s hard to say for sure. Some are bound to like it but, in most cases, they are the minority. Unfortunately for the unlucky, unsatisfied majority, there is nowhere to go. The stretch around the horizon is constant. It circles the city¡¯s border like a snake swallowing its tail. It is not the distant hill of a horizon that the sun falls behind each night; it is the impassable concrete of the border wall. The base of the cities cage. That structure is not only the source of the red sky. It is also the source of nearly every citizens¡¯ misery. There is no way out.


    Mr. Tanner regards the wall with his gloved hands folded neatly behind his back and coat buttoned up to his chin. His skin itches in the humid morning air. His eyes are too dry and they sting the longer he stares. The sun is on its way from the east and the moon is dimming behind the clouds.


    The last guest exits the Theatre and Mr. Tanner moves to close the doors to the cities only Theatre. It is already 5:15 am and work starts at eight. He must sleep while he can and, maybe then, tomorrow will be a better day. Maybe it will be an easier day.


    He is so tired it made him almost numb at times. Especially now.


    The cleaner spares the horizon one last squint through the doorway as it slides shut. For the first time in a while, there is a little spark on his face. Just a little fire in his eyes. His eyes burn bleakly under the harsh rays of the sun, piercing with something powerful.


    Because the structure to the west, to the east, to the north, and to the south is not just a wall. It is also where they live.

 A Spirit in the Moon

    Odell Averill hadn¡¯t always been beautiful. Odell had always been pretty, though, and really that is much more impressive. Even in the far-off days when she was young, lanky, and annoying, she was pretty. So when Lenore glances up four hours into their studying session and doesn¡¯t see her behind the stacks of newspapers and books, she worries. But only for a moment. That worry is quickly snuffed when she finds Odell sprawled on the cushions of the couch dreaming and dozing like their entire world didn''t rest on their shoulders that evening.


    Lenore studies her figure. Her dress is wrinkling from the tossing and turning of slumber. The documents they were studying cover her like a blanket. She looks so innocent like this. When the peace of sleep sweeps away the need to protect yourself with phony smirks and a big attitude. It aches in Lenore¡¯s chest the longer she lays her eyes on at her.


    The little lady turns away from her companion. She checks the clock. It¡¯s 6:05 am, and the Theatre had closed less than an hour ago. Now it''s rooms and staircases would be as empty as the streets of a forlorn ghost town.


    Lenore stands from her chair, rolling her shoulders and stretching her back until she hears the faint pop of her tired joints. She fetches a blanket from the closet; the only one to be found is thin and ripped. Even so, she takes it and gently tucks it around Odell¡¯s prone form. Down in the depths of the Theatre when the guests are gone and the heating system is turned down, it gets very cold and dark. The only way to find comfort is to lounge by the fireplace and bury yourself in blankets. Looking around though, Lenore sees they were out of firewood. The library is steadily growing more and more sombre; the air turning chilly.


    ¡°I may never hear the end of this.¡± Lenore unbuttons her tailcoat and takes off her neckerchief draping both overtop of Odell; it barely covers her torso.


    ¡°I shall collect more blankets after I wash and change.¡± She thinks as she smooths out the fabric of her grey undershirt, keeping her eyes carefully on herself and nowhere else. Odell sighs softly in her sleep. She shifts and with her slack movements, she nearly topples head first over the side of the couch. With a slight smile that she doesn¡¯t remember permitting to appear, Lenore catches her before she falls. Cradling the singer to her chest, the little lady guides her back onto the couch.


    How poetic. The princely lady on one knee with the beautiful siren on her fainting couch.


    Odell is limp and messy-haired, she breathes evenly with a faint blush to her cheeks. When Lenore looks down at her, like a sleeping sprite under the soft candlelight, she just can¡¯t help but feel--


    Odell smiles in her sleep and snuggles into Lenore¡¯s arms. Just like that, Lenore wakes up from the spell she¡¯d been under. Like a light switch abruptly turned off. Her smile drops so fast it may as well never have been there at all. She blinks. The world had tilted in Odell''s presence but it jars back to reality as Lenore jerks her hands away, all hard eyes once more.


    She doesn¡¯t dare spare the sleeping vixen another glance. She retrieves her disguise from the desk and left. The Goldmine is dark and empty. The smouldering scent of smoke still reeks strong. Lenore sags against the library door and heaves a sigh.


    ¡°Discipline, Lenore. Stay focused.¡±


    ~*~


    When Lenore was little, even more so than she is now if you could believe it, she loved the night. It was the time when the shy moon finally replaced the glorious sun. Not only that, but the moon is gracious, far more so than the sun, because the moon leaves room in the sky for the light of others. For a person who grew up too small to shine in a world of greater suns, it was a nice bit of comfort. But that was many years ago.


    Lenore Laymon had just finished cleaning herself up. Now freshly suited up in a new tailcoat and matching slacks, she is again riding on the shaky platform of the multi elevator. She¡¯s alone. Her cloak is stuffed in a doctor¡¯s bag. Her mask is hanging from a chain on her waist, empty and translucent. She needed a break from the confines of the maks¡¯s glass face. The Theatre is empty but for Mr. Tanner and Odell, both resting for the night.


    She stands unmoving, looking more dead than alive, under the tacky yellow lights suspended from the ceiling of the elevator. Her already deathly pale features take on a sickly yellow tint and her eyes flash with cold amber tones. The elevator rumbled on steadily, interjected time and time again by the jerky boom of a passing floor.


    She rides the elevator to the central hall on the top floor.


    She steps onto the balcony floor, walks behind the black curtains, and stops on in a theatre box. She waves her hands at back curtains. As the red lines in the plated walls flashed, the curtains pulled back to reveal another set of spiralling metal stairs leading straight up.


    As the little lady ascends the stairs, she soon comes to an unfinished wreck of a room. The rotting townhouse overtop the Theatre. Lenore comes to the end of the staircase where it cuts off in the open air just underneath the ruined remains of the townhouse¡¯s basement ceiling. It was only when Lenore raises her hand to the rotting wood that a hatch is revealed just above her head.


    She climbs through the hatch. The townhouse had been abandoned for over a decade. Most of it had collapsed in on itself. What was once its parlour is the only area still standing, although only by the skin of its teeth. Half of the room is caved in. Bits of drywall and brick pile like an avalanche. The window on the west-facing wall is cracked and yellow with mold and dust.


    The little lady drops her bag on the dirty floor. She takes a seat on the cushioned windowsill, ignoring the wet crunch of the decomposing fabric. With softening eyes, she rests her temple against the glass. This is her preferred place for brooding.


    The city is a bittersweet scene of the rise of the sun behind the black horizon of the border wall. It¡¯s a mural of golden orange with slight undertones of red and yellow. This is the time Lenore likes the most, nowadays. When the sky is an array of warm colours, the tinted crimson of the cage is hidden. You could pretend it wasn¡¯t even there. You could almost taste the winds of freedom. Lenore looks up at that freedom with lidded tired eyes Seeping through the window, the sunlight creates a strip of searing warmth that cuts through the stagnant blue shadows of the rest of the parlour. The room glistens navy, resembling the bottom of the ocean where the light turns ethereal and suffocating.


    Her gaze falls. She reaches into her tailcoat and pulls out her knife. She slices another tiny cut into her forearm. The blood gushes slowly from her arm, dripping down into her palm. She snaps her fingers and the blood dries around the cut far too quickly for it to be natural. The blood that had escaped gathers in her palm like a swirling tidepool. Just a teaspoon of sticky red liquid.


    She stares dully at the puddle, unimpressed by the feat she has performed a hundred times. She dips the tip of her pointer finger into the blood. Letting it soaks for a second, she then lifts her finger out. The pool of blood follows her finger in a long wet strand, flowing into the air like a snake coming out of its basket. It swims, chasing her every move like a ribbon in a ribbon dance.


    Lenore plays with it as she thinks.


    This is a natural talent, a skill some people attempted learned. It came from within and it came from all. It wasn¡¯t useful because only a chosen few could use it. It was powerful because it had to be mastered and all could be masterly. Like riding a bike or learning to play the flute, all it takes is time and effort. This little show was base-level, it was one of the first things she was taught. This was just a little distraction, like twirling your pencil or taping your shoe, but it did not divert her attention as much as she tried to let it.


    ¡°The House of Romilly,¡± She muses in her head, ¡°Gracious¡­ Pristine...¡± The trail of blood begins to boil. Her brows crease with a fierce frown. ¡°Benevolent sacrifices...¡± The slow graceful flow of her blood began to jerk and bubble. She bared her teeth in a scowly grin.


    ¡°None of you have changed. Even after all these years. You are still too much.¡± She growls lowly, voice rough as a jagged rock. She speaks to the distant wall like you would a bitter old foe.


    Her grin darkens. She laughed lightheartedly, ¡°Too paranoid, too proud, and too selfish....¡±


    She snatches her bag from the floor and rips the letter out. She holds it up to the light of the dawn and the shadow of the border wall.


    ¡°Why!?¡± The blood begins to fall in droplets. The angrier she got the more the blood dripped down. ¡°What is this!? What are you trying to prove!? I am not--!¡± She throws the letter to the ground. All her blood has fallen, she¡¯s lost control of it. It soaks into the windowsill cushions.¡°--Your toy to be played with!¡±


    There¡¯s no reply. Not that she expected one. She closes her eyes, her anger having gone cold.


    ¡°...I had better get that blanket.¡± Lenore whispers. The lack of sleep and stress made her sickly, but she fought against the hold of her loneliness. ¡°She will be terrible in the morning without her beauty sleep. Well, she is already terrible in the mornings.¡±


    With a weak swipe of her hand, she pulls her blood from the furniture, sucking up every last drop. It floats like frozen raindrops. Then she plucks an empty vial from her bag. With a flippant hand, she guides her blood into the vial and seals it tight. She picks up her bag and smooths out her attire. Her movements cause the dust to shake out of her clothing like dandruff.Stolen story; please report.


    Looking at the blood-filled vial though, a thought occurs to her, ¡°I have not powered the Theatre in a while...¡± She hesitates, ¡°Perhaps I should do that before I return.¡±


    Pocketing the vial, she takes a deep breath and looks out the window one last time. The sky is warm with morning colours and the moon had disappeared in the sun¡¯s wake.


    ¡°Good. Not even the gracious moon would share the sky with me, anyway.¡±


    ~*~


    Every room in the Theatre is significant and Lenore had crafted each one with a purpose. But the room that came first and the room that surpassed all the others is the little room underneath floor ten. Lenore¡¯s room is where the magic happens, for a turn of phrase, and it is important to check on it every once in a while


    That is exactly what Lenore tells herself. She is not doing this to avoid going back to the library with Odell. She still has to clean up that mess. This is not a way for her to run away from her problems. Lenore didn¡¯t do that, cowards did.


    That is what she tells herself as she unlocks the door to her room. It swings open.


    ¡°What...?¡±


    The room is clean. The papers are gone, the furniture is upright, and the pot was spotless and standing.


    She doesn¡¯t panic. She doesn¡¯t.


    Lenore creeps into the room. Her hands shake as she reaches for the pot. Nothing. It is empty. Her vision, blurring near the edges, meets the ground. Nothing, it is clean. Cleaner than it had been in years. No papers, no dust, and no concoction. It is gone. She stumbles back.


    When had the room started shaking? There is a deep thud to her left. She swivels around. Why is the pot lying on the ground?


    She didn¡¯t¡ªWhen had¡ªWhat the hell was going on?


    The air is getting thick. It chokes her as she takes in a series of rapid gasps. The papers are gone, the furniture is upright; the pot is spotless and standing, and her project was missing. It¡¯s missing. Her back hits the wall and her legs give out. Her chest hurt, it was burning with painful thuds that wracked her shivering body.


    She has to stop. She has to calm down. Her collar wrinkles in her hands. Her scalp hurts. She¡¯s tugging at the messy strands of her hair. She¡¯s all dirty. Dust from the books at the library and dust from the abandoned windowsill. The room is cleaner than she is. Hadn¡¯t she just taken a shower? Where had all the dust gone? Where had her project gone?


    Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!


    Her heartbeat pounds loud in her ears. She¡¯s panicking.


    ¡°Get up!¡± Lenore is curled in the corner, knees under her chin and face buried in her hands. Why was her face all clammy? ¡°Get up, you fool!¡±


    Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!


    When had her chest started to hurt?


    ¡°What are you, a child hiding under her bed!? Get up! What kind of adult sits in the corner having fits of ridiculous fancy!? Get up!¡±


    Lenore lets out a snively gasp. The air tastes sweet as she gulps it in furiously. She stumbles onto her feet. Her body is drained, and she moves like a newborn deer walking on freshly formed ice. Her stomach hurts, her head hurts, but she is okay. It is okay. Her eyes flutter open. A clean room and a missing experiment greet her.


    ¡°All right, All right. I¡¯m fine. I¡¯m calm. It¡¯s fine.¡± Her words are slurred ad she¡¯s dizzy. There¡¯s a faint ache in her bones.


    Nevertheless, her eyes sharpen as she scans the room.


    ¡°It... It is my own fault for leaving the room as I did...¡± She sits down in her chair, ¡°I just have to find it.¡±


    With closed eyes, she looks.


    She feels throughout the Theatre, through the stairways and the stages. She need not move to be anywhere in the building. In essence, Lenore Laymon is the Theatre. Yes, it is made mostly of steel and polished stone but the lifeblood of the building, how it moved and breathed, that was her. Her blood pumps in the Theatre¡¯s artificial veins. Lenore is its heart. Still, a heart does not beat because it wants to. It beats because it needs to. It is an impulse that takes not thought nor conscious decision making. She can feel the Theatre in her like a fantasy and fantasies can only exist in half dreams and the subconsciousness.


    Her blood lives in her experiment just as it did in her Theatre. It has only a little of her blood, barely a few tablespoons, but it would be enough to find it. It has to be.


    ********


    It feels like riding on a tidal wave. As weightless as a wisp of smoke but strong like a raging waterfall. Present but fleeting, she beats through the metal beams of floor ten. Every inch of steel and glass is pulsing and lively. Nothing out of the ordinary.


    Reaching to the room above and the room above that, all was clear. Ordinary. Rattling through the staircase; peeking through the locks. Pulsing in the floorboards; Odell is dreaming in the library. Bookshelves. An empty chair. A vacant desk. A feeling that can¡¯t be realized. Scorching fire over fickle water. Away to other floors; Mr. Tanner sleeping on floor six. A little room within the walls. He felt familiar and cold.


    All around are scents; stone, metal, blood. Stuffy sounds like water boiling and wind whipping. No voices but songs; deep lullabies and faint melodies. Miles pass in minutes. Shaking everything she passed. Disrupting. Freakish. Strange.


    Loose threads and toy wheels. Pounding through stone to bright lights and moving hallways. But nothing. Nobody.


    No other life. Empty floor through empty floor. Nothing. Usual and predictable. Haunting sensations guide away; above there. Floor four. Rounded and dark. Coloured faces and hanging clothes. Nothing...


    But then. A phantom feeling in the shadows. A mist of power. A tense wind; it flicks like a cat''s tail. It is new and finicky. Herself but so far away; you but someone else all in one. Another conscious. Another life. Similar. Foreign.


    It looks back at her. Feeling but no form. They blink.


    ********


    Lenore¡¯s eyes snap open. The fantasy fades into background noise, except for that phantom feeling. She feels it like the hallucination of a man half lost of mind.


    But what strikes her hardest, puts a quickness to her breath, was that it was alive. What other feelings could burn so bright with hunger? It was alive but how?


    ¡°I have to get to it.¡± She thinks. She jumps to her feet, sprinting from the room and up the stairs. She¡¯s too caught up in her thoughts to even watch where she was going. Her stomach is queasy, she must look like a drunken wreck. She sprints and sprints until she gets to the multi elevator, tumbling into its platform. She has to lean heavily against the elevator sidebars to catch her breath. She is panting hard enough to drive a hacking cough from her overworked body.


    But her mind doesn¡¯t let her rest.


    ¡°It is alive.¡± She whispered in her head ¡°Holy shit¡­ It¡¯s alive...¡± With that sudden thought, she pulls out her knife.


    ~*~


    The Aurora Array is a glorious show of colour and puppetry and it was the only room in the Theatre that was round. Like a coliseum, high rising seats on all sides enclosing a circled stage in the centre. The Harlequin is the messiest room, The Play Cave is the fanciest, the Absinthe is the smelliest, and the Goldmine is the smokiest. The Aurora is the darkest.


    Lenore exits the elevator. As she makes her way to the Aurora¡¯s front foyer she holds her knife tensely by her side. She stands confident and tall, metaphorically at least, but privately she is jittery and unsure.


    The foyer is as dark as the stage. Thin lace curtains hang off the walls, drape over tables, and litter the floor. Pale and patterned like muddy snowflakes. They dangle from the ceiling like lavish spiderwebs. Lenore doesn¡¯t have to duck as she walks under them.


    She breathes in, steeling herself. She breathes out, and she is ready.


    Fishing out her skeleton key, she unlocks the black velvet doors, stepping into the gloomy arena. White lighted lanterns dangled up high like the fireflies of a grim twilight evening.


    The Aurora is childlike in nature. Designed after the dreams of those untouched by indifference. Made for the liveliest of guests but not necessarily the living.


    It¡¯s so pretty here.


    Lenore came to this room very little. But as she focuses, she can feel every crevice and cleft. Smooth stone and worn leather. She can feel its presence hovering in the centre of the stage. Cautiously, the little lady holds her knife in front of her chest, offensively. The ground below them shakes slightly as she closes in.


    What are those things up there? They look like stars.


    She creeps across the floor, silent as a ghost, towards the¡­ thing. The fingers of her free hand reach out and mime a grasping action. The floorboards copy her movements and curl them upwards, quiet as a mouse. They loosely caged around the Being like a clawed hand.


    I like it!


    It looks so¡­ delicate. Flimsy papers rustle faintly from its internal wind created by the flux of blue substance channelled at the orb barely visible at its center. Its body is a frail thing, holding very little shape or structure. It is an ethereal sight.


    I¡­ think...


    There is red though too. She can feel it. Red erupts like sparks, fleetingly rippling alongside the blue. She can smell it, faint iron enticing her nose. It is her red, that¡¯s why she can feel it so strongly. But¡­ there is also another red there. She¡­ she can feel it too?


    I¡¯m forgetting something...?


    It feels¡­ confused. But happy. It feels safe and gentle. It makes her hesitate. The spears of metal and wood freeze. They point sharp and ominously like sabres. Like fangs. So close to pouncing on the Being. So close to piercing it paper flesh.


    I want¡­ I want to go home.


    Lenore is right behind it. It floats above the ground. It is taller than her and yet it feels so small. It¡¯s ignorant of the little lady¡¯s presence. Lenore relaxes her fingers and lets her free hand fall to her side. The fangs of the floorboards sink away into the darkness


    Where am I? Where am I from?


    Now that she is behind the Being she feels its presence all the stronger. It is so close she swears she can almost hear it. It is weird. This quiet, chipper voice. She slips the knife into her tailcoat.


    I¡­ I¡¯d like to go outside. How do I get out of this place?


    It turns around. Two big holes in its papery skin; they widened and the swirls of blue and red are aware and conscious. There is a slit underneath them. It opens just a little, the corners flex down like it¡¯s frowning.


    ... Who are you...?


    They stare at each other. Surprise, confusion, wonder.


    ¡°...Hello, I am Lenore Laymon. And you are?¡±

 Awakened Ado

    Introductions are very important. They only happen once after all.


    There is a long moment of quiet after the little lady spoke, in her formally curt tone of voice, to the Being she had concocted. Now, she merely has to wait for it to reply. The Being peers down at her with its big peculiar eyes, ribbons of its substance waving around its paper body. This close, it looks like a child''s ghost costume.


    Everything is so still.


    Lenore thinks privately to herself as she stands there waiting for a reply, ¡°So this is what my project concocted? This ethereal being¡­ It is in some measure myself created anew. But it is also someone else. But who could they be? How did they become entwined in my work? I never thought I¡¯d see something like this. Certainly not in person. Least of all being the one to cause such a phenomenon in the first place. Two halves creating a new whole. Who knows what this could mean. The power it could poses. The possibilities¡­ What profound things it could be thinking right now!¡±


    Wow¡­ You¡¯re so tiny!


    Expectations very rarely live up to reality.


    Her thoughts halt in their tracks.


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± Lenore gawks up at the Being. She raises an offended hand to her chest in shock. The Being, however, seems to be smiling now, the slit under its big eyes spreading wide around its¡­ head?


    Her creation whorls around Lenore like an overexcited puppy chasing its own tail forcing the little lady to spin around and around trying to keep an eye on it. The Being jabbers on like a perky preschooler.


    Are you a kid?


    Lenore twirls in one direction and the Being swirls in the other direction. ¡°Hardly! I am a full-grown adult--!¡±


    But how? Adults are big and you¡¯re like a mouse!


    Lenore sputters indignantly. ¡°A mouse!? I beg your pardon-!¡±


    I guess you are in that fancy suit though... It spins back to look at the front of her tailcoat. Lenore follows it in vain, her face growing redder and redder. You have a tie thingy too!


    ¡°It''s called a neckerchief. Now would you please-!¡±


    Oh! Are you a dwarf then-?


    ¡°Enough!¡± Lenore is nearly seething as the being finally stills. She wavers a little, dizzy from all the spinning. Her hair is on ends and frizzy. All in all, she resembles a startled tabby kitten.


    ¡°I am not a dwarf. Not that there is anything wrong with being a dwarf. I¡¯m not a dwarf.¡± She huffs, tightening her neckerchief and smoothing back her hair. The Being¡¯s smile does not die at the little lady''s cross intonation. Being the brightest light in the room, its smile is like a thousand watt light bulb. ¡°The fact that I am not six feet tall does not mean that I am not an adult.¡±


    They¡¯re staring at each other once again, Lenore looking up and the Being looking down, but their gazes are vastly different. Lenore studies the Being. It bobs back and forth like a water buoy, innocently smiling its creepily wide smile. Stupidly, naively, incredibly innocent. Perhaps there wasn¡¯t much of herself in this thing after all.


    Her eyes narrowed.


    ¡°Well? Are you going to answer my question?¡± She says, crossing her arms.


    It cocks its head to the side, confused.


    Did you ask a question? Sorry... It grins sheepishly, I guess I got a little excited. You''re the first person I met who could hear me and you¡¯re not as scary.


    ¡°Right,¡± Lenore barely resists the urge to roll her eyes. ¡°As I have already said; Hello. I am Lenore Laymon. And you are?¡± She gestures toward the Being with a condescending smile of her own.


    The Beings smile fades slightly, piquing Lenore¡¯s interest. The blue glow it was surrounded in dimmed and it seemed to shrink into itself. It looked taken back at her question.


    I¡¯m, um, I¡¯m not sure. It''s a little hard to remember.


    ¡°Is it? All right. Tell me, what do you remember?¡±


    The Being shuffles side to side as it ¡®speaks¡¯ to her. Its mouth does not move but Lenore hears its words clear as day. Its voice is airy. Echoing in the back of her head as if its words are her own thought.


    Um, I remember a little room. It was really messy! I tried to clean it but I don¡¯t have any¡­ hands or arms so¡­ I think I had arms before but I don¡¯t remember when. But I don''t really remember anything specific from before the little room. Was it your room?


    ¡°Yes. I was working on a project--¡±


    Is everything you have so little?


    Lenore shot it a rather icy glare.


    Sorry. It doesn¡¯t sound sorry with its sing-song timbre.


    She sighs, ¡°I was working on a project¡ªa spell as some would call it¡ªwhen it seemed to fail. I believe you were manifested from that spell-¡±


    A spell!? Now it is back to its overexcited rambling. Great. You mean like magic and stuff? Is what all those books and tools were for? And that enormous pot!?


    ¡°Bloody help me....¡± The little lady groans, head in her hands. The Being kept on rambling and jabbering, undeterred by Lenore icy disposition. ¡°I am getting nowhere with this thing, am I?¡± Through her fingers, Lenore peeps up at it. It''s floating in circles above her head like a drunken bird. It won¡¯t stop talking.


    She feels a headache coming. She walks away and leans against the closest wall separating the stage from the rows of seats. Maybe if she wais long enough it will shut up on its own. Hopefully.


    --Are you a witch? Or is that rude, like a slur or something? Do you prefer being called a wizard or a sorcerer or maybe a--


    Sighing, Lenore let her head tip back, smacking against the concrete. Of all the things she had been expecting, this - a floating, jabbering curtain with an attention span so short a sneeze would last longer - had not been it. She¡¯s tired just from watching it. Although, admittedly, the little sleep she had been getting was probably the major cause of that.


    --What kind of spells do you do? Can you turn frogs into flowers or make people disappear? Oh! Could you summon ghouls or demons with that big pot--


    It¡¯s like a child, blabbering on and on with stupid question after stupid question¡­


    ¡°Like a child?¡± Her eyes widen. She bits her lip as the idea comes to her, stomach lurching.


    ¡°No, it isn¡¯t possible..¡± She stands and begins to pace becak and forth. ¡°How would a child have even come in contact with my room? How would anyone? It''s completely inaccessible--¡±


    To anyone else, the room would be dead silent but for the faint sizzle of the lanterns above them. Dark and chilly, only the barest outline of the two figures are visible as they fumble around like raving lunatics. Frankly, they look rather ridiculous raving around like they are.


    --Are there others here like you too? Is that what this place is for? Is it your fortress or castle or--


    ¡°--The ingredients they brought me¡­ Odell said the deliverer was new. But then how could they have come to possess--¡±


    The Being flutters around the room as carefree as a butterfly that had recently been smacked one too many times with a fly swatter.


    --Is that why I¡¯m here? Am I a new helper you¡¯ve summoned? Oh! Or am I an ingredient like the kids from that fairy tale with the candy house--


    Lenore is as panicky as a rabies-ridden squirrel. One minute she is biting at her nails, the next she is tugging at her hair, and the next after that she is cool and calm. She is a bundle of emotions overcrowd in one little stressed out ball of middle-aged angst.


    They go on like this for a little while. After a few minutes, though, the Being stops. The little lady doesn¡¯t.


    ¡°--There is no of samples left so I cannot study them to find their source. I will have to investigate the old-fashioned way--¡±


    The Being is looking up at the lanterns again, apparently having become distracted from its magic focused blathering. It is enraptured by the silvery lights, like stars in a midnight sky or pearls in the deepest recesses of the ocean.


    ¡­ Miss Laymon?


    This stops the little lady mid-thought. It had been many minutes since the Being had addressed her specifically. She turns to answer her creation. The change in temperament is¡­ startling.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    The Being drifts down to Lenore, floating by her side. Its eyes don¡¯t stray from the glittering ceiling.


    What are those things up there?


    Lenore looks up at the lanterns. They covered the dome of the ceiling, each one only a little speck in the grand landscape. Clearing her throat, Lenore answers.


    ¡°Those are lanterns. Around a hundred of them are suspended from fire-resistant wire ropes hanging from the ceiling.¡±


    Hmm... It hums in understanding, innocently happy as expected. Although Lenore finds its rambling annoying, when it is quiet as it is now she has to admit it is a comforting presence unlike any other she had ever met. It¡¯s unsettling how comfortably familiar the Being feels.


    They¡¯re pretty.


    ¡°I would hope so.¡±


    You made them? It turns to her, curious but not surprised.


    ¡°Yes, I did.¡±


    The Being looks wistful.


    ¡­ You also made me, didn¡¯t you?


    Lenore¡¯s warm hazel eyes meet its ethereal blue as if they could keep staring at each other forever, so fascinated they are with each other''s existence. She shakes her head wordlessly.


    You didn¡¯t? But then how am I¡­


    Lenore pulls a vial out of her pocket, holding it up to so the Being can see the blood sluggishly sloshed within the glass. She opens the vial and her blood slithers out.


    ¡°Everything has limits. We can push, challenge, or foster them, but we cannot erase them. People have limits too.¡± Soon the blood is wriggling like ribbons around the little lady, not unlike the way the Beings blue and red wriggled around them.


    ¡°You can transform things.¡± Her blood forms shapes in the air. A smile brightens the Being''s face as the blood transforms into a parade of mini marching elephants. Behind the elephants, tiny monkeys swing in invisible trees. Monkeys dressed as clowns with little horn, or little dresses and suits. Little people dance behind the monkeys; mimes with their little berets, ballet dancers in their tights and tutus, and the lion tamers riding on the backs of their fearsome cats. Drummers drum and dancers dance to a silent tune.


    A mini circus of oddities. Crimson watery figures that wallow and dribble like melting wax, they look like they could melt away at any second. The faint whiffs of iron in the room intensifies. They parade in pace with each weave of the little lady¡¯s hands. Lenore is their ringmaster, waving her hands like the conductor of a great opera.


    The Being is ecstatic, laughing gaily without a care in the world.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°You can control things.¡± Stopping the parade midair she points up at the lanterns and with a snap of her fingers, crisp and clear, the lanterns go out all at once. The Being yelps in surprise.


    What--? Lenore shushes her creation.


    She snaps her fingers again and half the lanterns relighted. Looking out of the corner of her eye, she shoots the Being a smirk.


    With a sharp flick of her wrists, the lanterns twinkle. Hundreds of them going out and relighting like flashing fireflies or volcanoes erupting and cooling in patterns. The flames rise massive and bright then dimming into faintly orange coals. The parade marches higher and higher, all the way up to the lanterns. They walk to a waltzing beat. One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three. Over and over, slow but bombastic.


    The room growing is warmer. Bright reds and oranges not overpowering the ethereal blue but blending with it, spreading rays of violet and rose.


    With a laugh, the Being soars around the room gleefully. It twists through the fiery sea of lanterns, flying close to the coals but zooming away when the flames blaze again. It twirls around the bloody parade, smiling at the dancers and laughing at the monkeys. Lenore almost doesn¡¯t want to stop. But, alas, she does.


    ¡°... But you cannot truly create things.¡± The parade melts as Lenore draws her blood back into the vial. The lanterns steady, the blazes of fire simmering down to a gentle, sober flame.


    The Being freezes at the woman''s sombre tone, laughter dying and blue light dimming. Looking down from the ceiling, the Being watches her lower her hands and rub at her temples. It slowly sinks down to the ground as she finishes her speech.


    ¡°¡®Magic¡¯ cannot make people because ¡®magic¡¯ isn¡¯t magical. It takes planning and effort and even then you can¡¯t make something from nothing. You can only change things that are already there.¡± She sighs, feeling the faint wind of the Being as it meets the ground. ¡°I don¡¯t know who you were. I just changed you from what you used to be. Accidentally.¡±


    Silence. Dead air.


    ¡°I am sorry-¡±


    So what now? The Being cuts her off. Lenore¡¯s jaw clenches. The pale Being¡¯s eyes are so wide.


    ¡°What now¡­?¡± She thinks, her head still down. She catches sight of something resting on her hip. Her hag mask. Letting her finger trace its polished glass face, she gazes up at her creature.


    ¡°I have a friend I think you should meet.¡±


    ~*~


    The city is silent but the winding avenue roads are not clear of life. Around the courtyard outside the Theatre¡¯s civilian entrance, people bustle to and fro all of them harried and unhappy. There is no one on a cheery morning walk or a happy stroll through the neighbourhood greeting the people and the day with bright smiles and laughter. From where these people stood, only a fool would find a noise such as laughter or any other gaily sound to be a comfort.


    As Lenore pries open the back entryway at the southern end of the townhouse, she did so as quietly as possible. The rotten wood of the door is rancid, and the humidity made it all the more noxious. She holds her breath as mold and dust rain down on her from the top of the doorway.


    A filthy alleyway of rat-infested dumpsters and the remains of emptied chamber pots. The poorest homes have no working plumbing. Despite all that, Lenore finds her present environment rather mundane. She travels this route often, on those rare occasions when she actually leaves her room. Those very rare occasions. Checking the alley for any people she already knows won¡¯t be there, she thinks out a message to the Being still hidden within the decaying doorway.


    ¡°All right, let''s get moving before the day gets any later.¡± She gestures for it to follow her.


    The Being is covered with heavy wool cape and hood that Lenore had haphazardly thrown over its form. It bumbles its way outside, tumbling side to side trying to find its balance.


    Um, do I really have to wear this the whole trip? It¡¯s really heavy¡­


    ¡°It would be best not to cause a scene and as,¡± Lenore watches stoically as the Being tips backward suddenly, nearly falling into a putrid-smelling garbage can. She rolls her eyes. ¡°used to your particular brand of unusualness I have gotten, I doubt others would feel the same. Stay low to the ground, it won¡¯t do for anyone to see you floating above the ground. It will also bee easier for you to keep yourself steady. And no matter what, stay quiet.¡±


    She turns and strides away, travelling briskly and untethered by her far lighter disguise. A buttoned-up blouse and loose brown trousers. She¡¯s wearing a different mask. Eyes a forget-me-knot blue with long pretty lashes and big brown curls. The face of a doll-like little girl. Hopefully, they won¡¯t run into anyone at all. Of the do, perhaps the Being could be passed off for her lame grandparent.


    The Being shadows her. The little doll-like girl followed by the mountain-sized hunchback. The little girl and her monster. At first glance.


    They walk silently, internally and externally. From one dirty alleyway to another, batting away flies and tiptoeing over rats the size of little dogs. The rats have eyes like crimson marbles. They stare up at them, unblinking, till the two of them get too close enough. The rats to snap at their feet and scurry away into the heaps of garbage or the cracks in the alley walls.


    So... The Being says, levitating as low to the ground as it can, the ends of the cape scraping against the alley floor.


    ¡°So?¡± The little lady doesn¡¯t turn around. She feels its uncertainty deep in her chest. Its curiosity burning in her throat, so innocent that it felt like bile at the back of her mouth.


    Where are we going again?


    ¡°I told you, I am taking you to a friend.¡± She takes a sharp turn to the left. A dead end.


    Okay¡­ Why?


    ¡°They should be able to help you.¡± The wall at the dead-end has a ripped tarp nailed into the stone. Lenore ducks past it. A secret entrance into the desolate building.


    Okay, It pushes against the tarp, almost tearing it off the wall as it squeezes inside with a loud fwap. You¡¯re not really telling me anything new. How is--?


    Lenore wrenches around. The mask looks like a grumpy baby doll; her mouth under turned like an upside-down V. Despite itself, the Being has to bite down a grin.


    ¡°Be. Quiet.¡± Her teeth are clenched tight. Even in her head, the words were seethed in a way that was daring the Being to challenge her. It smiles at her anyway.


    Sorry, I¡¯m just curious.


    ¡°Clearly,¡± She scoffs. It¡¯s a good thing no one could hear the Being speak but her. Still, with its clumsiness, it creates quite a ruckus nonetheless. If they were caught making noise out here¡­


    ¡°All right, fine.¡± She huffs, ¡°You can ask me three more questions. I will give as much detail as your heart contents. After that, silence.¡±


    Only three? It senses her growing annoyance. It doesn¡¯t feel all too bad about it.


    ¡°Yes...¡± Lenore smothers down a smirk when the lie comes to her. ¡°It is a magical number.¡±


    Lenore hears a faint, curious gasp in the back of her head. ¡°You know, three wishes, three knocks, three witches.¡± She counts them off with her fingers. ¡°I can never lie when there are three.¡±


    It buys the lie with unparalleled enthusiasm. Assured that her creation is as under control as it can be, the little lady leads them across the dusty floors towards the pass-through door between the townhouses. The abandoned buildings in this area are dead; the air is stale, and the interior is a colorless, sickly grey. Like an old black and white film that the Beings natural glow doesn¡¯t fit into.


    The Being is thinking over its three ¡®magic¡¯ questions. Momentarily forgetting to lie low, it floats, dodging webs and fallen beams that dangle loosely from the ceiling. One misstep could send the entire upper floor crashing down onto their heads. Good thing Lenore knows this area like she knows her Theatre.


    I got it! The Being flies up beside her creating a gust of wind, sending the dust up like a fog. What¡¯s your job?


    Huh¡­ Not quite the kind of question she was expecting...


    ¡°Really? This is the first question?¡± She raises an eyebrow as she opens the door separating this home from the other. Most of the door is off its hinge and the next home was indistinguishable from the last.


    Well, yeah! It beams down at her; You did all that magic stuff before we left, right? And you live in a theatre. Do you perform or work backstage or something?


    ¡°No.¡± She waves a flippant hand. ¡°I... Well, I don''t have a job per se. I maintain the Theatre and as such, I am able to inhabit it.¡±


    So you¡¯re not paid at all? Why not? The Being inquires, sounding genuinely interested.


    ¡°Is that your second question?¡±


    Hey! You said I could ask for more detail! She smirks a little at the obvious pout in the Being''s voice.


    ¡°Fine, fine. Let¡¯s just say, I am not welcome in this city. Finding a normal, paying job is not a priority for me, I have other things to be worrying about.¡± Lenore runs a hand through her false hair uncomfortably. The Being feels a tingle, a shiver that made its sapphire light pull back and the ruby essence at its core flare. Like a burst of flame in a newborn campfire, it feeds on the thin threads of passion that the Being senses from the little lady. It cools soon after.


    They reach the next townhouse door. Stepping through the little lady wants to curse. The floorboards had given out, leaving a long hole of jagged wood and metal beams sticking up like spears.


    Can I help? The Being tries to float over the cave-in but its cape weighs it down. The little lady yanks it back before it could fall in.


    ¡°Not with your cape on.¡± Lenore studies where the walls met the floorboards. In the corners, there are spots of black and dark green, the wallpaper going brown and brittle. She notices that the collapsed floorboards in the hole are in a similar but albeit worse condition. It looks like the wood is covered in moss and lightly singed.


    ¡°Mold. Recent to.¡± Lenore puzzles. This hadn¡¯t been here the last time she travelled this route. But, how long ago had that been? She sidesteps along the wall, the remaining floor under her feet no more than a half of a foot wide.


    The Being gives a little shriek when the floorboards creak under her weight like a dying cat.


    You¡¯re gonna fall! It tries to float again, doing little more than rouse the dust. Hang on, I''m coming over!


    ¡°No!¡± Lenore holds out her palms and the Being stops warily. She scratches under her false chin, thinking. She¡¯s too tired for any more spontaneous feats. Between Odell¡¯s performance, that demonstration she did for the Being, and the weeks she had spent working on her project, she doesn¡¯t have it in her to do anything too dynamic. This will have to be dealt with using brains rather than brawn.


    ¡°Can you take off your cape?¡± She asks.


    The Being rustles it¡¯s paper body making more fwaping noises, this doing nothing but making the hood fall back and causing the cloth to become lopsided. The tightly knotted string holding the cape together will not budge but the Being keeps trying, getting louder and louder as it shakes like a wet dog. The more it shakes, the brighter its light gets.


    ¡°Shh!¡± She holds a finger to her lips, and the Being stops. Unfortunately, this does nothing to stifle the blinding light that shone from under its papery skin. Rays of red and blue continue to beam. The Being illuminates the darkest spaces of room, uncovering the twitching fangs of a horde of spiders. The light blinds them and suddenly the spiders swarm in and out of the massive cave-in. Widows, weavers, and recluses charged like a disoriented army. Lenore stumbles backwards. The Being shrieks, stumbling alongside Lenore and throwing more light across the floor which only made the horde scatter faster.


    ¡°Run through the door!¡± The little lady commands, so startled that she shouts her words aloud rather than in her head, ¡°Out! Out!¡±


    They flee. The Being has the luxury of floating above the ground while Lenore has to hop over the spiders and rat carcass. The Being squeals again.


    There¡¯s one on my head! It¡¯s on my head!


    Lenore feels a scratchy itching sensation on her shoulder. Another appears on her head. Then her back. And then again on her other shoulder. She shakes and a pile of jittery black spiders fall off her body. Oh, isn¡¯t that just perfect? Lenore glances up and sees a pack of them skittering along the ceiling. As the Being¡¯s light lands on them, they drop to the ground. Right down on their heads.


    Lenore uncorks her vial of blood. She swipes half of the blood against the floor, flicking the spiders out of her path, and uses the other half to form an umbrella over their heads. She hears the pitter-patter of the arachnids as they rain down.


    The Being tumbles outside first, followed closely by Lenore. She swats the leftover spiders back into the townhouse and slams the door shut. She leans forward, hands on her knees. The Being is shaking.


    ¡­ I don¡¯t think we should go this way.


    Lenore scoffs, ¡°Oh really? Because I thought that went fantastically¡­¡±


    ¡­ That was cool though¡­! The Being laughs, a bit breathless.


    ¡°Was it? I would call it a daunting experience of sheer terror and bewilderment personally.¡±


    No, I mean when you were defending us from spiders! It was cool! Oh, can you teach me how to do that!?


    Lenore straightens. How the Being looks, bright-eyed and hopeful. Apprehensive, she gathers her blood into her palm, picking a fuzzy spider leg out of the bodily fluid.


    ¡°I¡¯m not much of a teacher,¡± She shrugs, ¡°But, I suppose we can try a quick lesson¡­¡±


    Lenore twists her wrists in a circular motion and her blood slithers between her fingers. Her blood is controlled with a steeled hand, it did not move without reason, it never wandered without permission, like the creeping of a bitter grapevine.


    ¡°Shall we begin?¡±


    The Being beams.


    Okay!


    ~*~


    Odell wakes up. Her nose is stuffy and her limbs ache from being curled in one position for too long. Her head pounds although it¡¯s not due to the twenty or so cups of wine from last night. Odell was one of those lucky jack¡¯s who didn¡¯t get hangovers. She just isn¡¯t much of a morning person.


    She shifts, stretching as she notices the distinctly wrinkled fabric of a certain someone''s tailcoat draped over her torso. Cranky as she is, she has to smile. Shuffling out of her cocoon of cushions and papers, Odell notes with some disappointment that she is alone.


    Sighing, she trudges out of the library to wash up. Lenore was probably back in her room and knowing her she probably had spent the entire night obsessing over that damn letter. Oh well.


    ¡°I should put mickey in her coffee when I wrestle her out for breakfast. Maybe then she¡¯ll finally take a decent nap.¡± She mumbles to herself. Odell snickers as she thought of the indignant squawk of disapproval that Lenore would make when the singer comes to find her. She holds up Lenore¡¯s neckerchief, tightly gripped in her palm. Lenore could be so difficult sometimes but eventually, she¡¯ll burn herself out. Odell didn¡¯t understand how she hadn¡¯t already done so.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be there for her when she does,¡± Odell thinks, ¡°If she lets me at least.¡±


    ¡°Miss Averill!¡± Odell is startled from her thoughts when Mr. Tanner bursts into the Goldmine, ¡°Miss Averill! Please come quickly!¡±


    He¡¯s a mess, wild-eyed and dishevelled. Odell could scarcely recognize the man in front of her. Bedraggled lounging robe and stuck out hair, his face was what struck her the most. He is as pale as clouded glass. She had never seen him like this.


    ¡°Mr. Tanner! Are you all right? What''s wrong?¡± She dashes to meet him at the door frame. He gasped while she checks him over; he kept his head down like he was afraid to face her. He¡¯s not injured. What could all this fuss be about?


    ¡°Officials!¡± She freezes ¡°They¡¯re at the door¡ªa dozen of them¡ªI don¡¯t know what they want!¡±

 Timekeeping

    ¡°The mind can do what reality cannot. Take a moment and feel nothing.¡±


    The smell of iron clogs the senses.


    ¡°Next you must feel yourself. All of you is in your body, inconstant and delicate, you cannot exist outside of yourself. Outside of your own control.¡±


    Everything is warm.


    ¡°You may consciously flex your arm. You may consciously tap your foot. Now...¡±


    The monster and the child face each other.


    ¡°Become conscious of the most vital parts of yourself. Make those parts bend to your will.¡±


    Lenore¡¯s ribbons of crimson spread like the roots of a grand oak tree. The Being had only thin strands that fluttered uncontrollably in a mythical wind. Lenore opens her eyes and watches the Being. It is struggling. She¡¯s not surprised.


    Lenore uses her arms, hands, and fingers to control the path her blood takes. She breathes steadily in a calming rhythm, leaning side to side so that her center-of-gravity shifts to her inner tune. The Being on the other hand¡­


    No arms, no hands, no fingers, no legs, no lungs¡­


    The little lady sighs, ¡°Stop.¡±


    It freezes, stopping its awkward shuffling attempts at copying her.


    Lenore wraps her blood into a dippy floating orb, holding it in her fingers. ¡°This is not about your outer body. Focus on your...¡± She thinks for a second. What exactly is the fluid it¡¯s surrounded with? Red but much lighter than blood. Blue but much thicker than water. What should she call it? It¡¯s essence? Substance? ¡°... fluids. The movements you will use to control it will come to you later and it will inevitably differ from mine. For now, just be still.¡±


    The Being studies the streams of fluid that emanated from its paper frame. It¡¯s like the fluid has a mind of its own. The Being would tell it to go left and it would go right, up, and down but never left. It doesn¡¯t feel like a part of the Being but then again, almost everything about itself felt disconnected. Every part of itself felt foreign in the most indescribable way.


    I¡­ I¡¯m not good at this¡­ The Being shrink; deflating like a balloon into its dark cape.


    Lenore scowls. The Being looks so pathetic, like a kicked puppy in the rain. Her expression softens just a little. It¡¯s not as if the Being isn¡¯t trying. It¡¯s not like she didn¡¯t suffer from the same insecurities when she was still learning.


    Suddenly, her vision fizzles out. Lenore finds herself pulling away from reality.


    There is no sadness quite like the loss of the past, especially when there is no place to put blame but the murk of one¡¯s memory. Like the dreary swamp of an invisible quicksand. So slow in its swallowing yet we let it be; we forget how fragile a thought is even in the depths of the mind it originated. We let it be, we watch, but we do not notice as our dreams and ideas are disintegrated. Forever to be lost despite our belated digging. Gone; we are left to wonder if the past was ever even real.


    But it was.


    ********


    A cool night had finally arrived after a long hot day. There was a little girl. She appears young and, at the time, she was.


    Her arms shook and sweat gathered by the gallon at her brow. In the air, she barely managed to hold a few minuscule drops of blood above the ground.


    ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± Tears pool in her hazel eyes from the strain, ¡°I can¡¯t hold this position any more! It¡¯s too heavy!¡±


    A chuckle, too youthful to be an adult¡¯s but too deep to be a child¡¯s. ¡°It¡¯s all right, darling. We can take a break and try an easier task later. Perhaps moving the droplets across the floor would be easier for now.¡±


    It was late. They had been at this for hours and still, she could only hold up a few measly drops. Almost nothing. She sagged against her will and with her, her blood did the same. It dribbles into a puddle, staining her shoes.


    ¡°I-I can¡¯t do this...¡± She sniffled ¡°I¡¯m not good at--¡±


    To the little girl¡¯s surprise, she did not receive a scowl or a scolding, rather she got a cackle and soon after she felt her chin being cupped in someone''s dry pale hand.


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t fret.¡± A smile. Warm, loving eyes. Familiar, and yet she can¡¯t quite picture their face. ¡°The good only get good after they were bad. You¡¯ll get there in your own time.¡±


    ********


    Oh.


    Like a puzzle piece that slips from the table or a dollar that¡¯s not clutched tight enough, the moment slips away from Lenore. Blinking rapidly, the little lady finds herself back in the alleyway. The Being is looking at her, stunned.


    Was that you?


    She narrows her eyes at the Being, ¡°Pardon?¡±


    Um, a little girl and a voice. I saw something-


    ¡°You--¡± In her shock, she fumbles her orb of blood, barely catching it before it spattered onto the dusty alley floor. ¡°You can see my thoughts as well?¡±


    I guess so.


    Lenore runs a hand through her mask¡¯s hair, pulling hard against the stubborn curls. She bites her too plump lips. They don¡¯t have time to dwell on this. Curiosity be damned.


    ¡°We¡¯ll talk about that later. Look, I promise I know someone that can really help you figure all this out.¡± She speaks in what she hopes is a soothing tone, ¡°But first, we have to get to them. And we¡¯re already running late.¡±


    The Being flutters anxiously. It wants to keep trying; It wants to give up. But most of all, it wants to learn more about this strange, magical woman it had only just met. The little lady is almost as foreign to the Being as its own body, and yet, also so familiar. A part of it outside of itself. Was that a memory it had just experienced? Her memory? The little girl the Being had seen, she was¡­


    You know, It shoots Lenore a smile, its glowing eyes are mischievous with a child''s glee, You really aren¡¯t much taller than when you were little. You looked so cute!


    Lenore playfully rolls her eyes. ¡°Shall we go meet my friend and see if they can assist you?¡±


    The Being hesitates.


    ¡°You are very indecisive, you know that?¡± Lenore pulls her blood back into its vial and tugs on the Being¡¯s cloak, leading them both down the alleyway. Unfortunately, since her shortcut isn¡¯t an option, they will have to take the long way. And even more unfortunately, the long way is going to be far more crowded.


    The two of them return to the back door of the Theatre. She checks over her mask one more time, making sure not a single hair or patch of skin was out of place. Lenore then fusses over the Being, pulling and stretching the fabric as far as it would go in an effort to cover its humongous and awkward frame. Only when she¡¯s satisfied, does she guide the Being down the courtyard path until they reached the street.


    ¡°All right.¡± She forces herself to take a deep, deep breath. ¡°Now, you need to be quiet. Stick with me and we¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    It nods with a na?ve shade of determination. The being hunches over to keep the hood over its ovoid head; like this, it is an intimidating figure. With any luck that will keep the random street urchin off their backs for now.


    With a heaving push, the courtyard gates swing upon. The little lady leads them out onto the street, cracked concrete and dry dirt patches where there used to be grass. They head from the lean sidewalk to the city¡¯s main roads. All the streets in Quin city are compacted, zigzagging in sharp angles orthogonal buildings. It¡¯s like the whole city is on a giant square grid. Every street is the same width but for the main two. The Corda Roads. Best for quick travel across the city but hardly an easy way to travel inconspicuously. Every single soul in this city travels those roads. And, in Lenore¡¯s humble opinion, every single soul on those roads would be best avoided if possible.


    Luckily enough, this time of day is usually the safest. Provided, of course, that you follow one of Quin city¡¯s most crucial rules. The House of Romilly had long ago given the command in a letter, sent to and published in the morning newspaper on December 22, Year 6. The letter had said of the matter, in just three simple sentences.


    ¡°The streets of this fair city shall be silent till the clock strikes the end of mourning. 6:51 am - 10:32 am every day, no exceptions. Anyone caught speaking within this time shall be persecuted.¡±


    They had never given a reason why, not that they really needed to. No one in the city would dare to disobey. Lenore had spent too many nights agonizing over what these three sentences could mean. Why 6:51 am to 10:32? Morning doesn¡¯t end at 10:32; it doesn¡¯t start at 6:51 either.


    But now is not the time to dwell on such a matter. If she and the Being move quickly enough, they could make it off the road before 10:32.


    ¡°Whatever may happen,¡± Lenore warns, ¡°Keep your head down. Try not to make eye contact.¡±


    They come to the cross-section, where the thin street meets the main road. They step onto one of the Corda roads, Road Bermet, that ran the sun¡¯s path, east to west. Road Sapir ran in the opposite direction. From the south to the north. As soon as they pass that invisible line, both feel a tingle crawl up their backs that whispered that they were no longer alone. Even if they saw no eyes following them as they walked, they could tell they were being watched, closely. They keep their heads down.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Lenore tightens her grip on the Beings cape. She squares her jaw.


    Life is a stage, one that must be traversed with caution. Stagehand or actor, you must move with constant consideration for the audience. But in life the audience is on the stage as well and, no matter the role, all have to play their parts to perfection. Never letting the mask slip. To do anything else would be social suicide. So Lenore plays her part. She pulls her lips back in a sugar-coated smile and let her eyes twinkle with sweet glee. Today, her name is Clara Janson, an innocent little girl just minding her own business, walking down the street with her lame guardian.


    She and the Being walk along the road. They shuffle between each passerby, trying to stay close to where the road hugged the sidewalk. The sun is smouldering, and it makes faint ripples appear in the wide sheet of concrete in the distance. The rhythmic tapping of her feet paralleling with the Beings faint rustle. There is nothing else to be heard but the simple drum of simple people walking.


    While everyone else is minding their own business, heads down and justifiably paranoid, the Being is far too curious to keep its eyes to itself. It stares up at the buildings as they passed them. Butchers, bakeries, and something called a ¡®Cathouse.¡¯


    Miss?


    ¡°Hmm?¡± She continues staring straight ahead, her mask still stuck in its chilling look of delight.


    What¡¯s a cathouse?


    Lenore blinks. Tilting her head to the side, she catches sight of the building the Being had spotted. Light beige bricks with faded rouge doors. On the doors is a golden sign,


    ~Felina Van Der Venne¡¯s Kitty Cathouse~


    ¡°Well¡­ A cathouse,¡± She awkwardly tries to think of a relatively child-friendly answer, ¡°It is a place where people go to.... find comfort and leisure through a worker''s... services.¡±


    Like a spa or a circus?


    ¡°... Yes.¡±


    Oh, okay.


    A group of shapely women are leaning against the brick of a nearby barbershop, dressed with tiny skirts and see-through shirts. A polite person may call them ¡®soiled doves¡¯.


    As they walk by the little lady senses their makeup encrusted eyes drag over her figure. Lenore notices one of them roll their eyes so hard that they scarcely didn¡¯t go flying out of her head. Another woman elbows her. The group shares a smirk. Lenore goes tense when she sees the group of girls slink away from where they were standing, stalking towards her and the Being with a slimy glint in their eyes. Suddenly, they¡¯re being followed.


    The Being almost slams right into her, she stops so suddenly. Silently Lenore stares the girls down. The group goes still. The little lady does not glare, glower, or otherwise gape. Her little Clara mask splits into a wide hungry grin. Lenore slides her hand up to the belt of her trousers, pulling it down just enough to fiddle with the hilt of her knife. She flutters the pretty eyelashes of her mask and her eyes are vacant and twitchy.


    Startled, the girls flinch. Trapped under Lenore¡¯s gaze, they quickly skitter away. Lenore tugged on the cape, and they continued walking.


    Uh, what was that for? The Being questions.


    ¡°Don¡¯t let people look at you funny. They might get ideas.¡±


    The Being cocks its head in confusion but is soon distracted once more, not by the scenery but the little lady herself.


    Normally so rigged and deadpan, Lenore is skipping along like a kid on her way to the candy store. Smiling at everyone she passes, who flinch away as soon as their eyes met, it¡¯s as if she¡¯s mutated into a completely different person. The question the Being is plagued with is why.


    Nearing an old sewing mill, the crowd gets denser, slow-moving like a herd of turtles. With their peculiar guise, a tiny girl tugging along an eight-foot mountain, they pass through the crowd with relative ease. Already they had passed a couple of blocks. With the time they are making maybe, just maybe, they can make it out of here before--


    Ding... Ding... Ding... Ding!


    For fuck¡¯s sake¡­


    Across the city, perfectly north and on the brick of the city¡¯s wall, the Clock Tower chimes loud and clear. It is now 10:32 am. The end of morning.


    Sound comes back like a tidal wave, it crashes into the open air like an avalanche.


    ¡°Finally! ¡®Bout bloody time!¡± Grumbling and swearing, all peace that had been present disintegrates. Lenore groans.


    ¡°Outta my way, you fool! You ain¡¯t that important!¡± People push and swat at each other trying to get wherever they were going. They knock into Lenore and the Being, not even courteous enough to say a simple ¡®excuse me¡¯. Lenore is pushed and shoved, elbows jutting into her side and feet clumsily stomping on her toes. The Being isn¡¯t shoved even once. The crowd parts for the Being like a river split around a rock.


    ¡°The Cathouse is open for business! Anytime is playtime!¡± That came from the soiled doves they had passed, hooting and hollering at any piece of flesh that looked like it could spare a dollar.


    ¡°No, we are not going into the club! We¡¯ve got work!¡±


    ¡°Pick up the pace! I¡¯m gonna be late!¡±


    It¡¯s a complete riot. The screams and shouts melt together into a constant stream of angry nonsense. Until the nonsense cuts off. People go deathly still, traps snapped shut once more, when they hear the scraping. Dragging feet or dull fingernails scratching over wet wood. From the far-off rooftops. Within the shadowy alleys. Down the street, distant and out of sight.


    Lenore goes rigid. The Being looks around anxiously, the fear so potent it can almost taste it.


    Lenore...? What¡¯s that noise...?


    The little lady tugs the Being closer to her side. The surrounding crowd silently scattering in all manner of directions, single-mindedly racing to get where they are going as fast as possible, or at least get off the streets and out of plain sight. They curse and gossip in hushed whispers.


    The scraping. Where is it coming from? Where is it heading?


    The Being frowns under its hood, Lenore, what¡¯s going on? Where is everybody going?


    A low whistle tickles Lenore¡¯s ear. She scans the road. In the corner of her eye, she catches bob and weave of three pairs of tiny bare feet squeezing their way between people¡¯s legs as they darted through the crowd. The whistle follows them as they go, getting quieter as the scraping grows louder.


    Lenore sighs in relief, ¡°Perfect timing.¡±


    What?


    ¡°We¡¯re getting out of here. Follow me!¡±


    Lenore bolts into the crowd, ducking between pedestrians and sliding under open legs. She¡¯s so small, they barely noticed her. The Being rushes to follow her. It¡¯s weighed down by its cape but manages to catch up by knocking everyone else out of their way, albeit accidentally. The people definitely noticed that. Lenore hears the Being apologizes as it passes even though the people it¡¯s apologizing to can not. In the crowd, she loses sight of the pairs of bare feet. Regardless, she continues towards the nearest alleyway.


    The scraping sound is becoming quieter. Whether that¡¯s because Lenore¡¯s getting further away or they are, she can¡¯t be sure.


    When the little lady finally stops to catch her breath, she is bent over in a dingy little alleyway. It¡¯s the wrong one, but she¡¯s certain she¡¯ll be able to track those raccoons down easily enough. She pants, eventually lifting her head a little to peek through her curls at the Being. It isn¡¯t there. She is alone. The Being is nowhere to be found. She does not panic. She doesn¡¯t.


    ¡°Where are you!? Kid!?¡± She shouts in her head, resisting the temptation to call out aloud. ¡°Kid!?¡±


    She shoves down the sharp sting of dread when for a half minute she is given no reply. She paces up and down the alleyway. Where had the Being gone? It had been right beside her just a moment ago, she¡¯s sure of it! Oh fuck, did she abandon it alone in the streets? She¡¯s such a terrible person; how could she have been so careless?


    Then she hears it. A call of childish glee.


    Hey, I found the guys you were trying to follow!


    Oh, thank goodness.


    ¡°Where are you?¡± She snaps.


    I¡¯m in the next alley over, beside the dumpster!


    No, she does not rush to the other alleyway. If she is a tad bit faster than usual, it¡¯s only because they are late. Lenore hated being late, that¡¯s all. She finds the Being as it said she would, beside a huge dumpster that hides behind it a hole in the wall covered by a heavy plank of oak. The Being¡¯s dopey smile made her temper flare.


    ¡°Why did you come over here!? I specifically told you to follow me not run off on your own!¡± She hisses, watching the Being¡¯s proud smile fade under its newfound guilt. ¡°Do you have any idea how--!¡± She cut herself off with a growl.


    Chastised, the Being sinks to the alley floor.


    I¡¯m sorry, It whispers so quietly that Lenore nearly missed it in the back of her mind, I didn¡¯t mean to scare you.


    ¡°That¡¯s all well and good, but that doesn¡¯t change the fact that you nearly gave me a heart attack...¡± The little lady massages her temples. The stink from the dumpster is not helping her oncoming headache. It¡¯s way too early for her to be running around like this. When was the last time she slept again?


    I thought¡­ I just wanted to help...


    ¡°Even so, disappearing on me like that is not acceptable. I had absolutely no idea where you were.¡±


    I¡¯m sorry. I just¡­ I thought that since you can track me, that you wouldn¡¯t mind if we split up¡­


    Lenore raises an incredulous eyebrow, ¡°Track you?¡±


    Yeah, I mean, that¡¯s how you found me before right? I could sense you looking for me and then you tracked me down int the room with the lanterns.


    Lenore suddenly feels very, very stupid. She can sense the Being location. How could she have forgotten about that? Sheepishly, she says, ¡°Oh, right. I¡­ I suppose I had forgotten about that...¡±


    How could she have forgotten about that? She and the Being are connected; that¡¯s how they are able to communicate for fuck¡¯s sakes! How did she forget that?


    They stare awkwardly at each other. Then the Being bursts into tears. These big, globby dribbles of red run like slobber down its paper face.


    I really am so sorry! It¡¯s just, it looked like you were trying to follow them but you lost sight of them but I saw them going into this alleyway and you¡¯ve been really nice so I wanted to help and make up for making you come out here when you didn¡¯t seem to want to and because I couldn¡¯t do the magic stuff you were trying to teach me¡ªI¡¯m so sorry!


    ¡°Okay, okay, easy!¡± Lenore winces.


    The Being only cries harder.


    The little lady sighs. She reaches into her pocket and takes out a hankie. Standing on the tips of her toes, Lenore can reach up and dab at the Being¡¯s tears. With her other hand, she gently pets its cheeks.


    ¡°Easy now, it¡¯s okay. I¡¯m not mad at you, kid. It¡¯s not your fault, it¡¯s mine.¡± She whispers.


    The Being sobs, But I--


    ¡°Shh¡­¡±


    They stay like this for a while until finally, the Being¡¯s cries have simmered down into hiccups and sniffles.


    ¡°Feel better?¡±


    When the Being nods shakily, Lenore folds her now damp hankie and stuffs into her trousers. She says, ¡°Next time, inform me of your whereabouts immediately, okay?¡±


    A tiny smile graces the Being¡¯s face. It nods again. Lenore bites the inside of her cheek to keep her expression in check.


    She sighs, petting the Being¡¯s cheek one last time, ¡°I¡¯m sorry I made you cry. I shouldn¡¯t have snapped at you like that without hearing you out first. You did well and I apologize.¡±


    The Being beams. It shuffles around like it¡¯s doing a happy little jig.


    It¡¯s okay, I forgive you! I¡¯m sorry I made you worry. I won¡¯t run off without telling you ever again, I promise.


    ¡°Good. Thank you.¡± With a satisfied nod, Lenore marches around the dumpster, pushing it just far enough for her to reach the obscured plank door.


    Who were those guys we were following, anyway?


    The little lady knocks six times on the planks, ¡°They¡¯re freelancers. They owe the Theatre quite a few favours.¡±


    The Being tilts its head in confusion when Lenore whistles at the door. A string of warbles and trills that sound distinctly birdlike. A few beats later, the plank door slides open.

 Song of the Street Sparrows

    The Being shrieks.


    Before them lays piles of children¡¯s bodies, strewn around the cavernous room, twisted in sickening positions. Still stuck in their horrified expressions. One child, tiny and starved, is gripping his neck as if he was trying to choke himself. Beside him is two little girls curled together in the fetal position. Dozens of them hang limply from rusty meat hooks attached to the walls. The rest are intertwined around each other like a rat king. But that is not what first frightened the Being for, in the room¡¯s back, towering over them, a demonic figure stands.


    Tall as the ceiling and swollen with waves of fat that rolls around its stomach like a blubber-heavy walrus. It stumbles from its crouched over position. It spots the two of them standing outside the door and bolts, bent forward like an injured dog. It has no eyes, no nose, no ears. Just a toothless mouth opened wide in a silent scream.


    The Being jumps behind the little lady as the monster tears its way across the room.


    It lunged, grotesque face first, down at them. So ready to swallow them both whole and crush their bones. Ready to tear the paper Being to pieces and spill their blood. Ready¡ª


    Lenore lurches forward. Thrusting her knife hard and sure into its open mouth just as ready to stab through its slimy skinned head, the tip of the knife almost¡ª


    She stops. Another shriek, loud and shrill makes Lenore¡¯s ears ring.


    ¡°The best way to frighten someone is to be fearless yourself. Never break character.¡± She states. Her speech is quicker, lazy with her vowels in a way very unlike her usual self. She¡¯s putting on an accent. ¡°Also, a believable costume wouldn¡¯t hurt. I can see the stitching.¡±


    The monster falls onto its rear. Its skin goes baggy as four children scramble their way out of the costume. The rest of them rise from the ground and jump off the plastic hooks. You could practically smell the disappointment.


    Lenore laughs at them. The sound of her giggles is so perfectly arrogant that the Being almost couldn¡¯t tell that it was fake.


    ¡°Come out from behind me. Cap touching the ground and standing tall.¡± Lenore hisses to the Being, who is still trembling with nerves behind her. It quickly obeys.


    Who are they?


    ¡°Shh... I will explain everything later.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, whatever,¡± One of the kids from the costume stands up, puffing out his chest like a baby gorilla. Young as he is, he still stands taller than Lenore in a skinny, unhealthy sort of way. If she were to guess, she¡¯d say he is probably around sixteen or seventeen years old. ¡°How¡¯d you find us and what do you want? We¡¯re twenty to one so don¡¯t try nothing.¡±


    The kids glare as they packed up the monster costume. They¡¯re twitchy, just waiting for a fight to break out. The boy whistles sharply, telling them to hold back. For now.


    ¡°You need to brush up on your stealth. My thug saw you from a mile away.¡± Lenore says, arms crossed over her chest. ¡°As for what I want from you, I¡¯m looking for you to pay back a few of those favors you owe my people.¡±


    These are the homeless, parentless kids who stalk the streets like wild little animals. Quin city calls them ¡®The Raccoons¡¯. A slang term for kids who rifle through your trash, pilfering whatever they can get their bony little claws on. They wear their dusty pauper''s clothes with childish pride. Although to this city, they are no longer children. In the last few years, they¡¯ve banded together into a gaze. They are cheap labour at bestand filthy pests at worst. Wild and feral as some of them are, people still pay them to do things such as transport goods, clean, or spy. It¡¯s much cheaper than hiring an adult to do the same job.


    This little hole in the wall is their nursery. Their den.


    ¡°Ha! ¡®Your people¡¯?¡± The boy smirks. He¡¯s missing his right front tooth. ¡°The Raccoons don''t just owe people favours, sweetheart. If you want something from the raccoons, make an appointment like the rest of our clients.¡±


    The children behind him whistle excitedly. They¡¯ve climbed up the ledge of a caved-in wall, using the heavy welded wires as makeshift stairs. They look down at Lenore and the Being like they kings peering down on the lowly peasants. Even animals, and even children, like to feel powerful.


    ¡°Oh, but I¡¯m not the rest of your clients.¡± She reaches into her trouser pocket and pulls out a lapel pin. Gold coloured with a rouge O.A. on the front. ¡°I think my lady is a little more important.¡±


    The raccoons¡¯ squint at the pin and immediately recoil. Even their leader is humbled. He gapes like a goldfish. The raccoons behind him trill and warble anxiously like a flock of baby birds. The Being gawks at them as they twitter, whistle, and chirp. Why are they whistling like that?


    ¡°The name¡¯s Clara Janson. My friend here is¡­ Wigmund.¡±


    Hearing Lenore introduces them, the Being bob a curt nod under its hood. Inwardly, it cringes a little at its new name. Anything would have been better than Wigmund, in the Being¡¯s humble opinion.


    Hi! It¡¯s nice to meet you all!


    Pocketing the pin, the little lady leans forward and whispers into the boy¡¯s ear, ¡°He¡¯s a simple man with not much brain. Don¡¯t expect him to do much talking.¡±


    She leans back, twirling her curls innocently, ¡°Grand place you have here, definitely one of your better hideouts. No rats, ain¡¯t that dandy!¡±


    The boy clears his throat, ¡°I¡¯m--¡±


    ¡°Albano, right?¡± She cuts him off, ¡°Dante Albano, de facto leader of the east end Raccoons. My lady has mentioned you. It is a pleasure.¡±


    ¡°Um, yeah, you too.¡± Dante chokes, ¡°What can we do for you?¡±


    Lenore smiles. She takes the Being¡¯s cape in her hand, leading them into the hideout. A few of the kids go to move the dumpster in front of the opening and close the plank door. As the light is blocked out of the room, they hear a faint scurrying in the pitch black. Then a faint hum.


    On the rounded metal ceiling, bundles of orange-coloured light bulbs and cheap plastic lanterns are tied together by the dozens with hard wire ropes. They flick on, banishing the shadows into the corners of the room and filling its vacant place with a glowing orange light.


    ¡°Do you have the time?¡± She asks, motioning for the Being to stand beside her. The raccoons surround them from all sides. If Lenore is worried, she doesn¡¯t show it.


    Dante whistles and a girl with tangled red hair wrestled under a flat cap stumbles to his side. She takes out a busted pocket watch. She shakes it a few times to make sure it was working before showing it to Dante. Then she scurries away.


    ¡°It¡¯s 10:45 am, Miss Janson.¡±


    ¡°Ah, it seems we are running late, Wigmund. Oh, and Clara is fine. We¡¯re all friends here!¡± Lenore says, ¡°I hate to be a bother, but we need a ride uptown to Oscar avenue. You¡¯ll let us use yours, right?¡±


    The look of shock quickly covered up cautious ignorance on Dante¡¯s face is amusing.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about. Cars cost a pretty penny nowadays. We travel on foot.¡± Dante crossed his arms defiantly.


    Lenore raises an eyebrow at that. She snaps her fingers and points at a patch on the caved-in wall. ¡°Wigmund, if you please.¡±


    She feels the Being¡¯s confusion but regardless it moves to where she was pointing.


    She whispers in her head, ¡°Push against the middle part of the wall.¡±


    The Being bumbles its way through the horde of raccoons. Lenore can hear it quietly apologizing and excusing itself, yet to everyone else they are silent as a mouse but for the faint ruffle of its cape. When the Being pushes against the wall, it splits apart like a door, the brick in that area revealing itself to only be painted cardboard.


    Woah... The Being staggers back, How did you--?


    ¡°The rounded ceiling of this room and the excess wiring leading to this point in the wall is not unlike what one may find at the opening of an underground train, no?¡± Lenore smirks, striding through the parted sea of raccoons. ¡°Also the slight dip in the floor leading to this area is a lovely indicator not only to the frailty of the building but also how often this exact path is travelled. From the front door to a seeminglyrandom point in this random wall.¡±


    They jump the little lady, either circling her and the Being or block the hidden entryway. Even as they hold Lenore¡¯s arms behind her back, swarmed like angry hornets, her expression doesn¡¯t change. A raised eyebrow and a cheeky smirk. It¡¯s infuriating.


    ¡°I¡¯m only asking for a little ride. No need to get so touchy.¡± She teases, ¡°Your secret¡¯s safe with us, I¡¯ll even pay you for the effort; go buy you and your friends some sweets.¡±


    Dante seethes. If he could, Lenore is sure he would have ordered they be thrown into whatever dingy place these kids used for a dungeon. Subjected to whatever forms of torture these feral little creatures could come up with. Children can be cruel. But Lenore has a Theatre pin, so there was no touching her. And he knows it.


    Dante whistles sharply, and the raccoons back off. He is met with groans and protests. He whistles softly and the red-headed girl with the clock, accompanied by a boy, shuffles forward. The boy is blonde with the toecaps of his shoes curled up, his dirty socks out for the entire world to see.


    Dante says, ¡°Brandy and Rowan will take you.¡±


    Lenore smiles and teasingly says, ¡°Thanks, sweetheart.¡±


    The glower Dante aims at her is so very satisfying.


    They are promptly released and the two raccoons approached them. The girl doesn¡¯t look them in the eye. The boy glares, hard and angry. His dark ginger eyes are filled with a haughty fire that only the self-centeredness of a child could produce.


    True to her word, Lenore flips Dante a silver coin. As she turns her back she looks over her shoulder at him before she leaves.


    ¡°Oh, and one more thing?¡±


    She could just hear the grind of his teeth. ¡°Yes?¡±


    She turns away from him, her smirk dropping. In its place is a cold, calculating look that doesn¡¯t flatter Clara¡¯s little face.


    ¡°Last night, my lady had one of your raccoons deliver some important items to our establishment. I am afraid I did not catch his name...¡± She pauses. When she gets no reply, she continues, ¡°They¡¯re not in trouble. They did well, in fact. We were thinking of employing his services again.¡±


    ¡°.... I don¡¯t know him personally.¡± Dante says, ¡°They don¡¯t stick around for too long. We sometimes see them around Felina¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°No name?¡±


    ¡°Hayes. Something Hayes.¡±


    Hayes.


    ¡°Perfect, thank you so very much.¡±


    ~*~


    The station smells like a sewer left too long under a hot summer sun. With how waterlogged the place is, it¡¯s no wonder why it¡¯s so rancid. Every step they take gives off a wet slapping sound. The stairs are so steep and damp it¡¯s practically a waterfall of sewage.


    The two raccoons hardly speak but for some short instructions about the subway system and some quick question on their intended destination. The boy whistles to his companion when he thinks they aren¡¯t listening. From what Lenore understands, he¡¯s mostly just insulting them, mixed with complaints about having to let them on his train. Still, Lenore is impressed as she watches them ready the train. They operate the machine like experienced engineers, surprisingly knowledgeable considering their age.


    The train itself is not particularlyimpressive. Its wooden exterior was once a beautiful oak yet now it is tingling with the green, even having little mushrooms growing between the cracks, The cushions attached to the doors and seats are torn and hard and the glass of the windows are blurry with grim. It must have been a handsome hunk of metal in its heyday.


    Soon they board. Lenore and the Being are seated in one of the carriages as the train rumbles all the way to Oscar avenue.


    The little lady is slumped backwards. The back of her head rests heavily against the hard green cushion of her seat, face tilted up to the broken fan. Her mask is aching. She wants so badly to rip the blasted thing off, if only she could be sure they were truly alone. The Being is also slumped, albeit forward rather than back. She¡¯s sure it feels just as uncomfortable about its cape. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Can I ask my second question now?


    The little lady¡¯s eyes, which had just begun to sink close, flutter as she fights off sleep. The carriage is lit by a dozen little candles glued to the little table between the seats. It smells like wax and honey.


    ¡°Pardon?¡± She asks in her head. They¡¯re alone for now but the two raccoons could come back here at any moment.


    My second magic question. Remember, you promised to answer three of my questions with as much detail as I want?


    ¡°I am quitesure you¡¯ve asked me plenty of questions since then.¡± Lenore rubs the sleep out of her mask¡¯s brown bubbly eyes, ¡°Certainly more than three.¡±


    Yeah, but I didn¡¯t say those were my magic questions, so they don''t count. It¡¯s not my fault you answered me!


    Lenore supposes answering a few more questions couldn¡¯t hurt. She has a feeling they¡¯d be spending quite a bit of time together. Having a trusting relationship with the Being would hopefully make this easier.


    ¡°All right, but only two more questions. No cheating.¡± She shakes her pointer finger at the Being in mock sternness.


    You got it! Its smile could make the sun jealous.


    What would it ask about now? The Raccoons? That skirmish they barely escaped on Bermet? Would it surprise her again and ask about something out of the blue, like her favourite food or her birthday?


    And thus the question comes, like a rock thrown through a stain glass window.


    Are you a criminal?


    *******************


    Her skin was a unique blend of dark and light tones swirling together. Patches of paleness standing out against the prevailing caramel. Dry and chapped, her skin was peeling like an old sunburn.


    Her hair was brittle and dirty, falling out in hard chunks. She looked diseased.


    She was stalking me.


    It was odd. Intriguing. Annoying. Everything about her was annoying.


    She wouldn''t leave, following close like a shadow. Turn leftand she went left. Turn right and she went right. Hide and she would seek. Run and she ran faster.


    After a while, I gave up. I turned around, reaching up to pull back my hood. Maybe this would finally get her to give up. Fear has that effect.


    Yet when the hood fell back and my hazel meets the girl¡¯s eggshell blue, I found not fear but wonder. An almost excitable awe.


    She spoke, voice croaked and heavy, ¡°You¡¯re Lenore Laymon...¡±


    I smirk in a way that looks more like a sneer,


    ¡°The villain, the criminal, the traitor. So run on home, okay, feisty? Before you get in trouble¡­¡±


    ********************


    The candlelight creates a hooded shadow over the little lady¡¯s eyes. The tension is enough to suffocate. Another one of Lenore¡¯s memories, ripped right out of her mind. Shared with the Being with neither prudence nor permission. How very aggravating.


    A moment passes and Lenore chuckles. It cuts right through the tension but it does not lighten it.


    ¡°And where did this idea come from, if I may ask?¡±


    The Being shimmies its body until the hood of its cape falls off. Noticing this, Lenore sighs. She closes and locks the carriage door. The raccoons are childish but relatively reserved, particularly the ones they¡¯re travelling with. It¡¯s doubtful that Lenore and the Being will be disturbed. Still, she¡¯s a paranoid person at heart and so she keeps her mask on no matter how much it irritated her skin.


    Well, It curls into itself, not meeting Lenore¡¯s eyes. The Being hypothesizes, You wear a mask all the time. I mean, I understand why I¡¯m wearing a disguise but if you were a good person¡ªI mean; you are a good person, at least I think so but, I mean, if you were not a criminal wouldn¡¯t you just go outside like normal? I guess some people were wearing hoods and stuff but I could still see their faces. At least, I think that was their real faces, maybe they were wearing masks and I could tell the difference¡­ I don''t know. And when I asked about what you do as a job you said you weren''t ¡®welcome¡¯ in the city. And that¡¯s probably why you wanted to avoid everyone by going through those moldy houses. And when we took the crowded road you were all nervous, especially when that weird noise started. And you were acting all weird when you were talking to Dante. He called his friends ¡°the Raccoons¡± so are they a gang or something? Are you working with a gang or are you part of a gang? Is your Theatre just a coverup for your gang so the cops don¡¯t catch you, or something? Are you a mafia boss? You¡¯re nice to me, and I really like you, so I don¡¯t want to think you¡¯re a bad person. You¡¯re not a bad person, are you--?


    Lenore holds out her hand for it to stop. It does, looking nervous and even a little guilty. She has to admit, she¡¯s impressed by how thorough the Being had been. How observant it was.


    ¡°That was an interesting line of reasoning, kid. Very impressive.¡± She praises. The candlelight flickers after a hard jolt from the train tracks.


    The praise doesn¡¯t make the Being feel any better. If anything, it makes it feel worse. If it was wrong, it had just accused its only friend of being a terrible no-good crook. If it was right, then that means the only friend the Being has is a terrible no-good crook. It¡¯s a no-win situation. But, even so, the Being has to know. It¡¯s a cruel curiosity.


    So, are you..? It asks, timidly.


    ¡°A criminal?¡± Lenore chuckles again, resting the side of her head in her palm, ¡°I wish it were that simple. I¡¯ve committed my fair share of crimes so I suppose I fit the definition.¡± She grimaces, as if her next words are painful on her tongue, ¡°I am what most would call a traitor.¡±


    The Being isn¡¯t sure if that makes them feel better or worse, What''s the difference?


    ¡°Criminal, noun, ¡®a person guilty or convicted of a crime¡¯. Traitor, noun, ¡®a person who betrays another, a cause, or any trust.¡¯ Also ¡®a person who commits treason by betraying his or her country.¡¯ I, in this case, may fall into both of the latter categories.¡±


    Lenore twitches even as her face remains passive, almost bored-looking. Her body takes on a very defensive posture.


    Are you okay? The Being worries.


    ¡°I am fine. Thank you.¡± Her reply is curt and snappish. Lenore glances at the Being, noting the turmoil and puzzlement in its glowing blue and red eyes. Freed from the confines of its cape, the natural glow it exudes easily overtakes the candlelight.


    ¡°Do you remember the way the sky looked on our way here?¡± She asks.


    Yeah, it was sunny with some clouds.


    ¡°You noticed nothing else? Nothing at all?¡± She presses further.


    I don''t think so¡­


    ¡°The crimson tint. Over the sun and the clouds. It completely covers the sky, and you didn''t notice it?¡±


    Well, I noticed it but it wasn''t anything new. The Being shrugs as much as it can without shoulders, The sky is red in the day and black with a bit of red at night. I remember that at least.


    ¡°Yes, it has been like that for a while but it¡¯s actually a rather new development. Quin city is the only place in the world with a crimson sky.¡±


    ¡­ Really? Why?


    ¡°Because that red tint isn¡¯t the sky, it¡¯s our cage. It is attached to the border wall and it cannot be passed. No one can get in or out.¡± Lenore pauses, a multitude of emotions flickering over her masked face, ¡°And it¡¯s my fault...¡±


    Lenore hardens her heart, fighting to keep her mind settled. Keeping any fleeting memories in check. The little lady goes on, head down as if in shame.


    ¡°I betrayed the people by helping trap them here and I betrayed those who trapped them by running away. As you can guess, that does not leave a person with a lot of friends.¡±


    Oh.


    An awkward silence. Lenore broods, staring out the tiny carriage window. There¡¯s not much to see other than metal beams and wiring. The Being tries to catch her eye a few times to no avail.


    Well, you didn¡¯t do it on purpose, right? The Being says. You wouldn¡¯t feel so bad about it if you did.


    ¡°People can feel bad about things they were proud of before, kid.¡± She countered, ¡°But no, what happened was never my intention.¡±


    Then you are a good person! The Being grins. They were are just that ridiculously na?ve; it was almost cute. I¡¯m sorry I doubted you.


    ¡°I¡¯m not...¡± She stutters, more than a little speechless. After staring for a second she coughs into her fist and straightens, ¡°All right then. Do you want to ask your last question or can it wait?¡±


    The Being thinks it over, I¡¯ll save my last question for later.


    Lenore nods and changes the subject. ¡°All right, we should soon arrive at the next station on Ceinwen crescent, a block away from Oscar. We shouldn¡¯t run into too many people but should we get split up again, head towards the hotel at the end of Oscar. It¡¯s a rundown building with pillars. It''s very large. You can¡¯t miss it.¡±


    It smiles at her and nods back. Okay! I promise I won¡¯t run off again.


    ¡°Good.¡±


    And just as she says that the train comes to a stop. Lenore stands and helps the Being put its cape back on. Absently, she gives the Being a gentle pat on the head. It smiles at her.


    ~*~


    The second abandoned station on Ceinwen crescent is neither better nor worse than the other station. It¡¯s a sewer with a train in it. The two raccoons are waiting for them outside, standing awkwardly near the train¡¯s car. The girl, probably the one named Brandy, fiddles with her pocket watch. The boy, likely called Rowan, tilts back and forth on his heels. He¡¯s fidgeting like a puppy in desperate need for a piss. When Lenore and the being exit their carriage, Rowan whistles lowly to Brandy.


    They seemed to be waiting for Lenore and the Being to leave so they can make their way back to their nursery. They¡¯re surprised when the girl, this ¡®Clara Janson¡¯ who had somehow coerced their leader into bringing them here, walks right up to them. Her brute ¡®Wigmund¡¯ stands a little behind her, silent and foreboding under its hood. It towers over them all.


    ¡°Right, what do you want?¡± Rowan scowls in a thick non-rhotic accent.


    Lenore pays him no mind. She¡¯s focused on the girl, or more specifically,her pocket watch. The little lady thrusts out her hand, motioning for the girl to hand over the timepiece. Brandy cowers, but she hands it over to the chagrin of her companion.


    ¡°Don¡¯t give it to her!¡± He hisses.


    Lenore inspects the clock. She picks up a thin piece of stone, using it as a makeshift screwdriver. She pops the back of the watch open. She tinkers with the inside of the timepiece until, to Brandy¡¯s surprise, the pocket watch begins to tick. Lenore snaps the watch closed and places it back in the girls shaking hands.


    ¡°The balance staff was bent. I¡¯ve straightened it best I could so it shouldn¡¯t stop on you anymore. Still,¡± She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out six brass coins and a paper bill. Taking the girl''s hand, she plops the money into her palm, ignoring the twin looks of bewilderment.


    ¡°It may be best for you to replace it. Also, this should be enough to pay for any inconveniences as I¡¯m sure it will be a long trip back.¡± She gave Rowan two bills and a silver coin. He eyes her suspiciously, stepping in front of Brandy in a way that blocks Lenore from getting any closer to her.


    With that done Lenore walks away, the Being trailing happily behind her. Over her shoulder, she says, ¡°Thank you for the ride. I owe you one.¡±


    She pointedly ignored the warm feeling of the Being¡¯s happiness in the back of her head. She does not turn around to see the little girl smile.


    ~*~


    Oscar avenue is barely wide enough to fit a car. With its potholes and uneven tiles, it¡¯d be impossible to drive down it too. Tha¡¯s fine, there weren''t many working cars anymore. The buildings are towers. At least seven stories tall. Rickety wooden skywalks stick out of the collapsed holes in the decaying stone, connecting the adjacent buildings together. Most of the buildings are used as apartments or home-based factories.


    The golden light of mid-morning filters halfheartedly between the towers and where it can¡¯t reach, there is a bereft grey in its place.


    While they are walking down the avenue, the Being says, What was with all that whistling, anyway?


    ¡°Is that your last question?¡±


    Oh, right! Um, I don¡¯t want to waste my last one but¡­


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. Save your last question for later, I¡¯ll tell you this for free.¡± She hums, ¡°Those children, people call them raccoons, have developed a language made primarily out of whistling. It started as a whistled translation of the dominant language but slowly evolved its own vocabulary and grammarover time. Honestly, it¡¯s astounding.¡±


    The Being looks amazed, Really! That¡¯s so cool! You know, if that¡¯s the case, it really would make more sense to name them after birds or something.


    Lenore shrugs, ¡°True enough. I wouldn¡¯t call myself fluent in ¡®whistle speak¡¯ but as far as I can tell they started using whistles while on the streets so that they can talk to each other without outsiders understanding what they were saying. Rather smart if I dosay so myself.¡±


    A freckled man is lying against the stairway of a dingy apartment building. His drab cut suit is brown with mud and the fallen contents of discarded chamber pots. His top hat, which clashes terribly with his suit, is slumped over his forehead. A black pipe hangs from his slack lips.


    He might¡¯ve been sleeping but Lenore sees the sliver of his open eyes beneath the hat, glassy and unblinking, and she knows better.


    Looking around, she sees many other people laying on the sidewalk. Some are sleeping, drunkenly clinging to their bottles like safety blankets. Others rock and sway, the cuffs of their blazers barely hiding their dotted scars. An unlucky few stare forward unseeing and unlikely to wake, flies buzzing loud over their heads. Against the curb, broken glass from used needles and bottles leak their clear contents into the sewer pipes.


    The smell is bordering on toxic.


    Walking in the middle of the street, they pass other people, hiding in the alleys like rats with only the glow of their eyes visible in the darkness. The little lady holds the Being close, far away from the sidewalk. The Being looks around, but it doesn¡¯t see what the little lady saw. To the Being, everyone here seems to be so tired. They must be exhausted from work or something. The street is a weird place to sleep. They should go home and curl up in their beds. It¡¯d be much comfier.


    The Being rambles obliviously, Maybe you can teach me ¡®whistle speak¡¯? If I can whistle. Can I whistle? It sputters, trying to whistle. It can¡¯t whistle.


    At last, they come to the end of the road to the tallest of all the buildings on Oscar avenue. The fifteen-story concrete and black wood hotel. Climbing the stairs, Lenore whispers to the Being, ¡°This is the place. Welcome to The Cocteau Castle.¡±

 Them

    The Being wanders between the lofty pillars that were holding up the Cocteau''s first-floor balcony. On the doors, there¡¯s no latch, knob, or handle. The little lady strokes the wood until her fingers get caught on a thin indent. She picks at the indent until it peels away revealing a door knocker embedded inside the hidden compartment. The knocker is a brass hand holding a heavy silver sphere.


    Lenore grasps the brass hand and boxes the knob against the wood three times.


    The doors creak open. Lenore and the Being enter. When the door swings closed behind them Lenore relaxes. She confidently removes her mask. Her face slims and hair uncurls, bleeding back into its naturally bright burning colour. Her eyes sharpen, irises going amber and olive. Although the mask only covered her face it also influenced her clothing. Once removed, the fabric changes shape, the falsely gentle curves of Clara giving away to the natural hard edges of Lenore. It¡¯s like taking off a belt after a long meal.


    She calls into the darkness as she hangs the mask on her belt. ¡°Hello everyone! I know it¡¯s been a while but I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t have time for pleasantries. I am here to see the Detective, might you tell me where they are?¡±


    There¡¯s no answer. Lenore turns to the Being, who is hovering hesitantly in the doorway.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. This is a friend of mine,¡± She has to jump to untie the Beings cape. It falls to the ground with a heavy flop. The Being does a little flip in the air, relieved to be free of the weight, before sinking to a stop beside the little lady. ¡°They¡¯re trustworthy, I promise. We¡¯re here for some help, not unlike many of you were once upon a time.¡±


    She looks up at the Being, whispering to it, ¡°Go on. Introduce yourself.¡±


    The Being squints at the pitch-black room. There¡¯s no one there. No matter how bright it shines, the Being is unable to light up any more than a foot of space. Not letting its wariness discourage it, the Being smiles into the gloom.


    It calls out a friendly, Hi! It¡¯s nice to meet you!


    The Being¡¯s mouth doesn¡¯t move, and no sound is uttered.


    ¡°They say ¡®Hello¡¯.¡± Lenore translates.


    No answer. Until a blunt round of thumps, like someone stomping up and down. A few shrill screeches, like someone scratching on a chalkboard. Louder and louder in such a way that it feels as if whatever is causing it is inching closer and closer. The Being tries again to light up the darkness but in its failure, the noise increases.


    Um, Lenore? This place is kind of starting to creep me out. Who''s making that noise? Why aren''t they answering you?


    The noise cuts itself off.


    Lenore sighs, ¡°While we understand the curiosity, it¡¯s rather dark in here and we really must be going.¡±


    Suddenly there is a burst of orange flames across the room. Then another, and another, and another. Each blast has the sound of a firecracker to accompany it. The snapping of burning wood and coals.


    In rows high above their heads, dozens upon dozens of fireplaces are embedded into the brick and wood. They line the walls across and up the expansive foyer, stacked over each other from floor to ceiling. Most are much too high for anyone to light them. It seems no one needs to light them. The fireplaces burst into flame unaided. Soon they illuminated the entire foyer.


    There is not a living soul in sight.


    ¡°Thank you. Now, could you give us some directions?¡± She implores to the empty room, ¡°I swear no matter how many times I visit, I always get lost.¡±


    Aside from the ridiculous quantity of them, there is something else a little odd about the fireplaces. Something a little odd about all the lavish-looking furniture adorning the entrance hall. Incorporated into every piece of furniture and furnishing, like the door knocker outside, is the well-crafted replicas of human appendages. Limbs, so to speak. They¡¯re everywhere. They¡¯re in everything.


    The legs of the tables are crafted into the shape of human legs. The arms of the chairs look like polished human hands. Hands reach out from the walls in frozen existential horror. They hold the candlesticks, curtains, and shelves.


    The fireplaces are most extraordinary. Made up of a jumble of arms and legs and heads with wide mouths. Feet with spread toes; hands with claw-like fingernails. Chests and breasts; torsos, hips, and groins. None of its real. It¡¯s obviously fake. Not human flesh but wood, steel, glass, and stone. Diced up and stuck back together. Engulfed in fires that have no smoke.


    And as Lenore finished her request, several of the arms move. They sluggishly reaching out and point towards one of the three spiralling staircases at the back of the foyer. Rather than one grand staircase, the Cocteau has three smaller flights of steps. They¡¯re tightly packed in a coiled spiral, like a screw, leading to three different areas of the hotel.


    The Being¡¯s mouth hangs open in awe. Eventually, its mouth closes with a snap and it uttered a faint, Cool¡­


    The little lady gives the arms a thankful nod. She motions for the Being to come with her as she makes her way to the staircase on the left, the black and red one with gold cracks in the spindles.


    As they ascend, the Being turns around one last time. It twirls cheerfully and says, Thank you!


    Yet again, nothing can be heard by anyone but Lenore. But they had watched. They had seen and studied. They will have to make sure that their newest guest feels welcome in their hotel.


    But not too welcome.


    ~*~


    Lenore decides that the Detective is a jackass.


    She decides this on the thirteenth floor, while strenuously dragging herself up the never-ending spiral of stairs. They pass landing after landing. Lenore knows that the Detective is in their favorite room, which just so happens to be on the top floor. Because they are a jackass.


    The Being floats behind her. It watches as the little lady¡¯s struggle grows worse and worse. First, she had slouched then she lumbered and then she slogged. Now, she is pulling herself forward using the metal railing. Every step burns white-hot agony up her trembling legs.


    We could take a break if you''re tired... The Being suggests.


    ¡°No... I am... fine. We are... almost there¡­ anyway.¡± Lenore pants.


    Do you want some water? It offers.


    She raises an eyebrow, ¡°Do you have water?¡±


    Uh, no..? The Being says sheepishly, I, well, it''s the thought that counts¡­


    ¡°Indeed.¡± She heaves her body up a few more steps. ¡°Look, I¡¯m just winded, that¡¯s all.¡±


    Cause you''re old?


    ¡°I am not old.¡± She hisses between her heaving gasps, ¡°I am not a child but that doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m old. Let¡¯s just get up these last few flights and then--¡±


    A gust of hot wind breezes by. It feels as if a giant mouth had huffed down on them. Sweat gathers at Lenore¡¯s brow. The Being¡¯s papers go dry, shrivelling at the corners.


    ¡°Oh no¡­¡± Lenore groans. ¡°I¡¯m not in the mood for games right now. We don¡¯t have time to play with you!¡±


    Games? The Being perks up, a curious smile blooming on its face, What kind of games?


    ¡°Don¡¯t encourage them!¡±


    The staircase vibrates underneath Lenore¡¯s feet. More wind, hotter and faster. This time the wind blows up at them from below. The first puff lifts Lenore off her feet and sends the Being spinning like the propeller of a helicopter. The Being laughs in delight. Lenore scowls.


    ¡°No games! We are not playing with you! Do you hear me? No games!¡±


    Lenore watches as a tiny black speck appears at the bottom of the stairs. It¡¯s getting bigger. It¡¯s eating its way up. It¡¯s getting closer. The walls, far away and unconnected to the stairs, crack into splinters. The splinters mold together in groups. Pairs of wooden hands reach out, too far away to touch but still very visible. The hands move, creating this pattern of gestures that they repeat in quick succession.


    Lenore groans again. Her sign language is rusty and the hands are stiff and slow. But, as much as she wishes she doesn¡¯t, Lenore understands.


    The hands sign, ¡°Tag. We are it.¡±


    ¡°No!¡±


    Oh, Tag? The Being squeals, That sounds fun! Can we play?


    ¡°Wait,¡± Lenore frowns, ¡°You know sign language--?¡±


    The hands charge. The blackness erupts like a volcano of darkness.


    She and the Being race up the stairs, her earlier fatigue forgotten. The hot wind catches them first, nipping at Lenore''s heels. The shadows and the hands aren¡¯t far behind. This would have been terrifying if it weren¡¯t so annoying. Everything seems to be chasing them. The walls. The ground. The ceiling. The stairs. Like a cat toying with a mouse. Like they¡¯re clawing their way out of the mouth of a giant beast. Already caught. Still running. Still chasing. But there¡¯s no danger. It¡¯s just a game they don¡¯t want to be playing. Or, more accurately, a game Lenore doesn¡¯t want to be playing.


    The Being is absolutely tickled pink.


    Woah, so close! The Being cheers as it narrowly evades the hands as they lunge at its fluttering papers, But not close enough!


    The Being flies up the stairs, soaring faster and faster without a care in the world. Almost nothing could have ruined its fun. Nothing except,


    ¡°Fuck!¡±


    The Being freezes. It turns around, eyes widening when it sees the little lady several stairs behind them. She¡¯s clearly not having as good of a time as the Being is. Short gasping breaths with legs trembling like a newborn deer. Lenore¡¯s not even on her feet anymore. She¡¯s crawling up the stairs on her knees.


    Lenore curses again. She can''t keep up; she just doesn¡¯t have it in her anymore. Oh, who cares if they catch her? This is nothing but a ridiculous waste of time. An annoying, stupid game. Just as she¡¯s about to sink to the ground and give up, Lenore feels herself go flying up the stairs.


    I got you!


    Lenore feels this odd sensation around her legs. Like mist at the bottom of a waterfall or dense fog after a rainy day. She blinks her eyes open and is greeted with red, blue, and white. When the reality of the situation hits her, she almost laughs. She¡¯s sitting on the Being¡¯s back as it soars in circles up the spiralling staircase. The blackness and the hands lag behind them.


    The Being giggles, Top floor is the safe zone!


    Lenore smirks. She looks over her shoulder and calls out to their assailants, ¡°Top floor is the safe zone! If we make it there before you catch us, the game is over!¡±


    The blackness and the hands speed up. They¡¯re gaining on them. Almost, almost, almost¡­.


    Lenore seems to blink and they¡¯re on the top floor landing.


    Lenore hums as she slides off the Being¡¯s back, ¡°I should have asked you to carry me from the start. We would¡¯ve been up here is less than half the time.¡±


    The Being twirls happily, We win, we win!


    The little lady clicks her teeth with a smirk.


    The hands flap up and down with tightly clenched fists. Great, now they¡¯re throwing a tantrum.


    Lenore crosses her arms and calls down the staircase, ¡°Games over, everyone! We win. No rematches.¡±


    The blackness becomes thicker and the hands shake harder. Like a bullet, the hands charge at them one last time but they don¡¯t get far. Wind, warm but not hot, wafts around the top floor landing. Fluffy red and brown feathers, carried by the breeze, create a barrier between the hands and landing. Like the wood, the feathers braid into a pair of long hands. The wooden hands freeze and then go limp with shame. They back away as the feathery hands waggle a disapproving finger at them like an annoyed parent. The blackness fades away and the hands meld back into the walls. The game is over.


    The Being tilts its head curiously at the feathers. Lenore sighs in relief.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± She says to the feathery barrier.


    The feather hands perform a rather extravagant bow. The wind breezes down the stairs, taking the feathers with it.


    ¡°And thank you,¡± Lenore nods at the Being, ¡°For helping me up the stairs. Now then, I believe my friend should be right down this hallway. Let¡¯s go--¡± Unbeknownst to the little lady, not all of the wooden hands have given up their fun. She takes a step as a hand crawls out from the wall. Her shin knocks into the hand¡¯s wrists. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it wasn¡¯t. Regardless, the result is the same. She trips. Face first. The Being winces at the loud smack of her head colliding with the floor. It wipes around, glaring at the wall where the hand has disappeared into.


    Hey! That wasn¡¯t very nice! It zooms over to check on her. Are you okay!?


    Lenore¡¯s face stays pressed against the floor. Like a volcano about to erupt, she shakes. Her fingers dig into the carpet. A sound not unlike a screaming toad or shrieking goat bubbles like boiling acid out of the little lady¡¯s throat.


    She loses her temper.


    ~*~


    The other floors have rich and majestic colours. Ruby, purple, black, and gold with heavy drapery and stained glass windows keeping out the outside light. Intricate designs like a cathedral with looming arches and large vertical windows. Forlorn, dramatic, and elegant.


    The top floor is different. The Cocteau Castle¡¯s final floor is rustic and pastoral. It has log walls with grainy textures, filled with simple warmth and charm. Cotton and burlap rugs. Earthy colours and a low cabin-like ceiling. Embedded in the wood are bits of stones and jewels, glittering like the walls of a glorious diamond mine. It¡¯s a very homey floor. However, by the time they had reached this illustrious scene of bucolic splendour, Lenore isn¡¯t really in the mood to enjoy it.


    Walking through the timber door, Lenore calmly announces, ¡°Someone punched a rather large hole in the wall outside. You may want to look into that.¡± She carefully tucks her bloodied knuckles behind her back.


    The Being drifts inside. What a messy room. The furniture looks like they had been thrown inside and left in whatever position they had landed in. There are so many chairs and most of them are knocked onto their sides or upside down. Piles of pebbles and wood chips conceal the floorboards.


    It¡¯s almost as dirty as Lenore¡¯s room. The Being was just about to point this out when a voice speaks.


    ¡°Good day, my good miss. Would you like a bandage for your hand?¡± The voice is airy, with a lightness like a whisper you may hear when you know no one is around. As soon as the voice stops speaking, it is hard to remember what it sounded like.


    ¡°It is your own bloody fault for making me walk all the way up here. At least the Theatre has an elevator.¡± Lenore grumbles, ¡°I am afraid this is not a social visit.¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°Oh?¡± It sounds like someone is walking towards them from the furthest corner of the room. The Being frowns. The room is empty. Where is the voice coming from?


    The voice continues, ¡°What might you need me for then? I¡¯m always willing to lend you a hand.¡±


    The Being floats further into the room, searching for the source of this voice.


    Lenore follows the Being inside. She pats them gently on the back, ¡°I have a new guest whom I think you should meet.¡±


    There is no reply for a moment. The voice has finally noticed the other person in the room and its gaze is unblinking.


    ¡°Oh,¡± A wispy sigh, ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry. I didn''t see you there; how rude of me. Please forgive me...¡±


    Oh, it¡¯s okay, The Being is quick to smile at where it thinks the voice might be coming from, It¡¯s nice to meet you! Lenore said you would help me with something..?


    ¡°Let me have a look at you.¡± On the other side of the room, far from where the Being thought they would be, a figure manifests. The Being doesn¡¯t see them at first. The black silhouette stands behind them, in front of the door that Lenore and the Being had just entered through.


    Lenore casually turns to the silhouette like she had known it was there all along. The Being whips around and, upon seeing the silhouette, they flinch away.


    ¡°Kid,¡± The little lady says, ¡°Meet The Deadman¡¯s Detective.¡±


    The Detective bows and mumbles a muted, ¡°I¡¯m at your service.¡±


    ~*~


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about the trouble earlier. I¡¯ll be sure to speak to them about the incident; it shouldn¡¯t happen again,¡± The Detective gingerly bandages Lenore¡¯s knuckles as they speak, ¡°I know they caused you a great deal of frustration, but punching the walls may not have been the best idea. Perhaps next time a light swat against the wood would be better.¡±


    The three of them had moved into the living room across the hall. It¡¯s a much cleaner living space. The couches are lumpy and old but Lenore is too sore to care.


    Lenore rolls her eyes, ¡°That wouldn¡¯t be as satisfying. Today has been tiring.¡±


    The Detective releases her hands, clasping their own in their lap. The Detective studies Lenore. The bags under her eyes are dark and striking against her pale skin.


    ¡°When was the last time you slept?¡±


    She grimaces, ¡°Please don¡¯t start with this again-¡±


    ¡°It is important to take care of yourself. Running yourself ragged accomplishes nothing.¡± The Detective whispers, ¡°I¡¯m just concerned for you.¡±


    The Little woman grins maliciously, ¡°Welcome to the club.¡±


    The Detective chuckles, an amused yet pained sound. ¡°I believe I founded the club.¡±


    The Being hovers awkwardly on the couch beside Lenore, trying to make sense of this ¡®Deadman¡¯s Detective¡¯.


    The Detective is a creature made of black silk and dry mist. There¡¯s a fuzzy edge to their form. More like a mirage than a physical presence. They¡¯re shaped like a human, that much is clear. Two arms, two hands, two legs, and two feet. Abdomen, chest, neck, and head. Every inch of them is made of shiny textiles that vaguely remind the Being of snake scales or insect wings. Even their eyes are hidden under a long noir veil. Their posture is rigid but their presence exuded a humble shyness.


    The Detective turns their attention to the Being. They waved at the Being who, at being caught staring, quickly looks away.


    ¡°Oh, I apologize. I didn''t mean to startle you.¡± The Detective apologizes. Their voice is oddly monotone.


    No, I was the one staring! I¡¯m sorry! The Being shakes its head until it¡¯s dizzy.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I don¡¯t mind it if you stare. People tend to stare at me. I have one of those faces, I suppose.¡± The Detective looks at the little lady ¡°Do they have a name?¡±


    ¡°Oh, their name is--¡± She blinks. She didn¡¯t know its name.


    The Detective cocks their head to the side, ¡°Did you ask for their name?¡±


    Lenore gives a dismissive, and admittedly abashed, sigh, ¡°I asked what they could remember. They never mentioned a name¡± She feels the unamused stare the Detective is giving her behind their veil. She scowls, ¡°... Don¡¯t give me that look, it¡¯s been a long day.¡±


    In hindsight, maybe she should have been the one asking questions.


    ¡°What have you been calling them then?¡±


    ¡°Well, they were always around after I found them. You only really need names for the absent....¡± It¡¯s difficult to tell what the Detective is thinking but Lenore has a feeling that they aren¡¯t all too impressed. ¡°I¡¯ve been calling them ¡®Kid¡¯ whenever I need to get their attention. I told the Raccoons that their name was Wigmund.¡±


    ¡°I think it would be best if we asked them.¡± The Detective sighs.


    The Being shrugs. I don¡¯t know. I don''t remember having a name.


    ¡°Well, Lenore suggested Wigmund--¡± The Being makes a face. The Detective chuckles, ¡°Which you evidently do not approve of. Wigmund, Lenore?¡±


    ¡°I had a pet rat with the same name when I was little.¡± She grudgingly admits.


    You named me after a rat..?


    ¡°... It was a very nice rat.¡±


    ¡°What shall your name be then? For now, at least.¡± The Detective says.


    The Being thinks it over. It shrugs once again.


    ¡°Miss Laymon has been looking after you, correct?¡± They don¡¯t wait for a response, ¡°Perhaps a name similar to hers would be suitable. You''re practically family at this point.¡±


    Lenore straightens up and sputters, ¡°Well, I wouldn¡¯t say that exactly--¡±


    The Detective cuts her off. ¡°Lenore Laymon¡­ Hmm, one moment, if you please.¡±


    The Detective leaves the room and comes back with a big black book. It¡¯s as wide as the table and as thick a truck tire. When the Detective sits down beside the Being with the book resting on their lap, the Being cringes, half expecting the weight of it to crush their spindly legs. Somehow, The Detective carries the book like it¡¯s no heavier than a feather. When they open the book and start sifting through the pages, the Being sees that it is full of names starting with the letter J. Jackie, Jacob, Jaden, Janko. After some sifting, they got to the letter L.


    ¡°Perhaps your name could be an alliteration too.¡± The Detective says, ¡°That begs the question, do you have a preference on gender, little one?¡±


    The Being smiles shyly, slightly uncomfortable under all the scrutiny.


    I¡¯d like a boy name, please.


    Lenore repeats their answer to the Detective.


    ¡°Splendid. Now let¡¯s see¡­¡± They scan the pages, ¡°There¡¯s Lawson, Leandre, Leigh, Lenard, Liam¡­¡± For every name they utter, they glance up to see the Being¡¯s reaction. He doesn¡¯t look turned off by any of the names but he also doesn¡¯t seem to find any of them too compelling.


    ¡°Look for yourself and tell me if any of them meet your fancy.¡± The Detective pushes the book over so that the Being could get a better look, ¡°Most names have an underlying meaning. Is there anything you may want your name to mean?¡±


    They flip through a few pages together. There is Livius which means ¡®envious¡¯ and there is Llew which roughly translates to ¡®Lion¡¯. The Being keeps looking. He wants a name that means something he likes. Something happy and fun. But he also wants something that sounds grown-up and smart. ¡®Lenore¡¯ is a smart, grown-up name.


    Finally, at the bottom of the L section, he finds it. At first, he passes over the name. It is long and a little ugly in his opinion. But he finds himself glancing back at it. He reads the description. The Being taps the name with the tip of his papers.


    The Detective reads it aloud, ¡°Lochlan, pronounced LOCK-lin. It means ¡®Land of the lakes¡¯. You like this one, child?¡±


    The Being hesitates. He glances at Lenore, wanting to see her reaction.


    Lenore raises an eyebrow, ¡°I would have thought you¡¯d pick something a little more¡­ cutesy.¡±


    The Being shrugs, I¡¯d really like to visit a lake someday. I don¡¯t know why but I like the name. And it¡¯s mature sounding, like your name.


    The Detective says, ¡°We could call you ¡®Loch¡¯ for short. Or maybe ¡®Lockie¡¯. Lochlan Laymon. Loch Laymon. I think it has a nice ring to it, don¡¯t you?¡±


    The Being silently repeats the name in his head. Loch Laymon, Loch Laymon, Loch Laymon. Loch and Lenore Laymon. He likes how the name sounds. He likes how the name sounds beside Lenore¡¯s name, and he likes being around the little lady. She was fun and serious and even kind of nice when she wasn¡¯t grouchy, but...


    If you don¡¯t like it, I could pick something else. He trails off.


    Lenore softens.


    ¡°If you like the name it is yours.¡± She smiles tiredly, ¡°It suits you.¡±


    Tentatively, he smiles back.


    Meanwhile, the Detective studies the both of them, their expression hidden. Privately, behind their veil, they smile. They clap their hands, catching their guest¡¯s attention.


    They say, ¡°It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister Loch Laymon.¡±


    The Being, Loch, grins.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind, I would like to have a word with Lenore.¡±


    On the coffee table, there is a tall vase with a pair of camellia flowers. The Detective leans forward, speaking to the flowers in a light friendly tone, ¡°Belva? Astra? Would you two be so kind as to keep the boy company for a while? Show him around. Play some games with him.¡±


    The two camellia flowers are intertwined, their roots in an ardent embrace. The two blooms, one pink with white and the other white with pink, come together to form a quaint heart-shaped arrangement. The flowers tenderly unwrap from each other, slinking out of the vase. Their roots, still tied together, need neither water nor soil. Along the ends of their stems and the tips of their petals are little lines of red and black.


    Loch¡¯s eyes flicker between Detective and the flowers. The flowers gaze up at him. They tilt their blossoms as if confused.


    It had barely been a half-day since Loch had found himself in that tiny room, lost from any purpose or residual memory. How strange the world had seemed, and still seems, with every new discovery. A child-sized lady with magic powers. A gigantic underground theatre with pearly lights and deep shadows. Busy streets with scratchy sounds and unhappy people. Creepy children playing dress-up in monster''s clothing. And now, flowers that have souls and a phantom-like Detective cloaked dusky black. It makes sense.


    Loch flies up and swirls excitedly around the plants, Hi, I¡¯m Loch Laymon! It¡¯s nice to meet you!


    The flowers turn away from Loch. They tilt their blossoms at the Detective.


    The Detective says, ¡°I¡¯m afraid they cannot understand you nor you them. I¡¯ll teach you how to communicate with others, besides Lenore, soon.¡±


    They scoop the flowers in their palms and gently place them on the floor. As soon as their roots touch the wood, they slither like serpents towards Loch.


    ¡°Do bring him back in one piece, if you please.¡±


    The flowers bob their blossoms at the Detective. They weave around in this odd boneless dance, like a pair of ribbons twirling in the wind. The Detective nods and shoos them away. The flowers curl their roots around Loch¡¯s waist and they tug him towards the door. Their stems are much longer than they first appeared, like a python¡¯s tail.


    Wait! Loch exclaims to the Detective, You can hear me! I thought Lenore was the only one!


    The Detective looks to Lenore.


    The little lady sighs, ¡°The Detective can¡¯t hear you.¡±


    Yes, they can! They¡¯ve been answering me all this time, they¡¯d have to be able to hear me to do that!


    ¡°Oh,¡± The Detective says, ¡°I¡¯m afraid you may be overestimating my abilities. I cannot hear you, little one. All I¡¯m doing is interpreting your expression using the contexts from what we were talking about. Even then I did have to ask for a few translations.¡± They nod to Lenore. ¡°You seemed startled then looked away when I saw you were looking at me, avoiding my eye like you were ashamed, meaning you likely were sorry for staring at me. You slumped and looked a little dejected when we asked if you had a name, meaning you likely did not have one and you smiled when you heard your new name, meaning you likely approved of it. I could go on.¡±


    Oh. Loch laments.


    The Detective tries to console the boy, ¡°Do not fret. As I¡¯ve said, I will teach you how to communicate with others in a different way soon enough. Until then...¡±


    Taking the Detectives gentle hint, the flowers and Loch leave the little lady and the Detective to their lonesome.


    ¡°Be careful while you¡¯re gone!¡± Lenore calls out. ¡°I shall call for you when we¡¯re finished!¡±


    Okay! Bye!


    The door shuts The Detective rises from their chair and walks into the kitchen. They bring back a kettle of hot water and a teacup.


    ¡°I am sorry I don¡¯t have a wider selection of teas, Lenore. As you know, such pleasantries are a lot harder to come by nowadays. Even finding suitable water is a challenge.¡± They bring the tea set back on a platter, setting it on the coffee table. ¡°The Cocteau doesn¡¯t bring in a lot of money so it has forced me to draw from my savings. I am unable to leave for work elsewhere as you know.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± Lenore pours her tea and sets it aside to steep, ¡°Though if you actually let people stay, you could probably generate some level of income.¡±


    ¡°I have plenty of people staying here.¡± They argue with no real malice.


    ¡°Living people, my friend. People with money.¡± She clarifies, a hint of teasing in her tone. Lenore digs into her bag and pulled out a leather-bound notebook. Flipping to the right page, she makes a few notes.


    ¡°Ah, ¡®living¡¯.¡± They shudder slightly at the thought, ¡°That would likely disturb all my other guests. Even newcomers like themselves make them a little nervous at first.¡±


    Lenore hums a non-committal reply.


    ¡°Speaking of, however,¡± The Detective¡¯s voice drops, tone suddenly very serious, ¡°Does he know?¡±


    Finally, they are past the pleasantries. Lenore cradles her tea and gets as comfortable as she can, tucking her legs underneath herself and curling into couch cushions.


    ¡°I have not mentioned it.¡± She admits.


    The Detective says nothing.


    ¡°I know, I know,¡± She sighs, ¡°You know I am not the most tactful person. I¡¯ve already made him cry once; I think I¡¯ve caused him enough distress.¡±


    ¡°Well, you may have a point there,¡± The Detective says, leaning back against the chair and still looking uncomfortably stiff even when slumped over. Wringing their hands, they mumble, ¡°We can come back to that. What do you know about the boy? The circumstances that led him to this point?¡±


    ¡°Last night I was working on my latest project and I received what I thought were the last few ingredients. A mixture of my blood and what I thought were remnants from the cage. Looking back on it now, I believe the last ingredient was actually the boy¡¯s blood.¡±


    ¡°... I see. Foul play?¡± The Detective whispers.


    ¡°That may be the case.¡± Lenore says, ¡°This city is rarely pleasant to children, especially the sweet ones.¡±


    ¡°So, he is a child then. He did give me the impression.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know for certain--¡±


    ¡°Nothing is certain at the beginning of a case.¡±


    ¡°True, true,¡± Lenore concedes, taking a sip of her tea. ¡°Even from our first meeting when I tracked him down in the Aurora he was scatterbrained and talkative. He asked questions, which anyone would in such a position, but his approach to them was more...¡± She trails off, searching for the right words.


    ¡°Blunt?¡± the Detective guesses.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°He called you short, didn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°...The terms he used were ¡®mouse¡¯ and ¡®dwarf¡¯.¡± Lenore gives the Detective a nasty glare and they wisely don¡¯t comment further. Lenore continues, ¡°Anyway, aside from his attitude, he also didn¡¯t seem to have any concept of the outside world. He thought the sky was red.¡±


    ¡°So we can likely place him under the age of fifteen then. That brings to mind some other theories.¡±


    ¡°Care to share them?¡±


    The Detective is silent for a moment, gathering their thoughts before they speak. They say, ¡°Although most children nowadays have never seen the outside world, that does not necessarily mean they are completely oblivious to it...¡±


    They look out the window where they can see the southern side of the city. Closer to the border wall, the buildings are bigger. Sturdy and better maintained than the ones in the centre of the city.


    The Detective continues, ¡°The Raccoons, for instance, comprise of the poorest children, often orphans or the otherwise unwanted. They are a clever group. Even if they have never lived outside the cage, they are usually aware that the state of our sky is unnatural. That may not be the case for someone from a higher class.¡± They point out the window at the fancy houses and the extravagant stores. ¡°They are comfortable with the corrupted nature of Quin city, they make their money from it. If this place is such a paradise, why tell their impressionable young children anything that might make them doubt the luxury they live in? Why would they inform them of the pain and suffering of the people born without silver spoons in their mouths? Why tell them that they aren¡¯t seen as people in this city? That they are nothing more than prisoners? They may be better educated, but they are still kept carefully ignorant.¡±


    The little lady finishes her tea and set the cup down, ¡°I suppose that explains how he could read. He even knows sign language. So you agree that he is a child?¡±


    ¡°Seemingly yes.¡±


    ¡°One from a fairly rich upbringing?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°... On our way here he asked me about myself and I told him a little about my past.¡± She feels the Detective''s concerned gaze. ¡°I didn¡¯t give specifics, but he knows that I was involved with the cage. Nothing else.¡±


    ¡°And his reaction?¡±


    ¡°Nearly nothing. Even before I told him about the sky, I gave him my name and nothing! He¡¯d never heard of me!¡±


    This time the silence that follows is one of faint surprise. Shock even.


    The Detective mumbles, ¡°... That is odd.¡±


    Lenore rises from her seat and begins pacing back and forth in front of the window.


    ¡°Everyone in the city knows about me. Even the rich like to gossip about me when they¡¯re not kissing the Romilly¡¯s asses. There isn¡¯t anyone in this shithole of a city that doesn¡¯t know my name.¡± She gestures wildly with her arms.


    ¡°True,¡± The Detective says. This was shaping up to be an interesting puzzle. ¡°Though we cannot rule out the possibility that this is just a part of his memory he has yet to remember.¡±


    ¡°But...¡± She hesitates like she wants to say something else. The words don¡¯t come forth.


    Gently, the Detective stands and lays a hand on her shoulder. They felt the slight tremors in her body, the wild look in her eyes not just from excitement but also an unhinged drowsiness. The bags under her eyes had gotten all the worse.


    ¡°You¡¯ve given me more than enough information and when Loch returns I will question him further but for now--¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± She rolls the Detective¡¯s slack grip off her shoulder, ¡°There are a few more things you need to know.¡±


    She rubs her eyes; they are red and sore. Leaning against the windowsill she says, ¡°The boy who brought me the ingredients that I think contained some of Loch¡¯s remains was a Raccoon. Apparently his last name is Hayes.¡±


    ¡°Okay--¡±


    ¡°Also,¡± She interrupts again, pulling from her pocket the crumpled and bloodstained scrap of a letter, ¡°This came to the Theatre last night. Delivered by an Official.¡±


    As if the Detective needed more reasons to worry about the little lady. They pluck the letter out of her quivering fingers and read it through a few times. The Detective slumps down against the windowsill beside Lenore.


    ¡°...You should rest.¡± They sigh.


    She glares at them with blurry eyes. ¡°Nonsense. We have to find out what happened--¡±


    ¡°And we will,¡± They speak quietly, even gentler than usual, if that is possible. ¡°Lenore, when was the last time you slept?¡± The question is firmer, one Lenore won¡¯t be able to wave off.


    She drags her fingers through her hair, carefully avoiding the Detective''s gaze, choosing instead to gaze out the window at the crisp midsummer sky. ¡°... The new project took a little longer than I expected. I¡¯ve been busy...¡±


    ¡°Lenore. Please.¡±


    ¡°... Three days, no more.¡± She confesses.


    ¡°I know,¡± They take a shallow breath, ¡°Sleeping isn¡¯t your favourite activity, it not being ¡®productive¡¯ as you like to say but it is still something people need to do sometimes. Insomnia has devastating long-term effects. Memory loss, susceptibility to illness, poor balance, heart problems...¡±


    She scoffs, ¡°I know, I know--¡±


    A high ringing noise interrupts the little lady mid-sentence. It pierces the rustic air with the clearness of a church bell''s chime.


    ¡°Excuse me.¡± The Detective whispers. The walk to the rotary phone on the side table and they answer it cautiously. It was incredibly rare for the Cocteau to receive any phone calls.


    ¡°Hello?¡± The Detective listens for a second; back turned from the little lady. She sees their shoulders rise with tension. ¡°... Are you all right?¡±


    ¡°Detective...?¡± Lenore digs her fingers into the windowsill. There are very few people who know the Cocteau Castle¡¯s number.


    ¡°... Yes, she¡¯s right here.¡± The Detective motions for Lenore to come take the phone. Cautiously, she makes her way over, her brow scrunched with confusion.


    ¡°It¡¯s your lover, miss.¡± The Detective leaves the room to give them some privacy.


    She presses the receiver to her ear, ¡°Odell?¡±


    Through the receiver, Lenore hears a laugh. The sound, muffled by static, is breathy and filled with a mixture of relief, hysteria, and unbridled fury.


    ¡°Where the fuck have you been...?¡± Odell sneers.

 Endurance

    ¡°You know, I¡¯ve never understood how someone like you can be so selfless and so selfish all at once. You¡¯re like a dying lightbulb, it¡¯s so fucking impossible to rely on you.¡±


    Odell¡¯s voice is low and hoarse. It has none of her ritzy charm in its rumbling; She is furious. Her words are little more than a whisper.


    ¡°Why the fuck are you at the Cocteau? I wake up and there¡¯s a fucking gang of Officials at my bloody doorstep and you are ?gone?¡­?¡± She seethes; the end of her sentence falls apart like she¡¯s suddenly so out of breath that she can¡¯t finish it. Then she explodes, ¡°Why the fuck did you run off!?¡±


    Lenore flinches. Odell¡¯s scream rings loudly in her ears. Officials? At this time of day? Knocking on the Theatres door? It¡¯s enough to make her heart stutter in her chest.


    ¡°Officials?¡± Lenore stammers, ¡°Are you okay? What did they want? What were they doing?¡±


    ¡°What were ?they ?doing?¡± Odell hisses through the phone. ¡°What¡ªwhat were they doing...? What are ?you ?doing!? It¡¯s eleven o¡¯clock in the fucking morning and you haven¡¯t slept in days! The car is still here; you walked all the way across the city in broad daylight without a word! Do you have any idea how worried I¡¯ve been!?¡±


    Lenore sinks into the couch, carefully holding the phone away from her ear. Her head throbs and her eyelids feel like they have hundred-pound weights attached to them.


    ¡°All right, okay, I apologize. Now, what is this about Officials at the Theatre--¡±


    ¡°Oh no,¡± Another raspy, bitter laugh reverberates through the receiver, ¡°No, no, no. You are ?not? getting out of this that easily. Answer my bloody questions, Lenore. Why are you at the Cocteau?¡±


    There¡¯s a pause as Lenore thinks over all that had happened over the course of just a few hours. Everything that had happened after she walked out those library doors. It¡¯s a lot. Maybe a little too much for one phone call.


    Still, there¡¯s a melancholy resignation when Lenore answers, ¡°Odell, there was¡­ an accident with my project earlier today. I came here for some help.¡±


    ¡°And you didn''t think to tell me before you left?¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± Lenore hesitates, ¡°I didn¡¯t want to wake you...¡± It¡¯s a lie and an obvious one at that. Why hadn¡¯t she told Odell where she was going? Why hadn¡¯t she told her she was leaving at all? Lenore can¡¯t think of a good reason, only the pitiful truth. She had forgotten.


    Odell, who knew her too well to buy her excuses, scoffs, There¡¯s a shuffling sound from Odell¡¯s end of the line. The clipping sound of walking, ¡°Oh please. If you wanted to wake me up, you would have. Don¡¯t give me your bullshit. You forgot about me. And I really shouldn¡¯t be surprised! It¡¯s not like this is the first time you¡¯ve sidelined me; it¡¯s not like this is the first time you¡¯ve put your fucking work before me!¡±


    Lenore slouches further into the cushions, ¡°Look, can we do this later? I¡¯ll explain everything just not over the phone--¡±


    ¡°Why not!?¡±


    ¡°Odell, please stop interrupting me. Just¡ªare the Officials still there? I can come back--¡±


    ¡°Shut up!¡± A thump and then the smashing sound of something very fragile and probably very expensive being broken. ¡°What is it with you; always dodging every single question--¡±


    ¡°I am not dodging anything!¡± Lenore snaps but she quickly swallows her growing annoyance. One angry person is more than enough. ¡°I don¡¯t want this conversation to become an argument. Besides, it¡¯s not safe to talk like this over the phone--¡±


    Now, Odell¡¯s tone turns mocking, ¡°Oh, really? Are you worried they¡¯re tapping the phones now? Oh, paranoid little Lenore Laymon¡ª¡±


    Lenore panics, ¡°Odell, don¡¯t say¡ª!¡±


    ¡°Lenore Laymon?¡± Odell provokes with a sadistic reverence, ¡°You don¡¯t want me to say your name, Lenore Laymon? Why not? You are Lenore Laymon, aren¡¯t you? The Romilly¡¯s disgraced dog! Quin City¡¯s most wanted! The Theatre¡¯s lowly hermit! Lenore Laymon, Lenore Laymon, Lenore Laymon, Lenore¡ª!¡±


    The black plastic of the phones cracks in her grip. The lingering effects of exhaustion muddling up her mind make this rush of anger boil unfiltered and uncontrollable.


    ¡°Odell!¡± The little lady almost rips the phone cord out of the base. She can¡¯t find the words to express this volcanic rage coursing through her system, choosing instead to stumble over a few angry expressions. Finally, she presses the speaker close to her mouth and all Odell can hear is her raggedly harsh breathing. Although Lenore can¡¯t see it, Odell flinches. The singer¡¯s fury drains in an instant.


    The little lady grits her words through her teeth in an almost inhumanly low growl. ¡°Do not ?belittle me. Our safety is ?not? something to scoff at, I do not? care how angry you are with me.¡±


    Big black dots checker her vision. The adrenaline coursing through her turn into full-brown tremors that wracked her body to her very core. She holds herself upright on the arms of the couch,


    ¡°Do you want the Theatre to get raided? Do you want all your employees to be jobless? Do you want to be arrested, tortured, murdered? Because I don¡¯t. I don¡¯t want that to happen to our home. I don¡¯t want that to happen to your friends. I don¡¯t want to lose you, but that¡¯s exactly what will happen if we¡¯re not careful and I¡¯m trying to protect you! I know I¡¯m not always good at that and I know I¡¯m not good at expressing that to you and I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sorry, but I¡¯m trying. I don¡¯t want you to get hurt, I could never forgive myself--¡±


    Lenore falters. Suddenly there¡¯s a sharp sting in her chest. She chokes, both too much and too little air in her lungs. The heat in her head pounding like a bass drum. Her muscles ache even as her body goes lax. The living room spins.


    She collapses.


    The phone lands right her ear and as she blacks out, she can hear a faint voice calling her name through the receiver. And then the exhaustion swallows her up and there is nothing.


    It is cold. Dark and cold. She tries to open her eyes.


    Nothing. Darkness lingers.


    The ground is rough against her cheek. There is a sound in her ear.


    ¡°Lenore!?¡±


    Someone is screaming. Raspy and sweet like a honeycomb. It gives her such a headache.


    And then.


    Pulsing in the floorboards. A thud. The sound of a door slamming open.


    ¡°Lenore!¡±


    It is not a whisper. It is not a shout.


    Hands caress her cheeks. She feels her body lift from the roughness of the carpet.


    It is less cold now. Not warm. Just less cold.


    ¡°Lenore? Open your eyes!¡±


    She tries. She fails.


    Awareness fades all the further.


    One final voice echoes. It is loud and soft. She doesn¡¯t hear it exactly.


    She feels it. Her conscience made not her own.


    Lenore?


    Awareness returns in waves.


    Lenore wakes up surrounded by softness. It takes her too many seconds to recognize that the plush ball of fabric under her head is a pillow and the hot, ruffled material draped over her is a blanket. She¡¯s in a bed that¡¯s way too comfortable to be her own. She shifts onto her side, burying her head into the pillow to try to ease her splitting headache.


    There¡¯s a shift on the far right end of the bed. Even though her mind is still fuzzy, Lenore hears heeled shoes clicking on the floor, getting closer and closer from the sound of it. If she was in her right mind, she would have already sprung up from the bed, knife in hand. But she doesn¡¯t, only tensing when a distinctly slender hand caresses her hair.


    ¡°Why do you always have to make me worry about you?¡± A fragile voice whispers, ¡°It¡¯s so exhausting.¡±


    All too soon, the hand pulls away. Lenore quickly decides that such a thing would not do. Reaching up, she jerks the hand back, nuzzling it in a way she¡¯d normally find pathetic.


    ¡°Lenore?¡±


    Lenore mumbles an incoherent response. She stretches underneath the too hot covers and clenches the fabric in her fist. Her other hand stays grips those slender fingers tightly. Those fingers curl around her cheek and under her chin, caressing her as if she was sleeping kitten.


    ¡°You¡¯re such a sweetheart when you''re just waking up.¡± The voice coos.


    Finally, the little lady musters up the strength to crack her eyes open, if only a little. It¡¯s blurry and the light stings. Luckily, the room is dim, lit only by a single candle on her bedside table. The bed is huge with heavy red drapes boxing her in on all sides except for on her right where a hazy figure leans in, shadowed by the candlelight.


    The figure sits beside her. Their long raven hair makes a halo around their head as they lean over the little lady. Their skin is an ethereal weave of honey caramel and pale cream. When her eyes finally focus, Lenore is struck by the familiar glimmer of those eggshell blue eyes.


    ¡°Hey there, shapeshifter.¡± Odell sighs.


    Lenore stares up at her. Her messy bedridden hair is like a shallow ring of fire around her ashen face. Odell is sad to see that Lenore looks like she¡¯s about five seconds away from death''s door.


    ¡°Hello, Odell.¡± Lenore croaks, voice rough and lips dry.


    Odell continues to nuzzle her fingers against Lenore¡¯s face. She has no idea what to say next, so she says nothing. Lenore is halfway back to sleep before Odell finally speaks.


    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Lenore.¡± She says, ¡°I was¡­ I shouldn¡¯t have said what I said.¡±


    And Lenore, her eyes fluttering open again, is confused. The past is nothing but a blur to her at this point. Whatever Odell is apologizing for has been consigned to oblivion after her collapse. She just can¡¯t remember.


    ¡°This¡­ isn¡¯t my bed...¡± Lenore quietly points out, ¡°This isn¡¯t the Theatre. Where...?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re still in the Cocteau, Lee. I came as soon as the Detective told me you had passed out.¡±


    ¡°And why--¡± Lenore stops to cough, her throat burning like she¡¯s swallowed a pound of hot coals, ¡°Why am I here, exactly?¡±


    Odell laughs, gentle and self-deprecating, ¡°I wish I knew...¡±Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    The singer reaches to the table, picking up a chilled glass of herbal tea. She guides the little lady up just enough for her to take a few shallow sips.


    ¡°You tried to tell me. I guess I wasn¡¯t listening too well, huh?¡±


    ¡°Odell...¡±


    ¡°Shh...¡± She gently pushes Lenore back into the pillows, ¡°You¡¯re tired. Just¡­ just go back to sleep for a while, okay? We can talk when you¡¯re feeling a little better.¡±


    Part of the Lenore wants to argue. The curious and stubborn part of her that always wants to know why. What is Odell apologizing for? What must she have done to convince Odell that she had done anything wrong? But then, Odell pets her hair and tucks the covers around her now too-cold body and Lenore drifts off to the soft sound of Odell humming a faint lullaby.


    The singer hums a few notes of a tune she was coming dangerously close to forgetting. Lenore breathing evens out, the frown of confusion still resting on her thin face. Odell nuzzles against her one last time before she stands. The evening chair in the room''s corner has a side table and on it is a tall bottle of wine. Curling herself into the seat, Odell pours herself a hefty glass and contents herself to wait until her shapeshifter awakes.


    On the wall beside the bed is a large mirror. Unbeknownst to Odell, this mirror is a one-way window. From being the window, Loch and the Detective gaze into the room. Wrapped around the Detective¡¯s arm are Belva and Astra.


    Loch fidgets, eyes never straying from the bed where the Lenore lays in fitful and feverish sleep.


    ¡°Her immune system has been weakened tremendously due to fatigue and stress.¡± The Detective says, petting Loch¡¯s head like one would a startled dog, ¡°I will bring her a water-soaked cloth. As it cools, it should slowly help to bring down the fever. Odell will keep an eye on her. Keep her hydrated.¡±


    Loch¡¯s eye drifts to the other lady in the room. Tall with hair as long as a river. She¡¯s sitting in a ragged navy dress, cinched and flared, with her wine glass in hand as she stares at Lenore, not unlike the way Loch was a moment ago. He turns back to the Detective, more than a few questions in his eyes.


    ¡°Odell is a friend, do not worry.¡± The Detective mumbles. They drift down the hallway, waving a hand that motions for Loch to follow them. ¡°Lenore will introduce you two when she¡¯s feeling better.¡±


    Lock takes one last long look through the window. The white with pink flower, the one Loch now knew as Belva, reaches out to him. The other flower, pink with white and named Astra, soon does the same. Loch catches up with the Detective. Astra wraps a thin root around his delicately glowing body.


    ¡°The first day is usually the most stressful. I think it¡¯s time we explore your abilities. I was hoping Lenore could help with this part, but as it is, well...¡±


    Along the hallway walls, arms of stone and wood hold out the frames of eroding abstract paintings and waxen candlesticks that light their way. There are tables in front of doorways and coaches on the staircase. Furniture appears in places Loch is certain they were not in before. Hallways and bedrooms shuffle their shapes in a dreamlike fashion. The Cocteau is constantly shifting and changing for no more reason than the whims of its inhabitants. Broken apart and then haphazardly put back together again with clashing, multi-coloured glue.


    The Detective takes a turn and the paper ghost follows.


    The Detective hums in thought, ¡°I think your first lesson shall be...¡±


    ~*~


    It¡¯s times like these that Odell often thinks that she¡¯s the luckiest unlucky person in the world. For most of her childhood, she had lived a meagre existence. Little food and no money; she was reduced to begging on the streets. On the worse days, when the people passed her by with more ridicule and spite than compassion and generosity, it forced her to cheat for her fortune. Little things that couldn¡¯t be missed; loose change in some old man¡¯s pocket or a few bites of bread from the weak baker woman. She had to strive every day to find just enough to continue her pitiful existence.


    If she had been fortunate enough to have a family at some point, she certainly couldn¡¯t remember them now. All to be recalled now is an abandoned brothel¡¯s cellar and a cold cardboard box for a bed. The first sixteen of her roughly twenty-six years were probably best forgotten.


    A low groan. It shakes Odell from her thoughts. Still holding her half-full glass, the singer takes a seat at Lenore¡¯s bedside. Odell meets the hazel eyes of the little lady; she is both relieved and anxious to find them clear and alert, much more so than they had been an hour earlier. Lenore squints. Her pinched expression eases when she catches sight of the singer.


    ¡°Drink,¡± Odell says, bringing a cup of tea to Lenore¡¯s dry lips.


    Lenore does as she¡¯s told before she weakly tries to pull herself up by her elbows, only managing to sit up a few extra centimetres. Yet even as she struggles, her expression stays calm. Once she¡¯s settled, Lenore eyes Odell¡¯s wine glass. Half-empty.


    ¡°... Becoming a morning drinker now?¡± She mutters, the cautious twinkle in her eyes letting Odell know that she is just as uneasy about their upcoming conversation as the singer is. It¡¯s a poor attempt at a jest but the effort is appreciated.


    Odell grins, ¡°I¡¯m an always drinker, Lenore. It¡¯s not like we have much of a choice in the matter.¡±


    The little lady grimaces.


    ¡°So,¡± Lenore breathes, ¡°I do believe I owe you an explanation.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. But to be fair, I guess I owe you one too.¡± Odell mumbles, ¡°Do you want to go first?¡±


    Lenore looks down at her lap, ¡°Not really. Do you?¡±


    ¡°You know I don¡¯t.¡± Odell rests her back against the headboard, taking a long sip of her wine. She smiles a little against the rim of the glass as an idea comes to her. She puts her glass down on the side table and from her dress pocket, she pulls out a copper coin.


    Odell smirks, ¡°Well, let¡¯s flip a coin then. Two out of three; loser has to start.¡±


    The little lady raises an elegant eyebrow, ¡°... You¡¯re stalling. You know that, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I am!¡± Odell smiles, ¡°Heads or tails, darling? Or are you volunteering to open up and talk about your feelings first?¡±


    With feigned reluctance, Lenore grumbles, ¡°Heads.¡±


    Odell flips the coin with a smirk.


    It lands on heads. Odell pouts at her first loss.


    She flips again. Tails. Her pout turns into a smirk.


    Last round; the coin lands on heads and Lenore is crowned the winner.


    Odell sighs. ¡°Fuck.¡±


    Lenore settles herself back into the bed cushions, somehow exhausted from such little movement. She hated being like this, so tired and weak and frail. It wasn''t in her nature to stay in place for so long.


    ¡°You launched the coin on the tails side, making it 1% more likely to land on tails. But, since I know that you tend to invert the coin onto your other palm when you reveal it, it was more likely that the coin would end up being heads. Luckily for me, you flipped from tails two out of three--¡± Lenore broke into a coughing fit, her throat itching from all this talking.


    Odell gives her another sip of tea with a shake of her head. ¡°Geez, it was a coin toss, not bloody chess. It¡¯s supposed to be random.¡±


    The little lady grumbles under her breath. Then her gaze becomes tender, or at least as tender as her ever-vigilant visage could get.


    ¡°What did they want? The Officials, I mean.¡± Lenore asks.


    ¡°Ah, so you remember now. You were pretty out of it when you first woke up.¡±


    ¡°First? I don¡¯t remember--¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. You were pretty delirious.¡± Wrapping an arm around Lenore¡¯s shoulders, Odell smiles a sweet, wistful smile. ¡°You know, when we first met I would have never taken you for a cuddler.¡±


    Lenore levels the singer with a cool glare even as she feels her cheeks go hot.


    ¡°Anyway, about this morning,¡± Odell digs her hand into the pocket of her dress coat, producing an unmarked letter, indistinguishable or the one they¡¯d received the day before. She smirks bitterly as she hands it to Lenore. ¡°They nearly gave Jason a heart attack, I¡¯ve never seen him so shaken. One of them showed up at the door but you could hear the rest of them. That creepy scratching sound they make was echoing throughout the courtyard. They were trying to intimidate me, that much was obvious. I don¡¯t know why they¡¯d bother for such a nothing little letter.¡±


    Lenore listens along as she read the letter. It was considerably shorter than the first one.


    ¡°In Regards to Quin City¡¯s most esteemed Theater,


    This letter is written in concern for your theatre¡¯s lack of a reply to our invitation to perform at this annual new year¡¯s dinner. Given the silence on your part, we, Quin City¡¯s most refined and gracious rulers, the House of Romilly, have chosen to send this letter as a reminder.


    Please send your acceptance to us by way of our city¡¯s law enforcement, our highborn and noble officials, so we may prepare for your arrival with haste.


    With reverence of the highest esteem and consideration,


    The House of Romilly¡±


    ¡°How odd...¡± Lenore muses. Folding the letter in half, she sends Odell a questioning look. ¡°That¡¯s all they were there for? From what you said, I¡¯d thought they were there for bloody murder.¡±


    Odell''s face clouds with something not unlike guilt.


    ¡°Yeah¡­ I just¡­ Lenore.¡± She lies onto her side so she¡¯s nose to nose with little lady, her arm still carefully wrapped around her, ¡°When Mr. Tanner came back and told me you were missing and the Officials were just waiting around the Theatre¡­ They were surrounding us. They didn¡¯t give me any sign as to why they were there, no matter how many times I asked, for such a long time¡­ I assumed the worst.¡±


    ¡°Oh...¡± Lenore frowns. ¡°Odell, I...¡±


    Odell¡¯s grip on Lenore tightens, ¡°I thought you¡¯d run off again, as you do, and gotten yourself caught. You¡¯ve been so¡­ distracted this past week, I wouldn¡¯t have been surprised if it had come back to bite you.  And then, they gave me the letter, and it had nothing to do with you. So I went back inside, and I checked your room. Your Clara mask was missing. It hit me. With how stressed out you were about the first letter, where else would you go other than to the Detective? So I gave them a call.¡±


    Lenore smiles weakly, ¡°Quite the detective work.¡±


    ¡°Well, don''t go mistaking me for D. I¡¯m nowhere near their level.¡± Odell chuckles, ¡°Or yours for that matter. Anyway, I sent back a letter of confirmation because they clearly weren¡¯t going to take no for an answer and you know the rest of the story. I called, I yelled, you fainted, I¡¯m here.¡±


    The singer shrugs, trying to play off all the worry and anger she¡¯d felt mere hours ago like it had been nothing. That simply wouldn¡¯t do. After all, having one emotionally stagnant person was enough for one relationship.


    ¡°Thank you for coming,¡± Lenore says, ¡°And for taking care of me. The Detective has other things to worry about than me.¡±


    ¡°They care in their own way. Besides,¡± Odell frowns, ¡°It¡¯s my fault you collapsed, anyway.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Lenore firmly denounces. She cups the singer¡¯s cheek and Odell cringes at how warm her skin feels. The little lady¡¯s face is pink and her brow glistens with sweat. Part of Odell wants to leave, go ask the Detective for a medical kit or at least a wet cloth to ease the fever, but Lenore¡¯s grip and fierce gaze keep her still.


    ¡°That was not and never will be your fault.¡± There¡¯s a calm steadiness to Lenore¡¯s voice, ¡°I overworked myself. You are not responsible for my faults.¡±


    Pity paints Odell¡¯s expression and Lenore¡¯s proud heart gives an annoyed jerk at the notion. She tempers herself. Thinking it over, her current condition was rather pitiful.


    ¡°You were stressed,¡± Odell argues, ¡°I should have tried to support you, but instead all I did was mock you.¡±


    ¡°You have supported me. Besides, you and I both know there¡¯s no reasoning with me when I¡¯m in a mood. And I did abandon you without a word. Look,¡± Lenore tries to give Odell an uplifting smile, ¡°I apologize and I forgive you, all right?¡±


    The singer gives her a long hard look, searching for any traces of anger or resentment in Lenore¡¯s features. She finds it as she always does; Lenore¡¯s brows are forever crinkled even when she isn¡¯t frowning and her eyes were still untrusting and pained. But Odell is relieved to find that none of this is directed to her and so she sighs. She picks up Lenore¡¯s tea and the little lady downs it in one gulp.


    ¡°Now then,¡± Lenore says, ¡°I suppose it¡¯s time for my side of the story.¡±


    Odell snuggles into the cushions. They¡¯re lying close enough to feel the rise and fall of each other¡¯s chests. Lenore coughs into her elbow, sitting up as straight as her body would let her. Subtly, she snuggles into Odell¡¯s shoulder, hoping the singer doesn¡¯t notice.


    ¡°You left me a little present before you left the library this morning. Couldn¡¯t find any blankets?¡± Odell teases.


    ¡°... I didn¡¯t want you to feel chilled. The library can get quite cold.¡±


    The singer hums, running her fingers through Lenore¡¯s pretty red hair.


    ¡°Well then,¡± Lenore begins, ¡°A little while after I left the library I returned to my room but when I arrived....¡±


    ~*~


    ¡°Wow. It¡¯s like every crazy thing that can ever happen is drawn to you like a magnet. I don¡¯t know how you do it.¡±


    Lenore sighs, ¡°It¡¯s a talent, I suppose.¡±


    It had taken a good few minutes, filled with many breaks when fatigue threatened to overcome the little lady, but Odell was soon caught up on all that had happened. It never ceased to surprise her how much trouble Lenore could get herself into in just a few short hours.


    ¡°And here I thought you only came here because of that letter.¡± Odell shakes her head as she rises from the bed. She had been sitting for so long, curled against Lenore, that her legs are aching. ¡°So, this Loch kid...¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°You''re connected to him? Because you added his remains into your cauldron, mixing it with your own blood?¡±


    ¡°As far as I can tell, yes.¡±


    ¡°And the boy the raccoons sent to collect your ingredients, he was the one who brought the boy¡¯s remains?¡±


    ¡°Yes...¡± Where is Odell going with this? Considering the oddness of the tale Lenore had just told, the singer is weirdly calm.


    Stretching, Odell puts down her now empty glass, ¡°So what you''re saying is, because of some brat I hired, the new compound you¡¯ve been working on for over three weeks failed. You then forced yourself to travel across the city along the busiest roads at one of the busiest times of the day and drove yourself into a fever from exhaustion. You accidentally resurrected a dead boy.¡±


    Oh. Oh no. Now Lenore knows where this is going. She grimaces, trying in vain to stop the inevitable storm, ¡°Now Odell, it¡¯s really isn''t as bad as all that--¡±


    Odell¡¯s wine glass goes hurtling across the room where it shatters apart against the window, spreading droplets of wine and glass everywhere.


    ¡°That slimy, good-for-nothing son of a bitch!¡± Odell screech, red-faced and furious, ¡°I should have known! I should¡¯ve bloody known!¡±


    She picks up the porcelain teapot, nearly empty, flinging it hard against the corner of a bookshelf. Lenore casually reaches over and snags her teacup, saving it from Odell¡¯s furious rampage. She takes a sip. The tea is cold now. In hindsight, Lenore shouldn''t be surprised. There really is no calm one in their relationship.


    ¡°The minute those bloody thieves introduced me to that little fiend; his stupid, arrogant look and annoyingly whiny voice!¡±


    ¡°How does his voice have anything to do with this?¡± Lenore¡¯s interjection is ignored.


    Odell makes her voice high and squeaky, mockingly ranting, ¡°¡®Oh, of course, miss. Right away, miss. I won¡¯t let you down, miss. How generous of you, miss.¡¯ That snot-nosed halfwit!¡±


    ¡°Easy there, feisty. Let¡¯s take a breath¡­¡±


    ¡°When I get my hands on him I¡¯m going to wring his bloody neck!¡±


    ¡°Odell, I really do need the boy alive.¡± Lenore finishes the last of her tea and pulls the covers away from herself.


    ¡°Oh, he¡¯ll live.¡± The singer seethes, ¡°I¡¯ll just strangle him till he¡¯s nearly dead, revive him, and then strangle him again. What could he have been thinking!? Oh look, a rotting corpse! Ain¡¯t that a treat, better get me some that! In fact, a gift like this ought to be shared! I¡¯m not gonna tell them what¡¯s in it, though, because I¡¯m an evil little brat! It¡¯ll be a fun little surprise!¡±


    Odell would have continued had a thump not interrupted her, quickly followed by a low groan. Spinning around, she sees Lenore, out of bed and on her knees, hunched over and panting.


    ¡°Hey!¡± Odell dashes over to her side, ¡°What are you doing? Get back in bed!¡±


    Lenore coughs, ¡°I¡¯ve ¡ª been in bed ¡ª for forever. I am fine ¡ª I¡¯m just a little ¡ª dizzy.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because you¡¯re sick! Get back in bed!¡± Laying a hand on the small of Lenore¡¯s back, Odell tries to guide her back onto the bed. Lenore bats her hands away. She grabs onto the singer by her shoulder and pushes herself to her feet.


    ¡°Stop it. Let me lean on you and help me downstairs.¡±


    ¡°No, you need to rest!¡±


    ¡°I will rest. But this room is starting to feel cramped. I want to go downstairs.¡±


    Odell glares. She doesn¡¯t move for a moment, staring Lenore down. It¡¯s difficult to tell what is stronger, Odell¡¯s temper or Lenore¡¯s stubbornness. Eventually, Odell has to admit defeat.


    She grumbles, ¡°Your room is twice as small.¡±


    ¡°True, but my room doesn¡¯t usually have broken glass everywhere, so...¡±


    ¡°Oh, shut up.¡±


    ¡°Besides,¡± Lenore says, ¡°I need to introduce you to the kid. I think you¡¯ll like him.¡±


    The two of them wobble their way down the hall. It doesn¡¯t take a detective to guess where the Detective and Loch have disappeared to. Lenore knows exactly where she¡¯ll find them.


    The Laboratory.

 The Orphic Unknowns

    Are we alone?


    The ground beyond the door is animated. Like the inside of a volcano, it¡¯s molten. Loch feels crowded but there¡¯s no one here but the Detective. It¡¯s just the two of them. Belva and Astra had disappeared a while ago, hanging off the Detective¡¯s shoulder one moment and then gone the next. The Detective wouldn¡¯t tell him where they went. Maybe the Detective would¡¯ve answered if only they knew there was a question Loch wanted them to answer. Body language can only say so much, after all.


    Loch catches Detective attention by bumping his head against their shoulder. The Detective watches as Loch¡¯s expression clouds with concern. His eyes search the hallway, hyper-aware of how isolated they both are.


    The Detective cocks their head. When they speak, Loch is surprised by how hoarse the Detective sounds, ¡°You¡¯ll be fine, little one. I¡¯m right by your side. In this domain, you¡¯re never alone.¡±


    Perhaps that was supposed to be comforting. It¡¯s not. Loch¡¯s expression must give that away because the Detective tries to steps closer but they stumble. Loch barely has the time to flinch before the Detective is stable on their feet once more, as if they¡¯d never stumble in the first place. Loch does have to frown. Is the Detective not feeling well too?


    ¡°I apologize.¡± The Detective says, ¡°Does that frighten you?¡±


    Loch wants to say no. He¡¯s not even in the room yet; he¡¯s only standing in the entryway, looking in. It¡¯s pitch black. Nothing to see but the unsteady floor. Nothing to be scared of.


    He squirms, Maybe.


    The Detective pats Loch¡¯s head. The mistiness that the Detective is shrouded in feels heavier. They¡¯ve been slouching slightly; it¡¯s only become more and more apparent since Lenore fell ill. Their pace is unsteady as if they¡¯ve recently spun around and around and are now too dizzy to walk straight. Is the Detective feeling sick? Maybe they should rest. But how can Loch suggest such a thing without Lenore here to translate for him? Before Loch can make a decision, the Detective steps through the room¡¯s threshold, melting into the darkness.


    ¡°Come along, child.¡±


    Suddenly, Loch wants to leave. At the very least, he doesn¡¯t want to follow. But the room awaits him with this unyielding draw. It beckons him forward and Loch obeys. The door slams shut behind him. Without warning, Loch¡¯s vision loses depth. Blind and panicking, Loch¡¯s eyes dart around, searching for something to lock onto and focus on. Spinning around, Loch finds that even the Detective has seemingly abandoned him.


    ¡°The room will adjust,¡± The Detective¡¯s voice mumbles from an unknowable direction and distance, ¡°As will your eyes. Look around, your discomfort will mitigate.¡±


    He does as he¡¯s told. There¡¯s something abstract about this space. It couldn¡¯t exist, perhaps it even shouldn¡¯t exist, but it does. It shamelessly remains in this space between sanity and sense. Like a canvas on which paint never dries; the design never finished. Always moving and yet hauntingly still. Stop, start, and still motion in choppy photoplay. Glitching in the static.


    ¡°Are¡­ are you ready?¡± The Detective¡¯s voice stutters and echoes.


    Loch nods.


    ¡°Lovely¡­ Very lovely¡± The Detective sighs. They sound like they¡¯re falling asleep, ¡°Now, if you¡¯ll indulge me, I¡¯d like to ask you a few questions.¡±


    Loch frowns, I thought you were going to teach me how to talk to you? How am I supposed to answer if you can¡¯t hear me?


    ¡°Question one,¡± The Detective talks over him, ¡°How are you coping with this body?¡±


    Loch hesitates. Is he missing something? Is this some kind of test? I don¡¯t know? This is my body. I don¡¯t remember being anything else.


    After he¡¯s finished speaking, Loch is left waiting for a reply. It doesn¡¯t come for an awkwardly long length of time. Something is circling him. He can¡¯t see it or hear it but Loch knows it¡¯s there. It¡¯s this slow force that¡¯s gradually taking up space.


    Finally, the Detective speaks again, ¡°How does the isolation of silence affect you and your relationship with others?¡±


    Um, Loch sinks, his papers fluttering against the too-soft ground. I don¡¯t like being alone but I don¡¯t know if I really feel alone? And I¡¯m not silent, I¡¯m talking right now! It¡¯s other people that can¡¯t hear me. Lenore understands me and she¡¯s the only person I¡¯ve ever known. Besides¡­ besides you, I guess.


    He really misses Lenore. Especially right now.


    It¡¯s getting bigger and the bigger it becomes the closer it gets. It¡¯s closing in from above now. Mist falls sluggishly overtops of him. Where is the Detective? Left wondering, Loch startles when the Detective¡¯s voice whispers to him from behind. When Loch spins around there¡¯s nothing there. Their voice has this unusual vibrato, like it¡¯s shaking apart.


    ¡°If you could speak, what kind of voice do you think you would have?¡±


    Loch tenses. Why does this question spark this awful fury in his chest?


    I have a voice, I can hear it in my head! Loch shouts pointlessly, You¡¯re not listening to me!


    As sudden as the fury appeared, it dissipates. The something stalking him is moist. Its hot, steamy breath makes his papers crinkle. Sheepishly, Loch says,  I mean, I know it''s not your fault but¡­ I¡¯m sorry. I feel sick, can we take a break? I need a break; I need to leave.


    The Detective¡¯s voice only gets lower. Close and quiet, tempting him in his own mind. But for what reason? Why are they doing this?


    ¡°How much do you long for a past you can¡¯t remember?¡±


    Loch shrinks, I¡­ I don¡¯t. I feel weird but I don¡¯t know if that means I¡¯m missing something. How do I miss something I don¡¯t know I''m missing?


    The next question comes quickly; there is no pause.


    ¡°How much does the loneliness eat at you?¡±


    I¡¯m not lonely! Why do you think I¡¯m lonely?


    It¡¯s getting too warm. There¡¯s no breeze, just this warm body hovering close enough to feel its heat. Loch hates it. It¡¯s clammy. He hates how harsh, yet distant its presence is.


    ¡°When,¡± The Detective¡¯s voice stumbles. Their words are mispronounced and slurred, ¡°When you feel misplaced, what do you do? Do you do it on purpose?¡±


    What does that even mean? I¡¯m not doing anything ¡®on purpose¡¯, I don¡¯t even know why I¡¯m here! Like an insect pinned to a board, Loch feels trapped. Do you think I¡¯m misplaced?


    Too close, too close, too close; it¡¯s secretions are almost touching him. A mass swelling like plump maggots drowning in bile. He can¡¯t see it. He doesn¡¯t want to see it but he knows he has to see it. Where is it? Where is it coming from? What is it? Wait, where did it go?


    The Detective¡¯s voice is a gurgling hiss, ¡°How do you cope with feeling like a burden? A mistake? A regret?¡±


    A pitiful silence. Familiar like sour vomit and the callous chill of rejection.


    I¡­ I¡¯m not¡­


    And just like that, Loch becomes detached.


    ********


    Here they go again.


    The sounds they make can¡¯t be tuned out. Too loud, they¡¯re impossible to ignore. Too quiet to mask dainty footsteps sneaking away.


    Huddle tight into the corner, far far away.


    Don¡¯t stop listening. Stay focused. Be ready for the drop.


    The sounds start moving. Where are they going? Where did they go?


    The beginning is scary but the silence is even more so.


    But they''ll start again, that¡¯s a guarantee.


    Huddle tight into the corner, waiting¡­. waiting¡­. waiting¡­ waiting¡­


    Where is he?


    ********


    You¡¯re mean¡­ Loch whispers, That¡¯s a really mean thing to say, you know! I¡¯m not answering you anymore!


    His body is surrounded by this doughy flesh. Honestly, Loch¡¯s only half-aware of where he is right now. In the dark of the laboratory, he glows. If only it was enough light to see. Mind foggy, Loch slowly returns from semi-consciousness. The Detective and the something stalking him haven¡¯t revealed themself. Nothing¡¯s changed. He¡¯s alone.


    But he keeps talking anyway.


    Why¡¯d you say that? Loch struggles, his body thrashing like a skewered fish, Why are you being mean to me? You were so nice! What happened? What¡¯d I do?


    The fleshy, doughy thing pulls away but Loch keeps thrashing. Flailing to the floor, which is suddenly cold and hard against his paper skin, Loch¡¯s distress doesn¡¯t abate.


    ¡°Why aren¡¯t you angry...?¡± It¡¯s the Detective¡¯s voice once again, ¡°Haven¡¯t you been wronged? Don¡¯t you think you have a right to be hateful? Isn¡¯t it your right to be bitter? Don''t you deserve to have revenge?¡±


    There¡¯s a full minute of silence.


    Loch stares and sees nothing, What is wrong with you¡­?


    He half-expects more questions but the Detective says nothing. Until, Loch hears a cough. Then another, and then another. Gurgles and gasps reverberate wetly and the something stalking Loch has fully recoiled to the far side of the room.


    Cautiously, Loch rises from the ground. There¡¯s a big part of him that doesn¡¯t want to do this, but an even smaller part just knows he has to. Loch floats a little closer to the something from which the Detective¡¯s voice resounds. It¡¯s shaking like a leaf.


    Loch wants to reach out, but alas, he has no hands. So he speaks, knowing he won¡¯t be heard.


    How¡­ How do I help you?


    It¡¯s shaking grows worse and worse until the very ground beneath them shivers. Then, in time with a blink of Loch¡¯s eyes, it vanishes. Its body heat leaves a trail of warmth that Loch quickly follows.


    Wait! Don¡¯t go! Don¡¯t leave me here! Wait! How is the room so large? Is feels like they¡¯ve crossed the length of a football field several times over.


    ¡°Stop!¡±


    Loch stumbles to a halt. The something has huddled itself behind this dark mass that Loch can¡¯t quite make out in the darkness.


    ¡°Stop¡­¡± It gurgles, ¡°Wait, little one¡­ Just for a moment, please¡­¡±


    The something vanishes once more. Noises, crunching and snarling like a dog gnawing on a bone, make Loch cringe. The noises don¡¯t persist long and suddenly Loch is blinded by bright light.


    A lukewarm pair of arms embrace Loch from behind. He jumps but struggle as he may, he can''t escape this mystery person''s grip.


    ¡°I apologize,¡± The Detective mumbles, ¡°Truly, I am. I shouldn¡¯t have frightened you as I did; I am so very sorry, little one, so very sorry¡­ I don¡¯t know why I let it get so bad.¡±


    The Detective¡¯s soft, pillowy flesh comes in great contrast to Loch¡¯s sleek and brittle body. His eyes flutter shut. His unease doesn¡¯t last long under their embrace. If only he could do the same for the Detective, who¡¯s voice is shaky with terror. Yet the Detective wastes no time comforting themself, which Loch thinks is kind of sad. The hug feels like it could go on forever. But, eventually, the Detective lets go.


    ¡°That was a rather rotten start, hmm? I¡¯m sorry If you¡¯ll allow me, I¡¯d like to make it up to you.¡±


    Loch¡¯s eyes blink open.


    ¡°Well? What do you think?¡±


    What Loch sees before him, he certainly wasn¡¯t expecting. In fact, it¡¯s the last thing he¡¯d have expected. That¡¯s not necessarily a bad thing.


    I¡­ It¡¯s so¡­


    ~*~


    It¡¯s become very clear to the little lady that whatever Loch feels, Lenore feels it just as strongly. It¡¯s a problem. When strange visions overtaking his mind¡¯s eye, she¡¯s pulled in like a log into a whirlpool and vice versa. Swirling and whirling down into the depths.


    Privacy, it seems, will be nonexistent in their relationship. Perfect.


    ¡°Remember back when we first met and you were a head taller than me?¡± Odell says as she prances down the hallway, ¡°Oh, how time flies!¡±


    But Lenore has no energy to dwell on worries and concerns. Luckily for her, Odell is very good at keeping her distracted. Lenore¡¯s legs had given out a while ago. Frustrated at her body¡¯s unwillingness to do as it''s told, the little lady broods. Unfortunately for her, Odell is very good at keeping her distracted.


    ¡°You¡¯re enjoying this far too much,¡± Lenore grumbles. Her legs swing from the swagger in the singer¡¯s steps. Being unable to walk under her own power strikes a tender nerve within Lenore but she¡¯s left with few other options. She lets Odell carry her the rest of the way. Odell is delighted by this turn of events and Lenore, decidedly, is not.


    ¡°Of course I¡¯m enjoying this!¡± Odell grins, nuzzling her chin against Lenore¡¯s forehead, ¡°How could I not enjoy having the most dazzling creature on earth in my arms?¡±


    The singer¡¯s arms encircling her tenderly and the sound of Odell¡¯s heart beating beside her ear is calming like a lullaby. This is nice. As much as she hates to admit it. Lenore presses her face against Odell¡¯s shoulder. The redness in her cheeks is nothing but fever, damn anyone who suggests otherwise.


    The little lady sighs, ¡°You are ridiculous¡­¡±


    ¡°And you love me for it!¡± Odell kicks the doors open, carrying Lenore through the threshold like they¡¯re a newlywed couple.


    The door slams shut behind them and they behold before them, the belly of the beast. The Cocteau Castle¡¯s stomach. Gummy with pink rugae and stomach acid. Hot mucus. Flowing, glowing slime. The Detective¡¯s Laboratory should be something gross. A nightmarish sight to haunt unlucky visitors for many nights to come. It shouldn¡¯t be this beautiful. This glorious place that had, for so long, given the little lady so many wonderful memories. Like a forest of only one tree, connected underground by a vast system of roots. Eusocial like a colony of ants. An ecosystem. A cluster of cells working together to keep the whole body functioning. Like the Theatre but more. Instead of one heart fighting to keep everything working, there are many. This fantastical harmony; how marvellous is this thing that shouldn''t be possible.


    Odell whistles appreciatively, ¡°Damn, I forgot how huge the lab was. Are you sure they¡¯re here? I don¡¯t see them.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure,¡± Lenore says, ¡°I can feel it. The lights wouldn¡¯t be on if they weren¡¯t here. They¡¯re probably on the bottom floor.¡±


    Odell starts walking down the side on the wall. There are no stairs, just a series of declining ledges, just close enough to hop to and from. The singer goes slow. The ledges have a slight bounce to them, making it all too easy to lose your balance.


    ¡°Speaking of,¡± Odell says, ¡°You and the kid have this ¡®mental connection¡¯ thing, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Can you hear him now?¡±


    ¡°... No. The farther away he is, the harder it is to hear him. If I called out, I¡¯d probably hear him answer. It¡¯s like a second voice in the back of my head. He can be very loud sometimes.¡±


    ¡°And how are you handling that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a challenge.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Lenore leans her head against the singer¡¯s chest, ¡°It¡¯s not¡­ bad. It¡¯s just new. You know I¡¯m a very private person.¡±


    ¡°Boy, do I know it,¡± Odell smirks, ¡°Who knows, maybe this kid will help you to open up a little. Might just be good for you, shapeshifter.¡±


    The little lady closes her eyes as Odell hums and her gentle melody almost soothes Lenore into slumber. The trip down will take a few minutes. It gives Lenore time to think.


    Something down here had frightened Loch. What could possibly scare him? He¡¯d been oblivious to the horrors of the city streets; had laughed when mangled hands hunted them down from the shadows. The kid had a skewed sense of danger, to say the least. But something had made him afraid down here. His fear had made Lenore¡¯s blood pump with adrenaline, both their minds muddled with one sobering thought, ¡®Oh fuck, I¡¯m about to die¡­¡¯


    Odell hums a little louder. There¡¯s a slight delay in the sound and at first, Lenore mistakes it for an echo. Then the humming duplicates. The little lady feels the slight vibration of the singer¡¯s chest go still but the humming persists.


    ¡°Um,¡± Odell looks around, a slight frown on her face, ¡°Hello?¡±


    They¡¯re halfway down. The view is changing as the hum changes key. It¡¯s not a normal hum. It¡¯s rumbly in a monotonous, inhuman way. Like a car engine, a ringing bell, leaves rustling in the wind, or a deep flute symphony.


    Lenore yawns, ¡°They like your tune.¡±


    A surprised smirk blooms on the singer¡¯s face, ¡°Do they now? I¡¯m flattered.¡±


    Odell joins in the humming once more, louder this time with a fast, jazzy edge. It¡¯s a familiar purr. A pleasantly aimless song that Odell and the others craft out of thin air. So pleasant in fact, that Lenore feels the singers'' steps take on a frivolous pace. Down the ledges, Odell dances, light as a dandelion in the breeze.


    Unfortunately, it''s not enough to keep Lenore distracted. There¡¯s still this feeling of unease. Loch¡¯s unease. The fear is less potent now, less likely to make them drunk on terror, but the nauseous aftertaste hasn¡¯t faded. Is Loch actually in danger? No, not with the Detective around. They¡¯d never let anything happen to one of their own, that much Lenore is certain. But, then again¡­


    The little lady chews on her bottom lip. Should she say something now? Or should she wait until they¡¯re face to face?


    Suddenly, the navy fabric of Odell¡¯s dress flaps upwards, obstructing Lenore¡¯s view. The little lady can¡¯t see what has happened from her position, but it isn''t hard to guess. A gust of wind sends the singer¡¯s skirt and both their hair flying. Carried by the wind, or perhaps creating the wind itself, are countless red and brown feathers. Odell stumbles, almost tripping over the edge.


    Odell shouts in surprise, ¡°Hey! Watch yourself, you feathery fuck!¡±


    As quickly as it appeared, the wind and the feathers disappeared down to the bottom of the laboratory. As the wind fades, so does the humming. The Singer scowls. She belts one more soulful tune but her invitation goes unanswered. It seems their song is truly over. Cut off like a needle scratching off of a record.


    Odell pouts, ¡°Asshole. They threw off our rhythm.¡±


    ¡°What a tragedy. I weep for you.¡± Lenore smirks.


    They reach the final ledge. Beyond that point is a dense vapour. The sound of childish giggling steadily becomes clearer and clearer in the back of Lenore¡¯s head. Odell pauses.


    ¡°I hate this part¡­¡± Odell mutters.


    ¡°Deep breath, Odell,¡± Lenore says.


    They both inhale sharply and hold the air in with tight lips. One last hop and the two of them drop, through the vapour which has a smell that is sour in the sweetest possible way. The fall is brief and the ground, when they meet it, is neither soft nor solid. The singer stumbles again. Her ankles ache. Her shoes feel like they¡¯ve become one with her feet. But, ever graceful, Odell quickly finds her footing as a familiarly mumbling voice greets them.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°Good day, my good miss.¡±


    The giggling is louder now, boisterous enough to make the little lady¡¯s head pound. Lenore¡¯s eyelids flutter open and when her eyes eventually focus, her mouth falls open. Bewilderment brings a flush to her cheeks and crinkles to her brow.


    Odell conveys their mutual confusion quite concisely with three simple words, ¡°What the fuck?¡±


    The laboratory was crafted for constant change. The fact that it doesn¡¯t look the way Lenore remembered isn¡¯t too unusual. Still, this is¡­ unexpected.


    ¡°... Hello, Detective¡± Lenore says slowly, ¡°I see that you¡¯ve¡­ redecorated.¡±


    ¡°Why yes, I have.¡± The Detective says brightly, ¡°Mister Laymon is quite a fan!¡±


    The little lady hasn¡¯t seen a school, let alone been in one for more than a decade, and yet it feels like her first day of kindergarten all over again. The furniture is tiny. Classroom chairs and desks, also brightly coloured and set up in squares. Brightly coloured posters and childish drawings cover the walls. Pictures of playful puppies and crafty kittens, sketches of smiley faces and rainbows. A big red chest overflowing with toys fit for the most spoiled toddler. Fluffy carpets, soft enough for a baby to sleep on, with cartoon animals stitched into the fabric. It¡¯s so vibrant, so silly, so light-hearted. It¡¯s so out of place, but Lenore doesn¡¯t dwell on that long. In the middle of the largest carpet, which is canary yellow and covered in bird doodles, is Loch. All traces of fear are gone from the back of Lenore¡¯s mind, and it''s not hard to see why.


    He looks so carefree. Happily spinning around as the feathers circle him playfully, tickling Loch when his back is turned and fluttering away before he can catch them. Another spin and a high pitched giggle, then Lenore and Loch meet eyes. The giggling cuts off, interrupted by a joyful and surprised squeal.


    Lenore! You¡¯re alive!


    Odell lowers the little lady to her feet. Loch breaks free from the circle of feathers, flying across the room and ramming into Lenore head first. He would have knocked her off her feet if the singer hadn¡¯t been there to steady her. It would have been a brutal hug if Loch had arms to embrace her with.


    ¡°Of course I¡¯m alive.¡± Lenore huffs haughtily, even as she delicately strokes the back of Loch''s head, ¡°Was that truly in doubt?¡±


    ¡°Knowing you?¡± Odell scoffs, ¡°Yes.¡±


    Loch tenses. He pulls away from the little lady, eyes widening when he sees Odell towering over them. When he straightens up they are eye to eye. This makes the singer take a half-step back in surprise. Damn, she wasn¡¯t expecting the kid to be this big. Still, she¡¯s never one to give a bad first impression, unless doing so would amuse her. She grins confidently. Unfortunately, aside from that, the singer has no idea what to do next. This bulbous creature is apparently a little kid. How do you talk to kids? Kids are smaller, stupider, adults; Odell would know since she was a kid once upon a time. But Loch isn¡¯t exactly small and, according to Lenore, isn¡¯t exactly stupid.


    He¡¯s still just staring at her. Silent like a ghost. She should say something. It¡¯s not like the kid is going to. He can¡¯t. What is she supposed to say?


    ¡°Hey there, buddy¡­¡± Odell ends up stammering, ¡°Mister Laymon, is it? I guess Lenore gave you that name, right? I¡¯m a¡­ um¡­ friend! I¡¯m Lenore¡¯s¡­ best friend. Nice to meet you?¡±


    Loch¡¯s head tilts to the side. His eyes flicker to Lenore, then back to the singer, then back to Lenore again. So this was the silky haired lady he¡¯d seen with Lenore. She¡¯s so much taller than she looked when sitting down. And she¡¯s Lenore¡¯s best friend? He didn¡¯t think Lenore had friends, aside from the Detective; Loch doesn¡¯t want to think about them right now.


    He¡¯s too nervous to talk at first. Why bother trying when no one can hear him? But then he remembers, Lenore is here! She can talk for him! But what should he say?


    I like your spots. You¡¯re like a really pretty giraffe.


    The little lady stifles a laugh. Her snorts make Odell frown in confusion and Loch startle as he rushes to clarify himself.


    No, wait! I¡¯m sorry, I just mean you¡¯re tall like a giraffe! But not in a bad way! Your neck is normal sized and, I mean, I¡¯ve never seen a giraffe in real life before so maybe¡­!


    ¡°He says ¡®hello¡¯,¡± Lenore says, ¡°He thinks you''re pretty. Like a giraffe.¡±


    Loch shoots Lenore an incredulous expression of betrayal, Hey, no! That''s not what I meant!


    ¡°What?¡± Odell frowns, watching as Loch desperately shakes his head back and forth.


    Lenore raises an eyebrow at the singer, ¡°We¡¯re best friends, Odell? Is that all?¡±


    Odell¡¯s eyes go wide, ¡°Hey, no! I didn¡¯t mean it like that, I just, he¡¯s a kid! Aren¡¯t you supposed to sugarcoat that kind of stuff to kids? I don¡¯t know how to talk to children!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve noticed,¡± Lenore replies dryly.


    Sugarcoat? What does that mean? Is it a secret or something?


    ¡°Why did he call me a giraffe? Has he ever even seen a giraffe before?¡±


    Lenore interrupts their ramblings by clearing her throat, ¡°Odell, meet Lochlan Laymon, Loch for short. He¡¯s that little mystery child I found slinking around the Aurora. Loch, meet Odell Averill, my partner. She¡¯s the owner of the Theatre as well as one of its most popular performers. I¡¯m sure the two of you will get along well enough, given all the things you have in common. Your horrible senses of humour, for example.¡±


    ¡°As opposed to that giant stick you like to keep up your ass?¡±


    Loch bursts into giggles. His body trembles in laughter that no one but the little lady can hear. The boy¡¯s mimed hysterics brings a smile to the singer¡¯s face. Even as he laughs, Loch says, That was a swear! And it was mean!


    Lenore¡¯s knees are jittery. She leans into Odell¡¯s side and says, ¡°See that? You¡¯ve barely known him for a minute and you¡¯re already setting a bad example.¡±


    Odell sticks her tongue out at Lenore, and Loch giggles harder.


    Then the Detective walks up behind Loch, and the boy freezes. The corner of Lenore¡¯s mouth curls downward. There¡¯s that unease again. Loch turns around, too fast to be dismissed as casual, and that unease spikes when he lays eyes on the Detective. This chilling feeling lingers, Loch and the Detective peering at each other, expressions unreadable. The little lady steps away from Odell, reaching over to lay a comforting hand on Loch¡¯s back. She gives the Detective a questioning look. The Detective tilts their head away.


    ¡°Well, now that you¡¯re here,¡± The Detective says, ¡°Why don¡¯t we get started on those lessons? Mr. Rousseau, won¡¯t you change form for us?¡±


    The twister of feathers jitter and flutter. There¡¯s a pattern in their frolicking that resembles a songless dance. When the dance ends, the Detective speaks again.


    ¡°I won¡¯t make you, but I do believe Mister Laymon would benefit from your example.¡±


    The feathers dance their reply and the Detective continues to respond.


    Odell sighs, ¡°This is a bit of a one-sided conversation, don¡¯t you think?¡± The singer¡¯s waits for Lenore to reply. When she doesn¡¯t, Odell turns to look at her. The little lady has her eyes locked on Loch and although Odell can¡¯t hear anything, she¡¯s certain they¡¯re talking to each other.


    Odell rolls her eyes, ¡°Well, don¡¯t I feel left out¡­¡±


    Oblivious to the singer¡¯s exasperation, Lenore sends Loch a silent message.


    ¡°You¡¯re scared of the Detective.¡± Lenore states, ¡°Why?¡±


    No, I¡¯m not¡­


    ¡°We share a consciousness, Loch. I know how you¡¯re feeling, what I don¡¯t know is why.¡±


    ¡­ Did you see¡­ those sounds¡­ and that corner¡­?


    ¡°Yes,¡± Lenore shudders, ¡°It wasn¡¯t like the visions we shared before¡­ I couldn¡¯t see anything. Only textures and yelling.¡±


    I didn¡¯t like it. It was scary. Was it scary for you? It felt different from the other times.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t pleasant. The other visions¡­ they were mine. This one must have been yours. I don¡¯t remember anything like that happening to me.¡±


    But I don¡¯t remember that stuff either.


    ¡°You couldn¡¯t remember anything before. Now you do.¡±


    I guess, but I don¡¯t--


    ¡°Thank you, Jean.¡± The voice that interrupts Loch is quiet, but it catches their attention nonetheless. The Detective mumbles, ¡°I know this is difficult for you, and I truly appreciate you doing this for us.¡±


    The wind picks up. The four of them watch as the feathers are swept up with greater force, huddling into a tight ball. Gradually the ball of feathers changes form. A figure takes shape. Eventually, the feathers settle into a person, poised and adrift above the ground. Unlike Loch, who is oval-shaped with loose folds of paper and brew, this person had the figure of a man. Every part of them is sculpted from cardinal feathers. Two legs, two arms, a torso, and even a head adorned with wispy feathers resembling hair. The clothing that the feathers imitate are weird and old-fashioned. The tufts protruding from his cheeks resemble whispers and give the illusion of baby fat. He looks youthful, in great contrast to the stuffy clothes his feathers mimicked over him.


    The wind dies down and the man opens his eyes. There''s nothing beyond his eyelids. Only air and shadows. The man smiles shyly. He raises his left hand to his temple and then extends that hand outward in a way that looks like he¡¯s saluting them.


    ¡°Hello,¡± The feathery man signs, ¡°My name is¡­¡± The man spells out his name, which has a great many letters, ¡°J-E-A-N L-U-C R-O-U-S-S-E-A-U. You can call me¡­¡± The man performs a few more signs; with his thumb and index finger, he mimics plucking a feather out of his head and then he crosses his arms in front of his chest. ¡°Feather Guard or J.L. for short. It is a pleasure to meet you. Please forgive my nervousness.¡±


    Loch¡¯s short attention span gets the best of him yet again.


    Hello! He flies up to Jean-Luc, smiling brightly as he takes in his friend¡¯s new appearance, How did you do that? You¡¯re so pretty! Your name¡¯s pretty too and you have more than one! Do I get another name too?


    Jean-Luc smiles indulgently, not bothering to remind the boy of his muteness. Loch rambles on for a while. While he¡¯s distracted, the Detective gestures for Lenore and Odell to take a seat at the tiny desks closest to the yellow carpet. The little lady squawks when Odell scops her up and sets her down on her lap. Lenore tries to muster up a scowl, but she quickly lets it drop from her face. She¡¯s tired and these chairs look uncomfortable. This is better than sitting on the floor. Feigning reluctance, Lenore settles into Odell¡¯s embrace.


    The Detective stands on the opposite side of the carpet. Loch finally runs out of questions for the feathery man. He turns back to Lenore.


    He¡¯s like me, isn¡¯t he? So are Belva and Astra.


    ¡°Yes, that is why I brought you here. This hotel is filled with people like you. For the most part.¡± Lenore¡¯s eyes flicker to the Detective when she says that last part.


    Cool! Why didn''t you tell me that before?


    ¡°... I figured it would be a fun surprise.¡±


    Before Loch can reply, The Detective speaks up.


    ¡°The majority of my guests communicate using sign language.¡± The Detective mumbles, ¡°Normally, our first lesson would be a basic overview of the alphabet and a few basic signs. We rarely have a guest who''s already fluent¡­¡±


    Loch glances at Lenore nervously and the Detective stops. When they resume speaking, their voice is somehow even quieter.


    ¡°It¡¯s a good thing,¡± They take a tentative step forward, watching Loch like one would a frightened animal, ¡°We can move on to the next lesson; one which I think you¡¯ll find far more enjoyable.¡±


    They wave for Jean-Luc to come over, and the feathery man does so without hesitation.


    ¡°As you can see, the way Mr. Rousseau¡¯s body moves and reacts with itself differs greatly from the way a normal person¡¯s body would. A crucial difference between, say, Mr. Rousseau and Miss Laymon, is the composition of liquids, solids, and gasses that make up their bodies.¡±


    Gradually, the air weaving between Jean-Luc¡¯s feathers becomes foggy. Without warning, Jean-Luc falls apart, his body receding into wind and tufts of airborne plumule. With gravity all its own, the feathers hover with wavelike rises and falls.


    Loch floats closer, Woah...


    The Detective reaches their hand into the mess of wind and feathers. The wind accommodated itself around the intrusion by weaving through their fingers and around their palm, carrying the feathers with it.


    ¡°Rousseau is predominantly made of gases which control the solid parts of himself. Lenore, on the other hand,¡± They walked over to the Little woman and grasped her wrist, squeezing gently, ¡°Is predominantly solids controlled by liquids, with the occasional gases¡­¡±


    Odell giggles into the back of the little lady¡¯s head.


    Lenore rolls her eyes, ¡°Mature¡­¡±


    ¡°You, Loch, are made of liquid with a very thin outer layer of solids. Does that make sense?¡±


    Loch nods confidently.


    The Detective tilts their head fondly, ¡°You and Rousseau are far more similar in composition than you and Lenore, so he will act as a reference for this exercise. Jean, if you would?¡±


    The wind blows outward, making the feathers balloon into an oval that fans out at the bottom like a skirt. At the top half of the oval, where it¡¯s roundest, two round holes break open. They blink in unison. The wind stabilizes into a gentle breeze as the thin pelt of feathers shiver and then settle into shape. Underneath the two holes is a crescent tear, like the moon turned onto its side. Shyly smiling a smile that isn¡¯t his own, Jean-Luc turns around and meets Loch¡¯s gaze. The boy gawks, his shock so overwhelming that he wordlessly sinks to the ground.


    ¡°There we are,¡± The Detective says, ¡°What do you think, Mr. Laymon? Like looking into a mirror, hmm?¡±


    They¡¯re a perfect reflection. Identical twins. Hesitantly, Loch circles Jean-Luc, taking in every inch of his friends'' mimicked body. Loch squints. Is he actually this tall? Is his smile usually this wide?


    Is my head really this fat?


    Lenore exhales sharply through her nose. She bits her lip to keep from smiling. It doesn¡¯t work.


    Odell looks down at her, ¡°... What are you smirking at?¡±


    The little lady quietly leans her head against the singer''s shoulder, letting her eyes fall shut.


    ¡°Nothing,¡± She says, ¡°Just trying not to cough.¡±


    The Detective steps back to give them both room. They say, ¡°Loch, Mr. Rousseau is going to warp his body into different sizes and shapes. Your job is to copy him to the best of your abilities. Are you ready?¡±


    Loch nods.


    ¡°We¡¯ll start off easy. Take your time, and don¡¯t worry if you mess up,¡± The Detective turns to Jean-Luc, ¡°Begin.¡±


    Whether the lesson goes on for minutes or hours, Lenore can¡¯t be certain. For all she knows, it could have taken forever. Through half-lidded eyes, the little lady watches. First, Jean-Luc stretches until he resembles an untwisted balloon animal. Like a snake, a worm, or an eel. Loch tries to copy him and quickly finds that it''s far harder than Jean-Luc made it look. He tries to stretch his body upward but only succeeds in floating high above the ground, his body no longer than it was before. Next, Loch tries laying on the floor and dragging his top and bottom half apart. His two halves enter into a fierce tug of war that, to the amused onlookers, only makes the boy rock back and forth like an angry rocking horse. But, third time¡¯s the charm; Loch flies from one end of the carpet to the other. The drag and momentum finally prolong his body until he and Jean-Luc are identical once more; two long, gangly serpents. And that was just the first exercise.


    Swelling up like a bubble, shrinking down like a cotton sweater in the dryer. A big head with a tiny body and then a big body with a tiny head. Jean-Luc squishes and stains his mimicked form into all manner of shapes and sizes. Loch struggles through each exercise; Lenore can hear all his frustrated grumbling and groaning. But the struggle makes the success all the sweeter. For each of Loch¡¯s grumbles, Lenore is also gifted with many giggles and cheers. It¡¯s nice seeing the kid have some fun. If only she had the energy to join in on the celebrating. Luckily, Odell happily makes up for the little ladies'' silence. When Loch, after several failed attempts, finally manages to replicate Jean-Luc¡¯s latest distortion, he is met with a round of applause.


    ¡°Wo-ho!¡± Odell grins, clapping loudly like a parent at their child¡¯s first soccer game. ¡°Keep it up, buddy! You¡¯re doing great!¡±


    The Detective¡¯s praise is calmer than the singers, but no less genuine.


    ¡°Well done, Mr. Laymon,¡± They say, ¡°Very well done indeed.¡±


    Jean-Luc, without the luxury of having hands in this form, does a little dance that the Detective translates to mean, ¡°You¡¯re a fast learner! And so much imagination!¡±


    It¡¯s a pleasant distraction. Too bad Lenore had to go and ruin everything. A sickly storm of coughs burst from the back of Lenore¡¯s throat like a swarm of angry locusts. She buries her face into the crook of her elbow. Her hacks burn in her chest, making tears prickle the corner of her eyes.


    Several concerned faces turn her way. Odell¡¯s hands fly to the little lady¡¯s back, rubbing her shoulders until, finally, the fit subsides. Lenore pulls her arm away from her mouth. Her teary eyes scan the fabric around her elbow. No blood. She swallows thickly, holding a hand to her chest, ¡°Pardon me. You¡¯re doing well, kid. Keep¡­ keep going, I¡¯m fine.¡±


    A hand presses against her forehead. The Detective sighs. She¡¯s less warm than she had been the last time they checked, but not by much.


    The Detective removes their hand, ¡°Your fever will never break if you don¡¯t rest.¡±


    ¡°I am resting. I¡¯m simply doing so in good company.¡±


    ¡°Being in bed would make resting easier.¡±


    Lenore scoffs, ¡°When have I ever done anything the easy way?¡±


    Odell¡¯s brow furrows, ¡°Detective, your medical kit...?¡±


    ¡°Of course. One moment, please.¡±


    Loch flies over in a hurry, settling down beside the little lady. Lenore slumps back against the singer¡¯s chest, running a hand through her messy bedridden hair. She narrows her eyes, glaring stubbornly at nothing in particular. As the Detective backs away, Lenore grumbles. ¡°I am not going back to bed. We¡¯ve wasted enough time as it is. I have things to do.¡±


    Odell removes her dress coat, draping it over Lenore¡¯s shoulders. She huffs, ¡°You¡¯re so fucking stubborn...¡±


    ¡­ Swear.


    Lenore smiles, despite herself. These two are going to get along fine, she can tell.


    The Detective clears their throat. They say, ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m going to have to make a few adjustments. Close your eyes, everyone, and hold your breath. Do not peek.¡±


    Lenore and Odell close their eyes without question. Loch, on the other hand, lets his eyes linger open slightly, hoping the Detective doesn''t notice. They don¡¯t, but Lenore does.


    ¡°Close your eyes, Loch. I know you''re still looking.¡±


    But why? Loch shrinks into himself, which Lenore finds rather worrying, What are they doing? What are they going to do to me if I don¡¯t?


    ¡°Nothing,¡± Lenore says, ¡°The Detective would never¡­¡± The little lady trails off mid-sentence. She feels her heart speed up, her breath almost catching in her throat. Fear, all her own this time, builds up in her chest. Loch feels just as strongly.


    ¡°Something happened while I was unconscious. Tell me what happened, Loch.¡±


    I¡­ Loch closes his eyes, hoping it will be enough to pacify the little lady. It isn¡¯t.


    Lenore grits her teeth, ¡°Tell me. Now¡±


    Suddenly, a gust of musk envelopes them. Damn it, she forgot to hold her breath. The vapour tastes like nothing and smells like nothing, the flurry too harsh for her tongue and nose to make any sense of it. At least her eyes are closed. She¡¯s far too busy to go blind. As quickly as the gust blew down on them, it also blew past. The little lady gasps for breath as air returns to her poor, sick lungs.


    ¡°Hey, take it easy, Lenore! Easy!¡± Odell¡¯s voice is loud in her ringing ears, ¡°Fuck, please don¡¯t pass out¡­¡±


    Lenore feels a pair of arms lift her up, bridal style. She doesn¡¯t try opening her eyes, too tired to even bother. Instead, she uses what little energy she has left to breathe and listen.


    ¡°Lay her down here, Ms. Averill. Try not to jolt her.¡±


    Woah¡­ Where did all this stuff come from?


    ¡°She¡¯s so pale. I thought you said it was just the flu?¡±


    ¡°And a few days ago, it was probably just a cold. But since she continues to push herself¡­¡±


    Are you dying¡­? Please, don¡¯t die.


    ¡°I¡¯m not dying,¡± Lenore coughs, ¡°You¡¯re all too dramatic¡­¡±


    Lenore wasn¡¯t the easiest patient. Though she didn¡¯t squirm when the Detective took her temperature, forced bitter medicine down her throat, and pressed a cooling towel against her temples, she still didn¡¯t enjoy the attention. She stubbornly asserted at every possible moment that no, she didn¡¯t need to lie down and yes, she was sure this was just a cold and, of course, she would be fine. For goodness sake, Lenore hated being fused over almost as much as she hated being sick.


    Loch spends this time torn between fluttering over Lenore¡¯s prone body and curiously exploring the laboratory, made new once again. Gone is the kindergarten classroom with its bright colours and lively atmosphere. Now, the walls are white and barren. There is no furniture except a giant bed that, to Loch¡¯s confusion, has bars along the side of the mattress. It¡¯s like a cage. It even has arm and leg restraints attached to the bars. Loch tries to ignore that. It makes him nervous for some reason. The emptiness of the room, devoid of life. The way the other¡¯s voices echo off the walls; everyone¡¯s voice echoes except his own. Well, his voice and Jean-Luc¡¯s. He¡¯s abandoned his imitation of Loch¡¯s body, reverting back to wind and loose feathers. At the Detective¡¯s back and call, Jean-Luc disappears into the unknown, bringing back medicine and blankets. After ten or so trips, Jean-Luc leaves but doesn¡¯t come back.


    Is up the only way out? How are Lenore and her pretty friend supposed to get out here? Are they trapped? Can the Detective leave or are they stuck here with Loch too? Is Loch stuck here with them?


    ¡°Mr. Laymon,¡± Loch jumps when the Detective calls out their name, ¡°A word, if you please?¡±


    Say no, say no, say no, say no--


    Okay.


    The Detective retreats to the opposite side of the white room. Loch cautiously flies over while the Detective stands with the back against the corner of the room. With Loch floating in front of them, they are effectively pinned in place.


    The Detective sighs, ¡°Are you all right?¡±


    Loch hesitates, but eventually, he nods his head.


    ¡°I see. You¡¯re probably lying to me, but that¡¯s okay. I can¡¯t blame you.¡±


    The boy''s eyes widen with panic, No, I¡¯m fine! Honest!


    The Detective holds their hand up and Loch stops talking. They say, ¡°You need space. Away from me, I mean. I¡¯ll leave you and the ladies to your lonesome. Please don¡¯t hesitate to fetch me if you need anything.¡±


    Loch nods again. A strange sense of guilt is growing within him, although he isn¡¯t sure why. The Detective likewise has an air of remorse around them. Loch tries to give the Detective a thankful smile. To help them both feel better.


    The Detective glances away, ¡°What happened before was all my fault. I¡¯m sorry. It¡¯s okay if you don¡¯t trust me. I¡¯ll do my best to regain your trust at whatever pace you¡¯re most comfortable with.¡±


    Loch¡¯s smile relaxes. The guilt doesn¡¯t go away, but it lightens, at least. In its place, fragile courage sparks to life. Loch floats a little closer. He bumps his head against the Detectives chest, nuzzling like a kitten. The Detective stares, and Loch can imagine if they had a face, their expression would be pretty funny. Then, they laugh quietly under their breath. They pat Loch¡¯s head, but when they speak their voice is melancholy. Loch has such wide eyes. He must be young. So painfully young. And for a young one such as him, it must be frustrating when things are made vague, not for their sake but for the adult''s comfort. It¡¯s easier to skirt around an issue rather than tackle it head on, and that¡¯s what makes it so tempting.


    ¡°Be patient,¡± They sigh, ¡°With yourself and others. There are questions that you¡¯re going to be asking yourself very soon. I need you to know, it''s okay to have doubts. You should have doubts, in fact. You need to be willing to ask the hard questions. Even if you don¡¯t like the answers you get.¡±


    The wall behind the Detective dissolves. Vapours swathe over the Detective, wrapping around their arms and between their legs. It pulls the Detective in, their silk and misty body vaporizing into nothingness.


    ¡°Take care of yourself¡­¡± Is the last thing Loch hears them say.


    ~*~


    An hour later, on the edge between sleep and consciousness, Lenore is awakened by a voice.


    Lenore? Are you asleep?


    ¡°Not anymore.¡± She answers without opening her eyes. Odell is sitting on the chair beside Loch, watching. Lenore doesn¡¯t want her to know she¡¯s still awake. The singer needed a break from fussing over her. It had been a long day for everybody.


    Okay¡­ Can I ask a question? About the Detective?


    ¡°... Please do.¡±


    What¡¯s wrong with them?


    Lenore frowns. What could she say? The truth? Could Loch even handle the truth right now?


    ¡°They¡¯re sick. They¡¯ve been sick for a very long time.¡±


    Oh.


    Loch is quiet. Worryingly so. Luckily, Lenore isn¡¯t the only one who notices the boy''s unease. Odell wraps her arm around Loch. When the boy turns to look at her, she gives him a grin.


    ¡°I meant what I said, you know,¡± Odell whispers so as not to wake Lenore, ¡°You were doing great back there.¡±


    Loch smiles shyly. There was something about the way the singer grins that makes him feel safe. Her grin isn¡¯t soft or comforting. Not at all. Odell¡¯s grins are the kind of quirk of the lips that say, ¡®Don¡¯t worry, if anybody fucks with you, I¡¯ll kick their head in.¡¯ It¡¯s kind of scary but in a good way.


    Odell leans back in her chair, ¡°Magic is weird, isn¡¯t it? Don¡¯t tell Lenore I called it that, though, she¡¯d pitch a fit.¡± She chuckles, ¡°It¡¯s just so confusing! Every time Lenore tries to teach me something about it, I end up feeling like I know less than I did before. Maybe I¡¯m just a lousy learner. But do you want to see something cool?¡±


    When Loch nods eagerly, Odell pulls the sleeve of her dress up to her elbow. The skin of her forearm, like the rest of her, is dark caramel with splotches of cream. With her other arm, Odell presses her finger against one of her cream dots and begins rubbing tiny circles into her skin. At first, nothing happens. Until, the singer''s skin starts to shiver. Goosebumps prickle up and down her arm. Then Odell trails her finger up her forearm and, to Loch''s surprise, the cream dot moves with her.


    Loch''s jaw drops. The singer gives the boy a playful wink and continues.


    Up and down her arm, the dot travels. Then, the singer lifts her finger and presses it against a larger cream dot and like before, the dot moves with her. With every press, lift, and trial of her finger, her two-toned skin changes pattern.


    After a few seconds, Odell stops, ¡°And, that¡¯s all I got.¡± She shrugs, pulling her sleeve back down, ¡°It¡¯s nothing compared to what you and my little shapeshifter can do, but that¡¯s probably because I¡¯m too lazy to learn more.¡±


    I think it¡¯s cool! Loch smiles widely, I wish I could do something like that!


    ¡°But you, little buddy,¡± Odell pulls Loch into a gentle headlock, ¡°You aren''t the type to give up too easily. You¡¯ve got a lot to learn and you¡¯ve got a ton of people willing to help you out. Any friend of Lenore is a friend of mine, so you¡¯ve definitely got me on your side, bud.¡±


    Lenore peeks up at them through her eyelashes. She¡¯d been watching, and listening, the entire time. The little lady watches as Odell grins a grin that melts the tension away like the spring sun does to the winter cold. The smile Loch gives the singer has a similar effect.


    It¡¯s too much. Too sweet. Lenore closes her eyes and buries her face into her pillow. Those two will be thick as thieves, there''s no doubt about that. She wants to be happy about that. She wants to be happy¡­


    As Lenore falls back into slumber, the final thought she can remember having is, ¡°What a day, it¡¯s been. What a long, long day.¡±

 The Cat’s House Where The Mice Stay

    That long day waxes into a brisk week. The little lady wakes up fourteen hours later; Loch¡¯s frustrated whining throbs in the back of her head like a migraine. Dim candlelight cushions her eyes with its dainty blaze, and a crooked spoon presses against her mouth. Her lips are chapped.


    Lenore frowns, turning her face away from the spoon with a grumble.


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be a baby.¡± Odell says, ¡°You said you¡¯d eat something if I let you sleep another ten minutes. It¡¯s been half an hour!¡±


    Lenore mumbles into her pillow, ¡°When did I say that?¡±


    ¡°When I woke you up for breakfast. Don¡¯t you remember?¡±


    ¡°... No?¡±


    The singer sighs, ¡°Drink. It¡¯s peach and rice soup. You love peaches.¡±


    Odell is a rather good cook. Unfortunately, a good cook can only do so much with the ingredients they¡¯re given. For this soup, it was either peaches or pickles. Rice or stale rye bread. You do your best with what you have. Supplies were always scarce at the end of the month but they didn¡¯t dare dip into their reserves. Not with winter on its way.


    Peach and rice soup is almost decent once you get used to the tanginess. It takes a couple of bites. If only they had some cream, a pinch of sugar, cinnamon and vanilla for flavour; it could have been great. The soup isn¡¯t great. But it¡¯s edible, so Lenore guzzles down a few sips. In the back of her head, she hears more of Loch¡¯s grumbling, presumably after another less-than-successful attempt at his next lesson.


    On the bright side, the boy has finally mastered his first lesson. Elasticity and size manipulation. He can shrink to the size of a cat and he can balloon to the size of a truck with ease. If he wanted, Loch could probably grow even bigger than a truck. Big as a skyscraper if he pushed it. But right now, the boy has other priorities. The second lesson is morphing and mimicry, and it¡¯s proving to be a real bitch. It started when Jean-Luc shape-shifted into a little red bird. On his first try, Loch easily matched him in size, but no matter how he contorted and curved his body, nothing else changed. He remains the same bulbous blob, with his wide eyes and quarter-moon smile, whether he¡¯s ten metres tall or ten millimetres small. Not a faux feather in sight.


    Days pass. It¡¯s agony for both of them, although for very different reasons.


    While Loch makes little progress with his lessons, Lenore¡¯s recovery advances ahead of schedule. For a woman who looked like she was on her deathbed the day prior, the little lady is suddenly spry as a rabbit. There are mysteries to solve. There isn¡¯t time for silly things like rest or relaxation. By day three, Lenore¡¯s ready to get back on track. It¡¯s early. Still more midnight than dawn. Silent as a mouse, Lenore gently pulls her cover¡¯s away. She moves leisurely, anxious that even the tiniest shuffle would draw unwanted attention. She makes no sound, but that hardly matters.


    ¡°Leaving so soon?¡±


    The little lady flinches. Her head whips around, eyes widening when she sees Odell leaning against the far wall, watching. The singer¡¯s arms are crossed, her foot is tapping, and her left eyebrow is raised. Odell smiles, ¡°Morning!¡±


    Lenore freezes in place, blinking slowly in astonishment, ¡°... Good morning.¡±


    ¡°How are you?¡±


    ¡°... Fine.¡±


    ¡°Fine enough to sneak off while everyone¡¯s asleep?¡± Odell walks up to the bed, looking down at her.


    Lenore looks down at her lap like a scolded toddler, ¡°... Perhaps.¡±


    Lenore narrows her eyes. Her feet dangle off the edge of her bed, not quite touching the floor. Three days into this maddening respite and the little lady had thought they¡¯d settled into a schedule. The singer would leave at dusk and be gone throughout the night. Odell rarely returned before nine in the morning. It¡¯s barely six.


    Lenore was supposed to be alone.


    ¡°Okay, if that¡¯s what you want. I guess Loch will have to stay here and suffer through his lessons alone, then. But I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll be okay, right?¡± Odell smiles sweetly.


    ¡°...Yes.¡±


    ¡°Okay, let¡¯s go.¡± Her endearing voice tempts Lenore with a false sense of security. ¡°There¡¯s no point fighting the inevitable.¡±


    Lenore stares, ¡°... Would you bring me my shoes?¡±


    With a spring in her step, Odell fetches the little lady¡¯s footwear. She kneels and as she slips the left shoe over the little lady¡¯s sock, she says, ¡°So, where were you planning on sneaking off to this time? To the Theatre? The raccoon¡¯s hideout?¡± The singer grits her teeth ever so slightly, ¡°To Felina¡¯s...?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know yet.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯ve already decided to go alone.¡± Odell moves on to the right shoe, loosening the laces and slipping it onto Lenore¡¯s right foot.


    ¡°... I¡¯m not doing any of this to hurt you.¡±


    ¡°I know. It¡¯s never been about me.¡±


    Odell¡¯s grip tightens around Lenore¡¯s foot, her fingers subconsciously digging into the worn leather vamp. The little lady winces, although it¡¯s hardly from any kind of pain. The shoe¡¯s leather is too thick. Her feet aren¡¯t quite sensitive enough to feel the pressure. But the way Odell¡¯s knuckles go white from the angry clench she has on Lenore¡¯s foot brings forth a different kind of hurt.


    ¡°... You¡¯re hurting me.¡± Lenore mumbles.


    Immediately, Odell yanks her hands away.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± She says, standing up and taking half a step backward, ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± Lenore rolls her ankles a few times, ¡°It¡¯s my fault for trying to run off without you. Again.¡±


    As she holsters her bag over her shoulder, Lenore feels though the fabric to make sure she¡¯s got everything. Her notebooks, her mask, and her knife. All present and accounted for. She slides off the bed.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know why I did that.¡±


    Lenore looks up. The singer is staring down at her open palms. Her fingers slowly curl into firsts. Every motion her hands make, Odell is alert. It¡¯s her conscious decision to dig her nails into the meat of her palm. She chooses to clench her fists so tightly that her forearms tremble. If she wanted, Odell is fully capable of relaxing her grip.


    So why can¡¯t she remember tightening her grip on Lenore¡¯s foot? It was as if this haze had overtaken her. Some kind of instinct. When was it that her grip had gone from gentle to painful? Why had it happened at all? It was almost as if it had been someone else''s hands. Someone else¡¯s grip. But, at the same time, she can remember other things. She remembers bringing the little lady her shoes; she remembers kneeling down to slip them over her feet. She can feel the phantom texture of the leather on her skin, though the weight of it evades her.


    But the tightening of her grip, that had to have been someone else. Emerging at random, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.


    Odell frowns, ¡°I don¡¯t know why I get so angry.¡±


    ¡°Everyone gets angry sometimes,¡± Lenore says. She lifts her arm, showing off the bandages around her knuckles, ¡°How do you think this happened?¡±


    An amused smile graces the singer¡¯s face, ¡°You know, I was wondering about that¡­¡±


    But as much as she tries to hide it, Odell¡¯s smile is shaky. One wrong move, and Lenore knows that the singer¡¯s smile would crumble apart.


    Lenore sighs, ¡°Could you grab that blanket for me?¡±


    Odell¡¯s brow furrows, ¡°Um¡­ okay?¡±


    She grabs the blanket off the bed, then she and Lenore walk up to the nearest white wall. Both of them take a deep breath before they step through the wall, which seamlessly dissipates into vapour around them. Five seconds later, and they can breathe again on the other side.


    Lenore opens her eyes first.


    The laboratory is different once again. The kindergarten it once was has been stretched thin and warped into a room larger than it was likely made to be. This strain has left the decor rather distorted, shapes unhinged and colours perverted. It seems like no one has bothered to straighten up these imperfections. Did they not have time? Or were they just too lazy? For all Lenore knows, it could be a stylistic decision. This new laboratory did have a surreal sort of elegance to it if you squinted at it long enough.


    Either way, It¡¯s a bit of a circus. Messy, but manageable.


    ¡°Good morning, my good miss.¡±


    ¡°Good morning, Detective.¡± The little lady whispers, carefully keeping her voice low. Loch is curled up in the middle of one of the carpets, napping like a kitten. She doesn¡¯t want to wake him. It¡¯s good to see him sleeping. He needs his rest just as much as Lenore, if not more. It¡¯s even better knowing that he is capable of sleep. For a creature like Loch, unconsciousness is a privilege.


    The Detective is sitting in a rocking chair beside Loch. They have a small tambour hoop on their lap, the wood of which is old and beginning to splinter. It¡¯s difficult to tell where the Detective is looking, but judging by the tone of their voice, it¡¯s obvious they''re distracted by the needle between their fingers and the fabric between the hoop. Embroidery is a hobby the Detective regularly indulges in. It¡¯s something they do to relax. The monotonous shades of black that the Detective stitch together is calming. They only ever embroidered in black. Cheap onyx fabric, licorice thread, and shiny jet sequins.


    ¡°And Miss Averill,¡± The Detective mumbles, ¡°How kind of you to join us so early.¡±


    The flower twins, Belva and Astra, have wrapped themselves around the Detective¡¯s elbow. Jean-Luc perches on their shoulder in the form of a bird. They¡¯re still, but certainly not sleeping.


    ¡°Loch¡¯s lessons start at eight, right?¡± Lenore asks.


    The Detective nods.


    Odell watches in confusion as Lenore grabs her hand and shuffles over to the nearest empty couch. The little lady sits, tugging Odell down with her. She grabs the blanket out of the singer¡¯s fist, throwing it around both she and Odell¡¯s shoulders. Once the warmth of the heavy fabric settles over the two of them, Lenore burrows into Odell''s side with a sigh.


    ¡°Wake me when he¡¯s ready to start.¡±


    Lenore feels the singer¡¯s body relax. They shift until they find each other''s hands under the blanket. Odell¡¯s hands are hot. Lenore¡¯s are cold. Hand in hand, everything is just right.


    ~*~


    After this, there are no more escape attempts, if you could even call it that.


    Odell comes and goes, caught between her responsibilities at the Theatre and her devotion to her loved ones at the Cocteau. Thank goodness for Mr. Tanner. Though his job is technically limited to manning the door and cleaning after the Theatre closes, Mr. Tanner steps up. He shuffles schedules, he takes over accounting, he even gives the official statement, first to the employees and then to the guests, when the time comes to explain why Lady Averill¡¯s performances had changed so suddenly. Where were the lights, the curtains that moved on their own, the drumbeat that roared from the walls? Where had the magic gone?


    These questions could only be put off for so long. At the end of the week, early into the night, Lady Averill doesn¡¯t show at all. Instead, atop the balcony, Mr. Tanner appears.


    ¡°Good evening,¡± He speaks in a loud, deadpan voice, ¡°And welcome to the Theatre. Unfortunately, I am sorry to say that Lady Averill will not be performing tonight.¡±


    Murmuring erupts from the onlookers below. Many are confused, most are alarmed, and a few are even outraged.


    Mr. Tanner continues as if he¡¯d not heard even a peep from them, ¡°I am here to announce that the Theatre is planning a special performance for the upcoming new year. Lady Averill, her band, and a select few other performers, will be putting on a show for our glorious ruling family, the House of Romilly.¡±


    The janitor expected to hear gasps from the crowd. He expected turmoil. He expected a commotion of bewilderment and fury. All he receives is an ocean of blank stares.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you are all as delighted as Lady Averill.¡± Mr. Tanner enunciates slowly so no one could mishear, ¡°That is why we hope you will be understanding as Lady Averill takes time away from the stage to prepare for what she plans to be a gratifying show unlike any has ever seen. Something that the House of Romilly truly deserves.¡±


    The crowd watches in silence as the man they only knew as the Theatre¡¯s plain-faced doorman retreats behind the listless, unmoving curtains. They stew in their shock for some time. It would take an hour for them all to disperse, but it would take mere minutes for the news to spread like a plague.


    And what of the part-time doorman, part-time janitor? What did he think of the news? The other employees had kept their thoughts to themselves, submissive to Lady Averill¡¯s commands. Even her precious bandmates kept their mouths shut. Why would Mr. Tanner react any differently? He manned the doors, he swept the halls, he shuffled the schedules, and he managed the accounts. He was loyal. He did what was asked of him. Mr. Tanner played his part like any good actor should.


    The next evening, he drives to a seemingly abandoned hotel. Odell had given him the address over the phone. He waits outside in his worn suit and shoes, and a few minutes later the hotel doors open.


    ¡°Mr. T!¡± Odell smirks, ¡°You¡¯re such a doll! Thanks for coming to pick us up.¡±


    Mr. Tanner says nothing, as usual. He watches as his boss struts down the steps, the sequins of her dress catching the fleeting daylight. She¡¯s wearing violet. A thin, barely there, scrape of a frock. Her hair is free as a lion''s mane and that scrappy frock, practically painted onto her body, does little to hide her checkerboard skin. She¡¯s a spectacle.


    Odell pats the hood of the car fondly, ¡°Hey Duds! My ugly little rustbucket¡­¡±


    And then, a few reluctant steps behind her, Mr. Tanner spots Lenore. To the man''s shock, the little lady is also wearing a dress. It¡¯s a tattered beige-brown evening gown. It¡¯s long sleeves, matching gloves, turtleneck collar, and layered skirts act as a shield against wandering eyes. But, as Mr. Tanner expected, Lenore is also wearing one of her masks. The Clara mask to be precise. The false curls and bubble brown eyes suit her outfit. The uncomfortable frown on her face does not.


    Lenore yanks the hotel door shut behind her and scurries into the car without a word. Once Odell and Mr. Tanner join her, they¡¯re off. The roads are unsteady under the wheels of the car, an Otha-Bates Funeral Limo. Lenore fished it out of a scrapyard years ago and spent months fixing it up. Odell named it Duds, short for Bo Dudley. Other nicknames that commonly spilled out of the singer¡¯s mouth were Duddles, Bo-boy, Doobles, Buddle-Duddle, and Bo-bo Do-do. Lenore called it The Hearse, and nothing else. She and the singer sit in the backseat, while Mr. Tanner drives upfront. The singer is delighted to find Mr. Tanner hadn¡¯t forgotten her most prized possession, securing it in the backseat just as she had instructed. Odell¡¯s solid-body electric guitar with a built in amp. It¡¯s the only instrument the singer¡¯s ever played, and although the shape of the guitar was rather strange, it played like a dream. More likely than not, the instrument will come in handy, what with the night they have ahead of them.


    Odell frets over the little lady¡¯s skirt. Dud¡¯s engine rumbles on, puffing like an old smoker. The springs under the seat cushions poke them as they sit, and the redness of the darkening sky bathes them in its dusk. Every few seconds, Mr. Tanner checks on them from the rear-view mirror.


    ¡°Fuck, maybe we should have gone with black,¡± She mutters, ¡°Or added a second layer, maybe? People might see your ankles when you sit down¡­¡±


    Lenore doesn¡¯t say anything, too lost in her thoughts.


    Odell continues, ¡°Or is it too many layers? Are you hot?¡±


    Silence.


    ¡°Lenore?¡± The singer pokes the little lady¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Hmm?¡± Lenore blinks, ¡°I apologize, did you say something?¡±


    Odell sighs. She puts her arm around Lenore, but when she opens her mouth to speak, she hesitates. Her gaze flickers up to the rear-view mirror. She meets Mr. Tanner¡¯s eyes for a split-second and then he looks away. The singer struggles to find the right words for what she wants to say. Words that would be clear to Lenore, but not too obvious to their driver.


    ¡°Look,¡± She says, ¡°I¡¯ll admit we were a little¡­ harsh, back there. But we made the right choice. And I¡¯m sure that¡­ others¡­ will understand why it was the right choice soon enough.¡±


    Lenore¡¯s frown only gets deeper. She wants to disagree. But when she glances up, she catches Mr. Tanner¡¯s gaze again, watching them silently.


    It¡¯s not that they didn¡¯t trust Mr. Tanner. Far from it. He¡¯d long since earned his place as their right hand, but, at the same time, he is also their third wheel. One step outside their little circle. You know what they say about secrets; fewer people in the know means an easier time keeping unknowns low. And Loch was an unknown they needed to keep on the down-low.


    So, instead of answering, Lenore broods.


    ~*~


    Loch had wanted to go with them tonight. Lenore had the misfortune of watching the boy bouncing off the laboratory walls, yammering about how excited he was to go out with them.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never been to a party!¡± Loch gushes, ¡°I mean, I don¡¯t think I have¡­ This is gonna be so fun! How many people are gonna be there? What about those weird kids we met at the train station? If they¡¯re going to the party, maybe we can become friends!¡±


    It would have been so sweet if only he was gushing about anything else. Unfortunately, Odell reacted poorly. Before Lenore had the chance to voice her objections, in as soft a way as she could, the singer spoke up. With shoulders shaking in frustration, Odell said, ¡°Yeah, you¡¯re not going, buddy. You¡¯re staying here. A cathouse is no place for you.¡±


    In hindsight, letting it slip that the ¡°party¡± was being held in ¡°a cathouse¡± was bound to add fuel to the fire. Lenore had mentioned something about cathouses, what had she said it was again? Maybe it was like a pet shop, with cute kitties and kittens to play with all night long! Wouldn¡¯t that be amazing! Now Loch had to go. He wouldn¡¯t take no for an answer.


    And, to his frustration, ¡°no¡± was all he was being told.


    ¡°Why not?¡± Loch had asked over and over. And over and over, they dodged his questions.


    ¡°Because we say so,¡± Was all Lenore said, ¡°We should be back tomorrow morning.¡±


    ¡°And if you stop making a fuss, maybe we can have a party here when we get back,¡± Odell said in a way that was probably supposed to be kind.


    But for hours, Loch would not be dissuaded. He wanted to go! And if he couldn¡¯t go, he wanted to know why! It was Odell who finally put her foot down. Under no circumstances was Loch coming with them. The singer would sooner die than let that happen. The reason didn¡¯t matter.


    The tantrum Loch had thrown was a sad thing. No kicking or screaming, Loch didn¡¯t even cry. He merely sank to the floor and cried quietly. That evening as Lenore and Odell left through the dark foyer, the fireplace was cold and barren, Loch sent the little lady a little goodbye message.


    ¡°Have fun at your party,¡± He said in a tone more depressed than angry, ¡°I won¡¯t be there so I know you¡¯ll have a good time.¡±


    ~*~


    Mr. Tanner clears his throat, ¡°My ladies, if I may speak?¡±


    Lenore scantly glanced in his direction, her mind still caught up in the past, ¡°Of course, Mr. Tanner. What is it?¡±


    ¡°I wanted to inform you that I delivered the early paychecks to all of the workers last night, as you requested. I also deliver the announcement of the change in schedule to the patrons. There wasn¡¯t much of a reaction, positive or negative. I kept an eye out for any rioters, but luckily the night went on smoothly¡­¡±


    They both hum in absent acknowledgment.


    Mr. Tanner continues, ¡°Furthermore, I made sure to lock down the Theatre before I left to pick you two up. I understand that it is expected of me to return after dropping you off, to ensure there are no trespassers while you¡¯re out, but--¡±


    The two ladies hum again. Mr. Tanner pauses. Did their humming mean they wanted him to continue speaking, or that they expected him to stay at the Theatre as planned? Was he now speaking out of turn?


    ¡°...But I was hoping,¡± He stumbles over his words, ¡°Or, rather, I wanted your permission to, perhaps, briefly, make a detour to my former living arrangements. There is some business I was hoping to attend to¡­¡±


    Lenore raises an eyebrow, ¡°Business?¡±


    ¡°But I understand if you¡¯d rather I postpone my leave until a later date.¡± Mr. Tanner barrels on, voice monotone and fast.


    Odell frowns, ¡°Is something wrong?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± He states firmly, ¡°No, it''s just¡­ I left some important belongings there when I moved and there¡¯s been word of scavengers in the area. I wanted to make sure nothing was stolen.¡±


    ¡°Hey,¡± Odell smiles reassuringly, making sure Mr. Tanner saw her expression in the mirror, ¡°There¡¯s no reason to panic, T. We just want to know where you¡¯ll be if we need you. You¡¯ll be back in time to pick us up?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Then do what you have to do.¡± Odell shrugs, ¡°I trust you.¡±


    Abruptly, Duds comes to a stop.


    Mr. Tanner unbuckles his seatbelt, ¡°We¡¯ve arrived, My ladies.¡±


    The tinted windows blur the outside world. Mr. Tanner opens his door, and the bustling sounds of the crowd outside flood in. He quickly shuts the door behind him. He¡¯ll open the door for them once the crowd has been fended off.


    As they wait, The little lady speaks.


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to distract Missus Van Der Venne while I find the raccoons.¡± Lenore says. She ready¡¯s her bag over her shoulder while the singer fiddles with her tiny purse and parasol.


    Odell scoffs, ¡°Lucky me...¡±


    ¡°Keep conversation light, keep people¡¯s attention on you, and for the love of all that is sacred, keep your temper.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine. But if she makes even ?one? comment--¡±


    ¡°You will handle the situation like the respectable, intelligent, resilient lady that I know you are.¡± Lenore interrupts, ¡°I know you hate her. You have every right to hate her. But you have to keep your temper.¡±


    The door on Odell¡¯s side swings open. The outcry of the crowd crashes into the car so loudly it would¡¯ve surely knocked them off their feet should they have been standing. Fickle light filters in, not bright enough to make them squint. The Corda roads are the only streets that are lit up at night. Still, it''s only weak lantern light.


    Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, their car¡¯s already garnered some attention. Faces blur together, although there really aren''t that many people. It¡¯s not safe to be out at night; most take that warning to heart. Emphasis on ¡°most people.¡± Those foolish enough to be out here whisper amongst themselves, eyeing the car like ravenous vultures.


    While Lenore rolls her eyes, Lady Averill pulls her guitar strap over her shoulder and slugs the instrument upside down on her back. She readies her prettiest smirk and rises out of the car seat. The whispers swell into a dull roar. When Lenore scoots out behind her, and no one really notices. Mr. Tanner holds the door for them, standing tall with the charisma of a withered worm seared onto a hot sidewalk. People barely take note of him. One would think the dirty concrete street was a red carpet, what with the way the singer struts through the horde of onlookers with the confidence of a queen.


    Lenore hobbles behind the singer, a mere afterthought. An unimportant shapeshifter in the crowd. Thank goodness.


    ¡°Make way, if you please,¡± Mr. Tanner instructs, ¡°Give the lady her space!¡±


    The singer spares no expense on smiles; she grants everyone she sees a friendly look and a sweet-natured wave. No one waves back. The two of them walked through the lineup at the door to the building across the road from the car. Most of the crowd is gathered there. Other buildings are open; musky bars and inns with one or two glowing lanterns to draw in customers like fireflies to a flame. The building they¡¯re looking to enter has lanterns to spare, hanging in cramped rows outside the door. But the windows are shadowy. Pitch-black figures are obscured behind the gunmetal drapery. There¡¯s a storm of chattering beyond the door, muffled but loud enough to tickle the ear.


    The line-dwellers part for them unthinkingly. The doorman takes one glance at Lady Averill and swings the doors open.


    Before they step inside, the little lady glances back over her shoulder. With so many people in the way, she can only see Mr. Tanner in distant fragments. His shoes scraping the concrete. His hands clenching and unclenching. His tense shoulder disappearing behind the car door. The side of his head; Lenore has never seen such an odd expression flash across Mr. Tanner¡¯s face before. So earnest in its anxiousness.


    Bo Dudley¡¯s door slams shut in time with the Cathouse doors.


    All chatter ceases. Surprised, suspicious eyes stare.


    They¡¯re in. No going back now.


    Beyond that tepid threshold, Felina Van Der Venne¡¯s Kitty Cathouse awaits them with bated breath. The Cathouse isn¡¯t the only speakeasy in the city, but it is the most popular. It''s much smaller than the Theatre, but what it doesn¡¯t have in size, it makes up for in personality. Maybe not an appealing personality but personality nonetheless.


    The sight of Odell Averill standing casually by the doorway causes whatever personality the Cathouse had to grind to a halt. Drinkers lower their shot glasses and the musicians let their tune dissolve. Dozens of thin off-white curtains cloak the dozens of silhouettes in the dozens of boudoirs; they slow their activities. The heavy breathing, shuffling sheets, and the occasional squelch of fluid irritate the singer. Worse than that, Odell can¡¯t help but feel the eyes of the silhouettes all over her skin; creeping past her face, down her chest, and zeroing in on the space between her legs. She tries to put it out of mind. The sound will only become more intense as the night goes on so there''s no point getting worked up over it. The little lady, sensing the singer¡¯s growing discomfort, nudges her foot until her toes touch Odell''s ankle.


    Odell takes a subtle breath.


    The drinkers, the musicians, and the silhouettes all wait in various stages of paralysis.


    ¡°Hi,¡± The singer grins, ¡°Room for one more?¡±


    The sound of her voice causes a wave of sharp breaths.


    ¡°Or, I guess I should say two more.¡± She shrugs.


    She and Lenore tiptoe over the bottles abandoned on the floor and the piles of discarded clothing. Her laugh cuts right through the tension.


    ¡°Goodness,¡± Odell giggles, leaning on her parasol, ¡°I didn¡¯t realize I¡¯d arrived during the graveyard shift¡­ Or does this place usually have a shower singer¡¯s ear for music?¡±


    Some silhouettes peek their heads out from behind their curtains, holding the fabric against their presumably naked flesh like bath towels.


    ¡°I¡¯m looking to have some fun on my night off. I don¡¯t get a lot of nights to myself, you know. And variety is the spice of life.¡± Odell reaches into her purse and flips a coin to the wide-eyed piano player, ¡°Play me something, honey? A good hummer to mellow me out.¡±


    The crowd watches as the coin seems to flip in slow motion. The pianist fumbles the catch but manages to keep from dropping it. He and his band blink down at the coin and up the singer.


    Odell raises her brow, ¡°Well? Hop to it, hepcat!¡±


    And the Cathouse unfreezes. The music booms back to life with a sharp beat from the drums and a rift from the piano. Drinkers turn back to their glasses, blushing in embarrassment and drunkenness. The boudoir curtains sweep shut and those uncomfortable noises grow louder with great enthusiasm.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll be damned!¡± A voice exclaims, ¡°If it isn¡¯t the Quin city siren herself!¡±


    Odell¡¯s smile strains.


    The woman whom the voice belongs to sashays down the stairwell, her shedding fur wrap aimlessly trails behind her like a long white tail. Shiny hair, fashionable marcel curls, and rosy skin topping off with stormy pale eyes. Her dress is burgundy; ritzy like a nightgown indecently thrown over the shoulders after a risque evening in bed.


    Simply put, If lust were a lady, Felina would make her blush.


    ¡°Missus Van Der Venne! Just the woman I was hoping to run into!¡± Odell grins, approaching Felina with comically wide open arms. Lenore follows with a barely concealed wince as Odell pulls Felina into her grip.


    Felina laughs gayly, returning the hug, ¡°Of course you would run into me, deary! Where else would I be? After all, the place is pretty packed tonight after you shut down your Theatre.¡±


    The two ladies hold each other tightly, neither one letting up even as the embrace turns choking. Lenore discreetly kicks Odell in the shin. Strangling the Cathouse¡¯s owner, no matter how friendly she acts as she does it, isn¡¯t very respectable.


    Odell shoots Lenore a look. She breaks away.


    ¡°Yes, didn¡¯t you hear?¡± Odell squeals, clapping her hands together, ¡°The Theatre¡¯s been asked to perform for the Romilly¡¯s this coming winter! Oh, when I got the invite I nearly fainted! How exhilarating!¡±


    ¡°What an honour...¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes. But with such an honour comes so much responsibility. Oh, the chance to see the Romilly¡¯s in person, I can hardly wait! But that¡¯s all to come later. Right now, I thought celebration was in order so I figured your Cathouse would be a nice change of pace. I hope you don¡¯t mind the intrusion...¡±


    ¡°Nonsense, deary!¡± Felina playfully punches Odell on the shoulder, ¡°Come have a drink with me!¡±


    Felina¡¯s gaze swoops down, locking onto Lenore like a hawk, ¡°Oh, and who¡¯s your little friend?¡± Her eyes narrow and her smile widens.


    Odell grabs Lenore''s shoulders roughly.


    Lenore wants to scowl, but she manages to keep a straight face. She thinks to herself, ¡°Settle down, feisty¡­ We¡¯re so close, don¡¯t lose your temper now¡­¡±


    ¡°This is Clara Janson, my right-hand girl. She¡¯s young¡­¡± The singer emphasizes, casually putting herself between the little lady and Felina, ¡°Not to mention spirited, never one to sit back and take it. My Theatre encourages those kinds of traits in our workers.¡±


    ¡°What a lovely sentiment.¡± Felina giggles, ¡°I myself always did like a girl with a little fire. The smell of the smoke when you blow out a flame is intoxicating¡­¡±


    Odell¡¯s teeth clench and Lenore decides now¡¯s a good time to step in. She bobs a curtsy, ¡°Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Pleasures all mine.¡± Felina bends down, grasps Lenore¡¯s wrist, and as they shake hands, Felina rubs her thumb along the little lady¡¯s knuckles. The singer¡¯s hands latch onto Felina¡¯s shoulders, pushing her upright so she¡¯s face to face with the toothy grin on Odell¡¯s face.


    The singer chortles, ¡°So! How about those drinks¡­?¡±


    The three of them snag seats at the bar; Lenore on one side, Felina on the other, and Odell in the middle. The bar stools are mysteriously sticky. Lenore tucks her legs under the seat. Unfortunately, it quickly becomes apparent that Felina isn¡¯t done with the little lady yet. She says, ¡°So, where did you pick up this little mouse, Averill? She looks a little rough, don¡¯t tell me she was a street rat! Or worse, a raccoon¡­¡±This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Odell opens her mouth to speak but Felina isn¡¯t done yet.


    ¡°Then again, I see why you¡¯d be drawn to that kind of woman. Paupers always stick together...¡±


    Lenore winces. Luckily, Odell manages to take it in stride.


    ¡°Don¡¯t we both have a habit of collecting strays?¡± She says, ¡°You know it¡¯s not polite to ?look down ?on people because of where they come from. I like to judge a person''s character based on? what they?? do now, don¡¯t you agree??¡±


    Felina narrows her eyes, chuckling, ¡°Quite.¡±


    The bartender sets down their ale. Felina gets a row of one-ounce shot glasses while Odell and Lenore receive a large, overflowing mug each. Felina downs two of her shots, Odell brings her mug to her lips but only mimes taking a sip, and Lenore doesn¡¯t even touch hers. After she swallows, Felina fingers the rim of her third shot.


    ¡°So,¡± She smirks, ¡°How¡¯d you two become so well acquainted anyway¡­¡±


    Odell stifles a scowl. Conversation with Missus Van Der Venne is agony, but that¡¯s to be expected. Over and over, the singer tries to turn the topic away from Lenore and over and over Felina turns it right back around. It¡¯s infuriating. It¡¯s doubtful she really cares about how the two met, or how long they¡¯ve known each other but she¡¯s a crafty woman, quickly noting how aggravated Odell gets when she turns her gaze down on this overdressed little mouse. So, like any cat would, Felina takes her sweet time pawing at this little mouse. No one ever told Missus Van Der Venne not to play with her food.


    ¡°By the way,¡± Felina purrs, ¡°I love her dress. Did you pick it out for her? But she must be so warm, all covered up like that--¡±


    ¡°Missus Felina?¡± A deep voice cuts her off.


    A tall shadow falls over the three of them. They spin around.


    He¡¯s naked. Aside from the leather collar around his neck, the man is very, very naked. Purple bruises, nail crescents, and sweat laid bare for all the world to see. A musky vinegar scent clings to him. Basically, he¡¯s almost indistinguishable from most of Felina¡¯s escorts. Maybe he¡¯s a touch less rough than the others; his skin is relatively unblemished which is a surprise. His hair isn¡¯t patchy or balding; quite to the contrary, the man has a waterfall of chocolate locks that cascade messily down his back. He¡¯s a little underweight, but certainly not a skeleton. His dazed expression might have been seen as endearing, even handsome, to certain types of people.


    Lenore makes the mistake of looking down. The man¡¯s maypole is flying half-massed.


    ¡°Oh, Rafael!¡± Felina exclaims. She takes his limp hand and kisses his palm affectionately, ¡°What can I do for you, my pet?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ um...¡± Rafael stumbles over his mumbled words, ¡°I was finishing up with Mr. and Mrs. Rothchild and¡­ uh¡­ one of the macks told me to find you. I think it was¡­ Paris? And maybe Maximus? Not sure what they wanted.¡±


    Felina¡¯s mouth twists into what could be a smile or a grimace, ¡°Ah, yes. I¡¯ll go see what they want later.¡±


    Rafael nods. Task accomplished, he gently pecks Felina¡¯s cheek, a chaste goodbye kiss before he goes back to work. His neck, and the collar around it, is eye-level with Felina, and she happily takes advantage of the fact when she curls her finger around the thick leather. She yanks Rafael into a deeper, open-mouth kiss, tongues tangling and hands wandering. Neither of them closes their eyes. Rafael doesn¡¯t seem to be aware of what¡¯s happening to him, disoriented and pliant under Felina¡¯s grip. Felina only has eyes for Odell, searching for the jealousy that she¡¯s certain is seconds away from appearing on the singer¡¯s face.


    Odell meets Felina¡¯s smouldering gaze and lets out a wide yawn.


    Felina and her escort separate, a line of drool bridging the gap between their spit-shining lips. Rafael straightens to his full height, but as he tries once again to take his leave he feels something hook around his wrist. His gaze falls down to the guitar strap snagged around his waist, travels up the body, up the neck, up the arm which the umbrella is held by, and stops at the friendly smile on Lady Averill¡¯s face.


    ¡°Hi,¡± She smiles, ¡°I don¡¯t believe we¡¯ve met. I¡¯m Odell Averill, and you are?¡±


    Rafael blinks slowly, ¡°Rafael Medina.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you,¡± She reaches out her hand and it takes Rafael half a minute to meet her halfway. As they shake, Odell hears the band finish off their song. Instead of playing a new tune, the bandmates step into a circle and debate what song to play next. There are so many songs to choose from; The Sky Bleeds Red? Happy Grass? I¡¯m Waiting On You? Mitt Me Kiddo? They just can¡¯t decide. Odell Averill is in the building, listening to them play. The need to impress was simultaneously inspiring and suffocating.


    An idea pops into Odell¡¯s head. The singer says, ¡°Do you like music, Raf?¡±


    Rafael frowns, ¡°... I don¡¯t know¡­?¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± That wasn¡¯t an answer she was anticipating. Still, she takes it in stride, ¡°In that case¡­ There''s no better time to find out!¡±


    With a smirk, Odell grabs Felina by the wrist and yanks off her seat, ¡°Come on, you two! The stage awaits!¡±


    ¡°Now¡¯s your chance, Shapeshifter,¡± Odell thinks as she shoots Lenore a wink over her shoulder, ¡°Go find our guy. And be careful.¡±


    Prancing like a pony, the singer jumps onto the stage. The bandmates stumble back in surprise as Odell steals a microphone with one hand, and maintains a steady grip on Missus Van Der Venne with the other.


    ¡°Hey, hepcat,¡± She smirks at the piano player, ¡°Mind if I join you?¡±


    The little lady watches the shenanigans unfold from her spot by the bar. Felina flounders awkwardly on stage left while Rafael sits cross-legged at Felina¡¯s feet. Lenore takes note of how they fidget; Felina in a way that¡¯s meant to mask her anger while Rafael squirms as if his skin is an ill-fitted suit.


    The bandmates crowd around Odell, talking over each other in their excitement. A moment later, and they all disperse to their positions and take up their instruments. The singer finally lets Felina go, using her free hand to swing her guitar over her shoulder. She switches the amp on and suddenly a catchy little ditty fills the Cathouse. The little lady recognizes it almost instantly, as does most of the patrons.


    ¡°Yeah, I figured you¡¯d know this one¡­¡± Odell laughs into the microphone, her giggles perfectly in time with the music, ¡°Sing along to the lyrics, hum to the rhythm if you¡¯re tone-deaf, and don¡¯t worry if you fuck it up. We¡¯re all fuck-ups here, aren¡¯t we?¡±


    Drinkers laugh as they sway to a stand and stumble up to the stage like zombies to a pound of flesh. With so many people surrounding her, Felina forces a smile on her face. She can¡¯t get off the stage now, not with so many people in the way, and she knows it.


    Odell and Lenore meet eyes for just a second through the chaos and then the show begins.


    ¡°Dizzy dame dancing with dead hoofers tonight.


    You play the doghouse, dolls drilling in the big house


    I¡¯ll doss with you in the dreamer


    And from Diddy Wah Diddy, you and I¡¯ll take flight!¡±


    A reluctant earworm, that¡¯s what this song is. People love it and hate it for all the same reasons. It¡¯s the kind of song you slur at the bar when you''re ten shots in and swear you don¡¯t actually like when you''re hungover the next day. Even Odell didn¡¯t really like this ditty, and she wrote the damn thing. It was the first song the singer ever wrote, when she got drunk for the first time on a bottle and a half of riesling white wine. Still, Dizzy Dame somehow always stole the show.


    Taking advantage of Odell¡¯s expertly executed distraction, the little lady quietly creeps away. Slinking between the legs of the tables and flappers, all she sees is a bunch of drunken louts wasting away scarce dollars on pointless fancy.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be dizzy with the dame¡­


    I¡¯ll be dizzy with the dame¡­


    Dizzy with my dame¡­


    And everything will be all right.¡±


    As she wanders, Lenore notices a very young lady conversing with two equally young gentlemen at a table by the back door. They¡¯re very well-dressed; probably a couple of sheltered teenagers sneaking downtown with a wad of cash stolen from mommy or daddy¡¯s fat pocket. It¡¯d be cute if it weren¡¯t so stupid. While the young lady is speaking to one of the gentlemen, Lenore notices the second boy dropping something in the girl¡¯s drink. Thoroughly distracted by their conversation, the young lady unthinkingly lifts her glass, bringing it to her lips.


    Lenore grabs her by the wrist.


    The young lady squeaks, ¡°Hey! What the fuck!?¡±


    Lenore swipes her glass out of her hand, ¡°Watch your drink.¡± She shoves the glass into the first boy¡¯s stunned hands, ¡°I know we¡¯re in a brothel, boys, but that doesn¡¯t mean you can take what isn¡¯t being offered.¡±


    Lenore shoves her hand into the second boy¡¯s pant pocket and pulls out a plastic bag filled with white powder. Ketamine, if Lenore had to guess. She holds it up for the young lady to see.


    Lenore gives her a stern look, ¡°This place is a cesspool. Go home.¡±


    As she walks away, Lenore listens to the hard twang of the young lady¡¯s hand colliding with the boy¡¯s face. It¡¯s music to her ears.


    ¡°Everything will be all right, tonight¡­¡±


    With that taken care of, Lenore exits the lounge, letting her darling Odell¡¯s singing become muffled background noise. When she steps through the back door, a deep cloud of opium smoke invades her lungs, causing the little lady to break into a coughing fit that brings tears to the corner of her eyes.


    Behind the lounge is a discount Goldmine. People were supposed to come in here to gamble. In reality, patrons hung around the gambling room to chase the dragon and mainline brown sugar. It¡¯s intoxicating. She needs to get through this room quickly, lest the fumes overwhelm her. She covers her nose, speed-walking between around the drugged-up patrons lazing mindlessly on the floor. Her shoulders sag in relief when she finally reaches the stairs but as she begins her ascent a hand shoots out from between the steps and snags her by her foot. Lenore almost letting out a shriek. She kicks the hand away and jumps over the railing, knife in hand and ready for a fight.


    ¡°Oh. You¡¯re not Felina¡­¡±


    Lenore peeks under the staircase and all the fight seeps out of her. It¡¯s a group of users huddled around an oil lamp, opium pipes held possessive in their hands. The little lady sheaths her knife and scowls. They meet her scowl with doped out grins.


    The person who grabbed her through the stairs holds out their pipe.


    ¡°Want a drag?¡±


    ¡°How generous¡­¡± She shakes her head.


    ¡°Not even a little puff?¡±


    Lenore shakes her head a little harder.


    The person shrugs. They lean forward to heat up the end of the pipe and nearly fall into the flame. When they bring the pipe to their lips, Lenore cringes. Every tooth in their mouth has a cavity and their tongue looks like sandpaper. Still, they seem like they''d know their way around a place like this, and Lenore is already very lost. But, to the little lady¡¯s annoyance, when she asks if any of them have seen a group of young children, between the ages of five and fifteen, their answers are less than helpful.


    They meander their sentences, endlessly repeating, ¡°I¡­ Um¡­ I think¡­ Maybe¡­ Maybe¡­ Uh¡­ What was the question again?¡±


    Their voice makes Lenore¡¯s skin crawl. Parched, croaking grunts. It sounds like they haven¡¯t had a proper drink in decades, but the empty bottles of beer piled around them prove that to be a false assumption. Beer and opium? That¡¯s not a great combination.


    Lenore doesn¡¯t have time for this. She needs to go, she needs to leave this person and their friends to their unfortunate life circumstances, she needs to abandon them and never come back.


    Lenore scowls, ¡°I¡¯ll be back in a second. Don¡¯t go anywhere.¡±


    She marches back to the bar and orders two mugs filled to the brim with ice chips. It¡¯s the most expensive item you can buy in the Cathouse. On the way back, she knocks into a naked woman. Literally. Her nose squishes against the naked woman''s bruised navel, thank goodness she isn¡¯t any shorter, and when she bounces back she falls flat on her ass. The woman sniffles out an apology. She daintily wipes away the tears under her eyelashes, carefully avoiding the cut beside her left eye. The skin around her eye socket is light pink. Her eyeball is bloodshot. No doubt, in a few days, she¡¯ll have a nasty black eye.


    The ice will start to melt soon. She really should just walk away.


    Lenore sighs, ¡°Bend over. Let me have a look.¡±


    The woman blushes, an incredulous expression overtaking her swelling face.


    ¡°No, not like that¡­!¡± The little lady sputters, ¡°Your eye. It¡¯s starting to bruise. Let me have a look.¡±


    The woman doesn¡¯t look any less incredulous, but she does as she¡¯s asked. Lenore inspects the woman''s face. The bruising is recent, but the cut is old, probably reopened from whatever, or whoever, had struck her. The little lady is tempted to search for other injuries but, given the circumstances, decides against it.


    She holds out the two mugs of ice, ¡°Hold this.¡±


    The naked woman takes hold of the mugs, and with her hands free, Lenore uses her knife to cut a square of fabric from the top layer of her dress. The fabric underneath keeps her legs covered. She tells the woman to shake some of the ice into the fabric, ties the ends of the square together, and reaches up and presses the cold, wet makeshift compress against the naked woman''s face.


    The woman sniffles as she hands the mugs back and cradles the ice to her face, ¡°Thank you¡­¡±


    Lenore says nothing, moving to walk past the woman when a half-naked man almost knocks into her.


    ¡°Okay,¡± The man runs up to the naked woman, holding a bag of pills and a folded up blanket, ¡°Milo wouldn¡¯t give me any ice but Kenya let me take some of her roxanol--¡±


    The man spots the fabric full of ice, ¡°What? Where did you get--!?¡±


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t take opioids without a prescription.¡±


    The man¡¯s gaze darts down to Lenore. He frowns. What is this bubble-eyed little girl doing here, in such an expensive dress, and with such a queer look on her face?


    Hesitantly, the man unfolds the blanket, ¡°Jeanette?¡±


    The naked woman, Jeanette, touches the man''s shoulder and gives him a shaky smile, ¡°Thanks, Atticus, but this little lady¡¯s already got me covered.¡±


    The man, Atticus, wraps the blanket around the naked woman. He takes the ice compress out of her hands and presses it to her eye for her, all but forgetting the little lady¡¯s presence. All Atticus cares about is making sure Jeanette is okay.


    ¡°By chance,¡± Lenore regains the attention, ¡°Have either of you seen a group of raccoons around here?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, they sometimes drop by for cash. They hang around the dumpster out back.¡±


    ¡°I see. Thank you for your help.¡± Lenore walks away, but after a few steps she stops, ¡°... After a couple of days, switch to a warm compress and gentle massage the area once the swelling goes down¡­¡±


    The little lady hesitates, ¡°If you experience any vision trouble or the swelling doesn¡¯t go down¡­¡± She pulls a cream-coloured ticket out of her purse, ¡°Come to the Theatre. Don¡¯t worry, we won¡¯t tell your boss.¡±


    Gobsmacked, that¡¯s the only word that could possibly describe the look on Atticus and Jeanette¡¯s face. What? Where? How? Who? All these questions bing and bang inside their minds and Lenore wastes no time answering them. She takes her mugs of ice and leaves, dropping the ice off to the users under the stairs on the way. The person who¡¯d grabbed her through the stairs looks faintly surprised at this impromptu gift. The rest of the users swarm the ice chips like it¡¯s candy. They crunch and munch, ignorant of the little lady¡¯s presence slinking away. Lenore walks out of the gambling parlour, a determined gleam in her faux-brown eyes.


    ~*~


    Before she even opens the backdoor, she can already hear the whistles, chirps, and trills.


    Should she glide the door open gently or aggressively? The little lady does something in between; not too harsh, not too soft. Beyond the doorway, there are five children, bony knees and hungry eyes, sitting in a little circle, playing with a pile of stones and chalk. When the sound of the door opening reaches their ears, they jump up, fists raised and feet aimed away and ready to run. That confirms it, they¡¯re definitely raccoons.


    The little lady sighs, already knowing this isn¡¯t going to go smoothly, ¡°Easy up. I¡¯m not here to hurt you.¡±


    These raccoons are even shabbier than the raccoons at the train station. At least most of those kids smelled like they¡¯d taken a shower this century. These kids wear tunics made from tattered old potato sacks., and they smell like rotting spuds too. One of them steps in front of the rest. Their crusty brown eyes narrow but they don''t say anything, just stand and stare, almost daring Lenore to try something. The little lady assumes they must be their ¡°leader¡±.


    ¡°Anybody named Hayes around here?¡±


    The leader scrunches their nose, ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Is there a kid here named Hayes?¡±


    The rest of the raccoons stand up on thin, shaky legs, crouching like a beast ready to pounce. Their leader doesn¡¯t take her eyes off the little lady, even as she opens her mouth and lets out a series of whistles and chirps. One of the other raccoons, taller and rougher than the rest, lunges for one of the sharp pieces of rock they¡¯d been playing with, brandishing it like a knife. They charge with the single-minded ferocity of a cheetah, which Lenore finds rather unfortunate for both of them.


    She tries to be gentle, but that¡¯s hard to do when someone¡¯s trying to stab you. Dodging their blundering jabs and slashes doesn¡¯t take much effort but finding a way to make them stop is a whole other issue. The kid makes the mistake of going for the little lady¡¯s neck, and Lenore finally has an opening to finish this relatively painlessly. She gets hold of their wrist and the back of their head. A half-second later, the fight is over. Face pinned to the gravel, the kid¡¯s wide-eyed astonishment at how things had gone so wrong so quickly is cute. The poor thing is nothing but skin, bones, and youthful naivete.


    Lenore pries the rock out of their hand, checks for any other weapons, makeshift or otherwise, and then lets them go. She takes three steps away and leans against the door. Just because someone tries to stab you, doesn¡¯t negate their right to personal space.


    ¡°I¡¯m not here to settle a score or anything so let''s not get violent.¡± She says, ¡°Is Hayes among you? Don¡¯t lie; I¡¯ll figure you out, I promise.¡±


    ¡°He ain¡¯t.¡± Their leader says.


    ¡°Is he inside the Cathouse?¡±


    ¡°... Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Mind taking me to him?¡±


    ¡°A little bit, yeah.¡± They grumble. Reluctantly, they step away from their fellow raccoons but just as they¡¯re entering the building, a whistle causes them to halt in their tracks. The smallest of the raccoons, a freckle-faced little boy whose missing half an ear and two of his teeth, warbles loudly like a baby bird. his lip trembles and his eyes are watery. Lenore isn¡¯t sure what they¡¯re saying; for all she knows, they might not be saying anything at all. Perhaps this little boy is simply crying out in a way that neither words nor whistle could honestly convey.


    The leader clenches their fist. They whistle back in a tone that sounds almost angry. The kid who¡¯d tried to attack Lenore with the rock picks up the little raccoon and ushers the rest into the shadow of a dumpster. Hidden from the world, they¡¯ll wait restlessly for their leader to return, no matter how long it takes. They aren¡¯t going anywhere.


    The little lady follows the leader into the Cathouse, gently closing the door behind them.


    ¡°....What do you want with him?¡± There''s a nervousness in their voice. Whether it was for this Hayes fellow or themself, Lenore can¡¯t tell.


    ¡°As I¡¯ve said, I¡¯m here going to hurt anyone. I just need some information.¡±


    The two of them walk silently into the gambling parlour. Most of the patrons do little more than gaze half-heartedly at the newcomers, not really seeing what was in front of them. The leader remains paranoid, stealing worried glances at the little lady. Lenore, feeling a tiny twinge of pity, tries to make light, casual conversation. Unfortunately, small talk is not her specialty. It¡¯s a shame Odell can¡¯t be in two places at once.


    ¡°Do you have a name?¡± She asks.


    ¡°You gonna hunt me down or something?¡±


    ¡°Not an especially trusting person, are you?¡± Lenore notes, ¡°Smart.¡±


    The gambling parlour¡¯s a little more lively now. There are a few sparse groups of people playing pool, poker, and darts. Lenore and the leader circle around one of their pool tables, quiet as can be. Their presence doesn¡¯t go unnoticed.


    A stocky man with a grungy mustache leans on his pool cue. He hollers, ¡°Hey, dollface, did your mommy buy you that dress?¡±


    This is why Lenore didn¡¯t want to come as Clara. She¡¯d love to see if they¡¯d try something like this on one of her other personas. Would these people catcall Judith Millhouse, the Theatre¡¯s haggish manager? Probably. These people would hit on a pile of mouldy tuna left to ruminate under the hot sun. It¡¯s ridiculous. The patrons of Felina¡¯s Cathouse are never satiated.


    She doesn¡¯t give the man a second glance but as she passes him by he suddenly strikes out with his pool cue, whipping the end of it under her dress and against her inner thigh. The glossy wood is cold and clammy against her skin. Her hands twitch. A lady in white drags a bony finger down the little lady¡¯s back; her nails are like razor-sharp talons. Two more men close in on Lenore from either side.


    ¡°Nah, I bet she got it from her daddy, instead,¡± The lady in white croons in her ear, the stink of her breath could burn the hair off your chest, ¡°How irresponsible, letting a doll like you roam around like that. Poor baby must be so lost! We¡¯ll look after you...¡±


    The man with the pool cue chuckles.


    The leader wrinkles their nose in disgust but they make no attempt to stop the advancements. The gamblers aren¡¯t really interested in them, so why should they care to step in? Some of the people lounging on the floor look up at the commotion. No one steps in.


    Lenore takes a deep, calming breath. She steps over the pool cue and shrugs the invasive fingers off her lower back.


    ¡°I think not.¡± Lenore glowers at them, ¡°I have places to be.¡±


    ¡°Better places than this? I¡¯m hurt.¡± Now she¡¯s surrounded. The man with the pool cue gets an aggressive glint in his eye, ¡°Does the baby princess think she¡¯s too good for us? Got a fat stick up your--¡±


    Lenore pushes past them, bumping the man with her shoulder.


    ¡°Places. To. Be.¡± She seethes, ¡°Good. Night. Sir.¡±


    The man¡¯s aggressive glint turns into rage. His veiny hand snatches the little lady by the wrist, wrenching her up. The ends of her dress dangle high enough off the ground that those laying on the floor could see under her skirts if they wanted. A few of them crawl closer to get a good peek.


    The man¡¯s shouting is shrill and not particularly intimidating, ¡°Watch your fucking mouth--!¡±


    Fast as a bolt of lightning in a cloudless summer sky, Lenore latches her free hand around the man''s arm. She flips her torso upward. The kick she lands into the man''s stubbly jaw is ruthless, further amplified by the knifelike heel on her shoes. The back of the man¡¯s head smacks into the floor and the little lady gracefully touches down, heels first, directly on the poor dunce¡¯s chest.


    ¡°My apologies,¡± Lenore says, holding the ends of her dress out of the way so she can easily hop down. Her heels leave tiny dots of blood wherever she walks, ¡°However, I do not appreciate being manhandled.¡±


    The silence is sweet. Brief but so very sweet. The lady in white gets her bearings first. Foaming at the mouth, she marches towards Lenore like a school teacher about to box some poor pupils'' ears. The rest of the now unconscious man¡¯s friends aren¡¯t far behind.


    ¡°You fucking brat!¡±


    ¡°Who the hell do you think you are?¡±


    ¡°Honey, you¡¯re gonna regret that¡­¡±


    They brandish their half-empty bottles of liquor, pool cues, and used needles like swords. Lenore steps in front of the leader, who shrinks away from her but does not flee.


    ¡°Look,¡± Lenore sighs, ¡°It took me less than five seconds to do that,¡± She points at the bleeding man gathering dust on the floor, ¡°To your rather handsy friend, do you really want to see what I can do in five minutes? Walk away, I¡¯ll pretend this never happened.¡±


    One of the fallen man¡¯s friends gathers some courage and charges at Lenore with a broken whiskey bottle. Lenore uses their momentum to flip them onto the pool table, putting a sizable tent in its green-carpeted top. Another two men rush upon her sides. The little lady slides back and sweeps their legs from under them, ripping another layer of her dress''s skirt in the process. Thankfully, these people were too drunk to put up much of a fight.


    ¡°Are we done?¡± She huffs.


    Apparently, one man thinks grabbing the leader would give him a leg up. The leader squawks as he clutches them by the collar of their tunic.


    ¡°Get off me! Get off, you ass!¡± They struggle.


    The man covers their mouth with his palm and snarls, ¡°Drop to your knees you ugly tart!¡±


    Without warning, the lady in white grabs Lenore from behind, screeching like a harpy. The little lady throws her head back, hoping to break her nose, but the harpy evades her.


    ¡°Ha!¡± She slurs, tugging Lenore close, clawing at her neck, ¡°Think you¡¯re so tough--¡±


    A sound pops beside Lenore¡¯s ear. How to describe such an unusual noise? Not deep, definitely not squeaky. A hard sound that¡¯s hollow and short. Like the noise a golf ball makes when struck with a club. It pops right beside the little lady¡¯s ear, and the harpy¡¯s talon-like fingers fall away from Lenore¡¯s neck. The weight of her body tips away and her shoes get caught in Lenore¡¯s dresses as her body meets the unforgiving hardwood.


    ¡°Oh¡­ Oh no¡­¡± Unfamiliar footsteps stumble closer, but a familiar voice says, ¡°Did I kill her?¡±


    The person who¡¯d grabbed Lenore through the stairs rocks back and forth with a mug of ice chips hanging from their fingers. They blink their eyes closed, and then slowly blink them open again.


    Behind them, a shout rings out, ¡°Let go of me!¡±


    Lenore hisses under her breath, ¡°Fuck¡­¡± She turns back and sees that the leader, this little raccoon kid, has struggled out of the man¡¯s grip. Droplets of blood trail down the leader¡¯s mouth. The man¡¯s hand is bloody, teeth marks embedded into his palm, but the struggle isn¡¯t over yet. The man rears back and smacks the leader in the teeth, leaving a bloody handprint on their tear-stained cheeks. Lenore pulls her knife out of her bag but the person from under the stairs is somehow faster. Their glassy eyes snap to alertness. The mug goes hurtling across the room, missing Lenore by an inch, and their aim is proven perfect as it collides with the man''s forehead. He stumbles, hands clawing at his face, giving Lenore time to rush forward and finish him off. Body number three hits the floor, alive but unconscious.


    ¡°Shit¡­ Definitely killed that one¡­¡± The person from under the stairs says. They look around, spotting the pool table in the corner of their eye. With a heave and a ho, they drag the heavy piece of furniture over the man¡¯s body, narrowly avoiding dropping one of the legs on top of his head, ¡°Ha! Try and catch me now, fuzzy dick¡­!¡±


    Calm gives way to the storm; everything goes to shit. Who starts it? Who knows. Some people will just take any excuse to pick a fight. The least, and perhaps also the most, intoxicated patrons rise from the stupors, throwing hands with each other in their mindless need to harm somebody, anybody, within arms reach. Bottles smash against temples, fingers scratch and claw, teeth snap, and thoughtlessly angry yelling deafens them to all reason. The hairs on the back of the little lady¡¯s neck tingle as she senses somebody closing in behind her. They¡¯re already too close, she doesn¡¯t have time to turn around, to defend herself, but before they get the chance to act on whatever intent they might have had, a bar stool smacks them right in the gut.


    The leader delivers a few more hard wacks to their groin, and Lenore¡¯s would-be attacker scrambles off. Lenore gives the leader a look of surprised gratitude.


    ¡°Hmm,¡± Lenore nods in approval, ¡°Not bad, kid.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± The leader eyes her with one last fading hint of wariness, ¡°... My name¡¯s Estella, by the way.¡±


    Lenore nods, ¡°Clara Janson. It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you.¡±


    ¡°My name¡¯s Hinata!¡± The person from under the stairs exclaims, bending down to pick up their mug, ¡°Stella, Clara, Hinata¡­ Hey, we all end in ah!¡±


    An empty heroin needle goes flying by Hinata¡¯s face, embedding itself into the wall. Hinata reaches out to touch it.


    ¡°Nice meeting you, Hinata,¡± Lenore grabs them, ¡°We need to get the fuck out of here.¡±


    The three of them dash across the parlour. For some reason, the fighting parts for them like a very polite sea of rage and intoxication. It doesn¡¯t take long for them to get to the staircase and Hinata''s little hovel underneath it. The oil lamp has gone out, and the other users are clumsily trying to light it back up again with little success. Hinata waves happily, but their smile falls off their face when they glance into their mug and see that it¡¯s empty. A trail of ice has been left in their wake. Apparently, they¡¯d been holding the mug upside down.


    Hinata peers sadly at the melting pile of dirty ice at their feet. They bend down, pick up a piece, and bring it to their slowly opening mouth.


    ¡°Don¡¯t eat that!¡± Lenore and, surprisingly, Estella order in unison.


    ¡°Aww¡­ Fine¡­¡± Hinata groans, throwing the ice chip away, ¡°Can you get us some more? Please?¡±


    ¡°If I give you money, will you use it to buy ice or opium?¡±


    Hinata thinks about it for a second, ¡°... I¡¯ll try to buy ice¡­ But I¡¯ll probably, accidentally, buy more gum instead.¡±


    The look Lenore gives them is distinctly unimpressed.


    Hinata scratches their arm, ¡°Sorry¡­¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve got to go,¡± Lenore says, ¡°But, if you¡¯re willing to wait, I¡¯ll buy you more ice when I get back.¡±


    Hinata throws both of their arms up in excitement, launching the empty mug into the ceiling, ¡°Thank you!¡± They crawl back under the stairs. The joyful cheers of Hinata¡¯s friends echo from the darkness, and why shouldn¡¯t they cheer? They¡¯re gonna get more ice.


    With that settles, Lenore and Estella begin ascending the stairs, but a croupier meets them halfway. Several other dealers storm down the stairs and into the parlour, intent on breaking up the riot that¡¯s already simmering down. Already, people are forgetting why they were fighting in the first place. The ample amount of opium pipes and needles make it easy for them to get distracted.


    The croupier eyes them, torn between trying to kick them out and leaving them be.


    Estella steps forward.


    ¡°Hi Mr. Tamboli,¡± She slides her palm up the croupier¡¯s shirt, smiling coyly, ¡°Did you hear all those junkies fighting? They¡¯re so loud!¡±


    The croupier''s eyes shift and his hands shake as he grasps Estella by her elbows. Struggling to find the right words, he doesn¡¯t pull the young raccoon closer but, at the same time, he certainly doesn¡¯t push her away.


    Estella smiles, ¡°Hey, maybe if you know of somewhere quiet we can go to--¡±


    Lenore pulls the young raccoon away from the croupier with a scowl. The little lady reaches back into her purse, making the dealer stiffen for a moment. He relaxes when all she does is pull out a bank bill.


    ¡°Here¡¯s a fifty,¡± Lenore says, slipping him the money, ¡°You didn¡¯t see anything.¡±


    The croupier narrows his eyes, looks over his shoulders and then snatches the money.


    ¡°Get wherever you¡¯re going, girls.¡±


    ~*~


    Estella and Lenore exit the gambling parlour with no further incident. The effects of excessive drinking is getting to everyone in the Cathouse, however, and as the night goes on, the place was sure to erupt in more violence, cartoonish and inebriated.


    The stairs are mounted along the wall like a fire escape, providing a rickety pathway to the boudoirs. There are two levels, thirty-two rooms. From up there, you get a lovely view of the front room¡¯s stage. The performance is still going; Odell is singing ¡°Sentimental Drinking¡± while sadistically trying to pull Felina into a dance. It feels childish to admit this, but Lenore can¡¯t help but find Odell¡¯s pettiness funny. At least they¡¯re pretending to get along.


    All the boudoirs have their curtains closed. The noises are as distracting as ever.


    At the end of the line, the last boudoir is boarded up, with the only way in being only a low hole that¡¯s small as a doggy-door. Estella crawls in first, and Lenore follows closely after. It¡¯s dusty, damp, and dark. Much like Hinata¡¯s hovel under the staircase, there''s a single oil lamp resting on top of a low pile of timber planks, but thankfully there is no smoke, no opium pipes. Just a stack of cash, two straw baskets with contents unknown, and an adolescent boy, looking to be around Estella¡¯s age. His hair is badly matted. When he turns to them, only one of his eyes focuses on their presence, while the other looks off with a clouded glaze over his iris and pupil.


    Lenore stands up, ¡°Hayes?¡±


    The boy frowns. His hands shake when he lifts the lamp off the board, the flame swinging to the rhythm of his nervousness.


    Estella scoffs, ¡°Fuck no. Colin would never pull shit like this.¡±


    She stomps up to Colin, who points to the shabby floorboard under his feet. Estella snorts in a snobbish, unimpressed sort of way. She jumps high in the air, making a cavernous thump when she lands hard on the wood with knees bent at a ninety-degree angle. She hisses, ¡°Get up here, Soma! I know you fucked something up, and you didn¡¯t even get away with it this time! What the fuck is wrong with you!?¡±


    She jumps off the plank pile and the longer she waits for those planks to do anything other than nothing, the angrier Estella becomes.


    She stomps her feet again, ¡°Get your ass up here! I ain¡¯t playing around!¡±


    Finally, from underneath the floorboards, Lenore hears a groan. The pile of planks shift and a little head pops up from within the tiny cavity the pile was covering. Lenore winces. If she didn¡¯t know better, the little lady would think children couldn¡¯t possibly be this skinny, this fragile. The boy is thin. His spine sticks out of his back like it''s trying to escape his skin. Looks can be deceiving, but Lenore would have to guess he¡¯s around six or seven. Eight if his growth was hindered by starvation. His hair is a strikingly bright blonde in contrast to his dark skin tone. His lips are puckered as if he¡¯d just sucked the sourest lemon and when he lays eyes on Colin, Estella, and especially Lenore, his cheeks puff up like a chipmunk.


    ¡°What the fuck, Colin!¡± He whines, ¡°Stop being such a rat!¡±


    He jumps out of his hole and points angrily at Lenore, ¡°And who the fuck is that!?¡±


    Estella snaps back, ¡°Watch your fucking mouth! I don¡¯t know what she wants, or what you did, but this girl¡¯s got a score to settle with you and I won¡¯t be covering for you this time. So stop acting like an ass before you get us in even more trouble!¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t do shit!¡±


    The little lady watches the argument unfold, impatiently tapping her foot.


    As the pair argue, Colin sets the lamp down, snags the two baskets, and hooks them around the crook of his elbows. The baskets swing as he skips up to Lenore with an open, easy smile. His boldness takes her by surprise as he snatches her hand and kisses her dry, scarred fingers. What a little gentleman.


    ¡°Colin Blomgren,¡± He gives her a grin dripping in manufactured charm, ¡°And you are¡­?¡±


    ¡°Too old for you.¡±


    Colin leans back, head tilting in confusion, before he laughs, ¡°You¡¯re funny! I¡¯m fourteen and you¡¯re, what, eleven?¡±


    Lenore smirks, ¡°Higher.¡±


    ¡°Twelve?¡± The little lady shakes her head. ¡°Thirteen?¡± She shakes her head again. ¡°Okay, how old are you then?¡±


    Suddenly, they hear a shrill yelp. The spindly blonde boy thrashes his arms and gnashes his teeth, jumping up at Estella, but his attempts to attack her are futile. Estella rolls her eyes, holding the little guy back with only her palm against his reddened forehead.


    Lenore sighs, ¡°Too old for this, Mister Blomgren. Far, far too old.¡±


    The little lady approaches the snarling raccoons. She clamps her hand over their mouths and quietly says, ¡°I may be wrong, but I have a feeling that none of us are supposed to be up here. Perhaps you two should keep your voices down before we get caught.¡±


    She lets her hand fall away. The blonde boy snaps his teeth at her. She continues. ¡°You¡¯re Hayes, yes?¡±


    ¡°My name is Soma!¡±


    ¡°Soma Hayes, then.¡± Lenore enunciates calmly, ¡°We¡¯ve been looking for you.¡±


    ¡°¡®We?¡¯ Who the fuck is ¡®we¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Language,¡± Lenore reaches into her bag and pulls out her gold Theatre pin. All three raccoon¡¯s eyes go wide, ¡°Eight days ago you delivered a package to the Theatre. Would you be so kind as to tell me where you obtained the contents of vial #B[Rh-]T0211?¡±


    Soma wraps his tiny arms around his stomach, and his laughter quivers with distress, ¡°You¡¯re stupid! You think I remember what all that dumb stuff that you¡¯re dumb Theatre ordered was? I didn¡¯t break anything! I gave you what you wanted, and I nearly got skinned getting it for you, so leave me alone!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t recall accusing you of breaking anything.¡±


    Soma throws himself down onto the floor and sulks. Estella glares a hole through his head, caught between being absolutely livid at Soma and submissively apologetic to Lenore. Colin plops himself down beside Soma, rubbing the little guys back. The little lady mulls over her options. They need this kid to talk, but what risks are they willing to suffer just to get this kid to tell them the truth? Is the truth worth it? Are lies the smarter choice?


    A deep moan pierces through the thin walls, throwing off the little lady''s concentration.


    She fights to keep her scowl off her face, ¡°...I¡¯ll level with you, Soma, you are in a lot of trouble. You¡¯ve caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people. Am I going to force you to take responsibility for your actions¡­?¡±


    The three raccoons wait for her to finish, tensions rising and heartbeat racing.


    Lenore shrugs, ¡°No. I won¡¯t. Have a nice night, Mister Hayes.¡±


    The expressions on the raccoons¡¯ faces are comical, but Lenore doesn¡¯t break her composure. She turns, falls to her knees, but before she crawls through the hole in the boarding, she comments, ¡°Oh, and that ¡®red stuff¡¯ you delivered? It was supposed to be our monthly order of Official¡¯s blood. I assume you panicked when the vial broke, but seeing as you didn¡¯t have time or didn¡¯t want to waste time going back to Jugendstil, you opted to replace it with a counterfeit and hope we wouldn¡¯t notice.¡±


    ¡°I--¡± Soma stutters, ¡°I didn¡¯t--You can¡¯t--¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a bold guy, I¡¯ll give you that. I mean, replacing our order with a vial of blood from the dead body of a murdered child? That takes guts, kid. Still, you might not want to make a habit of that. Bad for business.¡±


    Soma flinches, bumping into the oil lamp and burning himself on the glass. Estella and Colin simultaneously choke on their own spit.


    ¡°What is she on about!?¡± Estella gnashes her teeth, ¡°Did you ransack some guy''s corpse!?¡±


    Colin groans, ¡°Soma, why¡­?¡±


    Soma stutters, still clutching his slightly burnt hand, ¡°I didn¡¯t¡ªthat ain¡¯t¡ª¡± He points his finger at the little lady, ¡°I didn¡¯t take nothing from any dead kid! She¡¯s lying!¡±


    ¡°Am I?¡± Lenore interjects, casually glancing up from her nails, the calming wind at the eye of the raccoon¡¯s furious storm.


    Estella rants on undaunted, ¡°You are never¡ªand I mean ever¡ªgoing out on any job ever again! You hear me? Never!¡±


    ¡°B-but..¡± Soma¡¯s head swivels back and forth between Estella and Lenore. Without any idea of what to do next, Soma does the only thing he can do. He throws a tantrum. The little raccoon jumps to his feet and throws the lamp at the little lady. He misses by a long shot and Colin grabs him before he can try again. While he tries to soothe Soma, Lenore pulls Estella aside. Estella, red-faced with fury, grumbles but complies without a complaint. Lenore opens her mouth to speak, but the young raccoon beats her to it, whispering in a tone that¡¯s almost pleading.


    ¡°Soma¡¯s a brat,¡± She sighs with a worrisome look that¡¯s too mature for someone so young. ¡°But, please¡­ I don''t think he meant any harm. He never gets into trouble for trouble''s sake. If he¡¯s got some sorta debt to you, let me pay the price, I can handle it--¡± She trails off in between her sentences, leaving them hanging with tired sighs and resigned eyes. Raccoon or not, she¡¯s still a child; new to a world that spares little pity.


    ¡°I told you the truth. I¡¯m just here for information; this isn¡¯t about revenge.¡±


    Whether or not Estella finds that comforting, she doesn¡¯t let the little lady see her face to tell. She stares down at her feet, swiftly walking away. She grabs Colin by the collar, pulling him into the corner and the two of them begin speaking in hushed voices.


    ¡°See, I told, I fucking told you, he wasn¡¯t ready¡­¡±


    ¡°You say that about everything!¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m right about everything--¡±


    ¡°Maybe if you let me teach him something, he wouldn¡¯t fuck up like this¡­!¡±


    ¡°So what, are you blaming me¡­!?¡±


    Lenore feels a tug on her dress. Dirty, tiny hand cling to her skirt, and wide brown eyes stare up at her. Soma asks, ¡°Whose blood was it?¡± It seems the boy¡¯s tuckered himself out. He lets go and sits at Lenore¡¯s feet, arms curled around his legs and chin tucked over his knees.


    ¡°We¡¯re unsure who the child was,¡± She admits, ¡°I¡¯ll ask the questions and then we¡¯ll see how much you¡¯re allowed to know.¡± Lenore knees in front of him, ¡°The red-filled vial you sent me did not contain what was specified. Where did you find the crimson liquid and how did you obtain it?¡±


    He whines, ¡°I had the stuff you ask me for, all of it, but some nasty Officials came after me and the vial broke while I was running. It was an accident--¡±


    ¡°That is not what I asked.¡±


    He scrunches his nose at Lenore but was too nervous to make any insults. There¡¯s an edge to his voice that spoke of his snotty arrogance.


    ¡°I ran away. There was this building, it was by the wall. The¡­ the blood was all over, like somebody had been spraying it. I scooped some off the wall and left.¡±


    ¡°What building was this?¡±


    ¡°I dunno. It was behind the Asylum, I guess. I snuck under this spiky gate and ended up in a dead-looking garden.¡±


    Lenore stands.


    ¡°A building that¡¯s behind the Asylum with barbed fences. An unkempt garden.¡± S?he ponders, unconsciously pacing in a tightly formed circle around the boudoir, ¡°Blood residue sprayed all over, fresh enough to gather into a vial, still pourable, but no body. Unless, maybe they ran or off and bleed out elsewhere? Or perhaps, someone removed the body, posthumously.¡±


    Soma frowns, ¡°Are we done now? I told you what you wanted to know¡­¡±


    Lenore ignores him, ¡°Clearly injured, likely not dying of natural causes; either self-inflicted or by another party. Why would a child be anywhere near the asylum¡­? Unless, he was taken there, but for what reason? Unless...unless...¡±


    ¡°Estella,¡± Lenore snaps her fingers as if stumbling upon some eureka moment. Estella and Colin turn to her with twin looks of alarm, ¡°Thank you for your service.¡±


    She pulls a wad of cash out of her bag and hands it to Estella. The girl¡¯s fingers feel numb against the crinkly paper. How much does that Lady Averill pay these people?


    ¡°But I¡¯m afraid we aren¡¯t done with your friend yet.¡± Lenore continues, ¡°My lady will be employing Mister Hayes¡¯ service''s again.¡±


    Estella blinks at her in shock. Colin puts both his hands on Soma¡¯s shoulders, watching Lenore like a hawk.


    ¡°My services?¡± Soma murmurs, ¡°Why would you trust me to do anything for you?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s quite simple, Mister Hayes,¡± Lenore smiles, ¡°I don¡¯t. That is why I will be accompanying you on your next assignment.¡±


    Colin¡¯s grip on Soma¡¯s shoulders tightens. He and Estella converge on either side of the little raccoon, cocooning him in their embrace. The oil lamp casts Lenore¡¯s shadow over them, her silhouette stretching tall and foreboding. What do they say? How can they refuse? They can¡¯t let Soma go with this girl, they can¡¯t let him go alone, not again. She¡¯s dangerous. Whoever she is, she can¡¯t be telling them the truth when lies are so much simpler. But, for a raccoon, the truth doesn¡¯t matter. The truth is too complicated. Survival is simple. Whatever happens next, they just have to survive and everything will be all right.


    Lenore raises an eyebrow, ¡°Well, do we have d--¡±


    Suddenly, there¡¯s a sound. Up above them, through the several layers of brick and wood, the sound starts off small. But then, it builds upon itself. Gaining and gaining, growing louder, flourishing. More and more and more, it multiplies to an uncountable volume.


    It¡¯s a scratching sound. Dragging footsteps. Nails on a chalkboard.


    A shiver licks up the little lady¡¯s neck. The raccoon¡¯s freeze in place.


    And as that scratching sound grows louder and louder, thundering like a storm, they aren¡¯t only ones who hear it. The boudoirs snap to silence, junkies drop their needles and their pipes, glasses of ale slip from lax fingers and go crashing onto the floor, and music can no longer liven up the stillness in the air. Everyone still alive, still breathing, holds their breath. And just as the scratching sounds reach a crescendo, the smell descends upon the Cathouse, strong enough to taste its iron scent on the tip of your tongue. No one dares say a word. Even as the scratching sounds fade, unnervingly, into the night. No one says a word, only withering collectively in anxious wait.


    Until, loud as a crack of lightning, they hear a knock. Patron¡¯s shriek in terror, but quickly cover their mouths.


    Another knock. And although not a single soul has any wish to heed their beckoning, all know that in the end, they really have no choice.


    But who¡¯s going to let them in?


    Another, louder, knock.


    Who¡¯s going to let it in?

 Malignant It

    Cold canned spinach leaves a bizarre aftertaste in the mouth, especially when you don''t have a tongue. Wet, slightly bitter. Slippery enough to swallow without chewing, which is good when you also don¡¯t have teeth.


    Lenore isn¡¯t eating spinach right now. Loch sulks, I bet she¡¯s eating something fun, like cupcakes, or cookies, or corn on the cob!


    The can presses against his mouth again, and Loch reluctantly takes another sip. He closes his eyes as the bitter mush dissolves inside his mouth.


    I bet she doesn¡¯t even miss me. She¡¯s too busy having fun with Miss Odell because she likes Miss Odell. I bet they''re dancing, and playing games, and having so much fun¡­ Without me¡­


    Something smooth, but slightly fuzzy, taps his cheek and Loch opens his eyes. A pair of flowers bob and weave in his face; Belva and Astra gaze inquisitively at him, holding the can of spinach in their tiny tangled vines. They¡¯re holding it for him. He can¡¯t even hold his own can of gross, slimy spinach. It¡¯s awful.


    Loch smiles. They¡¯re no point in trying to speak to them, but still, he wants to say thank you. He tries to say it their way instead, using that swaying, twisty, dancing language they ¡®speak¡¯. The Detective hasn¡¯t taught him much of it yet, but how hard can it be?


    What he means to say is, ¡°Thanks for helping me!¡±


    Unfortunately, what he actually says is something along the lines of, ¡°Vegetables dumfoozle on blue happy day. Nifty discombobulates your canoodle! Help!¡±


    The flowers go still. Then, they start to quiver, and Loch gets the feeling that they''re laughing at him. Oh well, at least he made them happy. But, as much as he tries to push these emotions down, Loch can¡¯t help but feel embarrassed. He has no voice to speak with, he has no hands to hold things, and he has no idea what to do with himself. Everything is awful. Belva and Astra bring the can to his mouth again, and he takes another sip. Everything is still awful, especially spinach.


    The Detective and Mr. Rousseau are talking across the room. The Detective speaks with their voice and Jean-Luc speaks with his hands. Loch listens to them converse but the chatter is rather one-sided.


    ¡°Do you think we should simplify the shapes?¡± The Detective asks.


    ¡°...¡±


    ¡°Yes, that makes sense. The question is, how do we resolve that kind of problem? A different model, perhaps?¡±


    ¡°...¡±


    ¡°Good point.¡±


    ¡°...¡±


    ¡°... I see. I suppose we can try that.¡±


    Loch finishes the last of his spinach just as the Detective calls for him to come over. Wearily, he floats up from the floor. Belva and Astra wave goodbye, but as Loch turns away, a prickling sensation falls over him quite suddenly. It¡¯s like a cavity boring inside him. This chasm of dread, biting and cold, but when Loch looks around, there¡¯s neither a source nor a cause in sight. Loch shivers as he floats over.


    As he¡¯s getting in position, he asks, ¡­ When is Lenore coming back?


    No answer. He¡¯s ignored, more out of ignorance than malice. The Detective can¡¯t hear him. No one can. And that¡¯s okay. Being ignorable isn¡¯t so bad. Maybe that¡¯s what this prickling sensation is. The feeling that comes from being forgettable. Unimportant. Voiceless.


    At least Miss Laymon is having a good night.


    ~*~


    The door splinters. The knocking pounds loud and unhurried; patiently waiting with eerie confidence. Worse than the sound, it¡¯s the smell. A scent like bloody, spoiled meat leaks inside from every crack and crevice, filling the lungs of every patron, prostitute, and plebeian. Odell holds her breath. Her hands tremble. Standing under the blinking spotlight, surrounded by strangers, the singer feels overexposed. For once, all Odell wants to do is succumb into the nearest shadow.


    The knocking persists. No one moves.


    Someone has to open the door. The singer knows it, the whole Cathouse knows it; nothing good will come of letting it in, but something much worse will surely befall them if they wait any longer. In the corner of her eye, the singer spots the tail-end of Felina¡¯s white fur wrap slinking around the bar. Felina already has one foot out of the room when Odell speaks, stopping her dead in her tracks.


    ¡°Missus Van Der Venne,¡± Odell¡¯s voice is a wispy thing, shallow and yet loud enough to draw all eyes back to her. The eyes of everyone in the front lounge linger on the singer, and then following her tempering gaze straight to Felina, ¡°Where are you going? Someone still needs to open the door.¡±


    Felina looks over her shoulder, lips forming words, but her voice fails her, ¡°I--I c-can¡¯t--¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d be happy to let them in for you, but wouldn¡¯t that be rude of me? This is your cathouse, isn¡¯t it?¡± The singer gingerly steps down from the stage.


    ¡°But I--I¡¯m not--I don''t own--¡±


    ¡°...You do, though¡­¡± To the singer¡¯s surprise, it¡¯s Rafael who speaks up. Sitting on the stage, he has the drum player''s petite jacket stretched over his shoulders. The jacket is ill-fitted. It makes Rafael appear bulky. His posture, however, is meek as a mouse. Chewing on his bottom lip, Rafael continues saying, ¡°You¡¯re our owner. Nobody gets in or out without your permission. That¡¯s the rules¡­¡±


    The heated look on Missus Van Der Venne''s face could melt a hole through your head. Her cheeks are as crimson as a pair of redlove apples. Her eyes bulge like a bruxing rat. Betrayal, hatred, desperation, fear; all these emotions flicker over her face in rapid succession. She doesn''t have time to put any of these feelings into words. Shaky voices rise up from the crowd, all of them expressing a similar sentiment.


    ¡°...If those are the rules¡­¡±


    ¡°T--they ain¡¯t wrong, you know. You¡­ you are the boss.¡±


    ¡°...Somebody¡¯s gotta let¡¯em in.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s probably here for Missus Van Der Venne, anyway¡­¡±


    ¡°...Open the door, Felina.¡±


    ¡°Open the door¡­¡±


    ¡°Open the damn door!¡±


    ¡°What are you waiting for¡­! Open the fucking door before they break it down¡­!¡±


    Missus Van Der Venne can barely get a word in otherwise. Felina stumbles as the crowd encircles her, pushing her closer and closer to the door. The knocking makes the ground vibrate under their feet. Like a pack of dogs herding a lost lamb, her patrons are relentless.


    In one last ditch effort to turn the tide, Felina calls out, ¡°Medina! Get the door--!¡±


    And all Rafael does is blink at her, aware that danger is near, but not aware enough to really give a damn about it. It¡¯s been at least an hour since he met Lady Averill. An hour and a half since he¡¯s gone on break. His stomach is twisting. His head is pounding. There¡¯s something about Felina¡¯s voice, about that knocking that he can¡¯t quite place the source of, that¡¯s downright irritating. Why is he shaking? Where did this coat come from? Who are all these people? Why are they all staring at him?


    Felina snarls his name again, and Rafael jumps to his feet. He can¡¯t make her angry. He remembers that much, at least. But before he can do much else, something heavy presses against his chest, holding him back. Odell gently pushes Rafael behind her with the body of her guitar.


    The singer''s eyes narrow, ¡°Don¡¯t let it touch you, Felina.¡±


    And just like that, Felina¡¯s fate is sealed.


    One tiny step and the knocking stops, as if it can sense her approaching. Knees weak, hands sweaty, she can barely turn the handle.


    The door pulls in.


    And there it is.


    Rotting in the night, its lurid pallor obscured by red-tinted moonbeams, with anatomy too human in every sinister way. Felina stumbles back and it steps inside. Beyond it, the street is empty; the people have vanished, but no one is foolish enough to believe it¡¯s come alone. Officials are never sent alone. Felina¡¯s hand falls from the door handle as she doubles over and vomits all over her ruby shoes. Oh, that stench. This close, it is more of a taste than a smell. Her bile barely compares.


    It leaves the door open. Another step forward, and everyone scrambles backward. Subconsciously, they form a circle around Odell. Not to protect her, of course, more likely in hopes that she could somehow protect them.


    Felina clutches her stomach and chokes, ¡°G-good evening, my m-most noble Official. How m-may I be of s-service?¡±


    A final stagger closer and the Official falls into the light.


    It is a pitiful creature. Wobbly and woefully unstable. Skin calcified like bone and teeth. It¡¯s cysts, and clumps, and knots, and tumours braided together inside itself with fragments translucent so that one could see the red veins swimming underneath like puppet strings. It is human flesh. Unmistakably human trapped by a cruel, undying parasite.


    It is malignant.


    It does not speak. It doesn¡¯t even change its expression. Its gaze is so blank it might as well have been looking through Felina.


    The Official answers not with words or any readable signs but by silently handing her a milky white letter. It¡¯s unmarked. All the patrons can do is wonder. Shrinking into a cluster of sweaty limbs and hot, anxious breath, they silently speculate; what does the letter say? What does it say?


    Felina fumbles as she tears open the envelope. The message inside is frighteningly short.


    ¡°In Regards to the owners of Felina Van Der Venne¡¯s Kitty Cathouse,


    On the evening of July 29th? your establishment shall be searched, by order of the House of Romilly, by Old Quinn City Officials for suspicious contraband and individuals threatening, traitorous, and/or otherwise illicit. Please remain calm. Should you, or any of your employees and patrons, refuse, resist, or retaliate, you will be detained.


    With reverence of the highest esteem and consideration,


    The House of Romilly¡±


    The paper is torn at the edges. The handwriting is smudgy. The letter, as she crushes it between her palms, is so clear, why can¡¯t she make sense of it? This can¡¯t be happening. She reads the whole thing over again. When it still makes no sense to her, she reads it once more.


    And as Felina reads, Odell clutches her guitar, and it must be noted that the way she holds the instrument is more than a little odd. You don¡¯t hold a guitar by its body. You don¡¯t cradle a guitar against your abdomen, intimately careful of where you point the neck. But then again, most guitars don¡¯t have a trigger. An iron sight or a loaded magazine. As Odell¡¯s fiddling with the headstock, untying the strings and bending the peghead until it is parallel with the neck, the singer hears the faintest creak. She looks up. On the stairwell¡¯s second level, she spies a flash of beige. A slightly hiked up skirt, legs still hidden, with three extra pairs of feet tiptoeing in a line behind her. Odell can¡¯t help but smile in relief. Her shapeshifter is alive and unharmed, at least for now. But Lenore¡¯s not alone. There¡¯s not one, not two, but three strange kids tiptoeing behind the little lady like kits chasing their sow. As Lenore and her train of raccoons pass by each boudoir, the silhouettes pull back their sheets. Peeking out, seeing the source of all this commotion, and jaws dropping; the silhouettes quickly throw the sheets closed again. Maybe if they¡¯re quiet, maybe if they pretend they saw nothing, maybe if they hunker down and pray for forgiveness, they will be spared.


    Odell sneers.


    ¡°Cowards,¡± She thinks to herself, ¡°All of them.¡±


    Perhaps Lenore would agree, although she¡¯d probably be less vindictive about it. The line quickly gets longer behind the little lady. As she passes, she draws each curtain open and with a scowl, silently commands all those inside to follow. Most of them scurry along without a fight. Like herding lambs out of the slaughter.


    All things considered, the little lady appears surprisingly calm. Odell knows better, however. The twitchiness of Lenore¡¯s hands. The hefty rise and fall of her chest. The haunted look in her fake brown eyes. Even from so far away, Odell sees it clear as day. Lenore is terrified. Try as she might, the singer can¡¯t catch the little lady¡¯s attention. She can¡¯t call out to her without being heard. She can¡¯t sneak up the stairs without being seen.


    ¡°Fuck. Why do I always got to be one the one to bite the bullet¡­?¡± The singer¡¯s finger settles over the trigger of her instrument, no longer just an electric guitar.


    Suddenly a puff of smelly breath blows over her neck, followed by three hard taps on her shoulder. Without thinking, the singer goes on the offensive. Elbowing the person leering over her, Odell curls her free hand into a fist and she twists around. The person catches her punch. When she finally gets a look at them, it¡¯s the piano player she sees.


    Her first instinct is to scream at him. Given the circumstances, Odell reins herself in. Barely. Grabbing the piano player by his hideous yellow tie, she hisses into her ear.


    ¡°Touch me again and I¡¯ll ram my guitar so far up your--¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll cover for you.¡±


    Odell¡¯s mouth snaps shut.


    Even the gentlest whispers sound too loud. Too perilous. Neither the piano player nor Odell speak any further. He slowly reaches into his coat, all the while his gaze shifts with rapid paranoia to the doorway and back. The Official hasn¡¯t moved an inch. From his breast pocket, he reveals a pocket pistol no bigger than a cigarette box. It¡¯s so cute, Odell almost wants to laugh.


    The singer pushes the pistol back into the piano player¡¯s pocket, shaking her head. She draws his attention to the instrument in her hands instead. The piano player¡¯s face scrunches in confusion. It is only when Odell clicks the safety off that his eyes widen in surprise. Then his gaze hardens, and he understands.


    Rafael watches them with an innocent tilt to his head. He doesn¡¯t understand, but that¡¯s nothing new. Odell and the piano player share a nod, cementing their brittle partnership. They have work to do.


    As Odell and the piano player scheme, Felina finally lowers the letter. She reread its contents upwards of two dozen times, hoping in vain that the words would somehow change before her eyes the longer she stalled. Nothing¡¯s changed.


    A scratching sound causes Felina¡¯s gaze to snap upwards. The Official had stumbled closer when she wasn¡¯t paying attention. It¡¯s nearly nose to nose with her. It is close enough to reach out. To touch. Felina trips over her feet, tumbling into the man behind her, causing him to bump into the woman behind him, and so on and so forth. Suddenly, it doesn¡¯t matter what the letter says. One can assume it¡¯s nothing good.


    Felina grabs the closest person by the arm, yanking them in front of her like a meat shield. She says, ¡°Okay, okay, I-I not, I-I mean, I w-won¡¯t fight! Just¡­ Just please stay back!¡±


    Odell readies her instrument. She bends at the knees until her tall frame is obscured by the crowd. From there, she waits. It¡¯s agony, but she waits.


    Ominously, the Official reaches out. Two arms, held wide and inviting until, quite suddenly, there¡¯s not two arms, but four. And then there¡¯s eight arms, and then twelve, then sixteen. Dozens of hands, dozens of fingers, plunge into view from beyond the doorway. Twenty-four, thirty-one, forty. Clawing like the undead, like skeletons out of the grave. Dry, fleshy fingers tearing at wood and steel. They enter. Follow the first official into the cathouse like a parade of unpredictable havoc.


    Felina¡¯s meat shield struggles out of her grasp. Left vulnerable, Felina panics, ¡°Please! Please don¡¯t!¡±


    The piano player keeps Rafael at his side, dragging him along as he tiptoes from person to person. He taps them on the shoulder and they always flinch, stifling their startled squeaks. Once the person, be them man, woman, or otherwise, calms down the piano player pushes them into position.


    Into their ear, he whispers, ¡°Wait for my signal. Get ready to duck.¡±


    There¡¯s far too many of them. The doorway can¡¯t handle the sudden flash flood. The walls split; the destruction spreading. Every crack and crevice, really any weakness in the brick and mortar, the Officials invade. A deafening cacophony of scratching. It reverbs from the rooftops all the way down to the foundation, growing louder and louder until the Cathouse itself buckles.


    Lenore makes it to the last boudoir. The two men inside scramble out, joining the now lengthy train of people behind the little lady. They¡¯ve almost made it to the last set of stairs. Almost there. The little lady forces herself to ignore what''s going on in the front lounge. One step at a time. This is no time to panic, no time to make a fuss.


    Everything will be fine. Odell can keep the peace until Lenore comes up with a plan. Everything''s fine.


    All the Officials do is reach out. As if they''re only asking for a hug. Pathetically probing, begging, pining, and for what? Touch? A simple brush against your skin? The warmth of a soothing caress? Such a harmless thing, just one feeble touch. How could anyone be so cruel as to deny a pitiful creature such an innocent request?


    But don¡¯t be fooled.


    Don¡¯t be na?ve, don¡¯t be stupid. For though it may be true, Officials are pitiful, needy, pathetic things, they are hardly harmless. Don¡¯t let it touch you.


    It will never let go.


    The crowd forms a circle, Odell and the piano player shielded in the middle. There¡¯s no room to breathe, let alone move. The Officials only make it worse. Surround the huddle like a pack of wolves, encircling closer and closer with every stumbly step. Their glazed eyes never stray, blankly staring with expressions strange and sad.


    Felina, abandoned outside of the group, falls to her knees as tears bubble under her eyelashes, ¡°Please¡­¡±


    The first Official stares down at her. Clumsily, it reaches down. The tips of its fingers scarcely pet Felina¡¯s hair and the shiny blonde strands on Missus Van Der Venne¡¯s head quiver as if caught in the wind. That¡¯s all it takes. Burning black, clotting like blood, and suddenly sticky, the strands cling to the Official¡¯s hand like a cobweb. Her hair rots.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Felina screeches, ¡°Stop!¡±


    The piano player knocks Rafael to the ground and bellows, ¡°Get down!¡±


    Every patron and prostitute dives for the floor. Everyone except for Odell. The singer jumps to her feet, the neck of her instrument pointed right at the first Official¡¯s chest, and suddenly, bang! A blast, loud as lightning, and the Official goes flying backwards. It lands outside the doorway, in the dark ret-tinted street.


    Fast as the click-clack of a typewriter, shots ring out at breakneck speed. Boom! Bang! Boom! Bang! Odell¡¯s instrument rumbles like lightning, although not every shot finds its mark. Frankly, the singer¡¯s aim is shit. Just as likely to hit the wall, the windows, the door, or the people, as she is to hit an Official.


    Boom! Bang! Boom! Bang! The piano player lets a few bullets fly as well, although the sound of Odell¡¯s firearm completely drowns it out. From his spot laying on the ground, his aim isn¡¯t much better.


    Boom! Bang! Boom! Bang! The Officials stumble back, but they don¡¯t fall. Aside from slowing them down, the bullets don¡¯t seem to have much of an effect. Blood splatters, limbs are blown clean off, and the Officials don¡¯t flinch. They take in the onslaught passively, waiting for it to be over.


    Boom! Bang! Boom¡ªclick! Click! Click! Click!


    Fuck. She¡¯s out of bullets.


    Odell lowers her instrument and yells, ¡°Scatter!¡±


    Screaming, crying, and the roar of stomping feet. It¡¯s chaos. Patrons and prostitutes stampeding away from the door. But where could they possibly go?


    Outside the blown-in door, a new sound emerges. More shrill than any scratching sound. Almost like a whistle that you¡¯d hear from a boiling teapot. It¡¯s an angry sound. A sound that promises vengeance.


    One thing¡¯s certain, they can¡¯t go through the door.


    ¡°Get out of my way! Move!¡±


    ¡°Oh my god! Oh my fucking god!¡±


    ¡°Why would you do that!? What the fuck is wrong with you!¡±


    There¡¯s only one way to go. Up the stairs. The boudoirs have windows, don¡¯t they? An idea seems to pop into very patrons and prostitutes'' heads at the same time, solidifying into action all at once. They rush the staircase.


    Odell, disoriented from all the kicking, pushing, and shrieking, sees what¡¯s about to happen and panics, ¡°Stop!¡±


    But it¡¯s too late. It happens all at once. An army¡¯s worth of frantic, intoxicated riffraff collides with Lenore¡¯s troop of the similarly frantic, mostly-naked rabble, one scrambling up the staircase while the other scrambles down. The shrill sound heightens in pitch; the singer feels the force of the Officials rage throw her forward. She lands face-first against the bar as the walls and windows explode inward.


    The staircase creaks and croaks like a dying frog. Inverted shadows, back-lit with a red tint that makes their veins glow, stare with eyes dead and wrathful. Shoving and shouting make the first level of the staircase rock to and fro.


    Odell looks up. Lenore is looking down at her. The little lady is squished against the railing, those three strange children squashed by her feet. Lenore, wincing in pain, gives the singer a look. It¡¯s a look of disappointment, of defeat, that only highlights the burning flames of fury. It¡¯s a look that says, ¡°You know this is all your fault.¡±


    It happens all at once.  The staircase collapses. The Officials charge inside.


    And the singer can do nothing but watch as everything falls apart.


    ~*~


    ¡°Well done!¡±


    Loch pants heavily. His body aches and his head hurts, but he¡¯s smiling all the same. He¡¯s done it. He¡¯s finally done it.


    ¡°Smashing job, little one, absolutely smashing!¡± The Detective cheers in their quietly mumbled but nonetheless enthusiastic tone.


    Loch turns to them, beaming like starlight on a cloudless night. Belva and Astra are dancing with joy as Jean-Luc proudly signs, ¡°Good Job! Best Job! Fantastic Job!¡±


    Jean-Luc then burst into a cloud of feathers, flying across the laboratory and spinning around Loch fast enough to lift the boy even higher off the ground. And Loch laughs. He laughs and laughs, even as his limbs tremble and throb. He has limbs! He¡¯s done it. Sure, they aren¡¯t the prettiest limbs in the world, sure they hurt more than anything¡¯s ever hurt him before, but he has limbs. Two of them, to be precise. Two arms made of paper and whatever that blue-red goo he¡¯s made of is called.


    He¡¯s got arms! This is the best day ever!


    The Detective chuckles as Jean-Luc finally releases Loch from his feathery vortex, ¡°All right, all right, you two. Let¡¯s settle down now.¡±


    Loch smiles happily at the Detective, wriggling his arms like a deflating balloon. But then, there¡¯s that prickling sensation again.


    ¡°Loch?¡± The Detective says, ¡°Is something wrong, little one?¡±


    Maybe it¡¯s just that achy feeling. Maybe he just ate too much spinach.


    Loch rubs his stomach area with one of his arms. He figured out how to form arms, but hands are a whole other matter. Loch shakes his head.


    Nothing¡¯s wrong. In fact, for the first time all day, all week, it feels like something¡¯s finally going right.


    ~*~


    Lenore knew what was coming, but that didn¡¯t make it hurt any less. The whine the metal makes as the stairwell rips from the wall. More screaming and pushing. How do these people have room to breathe, let alone flail? It¡¯s a short fall. The little lady tries to angle herself between the three raccoons and the direction of the fall. She shoves Soma and Colin out of the way, but Estella gets stuck by her feet. One minute they¡¯re flying through the air, the next they¡¯re laying on the ground.


    The little lady¡¯s hearing pops in and out. There¡¯s this stiff weight on top of her, and this incessant jabbing in her ribs.


    ¡°No¡­ Get awa--!... Sto--!¡±


    ¡°Help¡­ Help--!... You can¡¯t¡­ Please!¡±


    ¡°It hur--!... Don¡¯t touch m--!¡±


    ¡°Cla--?... Clar--!... Clara!¡±


    Lenore snaps to attention, her hearing popping back to normal.


    ¡°Clara! You¡¯re crushing me!¡±


    The little lady looks down. She and Estella are chest to chest, limbs tangled and stuck under the weight of a section of the staircase.


    ¡°Get off of her! Colin! Help me!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying!¡±


    Colin and Soma are on either side of them, prodding at Lenore¡¯s prone body and the broken stairwell. They¡¯re not strong enough to pull them out of this cramped cavity they¡¯re stuck in. They¡¯re definitely not strong enough to lift the stairs.


    Lenore grumbles, ¡°... Step back¡­¡±


    Soma scowls, ¡°Oh, so you¡¯re not dead. Ain¡¯t that a shame.¡±


    Estella shifts and kicks Soma in the shin. The boy snarls, but he shuffles back nonetheless. Colin does the same.


    Lenore braces herself on her hands and knees. The rubble under her skin leaves red indents that pinch quite painfully whenever she moves. She pushes up. The hunk of metal on her back groans. She lifts the stairs as high as she can, which isn¡¯t very high at all, and then she hisses, ¡°What are you waiting for? Grab her and pull¡­!¡±


    Colin and Soma scramble to pull Estella out, even as the girl winces when her bare legs scrape against the concrete. Once Estella¡¯s free, the little lady relaxes. The stairs tilt as the little lady sinks to the ground, panting like mad. Lenore would have surely been crushed if it weren¡¯t for three pairs of tiny, dirty hands pulling her out just in time for the rest of the staircase to come crashing down.


    It takes half a minute more before Lenore has enough strength to raise her head. ¡°Thank you¡­¡± She says.


    Colin coughs as the dust from the crash wafts through the air, ¡°Ah, I know you¡¯d have done the same¡­¡±


    The screaming is just background noise now. The world is dark. All the lights have gone out in the front foyer, no doubt torn from the wiring when the staircase went down. The little lady tries to find her bearings. They are in some kind of cavity, buried under the rubble, that¡¯s getting smaller and smaller as the wreckage shifts and settles. They can hear heavy footsteps above, which only adds to the background noise. It¡¯s difficult to focus on any one sound aside from their laboured breathing. They need to get moving before the rest of it comes down on their heads.


    The raccoons seem to have the same idea. Lenore watches their dim silhouettes scout out the cavity for any holes or weaknesses. Soma finds a way out first. A low-to-the-ground tunnel headed to the left. What¡¯s to the left of them? The broken doorway? The gambling parlour?


    ¡°Ha, I saved your life! Twice!¡± Soma whispers, ¡°Now you owe me!¡±


    Lenore crawls into the tunnel, absently muttering, ¡°I recall, I saved you first.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t count!¡±


    ¡°And why not?¡±


    ¡°Because I don¡¯t want it to!¡±


    They don¡¯t crawl for long. The tunnel turns out to be as long as it was small. They quickly reach the end of the tunnel and still, it¡¯s too dark to see. Lenore crawls out and reaches back inside to help the raccoons. She has to lean in close for them to her, on account of the screaming. She says, ¡°Watch your heads. The beams are very--¡±


    A steel-toed boot punts the little lady in the back of her head. Then a heeled foot jabs her thigh, and then a pair of slippers kicks her in the ribs. She can¡¯t see where they¡¯re coming from, nor can she see where they go. It¡¯s too dark.


    That is until she spies a red glow.


    The three raccoons are just starting to stand when Lenore pulls them back down again.


    ¡°Shh¡­¡± The little lady gently pushes them down until their chests touch the floor. She drapes herself on top of them.


    Contrasted against the pitch black, it glows with ribbons of red. The veins under its skin appear to float like a jellyfish illuminated in the darkness of the deep sea. A glowing brain, lumpy like beef fat, with all its nerves and blood vessels branching out like tentacles. It has no head, no body, and no limbs. Only blood vessels and nerves.


    It¡¯s just one Official at first. Floating around. Seemingly frivolous.


    Lenore and the raccoons watch with bated breath.


    It brushes against a shadow. Some unfortunate soul, not observant enough to have seen the danger. Not fast enough to get away in time. The Official brushes against it, and the shadow shrieks as it tries to flee. Too little, too late. It consumes. Latching on to the shadow, who pleads and screams like their life depends on it, its veins throb and its prey shrivel.


    The sound of the shadow¡¯s begging snaps the little lady out of her stupor. Lenore skims her hands along the floor, searching for something. Anything. She finds an object that feels sleek and splintery. Just light enough for Lenore to lift it over her and fling it across the darkened foyer. The object finds its target, piercing the Official¡¯s brain and making it stumble just enough for the shadow, or whatever is left of the shadow, to escape its clutches.


    She was probably too late. The shadow, whoever they were, was probably as good as dead. All she¡¯s accomplished is delaying the inevitable.


    The Official steadies itself. It¡¯s looking around, hunting for the source of its attack.


    Lenore pushes herself and the raccoons further into the ground.


    It floats closer.


    Lenore holds her breath.


    Even closer.


    The little lady feels the raccoons shivering against her back.


    Closer and closer and then¡­ It floats off.


    The four of them breathe a sigh of relief, but the danger hasn¡¯t passed over yet. While that one Officials floats away, they can still see the glow of the others. Dozens of them.


    The little lady¡¯s stomach twists. She has to find Odell. She has to know that the singer is safe. God, what if she was caught under the rubble too? What if, the very thought makes her feel terribly ill, what if an Official had found her? They wouldn¡¯t hurt her, would they? They wouldn¡¯t touch her, they wanted the singer to perform for them at the new year¡¯s ball. Killing her would be a stupid, illogical, disadvantageous decision¡­


    But making stupid, illogical, disadvantageous decisions is what the House of Romilly does best.


    ¡°Don¡¯t panic.¡± Lenore thinks to herself, ¡°Panicking is pointless. Panicking makes you illogical, it fosters bad decision making. You¡¯re fine. Everything is fine. Stop panicking!¡±


    Colin crawls out from under the little lady. He takes a deep breath and lets out a whistle that echoes soft and clear. Estella follows his whistle with a string of chirps. Soma, ever the show off, whistles and chirps and even throws in a couple of trills for good measure. Then they wait. A moment passes, and then they hear it.


    A warble. Faint and from the sound of it, coming from somewhere to their right.


    The raccoons take the lead. If Lenore didn¡¯t know any better, she¡¯d think they could see in the dark. Together they scurry through the darkness, pausing to hide whenever an Official floats too close. Around turned-over tables, under metal rods, and over broken glass, they crawl with a single-minded drive. To get where they¡¯re going, and to get there fast.


    Lenore hears the raccoons change their tune. Their chirping turns into trills that ring with excitement. What could they be so elated about? She¡¯s the last one to see it. Light. It prickles through the darkness, seeping in from two separate sources. Two doorways. One to the right of them and the other to the left. Lenore squints. They¡¯ve reached the back of the front foyer. The left doorway, where the light glows pinkish and dim, leads behind the bar. The right doorway, where the light is bright and sickly yellow, illuminates from the gambling parlour. It is from the right doorway that the warbling calls out to them.


    But heeding that call comes with a price.


    The hair on the back of the little lady¡¯s neck bristles like a porcupine. She freezes. When she glances over her shoulder, all she sees is a wide, five-fingered shape. Its skin is knotty. Its veins pulse. It towers over them, impassive of their very existence and yet too hungry to let such an easy meal slip through its grasp.


    At that moment, Estella turns around, whispering, ¡°I guess we do owe you one, so if you wanna come with us, I--¡±


    Her voice dies on her tongue.


    The Official reaches down.


    Lenore lurches to her feet. She grabs Estella by the wrist, jerking her forward hard enough to force a pained yelp through her lips. Her cry snaps Colin and Soma to attention, but Lenore is already on the move. Unfortunately, so is the Official. The little lady tosses Soma over her shoulder and grabs Colin with her free hand. Then she sprints towards the right doorway.


    She¡¯s not fast enough.


    It circles her. Careening weightlessly, the Official seems to know where she¡¯s going before she does. It vaults itself in front of the right doorway, mingling with the yellow light and sending flares of bittersweet orange cascading through the darkness like a cloying aurora.


    Lenore tumbles to a stop, less than a foot away from where the Officials stands. Just a split second too slow and it would have had her in its embrace. Almost. It almost got her, but that doesn¡¯t really matter. It had almost gotten the kids. If her grip had been just a little looser, if her reflexes had lagged just a little too late. It would have gotten them, and that¡¯s all she cares about right now.


    The little lady twists around and bolts to the left towards the pinkish glow of the empty bar. At this point, it¡¯s their only option.


    Estella shouts, ¡°Wait!¡± And even knowing they can¡¯t possibly follow that warbling call any further, not without being killed or worse, she doesn¡¯t care. She claws and shoves and kicks, but Lenore doesn¡¯t let her go.


    She dives over the bar counter and through the pink doorway.


    It¡¯s a liquor cellar. Tall hickory racks of wine and whiskey take up space in this cramped, smelly room. There¡¯s very little light.


    Colin shakes off her grip and runs to slam the door shut. Moments after he clicks the lock, the door jolts with the force of the Official¡¯s pounding. The wood wouldn¡¯t hold out long.


    ¡°You went the wrong way!¡± Soma scowls, ¡°What, are you stupid?¡±


    Estella is even angrier. She bashes her fists against the little lady¡¯s shoulder, shouting loud enough to make her voice hoarse, ¡°This is all your fault! If any of my friends get hurt, I¡¯ll make you sorry! I¡¯ll fucking kill you!¡±


    All three raccoons scream when a rotten hand punctures through the wood.


    Lenore grabs the nearest rack and flings it in front of the door. Thick chunks of glass go flying, but it¡¯s pointless. The Official digs its fingers into the door and wood rots under its touch. The hole it made with its fist gradually widens.


    Lenore tucks Estella and Soma behind her back, but when she goes to tug Colin in, she finds he¡¯s disappeared from her side. Panic floods in, but the sound of the young boys¡¯ voice quickly soothes it.


    ¡°There¡¯s another door!¡±


    Lenore turns and sees Colin standing beside a massive wine barrel laid flat on its side. On the face of the barrel is another wooden door. The lock hangs uselessly from the latch, and the doors half-open. It¡¯s from within this door that the pink light shines.


    ¡°Go!¡± Lenore shoves Estella and Soma towards the wine barrel just as the hole becomes large enough for the Official to lunge inside. It smashes into the racks, sending glass and fizzy liquor everywhere.


    The scent of rotten meat doesn¡¯t mix well with rotten eggs and sulphur. The smell only intensifies as the Official skids over the frothy pool, coating itself in booze. It¡¯s putrid. Lenore listens to the quiet tapping of Colin, Soma, and Estella''s footsteps, as they race through the second door. Oddly enough, she doesn¡¯t hear the door clicking shut behind them. She¡¯d have thought they¡¯d be smart enough to leave her to her fate. Yet, the door remains open.


    There are only three liquor racks left standing. Lenore knocks them over, one by one. A jungle, a maze, wet with alcohol and sharp with shards of bottles and boards. Anything to slow it down.


    She runs and it chases. The ground is slippery and the skirt of her dress sticks to her leg like flypaper.


    ¡°Hurry up! Why are you so slow?¡±


    The crunch of breaking glass and wood hunts her down.


    Lenore makes it in time, but so does it.


    ¡°Move!¡± Her hands clasp onto the handle as she dives inside. The door swings in with her, nearly flattening Estella against the wall before Lenore finds steady enough foot for her to thrust the door closed again.


    There¡¯s a snap. Not quite broken, just a little fractured, but the sound it makes is loud in her ears. The Official is caught by the crook of its arm, crushed between the door and the wall. The opening is thin as a stick, too small for the official to see inside. It claws and thrashes, but the raccoons are too far away for it to reach. Lenore, on the other hand, isn¡¯t able to keep her distance as she throws her full weight against the door, desperate to force it closed.


    Lenore scowls, face squished against the door, ¡°Oh, for fuck¡¯s sake!¡±


    She¡¯s almost got the door shut. Damn it, she¡¯s so close! She hears the tiniest thud and sees Soma pushing the door with her. He¡¯s as heavy as a half-empty bag of sugar, so his contribution isn¡¯t much help. Sweet of him to try, though.


    She hears Estella exclaim, ¡°Another fucking door? Are you kidding me!¡±


    Out of the corner of her eye, Lenore glances down the hallway and sure enough, there¡¯s another fucking door. But this door is made of metal. Like a bank vault, the lock on it is twice the size of the little lady¡¯s head.


    Colin pulls on the handle, but it doesn¡¯t budge. ¡°It¡¯s locked!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a pick!¡± Soma shouts. He takes one of his hands off the door and pulls a handful of wrenches and hooks out of the pocket of his tunic.


    Lenore grunts, ¡°I¡¯ve got the door! Go help him, the doors too heavy for him to get it open on his own!¡±


    Her shoes slide across the floor, squeaking shrilly as she¡¯s nudged further and further backwards.


    The hallway is short, Soma skids up to the metal door fast as a cheetah and starts fiddling with the lock. It feels like it takes both a second and a century, but eventually, they hear a click and the lock goes slack. Colin pulls the handle again, but it still doesn¡¯t move.


    ¡°What the fuck!?¡± Colin tugs the door again, accomplishing nothing but pressing more bruises into his calloused hands. ¡°Why! Won¡¯t! It! Open!¡±


    ¡°You missed a lock!¡± Estella says.


    ¡°What?¡± Soma replies indignantly. He checks the vault again, and sure enough, there¡¯s another lock. It¡¯s a tiny thing with no keyhole. He frowns, ¡°It¡¯s a combo lock!¡±


    Lenore grits her teeth. ¡°Does it have any number or letters on it?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ It¡¯s got one slot for letters and then four slots for numbers!¡±


    The answer seems to fly out of the little lady¡¯s mouth before her brain can even comprehend what she¡¯s saying.


    ¡°L. One. Seven. One. Four.¡±


    The arm caught in the doorway bends. It pounds against the wood, less than an inch above the little lady¡¯s head. The wood putrefies under its touch.


    Some rustling and then she hears, ¡°It worked! It fucking worked!? How the fuck did you know the code?¡±


    ¡°Enough with the fucking swearing!¡± Lenore scowls, ¡°My god, you develop an entire language system out of thin air and yet you¡¯ve still got a mouth like a sailor!¡±


    The door rattles as the Official sinks its nails into wood and pulls. Suddenly, Lenore is no longer pushing. Now she has to pull. The dragging of the door as the Official forces the hinges to curl, metal nails yanked out of the wall, everything pulling in the wrong direction. The crack in the door dilates. The glow of its veins creeps in. A horrid, spine-chilling sound pierces the air as Lenore comes closer and closer to losing her grip.


    She raises her voice, ¡°Run!¡±


    Waiting half a second for the sound of tiny feet to scamper away, Lenore then uses the last of her strength to pull in one last time. She pulls as far as she can and then, she lets go.


    Shoving the door away, the momentum thrusts them both backwards, giving the little lady the tiniest head start towards the second door.


    Lenore runs.


    Nothing but the tapping of her footsteps. But then, the whine of the door and that spine-chilling sound; the chase is on.


    It is only a step behind.


    Footsteps and scratching. Pounding, pounding, pounding; step after step after step, and it¡¯s gaining on her.


    And then, there¡¯s that phantom feeling at the back of her skull. A sense that something is right behind her, almost touching, knowing it¡¯s so close without having to turn around and look. Veiny hands reach out for her. She reaches out for the handle of the vault.


    She yelps. A hot, pulling sensation at the base of her skull. Burning and pulling and then rip! A few strands of hair attached to an itty-bitty clump of flesh torn fresh from the little lady¡¯s scalp.


    Lenore seizes the handle of the vault. She falls through the doorway, throwing the door closed behind her as she collapses to the ground.


    As the door swings closed, she sees the way it looks at her, her bloody hair still swinging in its fist. Its eyes are tache noir. Black specks in the sclera, shifting like ticks under its eyelids. Eyes like death, barely seeing and yet knowing of the dismal world that awaits. Who shall depart from this world first? Like a race; that unwilling chase. You? Or It? Maybe everyone, all at once.


    It sees.


    The vault slams shut.